The Treasure Map Page 3

  “Give her some water!” shouts the young man before her. His guard reaches for his taser, but he hesitates, and ultimately shows restraint when distracted by the tumult of the crowd. Thunderous clapping and stomping of feet echo through this small corridor. A song breaks out among the crowd. It’s a ritual they have picked up over the years. It must be time. We are off to meet our maker. It doesn’t matter if we’re ready. I’m out of options.

  From where I stand, I can barely see the man in front, but he hasn’t moved a muscle without orders from the guard closest to him. Not just any guard, but the leader of the entire squadron, who runs the prison system as if the president is looking over his shoulder. As far as Captain Johnson is concerned, the man he’s guarding is a master criminal, a devious trickster who’s getting every bit of what he deserves. He’s been accused of so many things within and outside of courts it’s hard for even me to keep track of why they say he’s here today. But I know which ones are true. I know because I was there every step of the way. And I know that my father sees no shame in his actions, nor his sentence.

  Neither do I. But the consequences of our convictions have led us here and that’s something I never foresaw while walking under his shadow, though the warning signs were all around. I’m not sure if I thought they’d never catch us, or if the stories I had heard growing up sounded as realistic as they have proven to be, but today is not a day I thought would be in my future. I thought I’d see my hair turn gray at least, but it’s just as black as the day I was born.

  My ears ring when they turn the speakers back on. President Shah is introduced. He’s greeted with a thunderous shout of loyalty. “King Shah! King Shah! King Shah!” they chant. The presidency isn’t enough. They want to make him royalty. One day, he might grant their wish.

  Shah will feign humility as always, surely greeting them back with his signature smile and wave, soaking in the applause as he waits for them to settle down and take their seats. I’ve heard him say in interviews that this is his favorite holiday. All politicians I’ve ever heard have said the same. But we all know the president never takes days off, always working toward his real objective. Every day he grabs for more power, demanding loyalty, rewarding it lavishly, squashing anyone who might get in his way. Today we are the ants underneath his mighty boot.

  “Straighten up, you rats!” Captain Johnson bellows beneath the helmet strapped to his chin. He never was one for manners or patience. “You know the deal. We have every bit of information on you. We know your names, your families, your friends, and anyone you’ve ever met. We keep track of anyone you might care about. Even the ones who haven’t taken part in your crimes. You’re not going to make it out of this alive, but if you want them to see the light of another day, then you better do everything I say until you’re no longer my problem.”

  That’s the kind of speech that got him the job. Not like the cadet in charge of me, who has moved on to twiddling with his taser, likely in hopes he won’t have to use it again today. But it doesn’t matter to me who is standing at the lever when the noose tightens around my neck. We’re outnumbered, weakened, unarmed, and in no way a threat to the twelve guards keeping us in custody, let alone the dozens of armed officers in and around the stadium. There will be no rescue for us today. There will be no revolt. The bloodlust of the crowd will be satisfied for another year until the next dozen stand before them.

  President Shah is closing his commencement speech. Every word drips from his mouth like a hungry lion ready to devour his prey. I can imagine my father telling me to keep my eyes looking upward in times like this. I can’t help but focus on the dust beneath my feet. I came from this dirt and soon I will return to it.

  I’ve had half a year to think about this day and our sentence still doesn’t make any sense. We are not a sincere threat to their political ambitions, security, or thriving economy. We are few, scattered, and without power. The only aspect of their lives that we can affect is their beliefs. That’s why they snap us like twigs. They want to rule the people without interference. They don’t want us to infect their values. This is why I believe our deaths will not be in vain. I know to my core that the Faithful will overcome by the power of the blood. There’s nothing they can do to us to stop what will come.

  I take a deep breath and muster up as much courage as I can while those in front of me also must process our reality. We’re all in this together, yet each of us is so alone. All we share now is our crime and a stage to hang upon. I hear sobbing in front of me. I hear deafening silence behind me. A dark void is ready to push me out into the light of destruction. I force myself to keep my head up as we await our next command.

  “Without further delay,” President Shah says as the crowd lifts its voice, bringing an end to his vulturous speech, “Bring out the guilty!”

  “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty” they all shout in unison. My father is pushed forward with a baton and the rest of us are ordered to follow in step. The light is growing stronger as I find my way onto the infield. I haven’t seen natural light in weeks. I can barely keep my eyes open as I take in the vision of eighty thousand witnesses clamoring for our official condemnation. I attempt to cover my eyes. My hand is swatted down. Cadet James orders me to keep it to my side, but he won’t strike me now if he can avoid it. No more delays.

  The guards are yelling at us to keep in line, but I can barely hear their muffled orders over the obscenities hurled at us by the masses. I’ve never heard half of the words they’re using, but I can understand what they’re saying all the same. People from all over the world come to celebrate this event, but nothing they say can hurt us now. Nothing hurts anymore. The bruised muscles relax and the bones no longer rub raw against my joints. I smell the fresh air and realize this is truly a gift of freedom. I will not be bound by shackles or iron bars or windowless walls anymore. I won’t be stifled or blamed or spat upon any longer. One drop and I will feel no more of this pain forever. Maybe I am ready.

  My father walks onto the stage as officials scamper to set the proper pieces of equipment in the center of the platform. President Shah stands poised as an onlooker, cherishing the limelight as he is rewarded by the crowd for his successful leadership in the capture of so many enemies of the State. The rest of us follow in like manner, walking to our final destination. It won’t be long now.

  We are lined up in order of our determined execution, made to stand to the left of our respective nooses, which hang silently from individual stands designed specifically for this occasion. I don’t want to know what they spent on this technology. I’m sure funding is easy enough to come by for this event. No one wants to be the one who votes against anything related to Independence Day. I peek around to see my father far to the right of me. I try to get his attention until Cadet James yanks me back in line. Some in the crowd see his actions and affirm his authoritative stance. Others are too distracted by the jets flying overhead. Captain Johnson smiles out of the side of his face.

  My father stands up tall and begins to sing a song so loud I can hear it above the crowd. He could always command attention with his voice, but he is quickly silenced with a baton to his back, which scores Captain Johnson applause from the crowd. It lasted no more than five seconds, but I know the tune he was attempting to carry, and it brings me a small amount of comfort. He used to sing it to me as a young boy whenever I was scared. He sang it to me the day they took my mother away from us. I thought her conviction was an unusual injustice back then. Now I see it was an omen of things to come.

  I look up at the rope dangling above and to the right of me. It has my name written on it, matching the stitched lettering on my back, the least sophisticated manner of assuring I’m the right man for the punishment. It took six months to prepare me for the noose and it will do its job in the blink of an eye.

  I look high into the heavens as I believe my father would want me to do. His advice has rarely failed me. My prayers are cut short as the master of ceremonies approaches the podium to address the
crowd. I knew his voice sounded familiar as it echoed through the tunnel. It’s Governor Arrigo, a stout man with a heavy word that can be felt in the stomach. He must be thrilled to be able to host this year’s spectacle.

  “Hobbes Monroe,” he says without delay. “Wanted, captured, tried, and found guilty…”

  The crowd interrupts with chants of “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”

  “Guilty,” he continues, almost put off by the interference, “of various irrefutable crimes against the glorious State of Ariel, including public decrees of foreign beliefs, development of secret plots of treachery against the President and the State, including the attempted overthrow of the government.”

  “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” they clamor.

  “Let it hereby be known throughout the world that these acts shall not go unpunished. The sentence of these crimes shall be carried out by hanging at precisely noon today,” he concludes.

  I look up to the clock on the scoreboard. Eleven Forty-Seven. My father is led up a short set of stairs to the noose prepared for him, but they must get through the rest of our names before they hang us all in unison. They don’t want the procession of death to linger. Crowds have proven to become troublesome when the hangings take too long.

  Behind my father is an older man with silver hair and a hard chin. He had sat in a cell next to me. He couldn’t speak by the time I was thrown in there next to him, and he spent much of his time with his head buried between his hands, but he was kind and often shared his bread when I was hungry. His crimes are the same as my father’s. So is his sentence. An old woman I have never seen is next and she might not have made it much longer with or without today’s events. I believe she must have spent her entire incarceration in the infirmary. I have heard rumors about how she ended up that way, but clear information is hard to come by on the inside. Whispers prevail.

  The young girl who fainted is next. She’s short and frail with light and battered skin. Her green eyes force out her final tears. She’s visibly shaking and can barely stand on her own. The young man that tried to defend her follows next to his twin brother. Rafe and Wiley are their names. I remember them now. We spoke briefly in the early days of my imprisonment when they still allowed us to all eat in the same cafeteria. It was one of few privileges we had before it was taken from us. Secret murmurs led me to believe the guards feared a planned escape, though it has been about a decade since anyone had successfully fled the prison.

  Wiley is trailed by a man who had been sentenced to die once before. He was part of the last successful jailbreak from Justice Hall so very long ago. An underground hero, everyone knows about his famed escape, though the State suspiciously remained silent on the matter altogether. He was picked up last week in a raid and was quickly placed in our company. He’s been living on borrowed time and the gleam in his eyes tells me he’s handling this better than the rest of us.

  Another young woman follows silently. I don’t recognize her. She has long brown hair tied back and a stoic face that shows no fear. She’s grimacing. No, smiling. Not a big, toothy grin, but a smile of confidence and sufficiency. A stark contrast to the young man standing tall after her. He’s still looking for a way out. His spiked blonde hair stands still in the gentle wind as his eyes dart back and forth. If anyone will make a fruitless run for it, I’d guess he would be the one to do so. I won’t be giving them the satisfaction.

  A middle-aged man and woman stand between me and the brunette. They briefly reach for each other’s hands before their guards pull them apart. He whispered something to her that no one else could hear. I can read her lips say, “I love you too.” Putting them next to each other in line was an oversight and will lead to someone’s punishment.

  My attention is altered when I feel a dull prod in my back. The shocks from earlier have numbed my senses, but it’s enough to let me know it’s my turn. My name is read and listed along with my stated crimes just the same as all the others. Most of us were strangers outside of the prison walls, and many still are after these months of confinement, but our accusers and condemnation are the same. The crowd cheers for our impending deaths as Cadet James urges me to move on with his taser held tightly inches from my spine. I take three steps up to face the noose that has been calling my name since we arrived at the stadium. My legs shake. My throat is dry when I attempt to swallow. My eyes close as I pray one last desperate plea for help.

  “And now,” says Governor Arrigo, whose microphone wobbles beneath him, before pausing. “Excuse me. And now,” he tries again before his podium noticeably begins to shake. A woman shrieks in the crowd, followed by another, then several more join in before the entire crowd is aware of the situation. I feel it beneath my feet and look around me. The guards behind us reach to their belts to draw their more powerful weapons, but the stage is collapsing beneath us. I see the twins kick over the poles holding their nooses and I imitate their strategy. Cadet James pulls out a pistol, but it’s too late. I jump off the stage and feel a sharp sting in my feet and ankles. A minor sprain will not be enough to stop me.

  The crowd swarms through the exits. I can see pushing and shoving through the corners of my eyes, but I’m focused on one thing. “Father!” I cry out, but he made it no more than ten paces before the captain tackled him, forcing his head down to the ground.

  “Run, Niko!” he yells in agony. “Get out of here now!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Drop of Blood

  JACK CAME TO his senses and immediately stuffed the pages back together with the map as he heard footsteps getting louder and louder. He tossed them all into the treasure chest just as he saw his father’s eyes peek up and into the attic.

  “You can come down for supper,” his father told him, his voice short and soft. “Put down whatever you’re working on, I’m sure it can wait for later.”

  “I’ll be right down,” Jack assured him. When he saw that his father had gone, he opened the chest again to figure out what had happened to him. It made no sense. He was sure he hadn’t been reading so intensely he had lost his mind, certain that he’d never been so wrapped up in a book that he had forgotten that he wasn’t part of the book. But when he examined the pages, it started just the way he remembered it happening, and when he skipped to the end he saw the last line read as if he had written it himself.

  Alas, the letter had finished, and there were no more pages to be found in the chest no matter how hard he looked for hidden compartments. After a few moments of desperately looking for any similar letters around the attic, Jack felt compelled to hustle down to dinner, lest anyone should become suspicious. He was rarely late for a good meal, no matter how invested he was in another matter, and there was nothing like mom’s home cooking.

  “There you are,” his eldest sister Samantha said, scolding him as she had seen her mother do so many times. “I’m starving, and you know mommy won’t let us eat until everyone is settled in for grace.”

  “Sorry,” Jack said with a put off glare. “Didn’t mean to make mommy’s precious little princess have to wait five whole minutes for dinner.”

  “Jack!” his mother sharply rebuked him. “Your punishment is not Samantha’s fault, it’s yours, so don’t act like anyone else’s actions are keeping you up in that attic.”

  “Sorry, mom,” he quickly apologized, knowing the platter of chicken wings and celery sticks weren’t going to make it to his plate if he kept up the argument. “I didn’t mean to…are there any mashed potatoes?”

  This was not an unusual manner of conversation when it came to dinnertime at the Monroe household. Siblings argued, parents calmed them down as best as they could, food was nourishing and filling. But as soon as everyone began to chomp their way toward their final bites, Jack’s father realized that the eldest of the bunch had mellowed his bickering quicker than usual, and seemed to be staring off into space, or at least toward the attic he had been working on all afternoon.

  “Didn’t look like you made much headway,” he prodded Jack. �
��Are you sure you don’t need some extra supplies? You know you can enjoy your vacation as soon as it’s done…as long as it’s done properly.”

  “Properly?” Jack thought out loud. “No, no, I’m fine…I have been…ummm…looking around to see what kind of stuff we have up there. Can’t know where to put things until I know what needs to be moved around, can I? How much of that old junk do we want to keep, anyway?”

  His father then began to explain to him about why people keep certain things, whether it be because of sentimental or monetary value, and why some items might have weathered the test of time while others would rot. But that wasn’t the question Jack wanted to ask, nor the answer that would help him find what he wanted to discover, which was what happened to Niko Monroe and why the letter was left in the treasure chest in the first place.

  “Okay, thanks I guess,” Jack said half-heartedly when his father finally stopped espousing his critical theory of spring cleaning. “Do you know if there’s anything of any value up there? Can I keep it if there is?”

  Jack’s father was not amused. “Do you really think I’m going to let you keep a pot of gold if you find it? You’re up there as a punishment, not to gain some sort of long lost treasure for yourself. Besides, with how much you eat these days, we need all the help we can get to keep the fridge fully stocked. As far as what is up in the attic…I really don’t know. I don’t remember letting my parents store any of my stuff up there when I grew out of it…I hardly remember them using it at all. I reckon many of the things up there could be your great-grandpa’s stuff. Probably some old war mementos and dusty furniture. I’ll help you move the heavy items when it’s ready to come down. If anything is in decent condition, I might be able to sell it for a couple of bucks down at the antique shop by the lake.