Chapter 6 - Fight or Flight

The village was in an uproar, but no one was outside. He could see shapes inside houses, people looking out windows, frightened but curious. Shadows were slinking around every corner, all shapes and sizes of them. He didn't care about them; they didn't matter. Not now. Not anymore.

He ran beneath the village entrance and stood on the bridge, with nothing but a wooden railing and the stone beneath his feet separating him from the endless chasm below. Anger tore harshly, painfully from his throat, and hatred hammered in his ears, reverberating in his skull and blinding him.

“This is what I think of you, Creator!” he shouted to the wind. He opened the book, grabbed a few pages, and tore them out. They spiraled and drifted down into the darkness. He watched them fall until they vanished. Fury built up inside of his chest as they slipped away.

“This is what you are to me!” he yelled, tearing more pages free and throwing them into the sky. “You abandoned us!” The wind tore the papers from his hand and scattered them. “You abandoned me!” He couldn't hear anything but his voice and his heartbeat and the roaring of the wind. “You're nothing, Creator!” He was shaking with rage. “Nothing! Can you hear me? Are you listening? Are you laughing right now, Creator?”

Hands grabbed at his shoulders. He pulled free. “You can be their deity, but you're not mine! Do you hear me? You aren't mine! You're nothing to me! Nothing!”

“Stop him!”

“Get the Book!”

“Jonah, help!”

“We have to get him away from the edge!”

Hands grabbed his arms. He growled in the back of his throat, snarling at them. He lunged for the railing. If he couldn't have the Book, why should they? It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair to destroy the Book only to spite them, but he had to do one last thing to bring their legacy crashing down. Then they'd see. Then they'd be sorry.

He was forced backwards, onto the ground. Jonah loomed over him, his tawny hair pushed back by his goggles, his white jacket flapping in the breeze. “Wilfre, stop it!”

“Jonah,” he panted. “Jonah, you're my friend, you've always been my friend. Can't you understand why I had to? Don't you see what I'm working towards? Have some sympathy for an old friend! Haven't you got a heart, Jonah?”

Jonah's face was cold and distant, almost unfamiliar. “Cricket, grab him!”

“Let him up, Jonah,” said Mayor Carmichael. “I'm willing to give him one more chance.”

Slowly, Jonah released him. He stood up cautiously. Cricket was blocking the bridge to the south, and Jonah stood at the north. The mayor closed his hands around the book. “Wilfre,” he said calmly, “You have one more chance. Give me the book, and I may be able to forgive you, eventually. Attempt to escape with it, and I'm afraid I can do no such thing. I will have no mercy on you. Choose.”

Their eyes met, and Wilfre considered his options. Fight or flight? That was the choice laid before him now: fight for the book, or escape without it.

The answer seemed completely clear. He focused, preparing himself for what he was about to do. He couldn't keep doing this, he would kill himself.

Don't get distracted! he reprimanded himself. Focus! Cricket was strong, not to mention prepared this time. This was going to be more difficult. Not to mention he hadn't eaten for more than twenty-four hours. He was dangerously low on any kind of energy.

He held the mayor's gaze for a moment, then lowered his gaze. “Fine,” he said softly. “Take your Book! Have your stupid Creator! From now on, I don't need a Creator to believe in! I don't need anyone!”

He let go, and the mayor took the Book's remains. Behind him, Wilfre sensed Cricket step forwards.

He acted mostly by instinct; his brain was shutting down at that point, focused only on getting him from one place to the next as effortlessly as possible. As the cold weight of a pair of handcuffs was closing around his hands, he grabbed the bottle of shadow from his pocket and tightened his grip until the glass shattered under his fingers. It was like sticking his hand into a fire, and the explosion of pain revived him.

He took off as shadow rose up around the three Rapos trying to capture him. The book didn't matter now, it was too late to get that. The most important thing now was to get away.

His feet hit the ground lightly, incredibly lightly for the force behind each step, but he was channeling all his energy into going forwards with as much speed as he could muster. His fingers wanted to curl into fists, but to move his right hand was to cause himself such intense pain he felt sick and saw black at the edges of his vision. His arm felt heavy, but he was caught in a rush of energy born of desperation and determination.

He slipped into semiconsciousness, barely aware of the cold or the pain, but he kept running. Step by step, as the world blurred and faded around him and he fell into what might have almost been a trance, he kept running.

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