The Last Scarecrow

21 | Rise of the Mannequins

The Blue King swept into the room on Level 3 with a bold familiarity. The moment he crossed the threshold his blue bikers outfit and dazzling helmet flickered strangely. Shards of reflected light danced all over his body, across the floor, coating every surface.

Erin followed The Blue King, her arms outstretched. The light played on the yellow plastic of her poncho. It was mesmerising. Magical.

But something felt odd.

The atmosphere in the room was thicker, closer, as though somebody had dialled gravity up a notch.

Erin scuttled across to a huge wall of thick glass that circumnavigated the entire room. It was similar to the window on HMS Fortitude but fifty times bigger.

Beyond was nothing but blue.

Here, hundreds of feet beneath the surface of the water, was the colour that she remembered. The rich, deep, blue that she'd swam in, played in, seen in a hundred photographs.

The Endless Blue was here, mere inches from her fingertips.

Light shifted through the water casting pirouetting spectres and zigzagging demons. Faces appeared in the shadows and the bubbles and the ripples. Erin fought to keep the memory of the capsized boat at bay, but it pressed in hard, demanding her to remember.

"Amazing, isn't it?" The Blue King said, resting his shoulder against the glass.

Erin swallowed the memory down.

"The Endless Blue," he went on.

His voice was different. Higher, younger, far less serious.

Erin turned.

Instead of looking into his dark visor, she found The Blue King was calmly holding the blue biker helmet between his wrist and hip.

She gasped.

The Blue King was human.

He was— a boy. Pale and freckled, with dusty hair hanging over his eyes, a year or more older than her. His eyes looked familiar, the shape of him, the angle of his jaw. Was it Clyde? Had she forgotten his face after all this time? She padded her pockets for the photographs she'd brought of her family— of Clyde— but they were stowed in her bag, tucked away securely on Lazarus.

She reached forward to touch his face but the boy smiled coyly and took her hand in his. "My name is Marshall," he told her, shaking her hand. "Sorry about all the—"

Words formed in her mouth, but got stuck on her tongue. His skin was warm and clammy.

Erin struggled to stay on her feet.

Marshall's hand was tugged away as the dog came bounding towards him.

"Socks!"

Marshall dropped to his knees, rolling onto his back, the boy and his dog wrestling playfully. Socks yapped and yipped, overcome with excitement. Marshall made odd, baby-like noises that the dog seemed to respond to.

Erin wiped a tear from her cheek. A strange mixed of emotions swelled in her belly; anger that he wasn't Clyde, and hope that, if this boy could find a way to survive, then so could her brother.

"Oh, Socks. I've missed you so much," Marshall went on. "How are you, boy? Did those horrid birds treat you okay?"

"Their leader was using him like a horse," Twelve revealed.

Marshall looked angry. "How dare they! How dare Justice Raventhorne use poor old Socks as a beast of burden. He's hardly a Doberman or Great Dane. He's not built for such things."