Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1)

by David Estes

  “I think we all need a break from this boredom,” Check says. “Listen, I’ve been talking to some of the guys and they told me about this Lifer club that’s supposed to be insane. We could go tonight. It’ll take our minds off of—well, everything. Whaddya say, Luce? I’d save at least one dance for you.”

  Benson groans inwardly. While he’s continued to delay telling his best friend about he and Luce’s budding relationship, his friend has been more aggressive than ever in pining for her affections. He feels like a complete jerk, as he knows he should.

  “I’m in,” Gonzo says.

  “Sí,” Rod agrees.

  “Thanks, but I don’t know if I’m up for it,” Benson says.

  “Me either,” Luce agrees quickly, trying to hide the smile she flashes Benson under her hand.

  “Suit yourselves,” Check says. “But if you change your minds, the place is called Dark and it’s on level minus-ten. Now I’m going to get some grub, who’s in?”

  “Me,” Rod and Gonzo say at the same time. Now that they’ve got a ready supply of food at their disposal, Benson is only just beginning to learn how much his friends can eat. He, on the other hand, hasn’t had much of an appetite lately.

  “See you later,” Benson says as his friends leave. He tries to ignore the wink that Check offers Luce when he passes her.

  When they’re gone, Luce flops down on the bed next to Benson, leaving a bit of empty space between them. Benson used to agonize over Luce’s every move, but now that he knows about Luce’s horrific past—her attempted rape by an orphanage headmaster—he understands it. Sometimes it’s like there’s an invisible force field holding them apart. And when they touch it’s like an electric shock that hurts so much they have to pull away. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to close the gap, to draw her close, to kiss her; rather, he’ll let her decide when and where. Even though it’s hard. Like really hard. Especially because they’ve kissed a few times now, and it’s all Benson can seem to think about when he’s with her.

  Even now, he jerks his head when he realizes he’s staring at her pink lips. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “We should tell Check about us,” Luce says.

  He likes the way “us” sounds on her lips. On her tongue. “I know,” Benson says. “I will.”

  “When?”

  “Soon?”

  Luce lets out a frustrated laugh, but drops her hand into the space between them, palm up. The signal that she’s ready to be touched by him. He doesn’t hesitate, slowly lowering his hand to rest atop hers. He feels the tremble in her fingers, hears her quick sharp breaths, can almost see the flashes of terrible memories cycling through her head as she tries to separate the nightmares of the past from Benson’s harmless touch.

  She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back.

  “I’ll tell him tonight,” Benson promises. Why did I promise that? he thinks, instantly regretting it. A bulge of anxiety fills his stomach. Now he really doesn’t feel hungry.

  “Thanks,” Luce says, leaning in, her eyes already closed. Benson takes advantage of the opportunity to study her thin, arching eyebrows, her long lashes, her button nose, and her moist lips, puckered slightly. All that in a split-second, the longest he can wait before ducking his head to let his lips meet hers. The kiss sends tingles through his whole body and his hands seem to move on their own, without command from his brain. One cups her chin and then slides around to the back of her head, tangling in her silky hair. The other drops to her hip and he feels her shudder and freeze at his touch. Not long ago he would’ve taken it as a rejection, but now he knows to simply wait. Wait for her mind to catch up to reality, to chase away her demons. And she does, because her hands move, too, painting his chest and arms with delicate strokes.

  When they finally pull apart they’re both laughing.

  He remembers something Janice once told him growing up, before his father faked Benson’s death and she lost her mind. Happy moments are like stars. They appear so close you think you can touch them, but really they’re fleeting and a million miles away. Enjoy them from afar and don’t come to expect them. In your life there will be more cloudy nights than clear ones. At the time they were sitting side by side and craning their necks to gaze at the star-strewn sky, and for Benson it was one of the best moments of his short life.

  There’s a star-like twinkle in Luce’s eyes now and Benson can’t help the thrill he feels knowing that he put it there, like a happy memory. “So tonight?” she says.

  Benson cringes, remembering his promise. “Uh, yeah,” he says.

  “Don’t sound so confident,” Luce jokes.

  “I’m not,” Benson says. “Check might kill me when I tell him.”

  “Want me to do it?” Luce asks.

  Benson sighs. “I’m his best friend—I should do it. And anyway, I think it would be much worse coming from you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’ll need someone to hit, and he can’t hit you.”

  “Maybe you should wear a helmet,” Luce says. Although it sounds like she is, he knows she’s not joking.

  ~~~

  Article from the Saint Louis Times:

  Is Refuge Real?

  With the disappearance of the Saint Louis Slip, talk has escalated about a place known simply as Refuge. If you believe the rumors, Refuge is a harbor for Slips who manage to escape from the authorities. But is it real or modern-day fiction, the equivalent of Oz or Wonderland? And if it is real, what is Pop Con doing to locate it?

  We posed those very questions to Mayor Strombaugh, of Saint Louis, and this was his response: “There is no evidence that suggests this ‘Refuge’ is a real place. The very idea that there are more than a handful of at-large Slips is ludicrous. However, there may be a few Slips out there, hiding together. It’s possible they aided Benson Kelly, and are even now protecting him. If so, we will take every measure possible to find them and terminate them. We’re in the process of appointing a new Head of Population Control, whose first task will be to complete an ongoing mission to follow a current lead.”

  When questioned about who might be appointed as Head of Pop Con, the mayor had no comment. He also had no comment about the specific nature of the current investigation.

  Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now. NOTE: All comments are subject to government screening. Those comments deemed to be inappropriate or treasonous in nature will be removed immediately and appropriate punishment issued.

  Comments:

  CherryRipe4: Does anyone remember that young cyborg that was hunting the Slip? What ever happened to him? He was gorgeous.

  JohnBardo9: Oh yeah, I remember. His name was Domino I think. He was fired from Pop Con the same day Corrigan Mars was. It was all over the news.

  CherryRipe4: Domino…ooh, even his name is sexy. Are there any cyborgs out there that want to get a drink tonight?

  Chapter Three

  Fifteen percent human.

  At first it made Domino Destovan feel sick. At first he thought about how in school they learned how rounding works. Anything fifty percent and higher gets rounded up. Everything else is rounded down. Even as a cyborg, he considered himself human. Because of rounding.

  But now rounding would make him a robot. More machine than human. More metal than flesh and blood and organic tissue. When he smashes either of his metal fists into the wall, he doesn’t feel pain. When he walks he can’t feel his own feet on the ground. Because they’re not his feet, are they? They’re spare parts pieced together and wired to his brain.

  Ah, his brain! Although apparently they had to reconstruct parts of it using some kind of polymer tubing, it’s still “mostly human.” Those are the doctor’s words, not his. And he can still feel his heart knocking around in his metal chest. That makes him human, right?

  More than anything, he knows he’s part human because of the anger. Like a dragon made of fire it roils inside him, bursting through his veins and scorching
his heart and pounding against his temples, which are still skin and bone. It’s the kind of complete anger that only a human could have. With each passing day his wrath seems to build—and he knows why.

  (The itch is there.)

  (To kill.)

  (To destroy.)

  Yes, the Destroyer knows he must destroy to satisfy his anger. It’s the only way. Killing is the only thing that’s given him any kind of satisfaction since he came back from the war, broken and helpless. But now he’s stronger. Invincible.

  And stifled.

  He smashes a hole in the rock wall, sending stones crumbling to the floor. “I’m ready!” he shouts. He’s been shouting a lot lately. After the extensive surgeries that made him more machine than man, he can’t seem to control the volume of his voice.

  The doctor and nurse back away until they hit the opposite wall. Corrigan Mars doesn’t even flinch. “I know,” Corr says. Compared to the Destroyer, his boss looks old and weak. But he knows he’s not. After all, he’s the one who took down Michael Kelly. And the command in his voice is enough to freeze even the cyborg’s boiling hot blood.

  “Then let me find the punks who did this to me!”

  “Patience,” Corr says evenly, as if demonstrating the word with the calmness in his voice.

  The Destroyer is tired of being patient. The itch is becoming painful and he has to scratch it, one way or another. Corrigan Mars may want to kill the Slip, but the Destroyer doesn’t think his boss would understand his need to kill anything. The doctor or nurse would do just fine. He just needs to feel the power again—that fine line between life and death coursing through his fingertips.

  Corr’s holo-screen blares to life and he says, “Yes?”

  His boss distracted, the Destroyer inches toward the nurse, who eyes him warily. He can almost smell the fear wafting off of her.

  “Mr. Mayor, what a pleasure,” Corr says. “The Times article? Yes, I read it. Sounds like you’re in need of someone with real Sliphunting experience.”

  The Destroyer’s human lips curl into a smile as he fantasizes about what kind of noise the nurse’s neck would make when snapped in half. When he takes another step forward, she glances at the door.

  Corr is still talking to the mayor, but the Destroyer can barely hear him now, his attention fully focused on his prey. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor, I’d be honored to do my duty for the city,” Corr says.

  Somewhere in the back of Dom’s mind, he registers the beep when Corr ends the call, but nothing can stop him now. He takes a quick step, then another, and the nurse’s eyes widen. She starts to run for the door, but he cuts her off with two long strides. The cowardly doctor shrinks further into the room, abandoning her nurse. She tries to squirm away but his fingers are like a vice on her skin. She screams.

  “Stop,” Corr commands.

  Dom’s heart is racing, a thrill rushing through every single one of his remaining human parts, but he stops. He stops, not because he wants to, but because he still feels a certain loyalty toward the man who believed in him from the start.

  “We don’t need her anymore,” the Destroyer says, hoping against hope that he’ll be able to finish her. She’s sobbing now, and he realizes he’s holding her off the floor, her feet dangling, desperately scrabbling to find purchase.

  Corr says, “She helped save your life, and now you’re just going to kill her?” Twisting his neck to look back, the Destroyer tries to read his boss’s expression. It’s not disgust exactly—more like interest. Morbid curiosity, like a scientist who’s fascinated by a rat that eats its young.

  “I have to,” the Destroyer says, trying to explain the need that’s like breathing for him.

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Corr says. “You are my soldier and you’ll kill who I tell you to kill. Now drop her.”

  The rage rushes through him like a flood, tightening his human muscles against his machine parts, and he slings the nurse to the floor, her body thudding viciously on the cement. She cries out, loudly at first, and then whimpering, like a child, clutching an arm that isn’t hanging quite right.

  But the Destroyer’s not done. It’s not enough to satiate his need. For the first time in his life, he disobeys a direct order from a superior, leaping on the nurse and raising his fist, ready smash her pretty little features to insignificant hunks of bloodied meat.

  The pain hits him like a shockwave, jolting him from head to toe and throwing him away from the nurse. His entire body goes rigid, bolts of lightning stabbing him in the brain, in the heart, in the eyes…

  As the horrendous sensation dies out, his vision dims and he’s vaguely aware of the nurse scrambling to her feet and rushing from the room. Corrigan Mars stands over him. He knows it was Mars that caused the pain. Somehow.

  “Listen to me, Domino,” Corr says, his words sheathed with ice. “You’re my psychopath and you’ll only kill those that I tell you to. And if you don’t, I’ll destroy you. Do you understand?”

  He tries to say yes, but his lips won’t move. Instead, he manages a nod.

  “Good. Because I’ve just been appointed the new Head of Population Control. And I want you to be my second-in-command. We’ve got a Slip to kill.”

  GRIP by David Estes, available NOW!

  A sample of BREW by David Estes, available NOW! The Witch Apocalypse Begins!

  PART ONE: SALEM’S REVENGE

  In the black of night,

  ’Midst shattered dreams,

  Come darkest terrors, once unseen.

  Hidden amongst us,

  Wielding ancient power,

  ’Til the wraiths step forward, for the witching hour.

  Salem’s Revenge, Rhett Carter

  Chapter One

  The witches don’t deserve to die.

  As I chuck my football cleats in my duffel and zip it shut, my foster mom’s words ring in my head. For months she’s been focused on the whole Salem’s Return debacle. The new laws, the hunt for real, live witches, the executions. And, after the news today, she’s up in arms all over again.

  Number of Witches May Stretch into the Thousands, the headline read.

  It almost made me laugh, but I held it in because of the grave expression on my mom’s face. Witches? Come on. There’s no such thing, not in real life anyway. Between the pages of the books I love to read, however, that’s a different story. And that’s where they should stay. All the rest is nothing more than fear, just like it was during the original Salem Witch Trials.

  “Bye, Mom!” I shout as I push through the front door, shouldering my backpack and football gear.

  “Have a good day, Rhett!” Trudy Smith calls back, but her head never turns, her eyes glued to the continued Salem’s Return news coverage.

  The world is a scary place. One big hot mess. While we should be focused on our real problems, like the thousands of homeless living—and starving—on the streets, the ever-rising cost of healthcare, and the ticking time bomb that is the social security system, the lawmakers are focused on…drumroll please…witches. Really?

  I weave my way along the familiar path through the Atlanta suburbs, making my way to meet my friends, Beth and Xavier. Well, Xave’s a friend, and Beth—she’s more than a friend. The thought brings a smile to my face, instantly erasing the negative energy from this morning’s news.

  On the opposite side of the street, I see a couple of my teammates getting into their car. They glance in my direction, pausing to smirk at me. I’d wave, but I don’t really like them very much—like, at all. Unfortunately, the “mates” part of “teammates” is used loosely in my case. Maybe if I partied more and read fewer books I’d be more popular on the team. But alas, the star quarterback, Todd Logue, has decided to make me the target of ninety-nine percent of his jokes. And these two punks are two of his besties.

  So I look away from them and just keep walking, breathing a sigh of relief when they don’t do more than honk obnoxiously at me as they roar past, filling the air with a foul-smelling cloud of
fumes.

  “This week I decided the school newspaper should discuss Salem’s Return,” Beth says when I meet her and Xavier in front of their neighboring houses.

  “Good morning to you, too,” I say, leaning down to sneak in a quick kiss. To my delight, Beth returns it, her lips lingering on mine for three awesome beats of my heart.

  “They should outlaw kissing in front of friends,” Xave says, turning away from us and shielding his eyes. My best friend, as usual, looks like he’s heading to some private prep school. Wearing a red and blue sweater vest that perfectly matches his brightly colored belt, he could be the son of a politician or a CEO. Beneath the vest is a spotless white button-down shirt.

  “You might not be saying that if you had a boyfriend,” I say, pulling away from Beth.

  “Yes, I would,” Xave says, starting down the sidewalk. A carpool full of students zooms past, radio blasting.

  “I guess you saw this morning’s news then,” I say, returning to Beth’s initial topic of choice. “So you’re going to write about the revival of the Salem Witch Trials?”

  Her big, brown eyes light up the way they always do when she talks about her latest project as editor of the school paper. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve been doing some initial research, and something about it all just doesn’t add up. I don’t think the government is telling us everything.”

  “Do they ever?” I say.

  “You mean, like a conspiracy?” Xave says, leaning in. He’s always liked a good conspiracy to start the day. I smile, because why not? The sun is shining, I’m with my two best friends, and no one has tried to pick a fight with me today. All in all, it’s a good start to a Wednesday.