The skin of the machine reflected the black sands in front of him, mirrored the skies and the ocean waves that swelled around it. It was magnificent. But when he saw the reflection of himself in the silvery skin, he stopped, then shuffled back a step, shocked and suspicious.
How long has it been? he wondered, reaching for the image, disbelief weighing down his hand. The man staring back at him rubbed the scruffy growth on his face and ran fingers through an unkempt tangle of brown hair. He’d grown pale, almost ash-colored, blending in with the fog. His eyes were empty, his cheeks were sunken. He was thin—too thin. He was just a gaunt memory of who he’d once been, before he’d set out on this journey.
He’d lost time; or the sense of it, anyway. Traveling with only the sight of the fog, and the sounds of the ocean, he’d lost his count of days. How long had he been traveling? How long had it been since he’d last eaten or slept? With the security of a Commune, and a family, and classroom, days were tracked; a calendar was commonplace. But on his own, there was no such thing. At once, fear and relief became overwhelming, and he dropped to his knees. If not for the seawater leaching through his coveralls and touching his skin, he’d think that all of this might be a dream. Or that he just might be dead.
But it wasn’t a dream: the VAC-Machine suddenly heaved, swelling outward, then groaned. The sound was deafening; it shook the sands beneath his legs. There was an eerie silence then, followed by the distant sound of a metallic tremor. A dark, perfect square cut into the machine’s belly, revealing a door.
Declan moved back, expecting another violent sound to crush his ears. From the center of the black opening, he saw the figure of a beautiful woman emerge: tall and slim, and dressed in a white gown. She wore a shimmering material with a smooth sheen that revealed iridescent waves of color as her body moved beneath the fabric. With nothing to protect her feet, she seemed to enjoy the touch of the wet sand, pausing once or twice to playfully flick grainy remains from her toes as she stepped toward him.
As the distance closed between them, Declan realized that he knew this woman. His heart leaped, and his breath stopped in his throat. He knew her eyes, and her nose, and her mouth. Her hair was free of gray though, and differed from the style in his memories, but the rest of her was the same—just younger, and fresher. He knew her voice, too.
“Hi, Declan. We’ve been waiting for you,” the woman said, as she knelt down on the beach with him. The soft push of the black sands against his legs assured him that this was, indeed, real. As she took his hand into hers, Declan looked into his mother’s eyes. A million questions danced in his head. Some perched on his tongue, ready to spill with his next breath. But instead, he bit his lower lip, and let out the air that ached in his chest. He wanted to throw his arms around her, to take in her scent, and feel her warmth, but this had to be a dream. His mother was dead.
“Who?” was all he could think to ask her. “Who’s been waiting?”
His mother turned back to the opening in the machine’s belly and motioned with her long, slender arm.
“All of us,” she answered, and then cupped the side of his face in her other hand.
His mother’s smell was intimate, and the touch of her fingers on his face was warm. But at once, Declan felt a tingling sensation on his cheek. Soon, numbness blossomed and grew from where his mother had touched him. He looked in the direction she had motioned, and found his sister standing at the opening of the machine. As he brought his arm up to offer a hesitant wave, the world around him started to grow dim. More of his body disappeared from his consciousness. He was no longer aware of his hands or his feet, and, within moments, he’d also lost his legs. The sound of the ocean became distant, and the image of his mother and sister began to go gray.
Before the darkness took all of him, like the fog had taken his world, Declan saw another figure come through the opening. It was a woman whose skin was as white as the garment she wore. Her hair was fiery red, with long tresses dressing her shoulders in errant sweeps. The sight of her stole his breath. As Declan stared at this woman, he unknowingly reached to touch Sammi’s lock of hair pinned to his chest.
Then he heard his mother’s voice.
“He’s ready now.”
THANK YOU
Thank you for reading the second book in the Caustic series, Endure. If you enjoyed reading Endure, I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy my book.
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Look for some of my other novels and series:
Caustic Series
An Affair with Murder
Superman’s Cape
An Order of Coffee and Tears
Naked Moon
Silo Saga: Lottery
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Happy Reading,
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ALSO BY BRIAN SPANGLER
Crime Thriller
An Affair with Murder—Having an affair with murder is easy. It’s what happens afterward that’s deadly.
Supernatural Suspense
Superman’s Cape—A grim tale of a boy lost in a forest that holds all of his fears.
A Contemporary Fiction
An Order of Coffee and Tears—Friendships, romance, secrets, and forgiveness come together in this cozy mystery.
Short Stories
Naked Moon—For one young traveler, a naked moon may mean the difference between life and death.
Some Sci-Fi, Dystopian Thrillers, and Anthologies
From the Caustic Series—An Apocalyptic and Dystopian series:
Fallen—Book One
Endure—Book Two
Deceit—Book Three
Reveal—Book Four
From Hugh Howey’s World of Wool
Silo Saga: Lottery—What happens when you have one too many mouths to feed?
For more, visit my site and subscribe to my newsletter, WrittenByBrian.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?
I’M A WALRUS!
Brian Johnson—The Breakfast Club
Who am I?
I’m a resident of Virginia. I live there with my wife and children, along with four cats—sometimes more—a mouse, a parrot, a lizard, and the funniest chinchilla on the East Coast.
Although I live in Virginia, my heart is still in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where I was raised. And I hope that, one day, I’ll be able to call Philadelphia home again.
Growing up, I liked to read short stories, bu
t struggled with the words. You see, I had a secret, a sad little secret. Ashamed and embarrassed, I was the little kid in the back row of the schoolroom quietly moving my lips along with the class while everyone read aloud. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t write. I hoped nobody would notice, but they did. They always did.
By the time I reached the fourth grade, my secret wasn’t a secret anymore. The teachers knew something was wrong. Dyslexia. Maybe that’s why I liked science fiction so much? All those crazy-looking glyphs on the screen, glowing, flashing.
The fix? Back to the third grade for me, and then special classes three days a week. But it worked. Once I started reading, I never stopped. Stephen King, Piers Anthony, Dean Koontz, and even the Judy Blume books my sisters discarded.
I’m still one of the slowest readers I know, but school was never a problem again. I finally graduated from the third grade, and then kept on going until I finished my master’s.
These days, I work as an engineer and spend my nights writing, editing, and thinking up the next great story.
Happy reading,
Brian
DECEIT
Caustic Series — Book 3
“He’s ready now.”
Declan’s mother’s voice sounded strong, automatic, and seemingly void of compassion. He wanted to cry out to her, to beg for help, but found he could say nothing. Though most of his senses were gone, he was able to hold on to some of his consciousness. But even thoughts of help were fleeting, as uncertainty and doubt eroded the idea, like the waves breaking on the shoreline. I’m on the beach, he remembered. Surely this is a mistake… this isn’t real.
He wondered if maybe he’d died during his journey from the Commune. Had he escaped the Outsiders? Had he buried himself deep enough into the sands? Had they walked over his body, passing him? Surely they must have. He remembered the days after his encounter, crawling along the shoreline, listening for their return. But he’d stayed alone; they were gone.
Declan tried to remember the last time he’d had food, or fresh water. Just how true were the reflections he had seen in the machine? Was there a machine?
I must be dead, he thought, and imagined his body far away, half-buried in the surf and black sands, with salt gnats burrowing under his skin while sand fleas invited themselves in for a tasty morsel.
If he was dead, then the visions of his family and Sammi must have been his final moments of life. It was a simple idea, really. He’d experienced the moment of his death. While the effects were intense, the visions weren’t real. They were the last of his brain’s electrical impulses, fired all at once; a torrent of random energy volleyed to his brain’s starving neurons. The images were just a random sequence of what he wanted to see, what he needed to see. He hadn’t really seen his mother; he hadn’t spoken to her. And he hadn’t seen his sister waving back at him from the machine. None of it was true. And if none of what he’d seen was true, then he couldn’t have seen Sammi, either.
With this last thought, he felt a deep sadness. Pain. But with death, could there still exist a feeling so intense? Did it matter? If Sammi was gone, then he had to be dead; he wanted to be dead.
He heard his mother’s voice again, but with the world around him disappearing, confusion played tricks on his mind. In part, he’d considered the experience a dream, as though he were stuck in that vulnerable place before waking. And when the sensation of being moved came to him, he tried to lift his hands, open his eyes. He realized then that his eyes might already be open: but blind to what was happening to him, and around him.
Whatever change started when his mother touched his face, he wanted it to be over. He begged for it to be over. The numbing sensation that bloomed from his cheek expanded over all of him, rendering him a living corpse. He was conscious, but then he wasn’t. He was aware, but only of the distant voices and scant images. He was a mere shell, and fear was evolving into the only feeling he recognized, consuming whatever sanity remained.
Time passed, but he didn’t know how much. Without his senses, he wondered if what his mother had started had finally come to him, relieving him of all living duties: death.
For a brief moment, there was a breeze touching him, and then the faint smell of the ocean. Death hadn’t come to him after all, yet more time had passed. Declan realized that he was skirting around consciousness, bouncing in and out of reality, like in a game of fast-tag where he was dodging whoever had been tagged. And, though muted, the rumble of a breaking wave followed, bearing hope and certainty to what he thought was real.
The salty ocean smell told him that he was still on the beach, and that he was breathing. It also told him that Sammi was alive. She’d come to him at last, when his mother touched his face, and spoke those words. He tried to motion his hand, reaching for where his mother touched his cheek, and then thought he’d laugh if he could, envisioning his hand locked away at his side, where it had been since his senses left him.
The sensation of being lifted came to him, the feelings of rising into the air and moving. But he didn’t feel the pressure of hands beneath him, carrying him. In fact, he didn’t feel anyone touching him at all. He was being carried into the machine; he was as sure of it as he was afraid. Distant voices spoke back and forth, but with his senses nearly orphaned, he was unable to make out what was being said.
At once, he wanted to cry. He wanted to call out to Sammi and his family, to plead with them, to beg that they bring him back from whatever strange state of abeyance they had put him into. The world went black then. No more voices; no sensations of being carried; nothing.
******
Declan never remembered sleeping so soundly, so comfortably. He opened his eyes, spurred by the tickle of Sammi’s long hair dangling above his chin and nose. While her laughing roused him, sleep kept his gaze hazy. She snickered excitedly and shook her head, brushing more of her hair over his face. Through the veil of red tresses, he found her green eyes, large and inviting. As the sleep in him faded further, he offered a contented smile.
“About time you woke up; you’ve been sleeping for a while!” Sammi exclaimed. Leaning in, with her hair falling all around his head, she planted her lips on his and kissed him. For a moment, he was lost in her, but as the twilight of sleep waned, the reality of what was happening began to settle in.
They were on a bed, but this bed wasn’t like the cots in their dwellings. The mattress was thick and foamy, and seemed to remember him as he moved. It was nothing like the wool-filled mattresses he’d helped sew and mend a hundred times; those were more give than cushion. And they were covered with a silvery blanket that reminded him of the strange coveralls he’d seen Sammi wearing on the beach. Images of his mother and sister came to him then: images of his mother touching his face, and taking away all of his senses.
Alarmed, he pulled back from Sammi, questions pushing forward in his mind.
“Where are we?” he asked, drawing in a sharp breath. He pulled the blanket up, as though it were protecting him from the unknown. For a moment, confusion and emotion took his words away. Uncertainty stayed with him, leaving him to wonder if he was awake or still asleep, dreaming. He squeezed the sleep from his bleary eyes, adapting to the room, bringing into focus this new reality.
“Sammi? It’s really you?” he cried, and fought the urge to embrace her. Dropping the blanket, he moved his hands over her face, her shoulders, over her arms, and even to the injury that had taken her life. His mind told him how impossible it was, yet the touch of her fingers, her eyes staring back at him, and even her smell told him that she was alive. And when his mind was finally satisfied, Declan rested his hands in hers.
He tried to speak. He tried, but a sudden rush of emotion hitched his breath, fumbling his words. With a settling breath, he struggled to push out the words. “But… how?”
“Shhh,” she answered, pressing a finger to his lips. Sammi moved closer to him, and as she pressed her body into his, the sheen of the silvery blanket showed off her curvy form. She paused o
nce, fixing her eyes on his. The warm touch of her skin was welcome. And as she feathered his eyes and mouth with her lips, her breathing deepened.
Reaching under the covers and taking hold of him, she made certain he knew what her intentions were. A flurry of anxiety and excitement tumbled inside him like awkward lovers, causing him to pause. Declan searched her eyes, and seeing that she was a little nervous too, he motioned to ask if she was sure. She answered eagerly, and pulled him to her, parting his lips with her tongue, kissing him like she’d never kissed him before. He returned the kiss, engaging Sammi, whom he thought he’d lost forever.
“I choose you, Declan Chambers,” she told him, her words soft and breathy. Sammi pushed away the blanket to expose their naked bodies. “We’re together, and we’re home. That’s all we need to know right now.”
She lifted herself on top of him, moving her hands with his, touching as their breathing grew heavy and fast. He soon forgot the questions he’d asked, and a moment later he was above her, resting on his elbows, his chest pressing against her breasts.
When she wrapped her legs around him, he said, “As your chosen, I accept you, Sammi Tate. I love you.”
She told him that she loved him too, and helped guide him closer, preparing to make love for the first time, and to make it last until they collapsed into one another’s arms.
******
Declan eased himself from that place where dreams are sometimes real, where dreams are sometimes fantasy, but, more often, are unforgiving. It was where people died and never came back. Waiting for his bleary eyes to adjust, he blinked away the sleep that was holding onto him.
Endure: Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 2 (Caustic) Page 10
