Cia Rose Series Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Wood, Rick

  She was now closest to Boy.

  She leapt onto the podium, reaching out for him—but he jumped onto her calf and forced her onto her front.

  He lifted her head and smacked it into the ground, leaving a few dots of blood, like someone had flicked a paintbrush over the podium.

  Boy was crying.

  Again, this forced her weakness to prevail. This gave it centre stage, gave him the superiority over her in yet another aspect of their fight.

  The podium shook as the pounding of the Thoral grew stronger.

  She pushed herself to her feet and faced him.

  She lifted her arms to her face, in a fighting stance.

  He chuckled.

  “We already did this,” he said. “Remember? You lost, pretty badly.”

  She ignored him and swung a fist which he ducked.

  She swung another which he blocked and landed a heavy hand into her belly. She stumbled back, winded, and skidded to a stop at the edge of the podium.

  A few stones tumbled backwards and collapsed into the abyss.

  All he had to do was get her to over the edge.

  Shame to waste her, as she could have been a great warrior, or an even better sacrifice, should she have continued to insist that she wouldn’t be part of the community anymore.

  He could give her one thing though—she was resilient.

  She shook the pain away and breathed and went for him once more.

  He blocked a fist, blocked a fist, and another, and another, and swung his hand so hard into her nose the blood splattered over the rope binding Boy.

  This made him weep even more.

  Sad, pathetic, sack of shit.

  “Knock it off, Cia,” he said. “You’re going to get hurt.”

  She charged at him again and he grabbed her by the throat, keeping her an arm’s distance away.

  “It’s such a shame, such a waste, that someone with such potential, such venom, could not be a part of–”

  She swung her hands onto his elbow, bending his arm and releasing her neck.

  Right, enough of this talking.

  It was distracting.

  The Thoral’s steps were creating a stronger shake of the ground. It was almost here, and everything had to be ready for it.

  The trees surrounding the wall bustled.

  It was about to arrive.

  And she noticed it too. He saw her glance in its direction. He saw the flicker of fear she tried to disguise seeping through the defiant sneer of her lip.

  He saw her look at Boy as she realised it was futile.

  That she had lost.

  In another desperate lurch, she aimed a fist again, and he undercut her jaw.

  She fell to the ground.

  He mounted her back.

  Tucked his arm around her neck and halted her ability to breathe.

  He felt her suffocate and struggle.

  The whole time, she locked her eyes with Boy’s.

  Chapter Fifty

  Boy was confused.

  He was startled, he was perplexed, and he was terrified.

  He was dumbfounded, irate and bombarded with disturbing thoughts.

  And the most upsetting part of it was that he couldn’t understand any of those emotions.

  He just knew it distressed him, but all these other thoughts and feelings that came flooding through him—they only added to that distress by adding confusion that he couldn’t understand was confusion.

  Why was he here?

  Why were they doing this?

  Weren’t they supposed to be nice people?

  Graham had been nice. He’d taught Boy about people and what they say and what their body language is like and what that means and what you do when their faces have different expressions.

  And now, none of it seemed to matter.

  Because Rosy was about to die.

  She was on her knees, Ryker behind her.

  Mounting her.

  Tucking his beefy arm around her dainty neck.

  He placed the hand of that arm on the inside of his other arm’s elbow, and he squeezed.

  And Rosy could not breathe.

  She batted at his arm; she grabbed at it, pulled it and pushed it and punched it but it was like a cat against a lion.

  She wasn’t breathing.

  His Rosy wasn’t breathing.

  And he was about to lose her.

  “No!” he shouted. “Leave her alone! Leave my Rosy alone!”

  Why was Ryker doing this?

  He just couldn’t understand.

  And he couldn’t understand that he couldn’t understand or why he couldn’t understand and he didn’t understand why that was.

  He was just so scared.

  His body shook, even though the rope entwined him so securely that his rigorous shaking was contained to a mild vibration.

  The ground shook, and a roar grew closer and something was coming and was it coming for him?

  Was that why they tied him up?

  Because they wanted it to hurt him?

  Why did they want it to hurt him?

  Rosy’s face was going blue, like a blueberry, and a little green as well. Her eyelids were drooping a little.

  Was she going to die?

  Why was she going to die?

  Why was he doing this?

  “Stop it! Stop it, now! Leave Rosy alone!”

  They had taken him.

  They had come into his home when Rosy wasn’t looking and they had taken him and they had brought him here and those people, those who were so nice, who would help him, who would help Rosy—they put a hand around his mouth and dragged him away.

  And he couldn’t understand.

  Then something happened that he understood, something that brought him right back to his lessons with Graham.

  The end of the rope stuck out from behind his feet.

  Rosy took it in one hand.

  She looked up at him.

  And she winked.

  And she threw herself off the podium.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Cia dangled helplessly over the edge of the podium, clinging onto the rope.

  Ryker hung off her, trying to keep his grip tight, trying to keep his arms around her neck.

  One arm fell loose, and she could breathe again.

  All of his weight pulled her down, dragged her away, and she gripped, gripped as hard as she could, moving her feet to the underside of the podium to help steady her.

  Ryker’s arm began to slip, wet from sweat, and he gripped tighter, grabbing a handful of skin and t-shirt.

  His other hand reached up, going to grab her, going to use her to pull him up.

  But she would not let him.

  As soon as that arm came near, she reached out her open mouth and set her teeth around his fingers. He screamed, but he didn’t let go, and it was just like biting a carrot, just like sinking her teeth in and chewing it off, and with similar force his hand went away but his forefinger remained in her mouth.

  She spat it out, watching it disappear into the devastating drop.

  She reached her open mouth to his other arm, blood flying away in the wind, and snapped her teeth around the one arm that still clung on.

  With that, he let go, and in seconds he had gone, exiting her life as quickly as he had entered it. His scream disappeared into the shadows of the trees, and she was certain that she would never see him again.

  But she was still clinging on to a rope that was becoming looser and looser.

  And the upside-down view of a Thoral approaching was just as unsettling Ryker’s desperate scream that had long since ended.

  Using the rope to drag herself upwards, she pulled herself to the edge of the podium, threw an arm over, and hoisted herself up. She ignored the drop, slid onto her belly and dragged herself further on.

  The Thoral was pounding the trembling earth; the trees shaking under the impact of its colossal feet.

  The rope had loosened around Boy, but there was sti
ll plenty more bound around him. She forced herself to her feet, grabbed hold of it, and began untying him.

  There was so much it felt like she was getting nowhere.

  And Boy’s cries were only getting worse. She didn’t need to turn around to know the Thoral was now visible—she could see it in his eyes, hear it in the increased volume of his shrieks.

  “Hey,” she said. “Hey, Boy. Boy!”

  He looked at her, his voice still mumbling as he cried.

  “Keep saying it, yeah? The devil has departed, and you are not alone…”

  He whispered the rest of the poem.

  His eyes turned back over her shoulder and he kept whispering it, getting quicker and quicker, the fear in his voice getting bigger and bigger.

  She was almost there. Just another few loops to go.

  The podium shook so hard she fell to her knees.

  She looked behind herself, and there it was.

  Horned, massive, bloody jaw and bloody fur.

  Awaiting its sacrifice.

  Cia did the penultimate loop, then the final one, and Boy was free.

  Together, they turned and looked at it.

  It approached.

  Expectant.

  Waiting.

  “No,” said Cia determinedly.

  Its face curled, its large claw lifted and swiped forward toward the edge of the podium.

  “There will be no sacrifice today.”

  She grabbed Boy’s hand and sprinted to the stairs. She didn’t slow down, didn’t wait for his speed to match hers, didn’t alter her determination—she sprinted and forced him to keep up.

  Down the many steps they went, momentum carrying them quicker and quicker.

  The Thoral’s roar cast a large spray of wet wind over them and reverberated around the community.

  They returned to the village hall and halted.

  Cia turned to Boy and took his hand.

  “Can we leave?” he asked, his voice so small, his cheeks wet, his face so delicate.

  “Yes,” Cia said. “Yes, we can. But not yet.”

  He went to moan, to do his thing when he covers his ears and closes his eyes and refuses to listen, but Cia was having none of it—not this time. Not here, not now.

  She knew if they wasted a moment they would lose their lives along with the rest of the community.

  This beast had not received its sacrifice.

  And she knew it would not be long until everyone here paid the price.

  “We need to hide,” Cia said. “We need to hide, and we’ll hide for a little while, maybe a few days, then we’ll come out, and we’ll leave.”

  He frantically shook his head.

  “Please,” she said. “Please, just trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong before?”

  Maybe that was the wrong question—after all, she had allowed them to come here.

  But Boy seemed to agree, and he shook his head.

  She grabbed his hand and led him from room to room, searching, looking for the right place.

  They passed a kitchen, and she led him in.

  “Gather as much as you can,” she told him, and went into the cupboards, grabbing packs of crisps and cans and bottles of water. In seconds, they both held piles of supplies.

  The ground shook and a few cans dropped.

  Then the ground shook again.

  Harder, and quicker, the ground kept shaking and shaking.

  The Thoral.

  Then screeches of Masketes joined.

  And, most terrifying of all, the elongated, disgusting, mortifying hiss of a Lisker.

  “Come on,” she urged, deciding this was enough food. They searched from room to room for a hiding place that would keep them safe, but she could see nothing sufficient.

  If the mistake of trusting this community would be fatal, this was the moment she’d learn it.

  But Boy was smart, and he impressed her by finding a room with a large built-in wardrobe.

  “Well done!” she said.

  She threw the supplies on the floor, then took the clothes from the wardrobe and threw them on the bed.

  Screams decorated the silence outside of the room’s window. Cia afforded herself a glance and regretted it, gagging at the sight of a woman being torn limb by limb by a group of baby Masketes.

  She grabbed Boy, took him inside of the wardrobe and shut the door.

  It was pitch black, and she wished she’d found matches.

  Then she remembered it didn’t matter if they were in a little darkness, so long as they were alive.

  “Come here,” she told Boy, and she pulled him close, wrapped her arms around him, and he wrapped his arms around her.

  And that was where they stayed.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The Thoral sneered down at the fleeing humans.

  The offering that they had readied had been retracted.

  The sacrifice, the meal—gone.

  It lifted its head back in anger and let out an almighty roar—not just its average roar; an elongated roar, prolonging the shake of the community who quivered in response to the wrath.

  The creatures responded.

  A dozen Masketes screeched in the distance.

  A Lisker’s long, low hiss of sinister sibilance answered.

  The Thoral swiped away the podium, collapsed the steps that fell in on themselves until they disappeared into dust and rubble.

  It leapt over the nearby village hall and landed its claws on an insignificant patch of crops.

  It roared again, and the people fled.

  Oh, how the people fled.

  Their protection fell—the only thing keeping them safe destroyed.

  And they did not understand how to react. They were not experienced with the outside world and nor were they trained for such an unprecedented emergency.

  There were no people trying to hide, no people trying to fight.

  They did not know you could do such a thing.

  All they knew was panic.

  Hysteria encapsulated the population, consuming every rapid movement. Mothers grabbed their children, fathers grabbed their families, and some cowards fled from their children and families to save themselves.

  But this was just a single Thoral. A massive, ravenous beast, with blood dripping from its fangs, the length of its body greater than the height of their houses—but it was just one.

  And then it wasn’t.

  The ground shook so hard no one could run, no one could keep their balance; they all collapsed as another Thoral leapt the walls, and another, and another, and another.

  The bloodshed started.

  All the Thoral had to do was swipe its open mouth down and catch multiple screaming humans.

  It petrifies each and every one of them. It is one thing to hear a Thoral; it is one thing to be scared by the knowledge of it—but it is an experience you cannot replicate when you know that, despite your desperate fleeing, you stand no chance of survival.

  What’s more, you aren’t just anticipating your death—you’re anticipating your demise.

  This isn’t just a bullet in the head and down you go.This is looking down and seeing your body inside out.

  This is being ripped apart while you endure the agony.

  This is feeling the fangs in your body and the stream of their throat and the acid of their bellies.

  And the Thorals were just the start.

  Those that had taken shelter, that thought it would obscure them from the eyes of the Thoral, what with the Thoral being so high up, were not safe at all. The screeches of a dozen Masketes grew louder, and they pounded onto the ground, locked eyes with these poorly hidden families, and fed upon the parents as the children watched.

  The children fled, but the baby Masketes were ready to practise their hunting. They gathered in a circle, taunted them at first, then ended their tears as they each took a limb and pulled and ripped and fed.

  Then, as if the worst hadn’t already happened, the few survivors who could do
nothing but witness the remnants of their neighbours being discarded haplessly among the crops they had worked so hard on, they heard something.

  A hiss.

  And the rare sight of a serpentine creature appeared. The thickness of its body outdid the Thoral, the length of its body outdid multiple streets, and if its fangs didn’t meet you, then the rough edges of its slithering body would slice through your back or your throat or anybody part straying from your body.

  When the entire community had fallen, when it seemed as if the creatures had finished, when the few minutes it took to destroy years of growth had finished, they didn’t leave.

  They hunted.

  There were still more, they could smell them.

  They were locking the doors to their houses, as if that could do anything.

  They were searching for loved ones.

  They were even trying to mount the wall.

  They were trying to hide.

  But the community, unlike Cia, did not know how to hide. They did not seek a wardrobe hidden in an obscure room; they simply closed a door and hid behind it.

  This was not enough.

  They knew nothing of these creatures or this world, and none of their fleeing would ever be enough.

  And they all—every single last one of them—fell prey to the creatures.

  And the creatures continued to devour every survivor until there was nothing left but streets of red and stiff, stunned faces.

  NOW

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  It has been a long time, but the noises seem to have stopped.

  The screams and the roars and the screeches and the hisses and the battering and the hollers of pain…they are long gone.

  Cia has no idea how long they have been in there. They have been rationing food pretty well. The wardrobe stinks from the urine and excrement in the corner, but they have become used to it.

  Cia has come to learn that you can truly get used to anything should the situation or environment call for it.

  But now they are coming to the end of their food. Boy is getting restless, and Cia’s hasn’t seen daylight in so long.

  She estimates it has been four, maybe five days. Give or take. There is no way of knowing, but she has attempted to keep track by counting out thirty minutes, getting a feel for what thirty minutes felt like, and estimating from there.