by A.R. Rivera
Killing With Kindness
The gateway opens with that big, fiery flourish while Abi-Two watches. I thank her with an unplanned peck on the cheek after she hugs me tight and yells, “Be careful,” over the roaring wind. Right before I let myself be taken into the glorious wheel of colors inside the cyclonic vortex, I catch her wiping her eyes and yell my promise to return.
“We need to know what’s on that flash drive, ASAP.” We plugged it into her computer, but couldn’t read anything. So, either the files weren’t compatible, were destroyed when I crossed over or were all encoded for safety reasons. In any case, Abi-Two is taking it to Elijah, who I’ve decided to just call Number Two, to see if he can figure anything out.
With a wave, she disappears into unnamed colors.
On the other side, there is no more citrus orchard. No more noise of tractors or cars. No more rumble of crop dusting airplanes. It’s eerily quiet.
The forest is even greener than I remember—purest, brightest green hovering as a canopy over the rich brown and gold of the ancient forest floor I now find myself in.
I’m getting a good look at the dirt as I hold my stomach, bending into the retching that feels like my stomach is trying to turn itself inside-out.
I don’t want to puke.
My body needs to keep everything it’s got inside, in case I don’t get the chance to hunt for food, or if my travels take me away from the river.
My stomach settles and I hear the strangest sound. Like a low E in click form, the noise is deep and short. When my eyes follow the noise to the source, I freeze.
A black panther. It’s huge. Maybe fifteen feet away and to my left. Just beneath the two glassy eyes that watch me with great curiosity, I see a mangle of pink and white flesh caught in its’ mouth. The great jungle cat is hunching over its’ latest kill, which looks like it used to be some kind of deer.
I’m frozen. My knees planted on the ground as I stare back at the gigantic feline as he surveys me and slowly chews. That low popping sound emanating from his jowls.
“Nice kitty,” I whisper as the creature twitches his tail like a whip in the air behind him. My heart is pounding. I don’t think I can outrun this thing even if I’m from a faster moving plane.
Once the feral feline swallows the flesh in his mouth, he leans down, never taking his eyes off me, and bites deep into the fleshy neck of his kill. Then he saunters back a few paces, dragging the carcass he’s working on along with him. Once there are a few more trees between us, the huge cat and his quarry turn and disappear into the forest.
I release the breath I’ve been holding and thank the Threestone for whatever signal they’re emitting that makes all other life forms so averse to their presence.
In under a minute, I’m picking through the flora as quietly as I can, which is damn near silent with the new boots I got at the Army Surplus store. Abi-Two drove me after I told her what I intended to do. Exactly like she said, she had a ton of ideas, and now I’ve got a ton of new gear.
Most of its camouflage and none of it requires a battery. So there’s no chance of it not working on this plane.
Abi-Two thought that might be why the Boom Packs didn’t work last time I was here. The time variation between this ancient plane and mine was too vast, effectively nullifying the volatility of the chemicals when they mixed together. She said I might as well have been tossing water balloons.
This time, I’m ready for whatever comes at me. I’ve got my camouflage clothes and boots, a hunting knife, a just-in-case 9mm—loaded, and I checked my conscience at the door.
I’ve put enough thought into it, and I can’t think about it anymore. I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do to make this right. My dad already tried letting Daemon murder him and that didn’t stop him, so there’s nothing left to do... but I still wish there was another way. Damn it!
Stop thinking.
Walk.
Abi-Two’s instructions echo in my mind as I plod.
We sat on the wooden dining chairs, consuming caffeine and planning.
“You’ll be at a disadvantage in their territory.” She tucked a golden lock of hair behind her ear and locked me into those baby-blues. “They might be looking for you. Your best bet is to find Nahuiollin. If his circumstances are anything like Doyen’s were, he should be in exile. Avoid the tribe completely. If they find you, you die.”
“You give the best pep-talks.” I joked.
She carried on completely serious, save the small smile that flashed for the briefest moment. “Watch the natives if you can. Just to get an idea of the general areas they occupy.”
“How do I watch them and not be seen?”
“You hide. Really, really well.”
Carefully watching the trees, I stop at the thick trunk of one of the highest and start setting up. From my backpack, I retrieve the climbing spikes and strap one to each boot and leg. Nice and tight just like the instructional videos said to do on the webpage that Abi-Two made me watch. She also helped me knot the lanyard to wrap around the trunk because I knew there was a good chance I wouldn’t be able to remember the smaller details after travelling. The way it messes with me, I feel mentally handicapped until my mind adjusts to the timeline.
It takes a few tries, leaning against the steel rope lanyard that’s wrapped around the trunk. Testing the spikes as I shove them into the bark, making sure they’re in deep enough to put my weight on, I lean in, and flick the lanyard up the tree, just the way I practiced with Abi. And then take a few steps up the trunk, leaning against the harness at my waist. The couplings are noisy and the sound of the metal spikes pushing into the tree bark seems to echo through the forest. So once I’m sure I can handle it, I move faster and keep a sharp eye out for movement among the trees.
Even with my newfound hyperawareness, I don’t see the black snake slinking down the trunk until it’s nearly on top of me. My first instinct is to jump away and—I’ll never openly admit to this, but—scream like a banshee because I hate snakes.
But I can’t do that. I’m too high up. I’ll break my neck or my leg and then I’m easy prey for whoever stumbles across me first. With my luck, it’d probably be the panther.
If the Threestone weren’t buried in my backpack, I’d use them to repel the snake, but there’s no way to get to them without compromising my stability.
All of this runs through my mind in seconds, and then the snake is eye level with me.
Biting down on my lip, I move as fast as I can, reaching from the outside to grab the serpent by the head. The moment I have him, I realize he’s not as small as he looks. Sure he’s thin, but he’s really long. As I peel him away from the tree, the underside of his belly is orange.
The snake doesn’t seem to mind my handling him, but I mind, even if I am wearing gloves.
His long body peels away from the trunk overhead, but his tail is wrapped around a branch three feet overhead. Now, what? I can’t throw it down, anchored like it is.
But maybe I can move it away.
A branch from a nearby tree is not quite close enough. I can’t flick the lanyard to adjust it with just one hand. So, I take another step up the trunk, lean out against the harness, and reach for the branch of the other tree. It’s only an inch away, so I calmly rest the snakes head on a leaf leading up to the branch and wait, slightly loosening my grip.
The snake begins to slither up the leaf. And as much as I don’t want to hold the thing, I don’t want to let go and give him the chance to turn around and bite me.
But I have to. I’m not up to where I need yet. And even though I’m camouflaged, I’m still human-shaped and exposed much more than I’m comfortable with.
So I let go.
Of the snake, that is.
And he goes on his way, unwinding his tail from the tree we shared and disappearing in the canopy.
I should have kept the stones out like I did last time.
Continuing my anxious climb up the tree, my mind is going crazy.
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nbsp; Scrambled thoughts come and go. Images of a dream I had of my father flashes into my mind for no reason. And then as I stomp the spikes on the insides of my boots into the tree bark my thoughts drift to bigger problems, which ultimately lead to the bigger question.
Am I doing the right thing?
Dad told me once that I do the right thing for the wrong reasons. Is it possible to do the wrong thing for the right reasons? Or is it true what they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?
I’ve never been one to associate marginal behavior with divinity, but the reality of such innate human extremes—how we can give so much love and yet hate so passionately in the end; be so good and yet still evil at the same time—it begs the question: where do we start?
Are people born bad or do they become that way? Is the black of a person’s heart inherent or a learned behavior?
It seems silly to equate the term ‘evil’ with someone too young to know right from left, but we’ve all heard both ‘youth’ and ‘violence’ used in news stories—jury trials for fifth grade kids who killed someone for sport.
When does this darkness take hold, and does the kid notice as it happens or does he wake up one day wondering where the good went?
One thing I know for certain is that Daemon is pure evil. A black seed that grows the type of weed that must be cut out before it has a chance to take root.
And that’s where my thinking is interrupted, because I’ve finally maneuvered my way up high enough to find the line of the river, and even better—I can see the waterfall. It’s close enough that I don’t need my binoculars to find the plumes of water misting at the edge.
With the quick of an anxious rabbit and the stealth of a bull in a china shop, I make my way back down to the forest floor.
It’s imperative that I hit my target before night falls, and even though I know it’s not likely that will happen, I make a point to hustle in putting my gear away and setting out in the right direction because it takes longer to get through the forest when you’re trying not to leave a trail.
By my count, I reach the raging river in little less than two hours and park me ass behind a thicket to watch before I step out into the open.
After carefully listening for what feels like forever, I decide the rushing water is too noisy to catch the snap of a twig underfoot and so my best bet for not being spotted by dangerous natives is to work as quickly as possible.
Crawling to the edge of the river, I make my way to the very edge of the falls and climb up onto a boulder that seems to be sitting on top of the world. I don’t’ need the rocks additional height as much as the open position to find what I’m looking for.
With binoculars in hand, I keep myself plastered to the top of the rock that rests on the cliff’s edge and look out over the breathtaking valley that the opens up below. Everywhere, greenest green. Emerald forest and hills. In the area where I remember seeing the ziggurat with the dancing chieftain in the huge headdress, I am able to make out the sharp edges of what might be a stone formation.
It was from the height of these falls that first I spotted the telltale rings of dead flora that led me to the area where I met the boy that took me to the Threestone. I remember it was on the left side of the river, and so that’s where I look next.
But where the greenest green hills opened to grassy knolls and a stone jutting as from the edge of a mountain, I find nothing but black. The place where I spotted the yellow and brown rings in the earth has been colored black.
The shock of this makes me stop and look around the immediate area to make sure I’m still alone. Seeing nothing and no one, I adjust the power of the binoculars to get a better look.
Sure enough, the entire area—where I walked through the forest and followed the boy that took me to an open wheat field and a cave that led to the altar where there rested another set of stones—all of it is gone. Nothing is left but charred black tree trunks.
Adjusting the zoom on the binoculars one more time to get a better look makes my breath catch because what I thought was a small grouping of burned out trees is not that at all. Its bodies; four, charred to black human shapes clustered together. Black gaping mouths rest open, screaming the agony of their fate long after they’ve gone. The forms rest against posts that I assume they were once tied to, though there’s no sign of rope, just like there’s no sign of life.
That’s enough, I tell myself and put the binoculars down to rub the horror from my eyes.
Four bodies. But who were they? Could it be Nahuiollin and his family? I begin counting the people I saw on my last visit and comparing it with the story that Doyen relayed.
There were the two dead men in the field, but why would someone burn dead bodies in a standing position? If they’re already dead, a pile would make more sense.
The dancing Chieftain was the first person I saw alive. Then the boy, Nahuiollin. Then, his mother with the baby. That’s four already. According to Doyen, his family had their throats cut. Even his younger brother.
But none of the bodies down there looked that small... unless it was so small that I missed it.
Shaking my head, I climb down from the rock. I’m not looking again.
Hell no. I’ve seen enough.
At the foot of the high boulder, I turn to head back into the trees. My mind is on my next move. I have to find another high tree and build a blind where I can sit and wait. So I don’t see the startled face of the small boy standing in front of me until I almost smack into him.
It’s odd, but the first thing that occurs to me isn’t to hurt him, even though that’s what I’m here to do. It’s how small he is. How helpless he seems, out here all alone.
I don’t know how many days it’s been since he last saw me but I know without a doubt that he’s been trudging through the burned field, probably mourning his family. I think that he must have touched them, too, as his bare feet, his hands and face are caked with evidence.
I wonder what I must look like to him covered in dull hues that would’ve blended me seamlessly into the trees back home, but here, where the colors are so vibrant, they probably seem ridiculous.
His face is ashen, his eyes wide. But his nostrils are flaring and I can’t tell if it’s fear or anger he feels when he looks at me.
What does he see? A threat? A friendly face or bad omen?
All my questions are answered when the small, pale, native boy I believe is another version of Daemon rushes at me with his arms out wide. His teeth bared, eyes a flame of rage.
“Hey-hey!” I set a hand to his chest to keep him away and back-up.
He doesn’t stop but claws my hand away. That guttural language he spoke once before to me sounds even harsher as he screams unintelligibly, coming at me faster.
My backpack smacks against the boulder. My boots sink into the mud. I try to turn away from the boy, but on my left is nothing but air, and to my right is the edge of the raging riverbank.
He’s gone ape shit. Thrashing at me, screaming, scratching my face, pulling my hair, tearing at my arms—ripping my shirtsleeves—when he can’t get to my face.
I’m holding him at arms-length, trying to get it through his skull that I mean him no harm. But he can’t understand me any better than I understand him.
Finally, I shout. “Hey!”
The boy freezes for a second and I take him by both the arms, lift him off the ground just enough to toss him up the bank to give myself room to move before I fall into the river.
Taking three long strides up the bank, I catch the kid by the arm as he’s trying to get up and shove him back down again.
“Stop fighting,” I command. “You can’t win.” I step alongside his boney frame as he claws at the dirt, wailing like a banshee. “I’m bigger and stronger. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The boy, Nahuiollin, suddenly pops to his feet and gives me the freakiest black stare. Seriously, I’ve seen less threatening glares on serial killers.
So I tack on, “But I will if I have to.”
As I say the last part, he swings. I actually take the time to grumble before I duck so the boys’ hand clips my jaw. Almost instantly, by the feel of the blow, I know he didn’t just punch or scratch me.
Sure enough, when I pull my hand away, it’s covered in red and that damned kid is holding a strange looking dagger.
“You little shit,” I maneuver away from the weapon he’s got perched and ready to strike again.
The blade is not quite as thin as an icepick and curves at the tip. The handle is off-white like it’s made of bone or antler. It’s been carved to resemble a coiled snake. And, damn, is it sharp.
“Put it down,” I order, motioning with one hand and holding my jaw with the other.
Nahuiollin mutters something that I have to guess is his refusal because it sounds full of malice and he keeps the knife in his white-knuckled grip.
He mirrors my steps. When I go left, so does he, when I go back, he moves in. When I step closer to him, he thrashes at me. I jump wide and grab the hand holding the knife just as my other forearm begins to pulse.
“Are you trying to make me kill you?” I ask, ignoring the cold pain and deep red patch growing on my sleeve. Instinctively, I wiggle my fingers to check they’re still working. Which, they are but it fucking hurts.
When the boy spits at me, I set my foot just behind his and shove him to the ground. As he topples over, I twist the knife from his hand.
He looks up from the ground, his eyes wide again like when he first spotted me. And now I know the fear on his face was not fear of me, it was fear of not having his weapon ready.
“You’re not getting it back.”
Just as I’m pocketing his blade, he bum rushes me. The little shit’s head jams into my stomach, his arms wrap around my hips and I’ve got no resistance—no choice but to topple like Saddam’s statue. I wasn’t ready for the sudden charge and go down onto my backpack. Thankfully, I keep my feet on the ground and bend at the knee to help keep some control over which direction my weight falls. So when Nahuiollin jumps onto my chest and tries to stick his thumbs into my eyes, I shove my ass onto the ground and he falls backward.
What I hadn’t counted on was the knife falling from my shirt pocket onto the boy’s chest. He grabs the handle.
At the same moment, I feel the deep sting plunging into my side.
I twist his wrist and roll away, keeping the knife with me, protecting the wound.
Can I breathe? I take a cursory breath and can tell my lungs are still working, but shit! The pain... it’s bad. That’s the third time.
Rather than getting up, I let loose a wail and go still, keeping my hand around the knife’s handle.
Instead of the kid coming around to my front to check if I’m dead like I hope, I feel the little shit kick my leg. Then he’s meddling around with my backpack. Is he trying to rifle through my things?
Slowly, and oh so painfully, I slip the knife from the flesh of my side, just above my hip. Both hands are slick with blood and I can only hope to hold onto the thing as I quickly maneuver, sliding out from under the boy who is far more deadly than I thought he would be.
As I charge at the little tyrant in the making, I hear my father’s voice, reminding me that assuming is the quickest way to make an ass of myself.
I’ve caught the boy by surprise, I can tell. He drops the length of rope he took from my pack, looking genuinely afraid when he backs away and falls on his ass. I land on top of him, pinning his arms down with my knees and cursing.
“Is this what you want?” I set the blade to his throat.
He doesn’t respond the way I expect.
I expect more of a fight, not for him to raise his chin and expose more tender flesh. Defiant, daring me to slice and dice.
Examining the tight set of his jaw and the blank look in his eyes, any doubts I had about killing him dissolve. “There isn’t any hope for you.”
“You want to die.” I say, staring into those black eyes that are such a contrast against his pale white skin.
He doesn’t kick. He doesn’t struggle, or even flinch as I say, “You asked for this.” And push the blade into the skin of his throat, straight across his windpipe.
The End... of Book Two
Other Books by A.R. Rivera
The Threestone Trilogy: This trilogy that revolves around G Springer and the strange, powerful stones that are the legacy his father left him. Themes deal with the inherent responsibility of possessing power and the lengths one might go to in protecting that power.
INERTIA, Book 1
FORCE, Book 2
REACTION, Book 3 (2017)
Savor The Days Novels: A series that explores the dynamic of each character within one blended family. Themes deal with grief, friendship, values, and why we should keep fighting even if we think we can’t win. Each novel is categorized as women’s fiction with elements of suspense, romance, and tragedy.
Between Octobers, Book 1
September Rain, Book 2
November Mourning, Book 3 (May 2017)
January Falls, Book 4 (January 2018)
Visit authorarrivera.com for more.
