New Content – Page 6 – The Official Website of Author Derek Barton

Writing Prompt #5 — Are You Ready? – Derek Barton – 2020

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“Death is coming to you, today. Are you ready, Steve?”

Stephen Caldero nearly fell off his aisle seat. His head reflexively snapped up from the newspaper article to stare in the wrinkled face of an elderly woman. She had wisps of blonde mixed into her thick white hair. Her spectacles were pushed high onto the bridge of her nose. She sat in the middle seat of the bus bench, clutching an umbrella and a rolled up copy of Newsweek. A slight smile on her face and the question shining in her pale blue eyes.

“What? What the hell did you say?” He shouted back, his face turning red.

She recoiled, whimpering. “I asked if you had read the weather report for today? I forgot to this morning. I’m sorry.”

“Everything okay back there, Ms. Richards?” The bus driver called out, watching in his rearview mirror and glaring at Steve.

“Um yes,” she replied.

Steve now reddened with embarrassment. He shook his head. “No! No, you didn’t. You said ‘Death was coming for me’ Why? Why would say that?”

Ms. Richards blinked back at him, she straightened without replying and walked behind them to sit three rows away from him.

Must’ve been dreaming. I… was up pretty late, but, man, that seemed so real.

He couldn’t bring himself to turn around and apologize. The bus ride was quiet and without incident to his stop at Bronx Ave.

The gray structure housing Pottermen & Felsby resembled more a modern prison than the prestigious accounting firm. He worked as Accounting Researcher II for nearly a year in his three years tenure with them. He glanced up at the towering building and wished he felt more satisfaction or pleasure from his employment and career.

He entered the quiet lobby and made a beeline for the elevators. When he pushed the button it occurred to him then just how little enjoyment or pride he got from the position. What had he really achieved?

Death is coming to you, today. Are you ready, Steve?

The words paraded in a loop inside his mind.

“Certainly not,” he growled low to himself as he entered the elevator doors.

****

In the western corner, he had a modest office with glass walls to somewhat isolate him from the noises of the work

floor. The fourth wall behind his decade old desk had a dirty window framing an ugly, crowded parking lot below. He kept the blinds mostly pulled tight to keep the sunlight and glare off the computer monitors. It didn’t help much to drive out the ever-present gloom. The florescent lights were a harsh purple-white.

Steve sat down with a sigh — the day was doomed to be long and tedious.

Accountants did not die of natural causes. They gave up and volunteered. The bad joke crossed his thoughts adding to his inner turmoil.

He glanced at the calendar planner spread across the desk top. It had scribbles and notes all over it like an alley wall of graffiti.

April 29th,

-Marketing @ 9:00, -Meeting with Grace H, -After lunch conference with Timothy K. -Death.

He jumped at the sight of the word, splashing the office door and walls with the remains of his Starbuck’s coffee.

Shit shit shit shit!

His eyes locked on the word, his skin prickled and the hair on the back of his neck rose in tuffs. His hand came up to stifle the building scream in his throat.

A knock at the door made him jump again out of his chair. “What?”

Through the fake plastic wood door he heard the muffled words, “Mr. Caldero, do you need paper towels?”

Sheryl Lehman leaned over and peaked around the door to look at him through the glass. Concern mixed with curiosity battled for position on her pudgy face.

“Uh, yes, thank you.”

He knew before looking back down at the calendar the word would not be there.

Death? What in the hell is happening?

He studied the date and appointments.

April 29th,

-Marketing @ 9:00, -Meeting with Grace H, -After lunch conference with Timothy K. of Derath Inc.

Sheryl entered and started mopping up the desktop. He took a few towels and cleaned off the door with shaking hands, thanking her with numb lips.

“It’s okay. It’s gotten to all of us, Mr. Caldero,” she said.

“Hmmm?”

“You heard, of course, about Joe Barness? Weird world we live in, huh?”

Steve watched her a second as he tried to recollect who the name belonged to. “Was that the front lobby clerk, right?”

“You had to notice he wasn’t downstairs this morning,” she replied, throwing away a pile of used paper towels. “He was mugged last night on his way home. Shot and left in a pile of trash bags on Hamperton. He’s alive at Metro Regional, but they don’t know if he’ll recover! Lordy, so sad!”

“That’s horrible.”

“It just proves ya gotta live each day like it’s your–“

“Shut up, Sheryl!”

Her jaw dropped at the cutting remark. Her face frozen in shock and hurt.

“I’ve got it from here. Uh..um, sorry. I’m not feeling well.” He shrugged apologetically.

She left, not bothering to shut the door. Steve grabbed his laptop and newspaper. He was going to work from home today.

****

“Floor 3, room 2AB,” the nurse pointed to the elevator bank on the right of her circular station desk.

Steve nodded.

He wasn’t close to Joe Barness and spoke occasionally with him

about football drafts and such from time to time. Yet he was compelled to see the man. He even had a card and a small box of chocolates in his hand. It felt lame to bring a gun shot victim chocolate but was there anything typical or even appropriate?

Moments later he found the room and Joe lying under several sheets and a blue blanket, hooked up with multiple tubes and wires like some sort of dimented Christmas tree.

No one was visiting.

“Are you family, sir?” A man asked him from behind another circular desk.

“No. I work with Joe,” he answered. The nurse grimaced but Steve cut him off. “I won’t be long — I don’t think he has anyone here to stop by. I thought it would help maybe leaving a card and a gift for when…when he wakes up, ya know?”

The grimace melted from his face. “Okay. Yeah, go ahead. Just don’t stay long or try to wake him. The man’s got a helluva battle ahead.”

There was a single cold metal chair in one corner of the ICU room. It was drafty and had a permanent, stale chemical smell. Steve sat down without bothering with the lights. He put the box down with the card on a shelf. No one else had sent anything. It was a truly lonely way to die.

What am I doing here? I barely know him.

You’re here because of the death threat. His dark thoughts scolded him. You are here on a purely selfish hope that if you show this dying man one little bit of kindness then you’ll be spared from the Grim Reaper! You selfish asshole!

Go home, go back to…

Joe’s eyes were open. They were boring into his.

Steve gasped and shrank back into his chair. The man’s finger rose slowly and stabbed at the opposite corner of the room. A thick gray curtain hanging from the ceiling blocked most of the light from entering and the shadows were deepest there. Something inside the black alcove moved… or at least he thought something twisted in the pitch black. Something that had been there all along, but hadn’t moved until it was pointed out.

Words crawled out of Joe’s lips, words barely audible but held a power over Steve.

“He’s here for you, not me.”

****

Steve’s breath caught hard inside his chest, spasms wracked his whole frame and he wheezed from exhaustion and effort. His massive oak bed frame, a family heirloom he’d inherited from his grandfather, now leaned against the mostly empty china cabinet which was also propped up against the door.

YOU are a complete fucking idiot! He whirled to scan the apartment. All four of the apartment windows had been covered with furniture and mattresses. Every lamp and light in the small condo had been turned on, eating away any trace of shadow. Even the kitchen table had been dragged into the living room to block the twin balcony doors. It was an impressive amount of effort, but it was completely fruitless at the same time.

How do you stop Death Incarnate from entering your door? It’s completely implausible that your Serta Pillowtop Mattress will do the deed, dumbass!

He rubbed at his sweaty scalp and pulled at his cheeks with both hands in his anxiety. But what am I to do? I’m not just going to give in. I’m too young! This isn’t fair. I’m only twenty-three goddamn it!

Coming up through the floor vent, Steve heard a loud bang followed by several shouts.

“Oh god! It’s here!” He moaned in pity. His heart leaped into his throat.

More shouts and then slamming doors could be heard.

“FIRE! FIRE! EVERYONE OUT!”

Steve’s shoulders dropped. His hands hung limply at his sides. Seriously. A fire, huh? He could swear he already smelled a whiff of smoke in the air.

He grabbed at one corner of the bedframe and struggled to drag it an inch.

While it seemed an eternity, less than ten minutes had passed as he clawed at the blocking furniture. He managed to squeeze past his door to stand in the smoke-filled hallway.

He was not going out this way! The Calderos had always been a family of survivors and fighters. His older brothers had both been in the military branches and his father had died on the streets as one of the city’s most decorated police officers. Perhaps now Steve could prove all of them wrong. He was going to make it! The mantra beat like a drum in his head.

A brief second in the stairwell at the third floor landing, he had a bad scare. Flames had already brought down the tiles and support beams to block his path. He ran back to the fourth as the building had two stairwells on opposite sides of the structure. Desperation put extra energy in his strides.

Just as he shoved the door to the other stairwell, a sharp and high-pitched cry came out from the gloom.

“Help! Help me!” It was a child’s voice coming from one of the apartments.

****

Sandee Mitchell, eight years old and left home alone, shivered in a brown blanket wrapped about her shoulders and back. Smudges of smoke and ash had darkened her hair and caked along the base of her chin and neck.

A female EMT tech was wrapping swathes of gauze around her burnt arm as Sandee rested on a stretcher in the back. A male EMT was hooking up a bag of saline.

She stared at the coil of bed sheets at her feet and the length still tied at her waste. They hadn’t gotten around to taking it off her yet.

Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

The male EMT leaned down to her ear. “It’s okay, honey. You’re safe now.”

She didn’t look back or even acknowledge him. All she could focus on were the stranger’s words as he rushed out onto the patio. The stranger who had burst into her apartment and found her balled up outside.

“I am ready. You’re not taking her! I’ll go!” The stranger had spoke aloud as if in an argument. It had been his fourth trip to get bedsheets.

“What?” she asked him.

At this point, the fire engulfed the top of the building. Smoke billowed around them as he frantically tied the knotted sheets around her. He then wrapped a blanket around her to protect her from flames and heat.

“Hold on tight to this, don’t let it slip!” He shouted to be heard over the crash and roar of the inferno. “I’m going to lower you down. I’m making you an honorary Caldero!”

But it was his last words which haunted her at nights, stuck to her soul. He kept screaming it out in the air as he lowered her from their apartment patio.

“I AM READY! YOU ARE COMING FOR ME ONLY! YOU HEAR ME?”

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I took a little liberty with this one, but it was too good to not try!

First Sneak Peak of Evade Part Two! – Derek Barton – 2020

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EXCERPT OF EVADE PART TWO:

Stewie Portier scrubbed a hand along the back of his neck and up through the thick nest of matted gray hair to his receding hairline. It was a peculiar subconscious move to clear his mind, like a cat preening in the wild.

Standing at the corner of an alley set between a large twelve-story tower hotel called The Cordant and a more modern strip mall, he scanned the restaurants, the body shop, and a new medical marijuana dispensary. He wanted to make sure there were few if any eyes on him as he entered the narrow alley.

His temples throbbed. The internal voices were arguing inside his brain, back and forth, the sound frequency increasing with every word.

They were telling him – no – insisting it was time to take down The Cordant. It was a historic building erected in the heart of the downtown district in 1902. Stewie knew the fire would be amazing, glorious as any spectacle the city had ever seen.

Currently, the owners were in several court disputes, trying to get special permission to restore it. They faced resistance from the City Historical Society. Due to a court injunction against new construction, it was rumored the owners were financially at risk of going bankrupt.

It made this the perfect opportunity to light it up. The owners, of course, would appear the most suspicious. Many would claim his fire was for the insurance payout. Thus taking any possible investigation in another direction and would keep the heat off of him.

Eventually, he might gain the police’s attention, arrested then taken back to the institution due to his so-called illnesses. In his opinion society didn’t understand him or others like him. He shared the familiar story of many patients living on the street after being institutionalized. He was without a home, without family or support, and dumped into an nameless void.

“Out of sight and out of mind,” he would often say. Yet, given his penchant for making fires, if society didn’t see him or pay attention to another beggar on the street, then it was all good for him. It was a double-edged sword.

Since his last release, Stevie lived in the alleyway two blocks from The Cordant. His daily routine involved watching security make their rounds and monitor activity around the building.

However, this morning, new voices were telling him to find the child. Find the boy who was in the back of the PPD cruiser he saw earlier when he was panhandling near the freeway. It was gnawing at him, distracting him even more than normal.

Seek him. Seek him out. HE MUST SEEK.

Willing himself to ignore the insistent voices, Stewie zipped his gray hoodie that had the word SECURITY sewn across the front. Then he slipped its hood over his dirty Eagles football cap. On his shoulder, he had a one-strap black backpack. The awkward weight strained his back.

He was confident his face was shrouded in black, but he carefully avoided looking at the security camera above his head. It was installed to protect the back of Angelos’ Deli, making sure no one broke into their back door or fiddled with the locks.

On the opposite side of the alley was a set of rusted double-doors chained together. They led to the bottom floor of The Cordant. One afternoon while pretending to look for aluminum cans in the trash bins, Stewie discovered the doors left unlocked – the padlock left hanging open. This happened once three weeks ago, but he had not been prepared to do anything about it.

Then it happened again four days ago. This time, he raced over to his grocery cart, plucked out a similar brand padlock he’d swiped from the Home Depot on 18th Ave, and replaced their lock with his. The building was his for the taking.

He knew his time was limited. There was no telling when they’d come back to check on the door, do more than a cursory pass, and discover the new lock on the chains. Once they did, they’d cut it off and replace it with one of theirs and he’d miss out. Yet, he had to have The Cordant.

The empty hotel would be his biggest fire yet and was ripe for the picking. His count so far was seventeen minor fires in Philadelphia itself and maybe twenty more serious fires in the Jenkintown area, his hometown.

The Renalt Institution, where his father committed him at age 10, was the best and biggest fire to date. It was the same institution he was violently raped repeatedly by the floor’s night shift orderly. Seeing the flames lick the sky and devour the structure of his worst years, it was… cathartic and the best therapy he ever received.

Unfortunately, he served time. He’d been careless and attracted police attention by cheering and clapping at the scene of the fire. The ashes on one sleeve gave them cause to search his Chevy where they found his gear and fire-starters.

After his original case was appealed on the basis of mental instability, he was transferred to another institution. He guessed it was his fifth at the time.

As he unlocked the chains and slipped inside the empty building, he wondered what the boy in the police cruiser had been arrested for. Did the boy like fires the way he did? Maybe he could find…seek…the boy out after tonight…

No, don’t be stupid. Why do you want to talk to the kid anyway? Ya’ ain’t one of the pervy touchers so, why do you…

I must seek him though. It has to be…

He rubbed the back of his neck again and raced his hands all through his dirty locks. This time he even added a good hard rub to his patchy goatee and scrub-beard.

Focus on the fire. Focus on whatcha doing, dumbass! Stewie heard the words almost as if his father was standing right behind him. He flinched, waiting on the hard fist to crack him in the back of his head or in the kidney.

He cautiously peeked behind him. No silvery specter shaped like his long dead father appeared. “No, of course not. Dad’s not here. Come on now.”

He slung his backpack onto the floor. Doublechecking his equipment, he opened the pack for an inspection. Inside were a couple rolls of duct tape, eight cans of lighter fluid, two cans of paint thinner, and three broom handles wrapped with cloth for torches.

Tied to his belt was a metal-handled flashlight. Switching it on, it highlighted a long foyer and cavernous meeting hall, which flowed into a wide-set of stairs leading to the next level. He jogged over to it.

Inside the hotel, he felt stronger and more determined to make the fire happen. The boy would be around to find later. A whispered ‘Seek’ echoed softly in his right ear. He whirled and shined the light on the area, but it only pinpointed clouds of dust and a long dead grandfather clock standing in one corner.

Stewie chuckled at his nerves, straightened his shoulders, and marched like a soldier to the steps, climbing to the next level.

Starter fluid was at the top of his plans. He’d soak couches and any other furniture he could find. Then he’d trail a line of it along the stairwell, finishing with a massive mixed puddle of leftover fluid and paint thinner.

Starting two separate fires at the ends of the trail was risky, but it added to the excitement and the intensity of his fires. Possible death, disfigurement or extreme pain added to the entertainment elements and would ramp up the energy at the same time satisfy his desires. Highlight his satisfaction at fooling the police too.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, he was in the top level of the old structure. A conference room close to the landing would do well for his purpose.

He retrieved two of the torch brooms and soaked them in lighter fluid. Then gathered chairs around a dilapidated, dust-covered table. Some spray paint covered paintings and torn tapestries left in another conference room were added to the pile of chairs. Many of the rooms were empty, any valuables long gone.

As he was about to give up, he located what appeared to be a penthouse suite. The rooms were scattered with old trash, but the bedchamber had a massive bay window and a door leading out to a fenced-in patio.

He tore down a trio of rose-tinted draperies and dragged them to his little bonfire.

It’s go time, he cheerfully thought.

Seek. Seek him, NOW! The voice ordered him, speaking over his left shoulder.

Stewie whirled, ready to run. No one was in the room with him. Sweat popped out along his brow at the same time a chill climbed his spine.

Ghosts? Well, so what? The building was ancient and would soon be rubble and ash.

An open canister of paint thinner in hand, he raced back to the stairs. The trail was thick, fumes mixing with the dust from the carpeted steps.

At the bottom, he was in the foyer again, but it didn’t take long to find the stairs leading into the lower two levels of the basement and hotel storage units.

The last of the paint thinner spread slowly, an almost elegant glassy pool in the middle of the cluttered, junk-strewn storage units. This was where the hotel left their unwanted or abandoned items. The old trash would feed the fire well.

Stewie’s breath grew labored as he pried open some of the fences to the units. He dragged broken desk pieces, rickety chairs, wooden headboards, and even a few coat racks closer to the paint thinner puddle. He leaned against one old desk, catching his breath, trying not to breath in too much of the fumes and thick dust.

Why is it so damn hot, he wondered. As he took off the hoodie to tie it around his waist, he caught sight of his arms. The skin was ashy, wisps of smoke wafting slowly from the pores.

Did I get some thinner or lighter fluid on me? He rubbed the hoodie along his arms trying to wipe the stuff off his skin. It didn’t have any effect.

He raked a shaky hand from the back of his neck through his matted, sweaty hair once again.

Stewie shrugged angrily and stormed the stairs. He needed to get this done so he could track down that boy. This was taking too long.

Maybe I should do this tomorrow? Surely, they wouldn’t notice the padlock one more day.

Smelling the fumes in the air, it brought back some of his zeal to bring the old lady down to her cinders. His manic toothless smile grew again.

When he reached the fourteenth-floor landing, he dug in his faded jeans’ pocket for one of the many lighters he carried at all times.

The bonfire pile ignited like fall leaves. Stewie hesitated, gripped with an overwhelming desire to watch the flames reach out, slide across the floor tiles, climb the walls, and devour the chairs, to witness it come to life before his eyes. But it wouldn’t be safe to stay long. The fire already flared along the hall’s trail of paint thinner on the stairs.

He was mesmerized by the amber beauty. It was a living, dancing gemstone that performed for him like a lover he hadn’t touched in years.

If you stay, you’ll never find the boy. Seek him! SEEK HIM!

The words broke his trance and he blanched at the sight of the pyre before him. Most of the room was engulfed, including the ceiling tiles above his head. Small chunks and burning embers were raining down around him.

He ran and dove over the reaching flames blocking the doorway. The skin on his left arm was singed and welted with second-degree burns. Tumbling and rolling in the hall put out the parts of his shirt that were on fire.

On his knees, Stewie was scared, witnessing how fast the old wood walls and framework were consumed by the fire. Although dazzled and charmed by the sight of the flames, it was not his wish to burn to death. He wanted to create more fires and it galled him that he may have robbed himself of the chance.

And he craved to learn more about the boy!

The words, Seek the boy, came out of his mouth unconsciously and repeated over and over in a monotone loop.

In a frenzied descent of the stairs, he made for the hotel’s back door. Rather than seeing, he psychically sensed it and experienced a surge of raw energy. It rushed through him and raced along every nerve in his body as though struck by lightning. His feet tangled, making him stumble down the steps, again catching fire in the paint thinner trail. At the next floor landing, he writhed on his back for several agonizing seconds, striving to put out the flames.

The pain from the burns along his arm, neck, face, and right shoulder subsided some. Yet, the rushing raw sensation of energy that hit him remained like the dull ache of a broken bone.

The image of the brown-haired boy from the police cruiser, hovering in air surrounded by rings manifested in his mind’s eye. A faint glowing cloud of red light surrounded him. At the same time, the calling command inside increased in its power.

Something had happened. Something which involved the child and the red rings. Instinctively, Stevie knew it was a new form of fire he never experienced before, but he wanted to have more. It literally reignited his race out of the building and spurred his mind to action.

Finally, at the bottom level and the expansive foyer, he flew across the floor toward the double doors. The bottom levels spewed black smoke from their stairwell and heated air baked his skin red, stretching it tight.

Stewie lunged at the door handle and sprawled headlong into the alley. Somewhere inside, he was dimly aware he neglected to put his hoodie back on and exposed his face to the security camera’s recording.

But it didn’t matter now.

Seek him! Seek him! Seek him! Seek him!

Like the fire that devoured The Cordant, his brain was ablaze and consumed with a new fire.

Writing Prompt #4 — Max the Most -Derek Barton – 2020

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Max 2

Writing Prompt #4

Rain splattered along the roof and porch, washing all the late winter and spring grime away. Geoff Raynes loved it. He was thrilled by the adverse weather. After the last couple weeks he’d had, it was a refreshing change. He hoped the evening shower would last all night. He would crack the window a couple inches on the bedroom window just so he could fall asleep to it. Something the twenty-eight year old hadn’t done since his youth in Georgia.

He stretched out his arms in a big exaggerated yawn then he picked up the remote to lower the television volume. Traffic along the single lane highway approximately forty yards from his front door usually petered out around six at night and rarely had late visitors. At least that had been his experience so far the last two weeks.

The house was new to him and a recent rental. His latest troubles sparked to life right after his course finals. For the past three years, Geoff was a literature professor downtown in Seattle. This year’s end results for his students had been abysmal and a third had actually failed. This was unusually high and when he was grilled by the faculty board, his answers were as weak as most of his students. He tried to blame the current course material being too obscure. He promised to find a better selection of texts, but the look in their eyes deemed this a major cop out.

Then Sammi left him, dumping him without much regard for him or his pleas. She wanted to leave the school and return to her hometown in Andrews, North Carolina. He accused her of seeing other people or old lovers, but she said she was too young for the seriousness of their relationship. Sammi claimed he was too possessive. Geoff couldn’t believe she’d be so selfish and cold. Back and forth the argument escalated. The night had ended ugly and alone.

Then of all things his house had been burned down! It was looking like a faulty electrical outlet was to blame. Luck, however, graced upon him and he soon found the listing for this little abode away from it all, nestled in pine trees and cozy, rolling hills outside the city.

The sound of a chair falling over broke his train of thought. It came from outside on the porch. If the television remained on, he would have missed the sound surely.

He pulled aside the vertical blinds.

A glowing pair of orbs swiveled slowly to stare back at him. Geoff gasped in reaction, then blushed seeing it was a medium-sized dog. Mutt must’ve come onto his porch to avoid the soaking downpour.

He considered for a moment, then the old dream as a kid having his own dog percolated up in his mind.

“Why not? I can use the company tonight,” he mumbled aloud.

He opened the door and heard the muddy dog softly whine at him through the screen door.

“Bet you could use a bite to eat too.”

The dog carefully poked its head to check out the interior to the living room. It was a young pitbull, mostly black fur except a few splotches of white on its nose and a patch on its chest. A silver pendant hung from its light blue collar. Geoff read its small letters: “Meet Max the Most” on the back it had a phone number.

“Is someone missing you, pooch?”

It opened its wide jaws and let its long tongue loll out and gave him a friendly grin. It then shook with all its strength to get mud and water from its fur.

“Dammit!” Geoff’s hand came down hard and smacked it along one side of its head.

The dog’s grin disappeared instantly and it only stared at him. The bright yellow eyes were intelligent, probing his face. He felt they were challenging him or maybe judging him. The experience was quite unnerving.

“Well, what do you expect? Look at this!” Geoff snapped. “I don’t like messes!”

He then sighed and took in a few breaths. “Okay, maybe a little of an overreaction there, Max. Sorry. Let’s do a quick bath so we don’t have any more messes okay?” He petted the animal’s head and rubbed the ears vigorously to add to the apology. It softened its glare.

He led it to a small kitchen, leading to a shallow closed in patio. It was similar to a greenhouse with wall-to-wall windows. As he sprayed Max’s muddy legs with a soft spray of a garden hose, clumps of mud and black ash went into a drain in the center of the floor.

“Sheesh, boy. What have you been playing in?”

****

The next morning, he found Max the Most laying before the front door. Geoff rushed over in his bare feet, the wood floor considerably cold. “Here! Let’s get you out before you make a pile I don’t want to pick up.”

Max whined and pranced in front of the door. “Looks like the rain is going to be here all day! I’ll work on finding you some–“

As soon as he turned the handle and opened the door a bare two inches, Max forced it wide with a paw and shot out. Geoff could only watch as the pitbull sprinted back down the wet road, heading into Seattle. It didn’t glance back once.

“Use me, huh? Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am,” he cursed to himself. Max appeared to be the typical male — any port in a storm.

He watched it a bit more with hands curled into fists on his hips. Guess that’s not a childhood dream I’m going to fulfill after all.

He shut the door and went to the kitchen. His laptop still open to a hiking enthusiast web page. Returning to the chair, he poured some milk into a bowl of cereal, trying to not get overly worked up by Max’s sudden departure. He returned to the article he was reading on the top five ranked backpacks for long treks.

Geoff had the summer to himself and considered hiking the Rockies. “Maybe teaching isn’t my real calling?” he wondered aloud. His eyes glanced over at the swollen knuckles of his hand.

He spent the rest of the day researching what he would need for the hike and living in nature. His mind returned often to the strange dog and wondered what would happen to it.

Maybe it was due to being in a new house, but Geoff felt on edge all day. There were eyes on him he was certain. Somehow he was being watched. He didn’t like it and his mood soured at the invasion of his privacy.

****

That evening, Geoff woke to a set of soft raps on wood, like thumping sounds.

He must’ve fallen asleep after his meager frozen dinner. Sitting up on the wore-down couch, he scanned the room. Finding nothing, he snatched the remote from the coffee table and snapped the television off. The storm outside had returned but only drizzled with light rain. Lightning flashed several times but was not accompanied with thunder.

The sound of the thumps had been oddly muffled, maybe coming from the back of the house and were out of place among the noises outside.

He walked to his bedroom to get his jacket and put on his shoes. In the center of the room, he froze in his tracks. Swaying on his feet, he stood with his head cocked to the side.

He swore he heard a woman talking. Again the sounds and words were muffled, but they were still audible and feminine.

What the hell, he thought. He tiptoed over to the nightstand and picked up a heavy flashlight. The thick metal handle felt right in his hand and lent him confidence. He liked this tool a lot.

An abrupt clash of thunder caught the small house and shook it as if in anger.

Upon opening the door and stepping through, fat rain drops slid down his neck and between his shoulders. It was miserable outside and threatening to get worse. He half-jogged to the back of the house, shining the flashlight ahead, yet when he turned the corner his feet slid in mud and he fell off the sidewalk. Cursing, panting, and sitting in mud he suddenly heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway in the front of the house.

Again, he wondered what the hell was going on tonight.

He got to his feet and worked his way carefully back to the porch. There, at the top of the porch steps stood a man, facing his door.

“Can I help you?” Geoff called out.

The man shot a step forward, spun around, obviously startled from Geoff’s sudden appearance.

“Oh, hey, sorry,” he apologized.

The man, white and middle-aged, still wary and embarrassed, asked, “Are you Geoffrey Raynes by chance?”

He joined the man under the cover of the porch as the storm went up another level. The man had thinning blonde hair and fresh stubble on his chin.

“Yes, I am. How may I help you? It’s rather late, you know.”

“My turn to apologize, Mr. Raynes. I’m Detective Cole Jacobs of the Seattle Police Department.”

Geoff grinned but didn’t offer his hand for the officer to shake. He waited patiently for the man to continue.

“Uh, well, yes. I drove out here to ask you a couple questions I had concerning a case I’m working on. Would it be okay to talk inside where we could warm up?”

“No. I’d rather not. I don’t like messes.”

The detective squinted at him after hearing the response and studied Geoff a second. “Okay. Alright.” He paused as he gathered his thoughts, then continued. “You are a literature professor, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You had a student by the name of Samantha Anne Price in one of your courses?”

“Yes.”

“She has been reported missing. Have you seen her recently? Or have you had any contact with her?”

It was Geoff’s turn to examine the detective. “Well… I guess you wouldn’t have come all this way to question me if you didn’t already have some of those answers and know about our former relationship.”

Jacobs remained quiet.

“No, I don’t know where she’s gone. We broke up a couple weeks ago. March 10th, Tuesday night –“

“That was a rather bad night for you, Mr. Raynes. You lost your house that same night.”

“One didn’t have anything to do with the other,” Geoff snapped at him. He wiped at the back of his neck and collected himself. “She told me she was heading home and that she wasn’t interested in having a long distance relationship. I was upset, but I couldn’t talk her out of it. Once she’s made her mind, she’s like a bloodhound on a scent.”

“Was that the last you spoke to her?”

“Yes.”

The detective pulled out a pen and pad from his jacket pocket and noted the information.

“I understand your suspicion and I can see why it appears odd, but there’s nothing going on. I am sure she’s actually in Puerto Rico with her gaggle of girlfriends getting drunk and living it up. Not the first time she’s runaway and vanished. Ask her parents! They’ll tell you.”

Jacobs didn’t write anything down but was staring at Geoff’s muddy pants and shoes. “You like walks in the pouring rain, sir?”

“Actually I thought I heard someone in my backyard when you came–“

Loud barking cut him off.

Max the Most had returned it would seem.

“It was your dog not an intruder,” the detective reasoned.

Geoff sighed in irritation. “Apparently, but it’s not my dog.”

“Is that black ash on your sneakers there?”

Among the clumps of mud, there was a smear of black ash along the top of his shoe and streaks along the white laces.

“Have you been at your former house tonight?”

“No. Besides I think it’s just mud. Hard to tell–“

Again the dog barked incessantly. The barking continued on and on.

The detective tried to ignore it. “So that I’m understanding your story here, you had a fight with Samantha Price, she dumped you and that’s the last you spoke to her. You believe she didn’t vanish but ran off to a beach with some friends?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“How odd,” the detective murmured aloud.

“What?”

“Well, that’s the same story Scott Peterson said to the police the day after he had butchered his pregnant wife and threw her–“

“That’s it! This is enough. Get the hell off my porch!”

“Okay. Okay. For now, I’ll leave you, but we’ll be talking soon, Mr. Raynes.”

Jacobs nodded and walked down the steps.

Geoff shook from cold and outrage, watching the officer get into his car.

Another crash of thunder rattled the house at the same moment a dog barked and howled from the back yard.

Goddamn it, Max! Shut up! He marched again down the steps, his fingers curled into tight fists, heading to the backyard as the detective backed his car out of the driveway.

The barking continued even as he approached the crawlspace under the wooden back porch. Max had dug himself a little cave in the mud.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he groaned. “Come on, dog. Out!” The dog was due for a lesson about respecting property.

He shined the flashlight and spotlighted the dog’s hind end. It slowly twisted its head and grinned mischievously back at him. It’s snout crusted in black ash.

First thing Geoff spotted was more black ash coating Max’s tail and back paws. The second was the partially buried, ash-covered skull looking back up at him. A pair of long femurs and a partial rib cage poked out from the wet mud.

Another spotlight circled the cache of bones. “Well, hello there, Max the Most.” Detective Jacobs smiled down at Geoff and the pitbull. He stood behind him and already had his pistol in hand.

The detective pointed the flashlight at the dog. “I guess you never knew Sammi had a pitbull. Dog has been missing since March 10th, Tuesday night….”

Writing Prompt #3 — The Flight of the Dirithi – Derek Barton – 2020

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Writing Prompt 3

Juellyt shook awake but didn’t raise her head off the cottony bed pillow. Another shrill scream pierced the early morning hours. She didn’t recognize the source, but guessed it came from Yabina’s hut. A second child from another hut farther away joined the first, ending in sobs.

More shouts, deeper in bass, came from guards near the southern wall.

Cries of alarm sprang out all over the village. Juellyt squeezed her eyes shut, praying to wake from this sudden nightmare. Her breath burst from her. She hadn’t even realized she was holding it in. Her chest hurt from the effort.

“Juel! Juellyt!! Come, come, child.” The last shred of hope she had faded as her eyes opened to see her mother, Ckala standing in the doorway to her room, her arms out and beckoning to her. In one hand, she gripped a thin, leathery pouch. A backpack straddled her shoulders, filled with their travel clothes and road rations.

“We know what this means. It’s over, nothing can be done now but hide. We must hurry,” her mother pleaded over the crash and clatter of men battling near by. Horses pounded the dirt paths near the front of their stone home.

“Kampen-yans! Kampen-yans! Run. They have found us.” Other shouts echoed the call. The horses went deeper into the village, their riders warning others in the bare light of dawn.

Juellyt grabbed her blanket and wrapped it tightly over her shoulders and head. Silent tears traveled down her cheeks. She thrust her feet into her leather thong sandals at the foot of her bed.

They’re gone? Father, brother…lost?

“Hurry up, we’ve got to go to the bridge,” her mother said as she grabbed Juellyt’s hand and hauled her down the hallway. “If we should get separated, head there and wait for me in that bed of tanglevines. If I haven’t come by sunrise, go under the bridge and find the three black stones. You’ll recognize them on sight. Dig through.”

“Where are we going, mum?” Juellyt grew even more scared at the sound of her own voice. It somehow diminished in the night, shrunken to the frightened pleas of a toddler.

“It’s not important where we are going, only that we get away from here. Please, run!”

Outside the door to their stone house, the shouts for help and the screams for mercy mixed and filled the air. The sounds of battle echoed in from the wood gate house along Harner Road. Horses whinnied in fright, metal clashed with metal, wood cracked and splintered. Women begged while children shrieked. Thick and gravelly voices answered in foreign, violent tongues.

Others ran alongside the pair, making for the bridge at the back of the village which crossed over a minor rivulet of the Corafin River to the other side, bracketed by heavy pine tree woods.

The trek there was an eternity. Other villagers were bolting over the river when they arrived. They bypassed the bridge entrance and climbed down the short but deep embankment. Surefooted, her mother made a direct run at a pile of three, smooth black river stones. She let free Juellyt’s hand, used both hands to part the rocks. Underneath was a strong fishnet, covered in wet leaves and mud. “Help, Juel. Grab the other end so we can drag it away.”

When they did so, the shallow mouth to a tunnel appeared. However, the only way to go inside was to crawl on hands and knees.

Her mother rummaged through the backpack and removed a silver box. It popped open revealing a smooth gold stone, glowing with an amber aura. The stone barely gave more light than a wax candle, but it was enough.

“Let’s go.” She plopped down on her belly and began to squeeze inside.

Not one to be squeamish about mud or dirt, Juellyt did balk going in the pitch black after her mother. It felt wrong, dread coiling around her neck like a hangman’s noose. She willed herself to enter the earthen grave, defying her instincts.

Inside the light illuminated enough only for her to see the soles of Ckala’s sandals as she crawled ahead. Moments went by without a word between them. Her brother’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. Fresh tears and sobs choked her, stopping her from trailing after.

“Shhh. Shhh. Juel, we’ll be alright. Shhhh.” Her mother tried to calm her.

Juel shook from cold as much as from her emotions. Water dripped from the tunnel’s ceiling as foul stenches burned her nose and made her gag. This was not a proper life. Nothing was ever resolved.

When the sudden grief faded, she had to ask,”Mum, why?”

“What?”

“Why? Why are we always hunted?” Juellyt was nearing her twelfth moon cycle. All her memories revolved around them being on the run. It wasn’t normal. She noted by her fifth moon that other families could put down roots and live in seeming peace.

Her mother stopped and twisted to look down the tunnel at Juellyt. The pain in her eyes spoke volumes.

“I never wanted this type of life for you, sweet-tears. There is a curse lying in your veins.”

“What does that mean? Did Da and Je’steo–“

Her mother shook her head violently. “No! Not now. We grieve another sunrise. Not today! We must run so their sacrifice won’t be for nothing. They won’t stop hunting us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Some day it will be clearer to you, but for now, we don’t have time to work it out.”

“No! Tell me the true reason we are different. Please!”

The words came slowly and whispered in the dark like all dangerous secrets. “You are Dirithi.”

Dirithi? Dirithi! A half-dragon offspring. The last heirs of dragon blood. Not human, not dragon. Shapeshifters.

“No more talk. Come!”

The single word consumed her and bellowed like a tempest inside her skull. It explained so much and yet conjured so many more questions.

They took up the hike again under the river. The winding tunnel went deep underground and paralleled the rapid stream.

Finally, faint dawn light shined through the exit. As her mother crawled out, she graced Juel with a broad, relieved smile. Seeing it light up Ckala’s face, her own smile crept out as she stood on her feet, covered in grime.

An arrow whistled through the air, catching her mother in the shoulder, throwing her to the ground. Another arrow hit the ground between Juellyt’s sandals.

“Svaklan, I told ye they were predictable. Right where I said, right when I said. No?” A man spoke with robust confidence as he came down the embankment on the back of a brown horse. He had a crossbow in his arms, an arrow already loaded and trained on her.

Ckala didn’t answer the man’s taunts, only shook her head in stubborn defiance. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Another man with a pair of long ponytails gliding down the back of his head, nodded and grinned through his thick black beard. “Aye, m’lord. Ye do have the sight.” He strode over and placed a thick, gray-furred boot on Ckala’s chest as she remained prone and panting from the pain.

“Indeed,” the Kampen-yan Lord said as he rode his horse up a few feet in front of Juellyt. He then followed up with a mock bow. “All these wasted years, but here we are, the end of our storied chase. The Gryatt is mine and will be returned after all.”

The Lord looked over Juellyt, meeting her wide and terror-filled stare. “Aye, ye do have but good reason for fear. The deep darkness ye will bring to the land will be of legend. The power I’ll have will be even more.”

Ckala slapped the ground at her side, getting Juel’s attention. “No! No! Juellyt, remember above all else, you must survive and grow stronger!”

Before the bearded Svaklan could react, her mother thrust the small leather pouch into the air and striking it hard against a pine sapling along the muddy river bank. As a gold and silver talisman slipped from the pouch, Ckala screamed, “Akkei Maliss!”

A blast of fire and wind erupted, the magical pulse throwing all apart from each other. Juellyt laid on her back inside the tunnel, her breath stolen.

What was that? Was it from the talisman?

“…remember above all else, you must survive and grow ever stronger!” Ckala’s words repeated to her.

After several moments, she could breathe normally and she struggled back to the cave entrance.

She was ill-prepared for the sight before her.

The horseman lay pinned and struggling weakly under his beast, while Svaklan laid motionless on his stomach partially in the water. The stream pulled and nudged at him, trying to take his body away downstream. Her mother’s form was twisted and wrapped around the base of another larger pine. Motionless.

But at the spot where the talisman had been appeared a mammoth watery circle. The talisman had been invoked and a portal now stood towering over her.

It had to lead to one place…

“Akkei Maliss!”

In the distance, breaking branches and baying hounds could be heard. Other Kampen-yans must’ve followed after the sounds of the magical explosion.

More words repeated softly inside her mind. We must run so their sacrifice won’t be for nothing.

To herself, she whispered, “I’ll go where my enemies will fear to follow.”

Per the legends passed down by the tribal elders, the world of Akkei Maliss was a world where the vilest creatures came to roost. In the past, even her mother, always so brave, wouldn’t dare to utter its name. This was a world where the snow fell black…

This was a world where alone as a Dirithi, she’d learn to survive and grow ever stronger.

She nodded to her mother’s form and whispered final words of love. It was time to act. She marched slowly but with determination and resolve into the portal to Akkei Maliss.

And she’d return to reign supreme once and for all.

Writing Prompt #2 — Glimpses — Derek Barton – 2020

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WP 2 Blog

The echoes of a Jackson Ross’ heartbeats overwhelmed all the other noises in the crampt van. The beeps, whines and tones from all the machinery and technology were trumped by the recording of his heartbeat.

Jackson sat in the center of the van in a whirlwind of agents, technicians and scientists. They were prepping him with multiple cameras, recording gadgets and monitor devices. Yet he was dimly aware of their presence and the chaos of the experiment preparations. He didn’t care what they were doing. Their efforts mattered only to them and “their groundbreaking steps for crime solving and justice”.

He, however, was swallowed up by the sounds of his heart beating. It snared his attention and captured his focus as he was getting closer to the answers. Closer than he had ever gotten. His pulse increased as his thoughts raced. His nerves were strained, the pressure to find her was intense.

Am I going to finally get a reason? Will this be enough to nail the bastard? Can they really resolve her murder? Or maybe find where he hid her?

“Jackson, I’m going to patch…” The voice faded. “Jackson? Jackson, are you okay?”

He slowly raised his head and met her gaze.

“You with us?” Dr. Laura Morrison asked him. She was a tall, white woman with silvery hair. She was also the Project Lead for the Glimpses Endeavor.

“Yes. Sorry. I’m–a bit overwhelmed, that’s all.” He tried to loosen up and rolled his shoulders.

“To be expected,” she nodded. “I’m going to patch you into the main feed then we’ll work on the other extension feeds, okay? Just need you to sit up straight.”

He gave her a thumbs up but stared down at himself. His face a mix of amusement and shock. He had a black, padded shirt with series of electronic sensors along his chest and down his sleeves that ended at the wrists and his mesh-gloved hands. Glowing blue light emitters were attached to his fingertips and small silver plates were sewn into the palms. A visor-like cap crowned his head. More monitor feed lines extended down the back from it and plugged into a battery backpack on his shoulders.

Laura secured sensitive headphones over his ears. She lifted the lapel of her ray lab oat and spoke into a microphone, testing the connection.

“You are nearly set to go.” Her voice piped into his ears.

“I kind of feel like I’m about to walk into space versus an old, rundown house.”

“I bet,” she chuckled. “However, all these sensors and such are going to be critical. Especially if you find damning evidence, the lawyers will need all the facts and reports they can in order to prove this science and use it to convict others like your father.”

He was three on the night of February 26th, 2020. That night seventeen drawn-out years ago she disappeared from his life forever. Leaving him seventeen years of doubt, accusations, false leads, rumor and cycles of foster home rotations.

Since then his mother’s disappearance had become fodder for every network and cable crime series.

Hardest of all for him to accept was the simple fact that Gerald “Jerry” Ross killed his mother, Marissa Ross, and somehow he hid her body and escaped prosecution. It was a pop culture fact. It was a tale of injustice. A story of tragedy everyone knew. He was haunted by her memory and fate.

So when the founders of the Glimpses Endeavor came to him and spelled out what they could do and what they wanted to accomplish, he clutched at it. A last desperate attempt to learn the truth and put her soul to rest.

Jerry Ross currently resided in Oaks General Hospital in a coma. He wasn’t expected to survive the month due to a complicated series of strokes.

Jerry maintained and insisted incessantly he was not a murderer and did not know what had happened to his wife. In the beginning, he would even say on the television interviews how much he loved and missed her. It all rang false and fell flat. Especially when all the hospital records came to light, records of her life of domestic abuse.

With a final tug on three cables by one of her tech assistants and a twist to a nob on the backpack, Laura said, “Okay champ. It’s time.”

The doctor then handed him a digital set of glasses. A pulsing hum came from the hardware on his back as the glassware lit up in front of his eyes. Information streamed along the bottom of the lenses while temperature stats and Electrical Magnetic Field voltage appeared in the corner of the left lens.

“We’re gonna lead you in, but the door has been unlocked and the house scouted. Once inside we’ll view everything you see with these glasses. The programs will feed anything picked up by the spectral or ethereal monitors as well as the ultraviolet thermals.”

He could already see her form in heat radiants of bright orange to deep red. If he blinked twice with the right eye it would switch to ethereal and once again it would switch to spectral colors. “Alright, I’m ready. Seventeen years waiting.”

Five minutes later, the tech intern, turned on the overhead light to the foyer and closed a rickety door behind him without a word.

He breathed in and out, getting his bearings and settling his nerves as best as he could. He went over the plan for the experiment one more time. First, go dark in order to allow the night vision camera feed to register and allow him to navigate in the darkness. Should any entity reside in the house, it would be easier for the system feeds to pick it out. Second, he would slowly explore the first level of the house before going upstairs to the master bedroom.

For eons it was theorized that “walls stored evil” or some places absorbed horrific events. The hope of the Glimpses Endeavor was to use a pulsing Electronic Magnetic Field generator to draw out the captured moments. The modified generator produced and distorted a constant stream of EMF waves and when they returned it would read them like a sonic call bouncing back to a bat.

Through the paranormal feeds and the silver ethereal nodes attached to his palms, it was hoped he would also be able to see and record any entities existing in the spectral fields or ethereal dimensions. The system on his back retrieved all these feeds and readings at once in order to provide a generated “glimpse” and display it in his lenses.

Of course he didn’t understand how any of it worked. He only wanted a view of history.

A glimpse of murder.

He leaned over and switched the foyer light off. In seconds, the room illuminated within his glasses. No true sources of heat were displayed as the house had been empty since Jerry’s hospital stay. Everything was outlined with an eerie blue aura.

Jackson knew the layout of the house which remained as familiar and intimate as touching the features of his own face. The pulsing hum from the backpack increased and snowy wave of green lit particles extended from him like a ripple in a pond.

He walked toward the kitchen, his father’s favorite place. When he entered a soft tone alerted him the Glimpse system picked something up. In seconds a figure stood kneeling by the kitchen stove. The figure was not entirely clear but by the size and posture he guessed it to be Jerry.

Dammit! That’s not clear enough to use in any court as evidence! Is this a waste of time after all?

After several waves of EMF, the figure grew more defined and detailed as the figure worked around the room. Jackson found he did eventually recognize his father. Clearly younger in appearance as he was in year 2020. The only time Jerry was at peace and ease with himself was when he cooked. Another tone made Jackson leap a little as another two forms came into view in the kitchen doorway. One small form broke off to go to the table and climbed onto a chair.

This is so surreal! As close to time travel we will probably ever get!

“I hope that beer can is just from flavoring the chicken, Jerry.” The voice was rich, smooth, feminine. It had been so long since he heard his mother’s voice that he wasn’t sure if he really knew it.

“Don’t start,” Jerry snapped back. Jackson immediately recognized the cigarette-strained timber of his father’s voice.

She started shouting.”I cannot–“

“Babe! I have good news!” he insisted. “My old pal Kendall is going to be released next week. He’s already got a tip on a job in Memphis. He’s promised to hook me up.”

The figures blurred and winked out.

“What? What happened there, Laura?” Jackson called out, hoping their system wasn’t glitching.

“Not all the glimpses will be complete or thorough.”

He frowned unsatisfied.

Nothing appeared or continued in the kitchen so he went back down the hall to the stairwell to the bedrooms on the second floor.

Halfway up, his mother appeared a foot before his face. “YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! YOU PROMISED NO MORE CRIME–” Her wispy figure shot backwards onto the steps behind her. She sprawled, holding a hand to her left cheek and stared in fright at Jackson. It wasn’t him she was seeing but his father who had often “put you in your place” with his hands. Sometimes he had used belts. Jackson winced as he remembered the sting of those leather straps.

The repeated emergency room visits were often the reason that Jerry was so hated and crucified in the press. He was an ugly human being — Jackson couldn’t make him pay for her suffering but at least now he hoped the glimpse would lead him to her remains to put her at rest.

Her figure winked out once again. “Proceeding upstairs to the bedroom,” he muttered.

His stomach tightened and flipped with his anxiety. The bedroom was the murder scene. Every investigation pointed to it. There were traces of blood and a broken shard of tooth found in the initial investigation years ago. Pieces of furniture were marred with scratches and one wall was dented in. Clearly signs of some sort of physical struggle.

Jackson hesitated as he stepped into the doorway. He held his breath. It was now or never he assumed.

Pulses of EMF drew out and across the room.

Nothing.

Several minutes passed.

After all these years, you are going to go to your grave and get away with it, aren’t you, you sick fuck. Jackson gripped the sides of the doorframe, tears slipping down his cheeks. He just wanted to put her in a grave. Was this so much to ask?

“Mummy… Mummy?” A whimper and cry came from behind him.

Two alert beeps rang out in the pitch dark. His mother appeared running toward him at the door while her father’s form chased after her. He was shouting. “I’m sorry. SO SORRY, MARISSA! Please calm–“

His mother’s form bolted through Jackson. The dead cold was bitter and bit down through to the bone. Jackson spun around in time to spot a small toddler climbing the last of the steps just as his mother crashed and flipped over his little form with a shriek. His mother crumpled into an abnormal position at the base of the stairs.

Everyone popped away again, leaving him alone in the dark.

Laura gasped in his ear. Then she whispered, “Jackson….Jackson! Oh my god, you killed her! Dear lord, she died after all by accident.”

He lowered himself to the threadbare carpet and leaned against the wall in the hall.

It made sense now. His father and mother had a nasty argument and tumble in the bedroom which accounted for the crime scene evidence. Nothing about that night had ever come back to him. The psyches always said he had blocked the trauma after obviously seeing his father murder his mother. But it was her fall he blocked out. His part in her death.

And his father had known he’d face charges and prison time for the assault leading to the accident. The chain of events were enough for a good prosecutor to get manslaughter if not more. Jerry wouldn’t take the chance.

Then where? Where is her body?

He rubbed hard at his temples then wiped at the back of his neck. Goosebumps prickled his skin still as it was cold in the old house. His breath pluming out in an spooky green fog.

“Oh Jackson, does it so matter?” The voice was clear — rich and smooth. His head shot up to see Marissa standing before him. Her spectral form glowing a soft pale green.

Mom? The words failed to escape his lips.

“Don’t you see, Jackie? I’m at peace. It’s not important for me to be placed in a patch of ground to be in happiness. What I truly need is for your happiness.”

More tears escaped him and dripped to his chest. Laura’s own faint sobs were captured by the microphone.

“This was never your fault and it wasn’t what your father intended to happened either. It was a tragic accident. I want you to move on. LIVE! Stop dwelling in the past and on hate for your father. Go be happy and live for me!”

Three weeks after the Glimpse Endeavor, Jerry Ross died. In his will, he left instructions where her ashes were hidden. In the end, he remained completely selfish. There was no note of confession or even remorse, only a set of GPS coordinates.

Jerry never did right by his wife, but in the end, he wanted the same thing Jackson’s mother wanted…closure for their son.

Writing Prompt: Whatever building you enter, you can see all of the people who died there.

Provided by Written Word Media

Writing Prompt #1 — One. Last. Time. — Derek Barton – 2020

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I realize it has been awhile since you’ve read anything new from me — either in post, novella or even novel form. Then I ran across this “writing prompt” which piqued my interest.

A writing prompt to those that are unfamiliar to the phrase is a small paragraph to motivate or inspire a writer — a fill-in-the-rest-of-the-story exercise. Thought this might be a fun way to get some “new” material out while I am still writing, editing, publishing my horror and fantasy series. On a side note, Evade Part One will be out next month!!

ENJOY!!

(Writing Prompt provided by tomiadeyemi.com)

She gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady her hands. A long serrated hunting knife rested in the grimy sink.

“One last time,” she whispered to herself.

One. Last. Time.

Evelyn Diane Joyce, or “Evie” as her friends called her, stood in the restroom, staring at her rain-drenched reflection in the mirror. She didn’t recognize herself, covered in mud, grease on her clothes and leaves in her dirty, haystack hair. Dried blood caked under one nostril and her chin was scuffed raw from an earlier fall.

They were in the Calamine Mountain Park. It was around 8 o’clock at night and a surprise rain storm chilled the fall evening air.

One. Last. Time.

He was here. Somewhere hidden among the park’s trees and brush.

Evie knew he’d make his way there. It was the only real structure in the park and on the way to the parking lot. He’d come for certain.

The fluorescent lights suddenly flickered and blinked a few times before completely turning off.

Holding her breath, Evie retrieved the knife then crept over in the blind dark to the nearest stall and went inside. She then climbed onto the toilet seat and crouched behind the door. Waiting was the worst part. All of the exertion weighed upon her and her body shook. Her muscles tightened in her chest as her heart beat furiously. Any moment now he’d walk in, but she wondered if she could actually do this. Sweat trickled down her neck and between her shoulder blades.

Moments later, her ears picked out a whisper of fabric. Then in spite of the pelting rain, she heard the subtle squeak of his sneakers. He was already inside the doorway to the restroom structure.

One. Last. Time. Was she ready?

The hum of the lights filled the restroom as its motion sensor started the lights back on. He stopped — probably looking around. Jackson Allan Joyce always played it safe. Predictable and yet prepared. Always a slave to compulsive order and rules.

Across the stalls was a line of urinals. Satisfied that he was alone, he stepped over to one directly across from Evie. She peered out at him through the stall door crack. His back was to her. He rested his head on one arm stretched along the wall as he leaned into the urinal. Exhaustion written all over his form. His cyclist spandex suit was ripped at the shoulder and down the back. His arm was covered in drying blood as fresh blood pumped out of a long gash.

It had only been two hours before when they had taken their mountain bikes together along the North Face Trail. After a couple miles up, his bike tire popped when Jackson hit a sharp, partially buried rock in their path. He tumbled and bounced down the cliff then laid unconscious on the side of a rocky trench below the sand trail. Scrub brush and desert weeds shrouded him. She rushed to climb down to him and felt for his pulse. It was there but thready. His cheek and left eye were already bruised and swollen from the initial impact.

As she scrambled back up to their packs, she heard him call out. “Evie, help me. Evie!”

He sounded weak and vulnerable. Her mind whirled with possibilities.

She went to her backpack and from a sheath stowed inside, she removed the hunting blade. “I’m coming, Jackson. Hold on!”

At the bottom again, Evie knelt at his side. He looked confused, his eyes searched her hands spotting the blade. Before his first question, she thrust the knife aiming for his heart. His instincts were stronger and quicker than she expected. The blade pierced his arm as he raised it in defense.

Evie wasn’t done though. She pulled and twisted the knife handle, frantic to free it. When it gave up and popped free of his forearm, she was flung backwards into a small pile of boulders. Jackson wasn’t done either. He bolted up onto his knees then leaped onto her. They tumbled further down the incline of the trench as they wrestled for the knife.

She won the contest when she caught him with a surprise knee to the groin.

Evie ran. She ran not for her life but ran for another chance, another opportunity to escape the cushioned cage that was her doldrum life. She would kill him.

She would be free and have a new life. One. Last. Time.

All night, stalking and attacking him, she tried several times to ambush the son-of-a-bitch. Now they were near the parking lot. At the edge of the park.

He was exhausted. She was exhausted. They were both determined to live. Relentless in their endeavors.

Her legs were coiled beneath her, her muscles were taught, her breath captured in her burning legs. The knife was slick in her hand.

With a predatory smile and flash of gnashing teeth, she exploded from the stall…

One. Last. Time!

Sneak Preview from EVADE (Rough Draft) — Derek Barton – 2019

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Scary Horror Wallpapers 9

I know…I know… I released these chapters out of order, but I have my reasons ~~madness~~. Either way, I hope you enjoy this and I’d love to hear what you think of it so far!!

Enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE

I sat in disbelief, dumbfounded by the vapid car sounds…Click, click, click.

I just cannot win. “Of all days, do NOT do this!”

My shrill voice carried and echoed in the empty police garage parking lot. The tone of desperation in it pissed me off even more. I was in my apple-red Chevy Impala, in its assigned lot 2B-18, sitting several moments now in an apparently stalled vehicle.

Suddenly inside my head, a woman’s happy laughter followed up by her voice floated up from the depths of my buried memories. It’s fine, Lindsey. I’m just going down to Harvey’s for a burger then off to bed. Take the night and I will see you tomorrow. We’ll catch up then.

I could still hear the audible click as she hung up the phone.

It was Tawnie’s cheery voice.

I was the one to find her the next morning behind the dorm. The image of her bloody corpse flashing before my eyes. She was on a grassy hill, splayed out on display atop of her soiled nurse’s uniform, hacked apart by an ax. Other witnesses had found me later passed out at the base of the hill.

Stop! I have no time for this. I shook my head, frantically banishing the thoughts back to their subterranean vault. Stop, just stop…

Taking a deep breath, I held it and mentally recited a prayer before turning the ignition once again. Click, click, click cliiii….

I exhaled then punched the steering wheel hard with my fist. “You son-of-a-bitch! I’ve gotta go!”

“Detective Korrey…I think it’s dead,” a gravelly voice spoke out, right behind my left shoulder.

I jumped and let out a surprised yelp, twisting violently to see who it was. A patrolman with a thick head of red hair and a bushy goatee had been leaning down into the driver’s side window. He straightened immediately backpedaling with his hands raised to calm me. “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s…it’s okay,” I stammered. “You just caught me off guard.”

Carefully, I removed my hand from the grip of the pistol at my belt. Behind him and to left was another patrol officer waiting, slightly shorter and thinner, with short-cropped brown hair and a patchy brown beard. He caught my eye and gave a quick nod.

My cheeks grew hot. I was embarrassed by my startled reaction.

“We are just coming on duty. Did you need us to jump your car for you?” The first officer offered. His badge plate said O’DELL.

Sighing loudly again in frustration, I paused to collect myself, pulled my hair back behind one ear, then said, “Normally, I’d take you up on your offer, but I’m already running late. I’m supervising a prisoner extradition pick up this afternoon. It’s not something that can wait. I hate to ask this—”

He cut me off. “But you’re gonna need us to drive you there. The Phil?”

“Yeah, I’m due at the airport by 11:30.”

The other, younger officer looked at his watch, his face tight with obvious irritation. “It’s going to be close with downtown traffic at this hour.”

“We’ll make it happen, detective.” O’Dell extended his hand to me through the open window. “Officer Shawn O’Dell. That’s Officer Josh Brandon.”

I shook his hand and smiled up at him. “Detective Lindsey Korrey of Homicide Division.” I didn’t know these officers, but I was relieved they respected my position enough and were willing to help me. Pulling any type of rank was always emotionally hard for me to go through with. Often as a woman in charge, I’m usually challenged or hard-pressed in situations when I had to give orders or take lead.

I opened the door, grabbed my purse and locked the car. “Where are you guys parked?”

Officer Brandon pointed to a patrol cruiser in the opposite corner of my vehicle. X1718 painted on the door and hood. “You’ll have to ride in the back, unfortunately.”

****

“Dispatch to X1718. Do you read?”

Officer Brandon leaned down and swept up the receiver. “X1718, copy.”

Officer O’Dell, the older officer, the obvious veteran, was driving as protocol. During the first couple of years, rookie patrol officers rode with seasoned, trained patrol officers until they proved themselves. He spoke out loud to me. “I’m going to take the 611. If we’re lucky we can take it then head down to the I-75 to 291 which will loop back to the east side of the airport.”

He was making an effort. I liked that. I didn’t get the same sense of commitment from Officer Brandon.

The radio crackled with life and a Dispatch Officer, Sheila Carter, cut in, “X1718, head over to Brandywine St & North 21st Street. A male child has been found abandoned.”

“X1718, copy.”

“Speak with a Fen and Chun Zhao. They’re the owners of The Golden Hour Dragon Restaurant and found the boy in their parking lot.”

Josh glanced at his partner, who nodded his approval back at him. “Copy. Show X1718 en route, Dispatch,” Josh responded.

“Uh, guys…” I spoke up. “Remember, I cannot be late.”

“Detective Korrey, I understand your concern. I do. However…” O’Dell shrugged. “It’s an abandoned kid. We don’t have a good reason to give if we don’t get him first and something happens to him while we are at the airport with you.”

The weight of his argument settled on me. My shoulders sagged. I had no answer to it.

“Look, it’s a simple stop and pickup. Then we’ll take you to the airport before heading back to Headquarters with the kid.”

In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself. My lips were squeezed into a line and worry lines creased my forehead. I couldn’t find any sound excuse to override the officer’s points.

His voice dropped down low and conspiratorially, “This isn’t a normal prisoner transport, is it? This is about the ‘Nurse Catcher’, am I right?”

Josh’s jaw dropped and he snapped his head back to openly stared at me.

Shit! Here it comes.

I reluctantly nodded. “Yes. A week ago, Lawson Torv was captured in San Diego, and we’re flying him in to face charges for the three murders here. It’s been hush-hush to keep the press away. He’s used chaos and crowds to escape before so we’re not taking any chances this time.” I tried to ignore Officer Brandon’s scrutiny, but I was embarrassed again.

“You’re that detective?” he muttered.

“Josh!” O’Dell admonished him.

The young officer abruptly turned to face ahead.

“I know how important this is for you. And I told you I’m going to get you there, okay?” Shawn continued, trying to reassure me. “We get in, get out, nothing much to it.”

I took a quick glance at my cell phone. It read 8:37 AM.

Twenty-three minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of The Golden Hour Dragon. Immediately, we spotted an older Chinese man sitting next to a white, brown-haired boy with a bowl-haircut, skinny build, and scabby knees. He had on a pair of sunglasses, a fur-lined yellow winter jacket, and dark blue jean shorts. The boy didn’t appear to be in any distress or worries.

The two patrolmen got out first then Officer O’Dell opened the back door to release me. I stayed behind and leaned up against the cruiser, crossing my arms and watching.

Officer Brandon strode over and squatted down in front of the boy. “Hi there, champ,” I detected an obvious change in his demeanor. He was good with kids.

“He hasn’t said a word,” the older Chinese man stated. “My name is Chun Zhao.” He nodded to Officer Brandon then to Officer O’Dell and me.

“Do you know where he came from or which direction?” Shawn asked.

Anxiety was building up inside me. My instincts told me there was something wrong with the whole scene. I couldn’t put a finger on the why of it, but the feel of the situation set my teeth on edge.

“No. Actually, it was my wife, Fen, who found him standing on the corner.” He pointed at the intersection of Brandywine and North 21st. “He was standing there, dressed like this, staring up at the streetlight. I was afraid he was going to cross it alone.”

Shawn inquired, “You’ve never seen him before then, Mr. Zhao?”

He shook his head no.

Josh followed up with, “And there was no one else with him or walking around? Do you think someone left him here?”

“I didn’t see anyone and, no, I don’t think Fen did either.”

Leaning in closer, he examined the kid with his eyes but didn’t see any apparent bruises or cuts. Smiling at the boy, he straightened then unpinned his silver badge. As he held it out before the boy’s face, he said, “Do you know what this is?”

He waited for a response. The child studied his hand then looked up into Josh’s face. He made no attempt to smile or respond, only continued to stare.

“It means I’m a police officer. Do you know what a police officer does?”

Shawn said when the boy didn’t answer. “It means, as an officer I protect you. You can trust us. We won’t hurt you.”

The boy slowly turned his head away and faced the cruiser.

Shawn mistook the boy’s message. “She’s also an officer. We’re here to help you. You’re not in any trouble. We just want to make sure you get home okay. Your mommy and daddy have to be very worried about you.”

The boy didn’t shift his eyes and kept watching me stand next to the patrol car. An awkward smile of my own formed on my lips.

Shawn and Josh glanced at each other and an unspoken agreement was made.

Officer O’Dell said, “Okay, Mr. Zhao, are you and your wife able to come down to the station later this afternoon and give a statement?”

“Certainly. Is he going to be alright?”

The two officers nodded together. “We’ll take him downtown until we get things straightened and reunite him with his family. Thank you for calling us,” Shawn remarked.

I continued my attempt at a smile, certain my anxiety, and frustration with my lack of time were showing on my face. Josh led the boy by the hand to the cruiser.

I loved children but had limited experience with them. I opened the car door for him to join me in the backseat bench. “Hi there. I’m Lindsey and this is Shawn and Josh. Are you hungry?”

The boy crawled into the back without acknowledging my words. I shrugged at Officer O’Dell and got in.

Normally children seemed to take to me. I always thought I’d be a good mother. Someday. Maybe now that Torv is caught…

You’d be a lousy mom, Lindsey! Jessie had screamed at me one night, one of our last arguments in fact before the divorce. You’re never ever home! And by the way, you can’t have kids if you don’t have sex!

Asshole.

He was right in some regards, but it didn’t take the sting out of his words either. Jessie wanted children and, of course, so did I, but the Nurse Catcher case was too involved, too engrossing for me to consider any other endeavors at the time.

I owed it to Tawnie.

“Alright, champ. We’ve got to take a brief ride to the airport then we’ll see to getting you home to your family. Okay?” Josh said.

Several beads of sweat popped up along the boy’s brow. It was then I realized he was dressed in a winter jacket and had a striped sweater underneath it.

“You must be pretty warm in that. Can I take off your jacket for you?” I asked, but he didn’t offer any reaction. He kept face forward and silent.

Who the hell dressed their kid like this in July? I reached over and tugged down one side and the right sleeve. He didn’t try to stop me.

I found a pair of vertical scratches on the inside of his wrist and a pair of scabbed-over gouges at the base of his neck near his sweater’s collar. Dirt and black, chalky smudges were around his ear as well.

“Did you get hurt, sweetie? How did you get these…wounds?” I didn’t want to say it and upset the boy, but I immediately recognized the wounds as animal bite marks.

From upfront, Shawn uttered a couple of choice curses. “Get out of the way!”

I looked up from the boy and noticed a man, filthy and wearing a ratty t-shirt and a gray hooded jacket. It said ironically SECURITY across the front. Most of the man’s hair on top had fallen out or turned a splotchy white and gray. He stood transfixed and staring intently on the boy. Shawn honked the car’s horn and gestured for the man to move. The homeless man ignored the directions and remained transfixed.

Brandon rolled down his passenger window. “Look! If you don’t move, I’m going to get out and move you myself!”

The rookie’s face reddened as the transient disregarded his threat. “FINE!” he roared then swept up his soda can and hurled it at the bum. It caught him perfectly in the face and splashed leftover soda as it bounced up his forehead and flew behind him.

“OFFICER BRANDON! That was not necessary.” Shawn scolded.

A splash of soda dripped down the man’s leathery cheeks, but his eyes were no longer fixed on the boy. Josh had gotten his attention after all. His gaze was filled with an angry intelligence and malice, but there was something else. It struck me as the look from a man in the throes of insanity — a frantic uneasy restlessness running in tight circles in the dark. I shuddered as the back of my neck grew cold and clammy.

“Move along,” Shawn insisted to the homeless man with force in his statement.

The man shrugged and wiped the brown liquid off his thick chin. He turned and walked back to the sidewalk. As the cruiser went past him, the man pointed with a gnarled, ash-covered index finger at the boy in the seat and mouthed, “I seek you.” There was no longer an expression or emotion on his scrub-covered face.

“Freak!” I called out from the backseat as we pulled away.

An arm curled around mine and a tiny hand gripped my own. I looked over and found the boy had pressed up to my side in obvious fright.

Sneak Preview Chapter from EVADE (Rough Draft) — Derek Barton – 2019

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Evade #1

I am hard at work, writing Evade daily and I thought I’d give you a taste sample of the story to get some feedback. Please let me know what you think and what you like or don’t like about it in the comments below.

WORD OF WARNING – THIS IS A HORROR STORY, SOME PARTS MAY MAKE SENSITIVE READERS UNCOMFORTABLE!

Enjoy!

CHAPTER TWO

The day had come early and had started rough for Lawson. He was in that drifting, fuzzy state of consciousness between sleep and fully awake when the hard steel-toed boot struck him in the ass cheek.

“Rise and shine, ya big shit!” the detention guard chuckled at his lame joke. “It’s time. We’ve got your one-way ticket back to Philly.”

The 5’9”, 245-pound-guard had retreated, standing next to other guards in the doorway of Lawson’s cell and waited with his metal baton in hand. Lawson hated cowards.

He sighed and rolled his own 6’3”, 279-pound frame out of bed, already dressed with his boots on. “Well, that’s a shame. We were jus’ getting to know each other. Right, Private Lard Ass?” Lawson’s thick Australian accent seemed to make the statement sound even more of a snide dig.

Private Joe Phillips jumped, a little startled by the remark. He knew the other guards called him that when he wasn’t around. He was obviously overweight, but having an inmate repeat that to his face was unexpected and intolerable. His face burned. “Watch your mouth! I am not no little nurse girl, ya bastard. I’ll cut you down whe–”

Lawson had leaned in and spit a loogie into his open mouth. As the guard cursed and gagged, another much larger guard ran around Phillips and slashed his baton into Lawson’s stomach followed up with a boot to the groin. He writhed on the concrete floor and clutched himself, but through the tears he laughed and called out, “Souuuiiiieeee! Sooouuuuuiiiieeee!”

Another guard joined the first two, and Lawson stopped after two or three more fierce kicks, laying still, panting heavily.

“Alright. Alright, fellas. I’m done. I’m done. Just having a little fun witcha, mates.”

They didn’t take his apology and shoved him face first against the dirty cell tiles, grabbing his hands, cuffing and chaining them. But he was too tired for any more entertainment. He’d had his fun and kept his word by going peacefully to the prison transport vans parked in the facility garage.

He learned later, his flight had been set for 9:30 AM.

As he waited on the prison van’s pleather bench with a small trickle of blood oozing out of one nostril, he recalled Arnie Whitehead’s words.

“Yeah, I’m being straight with you. Not trying to poke the bear, man, but that’s the word going around.”

Arnie was a lifer due to a violent bank robbery years ago. He was a black man with long, graying dreadlocks and pockmarked cheeks. They had been in the prison yard, watching a pickup basketball game going. No one had been willing to approach Lawson Torv, aka The Nurse Catcher, as he had a tangible, negative presence. A black, draining aura about him that warned you to approach at your own free will.

As Lawson was his new cell mate, Arnie must’ve figured in the courtyard was as good as any place to learn about the newest “infamous” inmate to Desert Max Prison.

The “word” that Arnie had relayed to him was that it was one detective who had found and bagged him. And it was a woman.

“She’s some detective out of Philadelphia, but they’re saying she went all rogue and tracked ya down by herself.”

“What’s her name?”

“I didn’t get that much detail. It was a chat I overheard between the guards.” He laughed, his wide grin spread out under his bushy mustache and thick eyebrows. “Yeah, them guards are like schoolgirls, all gossiping and shit. I’m invisible to them. Especially when I’m mopping the hall all slow and quiet.”

The lone fact, the brashness of this woman coming alone after him, hunting his steps and hounding his heels like a wolf, appealed and insulted him at the same time. He wanted to know her, learn about her, then get into her head and ultimately, he wanted to be there to break her.

Sure, it was a classic movie plot, but it didn’t mean the desire wasn’t there all the same. The fire she sparked by coming after him, a craving which grew and grew. It was insatiable and burned away every other distracting thought. She reignited him in a whole new way.

Somewhere inside his damaged mind, he knew he had somehow done that for her too. Who else but the obsessed would go to the lengths she took?

A new question raised in his mind. Was she the one in Denver? Had she been that close?

He knew someone was asking questions and the circle of inquiries had gotten back to him. Not wanting to stop or get caught, he didn’t risk the time to confirm how close the police investigation was getting. He grabbed his duffel bag and he was out the door.

He put a dark twist to the old southern rock song by Lynyrd Skynyrd, Gimme Three Steps. “Gimme three steps, Mister; Gimme three steps towards the door; ….Gimme three steps, Mister; And you’ll never see me no more, for sure!”

It was more than a hard-luck song. To him, it was instructions to his carefree and unresticted life. He made good use of the words. A gospel to live and to kill by.

“I will owe you one, if you find any more out for me, Arnie,” he said. “A favor of any kind.”

Lawson was looking at life sentences if not the death penalty so adding more murders wouldn’t do anything to him one way or the other. It was about the only currency he had in prison now.

“You say she was from Pennsylvania? Philladelphia?”

“Yep.”

He paused trying to understand the added facts to the already brewing ingredients. Why would a detective in Philly be so involved? He was anxious to get in the air now and get some answers. This promised to be even more entertaining.

The loud prison transport bus pulled away into the early dark hours of the morning, driving past the barbed wire fences and onto the lonely desert highway. Torv sat back and thought about his last night of what he called his Bloody Holiday.

The evening had gone swimmingly good. In a parking lot in south San Diego, he had jumped an elderly Hispanic man coming back to his car from an ATM. With the fresh withdrawal, he bought steaks for his “date night” and acquired some fine red wine and even a bag of mellowing weed.

He had walked home. But after padding down all his pockets as he stood inside the front porch, he realized he couldn’t find the house key ring..

Must’ve lost it during the tussle. Oh well.

He looked up and down the stretch of dusty road to be sure he had no nosy neighbors or passersby. Only the hot sunset and pink clouds in the skyline greeted him.

Lawson made his way to the backyard and jumped the rusty, vine-covered fence. This time when he entered the backyard, he wasn’t greeted by the two neglected and temperamental rottweilers.

The cut on his palm took several days to heal, but the long slashes on left arm were still inflamed and possibly infected. He had found some antibiotics in the upstairs bathroom which he started taking.

Twin rotting mounds, covered in buzzing flies, now took up their post by the back corner of the yard.

By the look of the poor boys, he did them a favor. And he was happy to spend some extra time giving the house owner, a George Jerome, some special treatment and justice for the dogs.

By all accounts, he was a psychopath per the doctors, psychologists and even the shows on television, but animals did still find a way to reach the tiny part of him that was human. Animals in his thinking were worthy of saving. Even ones like the dogs that got in his way. These two had a job to do and wouldn’t be persuaded from it. Made them noble, honorable like soldiers dying for their duty and country.

He also had a job to do, yet his was of higher importance. Thus, the dogs paid up.

Taking a rock and a muddy rag, he popped the window in the back door.

“Sweeties, I’m home. Did you miss me?” he called out. “I’ve got a nice surprise for you.”

He shut the door and started unpacking the bag of groceries. “Don’t fret — don’t get up — you relax downstairs and I’ll do all the work tonight. Date Night is special!”

Thirty some minutes later, he carried down the steps to the cellar, a pair of silver-painted trays. One loaded with a steak and the other with a bowl of water and sponges. In the center of the large open room was a wood table recently uncovered and cleaned. He placed the steak tray on it next to the table’s lone chair. Turning around, he faced his evening dates, Christine and Annita Cabellero.

Christine was unconscious, her head resting on her sweat-soaked chest, her hands cuffed to a pipe over her head. She was Hispanic with long curly black locks and a thin figure. Her feet barely reached the floor, her toes were scraped and covered with brown dust. Both of the women had stockings tied as gags around their mouths.

Annita, her younger sister, was watching him intently. Her arms were also cuffed above her head and she balanced herself on her toes. Both women were bloodied, scratched and bruised all over their bodies. Lawson kept Annita topless as he liked to look at her curvaceous form, especially her perky breasts, although one he had marred with a deep bite during their first dance.

When he caught sight of the mark, he recalled a memory from grade school.

“Ya know, my first-grade teacher once sent me home with a report card. I don’t know if they do this here in the States, but it noted some of my behaviors in class and not just my book grades.”

He paused, rubbed away sweat at the back of his neck and frowned with a troubled expression.

“The remarks about ‘not sharing with the other students’ and the one ‘damages the toys’ had gotten me nearly beaten to death for embarrassing my da’. Not saying that it didn’t teach me what was expected, but clearly, I still don’t share well,” he said looking at the single plate. Then he crossed the room and his hand slipped down Annita’s face to roughly manhandle her bloodied breast. He squeezed it hard to make her whimper. “And I do tend to break my toys.”

She shuddered under his touch and kept her eyes down. Tears dripped silently to the ground by her feet with a stifled sob.

“But hey, let’s not spoil Date Night, right? Let bygones be bygones.”

A cloying, vinegar-rot smell floated in the air. He looked behind the women to a sheet with splashes of blackish scarlet stains. The cloth covered old George as he sat propped in the corner. An arm lay severed down by the man’s stiff legs.

“Even George wants us to have a good time, I’m sure of it. After all, this will be our last night here.”

He glanced at Christine and studied her labored breathing. Must’ve broken a rib or two, he mused.

She was dressed only in her torn, white nurse’s scrub shirt and panties. Blood droplets spotted the shirt and caked her chin and left ear.

Torv went back up into the kitchen and returned with three wine glasses and a bottle of red wine. He set about opening and pouring out generous portions of the bottle.

He pushed the two glasses away from his dinner plate, gulped a large swallow of the liquid from his glass and sat in his wooden chair. Facing the ladies, he ate his T-bone steak heartily.

Just as he mopped up the last of the juice on his plate with the final cut from the T-bone, he heard a muted groan which came from Christine.

“Oh good, you’re awake, sweetheart. I was hoping you’d come around soon. We’ll share a toast here in a sec.”

Scooting back from the table, he went to an alcove right of their position and out of view. He went about shaking out the blankets and smoothing out the sheets on the mattress which he had hauled from upstairs four days ago. In the cement wall above the makeshift bedroom, he had hammered in a twin set of thick eye bolt hooks from the hardware store. It worked well for securing the handcuffs.

Taking his own glass, then their wine glasses, he stood again with his dates. “Enjoy each moment you have breath. Remember, you get in life what you have the courage to take…or something like that,” he laughed. “That’s Oprah Winfrey. Read it somewhere.”

They stared incredulous at him as he clinked the three glasses together. “Cheers!” Then he sipped once from each of the glasses.

Lawson smacked his forehead, catching their attention. “Oh, silly me! Can’t forget that.”

He relished his own humor and had a flair of melodrama which he often used to its fullest potential. He marched up the rickety stairs. Loudly, the big man rummaged around, making as much racket as possible.

Both women squealed in unrestrained terror when he came back down. A large double-sided axe rested on his shoulder. He went by, swept up one of two of the wine glasses then leaned the axe on the alcove wall next to the mattress.

Lawson whistled a whimsical tune to himself as he came back, eyeing the women. He shook his head and moved in front of Christine. Her right eye was swollen shut.

The first night she had resisted him, and tried to double her efforts when he went for Annita. In fact, the first several dances of the night with Christine had been eventful and ended with her unconscious.

Now her good left eye bulged in panic and she begged for mercy behind her gag.

“Shhhh. Shhhh. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of your sister. I promise. I’m thinking I could use her company for a while on my road trip.”

He dug into his jeans pocket, pulling out the cuffs key. “You want to dance, right? No fists, teeth? Dance nicely with me on our Date Night, okay. Enjoy each moment you have breath…”

Before Christine could answer, he felt a sharp jab to his right calf, swinging his attention to Annita who was screaming into her gag, rage in her eyes. She had kicked him with her remaining strength.

These two were sure feisty – he appreciated it and admired their gestures.

“Sweetie. Don’t be jealous. It’s not my fault. I had eyes on her my first day here, but when I picked her up, how was I to know you’d be there to stay over and visit? So, you can’t be mad that I let your sister have the first dances. Only fair.”

Lawson put the key into Christine’s cuff the exact moment the doorbell upstairs rang out. All three jumped from the sudden intrusion. He held a finger to her mouth, motioning for silence.

The doorbell buzzed again.

Torv snapped a glance at his watch which read 8:39 PM.

Who the f… A chill ran down his spine as his answers came to him. He shuddered when it rang out for a third time in the still of the house. It was like a deathknell. In his charcoal heart, he knew the only reason for a visit would be from the police. They somehow had found him!

His eyes met the women’s terrified gazes and they shared the same thought: would he have time to kill them?

Again the doorbell sang out. That sealed it for him. No one would be that insistent at this hour of the evening.

He bolted to the alcove, sweeping up the large axe. Once more the women were horrified by the sight of it, but Torv ran past them and stormed up the steps without a glance their way. At the back door, he snatched up his always-packed duffle bag and yanked it open.

A series of blinding lights exploded in his eyes and flooded his face. Several shouts and commands rang out, mainly demands to put the axe down immediately. The doorbell was a decoy to startle him. They herded him like a farm animal and he stepped right into their snare without a single thought.

He lifted the handle off his shoulder as he sunk to his knees and let it hit the ground. Red laser light dots peppered his shirt and on his forehead.

And just like that, it was over.

Lawson Torv, aka The Nurse Catcher had been taken off the chess board all too easy.

He gasped as he sat in the shadowy bus. Several faces looked back at him, especially the scowling detention guards in the front of the bus.

Wait! There had been a woman! The image swirled to life in his mind. He saw her. She had been in plain clothes and a bullet-proof vest, leaning against the back wall. Her arms had been crossed and sunglasses tucked up in her red-brown hair. The other SDPD cops were running in chaotic circles and shoving him around like a ragdoll in a dryer, but she hadn’t moved. Only stared at him.

He had been so angry at their untimely interruption, so upset at losing his last two, and above all scared he’d never taste the blood of a kill again. So consumed by the frantic scene that he forgot about her.

Was that the one?

JUXTAPOSED — CHAPTER THREE — Derek Barton – 2019

New Content

CHAPTER THREE — THE DELANN-VAIK:

“It is fine, really. Only eight switches,” Romunn explained.

Alexendar said, “You were limping when you came in.”

He shrugged. “Well, the last switch caught me high on the back of my thigh, that is all.”

Gregge shook his head. “Maybe we should wait for another night. I copied the ritual down so none of the Fremons will miss the book or even know it was gone. I was careful. We do not have to—”

“–No. Come on, he is fine,” Charlse interrupted. “There is a storm brewing in the west, this will cover any noises we make leaving. Romunn, you are up for it, no?”

“Sure. Of course.”

Alexendar blurted, “He should not have hit you so many times. I am going to ta—”

“—NO” all the boys shouted in response.

Romunn said, “I appreciate all of your concern, but this is not needed and certainly speaking to him is not going to help me or you. It is done. Can we get going or what?”

The boys quieted and waited for Alexendar to make the decision. He did not say anything but faced Gregge. “You have your backpack prepped? The Sessnine? The scrollwork?”

Gregge bobbed his head yes. “Thomess mixed up the Sessnine with me today in our room.”

“We need to grab some candles and torches from the Pantry on the way,” Willeum put in. He had been put to that particular task and, of course, this was his way of getting things done.

Frowning but turning away from Willeum, Gregge continued, “I even swiped a few of the Sanctuary Blessing Markers. This is as good as done.” The Markers were white stones purified in holy water by the Fremons and set beside graves of the cemetery grounds.

“Then we will meet in the South Hall entrance a half-bell after Bed Call, agreed?” Alexendar scanned the group. Everyone was eager to do the ritual. Eager to make student history.

The DeLann-Vaik was not an overly complex ritual, but it was shrouded in mystery and taboo. Roughly translated, the ritual’s title was “Link to the Dead” or some said it was “Gate to the Crossover”. They did not care. To the group, this was adventure – speaking to the spirits became an obsessive compulsion. Ever since Gregge came across the obscure passages about the ritual two seasons before, their pursuit to make it happen filled every spare moment between Reciting, Prayer and Dominion Vespers.

“We will be forever whispered about by dozens, no generations of classes after us!” Gregge claimed one night. “No one else has ever done this.”

Romunn agreed and convinced Alexendar. He spoke in a hushed tone but with almost frenzied words. “We have all heard of the Vaik, but only we have found the How to do it. Think about that, Alex! We would be permanently linked to DeLann-Vaik!”

***

As they have planned, the boys all slipped one by one into the dusty corridor a half-bell after they were ordered to bed. Without much said, they followed Alexendar down the passage, descended a set of stairs at the back of the Workshop, and out into the misty night. He made a straight march around a massive stone building, Pavanac’s Canteen, where they ate their meals to a window Thomess left slightly open for them.

Moonlight flickered like a candlewick in wind through the massive cloud cover, making silvery spotlights in the grass. Wind sputtered and raged, but only threatened rain as of yet.

They climbed in and gathered again in the gloom of the shadows.

Alexendar turned and waved them together. They wrapped arms around their shoulders forming a huddle. He whispered, “Willeum, go get the candled and torches now, but make it fast as Old Girdy may be doing a lap or two in here.” Girdy was a fat, aging bulldog owned by the Head Cook. It tended to roam and hunt for spare crumbs on the luncheon floor at night.

“Romunn and Charlse, stay as lookouts and catch up to us. The rest of us will go through the basement and out the Orchard door, alright? Then we will gather the stashes and wait for you there.”

***

In spite of the yellow aura from the fire and the amber-orange light surrounding the bottles of Sessnine, the forest grove was intensely dark around the gang of boys. The slight wind above them ruffled the treetop canopies, but otherwise, the night was as if it was holding its breath.

Gregge worked on setting the last of the white Marker stones in a complex pattern in the dirt surrounding the fire pit. He swiveled to look behind him and counted to himself, crouching next to a circle made of powdered chalk. “Fifteen over and down, thirteen to the east, and four to the west.” He took two more from his leather knapsack and lined them with the last stone, placing them in a diagonal formation.

“There. That is complete.” He stood back up and walked over to Willeum. “You are over here.” He took the boy by the elbow and guided him to a spot inside the chalk ring.

Alexendar smiled, laughing internally. Gregge is not taking any chances with that kid.

“Where do I go?” Thomess asked impatiently.

“Hush.”

“I am here, correct?” Alexendar stated with confidence. He had peeked over Gregge’s shoulder while the boy drew the Vaik’s pattern and copied the ritual words in the Library Hall three days prior.

Gregge ignored him as well and strode over to Charlse. He guided him to a spot opposite Alexender and next to the last of the Marker lines.

“Now the rest of us will form up around the outside ring. Thomess, hand everyone a Sessnine,” Gregge ordered. “Listen! It is important while we recite the Trills, each of you extend your arms out at your sides like this with your fingers pointing to the persons on either side of you.” He lifted his arms out and splayed out his fingers as he wanted them to do.

“Alex, when we hit the highest Trills, step into the triangle at the center, close your eyes and listen. You should only hear the spirits by then, not us if we have done it all correct. Anyone got questions?” He looked around, but all met his gaze with bright-eyed anticipation.

He then nodded satisfied his directions were heard, smiled and uncorked his bottle of Sessnine, starting the DeLann-Vaik. Each of the boys down the line popped the potion bottles and imbued the liquid contents.

Alexendar was the last and his potion contained a combination of the Sessnine and a fine powder of Sage, Rue and Angelica herbs. Gregge and Thomess prepared the combination powder to give Alexendar a “level of extra protection from dark spirits and jinn”. They were, after all, invading the land of the dead and crossed-over.

Alexendar scrunched his face as the bitter and sour concoction hit him. He had never tasted Sessnine. It was a horrid experience. The potion was needed as it magnified their magical energy, draining it from the surrounding wilds around them.

“Ay Bas Chor Doram Escaba,” Charlse sang out, trilling the notes of the last ritual words. The other boys followed suit and filled the grove with impassioned chanting.

Ay Bas Chor Do ram Esca ba …open to your mind…

Ay Bas Chor Do ram Esca ba Fre dat …open to your message…

Ay Bas Chor Do ram Esca ba Fre dat Gea tav …this is not the end of your tale…

Ay Bas Chor Do ram Esca ba Fre dat Gea tav Moa Morti …speak with the freedom of death…

Electricity prickled the hairs on their necks and arms. Heat boiled in their stomachs from the Sessnine, and the wild birds within the forests chirped and squawked in alarmed response to the magical incantations. Deeper in the woods, a large pack of Wild Tarrabo Dogs howled and broke out in staccato barking.

Sensing the highest Trills, Alexendar stepped into the triangle of stones per Gregge’s instruction and squeezed his eyes shut. This was the craziest stunt he had ever done. The darkest ritual he had ever participated in and by far the most dangerous. They all knew they were going into unexplored territory.

But forget all that now, boyo. You have come this far. Focus and listen, remember? Do not let them down!

He tried to blank out all distracting thoughts and sent out a simple question.

Are you there?

Nothing.

Are you there?

He heard the other boys switch over to the Crossover Ritual Prayer.

Dae j’da Vos Liad Damnos.

A dizzying shift alerted him and made him sick to his stomach. He was now projecting away from his body.

Nothi—

“Who’s there?”

The faint words came to Alexendar. It was not a sensation — he was not hearing the words, but rather he felt them. They bloomed inside his mind, without warning and from no direction. The voice was internal and intimate, not external.

He thought, Spirit tell me your name.

It’s Thomass… Who in the Viles are you?

And the voice actually replied.

My name is Alexendar.

“WHO?” Thomass exclaimed.

“Pipe down, Thomass! Ya don’t want my company in there, trust it, rat-punk!” A voice shouted somewhere beyond and out of his sight. The harshness and violence implied in the threat startled Alexendar. This new voice was gruff and older. He opened his eyes to a brilliant blue light. Blinking and startled by the piercing illumination, Alexendar asked, What? Where am I?

The air about him was stale and cold. Not a damp chill but rather like the air inside a crypt. He blinked rapidly trying to get his eyes adjusted as he now stood alone in the center of a lit tubelike room. Strips of magical blue light ran from floor to ceiling. There was no more than an arm’s length from wall to wall. A small patch of glass was a handspan over his head. His eyes could only make out more faint sources of bluish light which hung from the ceiling of a narrow hall.

Where are the others?

“Back in their cells probably,” the same fuzzy voice mumbled as if almost asleep.

A patter of boots clunk hard upon a metallic floor. The set of heavy footfalls approached fast to where he stood.

“Who is that?” Alexendar shouted and banged his right fist upon the glass. “Let me out of here!”

“Damn! Thomass, you’re really up to pressing your luck with me, tonight? Gettin’ thrown in the Shaft wasn’t enough?” This was the other voice, Alexendar realized. This was the source that threatened him with harm before.

“Please! Where are the others?” he begged.

A black helmet with a semi-transparent visor appeared in the glass. A gloved hand came up and raised the visor. A face beneath the glass visor was all angry eyes and a matching hateful frown. The man snarled, “You asked for this!”

The lights blinked off in the cylindrical room, followed by loud hissing and popping noises. Volts of electricity shot up Alexendar’s legs and snapped the muscles in his calves and lower back. He could only shriek as he collapsed and writhed upon the small floorboard. The sensation had been short but incredibly intense.

“You still feel like havin’ a chat, Thomass?” the man taunted.

Alexendar was incapacitated but was smart enough to not dare a response even if he had the ability. Tears flowed freely along his cheeks.

Why did he do that? I didn’t do shit! The other voice asked in shock. This time the words were sharp, loud, and focused.

Who are you? Alexendar demanded, scared witless.

Silence.

Are you there?

Am I somehow still dreaming? The voice answered Alexendar this time.

I do not know. I did not think you would dream in the Crossover.

What’s the Crossover? I thought I was in the Shaft.

When were you taken? Maybe we call it something different in our time.

What do you mean? What’s going on? The voice inside grew more terse, anxious.

Calm, spirit. I mean you no harm. My name is Acam Alexendar. I am a Bhik-sunii at the Temple of Kove. What is your name?

This is insane. A gasp escaped his lips. Or is this some trick of the Overseer to get information? Screw off!

Who? Overseer?

Why are you speaking in my head, asshole? Stop messing with my brain!

Alexendar grew very frightened himself. This was not what he thought the Vaik would do. The spirit was confused, not the all-wise as he always assumed. When you die, did you not learn the follies of your life, the answers to what you always sought and never found? This spirit seemed more confused than anything.

Spirit, can you tell me your name?

You want to play this game? Fine! I am Thomass Roan-Vi. Cell 99854-22. Sentenced for treason, incarcerated indefinitely at your fine Enddawn Encampment for the Insurgents here on Kav’zera. What else would you like to know? Shirt and pant sizes? That’s all I have left and all you’re going to get out of me.

Uh…encampment? Treason? Was that why you died?

What? I’m not dead!

Alexendar’s legs straightened and he rose without control. He had not wanted to raise up from the floor. Did the spirit possess his body?

What has happened? Why have you taken over my body, Spirit? I mean, Thomass Roa… Uh… I am sorry. This is too much! I will leave you to your eternal slumber and go back now. Please release me!

Alexendar’s hands rose up on their own accord and felt the features of his face then pressed along his chest and arms.

“Stupid dream! I’m not dead,” a baritone voice cursed aloud in the tube cell. The words this time did not blossom inside Alexendar’s mind but resonated in his ears.

Thomass, are you really a spirit in the Crossover? Alexendar repeated his earlier inquiry. He was starting to believe that Gregge had made a serious mistake and the ritual did not link one with the spirit world.

But if not the dead then who?

You’re trying to speak with the dead? Thomass’ voice bloomed inside once more, obviously hearing Alexendar’s own thoughts.

I thought…well, we thought…that is Gregge, another Acam here at the temple thought he translated a ritual to link us to the other side. Who are you then? Where are you?

There was no further response. Alexendar waited then impatiently started again when Thomass cut him off.

LOOK!

Alexendar then spotted the angry face peering in again through the glass.

Remain completely still and do not lift your head up. He’s waiting for any excuse to shock us again. And it will be even worse and longer. Understand?

Thomass, what hell are you trapped in?

This isn’t hell, it’s prison.

JUXTAPOSED: Chapter Two — Derek Barton – 2019

New Content

JX CH 2

CHAPTER TWO — THE ENDDAWN ENCAMPMENT:

Thomass stretched his neck, staring up into Enddawn’s blackened skylights high overhead. A massive storm crashed and raged over the building, flickers of lightning streaked along the storm’s underbelly.

It’s another record-breaking storm…just like the one on the night she died.

A thunderclap set off a brief spark in his mind’s eye — his sister, running right behind him through gales of pouring rain. The Crest’s raid on his village had already separated them from their father. Her tiny hand ripped violently from his grip. An explosion from a cannon cluster only yards ahead of them had launched the pair to the left and on top of a rubble pile. Moments later, the soldiers found him, semi-conscious, covered in her blood as he lay a few feet below her impaled body. Ppt. PPt. PPt. Phantom drops pooling on his chest.

The faint clatter of hail snapped him back to reality as it bounced off of the skylight glass, almost drowning out Overseer Thressden’s words.

No one here is ever that lucky.

As if he had the same thought, the Overseer of Kav’zera’s prison encampment gripped the microphone stand attached to a gray cabinet. He stood upon a floating metal platform, hovering above the crowd. He angled the mic closer to his face. His voice was a deep bass and a bit on the gritty-side.

“…The incursion into Bre’oal has interrupted our normal supply caravans. I understand that some of you have been harking this as a positive, a victory of sorts for your fellow traitors among the Yularis.” He paused and his eyes scanned the crowd of youths standing in line formation in front of him. Not a single face was raised or a pair of eyes upturned to meet his.

The first rule at Enddawn impressed upon newcomers, normally on the receiving end of an ionized baton, is that no one is ever to look in the face of the Crest Overseer or any of the Malatt guards.

“Meal rations will be reduced to two half-meals per day until further notice. I realize this might seem taxing or harsh to some of you, but in such violent times as these, one must be resolved and steadfast. To be shining examples to those around you who might be seeking direction. Your sacrifices and efforts to make sure the colonists eat before you are recognized by me and the Council. The Crest will always be there — to take responsibility for you. President-General Rhiet may not understand your recent betrayals, but he’s given you this gift of a second chance to join society. You are here to re-educate yourselves and—”

“—that’s hopeless!” Thomass uttered the curse barely hidden in a hacking cough.

Sudden and shock-induced laughter erupted through the crowd of eighteen prisoners. Everyone’s eyes found him as he stood in a tight-knit group of four. He’d only been brought here two months before, but already he’d won the loyalty of many of the ex-patriots.

Realizing what happened, everyone tightly held their breath and waited for a new storm to burst. Thomass leaned and peeked past his closest ally, Rovunn, to the side where the carbon glass reflected the Overseer’s image.

“You’re screwed,” Rovunn whispered. Worry registered in the black boy’s eyes.

Overseer Thressden, thick in a frame which was more iron muscle than any fat, stared in stony silence. His piercing black eyes matched his salt-and-pepper flat-top hair and matching thin goatee. The man made no movement and seemed to be seeing Thomass for the first time ever. Capturing Thomass’ image of stark white hair, heavyset body and crystaline blue eyes.

“Indeed, some of you will never come to appreciate the blessings of the Crest,” Overseer Thressden continued. He then took a deep breath and pressed forward with his speech of prepared propaganda.

Thomass didn’t know if he was spared or if the Overseer hadn’t actually seen him. Either way, he knew his mouth had nearly cost him again.

On the other side of Rovunn, Welleum, a thin boy with shaggy sandy hair, slid his right boot to the side, dragging a parcel of white paper. Rovunn checked to see where the guards were then with care stepped lightly over the paper and slid it to Thomass.

After copying Rovunn’s spot-check of the Malatt, he slowly dropped down, pretending to tie his boot. Lifting his foot, he read:

L.S. 4 HERNANDEZ @ 23
BRB DODGENS?

Using the end of his bootlace which he’d dipped previously into pencil shavings, he marked a Y on the note next to the name Dodgens, the guard who they intended to bribe.

‘Bout time! That cockroach won’t do this again after tonight.

Charells, one of Thomass’ group, was recovering in the infirmary for his stolen food rations. “L.S.” was the abbreviation for “lesson-session” which is what Hernandez was going to get for snitching on Charells to the Malatt.

As Thomass stood, he slid the note with his boot down the line intended for the prisoner Elexendar. The idiot bent down and picked up the paper without thought, reading it before his face. Greige, a dark, olive-skinned boy snatched the paper out of the his hands and ate the note.

“ENOUGH!” The Overseer roared as he swept the hoverplate down right above their bowed heads.

“EXPLAIN — DON’T MAKE ME WAIT!”

Thomass could feel the waves of heat from the plate’s engines. He knew the man was directly over him. His shaking hand came up and swiped nervously at his long bangs.

Before he realized what he did, he looked up at the man. “I, uh, I’m sorry, uh, Overseer, sir. I just ne—”

Intense rolling pain coursed along his left side and down through his boots. The series of electrified stingers gripped the muscles in his calf so sharply his toes even curled by reflex. As he sprawled onto his back in pure agony upon the concrete floor, Thomass could not even remember the rest of what he was going to say.

At the front of the prisoner lines, the Overseer landed his hoverplate. Two sets of hands gripped Thomass’ arms and drug him on his back. The Malatt then pressed his face to the floor before Overseer Thressden as he removed a charged Viperglove from a shelf in the cabinet.

“Prisoner Thomass, why have you stopped answering me?” His fist, wrapped in a red metal gauntlet, rained down and struck between Thomass’ shoulders.

“I asked you for a reason for your lack of engagement.” Another strike landed on his right hand breaking two of the boy’s fingers.

The Overseer coated in a fine sheen of sweat shook his head. “I don’t think you understand the language we speak here.” The fist then cracked the left kneecap.

“You seem unwilling to speak to me. You’ll have some time to think about it in The Shaft.” Thomass didn’t know where the last strike hit him as the metal Viperglove blasted him into unconsciousness.

***

A set of handcuffs dug deep into Thomass’ wrists, blackened welts formed in a loop. The tips of his boots barely touched the floor as he was suspended from chains in a blue neon-lit shaft.

Voices, muted and slurred, whispered to him. The words chanted in a sing-song tempo.

Open to your Mind, Open to your Message.

This is not the end of your Tale.

Speak with the freedom of Death.

There was an unusual accent, a foreign element to the speech. He was almost entertained by it. A faint smile crept over his lips.

“Who’s there?” Thomass mumbled, his lips cracked and baked by the neon lamps.

Something is wrong!

Who said that?

Did someone follow us?

The voices clashed and clouded together as the whispers were said at the same time.

“Who’s there?” Thomass repeated, a little louder this time.

There was no response and he was met only with silence. However, the pain in his back and hands, especially his right began to speak to him.

So this is what they’re all afraid of? This is The Shaft?

He’d gotten a few worse injuries in some of the Yularis clashes than what the Overseer had done to him, but he doubted he’d see the infirmary soon. Yet when he first came to the Enddawn Encampment, all they talked and gossiped about was what happened in The Shaft. Terrible, nightmarish stories.

Dae j’da Vos Liad Damnos.

Again, the strange voices echoed in the quiet of The Shaft. This time he realized he hadn’t truly heard the words. They rang out in the recesses of his mind.

“Who’s there?”

Suddenly a voice answered inside him, demanding, Spirit tell me your name.

It’s Thomass… Who in the Viles are you?

And the voice actually replied.

My name is Alexendar.