Free Ruins of the Fall (The Remants Trilogy #2) by Nicholas Erik Page A

later, Mirko flings me forward. It’s dark in here. Or maybe my eyes are shut. I heave in and out, trying to catch my breath.
    I remember what Atlas told me. I need to get to the Gray Desert. Otherwise these hallucinations are going to ruin what’s left of my brain.
    “Here.” It’s Vlad. He waves something in front of my nostrils, and I recoil. It’s like being jacked into an electrical socket.
    I stand bolt upright, hands tingling as I scan the large meeting room. Thick wooden benches are lined up before where Vlad sits on a stage a couple feet off the ground. He sits on a large chair on a crescent-shaped three-foot-tall riser. Chairs fan out around his pedestal, each occupied by a person dressed in similar black robes. He’s the only one with a crimson scarf, though.
    “This a church?”
    “Depends on your definition of church,” Vlad says. I’m beginning to think the Remnants’ garments were adopted as a uniform, rather than for practical reasons.
    “The council, I presume.”
    “A verdict has been reached on the actions of one Lucas Stokes,” Vlad says.
    “That’s not my name,” I say.
    Vlad waves me off. “We have reviewed the paper, and taken it into consideration.”
    “Before you tell me the verdict, you should know something,” I say. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking that I don’t want to die here. Anywhere but here.
    “It won’t change anything.”
    I don’t like the sound of that, but I say anyway, “I know exactly where to look.” The last image, painful as it was to channel—or whatever the hell you want to call it—gave me a precise idea of where Matt hid the failsafe. The I-5 sign confirmed it. I know the area.
    I can take them there, if they’ll let me.
    “It’s irrelevant,” Vlad says. “No further evidence will be reviewed.”
    “You’re signing your own damn death warrant.” The other council members stiffen. Such outspoken criticism isn’t tolerated. They survive by tribal law, the ones that man grew up with, before the plains were lost, before he harnessed fire and bent the world to his whim.
    Vlad steps down from his perch. His measured steps echo. I lean against one of the benches for support, looking for an opening. Nothing comes, and so when he’s only a few yards away, I pull the trigger on a half-cocked plan.
    “Back the fuck up,” I scream, reaching for my pocket. “You need me.”
    I hold up the stolen HoloBand capsule. The plastic catches the soft light.
    Vlad stops, amusement flickering in his bright eyes.
    “We don’t need that.” There’s a murmur of assent from the group. “We don’t need you.”
    “But you’re big on ritual. And respect.” With a single squeeze, I crush the HoloBand in my sweaty palm. A jolt surges through me—the realization that this is the last remaining tangible piece of Matt. But there’s no time for sentimentality.
    My symbolic act of defiance has made the council upset. One member stands rigid. Her robes fall away, and I see the familiar rose tattoo.
    “You will not interrupt,” Jana says.
    Vlad turns, perhaps to reprimand his daughter for speaking out of turn during the ceremony. It’s clear now that he only rose from the stage to execute me. Pulling the knife out from my waistband so quickly that I cut my skin, I rush forward. Vlad looks back just in time for me to catch him in the chest. The blade slices through the fabric effortlessly.
    A sputtered protest spills from his lips. “You…you will destroy everything.”
    Blood drips down the hilt of the knife. Then Vlad’s green eyes go blank, like a lamp suddenly being unplugged. For a moment, the council members don’t move, everyone disbelieving the new reality unfolding before them.
    The blood feels warm and slick on my hands. I let go of the knife, and Vlad topples over. The hilt clangs off the stone, setting off a flurry of activity. The council members rise, ready to converge and tear me limb from limb.
    I focus on Jana, who stares blankly past