Song of Sirens

Dear Planet Earth,

A familiar feeling swept over my deaf, dusty body after Private Karter blew open my cell door with a surprisingly effective hand grenade. I forced myself up and sauntered to my new gaping opportunity of freedom, ignoring the ringing song of sirens playing in my head. A blurry version of Karter grabbed my arm and guided me through the fresh rubble. Some other, logical mirror of myself must have been active, because I somehow remembered to grab my laptop, broken walkie talkie, and the book, A History of the Inheritors.

I regained my senses faster than I would have expected. My vision cleared and I was able to make out dozens of jail cells identical to my own — all lined up like in a mental asylum, all empty. I had no time to interpret what this meant. Even now, I have few logical explanations as to why I was the only one in that underground mole people prison.

When we got to the end of the hallway, I could make out some earthen stairs and my ears had healed to the point that I could hear Karter say, “Eddy? Ah . . . oo . . . ee? Ah . . .” He shook me by the shoulders.

“Are you ready?”

I took deep breaths, flexed my muscles. The light coming from the surface was so sweet it blinded me in a whole new way, yet I managed to retain focus.

“I think so.”

“Trust me,” Karter said with a trademark grin. “You aren’t.”


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