Copyright
A Whisper in the Flame is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A WHISPER IN THE FLAME: A NOVEL
Copyright © 2021 by Rebekah Nicole
All rights reserved.
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Published by Kingston Publishing Company
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Table of Contents
Copyright
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
About the Author
Also by the Author
About the Publisher
The way we live now, this world that only feels half-real; It's like we're all stuck in some kind of nightmarish dream. No matter how desperately we may want to, we can't shake ourselves awake.
Get up, Emma. Pinch yourself. Slap yourself. Fall off the bed. Do something - and this will all be over.
Ever since the Iron Giant was built around 18-year-old Emma's coastal town, she knew things would never be the same. She never expected that it meant her brother and father would be called off to the army to help protect them against the infected.
Proprevilation ruined everything.
If it wasn't for the, self-named, miracle drug, her family would still be together. Everything would be fine. She would graduate high school in the next couple of months and head off to university. Instead, she's stuck at home and forced to work in the local lab.
When an earth-shattering letter arrives, a whirlwind string of events put Emma's life on a new trajectory. Conspiracies are unearthed and truths are learned, forcing her to take up for a cause she never dreamed would be thrust upon her.
But will Emma let defeat burn her, or will she listen to the whispers of hope? Will she have the strength to find the only family she has left and the courage to do something right in a time full of so much wrong?
Alone. Completely and utterly alone.
Can there be anything more?
How long can I keep this up?
Whispers call out to me. In my sleep. In the fire that rages through my dreamscape.
When the sky burns red, orange, and purple – the voices reach through each flickering flame. They call me forward.
"Move." They whisper. "Come to us."
I know I must go. I need to race through the burning embers to reach those quiet voices.
But I don't know that I can. I'm trying so hard to let go. My feelings keep thrashing me back like waves in the ocean. They rise and ebb, tossing my heart back and forth.
Then a wave of anger comes. It topples me, pounding me into the gritty, crystallized sand. The fire still burns past the dunes, but I'm being taken away. I'm falling deeper into the ocean. Dragged away by the rising tide.
Chapter 1
I still remember the first time I saw one.
Even if it was only on a TV screen. It was the morning of my 15th birthday. I had just come down the stairs, fully expecting to have my parents pounce on me with a “Happy Birthday” the moment I stepped off of the bottom stair. Instead of seeing them, though, across the entryway, in the dining room, sat a colorful bouquet of daisies and a card placed in front of my usual seat at the grand oak table. In the center of my place was a tiny vanilla cupcake with purple frosting swirled on top.
I smiled, thinking of my grandmother. She started the tiny cupcake tradition; she always said that one should never have to wait to enjoy their birthday cake. Grandma believed, almost superstitiously, that the sweetness of a cupcake first thing on your birthday morning would produce an even sweeter year. My parents never put much stock in superstitions. Still, even my mother couldn’t help but love this one.
I didn’t make it into the dining room. I could hear my parent’s hushed and hurried voices coming from down the hall. I walked with soft, tiptoed steps down the hardwood entry, following their whispers into the kitchen. I remember thinking that I had to stay quiet. Whatever they were discussing was being done so in low murmurs for a reason. I wanted to know what that reason was. If I alerted them to my presence, they would have immediately stopped their discussion.
The news was playing in the background of the kitchen from the built-in screen on the refrigerator door. The morning sun cast orange and yellow hues through the French doors' windows and onto our informal dining table. The kitchen was bright and open, but the atmosphere was heavy around me.
When I saw my parents, they both had their backs to me and had already stopped talking, eyes focused on the television. Mom was leaning her side into the bar, a plate of bacon, eggs, and fruit half in her hand and half on the counter. Her other arm was dropped down, holding a glass of orange juice on the verge of spilling over the edge. Dad stood next to her, squeezing the back of his neck while he cocked it to one side, watching the screen.
A horrible scream scratched at my eardrums, and I jumped as all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Through the space between my parents, I could see the screen displaying a horrible image. An image like nothing I had ever seen before. The sound like nothing I had ever heard before.
It was the face of a deranged man, screaming at the EMS worker who was struggling to patch him up. The man’s face was pale blue, skin patchy and bubbling, peeling, and cracking in some areas.
He snarled at the camera operator, who had stepped too close, bearing his crimson red teeth. Blood smeared around his mouth and down his neck. He continued to scream, shaking his body from side to side as the EMS responder jumped back. The man’s movements were erratic and irrepressible; he looked like he was having an explosive manic episode.
The bottom of the screen read: “LIVE BREAKING NEWS: Man, long-term user of the miracle drug, Proprevilation, has violent outburst; kills wife, attacks first responders. Similar cases on the rise.”
I remember my parents freaking out when they realized I was behind them. My dad running his hand through his dark hair, adjusting his glasses, as he attempted to convince me that these were just isolated cases. My mom immediately turning off the televi
sion and pulling me into a chair at the table. She scrambled to get a warm breakfast in front of me, to distract me with talks of school and my birthday party that coming weekend.
The glint in the man’s eyes; it was an utter rage, malice even. The way his skin looked as if he had been dead for years, breaking and falling off of him. The dried blood stained his mouth and ran down his chin, onto his neck and clothing.
My heart quickened every time his image invaded my thoughts. It rattled my fragile mind when the man’s derisive screams ripped through my dreams, keeping me up for hours afterward. I remember being plagued by his face for ages.
Until worse images started haunting me instead.
Chapter 2
It’s been 1 year, 7 months, and 8 days since the fence went up around our town. The “Iron-Giant,” I un-affectionately call it. When the medication started changing people, it took on a life of its own. It disabled normal chemical changes and hormones in the body, destroying parts of the brain. Once it mutated into the virus, violence and death were the only things left in its wake.
That’s when the government mandated the fence.
The city of South River has a wide stream flowing between our side and downtown, and the fence lines the entire perimeter of both sides. Soldiers are stationed around the fence at various points while others stand guard at the gates. And I do mean full on United States soldiers, not the National Guard. They were disbanded, told to join a branch, or move on.
The government officials say that these soldiers are here for us. To protect us, they say. To monitor who enters and leaves. To keep the infected out. To control us, I think.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The shrill cry of my alarm clock breaks through my dream, bringing me back to real life. The real-life in which, despite all of the crazy being dished out on a regular basis, I still have to wake up early every morning to get ready for school.
A small bit of light is filtering in through the blinds of my windows, subtly illuminating the thin white curtains brushing the floor. The light is enough to make it impossible for me to fall back to sleep.
“Ugh!” I groan, tossing my lavender comforter to the side. Piles of flashcards, rubber bands, and papers with highlighted notes are thrown across the bed. My brain doesn’t process the mess as I groggily rise from bed, knocking over my AP Physics book while I’m at it. Sleep inertia causes me to stumble aimlessly around my room. My feet catch hard on the floor, tripping over my white and grey shaggy rug.
One more month, and that’s it, I think as I turn on the light and heave my wicker basket of clean laundry onto the bed. I dump it out unceremoniously. One more month until I am officially a high school graduate.
It couldn’t come soon enough. Not that it really matters. I mean, it’s not like there’s a whole lot out there I can do at the moment. I hunt through the scattered clothes on a mission to find my favorite soft blue jeans and the coziest cream-colored long sleeve shirt I own. I’m going to need it if I’m going to get through my exam today.
Physics has seriously been the most grueling subject of all. My entire night and a few early morning hours were spent reviewing every inch of my highlighted notes. I studied sets of flashcards related to each specific chapter and taking every practice test I could possibly get my hands on.
I frown, taking in my dreary reflection in my bathroom mirror. I run my hairbrush through my long ginger hair, cringing each time I hit a knot too hard. I think my hair must know how much I hate brushing it. It tangles itself again, almost immediately out of spite.
Emma, for the love of God, I think, leaning closer to the mirror to examine the bags under my eyes. Good thing Dad isn’t here to see you like this.
Mom would kill me too if she knew how late I stayed up. My fair skin shows the dark purple rings under my eyes. They crater and circle around my hollow skin, giving an almost bruised effect. Concealer is one of the few makeup items I keep in the small makeup pouch on the back corner of my vanity. If I didn’t apply it, I’d likely be grounded regularly for staying up far too late.
A small chuckle passes my lips while I apply the cover-up beneath my blue-green eyes. I remember my parents yelling at me after a particularly late night. Dad insisting that I didn’t need to be up so late. He said I wouldn’t be helping my grades if I ended up with sleep deprivation instead. Then he grounded me until the following weekend.
And that’s why I decided to buy stock in concealer and eye cream.
A twinge of sadness rises in my chest as I think of him. I miss him. His goofy dad jokes, the classic rock band t-shirts he wore under his lab coat at work. I even miss how he would smell like a wood-fired grill every weekend.
“Crap!” I say out loud, glancing at the time on my phone. I am so late! I shuffle back to my room, scooping my books and notes up off the floor and into my black bookbag perched at the foot of my bed.
The deep earthy aroma of coffee engulfs me as I slide into the kitchen a minute later, gliding across the hardwood floor in my socks. I fly past my mom hunched over the counter and reach into the tall white cupboard pantry for a breakfast bar.
“Morning, Mom.” I bend down, kissing her cheek.
I hightail it towards the door, barely giving a backward look to my mother, adding, “Love you, see you tonight!”
“Whoa! Wait, wait, wait.” she follows me into the foyer.
“I’m sorry, but I’m running –“
“Late. I know.” She leans back against the open archway to our kitchen with a pink apple in one hand and her coffee mug in the other. We both share our lightly freckled skin and red hair, though hers is more of a dark auburn that always seems to sit beautifully at her shoulders without any effort.
“Sorry.” I plop my bookbag on the cushioned bench next to the door and pull my blue and grey tennis shoes out of the built-in cubby below.
“Are you ready for your Physics exam?” she asks, taking a bite of her apple.
“Ugh, I think so,” I say, tying my laces. “Not that it matters. It’s not like I’ll be going to college anytime soon.”
“And here we thought Will was our only kid with an affinity for the dramatics.” She shakes her head at me, a smile playing across her lips.
She wins. We both laugh a tiny bit, trying to forget that we’re the only two members of our family who are still here right now.
“Plus, you don’t know how long it will take for things to open back up. With your father working on it, I'm sure they’ll get everything under control soon. You’ll be off to college before you know it!”
My dad is the lead microbiologist in the area. Both he and my mom work at the local lab and occasionally consult on different government cases. That's where he's gone this time; a special assignment at the military base. This is the longest he's ever been gone and the longest it's been since we've heard from him.
I spent every summer since the eighth grade at the lab with my parents. I loved taking it in, studying, and eventually doing internships. They loved it, too. They would parade me around to all of their friends, proudly telling them about every university acceptance letter I received.
They actually may have been just as disappointed as I was when all four of the schools sent letters of condolences, expressing their grief in needing to close their doors and suspend classes until further notice.
My mom, ever the optimist, did the same thing then that she's trying to do now. Marginalize the situation, pretend it’s not so bad, say anything in an attempt to keep my spirits up.
“Have you heard from him?” I ask, changing the subject.
"No. Nothing recent," she answers, sipping coffee, "but he's a busy man. He was pretty excited in his last letter." The smile stays on her face, but her amber eyes betray her emotions. I can see the concern intensifying behind them.
She notices me watching and shifts her weight as she taps her thin fingers lightly on the blue ceramic mug.
"What are you still doing standing around for? Go on; get to class."
"And anyway," she cuts me off, pushing me towards the door, "you can always work at the lab with me in the meantime. It'll keep you sharp before you start school again."
"Yeah, sounds great." My voice comes out higher than I intended. My cheeks rise as I smile, trying to fake enthusiasm for her sake. "I love you," I say, reaching past her to my green hooded jacket, sliding my arms into their velvet sleeves.
"Love you, too." She hands me my book bag off the bench, "Good luck."
"I thought you didn't believe in luck," I tease, trying to push down the growing pit in my stomach.
"Yeah, that was more for your benefit. I know you're going to ace the exam." She flashes her sweet, gentle smile and blows me a kiss as I close the door.
My spine curves in a shiver, feeling the crisp, cool morning air on my skin. I hitch my book bag over my shoulders and shove my hands in my jacket. April typically boasts warmer temperatures as spring kicks into full gear, but this year has been full of unexpected up and down weather.
What is going on with me? I think to myself, stopping at the bottom of my driveway. My heart tugs me back towards the house like it's hooked on some invisible string. The pit intensifies, fighting against the movement of my feet away from home. It ensnares me in its dark shadow, not wanting to relinquish its hold on me, despite my best effort.
My mind snaps out of it when I see the beauty of the peaceful morning dew glistening on the grass. The sun slowly nudges its way over the horizon, reflecting a soft light off each of the tiny droplets of water. As I pass Mr. Daniel's house, the sweet flowery perfume of his gardenias fills the air. Wild and untamed, they grow ever broader and bushier, even with a few leaves browned and wilted from frost damage.
He's gone now. To quarantine. They said that his age and failing health made him an easy target for the mutated virus. Mom fought with the soldiers taking him away, but they insisted he would spread it faster if he got sick. She wasn’t having it. A few of the men ended up having to hold her back as they wheeled Mr. Daniel out of his house and into their caravan.
A Whisper in the Flame (The Ragers Series Book 1) Page 1
