by Platt, Sean
* * * *
EDWARD KEENAN
Saturday
October 15, 2011
2:18 a.m.
The first thing Edward Keenan felt was rain, cold and splashing his face, snapping him from the darkness and into the bright light beaming through a thick canopy of trees.
The next thing he felt was pain — everywhere, as if his entire body had been thrown from a building and slammed against every awning on the way down and then picked up again and thrown off the building once more to hit the awnings he missed the first go round. A high-pitched whistle pierced his throbbing eardrums. He reached up to cover his ears, before realizing his wrists were still bound together by plasticuffs.
Ed stood clumsily, pain shooting through his legs, back, and arms, then glanced around. A faint, flickering glow broke through the tree line. He made his way forward tentatively, stumbling several times, but managing to stay upright.
As he got closer to the glow, he could hear the crackle of fire. Could smell the fuel. And there, as he pressed into the clearing, he saw the mangled, fiery wreckage of Flight 519.
Ed raced forward, searching for any sign of survivors. The plane was split in half, swallowed by billowing smoke and a quick-spreading curtain of flame.
Suitcases, clothing, papers, chunks of the plane, and other debris littered the field, with some of the smaller scraps sailing low in the sky. From what he could see of the cabin, nobody survived other than himself. Yet, there weren’t any bodies. He looked back into the woods, wondering if perhaps all the passengers had been ejected from their seats as he had. Perhaps some, but not all of them.
Where the hell is everyone?
The last thing he remembered was his escort, Agent Grant, telling him to shut the fuck up. They’d be in Washington soon enough. Ed decided to take a nap, but didn’t think he’d actually fall asleep. He must have. Next thing he knew, he was on the ground.
He was torn — go back into the woods and search for survivors, or run as far and fast as he fucking could. Last thing he wanted was to run into Grant — assuming Grant was alive.
He took a chance. “Hello?!” he called.
As he stood at the edge of the woods, another high-pitched sound sailed over the drone in his ears, sounding as if the sky was ripping to shreds above him. He instinctively ducked, glancing up as another airplane shot by maybe 10 stories from the forest floor, on a sharp dive, soaring past the tree line before disappearing into a deafening explosion just out of sight.
Christ on a cross. What’s happening?
Ed raced toward the crashed plane as fast as he could, pain shooting through his atrophied legs. He stumbled into the woods, but stopped short when he reached a partition of flames where a large, unidentifiable chunk of the plane had set the surrounding trees on fire.
There’s no way anyone survived that.
He retreated, away from both crash sites, following a winding path that led uphill, where he spotted power poles and lines leading toward civilization, he hoped.
“Happy 44thth birthday,” he said to himself as he slipped into the black of night.
**
Despite being in top physical shape, Ed was exhausted by the time he reached the first row of homes. Falling out of the sky will do that to you.
Two-story faux New England architecture lined either side of the street, barely illuminated by the half-concealed moon. Was one of those new gated communities in the suburbs, designed to look nice, but they were usually shit quality with tiny lots. As he stepped onto the first street, he realized not a single light was on. Not a streetlight, nor a light in any of the windows of the 20 or so homes on the street.
A blackout?
Ed rolled his neck, sighed, and headed toward the closest house, a neatly manicured, two-story home with a large double door and windows on either side. Judging from the moon’s position, he figured it was around 3:00 a.m. Not a great time to be knocking on doors, especially when you’re bloody and in handcuffs. But options were scarce — he had to find a phone and contact Jade. No doubt news of the crashed plane would’ve already reached her.
Perhaps, though, it was best that he not contact her. Maybe she’s better off this way, thinking I’m dead.
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He should just disappear. It was what he did best. He had a safehouse in Florida that nobody knew about. He’d just fall off the radar. Again. And this time he knew better than to trust the agents he used to work with. Maybe the plane crash was the best thing that could have happened. Nobody would be looking for him. Not hard, anyway. This was his chance at a fresh start.
Ed would live like a ghost. No relationships, no friends — just live out his life until someone found him or he died of old age. As much as he’d love to hear his daughter’s voice one more time, to let her know he was alive, he knew he’d lose what might be a golden opportunity to finally make things right. She was a big girl; she’d get over his “death.”
But he still needed to get to a phone to contact Xavier, the only person left (other than his daughter) he could truly trust. Xavier would help him get out of town.
He knocked on the first door, lightly at first. No response. Raindrops grew larger and started to fall faster, but he was mostly sheltered under the gable roof. He knocked again, louder, watching through the window into the dark house for any sign of movement or light.
Nothing.
He knocked a third time, this time with authority, like the law.
Still nothing.
Ed glanced around at the house across the street to see if he’d attracted any attention. All the windows were dark, showing no movement.
On the ground, Ed spotted a garden with large decorative rocks. He grabbed one, gripped it tightly on the end, and tapped it hard against the window to the right of the doorknob. The glass crashed loudly, and Ed glanced around to see if anyone had taken notice.
Nothing, still.
Crackerjack gated community security, hard at work.
Ed smashed a large swath of glass away; he’d need plenty of room to reach inside the doorway with his hands bound. He swept the last shards of glass from the frame until he had room to safely reach in and twist the locks. He opened the door and rushed inside, closing the door behind him.
“Hello?” he called out, wishing he’d thought to bring the rock. “This is Officer Grant. Anybody here?”
Nothing.
He knew, from years of experience, that he was alone in the house. Houses harbored a specific brand of quiet when empty. A still you could sense immediately. This house wasn’t only silent, it was dead. No electricity meant no humming fans, electronics, air conditioning, or any other heartbeats of the average home. Sounds you didn’t even notice until their voices were taken away.
Ed made his way toward the kitchen scanning outlets for any sign of plug-in lights. Finding nothing, he rifled through drawers until he found a flashlight heavy with batteries. To his relief, they weren’t dead, and the light was bright. He waved the spotlight around the kitchen, finding the phone. A fucking cordless, meaning it wouldn’t work with the power out.
He tried it anyway, just in case.
Nothing.
Fuck, doesn’t anyone use regular phones anymore?
He clicked the light off, thinking about his next step, then headed back upstairs, light on. Two doors were on either side of the hall, and a large, double door was at the end, which he assumed would take him to the master bedroom.
The first two rooms weren’t bedrooms at all — one was a converted office. The second was a monument to clutter, tons of boxes leaving little room to walk. Finally, he reached the double doors, drew a deep breath, and pushed one of the doors open, training his light on the king-sized bed.
Unmade, nobody in it.
He figured whoever lived here was out of town, maybe on vacation. But something reflected back as he swept his light over the nightstand — a glass of ice water. As he moved closer, he saw beads of sweat, a small
pool of water around the glass, and the last remnants of ice floating.
His heart stopped as he spun the light around toward the bathroom door, which was shut.
Had they heard him and ducked inside?
Ed squinted his eyes, searching for any signs of movement. He was too old for this shit. And not at all ready to die at the hands of some yuppie with a Beretta playing Die Hard.
He considered turning around and leaving, but something rooted him in place.
The house was empty. He could feel it. And he was never wrong about these things. Yeah, the loss of power might have been screwing with his instincts, but he didn’t think that was the case. Whoever was here was gone.
He clicked off the light and began to creep toward the closed bathroom door. A closet was to his left, but it was open, and he could see it was empty. If anyone was with him, they were likely in the bathroom.
He was nearly five steps away when he rolled his neck again, then spoke.
“Hello? This is officer Grant. We’re investigating a break-in at your neighbor’s house and we saw your front door was wide open. You okay?”
Nothing.
He turned on his light again.
“I’m coming into the bathroom now. My partner is in the hallway, checking out your other rooms. Do NOT shoot me. I repeat, do NOT shoot.”
He twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and thrust his light into the bathroom.
Nothing.
He caught his reflection in the mirror, dirty, banged up, bloody, and a huge knot sticking out from his closely-cropped dome. He laughed grimly at the reflection, then checked the closet for clean clothes. He would be stuck with his dark trousers, but he grabbed a black tee from the closet which he’d put on as soon as he got the cuffs off. The shirt looked like it would be tight on his muscular build, and a bit short, but it would have to do.
Ed returned to the bed and felt the sheets. They weren’t warm — whoever had been sleeping in them had been gone at least a few minutes before he’d entered the house. He grabbed the glass, picked it up, cool to the touch. He took a long drink, the water soaking his dry throat. He chewed the remnants of ice, placed the glass down, and opened both nightstands, hoping to find a gun. No luck.
Ed moved from room to room, searching the house for anybody. At last, he reached the door leading to the two-car garage. If anyone was here, this was the last place they could be hiding, unless they sneaked into an attic or something. He did the police routine another time, with the same lack of response, then opened the door. Clutter filled one side of the garage, though more neatly arranged, and all of it boxed. The other half of the garage housed an SUV.
He flashed his light to make sure the vehicle was empty, then doubled back to the kitchen, found a pegboard with keys and an automatic car lock, alarm attached. He glanced at the fridge, where a photo in a magnetic frame showed a middle-aged guy, a middle-aged woman, and a 20-year-old girl wearing an Ohio State sweater. He pocketed the keys, headed back to the garage and was relieved to see a workbench on the far wall with a large red Craftsmen toolbox beside it.
Thank God some people still do shit themselves.
He found a hacksaw, fastened the blade on a C-clamp, then proceeded to saw his restraints away. Once he had the middle part cut, he found some bolt cutters, sheared the bracelets the rest of the way, and massaged the red from his wrists. He slipped on the tee shirt, which fit him better than he thought it would, and balled up the shirt he’d been wearing and tossed it in the SUV.
Ed went to the fridge. Stuff was still cold. He inhaled a Coke, then grabbed a box of cookies from the pantry and threw them on the passenger seat of the SUV as he climbed in the driver’s side. He turned on the radio to a static assault and hit the scan button, watching the digital display race through the FM spectrum without slowing.
All the stations are down?
Something was very wrong.
Ed hit the garage door opener before remembering it ran on electricity. He hopped out of the SUV and flashed the light at the ceiling, finding the motor for the garage door opener. A red cord dangled from the center. He yanked it, disengaging the opener, opened the door manually, got back in the SUV, and backed out of the driveway.
He figured he had maybe two hours until the state was crawling with feds.
* * * *
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FORNEVERMORE: THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS OF THE PARANORMAL, DARK FANTASY SERIAL THRILLER
From the writers of the groundbreaking post-apocalyptic serial Yesterday’s Gone, comes a dark new fantasy horror serial, ForNevermore.
All 17 year old Noella Snow ever wanted was a normal life.
But normal died with her mother, minutes after she was born. Then again when her father was murdered before her eyes on her seventh birthday. Now she spends her days in quiet misery, an outcast at school, harboring a secret crush on her best friend, Sam.
Noella’s only happiness lies in her dreams, in a world where her father still lives and Dante, a mysterious stranger with a deadly touch, guards over her.
Now those dreams have turned to nightmares as Noella begins hearing voices, witnessing murders she can’t possibly know of, and seeing the monsters from her sleep merging into her waking life.
Noella doesn’t want to return to King’s Point, the psychiatric hospital where she was forced to go after an “episode” two years earlier.
She tells herself she’s better.
But then one night Noella sees the impossible... Dante, watching her from afar, as he has for centuries – nearly as long as he's loved her.
Is Noella losing her mind? Or is she linked to a hidden world, destined to be normal ForNevermore?
ForNevermore is a bold new paranormal serial, with awesome cliffhanger endings that will make you feel like you’re watching your favorite TV show right on your Kindle.
* * * *
Check out the first two exciting chapters of this new paranormal serial.
CHAPTER ONE
Aurora Falls, New York
Friday, October 26
9:50 p.m.
On the short list of things worse than what had already happened to Noella Snow today, being murdered was definitely one of them.
It was her 17th birthday, and was officially her worst birthday in 10 years. Considering what happened on her 7th birthday, that was saying a lot.
She was working the counter at Keefer’s Koffee, Aurora Falls’ pathetic excuse for an echo of Starbucks, and wondering why she’d even agreed to cover Tammy’s shift. She looked at the clock for the hundredth time. Ten minutes until closing. It seemed as if the clock was conspiring to keep her from the bed she couldn’t wait to fall into, where she could pull the covers over herself, and try to forget this day ever happened.
Noella was wrapping unsold brownies in thin sheets of ice blue cellophane so they’d be “fresh” for the morning rush, while ignoring the urge to shove one, or five, in her mouth. Sure, it would dull the day’s pain . . . for a few minutes. But once she swallowed, the dull ache would return, stronger, accompanied by her old friend guilt.
Treat yourself, it’s your birthday, girl.
It was her birthday, and she had grown into a slim young woman, but neither changed a childhood of name-calling, with barbs such as Thunder Thighs, Chunky Monkey, and Patti Fatty, crushing trust and reducing her confidence to crumb
s.
Noella slid the tray of brownies into the cooler with a decisive shove, just as the front door dinged and split the silence of the nearly empty coffee shop. She looked up, and felt a cold snake of terror slither across her shoulders, then down her spine.
Noella wasn’t sure how she knew, whether it was the voices she’d taken pills to silence, or a hunch, but she knew for certain that death had entered Keefer’s.
The weird thing was that guy didn’t look dangerous.
He was young and handsome, even in soft wash jeans and a moody-looking leather jacket. His blue New York Mets hat and thick mop of brown hair made him look like any one of the hundreds of guys who came into the coffee shop. But there was something in his eyes that bled into Noella’s, something that said:
He is here to kill me.
Most nights there were at least four or five people scattered among the 10 booths peppering the front arc of Keefer’s. They usually lingered around, hooked to the Wi-Fi, and taking a million years to leave, keeping Noella from closing and getting on with what little life she had. Tonight, of course, the place was tumbleweeds. She hadn’t had a customer in 15 minutes, punctuating both the loneliness of her birthday, and her new vulnerability.
Tony, the shift manager, was out back taking the evening’s trash to the dumpster, though Noella knew he was really just sucking down yet another cigarette. Tony smoked more minutes than he worked, making him a generally useless co-worker.
Useless or not, I could really use him right now.
“Welcome to Keefer’s,” she said, trying not to sound nervous. “What can I get you?”
Mets Hat said nothing as he drifted toward the counter, his eyes studying the menu on the wall above and behind her as if he were trying to figure out a menu written in Swahili.
But his eyes weren’t really reading the menu. They were reading Noella.
That wasn’t uncommon. Though Noella considered herself plain, that didn’t stop any number of creepy guys from coming in, undressing her with their eyes, and worse. Sometimes they’d comment on the faint heart-shaped birthmark on her left cheek, as if they were the first in the world to notice it, and wanted a medal for coming up with some lame come-on line involving hearts.
