Legion
Page 28
“I’ll play checkers with you.”
At first I’m not even sure it’s me who has spoken until Evelyn smiles and then shakes her head.
“You don’t want to play me,” she says.
“Sure I do.”
“I’m very good. I’ll probably beat you.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Before she can say anything else, I rise out of my chair and retrieve the board and pieces and bring them back to the table.
“What color do you want to be?” I ask.
“Red.”
I set up my pieces, Evelyn sets up hers, and then we just sit there, watching each other.
“Are you sure you want to play me?” Evelyn asks, and there’s something mischievous in her voice. “Eli taught me some tricks.”
I smile. “Eli taught me some tricks as well.”
“To make it fair,” Evelyn says, “I’ll let you go first.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Trust me”—she grins—“you’ll need the help.”
I look at Ashley and see that she’s smiling. I realize I’m smiling, too. After everything we’ve been through, after all the lies, all the deaths, it’s nice to take a moment to breathe, to smile, if only for a few minutes. Soon Ashley and I will leave this place. We’ll leave the minivans with the nuns and find new transportation. We have enough money to keep us going for the next few years. And then what? What will we do then? Keep running from these people, or stand up and fight? I know what I want to do, but I have no idea what’s on Ashley’s mind. That’s something we’ll have to discuss later.
But right now neither of us is thinking about that. All of our worry is momentarily gone. We’re here now, in this place, with a woman who turns out to be my aunt, and a checkerboard laid out in front of us.
“Ready?” Evelyn asks.
“Ready,” I say.
And, leaning forward, I make the first move.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Swartwood is the USA Today bestselling author of The Serial Killer’s Wife, The Calling, Man of Wax, and several other novels. His work has appeared in The Los Angeles Review, The Daily Beast, Chizine, Space and Time, Postscripts, and PANK. He created the term “hint fiction” and is the editor of Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. He lives with his wife in Pennsylvania. Visit him online at www.robertswartwood.com.
To stay updated on Robert’s latest ebook releases, sign up for his newsletter (you’ll immediately receive an exclusive ebook) or follow him on Twitter: @RobertSwartwood.
Continue reading for an excerpt from Man of Wax, the first book in the Man of Wax Trilogy
1
That morning—the first day the game officially started—the ringing of a phone woke me.
It was a distant, unfamiliar noise that dipped its hand into the dark I’d been floating in and abruptly yanked me out. First I opened my eyes. Then I started to sit up but stopped. My head pounded. It was like a bad hangover only different, making me feel groggy, even shaky.
I waited a few seconds and then slowly sat up, swung my feet off the bed, and reached for the phone on the bedside table.
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello,” said the exasperated voice on the other end. “This is your nine o’clock wake-up call.”
“My wake-up call,” I said, almost a question, but the person on the other end had already hung up.
It was then that I realized something was wrong. Normally I sleep on the right side of the bed, Jen on the left side, and here I was now sitting on the left side of the bed holding a phone that shouldn’t be there. After all, we had no phone in our bedroom.
I blinked and quickly stood up.
This wasn’t my bedroom. This wasn’t even my house.
What the hell?
I was in some kind of motel room. This much was evident by the bed I had just been lying on, completely naked except for my boxers. The air conditioner must have been on high because I was cold, nearly freezing—a fact that came a few seconds later, as I was beginning to catch my bearings. Across from the bed was an old TV, sitting on a four-drawer wooden dresser. The curtains were slightly open, letting in some sunlight. In front of the curtains was a wooden table with an opened bible on top. Beside the bible was a pair of jeans, a plain black T-shirt, white socks, and a black leather belt. Underneath the table on the carpet was a pair of sneakers.
“Hello?” I called out. “Jen? Casey?”
No answer.
I realized I was still holding the phone. I placed it back down on the cradle, feeling a little more awake now but even more confused. Beside the phone was an alarm clock, its digital numbers glowing red. Without my glasses I had to squint to see that it read 9:05.
I took a step forward and leaned over the table and pushed the curtains aside. I squinted through the window at the parking lot beyond. Stepping back, I glanced down at the bible, noticed that its crusty pages had been opened to the Book of Job.
“Hello?” I called again.
Still no answer. The only noise was the air conditioner blowing cold air from the rear of the room, right beside what had to be the bathroom. That door was closed. If my wife or daughter were anywhere, I thought, that was where they would be.
I started that way, my bare feet digging into the carpet. I hesitated outside the bathroom door, considered knocking, but then just turned the knob and opened the door.
I reached in, found the light switch, flicked it on.
There were fluorescents in the ceiling which blinded me, causing me to squint even more and shield my eyes with my hand. I took another step forward, leaving the coolness of the carpet for even colder tiles. The bathroom smelled strongly of chlorine. It was small and compact, with only a toilet, tub and shower, a narrow mirror and sink.
And on the sink was a pair of glasses. I grabbed them and put them on. They weren’t my glasses, not by a far stretch—they were too heavy, the frames thick, and they pinched around the nose—but they were my prescription. At least now I could see fine, I had that going for me, and even though I knew nobody was behind the shower curtain, I still pulled it aside to find only mildew spotting the tiles and drain.
That was when I turned and saw what was on the back of the door. Something skipped in my chest. In crude long letters that seemed to run because of the paint, someone had written:
LET THE GAME BEGIN
I stared at it for a long time. The fluorescents above me buzzed quietly. My heart pounded in my head. I knew what the letters had been written in—some internal voice kept whispering it—but still I walked forward, slowly, until my face was only inches away. I reached out and hesitantly touched one of the letters before snatching my hand back.
Just as I’d thought.
Dried blood.
ALSO BY ROBERT SWARTWOOD
NOVELS
Bullet Rain (coming soon)
New Avalon (coming soon)
No Shelter
Man of Wax
The Inner Circle
The Serial Killer’s Wife
The Dishonored Dead
The Calling
Walk the Sky (with David B. Silva)
COLLECTIONS
Real Illusions: Stories
Phantom Energy: [Very Short] Stories
NOVELLAS & SHORT STORIES
The Man on the Bench
Spooky Nook
In Solemn Shades of Endless Night
The Silver Ring
Through the Guts of a Beggar
In the Land of the Blind: A Zombie Story
Wayward Pines: Nomad
At the Meade Bed & Breakfast (with David B. Silva)
OMNIBUSES
Two Shot: The Serial Killer’s Wife and No Shelter
Refuge Omnibus Edition (with Jeremy Bishop, Jeremy Robinson, Daniel S. Boucher, David McAfee, and Kane Gilmour)
AS EDITOR
Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer
Copyrig
ht © 2014 Robert Swartwood
Cover design copyright © 2014 Jeroen ten Berge
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Robert Swartwood.
www.robertswartwood.com
Table of Contents
Legion
About the Author
Excerpt from Man of Wax
Also by Robert Swartwood
Copyright