Veracity (The Seven Cities Book 1)

by Lindsey Stell

  Not wanting to be a substitute for the mouse, I back out of the room slowly, never taking my eyes off the hefty bird. The moment I am out of the room there is a great ruckus of squawks and squeals. I guess I didn't cost him his dinner after all.

  Walking into the bathroom, the broken mirror above the sink immediately catches, and then repulses, my eye. Although curious, I am hesitant to look into the glass. The young man had told me I was beautiful, but what if I wasn't? Would that really matter? Should it matter? Would seeing my appearance change what little concept I have of myself? I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and side step in front of the shattered glass.

  Oh . . .

  My apparent vanity is relieved that I'm not unattractive, but I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm beautiful. Staring at me through the glass is a round face with arched eyebrows, a small upturned nose, and a plain mouth with a pronounced cupid's bow. Brown, almond shaped eyes with short but dark lashes meet my gaze, revealing a mostly unremarkable face. Taking in consideration that I can't recall any other female face at the moment, I decide I am on the pretty side of average. I eye the stranger in the mirror, finding it difficult to truly connect with the image in front of me. Waving my hand, I watch as my reflection does the same. It's disconcerting to feel so divided from my own appearance.

  Disappointed in my discoveries, or lack thereof, I abandon my exploration of the house. Let the birds and mice keep it; this isn't a place for humans anymore. Shielding my eyes as I walk outside, I grab my things and walk toward the dirt path across the clearing. As I reach the tree line, I turn back, taking one last look around. From this point on, nothing will be familiar.

  Feeling a slight tingle of nervousness in the pit of my stomach, I am suddenly thankful for the calming effect of the drug. Without it, I would be hysterical right now. Picturing the young man as he paced the clearing, I am struck with a longing I can't explain or even name. I don't know him in any sense, but I miss him. It could be some deep seeded memory of love, or it could just be the fact that no one would want to take this journey alone.

  A journey. That sounds so majestic. It might be too strong a word for wandering down a dirt path until I find somewhere to be, but I like it.

  One foot in front of the other, a tent slung over my back and a suitcase in hand, I start to walk. The dirt path soon widens into a gravel road that grows into a larger highway. The pavement feels solid beneath my feet and I like having a more substantial path in front of me. Head north. For this moment in time, that is my sole responsibility in life. There is nothing else. Not the mysterious young man, and certainly not the brunette in the mirror. This is who I am. I am this stretch of road heading for a future I can't imagine. Katherine is heading north.

  3 – Journey

  It's amazing how something as simple as a road can inspire so many questions. The concept of a road is familiar, but something about this one is just a little . . . off. Maybe it's the perforated yellow lines running down the middle, or the sheer size of it that puts me on edge, but something about it isn't right. I bend down and touch the rough surface, begging it to trigger something in me. I close my eyes and a strip of bright white flashes through my mind, the briefest glimpse of a long, white road stretching off in the distance.

  Was that a memory?

  I try to explore the idea, but the headache begins to build, and I cowardly back down, unwilling to challenge the raging bull guarding my thoughts. If I still had memories tucked behind the pain, they remained safely hidden, waiting for the moment I was strong enough to rescue them.

  The road is nice, all things considered, with deep ditches filled with tall grass and sunset colored flowers. Beyond the ditches are pasturelands and tall pines encased in barbed-wire fences.

  The pavement itself is in decent condition, with only a handful of places showing erosion and disrepair. Over the course of the day, I have to skirt around several large holes filled with murky water. I lean over each one, trying to catch my reflection in its surface, but I am only ever able to see bits and pieces, an eye here or a nose there. In a way, it is more fitting to see myself like this.

  In the afternoon, the heat becomes intolerable. As the humidity rises, my hair sticks to my forehead and the back of my neck in damp curls. My clothes cling to my body uncomfortably, and I am dripping with sweat. I drain one of the bottles of water and tuck it back into the suitcase, which is getting heavier with every step.

  The sun finally starts to dip behind the tree line, bringing instant relief from the hot day, but also mosquitos the size of my thumbnail. They fly in great swarms, filling the dusky sky before turning their attention to me. I tuck my hair into the collar of my shirt, trying to spare the tender flesh of my neck and shoulders from their assault. They bite every inch of exposed skin, even finding the space between my blue jeans and socks.

  A burned out shell of a building is growing on the horizon and I sigh in relief at the sight. To my great disappointment, the building is too damaged to explore, but the paved area around it is clean and will make a solid foundation for my tent. Despite his warning not to fear the road, I set up the tent behind what's left of the building. Picking a corner of the lot where it butts against a patch of trees, I pitch the tent, hoping I am well hidden from the highway.

  It takes me a good while to figure out how to set it up, and I am exhausted by the time I crawl inside. Curling up in a ball on the floor, I try to distract myself with thoughts of the young man. I picture the sadness of his eyes as he left, and I imagine myself taking his hand. He may be the only person I can remember, but I still feel silly for thinking about him after all he has done. I drift off to sleep reassuring myself I am better without him, the man who took everything and left nothing in return.

  The dream comes as he said it would. At first it is just brief flashes of jumbled imagery and emotions bouncing around incoherently, but then there is the vivid sensation of running; the feeling of crashing through the trees as fast as I can, arms pumping at my sides. My chest heaves with effort as I jump over logs and duck under low hanging trees.

  The image of the young man flashes next, his endearing half-grin plastered across his face. The image dims and brightens, as if caught in a roaming light in the darkness. His laughter rings out into the night, cool and crisp against a backdrop of angry shouts and baying hounds.

  I feel his arms slip around me, the frantic beat of his heart banging against my own chest. He is no longer laughing, but frightened, pulling me as close to him as possible. We are being hunted, the smell of honeysuckle and pine thick in the air. The sound of approaching boots rise up impossibly loud, sending waves of panic through me. The sound grows closer, and louder, until it is right on top of us and so piercing, it no longer resembles the sound of boots but rather an angry demon screaming from somewhere deep and dark.

  The screeching cuts off sharply, the absence more frightening, more surreal. The young man's face is close to mine, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers to me.

  "I will always keep you safe Katherine. Always."

  My eyes fly open. Where am I? Why is it so dark? What's going on . . . and what just touched my leg? Freezing in place as fear rolls up and down my spine, I listen for any sign of the intruder. A scaly body moves against my thigh and pure, raw panic sets in.

  I scream as I fly out the tent, knocking the entire thing down in the process. Grabbing my suitcase, I slam it over and over onto the tent, still screaming at the top of my lungs. It's at that moment, wild eyed and hyperventilating, that I realize that the calming effect of the pill might have worn off.

  Falling to the ground, I tuck my head firmly between my knees and take several therapeutic breaths. Letting the cool air move in and out of my constricted lungs, I imagine that I'm releasing my fear and regaining control with each exhale. My hands shake as the adrenaline courses through my veins. I almost welcome the rush, even though the panic makes my heart want to explode. My body is drowning in the fear and I ride the wave as it ties my ins
ides into knots.

  Slowly, I bring myself back under control. My pulse slows to a normal pace, and my breathing regulates as the last traces of terror leave me.

  Just to be sure that the snake is good and dead, I cautiously walk to the tent, pulling back the mangled flap to reveal the body underneath. I poke it a few times with a deformed tent pole, and when it doesn't move, I pick the snake up by the tail and throw it into the woods.

  The battered snake left an abhorrent mess in the broken tent, so I abandon it, mentally kicking myself for destroying my only shelter. Back on the road, my newfound sense of worry and panic fuel my progress and by the time the sun begins its ascent, filling the world with optimistic pinks and yellows, I am far from the campsite. I stop then, sitting on an old stump to dig through my bag to see what damage I may have caused. Suitcases are, after all, not designed for use as a weapon. I am relieved to see that although thoroughly smashed, the berries remain in their bags. My toiletries are similarly locked safely away, however, the bag is now full of what smells like shampoo. Relieved my attack didn't cause more damage, I repack my things and start doing what I do best. Walking.

  4 – Town

  Around mid-morning I discover a little town, or what is left of one. Buildings, charred and gutted, line the cracked streets and the ground is a maze glass and refuse. What happened here? Where are all the people?

  What must have been a pretty town is now destroyed. Every building has at least some form of damage and most are nothing more than soot stained bricks. As I maneuver the pitted sidewalks, I pass crumbled bakeries, cafés, and office buildings. The sight of the small, overgrown park with its rusted swings brings tears to my eyes. My heart breaks at the thought of the people who built this town; all of their lives and homes ripped away with such violence, for surely, destruction this vast could only be the result of war.

  A breeze kicks up, sending dust and debris swirling in the air. The chalky smell of crushed concrete fills my nose and a chill runs through me, knowing that I am inhaling the remains of buildings, sidewalks, and who knows what else.

  Down the street I see a faded sign advertising a discount grocery. Pushing open the door, I step into a different world. Outside, the town is made up of broken bricks and burned wood, but in here I find a world of green. I stand dumbfounded, taking in the scene around me.

  Tattered green paper is everywhere, filling drawers, counters, and spilling onto the floor. The wind blows through the open door behind me, sending the paper dancing in the air like autumn leaves. I pull my own green paper out of my suitcase, and it's the same as the thousands scattered across the store.

  I separate one of them from the others, squinting to read its faded words. One Dollar. An image of an old man is featured, surrounded by various icons and imagery. While interesting to look at, the design seems elaborate and unnecessary. My stack includes several different kinds: a ten, a five, a twenty, and several ones. Each denomination is unique and just as detailed as the one before. Although tattered and torn now, it's obvious they were a work of art. What was the point of such fragile currency? What would happen if the money were destroyed? It doesn't look like it would be very hard to do.

  I move further into the store, tentatively at first, afraid to disturb the incredible sight. Stepping onto the thick carpet of green, my muffled steps are the only sound in the deserted store. This money must not be worth much if no one comes to collect it. The word credits pops into my mind and I can almost feel the small silver coins in my hand. My pulse races in excitement as I realize a memory has surfaced. I picture the coin, so small yet so important. Whoever I was, wherever I lived, I used credits as currency, not this useless, green paper.

  A quick search of the store reveals very little, and I only manage to scavenge two bottles of water and four packages marked "All Natural Granola Bars". Although I am disappointed to find so little, finding anything at all gives me hope. Stocked shelves mean people, or at least a person. How long ago were they here? The only sign of life I can find is that the store is unusually clean. The great piles of money aside, the store is spotless, no dirt or dust to be found. There is definitely someone close enough to maintain this store on a regular basis. Why don't they take the money?

  Each item has been marked with black ink to show a price. Standing next to the overflowing register, I check the cost of the items against my stash. I could buy all of it and still have money left, but I feel guilty wiping out the store. With future travelers in mind, I leave a bottle of water and a granola bar on the shelf. Mindful of my warning against theft, I lay my money with the rest. Opening the door, I watch as it swirls and mixes with the others, erasing all evidence that I was here.

  Outside, I scan the buildings around me, looking for any sign of the shopkeeper. I check the darkening sky for smoke, but the sunset is unblemished. The thought of going door to door crosses my mind, but my desire for self-preservation over rules my curiosity. I was told that no one would hurt me, that the fear of being caught committing a crime would keep me safe. But in this world without lies, I wonder what people could get away with if they truly believe what they are doing is right.

  Continuing down the road, I can't help but feel like I am being watched. Paranoia firmly in place, I search every window and doorway in the fear, and hope, that I would find someone. Several blocks from the grocery store, I find a house in noticeably better shape than the ones around it, complete with bay windows still intact and a solid roof. "Barr Family Dentistry, Walk-Ins Welcome," is written in faded blue letters on a sign in the yard. The pristine sidewalk, though still cracked and warped, leads to a swept porch and a door that is neither busted in, nor hanging off its hinges. The upkeep of the building draws me in like a moth to flame, but also puts me on edge.

  I steal up the path, constantly watching the windows for movement. My hand curls around the brass knob, but I'm hesitant to open it for fear of what might be on the other side. Standing close to the door, I press my ear against the wood. The ghost of a song is playing faintly inside, drifting toward me from somewhere deep in the house. Now I am positive someone is here. Should I knock? I firmly grasp the knob, daring myself to turn it. Suddenly, images of all the possible negative outcomes flash through my mind. Cowardice takes control of my body, and I jerk my hand back and walk away.

  Turning for one last look at the house before stepping back onto the street, I catch the lacy curtains moving out of the corner of my eye. Indecision plagues me, but no matter how hard I try, I can't muster up the courage to investigate. I don't yet understand this world I have woken up in, and until I do, meeting new people is not high on my to-do list. The fact that they are there is comforting though, and makes this new world seem just a tiny bit less scary.

  I walk as quickly as I can for as long as possible, trying to gain some distance from the house. It's getting dark, but my fear of being followed presses me on. It is not until I see a library that I feel safe enough to stop. The squat building is in relatively good shape, with strong walls and a solid roof.

  Walking through the seemingly endless maze of empty shelves, I pretend they are still full of books. There is something oddly comforting about the idea of a vast sea of knowledge organized into a simple system of letters and numbers. Far in the back of the building, I find a bathroom and cry with joy when I discover running water. I turn the faucet on and let it run through my fingers, the dirt washing off in inky streams. It's frigidly cold, but wet, and I wash my hands and face, working hard to scrape the grime from my skin. Leaning over the sink, I let the icy water run through my hair, slightly horrified at how much debris runs into the drain. After washing off at least a pound of filth, I grab my bag and dig out an extra set of clothes. I change and rinse the dirty clothing in the sink, hanging it over a bathroom stall to dry. A miracle all its own, the working toilet claims my attention next. When it comes down to it, it's ridiculous just how much joy you can find in a bathroom.

  Cleaner than I can ever remember being, I finish ex
ploring the library. It feels so wrong calling it that when it holds not one single book. We are connected in that way. Both abandoned. Both stripped of what makes us who we are. I add that definition to my growing understanding of myself. I am a reflection in broken glass. I am a library without books.

  Tucked back in a corner, I find a dark stairwell leading down to the basement. Narrow, rectangular windows high above the shelves stream the soft moonlight of early evening into the room. In the dim light, I can see faded murals painted on the walls. Although a little dull and dim, the paintings are beautiful renditions of whimsy, full of dragons, knights, and princesses locked in towers. I decide to spend the night here; a place full of beauty with a hint of what was, a small dose of "once upon a time".

  A new dream envelops me as I sleep. Again the young man is center stage. Grinning from ear to ear, he drags me through the forest, slowing only to let me make my way over fallen logs and other obstacles.

  "What is going on?" I laugh, stumbling through the forest.

  "I have a surprise for you," he says, stopping to tie a scarf over my eyes.

  "Where did you get that?"

  "You'll see!" he laughs.

  He lifts me up in his arms and I can feel him walking through the trees. After a few minutes, he comes to a stop, his breath quick in excitement. Lowering me to the ground, he tugs on the back of the scarf and it slips away.

  "A house!" I cry. "You actually found us a house! We don't have to sleep outside anymore."

  "It is so much more than that Katherine, it's a home, our home. Go ahead and look."

  I walk up the steps to the cozy log cabin, already impressed by its wide front porch and rocking chair. The door opens up to a great room with some dusty living room furniture and a tiny kitchen. Awed, I touch all the buttons and knobs, wishing I knew what their purposes were. With a wink, the young man turns the knob on the sink and I gasp when it comes to life, the water running brown and murky for a few moments before flowing clear and clean.