Dawning (The Risen Series Book 1)

by Marie F. Crow

  “That’s real sweet of you, but you ain’t really my type.” J.D. smiles. His hand cups Shelia’s inner thigh. It has its desired effect. Simon rushes forward, even as Richard grabs him, tackling him to the ground. Richard is speaking in his ear, trying to reassure him, to calm him, but the words are not reaching him.

  J.D. knows how to play this game well. He knows which pressure points will spring forth reactions. Everyone is a book to J.D., and he read Simon’s chapters a long time ago.

  “What do you want?” Richard shouts across the courtyard. “You want to talk? Talk!”

  J.D. pauses, his mind reassessing this new target. Shelia’s abuse will not bring the same anger from this new man before him now. To keep the pressure going, he has to find a new method of torment. He must find a new weakness to exploit.

  “You know, I find it real funny no one has begged for Ross yet. Do you find that funny too, Hun?” he asks Shelia. He is testing these new waters rocking underneath him. Ever seen a man die? It’s a messy business. At this short range here, his head will explode. It will spray Smiley’s bits all over this area. That kind of stain, it will last and last. Always here to remind you and yours how you let us kill him.”

  He turns Shelia so she is fully facing Lawless and Ross.

  “Now keep your eyes open. You don’t want to miss this.” J.D. whispers to her. It works.

  “No!” She screams and Lawless eases his finger from the trig- ger. “Don’t do this. It wasn’t his fault. They told him to. Don’t do this!”

  She is begging Lawless, not J.D., but Law’s eyes hold no mercy for either of them as he stares at her. She whimpers with his coldness.

  “You want to see what they told him to do? Keep your eyes open. Let me show you what they told him to do.” J.D. looks to Chapel, tilting his head towards us in the truck.

  The Jedi mind trick works and Chapel understands exactly what he wants. Perhaps if I had a nice, shiny leather vest, I too could figure out what is going on around me. If Santa is still alive, it is totally going on my list this year.

  Chapel helps me from the tall truck. My legs are jelly underneath me, and I have to brace against its bed for support. Next, he reaches for Marxx, who is pale and panting from the wound on his arm. He too is bracing against the truck, but for worse reasons than mine. Aimes slides out on her own, standing to the other side of Marxx. I am not sure what this display is supposed to accomplish until I look at the three of us. Evil genius, our J.D.

  Aimes is covered in Marxx’ blood. Her shirt is as covered from keeping pressure on his wound, making it hard to tell if she is wounded as well. Marxx is worse. His normal rich ivory skin tone is now a pale ashen grey. The wound has left a trail of blood from his arm, to his chest and down one side of his leg from the amount of time it took to treat it and now its new seepage. The pad has been pushed to its limits. It’s painting a bright shade of red upon him where it sits and from what is spilling around it.

  Aimes is not the only one bathed in Marxx’ wound. The act of the bite, and his refusal to let go has me just as covered where he held onto me. Together, we must paint a pretty picture of our morning. No amount of coffee will make this less depressing.

  Shelia stares at us, her knees growing weak from what she sees. “I told them not to do it. I told them it wasn’t right,” she says, and her knees finally give out from under her.

  J.D. lets her go. She is in a new prison now. Her prison no longer needs his arms to keep her secure because she is trapped with the sight of us. Trapped in the conclusions her mind is forming over what she is seeing.

  “Do you know what they did? What they wanted to happen? They wanted them dead. Your boys wanted us dead. Led us right into a room of trapped Risen while they sat here waiting to see what happens from behind the comfort of these high, safe walls. How many of us were meant to make it back?” J.D. whispers his tormenting words to her.

  Every word he says hits its intended destination. She is a protector. She has spent these past many months keeping everyone safe under this roof. Now the very men with whom she has formed a family attempted to jeopardize it all.

  “They said they wanted to see if you would get the list. If you would do what we needed versus what you wanted to do. That’s what they told me. I thought it was wrong to trick you, to test you at all. It wasn’t supposed to be this.” Her words are a soft whispering of regrets.

  J.D. has applied the correct pressure again. Richard may not care as much as Simon about her screams, but the look Shelia is now sending him makes a ruin of his face. The anger and the hate she sends their way makes even Dolph look away from her with shame.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” Simon tries to reason with her from across the space between them. “The girls were sup- posed to stay here. They were never supposed to go.”

  “So, you just planned to murder the men?” she screams back. “Murder is murder. You sent Ross to do your dirty work because you were too afraid of them. Too afraid to just trust them and try to work out your differences and your egos. Is this how we solve our problems now? If you don’t like someone, are they your next target?”

  “Shelia, come on. Look at them, they can handle a couple of those things. It was just supposed to prove a point. See if they would go through with the list versus rebelling again. We needed to know if we could trust them to stick by us when it gets rough or if they would revert back to “theirs first” mentality,” Richard pleads for her to understand. His eyes though keep floating behind her to Aimes who seems smaller than normal with her blood-soaked clothes and despair-filled face.

  In one moment of glory, J.D. has reversed the roles. Now their girl sits on our side where before his girls sat on theirs. He must keep the pressure going to keep this play in action. To let up for one second may cost him his finale.

  “He is right,” J.D. says. “We could have handled it, but he knows what Hells is like. It was her that saved your boys after all and look how they repay her. They try to kill her. If Helena had not risked her life at that Center, your boy may not have come home to you. How much more trust does a man need?”

  J.D.’s words sink into her, lapping her conscience. You can see it on her face. I would clap with his performance, but my hands are busy holding me up.

  “Now, we have us some wounded here, Shelia. My people need your help. Marxx might die over there while your boys are keeping us out here. You going to let that happen?” J.D. asks her.

  He does not ask for her help for himself. That would be too easy to refuse. To refuse a wounded group, that is not in her nature.

  “I’ll tell you what, I’ll make my boy there release Smiley. A show of good faith,” J.D. says, shrugging. “I can still control this. I can make it all go away, but you, now you got to get us back in there so I can get them help. You okay with that?” he asks her.

  J.D. is removing her fear of him by showing her how desperate he is to help his people. He is making her their savior and their mediator with one request. A role her heart loves to play and cannot pass up.

  “Paula will be in the kitchen. We don’t even need to go past them or have their permission.” She smiles with triumph as she pulls a key and its pretty blue ribbon from around her neck. “I can get you in,” she says.

  Seriously, all together now, standing ovation for the man.

  J.D. looks to Lawless with his silent command. The first kink in his plan is happening. He didn’t count on Lawless’ rage or his disobedience.

  Lawless stares at Ross with eyes filling with anger over being forced to let him go. There is no more mocking or taunting from him. I watch his hand holding the gun still embedded in Ross’ mouth tremble. The tremble spreads through his body and I hear his sharp inhale. Lawless is no longer daring. He is about to take the dare.

  In two steps, J.D. reaches him. He is whispering in Law’s ear words, which do not reach anyone else. J.D. will not take the gun from him. If he wants this, J.D. will allow him to take it. J.D. plans to make sure
it’s what he really wants though before ruining his well-played performance.

  Father figure and adopted son stand locked in a whispered debate. Ross’ eyes swing from one to the other with the exchange going on above him. His face gives us a better understanding with its many expressions as to the state of the debate.

  Rhett stands there watching as well. His face is missing the smile it has worn for most of the morning with the turn of events the day has taken for us. I know with the look in Rhett’s eyes Ross may be safe today, but tomorrow is another story. Once again, the small word change will be the death of Ross.

  I missed Lawless releasing Ross from his hold while I was watching Rhett. Lawless is squatting, covering his head with his hands as he tries to collect himself. His gun is still grasped in his hand as if he is still rethinking his decision. A part of me wants to go to him and tell him everything will be all right. Another part of me wants to take the gun from him myself and shoot them both and still another part of me is just waiting on the nap I was promised. Not sure yet which side will win.

  “No hard feelings, right?” J.D. says to Ross, pushing him to- wards the men across from us with whom Ross conspired to set this plan in motion.

  Rhett watches Ross walk by with his one timid step at a time. Every muscle shows how much Ross wants to run, but pride will not let him. Rhett is not the only one who is watching him.

  Lawless watches the man’s back with such anger I am not sure how Ross does not twitch with it. Lawless’ anger strips Rhett of his calm exterior until they both are sharing the same rage over having to let Ross go, watching him retreat to the other side of the courtyard.

  I have never pretended to know what the men did behind closed doors or what they do when not around me. Not to say I hold any illusions to the type of men they can be; I just prefer to not admit it. Now as I watch Rhett and Lawless, I know how well sheltered Lawless has kept me from this part of him. The same hands he has used many nights to heal my soul, inflame my desires and fill the air with music have done so much more. From Rhett I have always expected such things, but not Lawless with his gentle eyes and charming smile.

  I had hoped I had my fill of truth for one day from Lawless. Now as I watch him and Rhett, another truth he gifts me and each one is becoming more of a curse. The most obvious truth is how much danger Ross is still in as both men look to him again. His days are numbered, and the timer started long ago.

  Chapter 36

  It seems Paula is not only the master of end of the world dishes, but also of last-ditch efforts of medical survival. When your friends and family start to eat you, there are not a whole lot of emergency rooms left open. She and Shelia have brought us to what once served as the sports medicine area for the gym. Now it serves as a makeshift triage to help those who call this school home. Its many doctor-office style benches are still covered in the thin noisy paper waiting for use. We are not going to disappoint it. “How bad is it?” Shelia is hovering over Marxx like a mother with a wounded child. She even holds his other hand, either in the attempt to give him comfort or to find it for herself. Marxx has gone past caring to refuse her smothering as Paula cleans and tends to his wound.

  “It’s pretty deep. A lot of muscle damage,” Paula tells her. Her voice has lost that playfulness.

  I guess stitching up a human’s bite on another human’s arm kills the mood for “girl time”.

  “Is he going to turn?” Aimes’ voice is small and nervous from risking her question.

  I had forgotten about her with my own issues. She is being cradled in Rhett’s thick arms and their size difference resembles more of a father and daughter than two adults. I am annoyed with how they treat her. I am mostly annoyed that no one is holding me, but I am not going to admit it.

  “Turn to what?” Paula is half listening to us around her as she concentrates on repairing the damage to Marxx’ arm.

  “He’s been bit,” Aimes continues her whimpering.

  Hurrah for Captain Obvious with her pink streaks of perception. “I can see that,” Paula answers with the same tone I am holding mentally for their conversation.

  “So, is he going to turn into one of them?” Aimes’ question sets the room at unease. Even Marxx now opens one of his eyes to gauge Paula’s response.

  “If a raccoon bites you, do you turn into a raccoon? You’ve watched too much television girl,” Paula clips her response with frustration.

  Have I mentioned how much I like Paula? No? I like Paula. “It doesn’t work that way?” Marxx’ nerves make his voice weaker than its normal deep gravel.

  Paula gives him a reassuring smile, stopping her stitching long enough to look at him, saying, “No, it doesn’t work that way.”

  “How do you know?” J.D. asks.

  J.D. has been silent this whole time in his normal “watch and see” fashion and to give Shelia room to recover from their encounter. His concern for Marxx keeps him from being too close, unwilling to risk showing his emotions for the man.

  “I just do.” Paula is back to being annoyed now. Apparently, only Marxx gets a free pass to talk to her.

  “That’s not good enough,” Rhett replies.

  He is watching every inch of the thread pulled through Marxx’ wound. Each stitch is serving as another memory for him in his own locked chamber. It’s a chamber different than mine and it unsettles me with his fascination. As much as I feel I know the man, it’s moments like these when I see a different light in those eyes, reminding me how very little I do actually know.

  “Didn’t think it was going to be,” she answers.

  Her deep sigh tells us there is a story to be told. Our stilled breathing lets her know we are waiting.

  “I used to be a nurse at a drug clinic,” she starts, still focusing on Marxx’ arm to give her courage to speak. “I had a little girl of my own. I wanted to help change the world for the better for her. So, I went into the research of vaccines. I thought I was helping to stop the spread of illnesses. So noble,” her voice is bitter.

  She is focusing on Marxx’ arm like it’s a raft in a storm. He winces with the needle now more than before. Something about the words she has said tries to spark a fuse of a memory. It sputters, but goes out before the flame can catch. At least for me, Chapel though seems to be remembering something with how he stares at her.

  “Years of research went into this new vaccine. It was supposed to be the wonder and cure all of the many different strands of the flu, but also many other winter aliments in one dose. Think of it, the common cold, strep throat and pneumonia being nothing more than another mention in history books. It was supposed to be amazing, groundbreaking even. It was. It has broken all sorts of new ground,” she says with a pause. “It was fully tested on all levels. Some levels I was not even cleared for but made to document the passage. No one had any clue to what was about to happen. We were offered the option of having one dose for our own private use. I wanted my little girl to have it. I wanted her to be healthy just like every mother does. To avoid the many illness- es winter seems to bring with it. How could we have known?” she asks us, but I think she is still mostly talking to herself and Marxx’ arm.

  Her voice has fallen in its pitch with each word as a new emotion comes forth from her. It almost sounds like shame, but I can’t imagine why. All eyes are on her now with her weakness so exposed. We all stare at her with confusion over where her story is taking us. All of us, that is, but Chapel.

  He is not confused. He is torn between anger and grief. That spark keeps sputtering for me, but it has caught fire for Chapel.

  “It was the children first. All of them: one by one. We thought maybe it was because they received most of the vaccines, but we will never know. There was not enough time for testing. The results varied depending on how it was administered. The shot had the fastest onset, doing the most damage to them. The inhalant still had the same effect, just a few days slower and a longer time of degradation of their minds once the fever took hold. Once again, not en
ough time for the research.” Paula’s voice is neutral now. She might as well have been giving a lesson of studies with the lack of feeling she has for what she is telling us.

  “Not feeling well, fever and then death. Then they become what they are now?” Chapel asks. He has put the pieces together and he is calling her out with them.

  “Not exactly, but yes those are the basics of it,” Paula replies.

  She does not flinch from his anger. She has faced her own anger over this and survived it. Chapel’s does not frighten her.

  “The shots put the children into a feeling of unease within minutes. Their bodies are telling them something is not right, but their inexperience makes them think they are just ill. Nothing really stands out as being wrong, so it is ignored. Within hours, the vaccine takes hold of the host. The antibodies react, causing a high-grade fever as the body attempts to fight them off. This somehow feeds the vaccine, allowing what we thought of as the weakened virus to mutate. This new mutation attacks the brain. It shuts down all normal life supporting activity allowing the host to appear dead. They aren’t. They never really die. The vaccine literally becomes alive. It becomes the host,” Paula tries to explain.

  Her words leave more questions than answers. They cause more panic than comfort, but she is not finished yet.

  Paula pulls the stitches slower now as she further explains, “They no longer need their organs to sustain them the way we do. They can go months without food or water. Their bodies in essence die, but the vaccine turns the brain into a self-sufficient machine, only functioning at the level it needs to for its survival. They still have their basic logic and function. They can still hold on to some piece of their personalities. Some can even have memories and can recognize people from their past. There is no cookie cutter mutation. It seems to all depend on who they were in life as to what they will become. Leaders are still leaders. Followers are still followers.”