The Lock In: The Books of Ezekiel, #3

By Colby R. Rice

ONE WAR WAGED. FIVE SOULS DAMNED. TWENTY-FOUR HOURS OF HORROR.

The Lock In has begun. The world that Zeika has always known, decimated.
 
After a political firestorm left her, her city, and her countrymen in ruins, illegal Alchemist and Civilian gunrunner Zeika Anon has chosen to walk the side of darkness.
 
She has joined the terrorist insurgency, KOA: The Knights of Almaut. The final phalanx standing between Zeika's people and extermination.
 
Protected by a single misdeed of her past, Zeika is offered Koan asylum by Hollow 12, a cell of ghosts and orphans like her. Asylum… and the desperate hope that the rest of the insurgency won't notice her as it gears up for its final battle with both the Azures and the monsters that have overrun their cities.
 
But as she witnesses Koa's brutality first hand, she realizes that not all asylums are safe, not all soldiers are saviors, and sometimes, the real monsters are the very ones who call themselves human.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colby R. Rice
• Release date: Jan 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386897668

Book preview

ONE WAR WAGED. FIVE SOULS DAMNED. TWENTY-FOUR HOURS OF HORROR.

The Lock In has begun. The world that Zeika has always known, decimated.

After a political firestorm left her, her city, and her countrymen in ruins, illegal Alchemist and Civilian gunrunner Zeika Anon has chosen to walk the side of darkness. She has joined the terrorist insurgency, KOA: The Knights of Almaut. The final phalanx standing between Zeika’s people and extermination.

Protected by a single misdeed of her past, Zeika is offered the veil of allied asylum by Hollow 12, a cell of ghosts and orphans like her. Asylum… along with the desperate hope that the rest of the insurgency will take no notice of her as it gears up for its final battle with the Azures.

But as she hides, as she witnesses Koa’s brutality first hand, she realizes that not all asylums are safe, not all soldiers are saviors, and not even amongst allies can she reveal her innermost secrets.

1

IN AZURE BLACKFACE

When Zeika hit the ground, it caved beneath her back. Cool moist soil.

The night was blanched black, a sharp contrast to the bone-white moon slumbering in the sky, all of it wrapped in arms of mist. And yet a shadow stood between her and the beauty of the night. A shadow that had those same cold eyes that she’d known since age eleven. A shadow with the same slow, sure smile. Sal Morgan. Except this time he looked at her with no desire, just triumph.

Inside, she began to tremble, but when she opened her mouth to speak, a voice that wasn’t hers came out. I— I swear to you, I don’t know a thing about it…

Not hers by a long shot. The voice rumbled deep, resonating from behind an Adam’s apple, from a neck too thick to be hers. Before she could stop them, more words sputtered from her thin, cracked lips. I don’t know where it is, she said, and she could finally hear the rich layered altos of her voice. A man’s voice, coming from her mouth. I lost track of it.

Sal chuckled and looked away. Oh, please, Councilman. I think we’re way beyond childish games, don’t you agree? Don’t waste my time with lies.

It all felt so real… had she been here before?

Then Zeika could feel something in her chest twist in anger, writhing beneath a hot fury… and yet somehow, she could also feel cold fear creeping in. None of these feelings were hers. What do you want with it anyway? Her lips asked.

What does it matter to you? Sal said. You seemed to have outlived your own use of it.

"As much as I and many others would adore watching you choke on your own ambition, Morgan, I’m warning you. Azure brother to brother: the Page is a thing of evil. It will lead you into darkness, and no one but the Vassals of the Order have any business deciphering its mysteries. It will take hold of you, infect you. You will die."

So melodramatic, friend! I suppose some of our demons are harder to walk with than others. If the ultimate truth is death, then that is a demise I anticipate. I wish for it almost as much as I do yours.

Maybe it was the first time the man realized that he was going to die here, but a sickening squeeze took hold of her— his— stomach, sending whatever was in there down to his intestines—

Zeika withered as she felt her sagging ass cheeks squeeze together.

Oh God, no. Please, please no.

Whoever this geezer was, he was about to shit himself, and Zeika was about to experience it on a VIP level.

Pompous bastard. Who the hell are you, anyway?! The fury blazed hot, and the heart that wasn’t hers shuddered with arrhythmia. No one! Just some pencil pusher! A shoeshine boy in Azure blackface—

His tirade was cut short by the heel of Sal’s shoe. Zeika felt her throat pinch closed as he ground his foot into her neck. She tried to lift her hands to pry Sal off, but the man’s body didn’t comply. Like a bitch, he just laid there, no fight in him. Only more confirmation that this was not her.

Still, she nearly pissed her pants when Sal knelt and moved his nose closer to hers. He smiled, dangerous and sure.

A shoeshine boy in Azure blackface, he said. How poetic of you, Councilman. You’re a true relic of the world of old. But unfortunately, for all your immortalities, you lack insight. Do you know who I am?

On the surface, the question seemed to have an obvious answer. For the first time since this all started, though, Zeika felt her scrambled thoughts come into sync with her host’s. What the hell was Morgan talking about?

Since I don’t expect you to survive this, I’ll let you in on a little secret. He drew closer to Zeika’s— the ‘Councilman’s’— ear and whispered. Salvatore Morgan has been dead for a very, very long time.

Her left lung suddenly caved, punctured by the jagged blade the Councilman couldn’t see. She couldn’t see it either, but God did she feel it, the agony pulsing through her chest, blood climbing up her throat, each breath she took more strangled and jagged than the last…

The weak heart was slowing, and ice spread through her twitching toes and fingertips as she bled out. She barely noticed Morgan stand up and walk over to the thicket where his car still idled.

The Councilman’s neck creaked as he turned his watery gaze to Morgan. Somewhere inside the car, two weighty shadows sat. Ninkashi. Two of them, and they were bound at the wrists and necks with thick metal cuffs, their throats chained to some sort of hinge somewhere inside the car.

Their jaws had been locked behind iron masks, and they snarled, whispering hunger as their eyes caught sight of her. Now, though, the cages to their maws fell from their faces, released by Morgan himself.

Lo, my littles. Dinner time.

The creatures bolted to her body and began to feed. Zeika arched beneath the pain— but the Councilman could barely respond except to finally relax his glutes, letting his own waste pool like hot pudding under his thighs. Zeika had no time to be disgusted. Fingers and teeth were digging into her neck, chest, legs— no part of her getting reprieve from the animals eating her— eating them— alive.

More blood came, a swirling pool of acidic stink rushing up and out. The scream from her host’s voice rose into the night, high above the hungry twitters of the Ninkashi.

2

WRITINGS IN THE ETHER

Zeika’s eyes snapped open— and finally awake, for real this time, she shot up, leaned over her cot, and vomited all over the floor.

She fell onto the hard cool metal of her cot and clung to its lifeless frame as much to cool her down as to anchor her in what was real. She closed her eyes for a moment and rested, trying to melt into the dark.

Two days. For two whole days this dream had crept around her sleep, and finally, it had caught up with her. Except this? This hadn’t felt like a normal nightmare. This felt real. And the more she believed it, the tighter she clutched the beams of her bed. She gulped in the damp air around her, and the more she came to, the faster the terrible dream fell away.

It wasn’t long though before the smell of bile filled her cell, killing her relief.

She opened her eyes and frowned at the runny slop at her bedside. Ugh… She wiped her mouth.

She looked around. Save for the steaming pool of sick, her room was cool and quiet. The sweet stink of old food hung in in the air… gaseous remnants of the meals she’d been consuming: fruit, bread, beans, carrots. Shadows played by the faint candles in the hallway. The flame from her own candle flickered, casting a dark harem dance on the wall behind her. Aside from that, though, nothing was moving but her.

She forced herself to sit up, the temporary relief now overcome by a new wave of nausea. It took a minute to piece together where she was. Why she was. And the more she tried to piece together the events of the past week, the harder they were to remember.

She’d found Julie. Trashed a train. Killed a shadow demon. Gotten Manja out of the Fifth. Surrendered to Sal Morgan. Found her parents. Then she was naked on a bed, and one moment Sal was laughing, and in the next, Zeika was watching in silent terror as he was torn apart— his limbs rendered from his sockets by bed sheets—

No, she whispered, trying to flatten her shaking voice. She rubbed her temples hard. Not sheets. You. You did it.

The accusation left a cold, lonely feeling in her belly. But it was the only thing that seemed to keep her sober amongst the dizzying thoughts in her mind. She now remembered the why. She had done something— something horrible— to get where she was. And by looking around, it was clear that she’d only traded one shit hole for another.

She sighed and looked down at the vomit. Guess she should clean that up. Pain still thumbing her limbs, she limped around her brig until she finally found a rag. She wet it at her sink, which was really only a bowl, and with all the effort in the world, she crouched down and began to clean.

Except for the scratching of the rag on the floor, she couldn’t hear much inside or outside of her cell. Johnny, Turley, and Greg were probably all still asleep. Johnny’s famed second-in-command, Wally, hadn’t come back yet either, not even when they’d returned to the hovel after the ambassador meeting. For whatever reason, Johnny hadn’t seemed too concerned. When she tried to bring it up to him, he snapped at her, reminding her that some dude she didn’t even know should be the last of her worries. He’d looked angry when he’d said it. Scared.

You and me both, buddy.

It was hard to even think it, that she was afraid. Terrified, even. It wasn’t just that dream. It was everything. The past 48 hours had crawled by, and all anyone talked about was how it had finally started. The Lock In. She didn’t know what that meant, and she couldn’t even ask. Apparently, while the Lock In was every other Koan’s worst worry, Johnny had assured Zeika that it would be the least of hers.

Trembling, she dropped the sloppy rag into what she thought might be a waste bag in the corner and washed her hands. Though the pain from her dreams was subsiding, the flesh between her knuckles and fingers still ached from the bites of the Ninkashi. So did the rest of her body. She put the web of her thumb and forefinger in her mouth and flicked her tongue against the invisible wounds. God, it hurt. But why? It was just a dream.

Wasn’t it?

As if to respond, a salty, copper-laced spurt of liquid oozed from her hand, spreading over her tongue. She stiffened and jerked her hand from her mouth. There was nothing there, but she knew what she had just tasted. Blood.

More and more of the sticky, tangy taste suddenly filled her mouth, swelled in her cheeks, gummed up her throat until she leaned over the sink and spat… and she almost screamed when a dark crimson pool blossomed over the dirty porcelain. It was real. The blood, the pain, the life draining out of her body. All real.

Oh my God. She began to shake. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Her eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, for help—

Johnny? Her voice squeaked, the plea riding on it barely audible. "J— Johnny— eck!"

Her throat pinched shut as though someone was searing the flesh together. She reeled and stumbled to the barred door. Pain, a new and different kind, crept through her body, bringing inner fire and a burning sweat with it. She coughed again, feeling another spray of blood against the walls of her cheeks.

She grabbed the bars, ignoring all the instincts that told her not to do it— not to use her powers—

But when she tried to reach out with her power, it stalled in her gut. The metal defied her, staying as cold, rigid, and lifeless as a headstone. She leaned back and pulled as hard as she could, trying to force out her power, but it was dead, a snuffed candle in her chest. She rattled the bars. Nothing.

No! No goddamnit!

She hacked again, painting the bars with more of the strange blood. The fire blazed hotter, sieved through her skin, the heat churning her insides almost to a boil. The worst of it ringed around her lower back, which felt inflamed and raw, lacerated with rash.

She threw herself from the bars and limped back to the sink, her stomach now liquid slop. She tore off her sweater— all her clothes, actually— until she was down to her bra and underwear.

Pain in her chest. She coughed, spraying more blood into the sink, across the wall— and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. Something liquid, warm, and thick blocked her airways, filled her lungs. Strangling her. Tears welled up in her eyes as something deep in her soul told her she was dying.

First her power. Now her body.

She didn’t know why or how— maybe they’d poisoned her with the food they’d left in the room. Or someone had seized her organs through the alchemic tattoo on her wrist. Either way, it was happening. She was going to die here. Trapped. Alone.

She collapsed to her knees, still grasping the sink, refusing to give into the fire that consumed her. Refusing to give in to death.

What’s happening to me? A dream. Please… tell me it’s just another dream…

She let go, and the last thing she felt was the dull and distant crack of her head hitting the floor. Into her vision came a vast open emptiness, illumined only by strange writings in the ether… bright scripts of God in a swallowing black heaven.

3

THE CAPTAIN OF HOLLOW 12

Iam Jonathan Espinoza-Quinn. And I am the Captain of Hollow 12.

Johnny couldn’t sleep. That one thought looped in his mind over and over, because it was the only thing that could distract him from the fact that he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Ezekiel. She was, is, and always had been one of the biggest mistakes of his life. A mistake he kept making over and over again. A bad habit with a pretty face.

And yet… he murmured into the darkness. Here we are. Again. When does it end, Z?

In his small empty room, wisps of his fatigued voice echoed back to him, grated on him, even. It didn’t bother him that he sounded older, his voice a dry husk of a shorn childhood.

Still, he received no answer to his question. She was in the room farther down the hall, and from what he could hear, she must have been having a really shitty night. He even thought he’d heard her moving around her cell, crying out.

Johnny? Her cracked and terrified voice echoed down the hall. "J— Johnny— eck!"

The sound of his name had him sitting up in the dark. He’d imagined it before, but this time it was real. She was calling him. She needed him. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and started to get up— that is until he remembered.

I am Jonathan Espinoza-Quinn. I am the Captain of Hollow 12.

The Captain of Hollow 12. For the past two years, that’s all he’d been. It’s all he was now, and it was all he could be. That is, if he wanted Zeika, and his team, to survive.

The bars on her cell were rattling now. She was trying to get out. She sniffled and sobbed, terrified. "JOHNNY! JOHNNY, PLEASE!"

Something was really wrong. Still, he bit down and hardened his heart against the urge to check on her. She was a soldier now, a soon-to-be killing machine and property of the Knights of Almaut. Whatever she was going through, she’d have to deal with it alone, at least until morning.

Besides, this wasn’t the first time he’d listened to a prisoner writhing in agony. As a G.O.K. who often got to see prisoners of war cycling in and out of the Hollows, moans of suffering had become a part of the ether. Like the bad elevator music you heard in casinos and shopping malls, eventually you learned to tune it out.

Still. It stayed with you. On cue, you could hum every tune, hit every octave of another man’s agony— and you became numb to all of it.

But Zeika’s voice… that it was distended in pain made him sick.

We need guns, he whispered to himself out loud. He had to, if he was going to get his mind off her suffering. And she’s the paragon of the perfect gunsmith. The one who set the standard for advanced military-grade weaponry.

These rehearsed lines would be the ones to save her from Koa’s execution block. Him too. He had to get his performance just right.

The Anon cannon, synonymous with death, he continued. And she killed one of our most dangerous enemies to get here.

Yeah. That was a good start. It wouldn’t be enough though. Anon’s reputation as an arms dealer and gunsmith was pretty legendary, even within Koa. They took almost any opportunity to pilfer her product off the streets. Problem was, they’d wanted Merco, not Zeika.

Though Johnny knew otherwise, not a single Koan lieutenant was convinced that Zeika was the brilliance behind the Anon engineering. They were convinced that she was a traitorous, Azure-loving, sugar baby, though. One that had essentially destroyed the Demesnes by merely existing.

And what about you, Quinn? What do you believe?

Johnny frowned and shifted uncomfortably on his bed. He wasn’t sure, honestly. He’d heard the rumors. He’d seen the surveillance. He’d even gathered and confirmed some of the intel himself, proof of her connection not only with Sal Morgan but also with Caleb K. Rai, that new Azure on the block that’d taken a shine to her.

Each piece of information he’d acquired about them had sent a deep stab to a place he’d forgotten existed. More painful, though, were the blank spaces and unanswered questions.

He thought he’d fixed everything before he left. He hadn’t been able to keep up with her as much as he’d wanted, obviously, but still… he’d planned for all contingencies. He’d fixed everything so that she could be safe and free… so that she could move on. So, why was she with the Azures, then?

In the end, his doubts, his disappointments, his anger… none of it mattered. Especially if he wanted to get through Interrogation. Hollow 12’s P-Cell, the group of adult Koan soldiers that lorded over Johnny’s crew, were going to wear him down to the bone with questions and accusations.

If Johnny didn’t have satisfactory responses for every single one, he’d be in more than just deep trouble. He’d also be in a deep grave. So would Zeika.

Still, he held onto it, the possibility that the girl he once loved had betrayed him in his death. That she’d crossed the blue line and had danced over his grave to do it. He’d need the anger, the jealousy… and he’d need it to look and feel real, not just to her and Koa, but even to himself.

It was the only way that he and Zeika were going to survive this… and it was the only way he’d live long enough to find the one thing that had gotten him dragged into Koa in the first place.

The Final Page.

Despite his quick ascent to a commandant’s position, and one that he’d definitely earned, he’d failed Cua one too many times. His last bungle had come at an especially heavy price— the greatest price, actually— and he still carried that cross everywhere he went.

Adding Zeika, the new Whore of Babylon, to the wood on his back wasn’t helping his case. How this all played out, how he moved all the pieces on the board now, would have to be… calculated.

The cell down the hall was finally silent.

Apparently, whatever Zeika’d been going through had passed, and no sounds remained except for the occasional lonely howl of winds through the sewers beneath them.

For the moment, the tension in his chest unravelled, and he was finally able to close his eyes. Only there, in the darkness of his mind, could he see it: all the options, all the consequences, the split roads that he’d have to take, the masks he’d have to wear.

So this time, when he opened his mouth and spoke his mantra, his voice was firmer, clearer. Harder. I am Jonathan Espinoza-Quinn. I am the Captain of Hollow 12.

If he wanted to survive what was coming next, he wouldn’t forget it again.

4

A FULL ENGLISH

Caleb stepped out of the locker room, showered and fully dressed, if not a bit ruffled.

The cot he’d slept on was garbage, and last night’s sleep was hell. He’d had half a mind to pick his way back through the craters of Demesne Five just to crawl back into his own bed, but he’d killed that notion as quickly as it had come. Even if it were still in one piece— unlikely— there’d be way too much temptation to stay home once he got there.

Besides, Luke’s Echo was supposed to be whipping up lattes and raspberry scones. Goddamn.

He bypassed his old office and walked to the end of the hallway into the corner office that had been cleaned out and assigned to them. He took the space in, his mood lifting.

The office was a serious upgrade from his former rabbit hole around the way. It spanned a good 30 x 30 square feet, and each team member had his own corner desk— pre-labeled, polished mahogany with leather ergonomic chairs. Bookshelves with the relevant case files already stacked in them, probably Luke’s doing.

They even had their own briefing wall, where they could pin their maps, dossiers, plan trajectories, and where they could share leads. But the best part was the fridge n’ goodie bar, crowned with granite counter tops, a killer espresso machine, and an exotic assortment of coffee beans, tea leaves, and bagels.

Fantastic, though it was all sort of moot in the end, really; they wouldn’t be spending much time here anyway, not if they were doing their jobs right. But hell, he wasn’t going to point that out to anyone.

A breeze on his back as the door opened.

He turned just in time to see Luke walk in, hair neatly combed, gun holster slung on his slender frame. The box under his arm