The Search for Artemis - By P. D. Griffith Page 0,27
Landon and Riley had entered from the stairway on the southwest end, and unfazed by the brilliance of the Atrium, Riley sped them around the oak tree and hurriedly ushered Landon into the northeastern stairs on the direct opposite side.
They climbed three flights before exiting into a new hallway. Although not as huge as the ones jutting out from the Atrium, this hallway also had high ceilings and stone pillars lining the walls, spaced at regular intervals. In between the pillars, large clear glass sconces lit the walkway. Faint light flickered behind the glass.
“Are those gas lamps?” Landon asked. “Why would a place built in the twentieth century have gas lamps?”
“Yeah, none of us have been able to figure that one out yet. I think the people who built the place just have some creepy obsession with everything Greek, and they probably thought hallways lit by fire were more authentic than using light bulbs like normal people.” Riley answered without turning to look at Landon. He seemed to have a singular focus to get them to food.
As they approached the end of the hallway, Landon heard the drone of many voices coming from up ahead, and the intoxicating odor of warm food filled the air. When they turned the corner, they were standing before two large doors opened wide for all to enter. Landon saw at least fifty kids around his age moving about the tables, conversing, carrying trays of food, eating, and laughing.
To Landon’s right, people moved through two lines for food. The rest of the place was filled with four long wooden tables running perpendicular to the door with benches on either side. It was a massive place and would sit quite a few people if the occasion demanded.
Landon followed close behind Riley as they moved to the back of the nearest food service line. They both progressed through the queue and filled their plates, piling them high with plentiful scoops of macaroni and cheese, meatloaf with gravy, green beans, pulled pork, roasted chicken, baked beans, pierogies, and mashed potatoes, finishing with a single warm yeast roll covered in honey butter. Salivating, Landon stared longingly at his plate as they proceeded to the tables. He hoped this meal might finally calm the beast rumbling in his abdomen and satiate his incessant hunger.
Riley walked purposefully over to the fourth long table—the one farthest from the door—and began to move down the aisle to a predetermined location to which Landon was not yet privy.
Talking over his shoulder while they walked to their seats, he began, “So, Landon, let me explain this place to you. Just like high school . . . You went to high school, right?”
“Yeah, I was supposed to be a sophomore this year.”
“You’re luckier than I was then. I debuted just before the eighth grade, so I didn’t have a clue when I got here. Anyways, this place is supposed to be just like high school. . . . There is an innate caste system based on popularity that you cannot get around. You’ve got your jocks, your geeks, your rebels and your outcasts, all at their appropriate rung on the social ladder. However, popularity is measured on a slightly different scale than a normal school. Here, the most powerful are the most popular.
“What they didn’t tell you in orientation, unless they changed it since I went through it, is that people aren’t good at everything when it comes to their powers. . . . And here, telekinesis is king. Unless you have some really insane ability no one else can do, everyone wants to be the person who can seriously lift. And the ones who can; they’re . . . your jocks. That would be them in the back corner.”
Riley motioned his head over to the far corner of the cafeteria. A small group of about six guys were gathered around a seventh towering, muscular one who stood with one foot resting on the bench. They were laughing loudly, and Landon could see they exuded that same confidence as the star lacrosse players from his high school. They knew no one could touch them, and they reveled in that power.
“The big guy with the short blond hair—the one who’s standing up and has everyone’s attention—that’s Brock Holbrooke. He’s eighteen and would be the equivalent to the quarterback for the football team. Right now, no one can go near him on lifting. I even saw him lift a whole car once.
“And that Spanish-looking guy sitting down—the one