Deliverance.
Olivya hated
that slithery word, that thin euphemism. Why not call it what it was? Murder.
Her legs tensed, straining to run through the front door, down the street, east
to Lake Michigan, and keep on going, right into the cool deep waters. Instead,
she crept to the foyer, careful to stay out of Mama's line of sight.
The
new GAD lay mummy-bound in a pale blue blanket. This one had no intention
of hanging out in a tranquilized coma or happily zoned on Hypno-Peace. He just
wanted out. She wanted to look into the soul of this death-wisher. Did it take
courage to broadcast that invitation to the Reaper? You are cordially
invited to escort me to oblivion.
The
sickly sweet stench of diseased flesh and stale urine wafted from the GAD.
His sweat-soaked orange hair lay like worms on his forehead. Straps
held his wrists to the side rails. His lips fluttered with each labored breath.
She frowned. He looked just like all the others. Nothing special - shrunken,
coma-tranked, and reeking. Was he a coward or a hero? The answer didn't show in
his face, but she could find it in his aura.
A
chill breeze rippled, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Maybe the old Reaper was
already standing right there, ready to claim his prize. If she allowed herself
to fully Sight, would she see
Death's black robes, its bottomless eyes rimmed in bone? She wanted to curse
it, spit in its hideous face. Like Papa, this newcomer had set out a welcome
mat for Death.
Mama
would be furious if she caught her gaping, disobeying orders to stay away.
Olivya would have to hurry, but a moment was all she needed.
She
closed her eyes, lifted her defenses and willed the Sight to come. Colors, shapes and lights swirled behind
her lids. She compressed them into a single point of white-light deep inside her
mind, then she opened her eyes.
The
GAD's aura, at first vague and wavy, sharpened into view. Despite the
drug-induced coma, misery rose from him in sluggish waves. The dull red of
malignancy throbbed against a background of greenish-gray - similar to the
other Good-As-Deads, but somehow weightier. Intuition told her to look more
closely.
Faint
hues darted behind that auric death-shroud, ghosts of the man's former
emotions. A streak of robin's egg blue, shimmers of peach. An eerie feeling
came over her. Something looked familiar about this combination of gentle
pastels in this particular pattern.
The
face of a smiling man rose in her mind's eye, one who had always been patient
with the friendless psychic girl. Mr. Gragg. Her Seventh Grade English teacher from
the old brick and mortar. Could this be him? It looked nothing like
him. Mr. Gragg had been thick-muscled and robust, his hair a riot of
bright orange ringlets. Yes. That pastel aura was Mr. Gragg's. She
recognized the colors of his unique, unflagging kindness. Why him? Then again,
so many in the world had cancer. Why not him?
Olivya
caught Mama's voice in the kitchen. “Any family?”
“Not
any more,” the deliveryman said.
***
It
wasn't just the thought of Initiation and what it might do to him that made
Mikah sick with dread. It was the fact that he'd have to be alone with Prime,
close to the monster's twisted energy and constantly morphing shape, that
hideous creature near enough to touch. He hated thinking about that
cellar-dwelling thing, yet his presence permeated the Complex. Prime. The
Ancient One. Vile. Disgusting.
Sometimes
at night, Mikah would gaze out his bay window, dreaming about what it might be
like to plunge through the glass and ride the gravity express straight down to
eternal nothingness. He'd catch a glimpse of a lurching form among the trees, a
darker dark in the shadows, oozing through the expanse of park-like grounds
that joined the Complex with the shores of Lake Michigan. He’d spy Prime, the
monster, slipping along the beach in random directions, as if lost.
That
shape sometimes caught the moonlight, a pale glow darting among the perfectly
manicured hedges at the Complex boundaries. Prime. No boogieman. Real. He'd
haunted Mikah's nightmares since he was a little kid. Lately, the changes had
accelerated. Prime was growing restless, leaving the Complex more and more
often, capering and shrieking about the grounds.
Just
a week ago, Mikah caught a rare sight of Prime inside the Complex, slinking
past an open door in one of the first floor parlors. He looked thick and
clumsy. Then yesterday, Mikah saw the beast again. He'd changed, become taller,
oddly flexible, and lighter on his feet. Only Prime's brown, shapeless robes
stayed the same, and the absurdly long black patent leather dress shoes
sticking out beneath his hems.
“You
should not put your attention on him,” Changarai said.
“My
shield is up. How did you know I was thinking of Prime?”
“You
wear the same expression you did as a toddler when Prime was near. One doesn't
need psionic ability to recognize fear.”
“Yeah,
well. It's just another thing that separates me from all of you. I fear him.
You worship him.”
“You
will too,” Changarai said. “Soon.”
No
way would Mikah stay alone with that shambling horror while they're at the
Gathering. Then he relaxed. He wouldn't be alone tonight. He'll be with Olivya.
***
They
barely heard the last as the stream swept them away. After what seemed like a
long time, they reached a sturdy bush on a muddy bank. They grabbed it and
pulled themselves up, soaked and shivering. The grassy sides of the moat,
though wet, were less steep here. Olivya scrambled to the top, Mikah close
behind. Her thigh burned where the fence had caught her jeans. She peeled
back the torn denim. A deep scratch, puffed and red, but the bleeding had
stopped.
Mikah
swiped at the splotches of mud and grass from his clothes. Olivya checked
him out beneath half-lowered lids. The moonlight illuminated him, as if
his strange aura attracted and magnified its glow. She'd never seen anyone
so beautiful, almost pretty, but rugged and rough. His skin was the color of
sweet tea, a pale creamy brown, incredibly smooth. Latino? Indian? No. Arab.
Maybe Native American? No way to tell. He was all races, yet no race. Strong
jaw, full lower lip, shining black hair, broad shoulders. He removed his light
cotton jacket to wring it out. He wore a form-fitting black T-shirt, now wet
and plastered to his smooth, wide chest. His torso V'ed down to narrow hips and
long-muscled legs. She glanced back up to his face to find those periwinkle
blue-violet eyes staring straight into hers.
She
looked away, busily rubbed mud and grass off herself. Just great. She was
supposed to be angry with him and he had just caught her, well,
ogling. And she was furious at him again, doubly so, for making her feel
embarrassed. He was the one who should be humiliated. After all, hadn't she
just caught him in a lie? Didn't he scare her half to death with that insane
light show? He didn't even care that her leg was cut, and it hurt like hell,
and, and− “You little liar!” She shoved her face into Mikah's. “How do you move
that way - blurry and super-quick? What the hell did you do to Ripper? And why
did Mako run away like a frightened dog when you barely touched him?”
Mikah
shrugged and sighed. “Olivya, it's complicated.”
“Use
small words.”
“I'm
not entirely human.”
Olivya
ground her teeth. More lies. She watched his aura, waiting for it to turn
lemon-green with deceit . . . and waited. It gleamed steady, a truthful
apricot-orange. She took a step back. “O-o-okay?”
“I
sensed you were special the first time our holo-sims chatted,” he said,
“but I didn't realize how talented you are, how intense your Sight. I wonder if
you even know.”
To go to the launch party follow this link https://docs.google.com/spreadsheet/viewform?formkey=dHNHcWtYRkRyaWFURTBudGl4bENHVlE6MQ
No comments:
Post a Comment