Present: The Wonderland War, London
I 'm in the middle of a nonsensical fight, punching and kicking people I don't know.
I'm not sure how or when things escalated in the ashen city of London, but some strangers want to kidnap the March. My fighting skills have sharpened, I must say, and I'm able to protect the March. My heart has hardened and molded into a ruthless killer who doesn't care to ask why she is fighting.
Both he and I escape the madness and hide behind the remains of a building with a heavy mushroom on top.
"Catch your breath, Alice," the March says. "We just need to find a closed space where I can tell you everything I know."
I’m caught between heavy breaths and tense cheeks. I stare past him for a long time, neglecting his words. I’m glad that not everyone recognizes us as the Inklings or they would attempt to kill us. Now that we have a few minutes, I find my eyes fixed on the yellow bus in the far distance.
How strange is it that I did run far off and still see it everywhere I go. If any of them were still alive they would have come out, shouted, asked for help, called my name or something.
How did I manage to kill them?
How come it's a yellow bus again?
Why did Jack bring a yellow school bus?
I have a feeling I will never find the answers. You know why? I vocalize the reason to the March Hare, "Tell me, March. Am I mad?"
"The Cheshire once said we're all mad here," the March says with his curious big eyes.
"That's not an answer."
"Well, Alice, let me put it this way: if you're mad then I'm mad," he looked around. "And everyone else is mad."
"Which is practically true," I say. "What's the meaning of life if we're all mad?"
"Madness is not a disease, Alice. It's a coping mechanism."
I let out a hollow laugh. "You sound too serious. So unlike you."
"I made you smile, didn't I?"
I nod with grateful eyes.
"Let me tell you what I remembered then…" he says.
But then I see something I can't neglect. Two kids, probably thieves, emerge out of the yellow bus with all kinds of loot in their hands. Stolen money. Clothes. Even the steering wheel--why steal the wheel?
"Forget about them," March says. "I need to tell you--"
"They just left the bus," I tense, standing up. "I have to ask them if everyone is dead."
"They're far away," March argues. "It's dangerous to cross over. We could have gone and checked it out ourselves if it weren’t so dangerous."
"I have to," I grip his hand. "I have to know."
Unexpectedly, the March Hare pulls me back. "I have to tell you what I know, Alice. You have one last battle to finish. People die for the greater good."
I look into his eyes, wondering if the screws in his head, the Six Keys, messed with his psyche. "You don't sound like you at all, March. Since when have you been so cruel."
"Since I know that only you can save the world."
His words don't sit well. I can't even hear him when I see the two child thieves having stolen another important item from the bus and fleeing away with it.
"They have the Vorpal sword," I tell March. "Whatever last fight I have to endure, Fabiola told me I need the Vorpal sword."
The March's ears prick up again. His eyes almost bulge out. "It's like Lewis predicted in his poem. Let's go after the kids. You convinced me."
Now it's him eagerly leading the way, and I'm the one who's following.
"What did Lewis predict, March?"
"That you will have to fight the embodiment of evil with the Vorpal sword."
I hit an attacker with the back of my hand as we run, "Who am I going to fight, March? Is that what you remembered?"
"The Jabberwocky."
Of course, I remember that poem, though I have never given it a lot of thought. Also, I've never met the Jabberwocky.
And there is no time to ask since I'm a few inches away from gripping one of the kid's arms.
"Do it, Alice!" the March cheers.
I do and pull the kid back. His friend stops a few strides away.
"Leave him alone," the other kid says. "Go steal something else. This is our loot."
"All I need is the sword," I tell him. "Or I'll kick your friend's ass."
The boy smirks. "No way, the sword looks expensive. I can make a fortune selling it."
"Sell it to whom, smartass ," I ask him. "Look around. Do you think anyone will care about money in a few hours from now?"
The boy's face dims as if he hadn't given it a thought before.
"Give me the sword," I demand.
"Why do you need it?"
"It's mine."
"It can't be yours," he says. "I found it on the bus."
"I was on the bus."
"You couldn't have been on the bus," the boy sneers at me.
"Why are you so sure?"
"If you had been then you would be dead like everyone else on it."