by Gwynn White
“She wouldn’t have done that,” one of the dark bodies said.
“Look at her. She doesn’t want you to turn into this.”
Silence, except for the buzzing, that damn buzzing. Gabbi would laugh when I told her this new craziness that had started in my head. First talking to myself, now a bunch of insects haunting me. Was Gabbi here? I peered at each person. Sullen faces, bloody bites, kids my age, but I couldn’t place them. Familiar, but—
The woman on the ground twitched. A shudder went through her body. The group jumped back as if coming unexpectedly upon the edge of the cliff.
“I’ve allowed you to see her, to see what could happen, but there’s not much time.”
The tallest one, the one with light eyes and a steady look that never wavered from my face—he stepped forward. The edges of his body smeared as if he were in a painting. “Give me the shot.”
“There will be recovery time. We will take care of you—”
“I understand. Give me the shot.”
White suit pulled out a needle and vial. It bothered me that I knew the voices but not the names of those faces. Gabbi would be angry with me for forgetting like this.
The suit injected the group one by one. They talked low among themselves so I could not hear the words over the buzzing and this made me want to shout at them to speak up or else I was going to punch somebody.
One of the bodies dropped like a feather to the ground. The others helped each other to sit.
As if by magic, a strap gave way and my wrist was free and the white suit hadn’t seen because he was too busy checking wrists and necks and spreading out legs as people fell over from their cross-legged positions.
I become free of the other strap, and then the ankle straps gave way like they never existed. I fell out of the chair and on the ground next to the one who was still cross-legged. There were shouts, movement, shadows against the tent fabric. Something pulled at me and I turned and my mouth opened and I chomped down on something fleshy, and a part of me, that distant part, far away down the dark tunnel, gagged, but most of me didn’t.
I turned back to the dark face, the face going dark in front of me, the face that was both familiar and strange and the face that made me both sorry and angry because I wanted to know who it was, I wanted to remember who, I wanted to remember this feeling that was nothing more than an empty bowl because it used to be important, it used to mean everything to me but I can’t remember. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
Gabbi.
Her eyes were wide, her brown irises so clear I could see the texture. Her pupils were huge and black and the whites of her eyes showed that she was more scared than I have ever seen her except for that night it stormed and we first met her, holed up in a house that might as well have been haunted, with a mother and father worse than being haunted.
“Mary?”
I heard my name and her voice saying my name and this was familiar enough and I remembered how much I cared about her, how many times I told her to lighten up, how the world was full of bad things but also a lot of good things too. I remembered all the times I made her laugh and all the other times I tried to make her laugh and then those memories fell away. As soon as I thought them someone plucked the threads from my brain and threw them aside and I could not get them back no matter how much I wished. The desire to wish them back faded and I realized the world was a bad place, the world was full of darkness and people hurting people and turning on people and becoming animals and turning on each other like animals.
And then like a lightning strike—I did not have much time left because soon it would all be gone, all the memories, all the feelings.
“Kill me,” I said. I think I said it. I hope it came out, but I could not hear it. Only I knew I must have said it because she, this girl I was supposed to know, this girl whose name started with a G, I think, her eyes went impossibly wide and she shook her head and said, “No. No, Mary.”
Suits rushed into the tent but milled around, almost afraid, almost tripping over themselves not to be the first one to me.
“Do it,” I snarled.
She shrank. This little girl shrank from me as if I had hit her.
I stumbled backwards and cupped my mouth and felt the saliva, cold and wet on my chin. Never. I would never. I would never.
I took another step and another. Someone yelled and grabbed my shoulders.
His face. His brown eyes. This was Ano and I held that name in my mind with all my strength. I would not lose this name because this name had always spoken kind words to me. He had stood between Jimmy and me when I had turned dangerous. I wish I could have been as courageous.
I wish I could remember where I had seen those eyes before. I was supposed to tell those eyes something. It had been important.
The buzzing returned and I swore there were insects in the tent. They were landing on my head, my forehead, my arms, crawling inside my ears and nose and mouth to get to the other insects already inside my empty cave of a brain.
And then my brain cleared and I saw all of their faces and knew all of their names and knew I was still a danger to them. This anger filled me and made me want to destroy things. I would destroy them.
Run away. This distant voice said from down a far, far tunnel. It was a trustworthy voice. It was my own voice.
Run away, my voice said again.
I clawed through the tent fabric and it was dark on the other side except for the street lights that threw orange rays onto the pavement—and the trains.
I ran away from the tent. I ran for the trains while I could still remember their names.
I ran away.
A whistle pierced the sky. People shouted. The train chugged forward.
The train picked up speed and ate up the yards between it and me and the horn blew again and the white headlight consumed the night sky and the ground. I would jump while I could still remember to jump. I would put the train between me and my friends.
I was always the one to keep them safe and this would keep them safe, from me.
I jumped.
“Remember the Red Place”
Posted September 29th at 6:30PM on Do More Than Survive: How to THRIVE as a Runaway.
We don’t know if you’re really gone or not. But if you’re not, maybe you’ll read this and know we are all still alive because of you. Mary, you gave us a real chance. We got the cure and it’s, well it’s not awesome, but it’s better than what you went through. We want you to know they had us inside for weeks, but they took care of us, and when things got crazy Spencer got us out. Ano helped. He says to text that he misses you.
I miss you too—this is Gabbi.
To anyone else reading this. They’re trying to deny everything and pretend that it’s under control. They don’t have it under control. Maybe they did for awhile, but that isn’t the truth any longer.
Mary—if somehow you are still alive and aren’t a crazy V, meet us at the place. You know the one. The red place in the field. We’ll look different but it’ll still be us.
To the rest of you. Don’t bother leaving a comment asking where it is. We won’t tell you.
The End
Find out where the red place is…the story continues in CONTAMINATION (Feast of Weeds, Book 2) a full-length novel.
Or for a limited time, get the complete FEAST OF WEEDS Boxed Set (this novella and three full-length novels) at a substantial discount.
If you're interested in learning about the Feast of Weeds world (interactive story maps, research, bonus content, and more) sign up for my mailing list. I’ll start by sending you a bonus dark adventure novel.
www.ZombiesAreHuman.com
About the Author
Jamie Thornton lives in Northern California with her husband, two dogs, a garden, lots of chickens, a viola, and a bicycle. Her book GERMINATION consistently ranks in the Top 25 Amazon Kindle Bestseller lists for Horror, Action Adventure, Young Adult and Survival Stories. She writes stories that take place halfway a
round the world, in an apocalyptic future, in a parallel universe—her books don’t always stick to one genre, but they always take the reader on a dark adventure. www.jamiethornton.com
A Rip in Time
Jeff Guznel
A Rip in Time © 2016 Jeff Gunzel
Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
A Rip in Time
With no god to serve and no home amongst men, why do I even exist?
Viola has no memory of her past and no way to survive on her own. Thus, she is forced to live with a man she hates. Practically a slave to his every desire, she cooks for him, shares his bed, and even steals for him. This life of involuntary servitude is all she's ever known.
Locked away like some dark secret, Viola knows nothing of the world--that is, until she's found stealing one day when trying to do her master’s bidding. Now her secret world is turned upside down and things can never go back to the way they were. Which is worse, a cruel master who treats her like an animal, or a cold world that views her as a monster?
With blood-red eyes and hair white as snow, her exotic origin remains a mystery even to herself. What is she? Where did she come from? Some things are better left unknown...
Prologue
Dust devils spun across the desert floor, funneling up bits of sand and rock as they danced along. Many took on an angry reddish hue, thick and mighty as they devoured everything in sight. Now and then a few broke apart, their powdery contents floating high into the air like mist, riding away on the desert winds.
Perched high on a nearby cliff, armored men gazed down on the desert floor. The weather patterns in these parts had always been turbulent and unpredictable, but today seemed unusually bad for this time of year. General Hyndrid Coleth licked his finger, then turned it slowly from east to west. Clicking his tongue, he shook his head. Strange, unnatural weather indeed.
“Could there be some mistake?” asked the man to his right, nervously scratching at his oily black beard. “It’s possible the scouts gave us the wrong coordinates. Why, it wouldn’t be the first time the first reports were—”
“This is exactly where the rardens were spotted,” said General Coleth, retrieving a looking glass from his side pouch. “Soldier,” he added, extending it with an angry snap. The soldier drew in on himself, silently nodding his agreement. It was not his place to question the chain of command. Tensions were high and all the men were on edge. Hyndrid glanced back over his shoulder at the hundred soldiers waiting in complete silence, the occasional cough or snort of a horse the only reminder they were even there.
Peering into the silver eyepiece, he began his sweep of the area down below. With the view enlarged, he could clearly see the dancing funnels twirling with dirt and debris. Nearly all were beginning to break apart now, sand and tree bits littering the desert floor. Blinking against the dry wind in his face, he continued his fruitless search. Where are they?
“Eyes to the southwest!” came an excited call. Hyndrid lowered his looking glass to see where the soldier was pointing. Others joined as a cascade of fingers pointed, eyes all looking in the same direction. He refocused his tool, dialing the end a few notches in order to zoom in further. And there they were, a small group of rardens gathered near a large boulder.
Skin dry and scaly like lizards’, the creatures huddled together to shield themselves against the blowing sand. Their dull green bodies were large and stout, each with a long scaly tail that could snap like a whip. Their toothless beaks housed forked tongues, bright orange, and spotted with red and black. Webbed hands coved their large black eyes, protecting against the grainy, dry wind. Slitted gills on the sides of their necks flapped open and closed, filtering the sandy air as they breathed. Distracted by the windstorm, they seemed oblivious to the men up on the cliff.
Hyndrid quietly collapsed his looking glass, carefully and slowly, as if they might hear the clicking sound—impossible from this distance, but the general was not one to take chances. Having served in the Redwater army for nearly two decades, these vile beasts were no strangers to him. Savage and barbaric they were, yet dimwitted all the same. Taking them by surprise had always proved to be the most effective strategy.
Flashing hand signs to the soldiers around him, those on mounts trotted forward, hands nervously fingering the pommels at their sides. There were only a few of the beasts down there, and a surprise charge should easily rid them of the minor threat. The scouts had been unable to verify the rardens’ numbers, so bringing a hundred men to deal with the creatures was the conservative estimate. Looking down at the dozen or so beasts, the small army they’d brought now seemed like overkill, but it was always better to err on the side of caution.
Forming up in lines of five, the mounted soldiers lined the path that led down into the desert. Snorting horses stamped uneasily, bucking their heads in defiance. Even Hyndrid couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling tingling in his gut. As a further precaution, he motioned for the remaining men to notch their bows.
He took one last glance at the rardens down below, which were huddling protectively against the blowing sand. The storm had died down significantly, so they couldn’t wait much longer. What were those stupid creatures doing out there, anyway? The pressing question bothered him more than he was willing to admit. But pondering the actions of such simple creatures was a fool’s game. Hyndrid turned back to the mounted soldiers and lowered his hand.
A hiss filled the air as swords were drawn an instant before the horses began thundering down the path. Fine red dust sifted up in clouds as hooves pounded the dry clay. The startled rardens looked up, pointing and croaking like a herd of toads. With survival instinct overriding the urge to kill the charging humans, they turned to flee. Bodies slithering back and forth, the awkward movements were deceptively fast. Not as fast as charging horses, but certainly faster than any human could run.
“It makes no sense,” Hyndrid grumbled under his breath. Why were they hiding in plain sight only to turn and run once they were discovered? He watched as their dark outlines slithered into a cloud of sand, the drifting debris still lingering from a faded funnel. Right on their tails, the riders galloped after them. In a flash they, too, disappeared into the cloud of dust.
Seconds felt like minutes as the soldiers waited, arrows notched, bows gripped with less-than-steady hands. From this distance, it was hard to distinguish the possible sounds of battle over the wind playing tricks on their ears. Surely several minutes had passed since the riders gave chase. Time had a different feel under these stressful circumstances. What was taking so long?
From the dispersing dust cloud, the outline of a single rider formed from the sifting shadows. Showing no urgency, his mount clopped along at a slow trot. Coming into full view, the rider raised his gruesome prize in the air. As cheers rained down from the cliff, he tossed the severed head to the ground. Eyes still wide open with fright, the head rolled to a stop, tongue hanging loosely from a wide-open mouth.
Other riders began to emerge. Some gripped similar trophies, thick blackish blood running down their wrists. Others held their swords in the air, blades stained dark and glistening with wetness. The clear victory had been an easy one.
Hyndrid let out a sigh of relief. No ma
tter how routine these scouting missions had become, he always feared for the safety of his men. To grow lethargic was to grow careless, a thing he had guarded against for many years.
The rarden had grown bold as of late, wandering near the sites more often than ever before. What was stirring them up like this, making them act so restless? Hyndrid dismissed the paranoid thought, dismissing the overanalyzing as a result of old age. Surely his overactive mind was playing tricks on his logic. Another year or two, and I’ll be spending my days in peace. I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.
Turning to the soldier on his right, General Coleth patted the man he had snapped at earlier. “You see? It appears our scouts had the correct location after all,” he said, relief obvious in his voice. Grinning, the soldier nodded while gazing at the men below. Suddenly, his grin melted away. His eyes bulged with unmistakable horror. Hyndrid spun back as shouts of alarm filled the air.
Emerging from the thinning dust, massive dark outlines charged at the riders’ backs. Two men fell instantly, crushed beneath giant spiked clubs.
With arms as thick as trees wielding those weapons, the klashtons had seemed to appear out of thin air. Their massive bodies more rock than flesh, the hairless giants charged in with reckless abandon, clubs taking out more than one rider with each wild sweep. Gray, with chiseled physiques, they stood fifteen feet tall yet moved with an unnatural grace unheard of for beasts that size. These creatures were so rare that not everyone believed they existed anymore. But here they were, at least ten in number and all attacking at once!
Shocked by what he was seeing, Hyndrid’s mouth worked wordlessly as he watched the carnage unfold. He couldn’t think...couldn’t breathe. Could this really have been just a chance encounter with these rare beasts? Impossible! “I led us right into a trap,” Hyndrid mumbled under this breath. He watched the last of his riders as he was hoisted from his saddle, held in the air like a child by one hand.
