Lights | A Forever Fanfiction

Chapter Seventeen: Between the Flames

Dr. Morgan and I stared straight ahead in an awkward silence. It was stifling, smothering. Or, perhaps I liked talking too much. Either way, it was extremely uncomfortable.

"So," I coughed.

"So...?" he mumbled.

"So," I continued. "Um."

He sneezed.

"Bless you," I said, only because I had to.

"Thank you," he replied, only because he had to.

I glanced at the steel floor as we were jerked back and forth by the poor suspension of the truck. I took out my phone, checking the time: 10:27AM. As I pocketed my phone once more, I felt and heard papers crinkling quietly. Suddenly, I remembered the crumpled paper I had taken from the 'crime scene' in my apartment, and took it out, unfurling it. Across the surface, a poem was written in swirling handwriting that I recognised as my father's.

Sudden euphoria, sweet ecstasy.
Guide me oh so quietly.
Go down the streets of joy,
Greeted by their heartless ploys.
When the marchers begin to cry,
Banners of gold and red shall fly.

I blinked at the paper confusedly, trying to think. It didn't make sense.

"What is that?" Dr. Morgan asked disheartenedly.

"Stolen paraphernalia," I informed him. "It's a document of great importance, that I totally forgot about." I offered it to him. He took it, too tired to object or protest or even question my actions.

"It's a riddle," he announced. "Obviously, it's a riddle."

"I don't speak riddle," I replied. "Explain?"

"Streets of joy," he said simply. "It doesn't refer to a happy set of roads. It refers to-"

"Joy Street," I realised. "Because it's split up into so many segments."

"Right. Marchers might not refer to actual people marching in a band or a parade. Marcher in French means 'to walk.' "

"So, walking people... as in pedestrians?" I wondered. "So people crying... What would be so upsetting that everyone would cry over it? And what banners of red and gold?"

"I don't understand that part, either," Dr. Morgan agreed. What's gold and red and flies in the air? A bird, maybe, but that wouldn't make sense, in relation to the banner.

I mulled over all of the information in my head. The explosives earned themselves a red tag, along with this darn poem. The strange bloody room in my apartment earned a red tag. My mother's attack, her cut off hand (ugh!), and the fake explosives that had been planted earned a red-

Wait.

Explosives. Fire. Ka-boom.

What colour is fire? Every shade of orange and gold and vermillion you can imagine.

Banners of gold and red.

Why didn't I think of that earlier?! Of course - banners of gold and red could easily refer to fire!

I explained my findings to Dr. Morgan, who nodded, grimness descending over us like vultures.

"Then my theory was correct," he said. I frowned. "The word 'cry' doesn't mean that the pedestrians will be weeping over something. They will be crying out in fear, as flames consume the road."

Any remaining joy in the back of the truck fell into the abyss, and the temperature dropped about thirty degrees. The paper fluttered to the floor, a little white, creased butterfly. I picked it up, turning it over, and over, and over, in my hands. My resolve was starting to break, and finally, I sighed.

"So that's the emegency, isn't it?" I mumbled. "We're going to have to escape the kind intentions of Lieutenant Reece. Soon as we stop, we have to find a way out."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Dr. Morgan exclaimed. I scooted over to the back of the truck, where the doors were, and I tried the latch, holding the door shut with one hand. It clicked quietly, opening. The door rattled in it's frame, and I glanced back at Dr. Morgan, grinning lopsidedly. He rolled his eyes and inhaled with sharp exasperation. I flicked the door back shut and sat back down where I was sitting before.

"Well," I said. "Aren't you glad we indulged my whims?"

-=+=-