PROJECT SPARTA

CHAPTER 26

The Compound

2011

Xander collapsed in the street, screaming in his hands as the fire blazed over Ezra's house. He smelled the rotting of the house and the burning of flesh. His eyes met the burnt corpse and his ears heard the cries from the others.

Xander turned and squinted through the floating soot. There at the window looking out over the Compound was a silhouette. There was an ominous feeling that came with the sight – a knot twisted in his gut. And then he felt hands come over him and carry him away from the perimeter, judging by the muscle mass of the arms that enveloped him – they belonged to Bronson. Xander snapped. He threw an elbow which caught Bronson in the windpipe. Xander hit the ground hard as Bronson released his grasp. He turned again to the window but the silhouette was gone.

Xander found his feet and started running toward the house. He was within twenty feet when the gas line exploded, sending one more violent blast through the Compound. As Xander flew back violently through the air, he woke up sweating from the recurring memory. Panting and sweating, Xander jumped up in bed looking around in hopes he could find his way back to reality.

It had been three months – the new year had dawned – and nothing had gotten better.

Xander's speculation grew wild, despite Hardy's announcement that Ezra had committed suicide. Hardy's words during the memorial service echoed through his head.

"Ezra was troubled. The pressure you all face got to him. Ezra gathered C4 from the Armory. Judging by the wreckage, he planted them next to the gas main in an effort to take out his whole house and him along with it. You all should consider yourselves strong for making it through where another has faltered. We have to be there for each other in this dark time in Project Sparta. This loss will help us grow closer together. This loss...will make comrades out of us," his voice trembled. Xander sat despondent, numb to everything around him. He remembered his initial thought upon hearing it.

Did he really kill himself? Or did they dispose of him, knowing that he had mentally and emotionally checked out from the Project? They wouldn't kill a dissenter would they? But then who was that silhouette? And why did they not look alarmed or surprised by the explosion? Was it Ezra's murderer?

Xander's trust in his surroundings and the program had dwindled to a faint apathy. He began to keep to himself, attending mandatory trainings and immediately retreating to his house afterwards. The memory of Ezra's death had replayed over and over like the hard drive of his brain had a glitch. The image of the charred corpse surfaced again and again, haunting him. His anger was growing for the instructors and the program itself. He founded himself adopting Ezra's sentiments of the Project before his death.

They are completely manipulating us...

Over the three months, Duke seized the opportunity to climb the leaderboard as Xander's name descended like a bird with a clipped wing. Xander fought in a clumsy manner, merely going through the motions of each subsequent battle. He acted with a poised detachment, just engaged enough to fly under the radar. There had been a battle in a rail yard, a Church, the mountains and a schoolhouse – all abandoned locations within the region. During the battles when he had a moment, he would look out to the edges of the landscape and consider running for it. He wanted to abandon the program, leaving everyone behind. But he couldn't leave behind Fiona.

Xander watched her from afar, avoiding as much personal contact with her or anyone else as possible. He continued to watch the surveillance monitors as Fiona carried on with her mornings and evenings. Through the months of surveillance he had seen no indication that she could have questionable loyalties. The only coping mechanism he had was running. Xander ran long distances around the Compound every day, alone and apart from the other Spartans exercising in the fitness center. It was the only way he could find the space and time to process his thoughts. He pounded out every ounce of anger he had into his physique, chiseling it into a built frame.