The hushed silence of night in the suburbs cloaked the small, innocuous house. A blazing bright moon perched in the sky, its ghostly light almost trickling down and through the dark window. A few strands of moonlight brushed the mumbling sixteen-year-old, but then continued on to the glass globe on the dresser. The globe had settled "snow" at the bottom, and a lone figure, a boy with jet black hair, standing on it. When Brenda had first received it for her birthday, she had been fascinated by the little person utterly alone in his world, with no one else around. Now it sat in a pool of dust, forgotten as so many childhood trinkets are, the carefully hand-painted eyes staring out the window. As the moonlight circled it, the globe emanated a gentle glow, and the world stopped ticking.
Brenda's clock froze at 3:16 AM, as did every other one in the house and every other one in the world, regardless of the time zone. She stirred briefly in her sleep, eyelashes fluttering, before sighing and returning to her confused dreams.
Alone.
***
She smiled dreamily, her amber locks strewn about on the pillow, and her lanky limbs askew. Sunlight poured in from the window, casting a golden glow on the maple furniture and hardwood floor. Brenda rubbed her eyes and sat up, yawning, as she glanced at her clock. Blinking, she peered at it again. 3:16 AM. She whipped around and hurried over to the window; it was much too bright to be 7:00 - why did her alarm clock have to die on today, of all days?
"Mom!" she called, throwing on a lime green t-shirt and worn jeans. "What time is it? Why didn't you wake me up? I'm gonna be late for school, and the final rehearsal for the musical starts second period!" Frantically lacing on her sneakers, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had seen better days but it was presentable, at least. There wasn't any time to comb it, so it would have to stay as is.
There was no reply. "Mom!" she shouted louder, bursting out of her room and racing down the stairs. "Mom?"
Brenda paused in front of the living room clock and saw it too was stuck at 3:16. Was there some sort of power outage the night before? At least that would mean a couple kids would be late like her, so surely it would be okay.
Running her fingers through her hair, she grabbed an apple and threw on her backpack. Her parents had probably left for work already, and figured she was at school. As she stuffed her house key in her pocket, it occurred to her that her mom wouldn't do that.
A pit in her stomach, Brenda ran upstairs and knocked on her parents' door. She waited a few moments, and then peeked in. The bed was impeccably made, and her nerves were assuaged. They must be at work, then.
Running back downstairs and out the door, she headed for school. The streets were silent except for her footsteps - she must be later than she thought. The quiet was unsettling, and she silently berated herself for such cowardness.
A few minutes later, she arrived at the large high school, and took a deep breath before pushing the heavy black door open. Hopefully, the rehearsal wasn't too far along by now. Brenda quietly walked down the hallway and reached her locker, where she shoved her backpack inside and grabbed her costume and script. She hurried to the auditorium and slipped inside. "Sorry I'm late, I -"
There was no one there. "Mrs. Muller?" she asked uncertainly. "Hello? A-anyone?"
No response. Slightly chilled, Brenda walked out and headed for the attendance office. A small brown spider landed lightly on her arm, and she wrinkled her nose and brushed it off. Opening the door, she looked inside but the only one looking back at her was the gray desk.
Heart pounding, she turned around and saw another one of those brown spiders. She quickly stepped on it, but then another came, and another, and another. They seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, and she couldn't step on them fast enough as they crawled up her arms and on her legs, her stomach, back, hair, and face. Screaming, she tried to push them off, but the halls were teeming with them, packed full until the spiders had trouble pushing through. Their fangs clacked together as they buried her, small brown bodies wriggling, their long legs touching her. Brenda's stomach writhed and she realized that they were inside of her, somehow, someway, and as they consumed her, she let out a last whimper, fear forever frozen on her glassy eyes.
***
The hushed silence of night in the suburbs cloaked the small, innocuous house. A blazing bright moon perched in the sky, its ghostly light almost trickling down and through the dark window. A few strands of moonlight brushed the mumbling sixteen-year-old, but then continued on to the glass globe on the dresser. The globe had settled "snow" at the bottom, and a lone figure, a girl with amber locks, standing on it.
Randy's clock unfroze at 3:16 AM, as did every other one in the house and every other one in the world, regardless of the time zone. He stirred briefly in his sleep, eyelashes fluttering, before sighing and returning to his confused dreams.
Once
I lay on the cold metal, cheek pressed against its smooth surface. I like metal, everything about it, and even feel a sort of . . . connection to it. It too once stayed innocently in the earth, content among the dirt and grass and wind and trees, before ripped out and processed. Sometimes I talk to the metal. It's a good listener, and understands me. We are brothers, the metal and I. But sometimes, I hate it. A deep loathing churns inside me, until I feel so sick, I want to vomit, maybe I would vomit if I could, but I don't understand it. I hurt the metal at those times. I stomp on it and punch it and try to make it feel what I feel, but I think it already does.
Silently, I stand up and walk over to the end of the metal room, my bare feet gliding over the floor. Surrounding me are four walls of thick, clear glass and I stare through it. A murmuring group of people, some dressed in long, white coats, and others in odd, colorful clothing, hush when they see me. I don't think they know that I can hear them, but it's instinct. When you see a predator, you're supposed to try and hide.
One of the White Coats meets my eyes, before looking back at the crowd. She has curly brown hair that spills into her creamy blue eyes, and just a hint of faint freckles splashed on her cheeks. I've heard them call her "Valeria", and sometimes I wonder about her. Does she go home to a husband and greet her children? What are her children like? How old are they - soft, gentle babies or sullen, scowling teenagers? Is her husband nice, does he treat her well? How would it feel to kill them all?
Valeria. It's a pretty name, almost as pretty as she is. I can't hear her voice too well, but it's musical and lilting. I want it, her voice. I want to capture it and put it in a little cage, to hear it talk to me and sing to me and be scared of me. I want it to hate me and love me, to fear me and feel superior.
It's always fascinating how appearances betray a person. At first sight, Valeria is a lovely young woman, but look closer. Her eyes are cold and there's a hidden edge to her voice. I want her to tell me how she does it. How does she be so cruel and harsh? Did someone have to be cruel and harsh to her, too?
"This is one of the early models," she says, gesturing to me with red-painted nails. Her nails are different from mine. They have a gentle arch at the top, but mine are sharp. They call them claws. "One of our main mistakes was to keep a part of the original brain and meld it with the synthetic one created in the labs. We thought it would help retain personality, but instead it seems to ruin him."
A man, wearing a dark blue suit, clears his throat. "Ruins him how?"
I like his voice, too. It's deep and authoritative. I want one like that, not to listen to but to have. When people hear me speak, they will cower and be frightened and hate me, and dream of taking my voice away but they can't.
Valeria brushes a curl out of her eyes, exposing her vulnerable throat for a moment. My heart quickens. "Well, he has just enough to memory to recall a few remnants of his past life, which fills him with longing and this intense . . . emotion. I don't think he understands anything. This also resulted in having him lose his vocal ability."
"Emotion?" the man asks, eyes dark and mysterious. "Sadness, grief, anger?"
Valeria pauses to think. "Probably some combination of that, and maybe a little hate."
She lies. Her voice changes when she lies. It becomes smooth and slippery, like a snake I held once.
Another woman, in a plain, light pink dress, speaks up. "Doesn't that make him miserable? It might be more humane to kill him."
Kill. I know what kill means. I don't want it, not at all. I gnash my teeth - sharper than most - and pound the glass with my fists. The noise echoes inside my room, but I hit it harder, knowing it won't break but trying anyway. It's the only thing left.
Valeria glances at me and then gives a regretful smile. "Oh, we tried, but it seems . . . well, we just can't."
"Can't? What do you mean?" a third woman demands brusquely, scribbling something on a pad of paper.
The White Coats gave me paper one time and a little stub of a pencil. I saw that I could make marks on it, and it was a strange feeling to be able to see them. I zigzagged all over the paper, and then I realized what the real purpose must be. Stabbing the pencil through the pad, I could make it go all the way through, and then I threw the pencil away and tore the paper into a million pieces.
Once, a long time ago, I could make marks that meant something. But I couldn't remember.
"He's indestructible," Valeria explains. "No matter what we do, he stays alive, so he's forced to suffer until he dies of natural causes."
"How long will it take him to die?"
She shrugs. "We don't know. Now, let's move on to one of the prototypes of the newer version, with a completely synthetic brain."
Her voice trails off as they briskly stride out of the room, the door clanging shut behind them. I am alone in both ways now.
Sinking down to the floor of my room, I rest my head in my hands. Once, there was a special woman, and a special man, and they had a child. The child was a boy, and they called him Johnnie. He liked to play with toy cars and planes, and some days he would just run all over the house, screaming, "Whoosh!" There were no siblings. It was just him, and he had the special woman and the special man and the house and the toys and everything just to himself. And he liked it that way.
The special woman and the special man told him that they loved him, and Johnnie believed them. He never thought that they would lie, because they acted like they loved him. They took him to zoos and to parks, to hiking trips and to a special-special woman's house. Sometimes they bought him good things, like ice cream and cotton candy, and sometimes they made him do bad things, like brush his teeth and take a shower.
Johnnie had friends too. They were boys, and they would share their toys and play together, in the sandbox or in the grass, and sometimes they would the toys behind and go on the swings or the monkey bars. Sometimes Johnnie fell down and it hurt, but then the special woman and the special man came and made it better. And they told him they loved him.
The world was Johnnie and Johnnie was the world, and all was good. But then the baby came. It was a tiny, red little person who screamed louder than Johnnie and cried longer than Johnnie, and the special woman and the special man spent all their time with the baby. They called Georgina and sometimes "sweetie" or "honey", and Johnnie didn't exist any more.
When he screamed louder than Georgina or cried longer than Georgina, they were angry with him. They hardly ever went to the zoo or the park, but when they did, Georgina always came along. And they told her they loved her.
And one night, one night, when all was dark and Johnnie was lying in bed, he heard a noise. He sat up and saw that a huge, huge man was there and the huge, huge man wrapped him up in his huge, huge arms and took him to his huge, huge truck and drove a huge, huge distance away.
Bad things happened. Johnnie screamed and screamed and screamed but they kept hurting him, the White Coats. They changed him, changed his body and his mind and he felt different and they did things that hurt.
And then. Then they took his voice away.
Once, when Johnnie was playing in the sandbox with his friends, a strange boy came and took his shovel away, and Johnnie took it back.
I close my eyes and rest on the metal again. There was a special woman and a special man. There was a baby named Georgina. There was a White Coat named Valeria. There was a world that didn't hear my screaming.
They all took parts of me, until I was nothing, until there was no me left. But soon. Very soon. I will take it back.
Silently, I stand up and walk over to the end of the metal room, my bare feet gliding over the floor. Surrounding me are four walls of thick, clear glass and I stare through it. A murmuring group of people, some dressed in long, white coats, and others in odd, colorful clothing, hush when they see me. I don't think they know that I can hear them, but it's instinct. When you see a predator, you're supposed to try and hide.
One of the White Coats meets my eyes, before looking back at the crowd. She has curly brown hair that spills into her creamy blue eyes, and just a hint of faint freckles splashed on her cheeks. I've heard them call her "Valeria", and sometimes I wonder about her. Does she go home to a husband and greet her children? What are her children like? How old are they - soft, gentle babies or sullen, scowling teenagers? Is her husband nice, does he treat her well? How would it feel to kill them all?
Valeria. It's a pretty name, almost as pretty as she is. I can't hear her voice too well, but it's musical and lilting. I want it, her voice. I want to capture it and put it in a little cage, to hear it talk to me and sing to me and be scared of me. I want it to hate me and love me, to fear me and feel superior.
It's always fascinating how appearances betray a person. At first sight, Valeria is a lovely young woman, but look closer. Her eyes are cold and there's a hidden edge to her voice. I want her to tell me how she does it. How does she be so cruel and harsh? Did someone have to be cruel and harsh to her, too?
"This is one of the early models," she says, gesturing to me with red-painted nails. Her nails are different from mine. They have a gentle arch at the top, but mine are sharp. They call them claws. "One of our main mistakes was to keep a part of the original brain and meld it with the synthetic one created in the labs. We thought it would help retain personality, but instead it seems to ruin him."
A man, wearing a dark blue suit, clears his throat. "Ruins him how?"
I like his voice, too. It's deep and authoritative. I want one like that, not to listen to but to have. When people hear me speak, they will cower and be frightened and hate me, and dream of taking my voice away but they can't.
Valeria brushes a curl out of her eyes, exposing her vulnerable throat for a moment. My heart quickens. "Well, he has just enough to memory to recall a few remnants of his past life, which fills him with longing and this intense . . . emotion. I don't think he understands anything. This also resulted in having him lose his vocal ability."
"Emotion?" the man asks, eyes dark and mysterious. "Sadness, grief, anger?"
Valeria pauses to think. "Probably some combination of that, and maybe a little hate."
She lies. Her voice changes when she lies. It becomes smooth and slippery, like a snake I held once.
Another woman, in a plain, light pink dress, speaks up. "Doesn't that make him miserable? It might be more humane to kill him."
Kill. I know what kill means. I don't want it, not at all. I gnash my teeth - sharper than most - and pound the glass with my fists. The noise echoes inside my room, but I hit it harder, knowing it won't break but trying anyway. It's the only thing left.
Valeria glances at me and then gives a regretful smile. "Oh, we tried, but it seems . . . well, we just can't."
"Can't? What do you mean?" a third woman demands brusquely, scribbling something on a pad of paper.
The White Coats gave me paper one time and a little stub of a pencil. I saw that I could make marks on it, and it was a strange feeling to be able to see them. I zigzagged all over the paper, and then I realized what the real purpose must be. Stabbing the pencil through the pad, I could make it go all the way through, and then I threw the pencil away and tore the paper into a million pieces.
Once, a long time ago, I could make marks that meant something. But I couldn't remember.
"He's indestructible," Valeria explains. "No matter what we do, he stays alive, so he's forced to suffer until he dies of natural causes."
"How long will it take him to die?"
She shrugs. "We don't know. Now, let's move on to one of the prototypes of the newer version, with a completely synthetic brain."
Her voice trails off as they briskly stride out of the room, the door clanging shut behind them. I am alone in both ways now.
Sinking down to the floor of my room, I rest my head in my hands. Once, there was a special woman, and a special man, and they had a child. The child was a boy, and they called him Johnnie. He liked to play with toy cars and planes, and some days he would just run all over the house, screaming, "Whoosh!" There were no siblings. It was just him, and he had the special woman and the special man and the house and the toys and everything just to himself. And he liked it that way.
The special woman and the special man told him that they loved him, and Johnnie believed them. He never thought that they would lie, because they acted like they loved him. They took him to zoos and to parks, to hiking trips and to a special-special woman's house. Sometimes they bought him good things, like ice cream and cotton candy, and sometimes they made him do bad things, like brush his teeth and take a shower.
Johnnie had friends too. They were boys, and they would share their toys and play together, in the sandbox or in the grass, and sometimes they would the toys behind and go on the swings or the monkey bars. Sometimes Johnnie fell down and it hurt, but then the special woman and the special man came and made it better. And they told him they loved him.
The world was Johnnie and Johnnie was the world, and all was good. But then the baby came. It was a tiny, red little person who screamed louder than Johnnie and cried longer than Johnnie, and the special woman and the special man spent all their time with the baby. They called Georgina and sometimes "sweetie" or "honey", and Johnnie didn't exist any more.
When he screamed louder than Georgina or cried longer than Georgina, they were angry with him. They hardly ever went to the zoo or the park, but when they did, Georgina always came along. And they told her they loved her.
And one night, one night, when all was dark and Johnnie was lying in bed, he heard a noise. He sat up and saw that a huge, huge man was there and the huge, huge man wrapped him up in his huge, huge arms and took him to his huge, huge truck and drove a huge, huge distance away.
Bad things happened. Johnnie screamed and screamed and screamed but they kept hurting him, the White Coats. They changed him, changed his body and his mind and he felt different and they did things that hurt.
And then. Then they took his voice away.
Once, when Johnnie was playing in the sandbox with his friends, a strange boy came and took his shovel away, and Johnnie took it back.
I close my eyes and rest on the metal again. There was a special woman and a special man. There was a baby named Georgina. There was a White Coat named Valeria. There was a world that didn't hear my screaming.
They all took parts of me, until I was nothing, until there was no me left. But soon. Very soon. I will take it back.
A Walk Into the Forest
The soft, musky aroma of the forest surrounded the two silhouettes, as the sunset burned brightly behind them. Rich oranges and reds were flanking deep purples and indigos, and one of them turned and squinted at it. She was a petite woman, with a slender build and small, graceful feet, just like all the other woman on her mother's side of the family. Her coarse black hair cascaded down her thin neck and shoulders, stopping just past her shoulder blades, and Rachel's fierce green eyes glowed as she said, "It's getting late."
Joey yanked irritably on the leash as Janko tried to pull ahead, and then immediately felt guilty at the sight of the dog's liquid brown eyes. "I know, honey. We'll be home soon." He paused and brushed his dark hair out of his limpid blue eyes.
"We're lost," she replied flatly. "How are we going to get home now, hmm?"
He glanced down at her. "Don't be silly, Rach, we're not - "
"Oh, I'm silly, am I?" she said, bristling. Her soft cheeks grew red and she put her hands on her hips. "I'm silly, for knowing that we're lost and we'll be home late, if we get home at all, huh? I'll tell you what, you think all women are just silly little creatures with double-digit IQs! And - "
Frowning, Joey interrupted, "Now, just a minute, just a minute! I never said any of that! I just said we're not lost, and - "
"Yes, we are!" Rachel shouted, throwing her hands in the air. "Every time you suggest some stupid idea, and then we end up being lost. Every time!"
"This? My idea? Hold on a second, this was not my idea. This was your idea!"
"See, now you're just trying to avoid the blame. You do this all the time, Joey, and I'm telling you, I'm simply sick of it!" She kicked a bush with all her strength, but managed to restrain herself from punching the solid oak. "I wish . . . oh, never mind."
He studied her back, and answered, voice dangerously low, "Wish what?"
"Just - never mind, okay? It doesn't matter."
"Tell me, Rachel. I deserve to know. Come on!"
Whipping around, she glared daggers at him. "I told you it doesn't matter! Just forget about it!"
"Tell me!"
"All right!" Rachel shouted. "If you must know, I was going to say that I wish we never got married."
The silence sizzled in the frosty air, and they both abruptly began walking again, a foot between them on the well-trodden path. Rachel stared determinedly at her scuffed sneakers, while Joey gazed in the opposite direction of his wife. "So this is how it goes a week after our honeymoon, eh?" he grumbled to himself.
Rachel ripped her iPod out of her pocket and stuffed the headphones on, turning the volume all the way up. "We're not lost," Joey muttered, surreptitiously glancing at her.
She hummed loudly, eyes half-closed.
Thunder suddenly cracked through the deep black sky, veins of light criss-crossing through it. As the forest lit up, Joey saw that there was nothing at the end of the leash. "Janko?" he said in surprise. "Janko! Janko!"
Rachel looked at him, eyes wide. "You lost him?" she exclaimed. "You even lost the friggin' dog?"
"Oh, I lost him!" he shouted back. "That's a fine one! Like you weren't next to me the whole time!"
She threw her hands in the air. "So I can't even trust you to keep the dog? What is wrong with you?"
Torrents of wind were flung among the trees, which swayed wildly as rain tumbled down on to them. Biting his lip, Joey replied, "We'll go and find the dog tomorrow. For now, let's concentrate on finding our home, okay?"
"So you do admit we're lost!"
"For God's sake, can you act like an adult just once in your life, Rachel?" he screamed over the rain. "Just once, please? That's all I'm asking for! Why does this have to be so hard?"
Tears burned in her eyes. "I don't know," she sobbed. "I just don't know. I want to . . . I want to have a happy marriage."
She fell into his arms, face turned into his sweater. "All I ever wanted was, was a loving husband, but it's so hard, Joey. It's . . . so . . . hard."
"I know," he murmured.
Just then, light flashed, and he turned his head to it. Breath catching in his throat, his eyes went wide, and his mouth opened in a silent cry of terror.
They were found like that the next morning, in their last embrace, bones rigid and faces pale. Janko was sitting next to them, unharmed but for a few missing clumps of fur, whining and nudging their bodies. As the police carefully pulled them apart, the dog turned and slipped away into the trees, never to be seen again.
Joey yanked irritably on the leash as Janko tried to pull ahead, and then immediately felt guilty at the sight of the dog's liquid brown eyes. "I know, honey. We'll be home soon." He paused and brushed his dark hair out of his limpid blue eyes.
"We're lost," she replied flatly. "How are we going to get home now, hmm?"
He glanced down at her. "Don't be silly, Rach, we're not - "
"Oh, I'm silly, am I?" she said, bristling. Her soft cheeks grew red and she put her hands on her hips. "I'm silly, for knowing that we're lost and we'll be home late, if we get home at all, huh? I'll tell you what, you think all women are just silly little creatures with double-digit IQs! And - "
Frowning, Joey interrupted, "Now, just a minute, just a minute! I never said any of that! I just said we're not lost, and - "
"Yes, we are!" Rachel shouted, throwing her hands in the air. "Every time you suggest some stupid idea, and then we end up being lost. Every time!"
"This? My idea? Hold on a second, this was not my idea. This was your idea!"
"See, now you're just trying to avoid the blame. You do this all the time, Joey, and I'm telling you, I'm simply sick of it!" She kicked a bush with all her strength, but managed to restrain herself from punching the solid oak. "I wish . . . oh, never mind."
He studied her back, and answered, voice dangerously low, "Wish what?"
"Just - never mind, okay? It doesn't matter."
"Tell me, Rachel. I deserve to know. Come on!"
Whipping around, she glared daggers at him. "I told you it doesn't matter! Just forget about it!"
"Tell me!"
"All right!" Rachel shouted. "If you must know, I was going to say that I wish we never got married."
The silence sizzled in the frosty air, and they both abruptly began walking again, a foot between them on the well-trodden path. Rachel stared determinedly at her scuffed sneakers, while Joey gazed in the opposite direction of his wife. "So this is how it goes a week after our honeymoon, eh?" he grumbled to himself.
Rachel ripped her iPod out of her pocket and stuffed the headphones on, turning the volume all the way up. "We're not lost," Joey muttered, surreptitiously glancing at her.
She hummed loudly, eyes half-closed.
Thunder suddenly cracked through the deep black sky, veins of light criss-crossing through it. As the forest lit up, Joey saw that there was nothing at the end of the leash. "Janko?" he said in surprise. "Janko! Janko!"
Rachel looked at him, eyes wide. "You lost him?" she exclaimed. "You even lost the friggin' dog?"
"Oh, I lost him!" he shouted back. "That's a fine one! Like you weren't next to me the whole time!"
She threw her hands in the air. "So I can't even trust you to keep the dog? What is wrong with you?"
Torrents of wind were flung among the trees, which swayed wildly as rain tumbled down on to them. Biting his lip, Joey replied, "We'll go and find the dog tomorrow. For now, let's concentrate on finding our home, okay?"
"So you do admit we're lost!"
"For God's sake, can you act like an adult just once in your life, Rachel?" he screamed over the rain. "Just once, please? That's all I'm asking for! Why does this have to be so hard?"
Tears burned in her eyes. "I don't know," she sobbed. "I just don't know. I want to . . . I want to have a happy marriage."
She fell into his arms, face turned into his sweater. "All I ever wanted was, was a loving husband, but it's so hard, Joey. It's . . . so . . . hard."
"I know," he murmured.
Just then, light flashed, and he turned his head to it. Breath catching in his throat, his eyes went wide, and his mouth opened in a silent cry of terror.
They were found like that the next morning, in their last embrace, bones rigid and faces pale. Janko was sitting next to them, unharmed but for a few missing clumps of fur, whining and nudging their bodies. As the police carefully pulled them apart, the dog turned and slipped away into the trees, never to be seen again.
Voices of the Lost
Darcy rolled over on her bed, groaning. The awful, Arizona summer heat seemed like it would press her harder and harder until she just disappeared - if only the stupid air conditioner hadn't broken! Worse yet, in ten minutes she would have to walk the dog outside in that blistering sun. Darcy sat up on her bed and sighed. It was too hot to do anything. Even getting up and walking over to her computer seemed like too much effort, let alone starting reading those idiotic books for summer homework.
Though she wore only a tanktop and very short shorts, those clothes were clinging to her sweaty skin, and she wished that the pool wasn't closed today. How wonderful it would be to slip into the cool water, to feel it caress her skin, and then to dive under, far and away from the scorching sunlight! Darcy could almost feel the gentle waves over her, and she gazed at her tiny pink bikini.
Almost as bad as the heat was the boredom that clung to her, and she surveyed her small, light green-painted room in hope that she would think of something to do. Shrugging to herself, she picked up her sleek black MP3 and put on the headphones. Languidly lying back down on the bed, she let "Tell Me" by Boston wash over her.
As Darcy listened, half-heartedly humming along, she heard something faint in the background. Curiosity raised, she hit the volume button, but though the song became louder, the noise was just as faint. After a few lines, the noise grew less quiet, and she recognized it as the same few words repeated over and over again.
Frowning, she sat up again and listened hard, managing to pick out the word "me", and then something that sounded like "felt". It got suddenly louder and Darcy realized the other word was "help". Help me?
A chill trickled down her spine. Who was saying "help me"? And why? The voice faded away and she lay back down, disconcerted. Another voice suddenly began speaking, someone male, and louder, also shouting for help. His voice was desperate and panicked as he screamed, "Help me! Help me! I'm like you, just help!"
A fly buzzed against the window and she distractedly swatted it. On a whim, heart pounding, she whispered, "Who . . . who are you?"
More voices joined the male one, including the original, all shouting now, "Help us! Help us! You must!"
Some were quiet, resigned whispers, others youthful shouts, and still more were frantic yells. "Who are you?" she asked, voice trembling.
Their voices only grew louder, battling the sudden storm of static that came. "Help! Help!"
Then, just as suddenly as they came, they disappeared.
And Darcy disappeared too.
Though she wore only a tanktop and very short shorts, those clothes were clinging to her sweaty skin, and she wished that the pool wasn't closed today. How wonderful it would be to slip into the cool water, to feel it caress her skin, and then to dive under, far and away from the scorching sunlight! Darcy could almost feel the gentle waves over her, and she gazed at her tiny pink bikini.
Almost as bad as the heat was the boredom that clung to her, and she surveyed her small, light green-painted room in hope that she would think of something to do. Shrugging to herself, she picked up her sleek black MP3 and put on the headphones. Languidly lying back down on the bed, she let "Tell Me" by Boston wash over her.
As Darcy listened, half-heartedly humming along, she heard something faint in the background. Curiosity raised, she hit the volume button, but though the song became louder, the noise was just as faint. After a few lines, the noise grew less quiet, and she recognized it as the same few words repeated over and over again.
Frowning, she sat up again and listened hard, managing to pick out the word "me", and then something that sounded like "felt". It got suddenly louder and Darcy realized the other word was "help". Help me?
A chill trickled down her spine. Who was saying "help me"? And why? The voice faded away and she lay back down, disconcerted. Another voice suddenly began speaking, someone male, and louder, also shouting for help. His voice was desperate and panicked as he screamed, "Help me! Help me! I'm like you, just help!"
A fly buzzed against the window and she distractedly swatted it. On a whim, heart pounding, she whispered, "Who . . . who are you?"
More voices joined the male one, including the original, all shouting now, "Help us! Help us! You must!"
Some were quiet, resigned whispers, others youthful shouts, and still more were frantic yells. "Who are you?" she asked, voice trembling.
Their voices only grew louder, battling the sudden storm of static that came. "Help! Help!"
Then, just as suddenly as they came, they disappeared.
And Darcy disappeared too.
The Window
Rain trickled down the glass, glowing as the moonlight shone through it. I perched on the arm of the old, rugged chair, staring out the window. Behind me, someone padded in my direction, feet rasping on the sturdy, wooden floor. "Tara? Is that you?"
I turned around and saw my mother, slightly hunched over, and noticed silver lines in her once lovely, blonde hair. Turning back to the window, I remained silent. My eyes followed every movement outside in the night, every twitch in the grass and every sleek cat's leap. "What are you doing up so late, honey?"
"I'm waiting."
She smiled sadly. I could see how she had been pretty once, long before my four years. Her face had been smooth, smooth like mine, and her hair shining like the brightest gold. My mother loved to dance, and I could see she dreamed of being a ballerina again. She dreamed about many things when she slept at night, but mostly about dancing - dancing, and my father. Sometimes she worried that he was hurt, or cold, or lonely, or sad, and she often had terrifying nightmares where he was lying on the ground, covered in red. Now she sat down on the chair beside me, and I felt her eyes looking at me. "Well, what are you waiting for?"
I frowned, twisting the cloth of the curtains with my fingers. She never saw what I could see. "Daddy."
The sudden sadness that filled her sent vibrations in the air, and my skin tingled. "Why don't you go up to bed? Daddy can visit you while you sleep."
I didn't dream. I only walked in the dreams of others, and sometimes not even that. Sometimes sleep was death. "No. He's coming home."
"Tara? What do you mean?" There was hope in her voice. There always was, that or fear.
I leaned forward slightly to get a better look outside. The rain was slowing, and the drowsy pitter-patter fading. "Daddy's coming home from the war. Tonight."
She swallowed. "Oh, Tara. I'll make you a glass of warm milk, how about that? And then we can all go to sleep."
"I don't want any of that. I'm going to wait for Daddy." I crossed my legs and continued to watch the window. Her hand went gently on my shoulder, as she breathed in hope and breathed out grief.
Just then, a large car pulled into our driveway, two beams of light coming from it. I sat up straighter. "Daddy's home! Daddy's home!"
I jumped from the sofa and raced to the heavy door, pulling it open. "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"
Three men came into our house, two of them holding something, which they carefully set on the floor. They were talking to my mother, but I didn't listen. I could hear it later, anyway. I sat down on the floor, next to Daddy, smiling joyfully. I knew it would make my mother happy to see him, since she had always longed for him, every day, every time. Something like pride filled me when I thought of how I had gotten him home, pulled him away from the War. It was I who had gotten him home in whatever way would work. Now maybe, just maybe, my mother would think of me when she slept, dream not of dancing, not of my father, but of me.
But my mother, she cried.
I turned around and saw my mother, slightly hunched over, and noticed silver lines in her once lovely, blonde hair. Turning back to the window, I remained silent. My eyes followed every movement outside in the night, every twitch in the grass and every sleek cat's leap. "What are you doing up so late, honey?"
"I'm waiting."
She smiled sadly. I could see how she had been pretty once, long before my four years. Her face had been smooth, smooth like mine, and her hair shining like the brightest gold. My mother loved to dance, and I could see she dreamed of being a ballerina again. She dreamed about many things when she slept at night, but mostly about dancing - dancing, and my father. Sometimes she worried that he was hurt, or cold, or lonely, or sad, and she often had terrifying nightmares where he was lying on the ground, covered in red. Now she sat down on the chair beside me, and I felt her eyes looking at me. "Well, what are you waiting for?"
I frowned, twisting the cloth of the curtains with my fingers. She never saw what I could see. "Daddy."
The sudden sadness that filled her sent vibrations in the air, and my skin tingled. "Why don't you go up to bed? Daddy can visit you while you sleep."
I didn't dream. I only walked in the dreams of others, and sometimes not even that. Sometimes sleep was death. "No. He's coming home."
"Tara? What do you mean?" There was hope in her voice. There always was, that or fear.
I leaned forward slightly to get a better look outside. The rain was slowing, and the drowsy pitter-patter fading. "Daddy's coming home from the war. Tonight."
She swallowed. "Oh, Tara. I'll make you a glass of warm milk, how about that? And then we can all go to sleep."
"I don't want any of that. I'm going to wait for Daddy." I crossed my legs and continued to watch the window. Her hand went gently on my shoulder, as she breathed in hope and breathed out grief.
Just then, a large car pulled into our driveway, two beams of light coming from it. I sat up straighter. "Daddy's home! Daddy's home!"
I jumped from the sofa and raced to the heavy door, pulling it open. "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"
Three men came into our house, two of them holding something, which they carefully set on the floor. They were talking to my mother, but I didn't listen. I could hear it later, anyway. I sat down on the floor, next to Daddy, smiling joyfully. I knew it would make my mother happy to see him, since she had always longed for him, every day, every time. Something like pride filled me when I thought of how I had gotten him home, pulled him away from the War. It was I who had gotten him home in whatever way would work. Now maybe, just maybe, my mother would think of me when she slept, dream not of dancing, not of my father, but of me.
But my mother, she cried.
Love's Little Requirements
The room was warmly lit, with the glittering chandeliers swaying slowly, almost imperceptibly, but in time to the gentle, rhythmic music. Malcolm waited anxiously beside the grand, bronze doors, worried she wouldn't show up. Nervously smoothing out the wrinkles in his rented, navy blue suit, the university lecturer hoped that the first girl he'd ever gotten wouldn't blow him off. Around him were a handful of couples and one or two people alone, like him, waiting for their partners. "I should have just asked her to let me pick her up," he muttered under his breath, his deepset, violet eyes studying the glossy floors.
It wasn't entirely surprising that people were sneaking looks at him. With his china-white skin, lustrous, gold hair, and his queer eyes, Malcolm Scott was not an ordinary-looking man. Coupled with his natural shyness and preference for solitude, he had earned many stares, even as a child.
Just then, the door quietly opened, and a slender, beautiful girl slipped in. For a moment, her deep, green eyes searched the room, but when they landed on Malcolm, a lovely smile graced her face. She glided over, almost seeming to float in her simple but nice blue and white dress. For the first time since he'd met her, she'd worn her silky black curls down, instead of pinned up. "Daphne," he greeted her in relief. "You look . . . gorgeous."
She smiled prettily. "Thanks," she replied softly. "You don't look half-bad yourself." Her lips met his in a brief, gentle kiss, and then they parted. For a moment, their eyes lingered, and then Daphne pulled out of his arms. "Shall I get some champagne for the both of us?" she offered.
"No, that's all right. I'll get it. Wait here a moment, okay?" Without waiting for her response, Malcolm walked toward the long table, cloaked in a silk tablecloth. He awkwardly greeted some people along the way, but mostly avoided their gazes. Malcolm was not a social person.
When he reached the refreshments table, he saw another woman, almost as tall as him, with luxurious, straight white hair. "Miss Carr," he said cautiously. "How have you been?"
"Skip the formalities," she replied impatiently. "You always did dawdle, Malcolm."
He shrugged helplessly. "I wish I didn't have to do this," he sighed. "It's just such a shame, Clara."
Her chocolate-colored eyes focused on his own grim ones. "You're not backing out, are you?"
"No, no, of course not," Malcolm answered quickly as he poured the champagne. His hand trembled slightly, and he fervently hoped he wouldn't spill it on her blood-red and ebony-black dress.
She narrowed her eyes. "Good. Because such things as backing out have bad consequences. You know that, though, don't you?"
He bit his lip but didn't reply as he carefully carried the two glasses over to Daphne. "Here you are," he said, a faint smile on his lips. "To the power of love and all it requires."
Malcolm touched the glass to his lips but made sure the bubbly liquid didn't go down his throat. Seeing his hesitation to drink, she paused, with the champagne halfway to her mouth. "Is something wrong?" Daphne asked.
His eyes darted back and forth, and then he sighed. "Well, yes. Can we . . . can we talk in private?"
Uncertain, she followed him into a darkened, empty room, and he closed the door audibly. "Malcolm?" Her voice was frightened.
Swallowing, he reached out with his broad hand and gripped her neck tightly. "Don't make a sound," he warned, voice heavy. "It's easier that way."
"What are you doing?" she asked hoarsely. "Mal, what is this? A joke?"
He didn't respond, but instead placed his glass on a piece of furniture and forced her lips open. Then, in one swift movement, he poured the contents of her own glass down her throat, ignoring Daphne's gasps and chokes. Her body shuddered in his arms for a moment, and she crumpled to the ground, hair strewn about her face.
He stood silently and impassively for a moment, before he burst out the window, landing in the garden. Tears trickled down his face, but Malcolm ran on, as fast as his long legs could carry him. When he reached the split oak, he stopped and slumped on the wet grass, panting.
A few minutes later, Clara joined him. "You did well," she drawled. "Better than I expected, though you could have been more subtle."
And the night fell.
It wasn't entirely surprising that people were sneaking looks at him. With his china-white skin, lustrous, gold hair, and his queer eyes, Malcolm Scott was not an ordinary-looking man. Coupled with his natural shyness and preference for solitude, he had earned many stares, even as a child.
Just then, the door quietly opened, and a slender, beautiful girl slipped in. For a moment, her deep, green eyes searched the room, but when they landed on Malcolm, a lovely smile graced her face. She glided over, almost seeming to float in her simple but nice blue and white dress. For the first time since he'd met her, she'd worn her silky black curls down, instead of pinned up. "Daphne," he greeted her in relief. "You look . . . gorgeous."
She smiled prettily. "Thanks," she replied softly. "You don't look half-bad yourself." Her lips met his in a brief, gentle kiss, and then they parted. For a moment, their eyes lingered, and then Daphne pulled out of his arms. "Shall I get some champagne for the both of us?" she offered.
"No, that's all right. I'll get it. Wait here a moment, okay?" Without waiting for her response, Malcolm walked toward the long table, cloaked in a silk tablecloth. He awkwardly greeted some people along the way, but mostly avoided their gazes. Malcolm was not a social person.
When he reached the refreshments table, he saw another woman, almost as tall as him, with luxurious, straight white hair. "Miss Carr," he said cautiously. "How have you been?"
"Skip the formalities," she replied impatiently. "You always did dawdle, Malcolm."
He shrugged helplessly. "I wish I didn't have to do this," he sighed. "It's just such a shame, Clara."
Her chocolate-colored eyes focused on his own grim ones. "You're not backing out, are you?"
"No, no, of course not," Malcolm answered quickly as he poured the champagne. His hand trembled slightly, and he fervently hoped he wouldn't spill it on her blood-red and ebony-black dress.
She narrowed her eyes. "Good. Because such things as backing out have bad consequences. You know that, though, don't you?"
He bit his lip but didn't reply as he carefully carried the two glasses over to Daphne. "Here you are," he said, a faint smile on his lips. "To the power of love and all it requires."
Malcolm touched the glass to his lips but made sure the bubbly liquid didn't go down his throat. Seeing his hesitation to drink, she paused, with the champagne halfway to her mouth. "Is something wrong?" Daphne asked.
His eyes darted back and forth, and then he sighed. "Well, yes. Can we . . . can we talk in private?"
Uncertain, she followed him into a darkened, empty room, and he closed the door audibly. "Malcolm?" Her voice was frightened.
Swallowing, he reached out with his broad hand and gripped her neck tightly. "Don't make a sound," he warned, voice heavy. "It's easier that way."
"What are you doing?" she asked hoarsely. "Mal, what is this? A joke?"
He didn't respond, but instead placed his glass on a piece of furniture and forced her lips open. Then, in one swift movement, he poured the contents of her own glass down her throat, ignoring Daphne's gasps and chokes. Her body shuddered in his arms for a moment, and she crumpled to the ground, hair strewn about her face.
He stood silently and impassively for a moment, before he burst out the window, landing in the garden. Tears trickled down his face, but Malcolm ran on, as fast as his long legs could carry him. When he reached the split oak, he stopped and slumped on the wet grass, panting.
A few minutes later, Clara joined him. "You did well," she drawled. "Better than I expected, though you could have been more subtle."
And the night fell.
Spheres
Janie struggled with the uncooperative tent, and grunted, "Marcie, would you give me a hand?"
Her daughter glanced up from her cell phone, and crossed her legs on the transportable chair she was perched upon. "How should I know how to get that set up? Go ask Adan. Wasn't he a boy scout or something?"
The scowling boy glared at his PSP. "The stupid thing broke," he grumbled. "And no, I wasn't a boy scout. It was survival camp."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, big difference. Didn't the counselors have to rescue you?"
Adan flushed. "Shut up!"
"You shut up!"
"No, you!"
"Kids, kids," Janie said, fumbling with the pegs. "Calm down. This is going to work, I know it."
Marcie hit the buttons of her phone harder than she needed to. "You say that every time. It might work if Dad shows up - he is the camping expert anyway, isn't he? But wait, I forgot. He doesn't have time to come."
Throwing his PSP on the ground, Adan yelled, "This is so stupid!" His words echoed in the clearing, and birds flew away, squawking.
Janie gave them a pained look. "Come on, guys. He said he'd come. Maybe he's a little late, but there could be traffic or, or something else that held him up."
"Yeah, whatever." Marcie clapped her phone shut and shoved it in her purse. "Can Adan and I go hiking?"
"Well . . . all right, but stick to the trail, you hear? I don't want you two getting lost."
She grabbed Adan's hand and dragged him, calling, "Sure, Mom!"
As soon as they were out of earshot, Adan whined, "What are we going hiking for?"
"It's better than staying in the clearing, isn't it?" Marcie reminded him. "Now come on, let's go. Maybe there's something interesting in this stupid place."
"What if Dad comes and we miss him?" Adan asked as he sluggishly lagged behind his older sister's brisk pace.
Marcie stopped and turned around to face him. "Don't be an idiot! You know he's not coming."
He stared at his scuffed sneakers, mumbling, "He said he would."
"Yeah, well, Dad says a lot of things. You honestly expect him to come when he didn't remember you turned eleven last month? He didn't even attend my sweet sixteen!" Marcie ground her teeth together and turned away again. "Just . . . give up on him." She swallowed. "It's safer that way."
Adan kicked the dirt. "Whatever. Let's just keep going."
They silently trudged up the path, the searing heat forming beads of sweat on their foreheads. Suddenly, Marcie paused and squinted through the light. "Is that another clearing? There's none marked on the map . . ."
He shrugged and walked into the clearing, followed by his sister, who was still frowning at the map. "'Dan, it's not here. Something must be wrong."
Rolling his eyes, Adan yawned, "Who cares? Just another stupid clearing." Stretching, he noticed a small white sphere clinging to a branch, with a tiny metal hemi-sphere on top. "What's that?"
He slowly walked forward and reached out for it. When his fingers brushed against the soft, slimy surface, it suddenly wriggled off the branch and attached itself to his hand. Wrinkling his nose, Adan attempted to shake it off, but it was like it was glued there. "Marcie?"
"What?" She crumpled up the map and shoved it in her pocket. "Hey, what's that weird thing on your arm?"
"I - I don't know. It's like, stuck there." He looked up, worried. "Can you help me get it off?"
Marcie went up to him and gingerly poked it. "Eww! It's . . . gross."
"Get it off. Please." Adan shook his hand back and forth slowly. "Marcie, I can't feel my hand." Panic entered his voice. "Marcie!"
She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Do you want me to get Mom?"
He shuddered. "I don't care, just do something!"
Marcie turned to leave, but couldn't find the entrance. "Um. There's . . . there's no way to get out."
"What are you talking about?" His chin quivered.
"It's like, all dense bush." She swallowed, and then yelped when something cold landed on her thigh. Peering down, she saw another sphere on it, and the spot where it landed grew icy cold, then burning hot, and then she couldn't feel it at all. "One of them got on me, too!"
Trembling, Marcie tentatively wrapped her hand around it and yanked, but nothing happened. When she hesitantly pulled her hand away, she saw the sphere had duplicated and was now on her numbing fingers. "A - Adan?"
"I see it," he whispered, tears trickling down his face. "What are we going to do? How are we going to get out? And what are these things?"
She shook her head. "I don't know." Looking up desperately, she added, "There must be poision or something in them. Maybe they're mushrooms or something?"
"Mushrooms don't have metal on them, d - do they?" Adan hiccuped. "Look! There's more!"
Across from them, a bush was filled with them, and was rapidly turning brown. "Oh my god," Marcie said faintly. "It's - they're - Adan."
Color drained from his face, he held up his bleeding hand. He took a deep breath and screamed.
But there was no one who could hear them.
***
"They strayed from the path, Ms. Houston," the guide explained to the distraught Janie. "Then they fell in the river or somethin' and drowned."
"But they can swim!" she wailed. "They took swimming lessons, I made sure of it!"
He looked at his companion and sucked in air. "Well, I dunno, miss, but that's how we found their - them. In the water."
The two guides locked eyes for a moment, knowing they couldn't possibly tell the mother how they really found the two children - dead in the middle of the trail, just two heaps of dry bones, with even the marrow missing.
Her daughter glanced up from her cell phone, and crossed her legs on the transportable chair she was perched upon. "How should I know how to get that set up? Go ask Adan. Wasn't he a boy scout or something?"
The scowling boy glared at his PSP. "The stupid thing broke," he grumbled. "And no, I wasn't a boy scout. It was survival camp."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, big difference. Didn't the counselors have to rescue you?"
Adan flushed. "Shut up!"
"You shut up!"
"No, you!"
"Kids, kids," Janie said, fumbling with the pegs. "Calm down. This is going to work, I know it."
Marcie hit the buttons of her phone harder than she needed to. "You say that every time. It might work if Dad shows up - he is the camping expert anyway, isn't he? But wait, I forgot. He doesn't have time to come."
Throwing his PSP on the ground, Adan yelled, "This is so stupid!" His words echoed in the clearing, and birds flew away, squawking.
Janie gave them a pained look. "Come on, guys. He said he'd come. Maybe he's a little late, but there could be traffic or, or something else that held him up."
"Yeah, whatever." Marcie clapped her phone shut and shoved it in her purse. "Can Adan and I go hiking?"
"Well . . . all right, but stick to the trail, you hear? I don't want you two getting lost."
She grabbed Adan's hand and dragged him, calling, "Sure, Mom!"
As soon as they were out of earshot, Adan whined, "What are we going hiking for?"
"It's better than staying in the clearing, isn't it?" Marcie reminded him. "Now come on, let's go. Maybe there's something interesting in this stupid place."
"What if Dad comes and we miss him?" Adan asked as he sluggishly lagged behind his older sister's brisk pace.
Marcie stopped and turned around to face him. "Don't be an idiot! You know he's not coming."
He stared at his scuffed sneakers, mumbling, "He said he would."
"Yeah, well, Dad says a lot of things. You honestly expect him to come when he didn't remember you turned eleven last month? He didn't even attend my sweet sixteen!" Marcie ground her teeth together and turned away again. "Just . . . give up on him." She swallowed. "It's safer that way."
Adan kicked the dirt. "Whatever. Let's just keep going."
They silently trudged up the path, the searing heat forming beads of sweat on their foreheads. Suddenly, Marcie paused and squinted through the light. "Is that another clearing? There's none marked on the map . . ."
He shrugged and walked into the clearing, followed by his sister, who was still frowning at the map. "'Dan, it's not here. Something must be wrong."
Rolling his eyes, Adan yawned, "Who cares? Just another stupid clearing." Stretching, he noticed a small white sphere clinging to a branch, with a tiny metal hemi-sphere on top. "What's that?"
He slowly walked forward and reached out for it. When his fingers brushed against the soft, slimy surface, it suddenly wriggled off the branch and attached itself to his hand. Wrinkling his nose, Adan attempted to shake it off, but it was like it was glued there. "Marcie?"
"What?" She crumpled up the map and shoved it in her pocket. "Hey, what's that weird thing on your arm?"
"I - I don't know. It's like, stuck there." He looked up, worried. "Can you help me get it off?"
Marcie went up to him and gingerly poked it. "Eww! It's . . . gross."
"Get it off. Please." Adan shook his hand back and forth slowly. "Marcie, I can't feel my hand." Panic entered his voice. "Marcie!"
She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Do you want me to get Mom?"
He shuddered. "I don't care, just do something!"
Marcie turned to leave, but couldn't find the entrance. "Um. There's . . . there's no way to get out."
"What are you talking about?" His chin quivered.
"It's like, all dense bush." She swallowed, and then yelped when something cold landed on her thigh. Peering down, she saw another sphere on it, and the spot where it landed grew icy cold, then burning hot, and then she couldn't feel it at all. "One of them got on me, too!"
Trembling, Marcie tentatively wrapped her hand around it and yanked, but nothing happened. When she hesitantly pulled her hand away, she saw the sphere had duplicated and was now on her numbing fingers. "A - Adan?"
"I see it," he whispered, tears trickling down his face. "What are we going to do? How are we going to get out? And what are these things?"
She shook her head. "I don't know." Looking up desperately, she added, "There must be poision or something in them. Maybe they're mushrooms or something?"
"Mushrooms don't have metal on them, d - do they?" Adan hiccuped. "Look! There's more!"
Across from them, a bush was filled with them, and was rapidly turning brown. "Oh my god," Marcie said faintly. "It's - they're - Adan."
Color drained from his face, he held up his bleeding hand. He took a deep breath and screamed.
But there was no one who could hear them.
***
"They strayed from the path, Ms. Houston," the guide explained to the distraught Janie. "Then they fell in the river or somethin' and drowned."
"But they can swim!" she wailed. "They took swimming lessons, I made sure of it!"
He looked at his companion and sucked in air. "Well, I dunno, miss, but that's how we found their - them. In the water."
The two guides locked eyes for a moment, knowing they couldn't possibly tell the mother how they really found the two children - dead in the middle of the trail, just two heaps of dry bones, with even the marrow missing.
The Exodus
Kylie had spent a lot of time picking out her outfit. The clothes she finally decided on weren't for that day, but a day that would arrive in three weeks. And that day finally came.
She had to be careful that she didn't stand out - she needed clothes that would blend in utterly, until she was as invisible as a houseplant. Luckily, Kylie looked ordinary. Her shoulder-length, straight brown hair matched her dull eyes, and though she was a little on the short side for the role she was playing, being 5'5" for a fourteen year old, she was the best choice to further the Exodus. Even if someone Kylie were seen, with her bland features, it would be difficult to re-identify her. After all, there were thousands of girls that looked like her. Framing would not be difficult at all - not that she had ever had to do that. Kylie was the best, and she wasn't about to let that change.
The plain white t-shirt she slipped on and the light blue jean capris had been carefully worn out, so that they looked like she wore them often. If she had put them on shining and new, then she might as well just leave the tags on - which reminded her of how she loathed giving money to this country, but how else would she be able to complete the mission? It would all be worth it when she lifted the cover off the jar.
And it was such a shame that Kylie wouldn't be able to watch them all die. There would be no time to do that, though. Very quickly, she would have to shove the goggles on, snap on the face mask, and run.
Bending down, Kylie pulled on her white socks with the gray heel and toe, and then laced on her Nike sneakers. Just a regular girl in a small town. Oh, if only they knew. She picked up her beige purse with the silver clasp and slung it casually over her shoulder, before quietly opening the pinewood door and walking out. On her previous missing, she had blown up a bank. It was a small bomb that she had planted, designed only to kill a handful of people and functioned as a warning. Though Chase had been quite displeased later on, it was worth it to be among the witnesses and listen to the screams and smell the fear. Everyone had mistooken her laughter for tears of terror, which had only made her laugh harder. When Chase heard that, he had even threatened to suspend her from further missions, but Kylie could see in his eyes that he would have done the same thing.
It was already warm outside, and only 10:00 too. Perhaps she should have worn shorts instead, but it was much too late now. The sun was blazing in the cloudless blue skies, giving the perfect light to see the tortured faces as she released the virus. Perhaps someone would get video footage of this - a true Kodak moment, she thought to herself sarcastically.
As she turned the corner, she noticed a pair of girls behind her. Suspicions raised, Kylie discreetly slowed her pace until they weren't far behind her, and then stumbled onto the grass. She managed to get a good look at the girls. One was a little taller than her with frizzy blond hair, baby blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on her face. She wore a hot pink tank top and tiny, cut off jean shorts, along with large black flip flops. Next to Frizzy was a short, slender girl with chestnut brown curls and flat green eyes, underneath slanting, olive colored eyebrows, wearing a light blue t-shirt and dark green capris, accompanied by red sneakers.
"Oh, are you all right?" Red Sneakers reached down and helped Kylie up.
She managed a smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks." Brushing the dirt off her clothes, she wondered if she should kill them. "Just as clumsy as always."
Frizzy grinned. "I haven't seen you around town, like, ever. Did you just move here or something?"
Picking up her purse, Kylie replied, "Nah, I'm just spending the summer with my grandmother. I'm Kate, by the way. Kate Brown."
"I'm Evangeline Richards," Frizzy said, "but you can just call me Evie." She pointed to Red Sneakers and added, "That's Candace Tanner - she goes by Candy, though."
Kylie smiled. "That's cool. Where are you guys headed?" If they were going to town, then there was no need to finish them off.
"Oh, we figured we just go downtown, hang, you know?" Candy answered, her tiny pearly whites flashing in the sun. A heavy, gaudy gold bracelet swung around her painfully skinny wrist.
"Really? I'm headed that way too! I just came yesterday and thought I'd check this place out."
The girls exchanged an excited glance, and the three began to walk that way together. "How long are you staying?" Evie asked, flipping her wild hair over her shoulder, grimacing.
"Three weeks, so until August." Taking the hint, Kylie added, "I love your hair, Evie. What did you do to it?"
She smiled smugly. "Oh, it's natural. I don't use any, like, dye or anything - I heard that stuff completely ruins your hair."
"I thought it looked natural. You're so lucky; I totally wish my hair looked like that," she praised. Turning to Candy, she said, "And those are really neat sneakers. You have to tell me where you got them so I can get them too and impress all my girlfriends back home."
Candy flushed happily. "Well, see, my aunt brought them back all the way from the city. It was made by a really famous fashion designer, but I forgot her name."
"That's so neat! I'll check them out when I go home. You mean NY, right?"
"Yeah, New York City. Where else?" Candy giggled. "So wait, you live in the city?"
She nodded. Evie butted in, "Tell us everything. The city life must be so glamorous, right?"
Kylie shrugged modestly. "Well, it's not as you know, sophisticated, as you hear sometimes. I mean, it's like, smoggy, y'know?"
Just then, they arrived downtown. "That's a lot of stores," Kylie commented, as they made their way through the small clusters of teenagers and adults.
Evie sniffed. "It's probably not as big as anything you're used to, in the city. We're just a little town of nobodies, right?"
She glanced sharply at her. "Pride is a double-edged sword," she whispered, and then grabbed the small jar out of her purse. Ignoring their stunned faces, she threw it as far and hard as she could.
The glass smashed against the concrete at the same moment she tugged the face mask on and snapped on the goggles. Around her, people started the shriek as the virus took effect, falling to the ground and twitching. Blood dribbled from the corners of their mouths, but she couldn't watch. There wasn't time.
Just as Kylie started to sprint away, she made the mistake of turning her head. She saw Candy's face pale, and though she relished the image of Evie squealing like a pig, something writhed in her stomach. No, she thought in horror. I can't be feeling pity, not now, not me, the best! I am the best!
Gritting her teeth, she darted back and snagged Candy's arm. "Come with me," she snarled, her voice muffled. "And don't slow me down."
Dragging the panting girl behind her, Kylie ran away from the town, and had made it to the warehouse, where she saw Chase waiting for her. As he spoke, she suddenly realized, her heart sinking, that it had been a test. And the unvanquishable Kylie had failed.
"I can't have you hindering the Exodus," he said, his eyes self-righteous, knowing that the power of the mission was behind him. "This is all for the best."
Then it was Kylie who fell to the ground, Kylie who felt the last moment of pain, the last words she heard, and for a brief moment, she wondered whether it really was for the best. Was it really worth dying for an Exodus she would never see? The moral worries that had bothered her for a while were now filling her exhausted mind, and for once, she didn't care if she was turning traitor, for it was her last moments. And they were the only things in her short life that would be entitled not to a mission to destroy the country, but to herself.
She had to be careful that she didn't stand out - she needed clothes that would blend in utterly, until she was as invisible as a houseplant. Luckily, Kylie looked ordinary. Her shoulder-length, straight brown hair matched her dull eyes, and though she was a little on the short side for the role she was playing, being 5'5" for a fourteen year old, she was the best choice to further the Exodus. Even if someone Kylie were seen, with her bland features, it would be difficult to re-identify her. After all, there were thousands of girls that looked like her. Framing would not be difficult at all - not that she had ever had to do that. Kylie was the best, and she wasn't about to let that change.
The plain white t-shirt she slipped on and the light blue jean capris had been carefully worn out, so that they looked like she wore them often. If she had put them on shining and new, then she might as well just leave the tags on - which reminded her of how she loathed giving money to this country, but how else would she be able to complete the mission? It would all be worth it when she lifted the cover off the jar.
And it was such a shame that Kylie wouldn't be able to watch them all die. There would be no time to do that, though. Very quickly, she would have to shove the goggles on, snap on the face mask, and run.
Bending down, Kylie pulled on her white socks with the gray heel and toe, and then laced on her Nike sneakers. Just a regular girl in a small town. Oh, if only they knew. She picked up her beige purse with the silver clasp and slung it casually over her shoulder, before quietly opening the pinewood door and walking out. On her previous missing, she had blown up a bank. It was a small bomb that she had planted, designed only to kill a handful of people and functioned as a warning. Though Chase had been quite displeased later on, it was worth it to be among the witnesses and listen to the screams and smell the fear. Everyone had mistooken her laughter for tears of terror, which had only made her laugh harder. When Chase heard that, he had even threatened to suspend her from further missions, but Kylie could see in his eyes that he would have done the same thing.
It was already warm outside, and only 10:00 too. Perhaps she should have worn shorts instead, but it was much too late now. The sun was blazing in the cloudless blue skies, giving the perfect light to see the tortured faces as she released the virus. Perhaps someone would get video footage of this - a true Kodak moment, she thought to herself sarcastically.
As she turned the corner, she noticed a pair of girls behind her. Suspicions raised, Kylie discreetly slowed her pace until they weren't far behind her, and then stumbled onto the grass. She managed to get a good look at the girls. One was a little taller than her with frizzy blond hair, baby blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on her face. She wore a hot pink tank top and tiny, cut off jean shorts, along with large black flip flops. Next to Frizzy was a short, slender girl with chestnut brown curls and flat green eyes, underneath slanting, olive colored eyebrows, wearing a light blue t-shirt and dark green capris, accompanied by red sneakers.
"Oh, are you all right?" Red Sneakers reached down and helped Kylie up.
She managed a smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks." Brushing the dirt off her clothes, she wondered if she should kill them. "Just as clumsy as always."
Frizzy grinned. "I haven't seen you around town, like, ever. Did you just move here or something?"
Picking up her purse, Kylie replied, "Nah, I'm just spending the summer with my grandmother. I'm Kate, by the way. Kate Brown."
"I'm Evangeline Richards," Frizzy said, "but you can just call me Evie." She pointed to Red Sneakers and added, "That's Candace Tanner - she goes by Candy, though."
Kylie smiled. "That's cool. Where are you guys headed?" If they were going to town, then there was no need to finish them off.
"Oh, we figured we just go downtown, hang, you know?" Candy answered, her tiny pearly whites flashing in the sun. A heavy, gaudy gold bracelet swung around her painfully skinny wrist.
"Really? I'm headed that way too! I just came yesterday and thought I'd check this place out."
The girls exchanged an excited glance, and the three began to walk that way together. "How long are you staying?" Evie asked, flipping her wild hair over her shoulder, grimacing.
"Three weeks, so until August." Taking the hint, Kylie added, "I love your hair, Evie. What did you do to it?"
She smiled smugly. "Oh, it's natural. I don't use any, like, dye or anything - I heard that stuff completely ruins your hair."
"I thought it looked natural. You're so lucky; I totally wish my hair looked like that," she praised. Turning to Candy, she said, "And those are really neat sneakers. You have to tell me where you got them so I can get them too and impress all my girlfriends back home."
Candy flushed happily. "Well, see, my aunt brought them back all the way from the city. It was made by a really famous fashion designer, but I forgot her name."
"That's so neat! I'll check them out when I go home. You mean NY, right?"
"Yeah, New York City. Where else?" Candy giggled. "So wait, you live in the city?"
She nodded. Evie butted in, "Tell us everything. The city life must be so glamorous, right?"
Kylie shrugged modestly. "Well, it's not as you know, sophisticated, as you hear sometimes. I mean, it's like, smoggy, y'know?"
Just then, they arrived downtown. "That's a lot of stores," Kylie commented, as they made their way through the small clusters of teenagers and adults.
Evie sniffed. "It's probably not as big as anything you're used to, in the city. We're just a little town of nobodies, right?"
She glanced sharply at her. "Pride is a double-edged sword," she whispered, and then grabbed the small jar out of her purse. Ignoring their stunned faces, she threw it as far and hard as she could.
The glass smashed against the concrete at the same moment she tugged the face mask on and snapped on the goggles. Around her, people started the shriek as the virus took effect, falling to the ground and twitching. Blood dribbled from the corners of their mouths, but she couldn't watch. There wasn't time.
Just as Kylie started to sprint away, she made the mistake of turning her head. She saw Candy's face pale, and though she relished the image of Evie squealing like a pig, something writhed in her stomach. No, she thought in horror. I can't be feeling pity, not now, not me, the best! I am the best!
Gritting her teeth, she darted back and snagged Candy's arm. "Come with me," she snarled, her voice muffled. "And don't slow me down."
Dragging the panting girl behind her, Kylie ran away from the town, and had made it to the warehouse, where she saw Chase waiting for her. As he spoke, she suddenly realized, her heart sinking, that it had been a test. And the unvanquishable Kylie had failed.
"I can't have you hindering the Exodus," he said, his eyes self-righteous, knowing that the power of the mission was behind him. "This is all for the best."
Then it was Kylie who fell to the ground, Kylie who felt the last moment of pain, the last words she heard, and for a brief moment, she wondered whether it really was for the best. Was it really worth dying for an Exodus she would never see? The moral worries that had bothered her for a while were now filling her exhausted mind, and for once, she didn't care if she was turning traitor, for it was her last moments. And they were the only things in her short life that would be entitled not to a mission to destroy the country, but to herself.
Lost
Her bare feet swing over the gnarled branch and land without a sound on the dusty ground, not even so much as a twig cracking in the still night. Once, a long time ago, she had walked on two legs, but now she felt more comfortable bending over on her hands. As she silently lopes through the disfigured trees, her eyes flash in the gloom, the blue eyes once hailed as "darling" now eerily wild amid the yellow-tinged whites. Her uncontrollable yellow curls stop short at the bottom of her neck, having been hacked off with a sharp stone. Vaguely, she could remember how she spent so much time making sure they looked pretty, but now they were tangled and muddy and wet, but she didn't care.
That time, so long ago. So, so long ago. It hid in the depths of her memory, but she couldn't remember much, and didn't care to try. She didn't think all that much, just acted. But how long ago had it been? But here in the forest, there was no time. There was action, and there was reaction, just a string of incidents. Day passed and night came, then night passed and day came, but in the end, wasn't it all just the same day and all the same night?
As she struggled to grasp the ideas, she decided to stop. Thinking hurt. And there ahead, what was that? She parted the thorny bush, pricking her fingers as she did so, and saw it was only a boulder. Frowning, she suddenly sat down hard on the ground and studied the ruby red droplets trickling down her tanned skin. Once that skin had been rosy pink, and once that arm had been just a little plump. Now the bones showed through the weathered, scratched skin, but what did that mean?
That long time ago, there were people. They lived in a box. No. Not a box. Something like a box. A . . . a . . . it began with an 'h'. That, she remembered. And the people - she didn't remember them at all. She didn't remember any people at all. What did they look like? Were they like her? Did they make noises? Some of the animals in the forest made noises.
A half-forgotten memory surfaced in her mind. She had been sitting on something, a chair. That was the term, a chair. There was something big and flat in front of her, with food on the table. Food! Someone was saying, "Don't put your elbows on the table, Leanne . . ."
That reminded her of how hungry she was. Her eyes sought out something to eat, and landed on a squirrel. Slowly, she crept up to it and then pounced, her sharpened nails digging into its flesh as it squealed in terror. With a crude slash, it went limp, a cry dying on its lips.
The noises the person had made - what were they? What did they mean? She was very puzzled. It sounded like "don't put your elbows on the table, Leanne", so why did she wonder what it meant? It was just a noise, right? Then she suddenly remembered that people made noises that all meant something, they were words!
Words. She hadn't made a word in a while. A long while. She had made roars and screams and grunts and bellows, but no words. Briefly, she wondered if she still could, but then looked down and saw the bleeding squirrel in her hands. How did it get there? Oh yes, she had killed it.
Eyebrows furrowed as she thought about those troublesome words, she brought the squirrel to her mouth and took a bite, the tough, stringy meat dripping with red. Leanne. Hadn't that meant something special? It did, didn't it?
Another memory suddenly came to her. Flames burning the house, acrid smoke everywhere that choked her. She remembered flinging herself on the wet grass, under moonlight just like this, coughing. Then her brother had stumbled out, eyes bleary and confused. When he had seen her, his eyes widened, and then he burst into flames.
She stared at the squirrel, remembering the smell of burning flesh. Remembering running, running, as fast as she can, remembering the screams behind her.
Quickly, she threw the squirrel and darted away on all fours, until she came to the town. It was a poor town, with the wooden houses very close to one another. Everyone was inside sleeping, and she held the box of matches. Eyes glittering in the moonlight, she lit her third match.