by Marie Hall
He shoved her off him. She landed hard against the mattress, causing the lamp on his nightstand to rock precariously.
Michael zipped the bag shut with a finality that rang like a gunshot. "Call me when you decide you're better."
"Michael," she pleaded, tears choking her vision. She swiped them away angrily.
He didn't stop. Not even when she wrapped her arms around his legs. He shook her off and continued down the hall. She scrabbled back to her feet and rushed after him, making one final attempt to grab his hand. But he shoved her off.
She knew if he got to the front door, it was over. She wasn’t physically strong enough to stop him.
“Please, Michael,” her voice broke. She let him hear the tears, the panic and fear. “I need you with me. Please.”
His hand was on the knob and for a moment she thought he’d come back. They could work it out. Get counseling. Nothing was impossible. Together, they could be a family again. Her heart fluttered.
He didn’t say anything. Simply pulled open the front door, gave her one last look of disgust and then he walked out.
Heart trapped in her throat, she clutched her hands together, her mouth opened and shut like a fish flopping on land gasping for air. The familiar rev of his Dodge blared loud through the open front door and then quickly faded as he turned down their street with a peal of tires.
To go from shouts and the rumble of a speeding car, to complete silence, was shocking to her. They lived on a cul-de-sac, the sound of an engine would be his. She craned her head, listening with all her heart for that familiar rev but all she heard was the steady tick, tick, tick of the hallway clock.
She waited.
And waited.
For what felt like an eternity, she waited.
But he never came back.
Dragging her feet, feeling a thousand years older and wondering what she’d say to Aleric, she crept to his room. A soft golden glow stole out from under the door. She knocked quietly.
"What?" he asked with antipathy.
She licked her lips and slowly opened it. "Aleric, your father and I—"
He shook his head, but didn’t look up from where he sat at his desk. “Don’t call me Aleric anymore. That’s not my name.”
“Of course it is, don’t be silly.”
“No. My name is Dragden,” he said in a soft little voice.
“Does James call you that?” She clutched the doorframe.
He didn’t answer her. Just continued to sit and stare at the book in front of him. He looked so innocent and young in his robin's blue pajamas with fluffy clouds on them. The red desk lamp was the only light on in the room. She shivered. She hated coming in here, hated the smothering feeling of fear that overcame her and made her feel she couldn't take more than two steps inside without choking on black terror that froze her limbs in place.
And now he was calling himself Dragden. Her back tensed, and for a moment, anger replaced her fear. She would never call him that.
Aleric turned a page in a book. It was a copy of an antique Brother's Grimm storybook she used to read him as a baby. He'd loved the pictures of trolls and wolves and witches and all the other fantastic creatures within.
"Where have all the beasties gone?" he asked quietly.
She frowned. "Aleric, you know they aren't real."
He looked at her, his stare deadpan and the look in his eyes made her think of a picture she'd seen once of a shark. Soulless. Lifeless.
God forgive her, but she should never have let him have that surgery. Aleric should have died two years ago.
He put his book down and picked up a syringe she hadn't seen on his desk—it was filled with a greenish blue fluid, he stared at it with an unblinking gaze. "Where have all the beasties gone, Mother?"
"Aleric, what is that?" Instantly her mouth went dry, like she'd been sucking on cotton for hours.
"An experiment. James showed me how to make it." He finally looked at her. "Would you like to see it?"
She shook her head. "No, Aleric. Mommy's tired." Her eyes were twin saucers as she backpedaled.
He smiled, but it never touched his eyes. "Don't worry, Mother, it won't hurt. James promised."
She turned on her heels. There was a whizz, and then something painful pricked her neck. "Ow." She smacked her flesh, thinking it must have been a bee sting, but instead she felt a tiny glass dart sticking out of her neck. "Aleric?"
“Mother, I’ve told you, call me Dragden.”
Her vision grew blurry and suddenly her limbs felt like cement blocks. She fell to her knees, feebly attempting to pull out the dart.
"Shh." He walked up to her and began stroking her brow as she'd done to him all those years ago.
"Fee, fi, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman," said a soft-pitched tenor voice.
Heather trembled and the last cognizant thought she had was that the voice did not belong to Aleric.
Chapter 2: We're not in Kansas anymore...
Today
Hunter Grey glanced both ways, making certain there were no eyes watching, before stepping out of the alleyway. The spiraling blue wormhole winked out behind him. He walked down the street becoming reacquainted to this century.
He took a deep breath and couldn’t help grinning. The world was alive with scents he’d thought never to breathe again—the yeasty whiff of bread from the corner bakery and the sharp tang of lemons from the fruit stand across the street. Even the acrid burn of rubber tires smelled good. Considering his world reeked of the constant rancid odor of sulfur and methane gases, anything was an improvement.
The beacon in his pocket had led him here. The pulsing broadcast so strong there could be no doubt that he was exactly where she was. Problem was, he had no idea when he was.
This was small town America, Nowheresville. It could be one of a thousand different places, each a repetitive blur of the others.
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Odd at this time of day not see people milling about. Probably had something to do with the fact that it was gray, dreary, and judging from the rumbling sky—threatening to rain any time now.
There were no posters, or banners hung proclaiming a specific holiday or date in time. He wasn't even certain which month he was in. But there was one thing he knew based off his surroundings, and that was that he’d arrived before the Rift. Which was good, made finding the needle in the haystack doable.
The sudden trickle of rain became an annoyance and he pulled his hoodie over his head. Street lamps flickered. Veins of lightening shot through the sky. It was a crap time to be out. And he bet he knew why.
This had to be The Calm—as in calm before the storm. Seemingly overnight the world as everyone knew it would vanish, replaced by a new and terrifying reality of disappearing peoples and lands; weather patterns that shifted as random and constant as trade winds.
He picked up the pace as drops of rain plopped harder and fatter. He jumped into a nearly empty electronics store just as the sky ripped open and let loose with an impressive downpour.
His sneakers squeaked on the cheap linoleum tile. He dried his shoes on a ratted rug covered in stains.
"Sorry, man," an overweight employee wearing a yellow and green nametag walked up to him, "store's getting ready to close in five minutes."
"No worries, Charles," he glanced at the name, "I'm just trying to get out of the rain for a sec. Be gone before you know it."
Charles didn't seem happy to see him not leaving. He sniffed, shoving glasses up his long nose with a stubby finger.
After a second it was Charles, not Hunter, who waddled off muttering under his breath.
"In other news," the tinny voice of a news anchor blared over television speakers, "scientists are scrambling to understand further shifting of Teutonic plates beneath the state of Missouri, while dealing with the aftermath of the latest 6.5 earthquake that hit parts of the Ozark only a week ago."
Professional, her voice never wavered. But there was real fear in
her green eyes. "Government officials continue to stress not to travel if you don't have to. The counties of Brennan, Paris, and Myrna are off limit to all traffic until further notice."
"Dude, your five minutes are up. Sorry, but you gotta go," Charles came up to him, not even pretending politeness at this point.
"Yeah. Gotcha. Got places to be anyway." Hunter slipped out the front door, hugging the building to try and prevent getting wet. But he needn't have bothered. Within seconds of stepping out he was soaked. It was like someone had picked up a bucket and dumped it on him. The rain was coming down in sheets.
Hanging his head to try and keep as much rain out of his eyes as possible, he shoved his hands back into his pockets and continued north.
He needed to find his people again. But before he could find the rest, she needed to be on board.
How different his world would be now if they’d only gotten their crap together the first time. If they’d worked as a unit instead of against each other. At first they had, but arrogance had taken them all in the end. They’d grown too cocky, too confident and sure that their way was the only right way.
God, they'd been so wrong.
In the end everything they'd loved, everything they'd known had disappeared. Hunter's world was no more. Dragden had won. He’d had a choice to make. Stay and die with the rest of them, or leave. Come back and do it over again.
He'd made his choice. Wrong or right, didn't matter anymore. All that did was fixing it. This time they had to get it right. Especially because the window of time they had to do it in was so narrow. Though Dragden liked to believe himself a God, he wasn’t. Once every fifty years his body betrayed him, forcing him into a coma that lasted anywhere from two weeks to two months. He was readying to enter his god sleep within a week, which made him vulnerable and unable to leave his crypt for any period of time. The time was now or never.
A semi-truck barreled down the road, its tires kicking up water and pelting him. The cold rank water felt like needles on his exposed skin, making him to gnash his teeth in response.
The newscast had helped fix the point in time he was in and he knew he skated a very fine line between victory and disaster. He had to find her now.
Hunter withdrew the beacon, a feather, from his pocket the length of his open hand, roughly nine inches.
The feather was unlike any that could be found anywhere, long and strong and incredibly flexible. A red so deep it almost seemed dipped in blood. He squeezed it. It was warm, heating his palm like a tiny flame and guiding him toward her.
Another time, another lifetime ago she’d shared with him the magical properties of the feathers. How she could be tracked, traced to within a yard, if someone knew the proper incantations. She’d never told others, considering it a great weakness easily exploited. He hadn’t been sure why he’d felt the obsessive need to get his hands on one, but one night he’d stolen it. If it worked, if he found her, if she’d told him truth that night long ago, they might still have a chance at redemption.
He wondered what she’d look like. What her life was like now. Who was she this time?
He was close. The feather was starting to sizzle into his flesh. Within an hour he stood before a large granite sign on a well-manicured lawn that read: Fairfield Hills.
“Damn,” he mumbled low as the feather finally turned to black ash and floated away on a stiff breeze. Not good. Volatile as she was, a place like this could potentially cause her to be catastrophically damaged.
He stared at the sign with unseeing eyes, debating within himself whether he should take that next step to her, to an uncertain future. All he had to do was think of the sightless eyes, the land charred beyond recognition and he knew he had no choice. If there were another way, another time, but there were no more feathers. There were no more options.
“Fairfield Hills,” he muttered with ironic disgust. Why was it that the worst places always felt they had to name themselves something benign and cheery? Why not just call it what it was. Youth home for the mentally insane.
Chapter 3: Will the real Sable Ray please stand up?
"Patient 152," the woman's voice was cold, detached. She thrust a paper cup covered in smiling faces into Sable Ray's hands. Ten pills all differing shades, lengths, and width filled the cup half full.
A rough pair of hands shoved her out of the line. "You ain't special. My turn now."
Sable turned and growled low at the black girl who'd shoved her. Her hair was wild and poking up all over the place. Her eyes were glazed, dulled by drugs and years of psychotic meltdowns.
A nurse yanked on the thick chain attached to the leather collar strapped to Sable's neck. "Shut yer trap, you freak."
His spit landed on her lips and she snarled, wiping it off. Her already bruised windpipe couldn't take much more abuse. Someday, she promised herself, someday she'd get out. Someday she'd kill them all—especially the big fat nurse who yanked on her collar like she was nothing more than a rabid dog.
He smacked her on the butt and a slow simmering fire began to burn in her belly. He let his hand trail down longer than necessary, tracing the outline of her nearly non-existent curves against the baggy pair of mud colored scrubs she wore.
But it wasn’t only her clothes that was so dark. Everything was. It was like the place wanted you to know you were in hell. Bars on the windows, ill lit hallways that more often than not needed light bulbs changed.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy...
Sable walked over to the window on slippered feet, the ridiculous long length of the metal chain clinked behind her. They told her the chain and collar was for the safety of the people around her.
Whatever.
She hadn’t strung more than ten words together in over five years now. They kept her on a dog leash because they liked the power it gave them. Period. At the beginning she’d protested the use of the chain, telling them as patient as she could that her talking would not hurt them. Only when her voice rose, like with singing, could she hurt someone.
Their response had been a beating—actually several, all involving a pillowcase and a bar of soap. Eventually the State noticed how bruised she was and questioned their absurd stories, bringing an end to the nearly nightly whippings. One of the kinder nurses had suggested a longer chain, giving her the illusion of freedom and the staff a sense of safety.
She no longer fought the chain; she’d learned the only way to leave her room would be with it on, or not at all. But that didn’t make her weak, only patient. Someday it would come off.
She stared out the window, at the nothingness that spread out like a sea of green. There were no trees. No bushes. No garden. Just grass, green as cut emerald but forbidden to walk upon. Ever. The sky danced with forked fingers of lightning.
"Swallow them pills," the nurse jabbed his finger into her bony shoulder.
She gripped the bars, entranced by the dancing light. Maybe someday she could be as free as that lightning, as wild and untamed.
He snatched the crushed cup out of her hand and twirled her around. "I said—"
"I know what you said," her voice was weak and scratchy.
He choked the chain, again cutting off her breathing. She wheezed as fire burned her raw throat and scrabbled to loosen its grip. She looked at all the blank faces staring back at her; watching the abuse with detachment. So many people. Nurses. Staff. Patients. But not one of them came to help. They never did.
We don't see nuthin': the motto they all lived by.
"Don't you never talk. Never!" His rheumy eyes were frantic and full of sadistic glee.
He grabbed her jaw with his fat fingers, prying them apart and dumped the pills down her throat. She choked, sputtering and hacking, trying in vain to spit them back out. She hated taking the happy pills. They made her feel bad. Like tripping on acid was what Harold her roommate said, not that she'd know.
His thick, beefy arm wrapped around her waist like a steel band. "I said—" He shoved his fingers down
her throat, pushing the pills in deep.
Gagging, ready to lose the few remains of her disgusting lunch, she did the only thing she could. She bit him. Sank her teeth so deep into the meaty flesh that she felt it tear, blood coated her tongue.
"You, nasty little whore." He slapped her and stars exploded behind her eyes. Her cheek burned. Before she could gather herself, he hooked his ankle to hers. She fell hard, with him on top of her.
All the air rushed out of her lungs. Fear for her life drove a hot tidal rush of adrenaline through her body. She rolled over and reaching into her pocket, pulled out the fork she'd hidden after lunch. She stabbed him with it, sinking it into the side of his neck. It barely missed the carotid, but it still drew a lot of blood.
A red stain blossomed like rose petals opening up to the sun on the lapel of his white scrubs.
"Help," he grunted, the fork vibrated up and down from the exertion. It was so weird and macabre to see the silver handled fork dance in his neck, that for a moment she forgot to fight back, giving him the leverage he needed to grab her hands and slam them down.
Suddenly it was a beehive of activity. She was surrounded by a swarm of white coats. Hands grabbed her ankles, her arms, and around her midsection. She bucked, writhing and twisting. But it was too much. They were too strong.
She opened her mouth to scream.
Another nurse, the handsome new Latino she’d imagined flirting with earlier, shoved the fat one off her while also slamming her mouth shut. “Go, Rick,” he grunted. “We’ve got her. Now calm down, Sable,” he whispered through clenched teeth, not being as rough as Rick, but still his hold was strong. She moaned, shoving her tongue against her lips in an effort to open them and scream. It was her only defense, the only way she’d gain back her power.
The only way.
Rick gripped his neck, trying to staunch the blood. Other nurses surrounded him, dabbing his neck with whatever they had on hand. He swatted them away. "Keep her mouth shut! Now, 'fore she kills someone."
She thrashed around, but it was only making her more tired. Then more hands covered her mouth and all she could do was give a muted snarl.
