That Moment When: An Anthology of Young Adult Fiction

by A. M. Lalonde

  “You can’t just kill people like this,” Wade says.

  “Oh, young man,” the captain leans in, “you boys are intruding on private property and I bet Ms. Newton’s VeRx support agent would have something to say about this if he didn’t have a hole in his head.”

  That dead guy in my office was the person I chatted with for months on my terminal. He has been located in this office or somewhere nearby for all this time. It appears they’ve been watching me closely this entire time.

  “Why haven’t you just shot us by now if we are such a pain in the ass for VeRx?” Sam asks. “What are you waiting for?”

  My throat tightens at what Sam just said. These guards are going to kill me just because I quit.

  Resting his rifle on his shoulder, the captain smiles at Sam. “You boys are a means to an end. We need your leaders and you kids are the perfect bait. The board wants to cut off the head of the Humanity’s Protectors.”

  Squinting, the captain tilts his head toward me. “Well, we really don’t need this girl though.”

  Heavy breaths overtake my body. I step back only to find the captain reset his aim on me. This is it; I’m going to die today.

  Beautiful bursts of light flicker before my eyes. Everyone in the room freezes. What is happening? A wave of warmth radiates from my core in an ever-expanding halo from my body. It’s my push ability, but something is different. It grabs on to the surrounding conscious reality of the moment. Moving on its own, I find it flow from my mind with ease. My fear has engaged a powerful push unlike anything I have done before. I don’t know how this is possible, but I can hear the guard’s inner dialogue. Muffled, the thoughts begin to slow as I focus my intention on this amazing connection to consciousness. I am now one with the reality of these VeRx personnel and I somehow have the ability to shape their current awareness.

  Thoughts of my parents killed by this heartless corporation fill me with vengeance. I want these men dead. That one intention sets in motion something I’ve yet to experience in my short life.

  Snapping from my emotion-driven push, I shake my head to catch up to the current reality. It is like the captain just mouthed his very last word to me. Like no time had passed. He is set to kill me when suddenly he struggles to suck in a deep breath. His jaw flings open fighting for air. Dropping his weapon, he clutches his throat with both hands. The lieutenant isn’t fazed by his boss fighting for his own life. Blank and stiff, he seems locked like the support agent was in my office. Turning to Sam, I notice he’s staring at me with his intense green eyes. He knows it was my push.

  “Wow,” Sam says calmly. “I had no idea you were capable of this.”

  Shifting between him and the captain I ask, “What did I just do?”

  Without warning, I hear an immense clank followed by a rattling echo off the wall. I flinch and cover my ears. Warmth radiates from the lieutenant’s discharged weapon. He shot the captain in the head. The close range blast pierced the helmet, flinging his body to the ground before it slid to a stop near the wall. Bright red blood pools around his head. The white marble floors only enhance the vibrant color of the blood.

  The lieutenant rips off his own helmet and tosses it to the side. He drops his weapon behind him. Confusion and panic overtake his face. “You made me do that,” he says to me frantically.

  “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean for this to happen.” My heart sinks in my chest.

  Noticing the guard’s state of mind, Wade rushes the lieutenant, tackling him to the ground. Still affected by my push, the man is unwilling to fight back. Wade, who’s a big guy, easily contains him. Secured by his own restraints, the man is forced to sit up against the wall.

  I refuse to look at the captain’s body. If I do, it’s like I’m admitting what happened might be real. It’s too horrifying. Before I can think about this anymore, Sam grabs my hand and pulls me toward the exit. I don’t fight it anymore. A blankness overcomes my state of mind. Feelings have seeped away and I’m left with an emptiness.

  I’m dragged to an old red SUV in the parking lot. Wade opens the rear door and gestures me to get in. I comply and slide in before he slams the door closed. There’s junk everywhere. Smells of old fast-food fill the cabin. Wade jumps into the front passenger seat as Sam takes the wheel. The vehicle stammers before revving up. We pull out of the parking lot just as Sam pulls something out of his pocket. He glances to Wade and grins before pushing a button on the device. An explosion rips from the building as windows shatter, spraying glass everywhere. Rattled by the force, the SUV nearly topples over. Screaming, I grasp my seat as our vehicle settles back down. Looking up at the six-story building I see fire and dark smoke billowing from every blasted-out window.

  “What the hell did you do?” I shout.

  Sam ignores my demand, flooring the beat-up vehicle down the side street.

  “Stop! I want out of here, now!” Again, the boys ignore my pleas.

  I’m about to jump out of the moving vehicle when Sam notices and slams the brakes. Plowing into the back of Wade’s seat, I bounce off and flop back to my chair. My shoulder now throbbing from the impact.

  “Don’t be stupid, Leeyah,” Sam says. “We just saved your life!”

  “No, you probably just killed a ton of people!”

  Grabbing for the handle, I wrench it toward me. It’s stuck.

  “Relax,” Wade says. “We’re taking you somewhere safe.”

  “I’m not safe. You’re murderers.”

  “Um, sorry, girl,” Wade shifts to face me, “you just killed a guy with your mind. You’re a murderer now too.”

  What he says forces me back into my seat. I’ve lost my words. Even though it was self-defense, he’s right. I willed him to die.

  “Listen,” Sam interrupts, “we all did what we had to. Things need to change. Corporations need to be stopped.”

  My emotions pour to the surface as he continues. I wipe the tears from my eyes.

  “You might not like this, but there’s a war going on. You’re an Influencer. You’re one of us now.”

  “I’m just a kid and I want to go home.”

  “There is no home anymore,” he says. “We are all you have now.”

  Pulling my legs to my chest, I curl up hoping to wake up from this nightmare. I don’t know what to believe, but the minute I leave the SUV, the corporate-controlled police will take me in. There is no choice but to go with them for now.

  “We’ll take care of you,” Sam says. “Don’t worry.”

  Believing I’m not a flight risk anymore, they head back down the road. Sirens blare in the distance until they are drowned out by another blast a ways behind us. Just after that another faint explosion echoes somewhere else and then another and another. The city is on fire. It sounds like a warzone and I know who’s to blame for this. I don’t bother asking them. It’s not something I want to think about. I’m terrified now.

  Humanity’s Protectors aren’t a peaceful group trying to organize change. They’re forcing it. They’ve torn down the city freeing corporate Influencers as they go. They’re giving us no other option but to join their aggressive cause.

  I’m no longer a sixteen-year-old girl; I’m a soldier, forced to save humanity’s future or die with its past.

  Receive the FULL Novella of this story for FREE or start reading

  Book One of the Influence Series, which takes place 30 years after this story. Get it here: www.davidrbernstein.com/books

  —ABOUT THE AUTHOR—

  David R. Bernstein writes young adult sci-fi and dystopian fiction. After several years in the Pacific Northwest, he recently returned to his native southern California to focus on writing.

  THE WRONG TIME FOR FATE

  Ingrid Seymour

  Chapter One

  As he drives away, my hand and my pride sting. He didn’t break my heart. I didn’t let him get that far. His hand, up my skirt, during our first date . . . that’s my limit.

  I stand on the sidewalk, staring at my
brand new pumps. I even dressed up for him—for that brute, that savage, that big-handed oaf. Why do I allow my hopes to get high? Why do I believe Hollywood, romance novels, and Mom? They’re all liars. Romance and chivalry are dead. Only egotism remains.

  My watch reads 9:46 PM. I look down the walkway toward my house. The downstairs lights are still on. If I go in now, Mom will ask why I’m back so early. When I inevitably tell her—I can’t keep any secrets from her—she’ll tell Dad and it will be the oaf’s turn to get big-handed, right in the nose.

  I don’t want Dad to go to jail, so I decide to go for a walk. It will clear my mind.

  The night is cloudless and crisp with perfect fall weather. Dry leaves decorate the sidewalk, street and yellowing lawns. One of the triplets from across the street is out walking her collie. We wave at each other. The dog relieves itself in a flowerbed of dying begonias. They were so pretty and vibrant in the summer and now . . . I sigh.

  Rounding the corner, I run into two dark figures and slow down.

  “Right here?” the shorter one impatiently asks. He’s back is to me.

  “Yes,” the taller one responds in a tired tone as if it’s not the first time the question has come up.

  “Patrick?” I say, narrowing my eyes.

  The shorter figure visibly startles, then turns in my direction. It is, indeed, Patrick, my twelve-year-old next door neighbor, and my little brother’s best friend. What is he doing out past his bedtime, and with a stranger?

  “Olivia!” Patrick exclaims, forcing a smile. “You’re . . . you’re here.”

  I frown.

  The guy next to Patrick elbows him. It’s hard to see his features, but I’m sure I don’t know him. He doesn’t live in the neighborhood. He’s tall, broad-shouldered and stands straight and confident, like a marine. I wouldn’t forget someone like that.

  “What are you doing out so late? Everything okay?” I ask, cocking my head to one side and squinting with distrust.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.” Patrick walks closer and gestures for the guy to follow. I tense. “Um, we were just taking a walk. Like you.”

  “A walk? Like me? Huh?” Something is fishy about this.

  They’re close enough now that I can distinguish their faces. A chill goes up my spine as I take in the stranger’s features. It’s like my instincts are telling me something—what?—I don’t know. With his stormy gray eyes, wavy black hair, and poised expression, he’s pleasant enough to look at, but something is off. I take a step back.

  Patrick hurries closer. “This is, um, my cousin P—Peter. Peter, this is Olivia. She lives next door to my house.”

  “Hi, Olivia,” Peter says, leaning forward with a hand outstretched.

  My gaze bounces back between the two. I’ve never heard of Cousin Peter. Patrick would have told me about him. He’s a chatterbox that never seems to run out of words. So I should know everything there is to know about Cousin Peter, whether I want to or not.

  Peter pulls his hand away and sticks it in his pocket. He looks sad I didn’t shake with him. I blush, embarrassed by my rudeness. What is the matter with me? Why am I being so distrustful? It’s not like Patrick would make up a cousin. They do look related, same eyes, same hair. I probably tuned the kid out the day he told me about Peter. I tend to do that. After all, Patrick seems to always be in our house, playing with my brother, Connor. At least that’s what he says he’s doing. For my part, I think he visits so he can torture me with questions and senseless chatting.

  “Um, nice to meet you, Peter.” I give him a lame wave, and an even lamer smile, trying to make up for my horrible manners.

  He beams at me all the same. Good, no harm done.

  “Why are you wearing a dress?” Patrick asks. Here we go: twenty questions.

  “Don’t be nosy, Patrick.” Peter thwacks him in the back of the head. The boy jolts forward and sputters. “He’s a little chatterbox, isn’t he?” Peter looks embarrassed for his little cousin.

  “Hey!” Patrick protests.

  “Do you mind if we join you?” Peter extends a hand down the sidewalk. “A lady shouldn’t walk alone at night.”

  “Seriously?” Patrick wrinkles his nose.

  Peter takes a step in front of his little cousin and bumps him off to the side. Patrick staggers and seems about to complain, but stops at a pointed stare from Peter. He huffs and stays back as Peter and I amble down side by side.

  We walk quietly for the first few minutes with crickets and Patrick’s dragging steps as the only accompanying sounds.

  “It’s a pretty night for a walk.” Peter breaks the silence. “Though, I’m sure you would prefer more comfortable shoes.”

  “I would, actually,” I say, finding it odd that he noticed my footwear. Most guys don’t.

  I love sneakers. I own a pair in every color. It’s kind of my thing. The thought sends my eyes straight to Peter’s shoes. He’s wearing a pair of black sneakers in a brand I don’t recognize. They look ultra-cool.

  We make small talk all the way around the block until we reach my house. We stand by the mailbox, awkwardly staring at the ground. I’m surprised to find that I don’t want to go inside.

  Patrick looks extremely grumpy. Peter gives him a pointed look and slightly jerks his head to the side. With a heavy sigh and a begrudging “bye”, Patrick walks away toward his house.

  “That kid,” Peter says with a fond smile. “He’s a handful. I hope he doesn’t drive you crazy.”

  “Sometimes,” I say. “But he’s sweet.”

  “So . . . what are you doing tomorrow?”

  The question takes me by surprise and stirs a couple of butterflies in my stomach. “Um, just some homework, I guess.”

  “I know we just met, but would you like to see a movie with me?”

  My stomach clenches with excited nerves. Tonight I had the crappiest date ever, and the prospect of going out with a guy I just met is making me excited?! What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I have to be such a desperate romantic?

  “I would love to,” I say, the nervous butterflies doing the talking for me.

  Damn it!

  If he turns out to be another caveman, I’ll ingest butterfly poison.

  Chapter Two

  I wear jeans, a simple lilac t-shirt, and matching sneakers. No way I’m dressing up. I already hate myself for accepting Peter’s invitation. I refuse to be the pathetic idealistic girl I was born to be. Damn my mom and the genes she passed on to me! She was lucky to find a man like Dad, a romantic if there ever was one. Too bad for me I got the starry-eyed chromosome from both sides. I’m screwed.

  Patrick shows up five minutes early. He drives a black Mustang up to the curb, gets out, and strides up the walkway. In the daylight, I realize he’s even more handsome than I’d thought. His gray eyes are quicksilver, no other color in their depths. He has short, tightly packed lashes, and a few freckles on the bridge of his nose.

  I watch him approach from my spot on the porch steps, heart racing a little.

  “May I?” he asks, pointing to the spot next to me.

  I nod, feeling shy and sort of intimidated by his good looks. I’ve never been on a date with someone so hot. God, I’m sure he’s used to girls bending over backward for him. Literally. From bat to home run on the first try. Crap, what have I gotten myself into?

  “From last night to this moment, it felt like forever,” he says in a quiet whisper that sends a chill crawling up my back.

  Huh? Did I hear him right? He didn’t just give me a line, did he? Because it has to be a line. Still, the candor and relief in his voice—as if he’s truly been waiting forever—make me wonder.

  He angles his body in my direction. “I’m almost eighteen. What do you think of dating someone older than you?”

  Dating? I get stuck in that word—not where I should, not in the odd question. He’s like a live wire, shooting electric, outrageously premature words in my direction. He doesn’t act like we just met. He acts like he’s known me an
d has been contemplating telling me these things for a long time.

  “Well, you’re only two years older. It’s not such a big difference,” I say, my cheeks heating up like two small suns.

  “What about four years? Is that a big difference?”

  Is he trying to tell me he’s twenty, now? The butterflies turn to piranhas. My stomach clenches as I remember the vibe he gave me last night. Man, do I know how to pick them?!

  He’s a creep. A psychopath!

  I shake my head, shutting down my overactive imagination. He doesn’t look like he’s twenty or a psychopath. He looks . . . expectant and worried and a little desperate.

  “I guess when you’re young it can be a big difference, but not in the long run,” I say.

  “In the long run,” he repeats. Abruptly, he flashes a breathtaking smile that makes me wish chivalry wasn’t dead. “Ready for that movie?”

  He stands and offers me a hand, still smiling, still making me dream of impossible things, things that belong to another time. Our fingers touch. My warmth meets his. We exchange smiles. He opens the passenger side door for me and holds my hand until I’m comfortably seated.

  At the theater, he buys me popcorn with no butter, a root beer, and a box of yogurt covered raisinets. He hit the nail on all my favorites while we were playing a guessing game at the concession stand.

  The movie is perfect, quiet and uplifting. He takes my hand halfway through the show, and I swear it’s like there are miniature electroshock machines in the tips of his fingers. His touch electrifies me and makes every cell in my body wake up with a delicious jolt. My reaction worries me. Things are progressing way too fast already. Two hours from now, where will he try to take his reviving fingers? Will I care?

  When we’re walking out of the movies, he lays a hand in the small of my back. Warmth travels through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. Other parts of my body tingle as if calling attention to themselves. That’s when I realize I’m not the “good girl” Mom’s always talking about. I just hadn’t met the right guy. Or should I say the wrong guy?