by Matt Drabble
THE GATED TRILOGY
GATED
Matt Drabble
Copyright © 2014 Matt Drabble
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN a brief town history part one
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN a brief town history part two
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE a brief town history part three
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
EPILOGUE
GATED II: Ravenhill Academy
GATED III: election day
CHAPTER ONE
They ran in the dark, the tree branches whipping viciously at their faces - Mother Nature apparently choosing sides.
They stumbled and slipped in the mud as the moonlight barely permeated the hanging foliage cover, making their escape all the more difficult and unlikely.
They grasped hands in desperation, their palms sweaty with exertion and cold with terror. The man dragged the woman painfully, in fear, as she lagged dangerously; her breath hitched and struggled as she panted. Panic rose and scaled the fences, rendering her conscious mind useless; all thoughts now were primal and frantic.
The woodland was heavy and unforgiving away from the established paths. The trees were thick and lush, stretching as far as the eye could see, dominating the horizon.
The man cared little for what lay in front of them, only for what they were running from. The ground became uneven as they thrashed and crashed through the greenery.
The slope became more pronounced as they staggered downwards. The man’s feet fought for purchase, and he let go of her hand as he cart-wheeled spinning arms in the air for balance.
Suddenly she slipped behind him, her stability lost. He felt her slender weight as it landed, driving both of them forward.
He grabbed frantically for a branch to catch them; his hands slapped against barked wood but missed, and gravity had her way. Suddenly they were airborne as the ground gave way.
The slope was steep and unforgiving and they fell and rolled as one. Arms were interlocked as they crashed through the trees and shrubs, the wet mud lubricating their mad descent. The man winced more at the noise they were creating than the pain they were causing. The fall seemed eternal; their heads spun as they crashed ever downwards, spinning out of control.
Abruptly, the wild ride ended. The man crawled around in the darkness looking for her. His hands scrambled hysterically, looking for her softness amidst the sweet smelling pine.
His face was black with mud and filth, his clothes were ripped and torn and a cursory check to his face found sticky wetness from several head wounds.
He hoped and prayed that head wounds, although notoriously bloody, were not always serious. He pulled himself along the muddy ground looking for his wife. The silence was deafening, and there were no soft moans or struggling pants.
He dragged himself around the meagre search area; his left leg hung loose and useless behind him as he crawled. The broken bone shards rubbed agonizingly together and he gritted his teeth against the pain. His hands suddenly snagged on her, several feet away from his starting point.
Her cardigan was shredded by the fall; the caressing fabric felt familiar through his fingers. The top had been a birthday present two weeks ago, and what felt like a hundred lifetimes ago. He pulled himself towards her, leaving bloody trails in the wet mud. He heaved himself up and felt for her face in the dark.
His fingers traced lovingly over the face that he had kissed a million times before. He found her throat and checked with a trembling hand for a pulse, but it was silent.
Her head rolled grotesquely loose on her neck; the break was obvious and fatal. Off in the distance he heard them coming. They were not subtle or stealthy and they charged through the woodland like a herd of rampaging elephants. Their desperation had abandoned all sense of reason; the search party was badly organised and running purely on adrenaline.
Powerful flashlights suddenly pierced the gloom above him at the top of the slope as the first pursuers reached his fall from grace. Loud shouts of excitement mingled with relief rang out to whoops and hollers as they celebrated the successful hunt.
He dragged himself to her; he gently pulled her hand over his shoulder in one last embrace and could do nothing but wait.
CHAPTER TWO
Michael Torrance fought to keep his eyes on the road; the dominating skyline was simply breathtaking and was demanding of his attention. The rental car swerved worryingly as his vision drifted again and he glanced over nervously at his sleeping wife.
Emily slept on undisturbed, and he sighed with relief. As much as he loved her, the last thing that he wanted was a screaming argument fuelled by exhaustion.
She had suggested that they spend the night at the airport motel after the long flight over from England, but he had been desperate to start their new life in the US as soon as possible. It was one of the few arguments that he had won successfully, the tiring travel seemingly robbing her temporarily of her argumentative powers.
The desert stretched out before him as they travelled west; the sloping canyons and sweeping mountains framed the horizon as far as he could see.
Michael was thirty four and his wife twenty nine. They had been married for five years with four and a half of them happy. He was English born and raised and had only ever travelled as far as Europe for holidaying purposes.
The sheer size and scale of the tiny slice of America that he had witnessed so far was startling. It was one thing to look at images online and imagine, but quite another to see it firsthand. Back in the UK there were rolling hills and green plains, but you would never see a horizon that was completely uninhabited.
As he drove, the space just seemed endless as the deserted highway stretched for an eternity and beyond. He had not seen a single car for over two hours now and he luxuriated in the quiet.
Michael was a solitary man by nature and by profession; he was a moderately successful writer of horror fiction. He wasn’t about to give Stephen King’s agent sleepless nights, but he made a living in the vocation; one that he would have happily maintained as a hobby, even if nobody wished to read his work.
He was a quiet man of means and tastes, and often mistaken as a little aloof and distant, but his wife carried the sociable torch in the family.
Emily was a teacher and shaper of young minds; she was light and airy where he could be dark and sullen. Emily was outgoing and gregarious; a free spirit, always eager to talk and meet strangers. Their union had baffled many of their independent friends, but they both felt that they filled a missing piece in the other.
Emily taught the equivalent of second grade, relishing the enthusiastic and open minds of children as yet unsullied by the world around.
They had met at a party some seven years ago. Michael had been dragged there by his literary agent who was determined to haul him away from a dark home office and a flickering computer screen. Michael had gone - not quite kicking and screaming, but it had been close.
The party was loud and boisterous and Michael had quickly faded into the background. At one point in the evening he had been having a discussion that had rap
idly turned into an argument and was threatening to escalate into a brawl. A drunken guest had started in on the disproportionate sentences being handed down to the participants of the previous year’s rioting in the capital.
Michael was far from considering himself some right-wing extremist, but the terrifying loss of order and control had necessitated an extreme response. The drunk had been shouting loudly about the civil rights of the arrested when Michael had lost it.
“What about victims’ rights?” he had raged. “Where are the civil liberties groups when it comes to victims? Where are the campaigns for helping them?”
“I suppose that you are part of the hang ‘em and flog ‘em brigade, are you?” the drunk had sneered, his expensive Chardonnay spilling. “You have no idea just what those rioters go through on a daily basis. The sheer desperation of their lives. They were looting just to survive.”
“Survive?” Michael had exclaimed incredulously. “I could believe that, and come to understand it, if they were carrying out diapers and baby food, but they were taking gaming consoles, televisions, and trainers, you dozy prick.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand,” the drunk had replied condescendingly.
“Well, the likes of me are going to give you a slap,” Michael had replied, taking a menacing step towards the drunkard.
Suddenly a hand at his elbow stopped him mid-step; the drunk’s date had appeared and looked up at him with gentle eyes. He was abruptly embarrassed by his behaviour. He looked around and saw that he was the outsider here; the judgmental eyes were all condemning him.
He had been seconds away from decking the annoying drunk and fulfilling his brutish stereotype in front of the middle-class audience. He was born of a working-class background but he was abundantly capable of handling an argument without resorting to violence.
“Don’t I know you?” the woman asked him distractedly, ignoring her peers.
“I don’t think so,” he responded, suddenly desperate to leave the party and these people. He’d turned to leave the disapproving stares when he really saw her for the first time. She was around five feet six, slender and petite; she had thick, dark hair that hung in loose waves and the darkest eyes that he had ever seen. He fell deep into those beautiful black pits and was lost forever; they had left the party together and had never looked back.
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The hot sun beat down as he drove. He wore camouflage combat shorts and a light cotton shirt, but the heat was still merciless. The sky overhead was the bluest of blue, and wisps of white cloud floated slowly on the limited breeze.
The U-Haul trailer behind the rental car rattled along carrying their essentials. The road stretched ahead, holding their future and their new beginnings in fragile hands. Michael felt the sudden pressure in his bladder and pulled the car over to the hard shoulder. Rest stops appeared to be few and very far between on their journey so he figured that no one would mind if he took a leak out in the open.
Emily’s head bounced once as they stopped, but then was still again. He greatly envied her ability to sleep regardless of circumstance.
He exited the car and stretched, relishing the release as his spine cracked and neck popped. The narrow highway was still unsurprisingly deserted as he walked to the metallic crash barrier that lined the road and peered carefully over.
The canyon fell away sharply the bottom was only just visible. Gravel slipped over the edge as he moved too close and it echoed downwards on descent. He relieved himself over the edge and turned his face upwards to the warming sun with his eyes closed and a smile on his face. A new beginning, he thought.
Their courtship had been smooth and pleasant. Within weeks they’d already felt comfortable and content. There were no great movie style theatrics and histrionics, no professions of love in the rain, no last gasp dashes to the airport. They were in love from the start, and the bond only grew stronger over time. They had dated for only around four months before she moved into his apartment. They soon found that marriage was a logical and inevitable next step.
Michael discovered that the marriage had come quickly and relatively painlessly. Unlike a lot of women, he discovered that - like him - Emily was more interested in being married than getting married. Four years into the marriage, Emily had discovered that she was pregnant; both had accepted the news with happiness and no real surprise.
They had never sat down and planned their life together, but both simply knew that these were all things that were meant to be. Michael’s career grew steadily; his readers were loyal and decent in number, Emily loved her work and all was as it should be. Perhaps if they’d suffered during their time together, then maybe they would have coped better with the first and only black cloud that fell.
Emily was six months pregnant and waddling pretty well; the night outside was black and the weather was foul. The English winter was in full swing with an icy chokehold, and the sleeting rain fell heavily, making the roads treacherous.
Michael was working away furiously, desperate to make his latest deadline when she had come to him requesting that he took a supply run. She had come into his office several times over the space of a couple of hours, each time receiving only a cursory glance, and a distracted promise that he would “go in a minute”. Eventually, and with only minimal frustration, she had snatched up her coat and headed out into the cold, wet night.
Michael was only brought back into the real world when the pounding on his door grew to unavoidable levels; he’d opened the apartment door to a stony-faced policeman.
CHAPTER THREE
Emily returned slowly to the world; her sleep drained away back into the darkness and she left the black thoughts behind, where they belonged. She shielded her eyes from the clear sky and blinding sun.
The day was hot and the warmth filtered through the windscreen. She checked her watch which read 3.30pm, but her internal clock told her that it was still mid-morning. She marvelled at the time travel element of international flights.
She suddenly realised that the car was not only still, but also empty. She looked around with panic. She had seen enough “innocent travellers fall foul of desert cannibals” movies to be worried when waking sleepily in an empty car.
She spun around in her seat, fast enough to crick her neck; her heart skipped a beat until she saw Michael standing over the crash barrier. Her pretty nose crinkled with disgust when she realised that he was happily peeing over the side.
She looked away and noticed their surroundings for the first time. She got out of the car, and her breath literally felt taken from her. The sheer scope and natural raw beauty stretched as far as she could see, and she felt dwarfed by the mountains and endless road.
She was immediately reminded of the opening scene to Kubrick’s The Shining movie. She was not a fan of horror in general, but had relented to Michael’s assertion that she read the novel.
She had been impressed by the abilities of the author and ashamed by her instant dismissal of the novel based solely on the genre. She’d enjoyed the book more so than the film; the idea of a haunted man rather than a haunted hotel was a fascinating deconstruction of the human mind and spirit.
She glanced back over at her husband, her man, as he urinated oblivious to the world; a small smile crept across her face as he raised his arms out in a Titanic pose. For a moment, he did look like the king of the world.
“Put that thing away, unless you’re going to use it properly,” she shouted laughing.
He turned to her with an adorable shy grin. She loved him then. It was complete and absolute, a simple fact of life that he was just going to have to try and accept again. She knew that he carried a crippling heavy burden, one that he refused to unload from his shoulders, no matter what she said.
There had been times at the beginning when she had held resentment and anger deep in her chest, but the blackness had never been directed at him. She realised now that he had taken her fury to be aimed at him, and she had been in
no state to tell him otherwise at the time.
She had grown infuriated with him on that cold, wet night just under a year ago now. He was lost in his work and dead to the world. She had rung his doorbell and pounded on his metaphorical door, only to have him fail to look up from his book.
There were times when he was writing that she felt jealous of the work. The worlds in which he created became his sole purpose, and there were simply no outsiders permitted inside the castle walls.
He guarded his writing passionately and aggressively; he never shared his ideas or thoughts, and never sought out hers. She had learnt at a very early stage in their relationship not to trespass into this area of his life.
The gates were up and they were electrified. She was heavy with their child and uncomfortable with their joined bulk. She knew that Michael was always worrying about her going out at night, and always insisted on going himself. On the night in question, however, he had been lost in his world of monsters, traversing his hero’s path and ignoring her requests for a supply run.
In truth, she had desperately wanted to take a relieving stroll out in the cold night air, regardless of the weather. Her back ached from sitting down so much under Michael’s loving but smothering care.
Eventually, she had wrapped herself up warm and dry and left the apartment convinced that he had not even witnessed her leaving. The local shops were only a ten minute walk and the fresh air had felt blissful against her pale skin.
The throng of homeward bound travellers on the roads drove noisily and eagerly, their impatience exacerbated by the slow moving traffic. The night was black and the clouds gleefully emptied an icy and slushy mixture of rain and snow, making the roads and pavements treacherous under foot and tire.
She never saw the car skid and mount the pavement behind her; she was only dimly aware of screaming people and brakes, and then her world turned black.
She watched him now as he came to her. His six foot frame was leaning toward the soft side; a combination of a sedentary occupation and a lack of life weighed on him.
