First Stab

 

****Check out this awesome guest post by Maria Mainero! You can find her at: her blog http://nevermindwastingtime.blogspot.com/ or on Twitter @MariaAnnaWitt

 

 

 

The oars plip plop in the water, sounding distant and close at the same time. I clutch my shawl tighter, a meaningless gesture that can’t protect me. The oarsman winks, then curls up his lip and hisses, flashing his fangs.

“Don’t rock the boat, sweetie,” he chortles as I jump.

They never said that only one of us would make it. Never. The way our mothers fussed and coached us, the way they celebrated, I figured.  .  .

I gulp and try to stop my thoughts before they turn to tears. I’m supposed to be strong. That’s why I was given this chance, wasn’t it? The chance to live as a free human, the future of our species. The reason we put aside our grief for the ones who were sent back from their Trial, and rejoiced for everyone who made it though. 

Will would get another chance, when he turned eighteen, after his three years of breeding. But at twenty-five, having produced five live children, it had been Sal’s final trial. My own mother never passed the Trial; she was taken when I was three, and I was given a new mother.  At age eight, I said goodbye again. Sal has been my mother ever since.

To lose her seems unbearable, and I start to hope for something I never would have wished until now.

We all swore we’d take death instead. We had to say that. Our own would kill us first if we dared to breathe that Vampire was the better life. Better than being farmed as food. Better than being set loose like wild animals, hunted for sport.

 A hollow thump stops the boat. “Don’t forget your satchel, sweetie. Full of wooden stakes?” He snorts at his joke and I wish I had staked him. I could have done it. I could have slipped the stake from  my satchel, and plunged it into his chest, just slightly to the left of the center of his white cravat.

Unless I missed, like I had at the Trial. Out here, there were no rules—no one to drag me out of the arena to an empty cell. I sat there alone, fearing there was only one fate, until they put me on this boat, without a word, without a bite.

I scramble onto the dock, gripping the clammy iron railing. The oarsman beats hastily away, leaving me in darkness.  Then another lantern brightens the fog. “Welcome to the Wilderness,” says a cracked, high-pitched voice.  Shadows fill the deep wrinkles on his face.  “A gal? We’ll take ye. If y’ c’n break the skin, you’re in, so they say.”

I’ve never seen a man so old before or hair so white. “They really let us live?”

“Aye. Best we can figure, we’re their executioners. From time to time, they’ll dump a vampire on this island, and we. . . .dispatch it. Did ye get in a good blow?”

“Through the arm,” I admit.

“We’ll improve yer aim.”

“Am I the only one?”

“There were three yesterday. They don’t bring you in groups anymore. Lost too many boatmen that way.”

“Who? Who were they?” I ask eagerly.

“Who they were doesn’t matter. Put the past behind ye. Who we are now, is what must matter t’ ye.”

I follow the old man up the dock, but he stops at the splashing of oars. “Will!” I shout, when I see him rowing alone. I feel gloating pride that he singlehandedly staked his boatman.

 He disembarks, smiling with the quiet restraint he always displays. I rush to hug him, but he brushes past me, his hand outstretched to our welcomer. In a flash, Will jerks the old man off his feet and twists his head, bones popping and snapping.

He turns to me, catching up the lantern. “They said if I could get you, you can come with me.”

I gasp out a foggy breath and sobs fill my chest. “How can I?” 

“I can do it, but not now. It’s not safe for me here.  Please, Annika, hurry, into the boat.” He’s still holding the old man’s lifeless body.

“How could you, Will?”

“Don’t, Anna,” he pleads. “You’d do the same, if it was your only choice.”

“Is it?” I say. He’s as silent as death. “Is it my only choice, Will?”

He looks down at the limp body in his arms. “I had to, Anna. What if you’d been waiting for me?”

He’s right, I would have done the same. . . .

If it was my only choice.

I clutch my satchel to my chest and take a shaking step towards him. His eyes brighten like citrine, a new luminous clarity to their brown. He smiles, and I shrink back, even though the smile is familiar, and his fangs are puppy-dog small.

“Let me just. . . before you come. . . “ he says, unable to speak the words for what his kind does. He bends his head, holding the man like he’s his turkey drumstick at Trial banquet.

I turn away and reach into the carpetbag. Who he was doesn’t matter. I hold the stake hidden in the folds of my skirt. We trained together, surely he’ll recognize my feeble attempt at stealth.

Will drops the old man into the lake and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, like he’s just drained a mug of milk. Dark stains line his teeth, as he smiles at me, his eyes wide in anticipation, his arms outstretched, his heart unprotected.

I spring at him with all my strength. I know my aim is bad, I’ve only wounded him. There are no rules out here.  He’ll defend himself, and like him, I won’t have a choice.

 “Best of luck to you, Annika,” he says, stumbling into the boat. He pulls the stake from his neck, and it falls into the water with a splash, followed by the plip plop of oars fading away into the fog.

 

Story by: Maria Mainero

Photo by: Jim Crossley

 

Bridging the Gap

Bridging the Gap

“So there’s this baby,” Aaron starts. He’s already laughing at his own joke. He can barely keep still on the log he’s sitting on.

Samantha shakes her head, irritated. They’ve been arguing the whole way up to the lodge. And unfortunately me and Jake had to sit near them while they went through their weekly hate-love fest. She’s upset because its senior year and the destiny she planned for them may be coming to an end. Aaron refuses to take things as seriously.

“I tell her I love her. What more does she want?” he asked us. That was Jake’s and my cue to agree with “You’re right, man.”

Truth is Aaron’s looking forward to their split. Her to state. Him to another state and a whole range of possibilities. Not girl-wise either. “I mean, I get out of the city and just see nature. You know? That’s pretty damn cool. Not waking up to drills. Worrying about SATs or my parents. Damn,” he huffed.

I’m also looking forward to college. Not taking a subway to school and back home. Not worrying about a coach yelling in one ear and a teacher yelling in another. We’ll get to walk around campus. Live away from the steady gaze of parents expecting us to be better. Jake, Aaron, and I are all going away on scholarship.

The chill from Samantha’s face and the air up here make me shake through my shorts and sweatshirt. The temperature change was sharper than I expected. I can’t help hunching my body. Jake gives me a look and I see we’re in close proximity. Me involuntarily seeking out body heat.

I mouth “cold” to him but his stare goes away all together.

“So the baby—” and before Aaron even gets to the punch line Samantha stands up and hits him in the shoulder.

“Shut up about the baby! Just shut up. Shut up. Shut up!” She’s shaking. Her arms are stretched out on either side of her and, yup, those are tears coming down her cheeks.

Aaron’s mouth practically scrapes ground. I think mine and Jake’s are too. One of us, I don’t know who, asks, “What is up, Sam?”

Her face is in her hands. She goes into full blown tremble mode. She mumbles something. I think I hear the word “ig’nant.”

Aaron rises. He pulls her hands from her face. “What?”

“Pregnant,” is what she said, says. Aaron’s jaw really drops. He takes a step back but still holds her hands.

There’s a poke in my ribs, then a constant jab before I notice Jake. His face is near mine. It’s a bit disorienting at first but I focus on what he’s saying. “Let’s go” he urges. I don’t hesitate. We leave Aaron and Samantha. She’s slapping him away again and he’s stock still.

Jake stuffs his hands into his hoodie and I follow suit. We walk a foot apart. There’s the sound of our feet shuffling against the ground, dirt rolling under us. We go up. And up until the fog gets thick and the air gets colder prickling the exposed skin on my legs.

“I should’ve worn track pants,” I say.

“You should have but you like showing off your legs.”

I laugh. “No one’s looking at my legs.”

Jake doesn’t respond. He picks up speed and starts climbing the path. He almost slips on something and I’m there, just like on the field, right at his back ready to catch him if need be.

“Watch yourself,” I whisper. He nods but jerks away from me.

I’m about to ask him what the deal is when we hit a bridge. One of those lame swinging ones with wood and rope that doesn’t seem like it’ll hold a squirrel let alone a person. The other side is nonexistent. The fog this high up covers anything more than a few inches from your face.

“The bridge to nowhere,” I quip but Jake doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look back at me or say anything.

He’s at the foot of the bridge his hands on either side of the rope railing. I rush to stand beside him. “What’s up with you today?”

The bridge sways under him when he steps on it. Jake takes another step sending the whole thing shaking like Samantha. My throat tightens up and I’m nervous about it holding his weight.

He moves forward practically forcing me to follow. “I swear you’re being such a douche nozzle right now.”

I catch up to him. My body swerves with the bridge no matter how slow I go. My palms dig into the rope and splinters catch into my skin. They sting but not enough for me to let go.

“Jake!” I yell until he’s almost engulfed in the fog. He stops. He turns around his body moving with the bridge. He looks at me. His eyes are as gray as the air surrounding us.

“What’s up?”

His eyes hold mine when he says, “We’re tight?”

I sputter. I glance over the side and see a bit of ground, way, way down. I swallow hard, feel the spit settle deep in my stomach.

He moves closer. “No matter what?”

“Yeah, we’re tight. You, me, Aaron.”

“I don’t mean Aaron. I mean me. When we go away… Room together, I don’t want things to get weird.”

“Weird? Why?” I falter a bit taking my right hand off the bridge but I hold up my fist waiting for him to pound it back and assure me he’s okay so we can get off of this shifting death trap.

He approaches. A rumble goes through my stomach as a gust of wind shifts the bridge. I grab at the rope but miss and am about to fall when I feel Jake’s arms clutching my body to his.

He whispers something in my ear. I don’t hear it all but I catch the key words. I hear things he may have wanted to say outloud for awhile. The glances and looks away make sense, so does his fear. I don’t respond. I let him hold me, not so much to keep me steady but to steady himself. 

_____________________________________

Story by: Jenn Baker

Photo by: Jim Crossley

The Bridge

by: Krystalyn

 Crossing the bridge takes patience. Thirty seven planks that need to be counted just right. If I miss a step, the clouds surround me. They scream and roll, twisting into stampedes of midnight colored horses or snarling wildcats. My own personal demons. And they know who's in control.

I do everything they demand of me. Skip the third plank because it squeaks. Go back if I forget to count one. Go back if I say a number wrong. Go back. Go back. Go back. And when I finally reach the end, I breathe a sigh of relief that I made it. Every day. To and from school in an endless cycle, as if I'm caught in a whirlpool and no one is stretching out their arms to save me.

But today...today I can't do it. It's too hard. I don't want to cross the bridge anymore. So I turn around and go home. Tell my mom I'm sick and hide in my room where the light switch taunts me. I feel the rectangular knob, worn nearly to a point from overuse. Flick it. Once, twice, three times... The clouds burst into my vision black and menacing, deeper and stronger than thunder. Seven, Eight, Nine...

Stop it!

I yank my hand off the switch and breathe through the urges. "My obsessives," I used to say. Before my mom noticed. Before the doctors named the imbalance in my brain. Before the medicine. Before I lied and said I was better.

In a way, I was better. And worse.

I pull my fingers through my hair and stumble into bed.

The ceiling fan spins too fast to count the rotations, so I watch it to focus my mind. To blow away the clouds. To remind me of what's real. Of school and drama club, and the cute new boy Mom hired to tutor me because I'm failing math.

“It's just a bad day,” I whisper beneath the hum of the motor. “Tomorrow will be better. Please, please let tomorrow be better.” But I know it won't.

Eventually the fan makes me dizzy so I bury my head beneath my covers and sleep. No clouds. No darkness. Just living breathing colors. A safe zone.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three taps pull me out of my dream. I emerge like a cranky ostrich forced to remove its head from the ground.

“Go away,” I mutter, mostly to the hearts on my sheets. All 352 of the damn things.

“Sarah. It's me, Luke.”

No. No! No! Not my math tutor. He already thinks I'm stupid. He can't know I'm a freak too. That the reason I take so long to do my work isn't because I don't know the answer. It's because I keep messing up the curves and the lines of the numbers.

Because I'm messed up.

He comes in anyway. I press my fingers into my eyes. I don't want to count the stripes in his shirt or his dimples.

“I've got your school work. Your mother said to bring it in.”

I drag my hands down my face. “Of course she did.” God forbid I miss an assignment.

He takes another step toward me. His army green backpack strains at the seams with the extra weight of my books. “I can help if you like.”

I shrug, though I would like it. Very much.

His narrow eyes squint until they nearly disappear. They're soft. Perfect. “Are you okay?”

I sniff. I hadn't been crying, but it feels like the thing to do. “Yeah. I just...” I gesture to myself, not sure what I mean by it. “Do you want to get started?”

He stuffs one hand into his pocket and scrunches up his shoulders, sucking his neck into his collar like a turtle. “Can we?” He hooks his free thumb toward my desk.

I slog out of bed, fight the urge to count my steps, but do anyway. When I reach my desk, I grab hold of the corner so I don't go back and recount them. The intensity in his eyes helps.

Eyes. Can he see? Does he know?

I blow out a breath, pushing the clouds away as I sit down and open up my math book.

He sits next to me.

I have two chairs in my room. The swivel kind so when I fidget, our knees touch. I want to draw hash marks on the side of my paper to count the number of times.

***

I stay home from school again, sticking the thermometer against a light bulb so my mother has proof of my illness. If I tell her the real reason, she'll make me take the medicine again. I can't do that, because then I'll be crazy and an insomniac.

I count the hours until Luke comes. I think of his perfect shoelaces, and the way he writes. Round and straight, like a kindergarten teacher. I wish I could do that.

He's exactly on time, and wears a smile all the way up to his eyes. For the first time in thirty eight months, the clouds don't seem quite so dark.

We trudge through our work, and while I erase my numbers, he takes my hand. I stop erasing and think of his hand and the calluses on his fingertips. I wonder if he plays guitar.

My work takes less time than usual.

***

My third day home. My mother insists it's the last.

When Luke comes, I'm already at my desk, gripping my pencil because I don't want tomorrow to come.

Math is more difficult. The numbers bend where they should be straight. Wilting and pooling on the page. The clouds claw at the edge of my vision. I grit my teeth and reach for my pink eraser. Luke stills my hand.

“No,” he says. “Once is enough.” I drop the eraser and turn to him. His eyes glisten with the same perfection that defines everything about him.

Perfection.

My breath catches. He knows. He understands. “Did my mother hire you because--”

He shakes his head slowly, his eyes fixed on me. “Only my family knows. And now you.” He slides his hand behind my neck, and I tremble.

“How do you--”  My words choke and burn. He loans me his shoulder, and I soak his shirt with my fears. 

How do you do it? I want to ask.

He tilts his mouth toward my ear and whispers, “I'll show you.”

***

An hour later, we stand in front of the bridge. The clouds roll in, shifting and swirling, obscuring everything. Growling. Gnashing.

“Sar--. Yo-- r—dy?” Luke's voice comes through tinny, like it's being broadcast over my grandpa's old CB radio. Bad reception. Syllables popping in and out.

I want to run home. Watch the fan. Hide.

His hand catches mine. Our fingers tangle, and I squeeze, finding my purchase in an intangible world.

“I'll count to three,” he says, “and we'll do it together.”

I stare at the bridge. At its thirty seven impossible planks. “Numbers, huh?”

He makes a sound, like he had wanted it to be a laugh, but it broke somewhere along the way. “Yeah.”

“Okay, then.” I puff out my cheeks and blow. “Three.”

One foot. Then the next. I dare the clouds by not counting. Instead, I focus on Luke's hand. The calluses on his fingertips. The press of his palm against mine. A board creaks. I freeze. Claws swipe at me, but I don't go back. I blow out another breath, sending the beasts back to their hidden caves, and move forward.

It takes several minutes, but we reach the end and step off onto the flat dirt path. The clouds don't follow. I look at him and sniffle; the tears give me a reason. “I did it.”

He cups my face in his hands and presses his lips to my forehead. “You did.”

But there are still so many bridges. “Will you walk me to school tomorrow?” It's not so much a question, but a plea.

“Every day.” An absolute.

I curl up against his chest and feel his arms tighten around me. I press my ear against his heartbeat and listen forever, until I lose track of the numbers.

***

Picture by: Jim Crossley

October's Picture

 

Happy Fall! Happy pre-holidays and in October...Happy Halloween! This photo is aptly called "Into the Fog," from Jim Crossley so maybe it'll inspire spooky, creepy stuff or maybe some elegiac, romance. Who knows? 

Happy writing!

Bitten

I can’t help but wring my wrists over and over where the handcuffs used to be. The skin that was eaten away there is starting to scab over, but I keep rubbing them off. I don’t mean to, but the itching drives me insane. I pull my sleeves down to hide the marks, because no one needs to see that. It’s not important.

Being locked up in that dark room for two months was the worst hell I could ever imagine. No sunlight. No fresh air. Nothing but cold concrete under my legs, and black, stale air that tasted like steam off a swamp full of alligator crap.

I thought I was going to die in that hole. That’s what they told me when they threw me in there, and after about three days, I started to believe them. The desperate screeching sounds from the cells beside me were enough to make me want to end it myself. But all I had was a case of bottled water, a loaf of bread, and cuffs that were so tight they chewed my skin to pieces every time I so much as took a breath. Not much I could do with that.

I sat in my own filth for a good week before the first guard came back to check to see if I was still alive. That was the first time in my life that I’d ever begged for anything. Couldn’t he see I was fine? Couldn’t he tell I’m one of the ones who’s immune? But he didn’t say a word. He just pulled out his pistol and put a bullet into the head of the thing that was once a person in the cell next to mine. I can still feel the constriction of fear in my chest and the sound of his boots clanking on the concrete as he walked away, leaving me chained to the wall, alone. I begged for him to come back and shoot me too, but he left me there.

A door squeaks open behind me, pulling me from my memories. I immediately draw my dad’s gun and swing around with it aimed and ready to shoot. I always keep it loaded and tucked into the back of my pants now. It’s not like my dad can use it from the bottom of the six foot hole he’s been trapped in for the last six years.

At least he was already dead when they put him there.

My girlfriend, Carrie, gasps. She presses her back against the bedroom doorframe and raises her hands, wide-eyed.

“It’s… It’s just m—me…” she sputters. I can tell she’s trying not to burst into tears.

I shrug an apology and tuck the gun back into my waistband.

You can never be too safe these days.

“I just came to check on you,” she says, not dropping her hands. Her back is pressed so tightly against the side of the door, that I can imagine her shoulder blades turning white from the pressure. She watches me with a well-rehearsed calm face, but she never really looks me in the eyes.

I miss the way she used to look at me. I used to have to piece myself back together when she’d glance up at me through those long black eyelashes, and as soon as I thought I had my dignity back in check, she’d smile. She’d smile, and it would slice right through me, and I’d have to start the process all over again.

I never got tired of that.

Now she only looks at me with darting eyes, like she’s afraid I’m going to rip her throat out. She’s yet to actually look into my eyes since I came home. I don’t blame her, I guess. The bites hurt just as bad as you’d expect them to.

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

I run my fingers through my hair—a nervous tick that I picked up from my father—and Carrie’s eyes lock in on my wrist. I know she’s looking for the bite, trying to make sure that I’m still not infected. It was supposed to have either turned me or killed me weeks ago, yet here I am, still unintentionally scaring the shit out of everyone.

“It’s fine,” I mumble. She quickly drops her gaze to the floor, embarrassed that I caught her looking.

“I made you some lunch,” she says. “Why don’t you come eat it? And you can leave the gun.”

I nod and she scurries out of the room like a scared cockroach. I don’t blame her a bit for being freaked out, but a hug from someone—especially from my girlfriend—would be nice. At least she still cares enough about me to feed me. Maybe there’s still hope for us.

 But there’s no way I’m leaving my gun.

I scratch an itching patch of skin on the back of my neck—probably a fungus I picked up in that disgusting hole—ignoring the handful of sticky scabs that fall off in my hand.

I follow her down the hallway to the kitchen, and we sit down at the table. She slides a paper towel-wrapped sandwich my way, and I nod in gratitude.

The day they finally let me out of the hole, she wasn’t there to take me home. They told her I died a few weeks before, I guess to ease her suffering. When I showed up at her front door, she didn’t think I was real. Apparently me being thrown into the hole for two months didn’t just screw me up.

Carrie lays her head down on the table and takes a shallow, shuddering breath. I take a bite of my sandwich and reach over to run my fingers through her hair. She used to like that, but she cringes away from me like I’m diseased.

“What?” I ask, a little too vehemently.

Carrie raises her eyes to meet mine, and for a split second, it feels like it used to. My lungs stop working. My heart stops beating. The entire world and everything in it freezes, controlled by her sapphire blue irises. But then she blinks all that away, and I feel dead again.

“I can’t let you stay here,” she whispers. “The guards… they told me they didn’t let you out…”

Shit. I sort of forgot about that. That day is hazy in my mind now. I vaguely remember the bodies littering the floor of the entrance of the hole, and wiping the blood from my chin as I climbed up the ladder to get out.

I couldn’t take the chance of something happening to Carrie. If I wasn’t going to die, I was going to get out of that hole. Something in me had snapped that day.

Carrie continues. “They were here a few minutes ago, looking for you. I told them you weren’t here, but they said they’re gonna come back with a warrant.”

Her blue eyes turn dark and her eyebrows crinkle in fear. “They said there is a mutation of the virus, and that you’re showing symptoms. They said I should be afraid to be alone with you.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she adds, “They said you’ve already killed some people. Tell me that’s not true.”

I can’t answer her because I can’t lie to her. I stare down at my hands. They’re not the same color they used to be. I compare them to Carrie’s and realize they’re not the same lively peach as hers. A grayish tint has started to leak through my veins and spread through my skin, like a bruise covering my entire hand.

No! I’m immune! That’s why I haven’t turned yet.

“I need you to leave, Aaron,” Carrie says, pushing herself up from the table. “Now.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and jerks her head towards the back door. The motion sends a rush of blood through her neck arteries, and for a split second, my mouth waters. Her skin smells so good. Delicious, almost.

I distract myself by scratching the itching patch of skin on my neck and come back with a palm full of scabs. Hmph. Maybe I’m not so “immune” after all.

“Carrie, that sandwich was disgusting,” I hear myself say as I inch towards her.

This isn’t me. What is happening to me? My vision is starting to blur and my skin feels like it’s going to crawl right off my bones and leave me a twitching skeleton on the kitchen floor. I stumble towards Carrie, reaching out for her to help me stand.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, as she pulls a small pistol out of the back of her pants. “It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him,” she chants to herself as she raises the gun and aims it at my head.

She meets my eyes one last time just before she pulls the trigger. And for the first time since I met her, I don’t even make the effort to piece myself back together.

Story by: Stefanie Marks

Picture by: George Hodan

Blood Ties

 

 

 

 

I will not fail tonight.

I say these words to myself as I wrap the chain around my wrist five times, so tight that the fingers of my left hand start to tingle. I drop the padlock through the chain’s links and jump a little when it clicks into place. My keeper, the man assigned to watch me prepare, pulls on the chain and examines the lock. When he’s satisfied, he steps backwards and away. His face is expressionless. I didn’t expect any different, but still…I’d hoped for some sign of how he thinks tonight will play out.

“Clean kill, Jason,” he says over his shoulder which is both a farewell and a warning.

It’s still light out, but the long shadows our bodies keep casting over the grass make it clear that night is getting closer. Crickets chirp loudly all around me, safely hidden in the grass. The sound grates on me, makes the nervous flutter in my gut get faster. I have maybe another half hour tops before the daylight disappears completely and my Testing begins. I’m standing outside the thick glass-like domed structure that separates our town, from where I am now in the Boneyard. All around me are the remains of animals and people. I try not to look down at them, but the smell is a constant reminder. Inside the dome my family is lined up, their noses pressed to the transparent wall between us. All around them the rest of our town crowds in close, anxious to have a clear line of sight to me and to what’s about to happen. You’d think after so many Testing nights they’d be sick of it. I wave with my free hand and give them what I hope is a brave grin. I swear I’d rather bleed out right now than let them see how scared I really am.

 I scratch at the short hair on my arm and try to smooth out the gooseflesh beneath it. My insides are quaking something fierce. I need to calm down and clear my head.

The sun sinks a little lower.

“I-eeeee!” An eager keening erupts from within the darkness of the trees just beyond the Boneyard. There’s a flurry of rustling movement in the shadows. The bushes and high weeds start shushing—a restless sound that saps the moisture from my mouth. I force a swallow, put my hand to my waist and pull out the slim knife hidden there.

The sun sinks lower still.

I adjust my grip on the knife. My hand is wet, slippery with sweat. Behind me I can hear the muffled thumping of my family. They’re pounding on the dome, urging me to be strong. I don’t have to turn around to know that my mother is crying. She hasn’t stopped since my sister turned.

The sun is a thin blade of orange resting on the trees, almost gone.

There was a time when I thought I wouldn’t have a Testing. My family was always careful—to stay inside the dome, to plug their ears with thick cotton every moonless night so they wouldn’t hear the Biter’s song. It’s hypnotic—and that alone is a curious thing—an almost irresistible need to hear that can’t always be denied, even if a person knows what might happen if they do hear it. They were strong and determined and I was glad even if I did want to be a slayer more than anything. The truth? I didn’t want to go through the Testing to be one. Family always meant more. Always.

But here I am.

And the sun is down to a pinprick.

I take a breath.

It’s gone. Darkness falls completely, like someone erased the whole world. There is no moon. There are no stars. Not on this night. Never on this night.

I pull the night vision goggles from around my neck and onto my eyes with my unchained hand. The world goes from black to green and I can see the trees and the Boneyard clearly again. I stare hard at the edge of the woods and wait. I’m not sure how I’ll feel when I see her, but I know that even if she was sister once, she isn’t now. She’s a Biter, what the elders used to call a vampire and she has to die.

“Jaaaaasoooon,” a voice sing songs from somewhere in front of me. I watch as she steps out from behind a tree. I’d expected it to take a little while for her to show herself. I’m not ready yet. I hold up the knife where she can see it. Behind me the pounding grows louder. I’m not supposed to let her know what I’m about to do. I’m supposed to look like easy prey—chained and smelling of the very blood that used to run through her veins too. We’re only supposed to bring out the knife when our Biter is close enough to kill.

“Broo-therrr,” she says softly, her voice tiny and high pitched and familiar yet distinctly other at the same time.

She sniffs at the air and her mouth splits into a wide grin. There is blood on her newly pointed teeth. I want to gag.

“Emily,” I say and even I can hear the quake in my voice. “I’ve missed you.”

She cocks her head, stares at the knife.

Behind me the pounding is loud, frantic. It seems to be synced to my heartbeat. The knife slips from my hand. Before I can lean down to retrieve it Emily closes the distance between us in a flash of white movement, her nightdress whipping out behind her even as she moves her face up close to mine. Oh good god, the smell of her. It’s death and blood and rot and my eyes tear up.

“Come with me, brother,” she practically sings, her voice taking on that lilting quality that all of their voices have. My brain goes fuzzy. I watch her hand come up to my face, her fingers working at the goggle straps on both my cheeks.

I hear screaming now and I’m not sure if it’s my family’s cries or my own.

Emily ignores it all and slips one sharp nail under the goggle strap beside my right eye. She jerks her finger upward and slices through the leather…and my cheek. The sting clears my head just a little, but it completely distracts Emily. I watch her eyes widen as she stares at my cheek. She lets out a little gasp and opens her mouth. Leans in.

Now! Now! Now!

I drop on all fours and grab the knife—a razor sharp blend of steel and hickory wood—and drive it upward before I can rethink it. I watch her with my left eye because the goggles are now sideways on my face and not covering my right eye at all. I expect her to drive backwards, hands to her chest, her nightdress drenched in the blackish blood still coursing through her, but instead she just stares at me.

And then my chest feels as if it’s caught fire. I bring my chained hand up to my heart. The links clink together as I move. The knife is sticking out of my own chest. Her speed was greater than I imagined. I never even saw her move. Now she hovers over me, her tongue peeking out between her closed lips the way it always used to when she was concentrating on something.

I’m going to fail. Heck, I’m going to die. I’m sort of shocked at how distanced I feel from this little revelation.

But then I look behind me and notice my parents on the other side of the glass. My mother is yelling at me to get up, I can see her mouth the words. She’s lost one child and unless I do something she’ll lose another. I can’t let her and then it will be up to her to finish us. I can’t let that happen. And so I turn back to Emily and pull the knife from my chest. She practically giggles when blood pours from the wound. I open my arms.

“I’m ready,” I say and she leaps at me as if she’s preparing to hug me extra hard. Her mouth drops open and I stare at her teeth, not her eyes or her face as I bring the knife up to her chest and plunge it into her heart.

 

***disclaimer: this story was written in one sitting and is not edited at all because well, I am away from home doing authorly type stuff and my to do list is massive right now. It is the unvarnished rough draft in all it's glory:-) And now I shall pass out!

 

 

Story by: Amy Christine Parker

Photo by: George Hodan 

Expiration Date

Expiration Date

Adena’s fingers slipped through the blinds widening the view she had of the boy.

Still there, with his arm out, staring down at the chains linking him to the fence.

She squinted her eyes. With the sunlight fading it was getting harder to tell how he looked today. But he certainly wasn’t going anywhere.

Celeste had been the one to spy him coming up the road. Carrying a satchel and nothing else but a sorrowful mug. In truth, Celeste hadn’t actually seen him. Her vision was of this boy and Adena knew it would only be a matter of time.

Two days passed and the skittering of pebbles on ground brought Celeste’s vision to fruition.

The boy was skinny, too skinny. It was one of the first tell-tale signs for some, and for others it was evidence of not knowing how to stay fed. He was easy prey for anyone coming around but Celeste and Adena couldn’t be too careful.

“How long are you going to look at him?” Celeste asked from the couch. A quilt covered her up to her neck and her face looked paler than usual. Where Adena had the colors of her ancestors Celeste had been all but washed out. Fighting for survival took every ounce out of her and even at the age of eighteen it’d caught up with her. Adena, just a few years younger, still had the tenacity to get things done around their space. To keep it tidy but not quite clean. Clean would be noticeable. Clean would attract attention. Anything gleaming or shiny or smelling of life would bring interested parties the girls had no interest in meeting.

“Just making sure,” Adena replied.

“Yeah, well, don’t make too sure.” The taunt and warning were an undercurrent in Celeste’s voice. Adena knew what she meant. Those before this boy. The one that had been unchained and was almost their undoing had Celeste not had an ax and a great arm. But that was then. That was when Celeste still had energy and vibrancy to wipe sweat from her brow instead of Adena bending over her frail and patchy body to wipe her head for her.

“We can’t afford for him to get loose,” Adena said and she heard a huff behind her in agreement.

The sun set. The moon no longer hidden. The darkness surrounding the boy shrouding him and the only inkling that he was still there was the clumping of grass under his feet as he paced and his occasional tugs at the chain forming a melody Celeste hummed to.

“How long do you think?” Adena asked but got silence as an answer. When she turned back Celeste was fast asleep. Her jaw opened, her snores low but consistent. Sighing Adena slid the blinds shut. She peeked outside one more time. The boy knew better than to scream or draw attention to himself.

Feeling the pockets of her sweater for goods Adena closed the door as quietly as she could and stepped out to see him.

She smelled him, felt his presence as she got nearer. He smelled ripe. Filthy. She’d watched him go to the bathroom in the field and turned to give him some semblance of privacy.

“What do you want?” he said. It was one of the few things he did say whenever she got close enough. He didn’t lunge at her like the girl before him and he didn’t try to spit at her like the boy before that. His voice was guttural when he repeated his question.

What do I want? For Celeste not to be sick. For things to be the way they were. For us not to have to be who we’re not just to stay alive. For you to be a boy who wants to be with me instead of being forced to.

She held out the bread she’d made that morning. He scraped it off her palm and chewed. Mumbling a thanks is what hit Adena. Him having manners wouldn’t make things any easier.

“What’s your plan?”

“Take it day by day,” she said.

“That’s all?”

“You got a better plan?”

“No." He got silent for a bit before adding, "I guess not.”

She wanted to touch him. To trace her fingers along his lips and see if they were as cracked as they seemed when she last got a good look at him before knocking him out or if they were as smooth as the last boy who had kissed her.

“Do you even know what’s going on?”

Unable to answer or unwilling she nodded.

“Was that a yes?”

“It was,” she said.

“You know I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m just trying to get by now. With the way things are.”

She nodded again and after not hearing anything he got huffed up a bit more. “You just going to stand there and not say anything?”

“Sorry. I know you don’t want to hurt me or anything. But we can’t take any chances.”

“It’s been a few weeks.” He started coughing. She couldn’t see what came out of his mouth but a dark stain mussed his front teeth. “I’m not a threat. You keep feeding me. Giving me stuff to keep me warm. By now you should know I’m fine. Just let me go. I’ll leave and won’t turn back.”

“Wish that I could.”

The chain rattled again. “Why can’t you!”

“Because…” she took a step back.

More rattling. “Well? You don’t know do you!”

“Please calm down.”

“I won’t! You expect me to die without a fight and that’s not going to happen. Let me go!” Ching. Ching.

Celeste’s visions were accurate. He’d change. They all changed. She just had to wait it out rather than be a victim when they did. She walked away knowing the symptoms and the rate at which expiry would start. 

______________________

Story By: Jenn Baker

Photo By: George Hodan