by Sean Platt
Emory ran faster.
She heard something whiz by, then saw a bolt slam into the tree ahead of her.
No!
She didn’t turn back to see who pulled the trigger. She was afraid slowing down even a little would be all it took for them to finally catch up. She didn’t know how to create a storm at will. What happened at the bar had been spontaneous, out of her control, and certainly not something she willed into existence. At least not consciously.
As if in response to her desperation, she felt a shift in how she was the world around her. The dark and unfamiliar suddenly felt more ordinary. The woods were no longer a scary, chaotic place. She saw an order in everything, from the trees, to the lay of the land, to the stream she sensed on her left.
Clarity in her mind, as if Emory was one with the forest.
A man on horseback closed in behind her. She could hear him grunting before he shouted, “I’ve got her! I’ve got her!”
The horse was so close, Emory could feel its momentum behind her, and hear the thunderous gallop that threatened to crush her under its weight.
Her instincts ordered her into a sharp pivot, nearly slipping on the leaves but somehow staying upright.
The horse whinnied as its rider strained to change course.
Emory sensed a steep gorge ahead and water below.
Run and jump.
She heard the bandit closing in.
Emory couldn’t see the gorge she was looking for, but still she knew it was there. The land appeared smooth, the drop concealed by trees and brush. Beyond the copse of trees, the other side of the gorge continued, making the land appear relatively flat.
There!
Her mind seized on a dense thicket that perfectly concealed what was coming.
She headed toward it at full speed.
Something stabbed her leg.
Emory screamed as she felt her flesh tearing, but momentum sent her forth and straight over the edge of the gorge.
She heard the horse pull up behind, not following Emory over the edge as she’d hoped.
A long fall before her body hit the water like a bag of flour.
Emory woke up soaking wet on the riverbank, wracked with pain and something licking her face.
Wolf!
She reached for her blade.
“He’s friendly,” said a boy’s voice.
Her eyes flicked open to a friendly-looking light-brown dog and a redheaded boy in overalls. He looked around twelve or thirteen, with a splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose and onto both cheeks. He held a fishing pole that was probably longer than him.
“You okay?” he asked.
Emory looked down at her jeans and saw blood surrounding a hole just below her left knee. She sat up and pulled her pant leg up gingerly to see part of a branch poking out of her skin, blood pouring like a leaky faucet from her leg.
“Aw, man, that looks bad. Come with me. My pa is a doctor. Well, a vet, but a doctor just the same.”
She looked around, suddenly remembering her pursuers. From what Emory could tell, she’d floated downriver a spell and could no longer see or hear any sign of the men.
“What’s wrong?” the boy asked.
She didn’t want to tell him that people were looking for her, or that she was surely worth a handsome reward.
“Nothing,” Emory lied. “Just not sure I can walk.”
“I’m not too far from here.” He pointed downriver. “We have a farmhouse, just past those trees.”
He put his fishing pole down on the ground as the dog circled his legs, tail wagging. He held out his hands to Emory. “Can you stand?”
Mama always said not to trust strangers. But Mama had also taken a chance or two with people she’d met. Kind people. And this boy looked kind.
She took his hands and stood.
The pain spiked as she put pressure on her leg, but it wasn’t unbearable. If she waited long enough, she’d probably heal on her own. But she needed someplace to go for a bit, to get some food and water.
To hide from the bandits.
She nodded and let go of his hands. “I can walk.”
“Good.” He smiled, grabbed his fishing pole, and started walking.
Emory followed.
Emory sat across from James, the boy. At the other two ends of the rectangular table were his mother and father, Wanda and Gerald Jenkins. They’d just finished a delicious spread of chicken, potatoes, gravy, and corn. The first real meal she’d eaten in weeks. Her first big home in ages. Two stories with a farm and lots of land, plus horses, cows, chickens, and crops.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins. For everything.”
“You’re welcome, dear,” Mrs. Jenkins said.
“How’s your leg feeling?” her husband asked.
“Okay. Thank you.”
Mr. Jenkins had taken the branch out, cleaned the wound, and stitched her up. He also gave her some pills for the pain and to prevent infection. He’d been nice to her, so she felt bad lying to him, telling him that her mom was waiting in the Outer Territories along with her brother, and that they had lived with her father near the mountains until he died from a wolf attack last week.
“So, would you like me and James to bring you to your mom? We’re heading out that way tomorrow,” Mr. Jenkins said. “To see about a horse.”
“You could do that?” Emory said.
James offered her a proud nod. “Me and Pa could use the company. It’s a bit of a ride.”
“Thank you … I would love that.”
Mrs. Jenkins brought fresh cookies from the kitchen and the children gobbled them down. After dinner, she and James sat on large flat pillows around a fire in the living room while his parents told them stories of the world before this one.
They talked about movies, sports, TV, driving in cars, and all sorts of things that Emory would never experience. It made her nostalgic for a time she’d never lived in, and as the two grown-ups spoke, she found herself wishing she’d asked her mother more questions about her life before this. They’d talked a few times but it always seemed to make Mama sad, so Emory rarely brought up the past.
But yesterday was something the Jenkins loved to discuss.
“Do you miss the old world?” Emory asked.
“No.” Mr. Jenkins smiled. “It was getting too fast and I was already getting too old. Now we make our living off the land, help people when we can, and take care of each other.”
Mrs. Jenkins hugged her husband.
Emory hadn’t seen many happy couples, especially none as loving as this one. Mama only had two boyfriends that Emory could remember, and she’d kept both at a distance.
When Emory had asked her why she didn’t seem to love them like other people seemed to love their partners, Mama said, “If you don’t get too close, it doesn’t hurt as bad when things go bad.”
Emory now felt sad that her mother had never known this kind of love. Maybe Mama had loved her father. But he died before Emory was born. Maybe Mama had had her one true love and a broken heart kept her from ever loving another.
Emory had asked about him, but Mama had told her precious little. Said the less she knew the better.
Mrs. Jenkins said, “I was a cellist before I had James. I quit because I couldn’t tour anymore. I don’t miss the touring, but I do miss playing for people.”
“I’ve never heard a cello before.”
“Would you like to?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.
“Yes!”
Mr. Jenkins laughed. “Oh, girl. You just made her night. It’s been forever since she played for someone new.”
James leaned back in his chair. “I hope you’re comfortable. She might go on for houuuuuurs.”
“I will not subject our guest to hours of torture.” Mrs. Jenkins left the room, then returned with a smile while lugging what looked like a giant violin with her.
She grabbed a chair and dragged it in front of the fire. Then she sat, placing the cello’s end on the floor between
her legs.
“I’m a bit rusty,” she warned while tuning the instrument.
Her husband said, “Don’t be so modest. You are magnificent.”
James rolled his eyes. “Sorry. They can be soooo corny.”
“It’s sweet,” Emory said, staring at James and thinking him cute.
She flinched when he noticed, her cheeks flushing as butterflies began flapping en masse. It was too quiet. Emory might die from embarrassment.
Mrs. Jenkins dragged her bow across the strings and sent a magical sound into the air. It was unlike anything Emory had ever heard. Surely the most beautiful.
She turned to see Mrs. Jenkins closing her eyes to make music that somehow sounded sad yet arresting, speaking to a part of Emory like no other music had ever done before.
She’d not heard much — some guitar, people singing, a bit of harmonica. One of the oldest villagers had a wind-up record player that played music that was much too busy for Emory.
But the cello’s sad notes resonated deep inside her. She closed her eyes, letting the music sweep her away.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. She felt a sense of peace for the first time in what might as well have been forever. She was no longer worried about tomorrow or dwelling on the past. She was here with the music, just her and the notes of this magical—
The door exploded open and destroyed the moment.
Men rushed in, and Emory felt sure it was the bandits she’d evaded earlier.
“There she is! Grab her!”
Mr. Jenkins stood and shouted, “Get out of my house!”
The closest bandit, a big man with a bushy blond beard and a face full of tattoos, swung his axe and lopped the man’s head off.
Emory screamed.
James charged at the bearded man, screaming and unarmed, so consumed with rage that he must have thought he could end his enemy by clawing at him.
Mrs. Jenkins yelped as she saw her son running toward a certain doom, too blinded by anger to notice his fate.
James leapt at the man.
The bandit backhanded him, knocking James to the ground.
The bandit raised his axe.
Emory screamed, rushing him with a blade in her hand.
He turned and swung his axe at her.
She dropped to the ground before he could strike, slid between his legs, popped back up, then stabbed the blade behind his right knee, slicing into his tendons.
He screamed, turning as he swung down at her.
She ripped the blade free and dodged his blow just in time.
She scrambled to her feet, trying to tap into whatever power she had inside her to do something, to do anything.
But she felt only white-hot rage and fear for her new friends.
Mrs. Jenkins was pulling James backwards, toward the stairs, but was met by two men with drawn swords.
The men smiled, then stabbed her friends through the gut.
Emory screamed, rage spiraling to a blinding darkness that clouded her vision. She wanted to unleash the storm, watch them go mad and start killing each other. She could feel it coming as her anger and sadness swelled and threatened to break away from her.
Let it break. Let it crash onto them and kill them all!
The bandits all turned to her. There were seven in sight, probably more outside.
“Come on, little lady. Time to go,” said the blond bearded man.
She glared, focusing her hate and rage into a fine point she could unleash upon them all.
The air began to vibrate.
Wind howled outside, blanketing the windows and walls with a sudden downpour.
Lightning crashed and thunder boomed.
Emory smiled as she glared at the blond man, eager to see him die.
She didn’t notice the person coming behind her until it was too late.
Someone hit her hard on the head.
Then Emory fell to the ground, and into the darkness.
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED …
* * *
EPISODE THREE
Episode 3
Things That Go Bump…
Twenty-One
Johan Pascal
Pascal woke alone in bed to the welcome sounds of people in the streets below his apartment. He could smell the bacon and hear its sizzle. He hoped Val kept talking to Charlotte, helping her to emerge from her shell after all that had happened.
He’d wanted to drop Charlotte off at the temple where Sister Marina would look after her, as she did the two other orphans in Hope Springs.
But Val convinced him otherwise.
As she explained it, Charlotte was afraid to leave Pascal’s house. He was her only tether to the past, and too traumatized to get near new people yet.
Pascal was reluctant to take the girl in. He was barely used to Val staying over the few nights a week she did. This was too much like a family, and he didn’t want that again. Losing the first had been hard enough.
But Val had been a therapist in her life before The Event, so if anyone could help Charlotte it was her. And if she said the best way to help was keeping the girl here for a bit, then Pascal was going to listen.
Val was smart. She shouldn’t be wasting her talents tending bar three nights a week. She’d worked for the Rangers briefly in their spy program, but she didn’t like messing with people’s heads, even her enemies, so she traded a uniform for her gig at the pub and hadn’t looked back. Val insisted she did more for the world that way.
Pascal got out of bed and went to his bedroom window. His apartment looked down on bustling Market Street. Not even nine in the morning and the stalls were already packed with people and merchants. More Rangers than he’d ever seen in Hope Springs.
Richmond, having failed in his visit to The Slums two days ago, decided to open the city, but only under the provision of increased Fortress security. General McTaggart was, of course, all too happy to bring additional Rangers.
Pascal felt uneasy. Not because he thought bandits would be dumb enough to attack the city, but the increased Ranger presence gave him anxiety. These men weren’t from Hope Springs, and they were brusque, especially with the merchants and traders, especially those from The Slums that came to peddle their wares. He hoped that Richmond or Stewart had told them to treat people inside the city with more respect than they did on the road.
Whatever happened, it wasn’t his problem today. Pascal was still on administrative leave from Ranger duty since he broke the rules to rescue Charlotte. He wasn’t used to not working. The free time made him restless, when all he really wanted to do was train his Cadets.
He freshened up and went to the living room.
Val and Charlotte were sitting at the dining room table, eating. Charlotte’s plate looked barely touched.
“Good morning,” he said to them both.
Charlotte nodded, glanced at him, then returned to staring at her plate.
He traded a glance with Val, then kissed her good morning.
“There’s some food for you on the stove,” she said.
“Thank you, but I have to run an errand first.” He walked to the kitchen and grabbed two slices of bacon.
“Oh?” She stood and joined him in the kitchen. “Back at work?”
“No. Just have an errand to run.”
Pascal looked past her and into the dining room to see if Charlotte was eavesdropping. But the girl didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything. He could probably yell about her without worrying about being overheard.
“She talking yet?”
Val shook her head. “Poor thing is practically catatonic. What was she like before?”
“Bubbly. Bit of a smartass, actually. Did she sleep through the night?”
“No, she woke up crying around three and I went in to lie with her.”
“Well, I’m glad she’s finally letting you comfort her.”
She refused attention when they first brought her home. Refused the doctor, despite Va
l’s begging. She sat in the guest room all day, emerging only for meals, barely eating and talking even less.
“These things take time.” Val rested a hand on his arm.
Pascal stared into the dining room, a thought bubbling under the surface, not yet ready for Val’s attention. There was something he could do. Something to give the girl her life back. But he couldn’t mention it. Not yet.
Unfortunately, Val saw the look in his eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“What if it doesn’t have to take time?”
She stared at him, confused, until she realized what he was suggesting. “You cannot do that to her.” She shook her head with an emphatic NO.
“If the memories are what’s hurting her, why not take them away?”
“Because it isn’t right to go rooting around in people’s minds, Pascal.”
“I could ask her.”
“She’s not in the right frame of mind to consent. I know you mean well, Johan, but … just give it some time.”
Pascal couldn’t stand to see her reduced to a shell. He kept thinking about the poor girl’s personal hell, everything she must have gone through from the moment the bandits murdered her father to her abduction and sale, to what happened in The Slums, and whatever agony she might have endured had he never shown up. No kid, no person, should ever have to suffer as Charlotte had. Pascal wanted to kill every last person that had hurt her.
He swallowed a knot. “I’ll be back soon. You mind watching her a bit longer?”
“I don’t need to be home to feed Bucky until later.”
“You could just bring your cat here.”
“That’s a bit too much commitment,” she teased, kissing him on the cheek.
“Fine. Use me for my sex and charm, but refuse to move in, I don’t care. Your cat is kind of an asshole.”
“All cats are,” she said, smiling as he left.
On his way through the crowded outdoor market, Pascal saw three Rangers moving fast toward a stall where another Ranger, a short young man with a horrible blond bowl-cut, was arguing with the merchant, an old man named Willem, who’d been selling odds and ends there for years.
