Alarum (Walking Shadows Book 1)

by Talis Jones

  Alarum

  A Walking Shadows Novel

  Talis Jones

  Alarum is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Talis Jones

  Cover Design by Andrew Jones/Stalejive Design Collective

  Map copyright © 2018 Talis Jones

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 978-1718639041

  Published in the United States of America.

  www.talisjonesofficial.com

  Job 8:9

  Psalms 23:4

  The Walking Shadows Saga

  Alarum

  Solus

  Vicinus

  Ultio

  Initus

  Table of Contents

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  PART II

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  PART III

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  Acknowledgments

  The Author

  "He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster.

  And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee."

  —Fredrich Nietzsche

  PART I

  BLIND DELIVERANCE

  CHAPTER 1

  I have many names. The name my parents gave me. The name my equals gave me. The name my masters gave me. The name I gave myself. The name scorched into the wind when my body was ripped from my soul.

  A name gives something identity, and I’ve come to realize that a name doesn’t matter if you didn’t choose it yourself. I was born with the name Sofia Ramsey and I died with the names Fury and Ma thrown into the air with all the hatred and desperation a soul can muster.

  I’m gonna tell you about that day but it hasn’t come yet.

  It’s not today.

  I breathe slowly and a cooling comfort stirs my lungs.

  It’s not today.

  The world once drifted aimless, clueless, hopeful. And then the slaughter began.

  But that’s not today.

  Hans’ homestead sprawls across a small corner of Alabama, a green patch amongst a sea of dust and consequences. Did you know that the world almost ended? It’s been maybe a decade but you still run into a person or two who couldn’t tell the difference. I could. I still remember—

  “Vizsla!” Lizbeth shouts followed by a piercing whistle that ricochets off my eardrums. My shoulders flinch as her sudden call startles my bones. Lizbeth is Hans’ wife, a worn-down beauty. A brass candelabra smothered in dust, whisked from a king’s dining room and left to sputter atop a farm table. Out of place and proud and angry and so so wasted.

  Pushing my glasses up my sweaty nose I stand and look down at the mud clinging to my knees. This stupid dress of cotton and cobwebs is so stained that the bold slick chocolaty brown is almost a welcome sight upon the hem. That whistle, the one used to call a dog back from a snowstorm rings through my skull again even though she can see perfectly well that I’m coming.

  She knows.

  She just doesn’t particularly care.

  She likes to see the slight jump in my shoulders that her summons cause.

  I approach the side-door of the house. It stands humble but tall with two-levels and an attic. Brown wooden slats with flaking dusty robin’s egg blue paint. It has the air of neglected quaintness. A touch of forgotten southern charm. “Yes, Ms. Lizbeth?” I avert my eyes both out of inferiority and self-preservation.

  A stare is a challenge. A stare defines a relationship. Do you lock eyes in respect? In equality? Or do you shoot each other with glares until one of you cowers?

  My eyes do not cower.

  My eyes will look any dead center until they welcome me or bow to me.

  Lizbeth’s eyes also refuse to cower.

  Lizbeth’s eyes will challenge mine until I kneel in defeat or until her hand smacks my eyes away from hers with her tarnished fingers of gold.

  My eyes do not cower, but still I look down.

  The mistress of the house says nothing but gives a disgusted snort as she thrusts a basket full of dirty clothes against my chest. Ignoring the slight ache where the heavy wicker beast strikes me I wrap my thin arms around it hugging it close so as not to drop it. My arms quiver slightly from the weight but they possess a hidden wiry strength. Self-preservation makes demands on your body and I refuse to lay down and ignore the call.

  I take a step back, then another, then a third before turning my back on Lizbeth and returning to the energetic stream that runs around the back of the house. The crisp water teases me with its freedom as it dances over rocks and frolics around the bend.

  I place my cargo carefully next to the basket I’d almost finished and sink my knees back into the bank of mud. Picking up a bar of loamy soap I resume my scrubbing. I always bring the laundry to this spot along the stream because there’s this almost-smooth slanted rock that seems as if God Himself shaped it for the sole purpose of scrubbing clothes on. When life gives you lemons you squeeze half into a cold glass with sugar and half into your enemy’s eyes, then you take the seeds and you plant a damn orchard of lemon trees so you can do it all over again and again and again until…

  So where was I before? …Oh that’s right, the world ending. I don’t know what happened, honest truth, because I was maybe five when the earth changed its tune and over the years no one’s found any need to explain it to me and really what does it matter anymore? Maybe aliens blasted everything apart, or maybe giant beasts trampled all over the cities, or maybe people pushed so hard to be happy that they chucked the consequences out the window and then jumped over the edge reaching for them, begging for forgiveness, for a chance to undo what they did, but they did it and it was too late to haul the consequences back in so they hurtled down to the smooth white pavement after them choosing the coward’s exit and leaving the rest of us to dance to the rain and dance to the sun and dance to the sound of a steel-barreled gun.

  They may not have cared about the consequences but I damn well do. Whoever or whatever
started this mess threw those consequences out of their high and mighty tower and they landed at my feet costing me my home, my parents, and any notion of freedom I ever had the gall to possess.

  “Shi— fu— ouch!” I hiss. I plunge my fingers into my mouth and suck at the blood coursing out of them. Once the throbbing has dulled a bit I inspect my injury: one ripped nail and two scraped knuckles. Stupid rock was supposed to be my ally but I guess even stones can turn traitorous.

  Leaning over carefully I rest my hand in the icy current letting the water jostle and tug as it tries to carry me away with it. Maybe someday but not today, I tell it. Snatching my hand back I see that the bleeding has stopped so I resume my duties: dunk, wring, dunk, scrub, dunk, slap on stone, scrub with soap, scrub, scrub, flip, scrub, scrub, flip, dunk, scrub, dunk, wring, toss in clean basket. Hands moving like a wound-up clock lies hidden within them and my mind drifts again.

  CHAPTER 2

  10 YEARS AGO

  Car horns blare in the streets, people shriek as their brains break down into utter panic, dogs bark like cops begging for order, and children wail in dissonant fright. I dunno what’s going on but I know I’m too scared to make a sound, to even twitch.

  “Momma, what’s going on?” I point my little fist towards the bay window in our comfy green townhouse. At first I thought it was a parade or a party, but when I climbed onto the squishy blue chair and peeked behind the curtains I saw meanness.

  Momma, dressed in light grays, kneels in front of me and I look into her big blue eyes for comfort. I wait for her to smile, she’s always smiling, but I wait and wait and now I feel even more scared because she’s not smiling and there’s this little wrinkle between her brows. I reach up and try to smooth it out but it doesn’t go away. I take both my pointer fingers and try to pull her mouth up into a smile but she swats my hands away gently holding them tightly in her own.

  “Where’s Daddy?” I ask suddenly feeling angry. Why won’t she smile at me?

  “You need to stay quiet, Sofia, okay? Can you stay really really quiet for me?” She whispers the words in a way that I don’t like. It’s the same way she talks to Daddy sometimes at night when they think I’m sleeping and can’t hear them. But I do and I know what comes next.

  “Please don’t yell at me,” I whisper real quiet.

  Her eyes widen a little, confused. She shakes her head and coaxes me off the chair. “No one’s yelling,” she says still in that weird hurried hushed tone I don’t like.

  I point towards the window. “They’re yelling,” I complain then quickly clamp a hand over my mouth because I forgot to say it quietly.

  Momma nods but her eyes keep darting towards the door. “I know but we aren’t going to yell. And we’re going to go on a secret mission. You like that game. So, we’re going to play it right now. Okay? Do you want to play Secret Mission?”

  My stomach still feels like it’s full of scared butterflies but I love that game and maybe playing it will make Momma stop acting scary. I nod my head and she almost smiles. Almost. Yes, a game is what she needs to play. Games are always fun and they make people smile. Smiling means everything is okay.

  “What’s the mission?” I whisper in my serious super spy voice.

  She takes my hand and guides me to the hall closet and pulls out three backpacks. She slips mine around my shoulders and I feel a tiny bit better somehow. I love my backpack. It has Darth Vader on it. Momma loves these movies about space and Jedi and even though I was kinda scared I wasn’t totally scared so I watched them with her. Daddy thinks I’m silly because I like Darth Vader instead of Princess Leia but Darth Vader has a red lightsaber and red is my favorite color so I like him the best. He’s mean sometimes but then he’s good in the end and I like that.

  I watch as Momma puts on her own backpack then slips another on top, I bet it’s for Daddy so he can play with us too. He works during the day but sometimes he comes home early just to play with me before I’m too sleepy. She holds out her hand again and I take it.

  “Let’s go,” she whispers.

  I pull tight and dig my feet in. Sometimes they forget the rules and I have to remind them. “You didn’t say what the mission is. You always gotta say what the mission is or I won’t know what to do and that’s dumb.”

  That pinched look comes back on her face and I suddenly feel scared again. Something smashes through the bay window and I squeak like a mouse. I wanna cry. I wanna hide and cry and why won’t Momma smile at me?

  Slowly she crouches down until we’re almost face-to-face. “I need you to be brave and quiet and fast. Our mission is to find Daddy then he’ll have a new mission for us, okay?”

  I barely have time to nod or wipe the nervous tears streaming from my nose before she’s grabbed my hand again and almost drags me to the back door. I’m really scared but I remember to be quiet and I try to be fast and I pretend to be brave.

  People are everywhere and the noise is so loud that I want to cover my ears with my hands but Momma won’t let go of my hand for anything. I look around but what I see scares me so I focus on following Momma. We don’t stop rushing until we see Daddy. He sees us too and comes running, still wearing his long white doctor coat. He takes his backpack from Momma and then picks me up in his arms and suddenly we’re running real fast.

  I hold on super tight and bury my face against his shirt. Daddy isn’t smiling either. No one is smiling except this one man who grinned right before he took a baseball bat and did something mean to a lady carrying a TV. I close my eyes tight and try to forget what my brain doesn’t understand.

  This wasn’t a game but maybe if I try hard enough it could be just a bad dream.

  CHAPTER 3

  The front door slams and with it comes a burst of chill causing my spine to shudder in protest. I look up and see Kody, the oldest kid. Well, he’s twenty years old so I guess he’s not really a kid. His heavy boots stomp towards me and I freeze holding the broom mid-sweep. He’s all honey-colored like Lizbeth while everyone else is dark like Hans. His arm swings up and I flinch without meaning to. I see him frown slightly but he shoves the dead turkey into my arms and trudges back outside. Kody usually ignores me, which makes him my second-favorite living person.

  Carefully propping the broom against the wall I find a pot in the kitchen and dump the feathered carcass into it. I’ll take care of it after I finish my house-chores. Picking back up the stiff broom I swipe at the floor in a quickly learned rhythm careful not to send any dust flying up into the air like filthy mischievous clouds. Footsteps clatter down the stairs and my shoulders tense.

  “Vizsla,” a deep female voice croons.

  Eyes averted I approach the speaker. “Yes, Maurene?”

  But whatever pointless task she was about to give me is cut off by that piercing whistle her mother so loves to use. I leave Maurene fuming and approach the side-door and sure enough there is Lizbeth holding it open and waiting for me. Her eyes fall upon the broom still clutched in my hand.

  “Still not finished?” she chastises.

  “I’m almost finished,” I assure her resisting the urge to roll my eyes and scowl. “Kody has just brought in a turkey he shot so I need to get back to work if I’m going to have that ready in time for dinner.”

  Lizbeth waves her hand brushing aside my words. “I will handle dinner tonight. Where’s the bird?”

  “In a pot in the kitchen waiting to be plucked,” I answer uneasily. Ever since I came here Lizbeth has done less and less leaving me to handle everything she feels too tired to do, which really is everything.

  “Good,” she nods. “Maurene and I will take care of dinner, just get the house clean.”

  I bob my head and retreat back to my oh so thrilling job of sweeping. It doesn’t matter that Hans’ homestead and the nearby town are the only patch of green for miles and miles, dust still finds a way to slither in through the cracks and coat everything, even your lungs if you breathe too deep.

  I dunno how often you sweep your f
loors but this type of dull repetitive work, like washing dishes or wiping windows, can put your mind into an almost meditative state. I wouldn’t mind escaping the present if it didn’t mean being sucked into the past. I guess beggars can’t be choosers, so why not? Sunshine filters through freshly wiped glass, silence hugs me gently before moving to lounge on the couch and keep me company.

  Sweep, sweep, sweeeeep.

  Sweep, sweep, sweeeeep. Pile.

  Sweep, sweep, sweeeeep.

  Sweep, sweep, sweeeeep. Bigger pile.

  CHAPTER 4

  9 YEARS AGO

  Indiana’s sky was still big and blue. It turns a smoggy acidic pale yellow later, but not yet. I’m six years old and that’s very grown up, not like when I was just five years old. Five year olds are babies. I’m not a baby.

  I crawl out of our big plastic green tent and hear my Daddy arguing with Gary and Washington (I asked once but he said he’s not the president. I was kinda disappointed but I guess if he was George Washington then he’d be super old now). Momma is still sleeping in the tent so she’s safe. I crawl out on my hands and knees, frowning as the morning dew wets the knees of my pants. Swiping at the grass stains I remember to go back in and grab my backpack. Both of my parents told me to never go anywhere without it.

  My shoes are all wet though and I don’t wanna get the tent messy so I stand as close as I can with my toes pressed against the tent flap and then bend down so my hands are on the tent floor. Inch by inch I walk my hands out and stretch as far as I can without collapsing until I reach my backpack. I have to swat my hand back and forth a few times until my fingers can catch the little strap at the top but I grab it and inch back outside.