

#  Vampire Music

#

M.A. Morse

Hannah Sherbourne

Copyright 2012 by Ashby Navis & Tennyson Media Publisher, LLC.

Smashwords Edition

Also available:

Vampire Music (With QR CODE Sountrack)

Vampire Music App (Book with full-length soundtrack that plays as you read)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author and co-author and their imaginations. Any resemblance to persons, places,or things in the world are coincidental.

The "Vampire" Music video was directed by, and used with permission from Joe White. The music is used with permission from Matt Barker.

Official Website -

http://www.vampire-music.com

Official Twitter -

https://twitter.com/WesAshbyBook

Official Facebook -

http://www.facebook.com/VampireMusicNovel

3D Sound Samples feature Holoacoustic technology. They are used with permission from Quarterplane. quarterplane.com

Apps Coded by: Hank Wilson

E-book and Standard Android covers feature a Johnny Rosa photograph of Rick Mora

Deluxe Edition model: Kristine Conner

Cover Photography: M.A. Morse

Audio book model: Hannah Sherbourne

Official Vampire Music Soundtrack by: Matt Barker

Jewelry items featured within provided by Elizabeth Tabatabai. The items are available for purchase online at www.ZombiesGoRawr.Etsy.com:

–

Edited by: Sheryl Jones

Public Relations: Laura O'Bar vampiremusicpr@gmail.com

© 2012 M.A. Morse

Vampire Music Soundtrack by Matt Barker

# Chapter 1

#  September 17, 2092

#

Subtle flashes, fragments of memories of my fifth birthday are all that remain before the crash. On that day, an agency tested my blood in a large blue marble building. My parents tell me the geneticists discovered a mutation. The discovery will require me to either train and try to qualify for the Ceremonial Guard or serve two years in mines as a locator. My parents immediately chose to have me trained for the Ceremonial Guard. My great-grandmother said the laws requiring the testing begin after society rebuilt from the black typhus outbreak of 2020. The outbreak nearly ended the human race.

Now that I am seventeen, a subject much more exciting and not imaginary, or so I try to convince myself, is the connection between an older man Wes Ashby, and me. He is nearly a full year older. The memory of the spark that happened between us at once at a concert stirs my blood as if it were a delightful broth swirling in a cup. Wes is quite the selfless gentleman. He volunteers regularly with the group Recycling for Children.

Unfortunately, my dating life tends to be more like a decades-old Taylor Swift music video. I'm the best friend and the boys go after the cheerleaders. One difference is I can kill a cheerleader seventeen different ways, though I would never do such a thing. My tendency to speak my mind, lack of dance coordination, and cooking ineptitude are among a laundry list of things that repel many suitors.

As far as my tastes go, there are also no Mr. Darcys where I go to school, though I remain optimistic about meeting someone. If that doesn't happen, Wes will never leave my imagination lonely.

All that considered does Wes Ashby love me? I'm positive that he doesn't, but that is only because he has no idea who I am. We have yet to be introduced. I am hopeful that the memory of when we touched hands at that concert long ago will come back to him when we do meet one day.

Excitement races through my hearts as my fingers quickly swipe my reading tablet through the last pages of Clockwork Angel. My heart races as I finish the novel. I need Clockwork Prince now, but it's too expensive. Most of the books in the app store have doubled in price in the last year. I may need to wait until my birthday to get the next book. Sorry, Will.

I bite my bottom lip as beams of morning sunshine penetrate the east window of my parents' West Texas house. I feel the warmth against my cheeks standing by the living room window. I close my eyes and focus on my music. Wes Ashby's voice flows gently from my music phone card and into my soul.

I open my eyes. A bottle of liquid lavender reflects a beam of sunshine into my sensitive eyes. My mother's plants, bright green with orange and yellow flowers, bend towards the rays of light. My tablet sits on the kitchen counter. The screen saver displays fields of vibrantly-colored purple and blue flowers, some of which appear to be bluebonnets.

My mother and stepfather are both working, and I am alone. My mother remarried five years after my biological father left us to chase some other woman. My anger sets in when I hear it happening to others. Why do people engage in such vile deception when they both know it violates the trust of another relationship? I swear I'll never be so idiotic so petty. That is enough about him.

My eyes close again, giving priority to my other senses. I take a slow short breath and begin to distinguish between the scents of the last two air fresheners my mother uses in the house. One is a strongly sweet tropical flower scent covering the other, orange and cinnamon.

Familiar music continues to flow out of my music card. It flows like natural waters primed from the now-illegal iron pump sitting by the Stahlstown spring. Truly great music stirs deep inner feelings, permeating the soul. Such music requires little effort from the listener. That is, until the music player runs out of power.

"Oh you piece!" I scoff at the dead music card as I give it a shake, hoping for a few more seconds of music. I will lose my sanity if my music is absent for too long. I wrinkle my nose at the player, slip it into its glowing orange charger on the wood-grain countertop, and ponder what might take the place of my music.

Desperately trying to escape boredom, and glancing about the room, my gaze fixes on one of my mother's blank canvases. I don't have the same passion for art as my mother, an imaginative painter with an amazing eye for depth and color. Many of her friends say I have that same talent. She, however, doesn't have the periods of boredom in her life as I do. She uses her free time to get lost in painting. She spent most her energies when I was younger enrolling me in art classes and encouraging me to dress fashionably, which I never wanted any part of, wanting me to follow her example. Despite her many attempts to mold me into her successor, I simply lack her ability to be self-amused.

Suddenly, as if it bumped into me at a crowed shopping mall, a wild idea comes upon me. I look around the silent room cautiously, and after I am satisfied that nobody is around, I remove a small round area rug from the corner of the room. A black and silver flat-head screwdriver sits on the edge of the desk, and I use it to pry off one of the Spanish tiles from the floor. I reach inside the exposed hole in the floor and pull out a dust-covered brown leather book with a broken brass lock on the front.

I open the book, given to me by my great-grandmother, and flip through the blank age-worn pages. It is illegal to read or own books written on paper.

"To ensure the protection of the country and to prevent rebellion, the government will approve all of the books for the education and entertainment of the people." President Rutledge once said in a televised press conference. His Omega class bracelet shone as brightly as his flawless white teeth.

The government regulates and approves all electronic book purchases and downloads to digital tablets, pads, and computers. I absolutely love reading. My digital tablet contains over 300 books, mostly teen fiction and classics.

I sit down on a brown desk chair and try to convince myself that I'm not about to commit treason against the government. I remove an ink pen from a slot in the leather binding of the book and place the book open to the first page on my lap.

Today I don't feel very guilty, especially when considering the fact that the government yesterday limited touch text messaging to four words each message and four letters per word. We also will only be able to send one message to the same person every six hours. My friend Shark is going to be furious when she finds out about this.

All citizens are required by law to wear a silver bracelet with their respective class symbol engraved upon it. Our household and family are Kappa class socially, not by earnings or standing, but by occupation. Some of the wealthier classes despise the government's classification of Ceremonial Guard Trainees and professional artists as Kappa. Many in the upper classes believe such occupations are functions of the lower classes. Since I am a Ceremonial Guard Trainee and my mother is a professional artist, our family is Kappa. This does not come without animosity from the truly wealthy, mostly in the form of social blacklisting.

There are a few benefits to our standing, as my parents have a phone plan, which includes myself on it. This is fabulous, except most of my friends don't have a phone and can only touch text.

The device I use the most is my touch tablet. The bad thing about this device is that the government monitors everything I write on the tablet. The government, in fact, monitors all electronic typing devices. Because of this, I write nothing of personal importance. I refuse to surrender my personal thoughts and feelings to them.

The idea of recording my private thoughts and ideas without the prying eyes is very appealing. I desperately need an outlet for my deepest thoughts and ideas.

One such subject is a strange series of reoccurring dreams. A powerful and cunning woman, jaguar-fast with hair like the night sky, haunts me. She's been traversing for years. In these dreams, I see a person that is not me, yet in my own reflection, I am a warrior named Daeron. I don't recognize him, but I control him.

The aging journal rests in front of me. I remove the black cap from the pen. My right wrist flexes in a circle and begins to write on the first yellowed page. The ink glides across the page, a shining silver gel.

My account of the events transpired begins with a dream. Within my dream, I was having a dream. In that dream, I was having a dream. This went on and on until I felt lost. I believed my head would burst from the confusion, as nothing made sense.

I opened my eyes and nothing around me was familiar. "What have I done?"

Standing alone on a trodden-down footpath, plants on both sides of me stood out bright green against the color of the glowing lavender sky. The colors meshed so well that it was not possible to tell where the sky ended and where the pasture began.

Behind me, a cliff dropped into depths unseen. I began my journey in one direction, forward. I don't know why I was walking, or where I was going, or even how I came to this place. Do I really have another option other than to follow the path in front of me?

The scents of the flowers in the fields were overwhelming, a heavenly aroma that seemed to soothe my soul, assuming I even had one.

I picked a yellow flower and sat down beside the path to rest. I carefully pressed into the flower with my thumb. Purple syrup oozed out from the yellow bulb and rolled onto my thumb. I licked the syrup. I still remember its magical taste, delicious enough to delight the gods. I broke open the flower and sucked out the syrup, discovering that this produced an energizing effect. I leapt up and began my journey to nowhere with a lifted spirit.

My cheerful endeavor wore off quickly as the darkness overcame the light. The shadows came alive -- my darkest thoughts were becoming reality. The flowers wilted and sprouted purple flames around me. The air had become much thicker. It was hard to breath. My lungs ached from the pressure. The path was dark and there was no light in the sky.

Panic began creeping up inside me, and the more I told myself to relax, the more I worried about the terra incognita. I felt like prey, watched from afar, but my quick glances around revealed nothing.

My most lucid dreams had never achieved this level of reality. Though I was fully aware and wide-awake, I was lost in time and space. I was in the dream long enough for it to feel real, but I knew that I was not. I woke up from that dream a while ago. Then, in the shadows still far ahead of me, I saw a glint of green light, as if eyes were peering out at me from the darkness. I felt more frightened than ever. I was being hunted. I ran, quickening my pace to get through the night.

When the sky finally grew lighter, the flowers were gone, and I saw that my path had quickly closed a few meters behind me.

I close the leather book and draw in a breath, looking at my dirt-covered hands, weathered from my time scouting for the Midland Ration Center.

My circular resin clock with its brass hands point to large copper numbers announce that I am about to be late for work. I return the book to its hiding place under the Spanish tile and cover the floor with the rug. I grab my red shoulder bag, as I am already dressed for work, and run out the front door.

# Chapter 2

#  September 18, 2092

The sound approaches like a distant swarm of insects, ever so faint yet slowly and steadily progressing in both loudness and irritation. The sound becomes overwhelming as my hand descends down with fury upon the alarm clock's snooze bar. My mid-afternoon nap had been going so well up to this point. I rub my eyes as my bedroom comes slowly into focus.

Sunlight pours through my three wall-sized windows, each bordered by several light wood-colored dividers. Twin burnished steel, brushed brass tube lamps hover half way up each divider.

Fatigue still lingers in my limbs as I pull myself off the bed. My right shoulder feels tight from a fall I took hunting two weeks ago. The med clinic nurse said it was not serious, but to give it a few weeks to fully heal.

On my wall, shades of emerald green surround a large painting of an angel floating among the clouds, hand bearing a single fire opal, and surrounded by darkness. Mother painted and placed it in my room five years ago. "Prudence!" I yell.

A few seconds pass. "Yes, Lilly Rose?" Prudence stands in the light of the doorway with her short fiery red hair. I turn my head to look at her.

"I'm going outside, I need to get out."

"You don't need my permission for that," she replies, twisting angelically.

I slip out of my room and head for the back door, deep in thought. I spent the last night thinking about Wes while watching some bootlegs of his concerts. The quality of the footage from a number of downtown concerts was amazing, filmed and complied by a local fan.

On stage, Wes's young physique resembled that of an immortal statue untouched. His ageless form contrasted the crumbling amphitheater surrounding it. He moved effortlessly about the stage, hair lightly layered, brown-colored and bangs covering his forehead. An incredible sight.

I decide on a quiet trail walk outside the smothering walls of the house, where I can keep my thoughts of Wes flowing free from interruption.

Straining to open the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, I peer through the thick layers of white misty fog looming outside, and witness a murder.

Well, a murder of crows: they are drinking the beads of dew from the grass. They quickly abandon their spots, and fly away, disappearing in the fog. My abrupt intrusion and the sound of the screechy metal on the bottom of the sliding door must have startled them.

The damp fog is only a tease of moisture, not enough to content the cracked soil. I have dreamed of the scents and textures of rain all year long, as Midland has not seen a drop in recent memory. Two slender oaks attempt to add color to the landscape, but the earthy desert colors drown out the sparse greens and yellows.

Hopping on my right foot, I force my stubborn left foot into one of my black-and-white Converses and walk through the doorway.

Visibility is nearly zero looking towards the sky, like gazing through lemonade slush. I hear something, the sound of a loud rumbling of the earth, like in the old dinosaur movie Jurassic Park. I feel the ground shaking. The wind begins to blow across my skin, but strangely, the trees are completely still. Something is wrong with reality. Then, it occurs to me. I am dreaming.

I overheard someone say that a small number of people, if they know that they are in fact dreaming, can take control of the outcomes of their dreams. I know this to be true, as I did it before.

I can take it a step further and wake myself, crossing back into the real world. This is accomplished by controlling and increasing the rate of my actual breathing while I am in the middle of a dream.

I focus on taking control of my breathing, catching the pace and rhythm, and increasing its rate faster and faster. I feel my body exhaling and inhaling, but my awareness is neither here nor there.

My torso flinches. I sit up quickly and my eyes open. I awake to an ominous sight – dark cloud cover low to the ground, just above where I lay in the field. I breathe in the damp air around me. I feel the heavy cloud trying to creep inside my lungs, and I feel that it will crush me if it comes any closer. I haven't seen a cloud this threatening in a long time. My fingers rub against the tall, scratchy grass. As I begin to recover from the haze of the dream, the memory of my trip returns, and I remember my scouting assignment for the ration center.

I work there as a scout, searching for land to farm on or with wild game to help feed the population. Though I fear the danger, I push it back to a hidden place in my mind. My parents registered me in AP English, math, and science classes, hoping that I will be able to transition into a less-dangerous field.

Several scouts have disappeared this past year, which also worries my mother. The station I work for covers the fifty-mile area around where I live. Most of the food comes from the government-controlled farms and ranches. Due to the severe droughts and recent shortages, the supply of food is tight. The wild game hunters just provide enough help to meet the state's quotas. Being a scout has some benefits and shortfalls. The state pays me money and food rations on a straight commission system. If I scout well for the hunters, I get more food credits that the typical person would be assigned. However, if I find nothing, I eat nothing. Geo-tagging animals with my GPS tablet is how I prove my plots have game.

When the old geo-surveyor drew the scouting maps on the electronic grid, I ended up with the flattest and most barren plots of land to scout. Ellis, the Matt Damon-looking son of the local magistrate, always receives the best plots.

My memories of today return as the aftereffects of sleep fade away. Earlier in the day, having the perfect laser lock at a heavy buck twenty yards away, I loaded the app on my tablet to tag the game. As I lined up the perfect photo in my GPS app of the large white-tailed deer, I accidentally planted my right foot into a foxhole. It probably belonged to one of those elusive gray foxes that are common to the area.

Once my foot sank into the hole, I fell to the ground, and dropped my tablet. Startled by the sound, the buck vanished.

"I had you!" I yelled to the taunting empty field. "Freaking bad luck!"

I felt exhausted after a ten-hour day, and I had only tagged two young rabbits and a small future payday to show for all my efforts. Having found a decent spot to rest, I place my head on my camo-green sweater to protect my head from the harsh grass in the field. I must have fallen asleep laying there.

The last of the fog in my mind lifts and I remember the time. Surveying the darkness of the surrounding field, and judging by the lack of sun, it must be past curfew.

I hold my two thumbs to my temples, and rubbing in circular motions, I activate my supernatural gift. Illumination in the form of waves of light begins flowing like rhythmic waves of river water washing down my body, slowly drifting across the flat plains. My new vision flows over the trees of the landscape, bathing them in a deep sapphire blue that brings the area vividly into clear view.

As my perception of the world clears, I notice my dog, little furry Ben, is laying down staring at me. I hear no bird or animal sounds, as if all the insects and creatures have disappeared. I softly scratch the brown and black fur on my terrier's head. As I gently scratch between his ears with my fingernails, I realize something. The sounds of rumbling and wind from my dream haven't stopped. In fact, they are getting louder.

Dust blows into my eyes. The wind pushes at my back as the earth rumbles under me. I turn to browse over my shoulder, and witness a devastating funnel of black and grey spiraling – debris looming in the distance. The massive funnel extends from the churning clouds in the sky, to the devastated earth below. This unwavering force of nature is performing surgery on the horizon, removing fences and power lines.

The dark twister, about a mile away, glides quickly in my direction. Before I can react, I spot two familiar copper objects – each trailing smoke. Multicolored gemstone-like lights decorate the façade of the two State probes. The probes hover in the sky side-by-side and head my way.

Anger and fear mixed with other surging emotions cloud my reactions as I stare into the lights of the probes. I can't be caught, not this month.

It is definitely way past curfew and the penalty for violating curfew is harsh. The punishment for apprehension in a restricted area is losing half a year's food rations. An arrest would be difficult on the household if that were to happen.

The approaching State probes fly side by side, combing the landscape with a net of scanning lasers, searching the territory for curfew violators. President Rutledge adores his government probes and G robots. He credits them with keeping anarchy at bay and criminals in prisons. I unzip my red shoulder bag and pull out a special blanket that my friend Alan purchased for me. It's from one of the black markets in the underground districts of Lubbock.

The blanket is made of material that the laser nets cannot penetrate. The probes and the tornado both close in on me. I grab Ben and hold him under the blanket. Our minds connect.

"I hide," Ben thinks. I hold him tightly under the blanket.

Funny, I had almost begun to feel invincible out here. I upgraded my old bag and crossbow case to the expensive waterproof versions, some good that did.

The probes are virtually overhead. Once they pass over, I should be able to make a run for it. The wind is intensifying from all directions, and it is becoming more difficult to hold down the blanket. The earsplitting roar of the twister becomes louder by the second.

I peek out of the protective blanket and so does Ben. I estimate about twenty seconds until the probes pass us by and the twister won't be far behind. That won't be enough time for me to escape the twister. If I give up, there is no guarantee the probes will capture me in time either.

Ben looks into my eyes: We both understand the situation.

He licks my nose. "I run," Ben thinks.

Suddenly, he grabs my green sweater with his mouth and bolts out of the blanket. "Ben, come back!" I yell.

He sprints right at the probes, holding my sweater in his mouth. A normal puppy would be an easy target for two drones. Ben is far from a normal puppy. He showed signs of a mutation after his first birthday, but the state only regulates human mutations.

Ben was a born runner, but when the mutation developed in him, he took it to a completely new level. My stepfather once timed Ben running at over fifty-nine miles per hour.

Ben flashes away, a shooting star dissecting the heavens. His compact body rockets through the laser net, sweater in tow, and past the probes that begin pursuit. I throw the blanket in my red shoulder bag, jump to my feet, and begin running in the opposite direction of the twister. I search for ditches, water drains, structures, anything. I can find no useful shelter.

Looking back, the twister snaps a large tree in half. The tree becomes airborne. The vortex tosses the tree hundreds of feet in the opposite direction. The tree flies past two power poles. Using some of my old archery training, I figure that the tree was traveling at 130 miles per hour.

My special sight ability greatly enhances my judgment of distances and speeds. If I could ever improve my shooting form and technique, I might have a chance at qualifying for the Ceremonial Guard.

Shaking off distracting thoughts, I focus on the task at hand. I spot a two-foot pipe covered by a metal grate about 200 yards ahead. Faster, I need to run faster, come on push it. My legs ache from fatigue and my lungs are desperate for more air. A cloud of debris sweeps the horizon from left to right.

Changing directions suddenly, I begin running towards the pipe as splintering debris scrapes my exposed skin at slicing speeds. "Faster!" I yell. I push my legs to their limits.

The flying debris, slashing my backside and arms, feels like accidentally touching the filament of an oven. The pain is intense and requires all my concentration to continue running. Without warning, a silver flagpole flying the national flag soars just over my shoulder and impales a massive granite boulder.

Come on Lilly Rose, what's your problem? Push it!

I run past the shredded flag. Strange, I don't recall seeing any flagpoles for miles. I run by the flagpole, holding my throbbing right shoulder, and jump next the metal grate covering a drainage pipe. I lift the heavy, rusted grate inches at a time. Countless particles of flying debris smash at my backside. One projectile hits the back of my head. I wince and force my eyes to stay open.

Pain continues to rule over every inch of my back, neck, and shoulders. I pull myself under the grate and into the unlit underground pipe. Just as I slip inside the pipe, the wind rips the grate off its hinges and away into the unknown.

The loud roar is beyond that of a rock concert. A chill of fear runs up my spine as the sounds of the winds draw closer. I try to pull myself deeper into the pipe, but a suction of great force begins to pull me back to the entrance of the pipe against the full strength of my arms and legs.

As I look around, swirling dust fills metal pipe. I then see a small but solid handle towards the top of the pipe. I take the handle with my left hand, and with my right hand, I attach the carabinder from my red shoulder bag.

The gusts are forceful and deafening. I couldn't hear if the hook had click-locked into place. The suction became so powerful, that my arms and legs are no longer in contact with the sides of a pipe.

The sensation is surreal, as if a Titan was placing its mouth on the pipe and trying to suck me out.

I am holding my place in midair. My carabinder holds as my shoulders burn from the pressure of the suction and my red pack's quality design.

I am perfectly content with the pain, as opposed to being a runaway kite in the twister's vortex.

Then it stops. I swing back and forth, dangling from the hook.

I reach up slowly, unclip the hook, and drop to the metal floor of the pipe. The drop is sudden, knocking out what little wind remains in my lungs.

The darkish purple world spins in a cloud of dizziness and I reside dormant at the bottom of the pipe. I feel throbbing pain in my shoulders, countless splinters in my back, and the full frontal pain from the landing. I slowly gasp for small bursts as my breath slowly returns.

In the blurry debris scattered around me, rests a small dusty red box clipped inside the wall of the pipe. I wrap my fingers around it and try to regain my breath.

I clear my mind briefly of panic and realize that I will live to see another day. My head lowers back against the dust-filled floor and the world becomes a blur.

# Chapter 3

# September 21, 2092

I rest and yet the pain lingers. Under orders from the early-graying Dr. Hollsworth to stay in bed, I watch hour upon endless hour of television programming. Reality TV marathons completely engross my attention. A plate of bland, medically-permitted food rests next to my bedside on a fold-out table. I savor my toast and blackberries as the drawn-out hours pass without notice. The only reality show that I enjoy watching now, Talent Hunt, begins. Talent Hunt is a huge TV hit, with the winner of each season receiving an upgrade from their current Labor class, to an Elite class. Only citizens from the Labor classes can compete on the show. Audience members and judges from the Elite classes behave ruthlessly to the contestants daring to cross the stage.

My screen is blank as an announcer's voice proclaims, "The ultimate hunt for talent, for the next superstar. Prepare to witness Talent Hunt."

Smoke and lasers fill the panning scene as dancers wearing out-of-this-world costumes, looking like extras from The Fifth Element, stepping rhythmically in precise choreography. Their movements are amazingly syncopated, as if they were all of the same mind.

I don't know why I watch the show. The audience and judges are cruel, crushing the hopes and dreams of the contestants with laughter, jeers, and brash putdowns. Today's episode, as the trailer suggests, will be edgier with more heart-stopping moments. How can this show possible get any edgier?

The three judges make their way to the stage. They walk out in their usual order. Deala Rae, Elite class defense attorney and television's diva of the night. She is the witch that defended John Velos during his trial. She is a sleek and slender blonde with an affinity for tight white satins. She points to her trademark high collar, and flashes her Elite Psi class silver bracelet at the camera. Johnny Patten follows closely behind her.

Johnny points to his perfect punk hair as spotlights reflect off his black leather jacket. He's best known for his dislike of others below his Elite social standing. The power-suit-wearing, cynical British album producer Sir Geoffrey Q. Galligar trails Johnny. Sir Galligar's sharp prose can rip the ambitions and dreams from a contestant in four words or less. The music begins, or the "measure of doom" as I like to call it, and the competition is under way.

A seven-year-old girl is the first contestant. She personifies cute as she prances lightly across the stage. The kid is adorable with her gracious smile and rose-colored cheeks. She is a petite strawberry blonde, garnished in a cute purple Zuni-ruffled knit dress, and harboring a viola. She confidently steps in front of the judges.

A sweet but off-tempo version of "Wind Beneath My Wings" plays for the audience. I'm fairly impressed, considering her age. She smiles and faces different sections of the audience as she plays.

Deala Rae stands up first and hurls a head of iceberg lettuce at the little girl. It soars past the little girl as she continues to play. A look of utter disappointment crosses Deala Rae's face. Sir Galligar stands next and throws a fresh bunch of broccoli, striking the girl's ankle. The little girl stumbles, but doesn't fall, and continues to play while trying to hold a smile.

Johnny stands, looks into the camera, and puckers his lips at the TV audience. He winds up and throws a grapefruit like a big-league fastball pitcher. The citrus strikes the viola dead center. It knocks the girl to the floor, and sends the viola crashing to pieces against a metallic statue of Lady Gaga. The girl begins crying and holds her ankle as Johnny jumps on the judges' desk. He faces the audience and pumps his fists in the air.

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny!" the crowd chants.

This is the absolute worst thing I've ever witnessed. I feel like a bad person just for watching. I hate these judges. They had better hope I never see them walking the streets, any of them. "Stupid Elites," I say.

I press the power button on the remote and place it on the stand next to my bed. Next to the remote, rests the dusty red box – the one I found it hidden inside the pipe on the night of the twister. I run my finger across the "19" engraved on the top of the case. I take the box in hand and pop the metal lever. It opens. Inside is some type of circuit board surrounded by a transparent plastic shell. An Ethernet jack protrudes from the back.

My stepfather, in addition to his primary business, restores old computers into working order and sells them. I've helped him with this business for the last ten years and know my computer parts well.

I don't believe I have ever seen any computer part like this. I place it back in its box and onto the bedside table. My eyes close and sleep settles gently upon me.

# Chapter 4

# September 25, 2092

A few nights after leaving the hospital, having healed up since that night, I step outside behind my family's wood-and-brick summer townhouse, beanbag under my right arm.With a spinning toss, I project the beanbag on top of the full-size trampoline's onyx-colored surface. Carefully forming the beanbag into a comfortable-looking shape, I throw myself on top of it.

The sun relinquishes its command of the sky as a handful of brilliant stars begin to transition in the night. Parting clouds reveal moonbeams ascending to a brilliant white orb, bathing the edges of countryside with white highlights. An endless sea of stars blankets the overhead sky. Two blinking, orange glowing probes fly by, firing beams of bright green light into the fields to the east. The probes continue to the east and I return to counting stars and connecting the dots in the sky with imaginary lines.

My stepfather's expensive videophone tablet sits next to me on the beanbag, vibrating. Most Labor class families don't own such a tablet. Luckily, his work issued him two. He allows me the use of one so we can talk back and forth without the limitations of touch texting. The video message icon flashes as the tablet shakes. I flip over off the beanbag to take a look. My stepfather sits at his work desk. He works at an auto distributor to the south, collecting abandoned cars and restoring them.

"Hey sweetheart, just a reminder, the house has to be clean before you attend trials," he says, looking over clear tablets at his desk.

The house is a disaster, and the Ceremonial Guard trials begin at one tomorrow.

"Fine."

"A client will be coming for dinner tomorrow. He owns some land, over 1000 vehicles too. I reckon he may be willing to part with them for the right price. He's a big client and I'd like to make a good impression." His eyes remain glued to other work tablets.

"Yes, Father, it will be spotless."

"Great, I can always count on you, Lilly darlin'." Rushing through the conversation, he ends the call.

I wish the same were likewise, being able to count on him. He does love me, that I'm certain. Unfortunately, he and my mom always seem to bail on my events after they commit to attending. Funny, I see these clients almost as much as I see my parents. My finger slides over to the sleep icon. The pad draws a blank screen.

The sweet scents of Mom's flower garden maneuver into my nostrils, blessing me with their fragrance. I inhale slowly and fall back onto the beanbag. As I recline on the beanbag, staring up, a slight breeze blows across my face and moves the grasses surrounding the trampoline.

The breeze reminds me of how I love walking on the soft white sands of the coast with the waves crashing against the shore, washing up just five or ten feet from my path. I would spend as much time as possible walking at night on the serene coastlines of my parents' winter house. It is exceptionally rare that a family in the Kappa class has two houses. We certainly can't pay the note on two houses by ourselves. Both of my parents' employers contribute to each mortgage.

The specific nature of both of their jobs is what gave the local magistrate quite a bit to ponder, as they both travel constantly. But in the end, he allowed them to keep a summer and a winter home.

As I continue to think back to my times at the winter house, I reflect on memories of the sea and sun colliding at the horizon's edge at dusk, giving birth to the most awe-inspiring crimson highlights on the surrounding sands. It was the tranquility of the night walks I enjoyed most.

I walked the coastline with the breeze at my back and wet sand penetrating between my toes. I thought about life and my true desires. The clouds always traveled fast at the ocean's edge. The fast-moving clouds radiated brilliantly in moonlight, always a remarkable sight.

I remember the walks to the soundtrack of Wes, silent as Mr. Darcy at first when the song starts, but then his voice appears as the crashing waves first appeared against the rocks. The changing tides of the coastline set to Wes, and the warm glow of the crescent moon, are the greatest and most surreal scenes imaginable – they are the greatest escapes in my life.

Time stands still when I gaze into the vast heavens. My thoughts occasionally drift back to my endless training, my nomadic parents, and back to Wes again.

Content with my musings, I head off to bed, glowing in remembrance.

# Chapter 5

# October 2, 2092

Winding copper-mirrored tunnels surround the anxious concertgoers. Security personnel at the entrance are scanning everyone for contraband. I take in the last bits of air conditioning before I hit the concert area. The charring sun will be my new best friend for the next five hours.

The mirrored corridor to my right reflects the image of my blue low-rise jean shorts with fake fade marks. They are my favorite shorts, picked out particularly for this type of event, and they fit me remarkably well.

In a grandiloquent style, a thin-nosed man with a thin mustache processes my clear concert ticket. His navy t-shirt reads "STAFF" on the front. He motions to me, waving his scrawny arms flamboyantly, directing me through the iron gates.

Having healed fully, I am here, a week before school starts at the South Midland open-air music festival. The festival takes place in an abandoned shopping center. The stages, constructed at the end of what was a spacious parking lot, interrupt the flat horizon lines with their massive structures. The blacktop is blistering. The heat radiates through my shoes. It's almost too hot to stand in one place.

Don't I have more important things to do with my time, like train for the upcoming Ceremonial Guard trials? Probably, but what's the harm of a little fun before school begins yet again?

I set out, moving toward one of the stages, when pressurized water splashes me! Twin water cannons blast me to the pavement with gallons of warm liquid.

"Snap!"

My hands brace my fall, but not fully, as my knees abrade against the ground. I know that the water cannons are essential at this festival, just not right on my chest.

A boy I recognize from school, a gangly dark-skinned European kid, wearing a faux-leather aviator helmet, is walking towards me. I think his name is Alex. Those mid-calf boots of his must be sweltering. The price some people pay to be fashionable! He twists his goggles with sapphire blue lenses off over his head in one motion.

Extending a firm hand, he pulls me to my feet. His silver Upsilon class bracelet reflects the sun into my eyes.

"Lilly Rose, if you prefer to sit, chairs are located by the stage."

"Thanks for the event info." I bite my bottom lip as adrenaline rushes through my body.

I like this boy, in a more-than-a-friend way. He's handsome, in a young Jamie Bell kind of way. I wipe the water from my face. An earthy scent of smoke, wood burning, blows in from the west. It reminds me of the underground markets where the nightcallers and sensories frequent. Burning wood in orange barrels is the primary source of light on the paths between those shops.

I look at the curious-eyed Alex. "I hope that fall didn't hurt you. Stupid government operators with their water blasters think they own us. I think we would manage just fine without the oppression and its regulations."

I take my ponytail with both hands and wring it out.

"Are you opposed to law and order?" Water drips from my hair.

"Yes, in a way. There is a difference between order and tyranny you see. There is a way to keep us safe without micromanaging every little part of our lives."

I move my finger in front of my lip. "Use your inner voice if you want to speak about such things. What if the guards hear you?"

He smiles from the side of his mouth like a movie star, but says nothing. He, like most of the boys in my grade, simply thinks of me as just a friend.

His smile recedes after a moment. "You know what, let them, they need to know we don't like being fed, watered, monitored, corralled, and blood-tested like lab animals. I'm so glad I don't gotta take this tyranny much longer. I'm jumping to the Nineteen Underground next week," he says in a rebellious volume. I pause. Nineteen Underground – I know that name from somewhere. I make eye contact with Alex again.

"If that is what you truly believe in – then do it," I say, shrugging my shoulders.

He runs a finger smoothly across the underside of my chin and moves in, inches from my face. "If you really believe in following your heart, a representative from the Nineteen is going to meet with a group of us tomorrow night. We are going to discuss marching on the capital," he whispers cautiously to me.

"Are you crazy? You would go to prison, or worse, for even thinking that." I step back from him, slightly shocked.

"Such things have worked before. I read this book where country after country was taken back by the people, overthrowing the iron-clad dictators. There are more of us than them." He sounds excited.

"When was that? I've never read of such events."

"You should read some of my paper books," he says.

"Paper books – keep your voice down Alex. They will take you out for speaking about that. President Rutledge is really cracking down. Have you seen all of the arrests lately? Have you seen the news footage of those raids in the woods? The caches of books were all burned and the criminals were sent for reconditioning."

"They were not criminals! Don't trust the news. They are lying to us all. A greater truth is being hidden from us. Look for it. Touch text me later if you understand the truth in my words. Anyway, before I forget to thank you, you really helped me out in trig class last semester."

"I'm glad to have been some help. Mr. Taylor is an impossible teacher. The student aide says most of the class had a fifty to sixty average at midterm."

"I'd believe it." He laughs and rubs his shoulder. "So, are you here with your boyfriend?"

"No!" I almost yell.

He smiles.

"Sorry, I mean, I broke it off before it started," I say, calming a bit from my brief outburst.

Alex belts out a laugh. "Sensitive, are we? It's probably better this way. I always thought he was a bit of a freak."

Yes, someone really asked me out, and I straight off said yes before even thinking who it was – horrible idea.

The smoke grows stronger, as does an uneasy feeling of being watched. The feeling is ridiculous, since I am in the middle of a crowd of people, half of which are looking towards the stage.

"You want some company?" Alex asks. I would love to spend the rest of the concert with this beautiful boy, but knowing that he thinks of me as one of the boys depresses me.

"No, I'm gonna watch this one solo, but thanks," I say, not making eye contact.

"Ok Lilly, just don't go to the front of the stage, it gets rough up there." He gives me a firm pat on the back, just like one of the guys, and then sprints off in the direction of the second stage.

I approach one of the two massive freestanding stages. It towers above the flat concrete. Most of the bands I care for are scheduled to play on Stage One. I was mindful enough to wear my new shorts, of course, and a double-scoop blue tank top. I generally boycott popular fashion, so the fact that the pieces coordinate so well is mere coincidence. Both pieces of clothing are not see-through soaking wet, and they both help with the heat.

As I search the hazy blue sky, laser beams discharge over the stage and project the national flag over the crowded concert area.

The electronics booth to my left is full of stage crew and government police, the Gs. The Gs operate the twenty-foot high liquid cannons. They are wearing Theta class bracelets, the second lowest class. The lowest class is the Tau class, or the criminal class.

The stories Great-Grandma read to me when I was little, of how an army of robots restored America after the great disaster, come to mind when I see the Gs around.

Earlier this morning, the local weather forecaster predicted it was going to be 110 degrees today. The air is stagnant and motionless on the festival grounds. It feels like 150. The only source of hydration is a stone water fountain at the top of the hill, that and the water cannons. There is a big G with a menacing chromium stunning stick guarding the fountain. The state ensures that no one can haul water from state lands, not that I've heard of anyone trying, but who knows these days.

The featured band Tropulous commences playing as dozens of heads turn to the stage. I freeze in place, taking in the beautiful stage show. Lasers project from behind the keyboard player in distinct colors for each note she plays.

A large body rams headfirst into me, and I sink to the pavement. I stare skyward at the large balding man attempting to pull off a rebellious teen look. I yell, "Excuse you! What's your problem?"

"Problem, no problem! Chicks don't belong near the pit," he says, flinging a rude gesture my way.

I stare in disgust at his abominable appearance as he shoves a scraggy boy aside and continues his way through the crowd. What a jerk.

I spring back to my feet and make my way ten feet closer to the bronze railing in front of the stage. Monolithic steam-powered cogs rotate on stage as a background to the band, dressed in retro Victorian style clothing. The guitar, held up by the lead singer, features a transparent shell, creating the illusion of fire burning inside.

To my left, the large bouncer in a National Guard uniform charges into the crowd. I can't believe it! He's going after the jerk that just plowed me over. The man was just standing in the crowd, simply minding his own business, when the bouncer tackled him. Three Gs converge from opposite directions, each seizing a limb. The name badges of the three Gs, Jonathan, Sisco, and Dryfuss reflect the light.

According to my friend Shark, the State Department forcefully enlists sensories, citizenry who test positive for a specific type of perceptual chromosomal mutation, into the National Guard. The head bouncers are sensories, reputed to possess the gift of future vision, reading the intentions of concertgoers planning to rush the stage. The aging faux-hipster must have has been planning something, probably rushing the stage during the solo.

Blurry heat waves create the illusion of groundwater twenty feet up the cement hill. Already soaked from the previous cannon, another huge water cannon blast douses the crowd. The G operating the water cannon aims directly at me. A mixture of sweat and water drips down my arms. The water pressure continues pushing me against all the other wet bodies. I'm absolutely a sticky mess, but this concert is great, and since when do I care about appearances anyway?

# Chapter 6

# October 3, 2092

A haunting wind emanates from a nearby window. The darkened door to the basement is propped open and Chopin's Nocturne #6 in G minor on piano plays in the background. I sit sulking at the dining room table. Prudence emerges from the shadows of the basement doorway. I look up and she stares at me as I sit in the oak chair.

"Don't take it so hard when Mom and Dad bail on you. You know they would be here to see your events if they could," Prudence says reverently. She is glowing today in her thin white sundress.

"It makes sense, but tell it to my heart."

Prudence smiles, and as a courtesy, she leaves me to my solitude. My mother and stepfather are preparing to return from a three-day exhibit. Her paintings are on display in Washington D.C. I will finally have a chance to see them for at least a few days. The end of my summer vacation is quickly approaching, so I need to do well in the crossbow qualifier.

I did earn a spot at the last event, barely. In order to have the slightest chance at qualifying for the Ceremonial Guard, I need to have my best showing yet – a tough order with so little practice. I invited my parents to attend the next tournament.

To clear my mind before the qualifier, I make my way over to my favorite blue recliner in the living room.

Lucid dreams wrapped in clouds of fog from the previous night bring inspiration. I open my leather book, recline the chair, and begin to pen the fresh flashes.

I came at last to a spot where the trees met a crevice in the ground and I saw a city in the woods. A crevice in front of me separated me from this city. It was too deep to go through and too wide to jump across.

"Hello!" I shouted across the crevice, into the forest, hoping that perhaps someone could hear me.

I waited a moment but there was no reply. I felt my eyes fill with tears of defeat and anger. With a cliff at one end of the world, a city locked behind a thick wall of trees and a pit at the other end, I had nowhere to go.

I fell to my knees, letting out a cry of terror, screaming at the sky. The sound of my anguished call echoed in the forest, and it seemed to grow louder before it faded out completely.

It happened that the echo, the frequency it was at, caused one of the trees near the crevice to snap in half, and fall over the pit, landing directly in front of me. I looked up to see what had happened and laughed aloud. I stood up and walked across the branch into the forest.

I entered the ghostly remains of a courtyard that led to the uninhabited town. There were several little houses made from logs along the stone street. They were all deserted. I walked until I came to the edge of the forest again. There was a little garden just outside a log house, overgrown, but still alive with different types of berries.

Realizing at once that I was starving, I quickly ate a handful of blackberries, and pocketed several more before going into the house. The door was open, and inside, the furniture was strewn about. A chair lay tipped over on the floor, a bed was in the room with the blanket that usually covered it lying partly on the floor.

I next entered a house with a closed door. I pushed on it firmly to see if it was locked, but it opened easily. Inside the house, there was a table with an old piece of paper on top of it. A feather pen rested next to a dried-up inkwell. I picked up the paper, a letter addressed to someone unfamiliar.

It read:

If you are reading this now, you may be curious as to why this village has been destroyed, and its people gone. I write this in terror of what is coming for our people now. I remember this place as a great city in the heart of a forest, where humans lived contently, practicing ancient magick and living by the laws of nature. The magickal hands of the great early witches built this city called Chelovek. It is like a castle that offers protection from any evil things beyond the forest, until now.

I leave alone, through a portal in the forest that is secret enough for me not to write its whereabouts in this letter. I saw the creature that comes to take our souls, and warned my people to travel away with me. They remain ignorant of my prophecy and believe they are safe within Chelovek, and so I leave alone. It is my only wish that for the future of mankind, if you are reading this there is still hope. I pray you came to this empty city with a vision, and make for yourself from our remains a powerful and safe haven for yourself and future generations.

Signed,

Daeron, son of Mya, of the strongest order of the witches of Chelovek

I looked up from the letter, and my memory came back to me in a surge of enlightenment. I wrote this letter myself!

I replace the book in its hidden spot. What make these writings in my journals unique is that they don't repeat. Many of my nightmares repeat themselves, but these ones strangely don't.

In deep thought about the dreams, I slowly begin to dress for the trial.

The trip is cloud-covered, yet beautiful, with an unseasonably cool breeze blowing from the east.

Upon arrival, I head to the prep area, and begin to focus on my breathing, on clearing my mind. A gruff voice calls my name over the public address system. A chance is all I ask for, to stay alive in the qualification rankings.

I enter the soft blue event space, following the wooden signs in the shapes of arrows, crossing a dirt path lined with gray stones. This year's event takes place at the estate of Governor Seed. The lush pastel colors of the flower gardens and the deep greens of the estate grounds are sorely out of place in this desert region. A large crowd gathers around an exhibit. A glowing digital sign reads "Featured 19th-Century Works of John Henry Foley". I pass the area and walk slowly in the direction of the tournament section.

This qualifier typically draws some very skilled competitors. Duncan and Fredrick, two of my classmates, have also entered the tournament.

After some delays with the scoring display, a green circle of light illuminates on the floor around me. My fingers rub circles around my temples and waves of purple surround me. The target appears in perfect clarity. I inhale slowly and exhale, closing and opening my eyes. My focus and aim is dead on. My purple vision opens up the world mathematically, and my shooting is deadly precise. My desire to qualify fuels my concentration, and I just have it today. My hand is steady, and the targets are huge.

After I take my shots, I walk over to the judges' table. The scores flash on golden lined led displays. My score is 308 with fourteen elevens, and is the fifth best score. My mouth opens in amazement, considering some of the big names that have shown up to compete. I only needed to make the top ten in order to qualify for the next tournament. I clench my fists and smile walking out of the competition space. The extra points will give me a little more breathing room next time.

After dismissal from the event, I pack my red shoulder bag and start walking to the gates. I make my way out the stone archway of the event center.

I reflect on the events that have just transpired and end up at an arranged meeting spot where my parents will be waiting. A familiar figure leans against an old wooden light post. "Not bad for a small town seventeen-year-old girl."

"Where are they?" I move closer to the figure. "Where are they, Paul?"

"Something came up – they are really sorry." His tone is apologetic. I slam my empty drink ration container as hard as I can into a nearby trashcan.

I yell at Paul in frustration, "One time – one time is that too much to ask? Did they miss the part where I have been training and practicing for a years and didn't see my friends?"

"You know your parents wanted to be here, please understand." Paul tries to calm me down.

I sit down onto a nearby green wooden bench. "Words, just words..."

# Chapter 7

#  October 4, 2092

#

Smoggy crowded streets occupy my peripheral vision. I pull open a heavily-rusted iron door and step inside the shop. My Shoulder brushes against an exiting customer. The aged man turns and looks at me in shock, yelling "Velgasi!" He runs out the door. Gas lamps flicker, illuminating the stone entryway.

This is a strange part of town. If not the locals, the window-shopping will be the death of me, or at least the death of my savings account. As is usually the case, something shiny caught my eye as I walked by. It is a copper heart chain-link necklace with encrusted gears and features a mini-vintage vacuum tube on the back. The gears shine like polished metal.

I pay the young girl at the register with my money card.

"Thanks and come back again," says the clerk with a Southern accent. She hands me the necklace. My gaze focuses on the magnificent charm as I hold it up to the lamp light. Next week I may go by the underground cathedral and have it blessed.

It was on display in the large window, and was marked 80% off. I slip it around my neck and fasten the lobster claw clasp as I exit the shop. I smile, things are looking up for me this week with my great showing at the tournament and this steal of a necklace.

The sun descends below the horizon. The reds and oranges of the skyline darken. I begin to make my way to the shuttle station.

The hot and dry air blows sand and dust across the sidewalk. As I turn the corner past Archie's Picture, one of the great hangout spots across the street from my school, I hear a loud commotion. I turn to look towards the disturbance, which is coming from down the alleyway I'm crossing. Glancing into the alleyway, I slowly walk past the flaming barrels that are dimly lighting the area.

At the end of the alley, Alex is dangling from the steel hands of a G. Alex makes eye contact with me in-between gasps for air, and tosses something in my direction. The small object lands in front of my feet. I pick up a golden star-shaped charm and quickly slip it in my pocket. I conceal myself behind a flaming orange barrel, wanting to see how this will end up. I already know there is not much I can do, and interfering is not the best option.

The well-dressed officer effortlessly suspends Alex in the air with one hand. In his other hand is a paper book with the numbers 1984 on the cover. I silently move to a closer barrel and listen as the officer chastises Alex: "Peasant scum, we secure your helpless life and this is how you repay us, with this treason."

With little effort, the G turns his shoulder and throws Alex into a row of silver metal trashcans. The crash is tremendous and Alex's body is motionless – resting against the heap. The G holds up the book angrily and begins making his way over towards Alex.

A quick turn of the shoulder and the officer smashes Alex across the face with the book. The force of the blow knocks Alex's face to the side. Alex does not react.

"Stop it!" I yell. My impromptu sprint places me next to the officer, whose nameplate reads Jonathan.

I step in front of Alex and beg Jonathan to stop: "You made your point! Are you trying to kill him?"

"Do not interfere in government business." He drops the book and points his leather-gloved finger at my forehead.

"What is the point of a lesson taught to the unconscious?" I ask, pleading.

"Let's find out, shall we?" His arm juts out, grabbing me by my right shoulder. A powerful toss sends my body twisting into the air.

I soar across the alley and fall quickly. The back of my arm hits the corner of a metal dumpster as I twist and fall inside. Sharp, throbbing pain shoots up my arm from the impact against the metal. I gasp in pain, but no words come out. My body twitches and shakes.

The burning pain consumes everything. My body rests, twisted sideways. Forcing one eye opened, I glance through a small hole in the dumpster, resting on what feels like bundles of old carpet. My arms are twisted around my backside, frozen in position.

Jonathan walks in my direction. Alex sits up, leaning heavily on his right hand. Alex draws and fires a black-and-gold glass tube-fed metal blaster. The weapon, fired with his left hand, blazes in the direction of Jonathan. The beam cuts Jonathan's left arm cleanly off. In a shower of sparks and green liquid, Jonathan's arm hits the ground.

"No Alex, no..." I attempt to yell, but nothing comes out.

A hush fills the area. I blink my eyes a few times. A large wooden crate sails from the shadowy corner in which Jonathan stands. It crashes into Alex, knocking him back into the alley's solid brick wall. Jonathan, and three others, converges on Alex's motionless body. They approach, laser blades drawn, slashing and slicing mercilessly at his limp body. I feel trapped. My motionless isn't responding to my desperate commands. I want to scream.

The dragging body makes a sliding sound. Blood trails behind the Gs. I have witnessed another death at the hands of the police. Anger and sadness fill me, but not as intensely as they should. These events no longer traumatize me as they once did, though tears are flowing down my cheeks. My eyes close again as the pain in my arm returns.

Time passes painfully. It has been silent for some time now and my eyes finally open again. The burning is excruciating, yet I fight through the pain and begin to move. I slip my good hand into my back pocket and slide out my music phone card. I place my thumb over the ID square and weakly speak the words "Shark work."

I look at the card as it connects.

"Zippy Scrap Yard, what is your business?"

"Girl, emergency, I'm hurt in the alley behind Archie's Picture," I say, softly.

"You are injured?"

"Hurry," I try to yell, but what comes out is very faint. I close my eyes, reacting to a fresh outburst of muscular pain.

I awake to the familiar rumbling of a diesel engine, and the beeping sound of a large vehicle backing up. It is a garbage truck!

I strain to push myself up with my arm, but the pain is too great to bear. I collapse back against the musty carpet rolls beneath me. The truck noise grows louder as it moves closer. The hydraulic hiss of the brakes stopping triggers a burst of adrenaline. The dumpster shakes fiercely as the truck's arms lock in place. My life can't end like this. I wasn't even supposed to be here.

I fight, pushing with all my strength against the pain, and grab a rusted handle. I reach deep down inside for some inner strength and pull myself up against the wall of the dumpster. The pain is unbearable, but I keep pulling. My stomach drops as the dumpster rises off the ground. I almost lose my grip. One more burst of adrenaline and my hand reaches over the edge of the dumpster.

"Wait!" commands a deep female voice. The crashing sound of breaking glass resonates. The dumpster comes to halt. I feel the dumpster lowering and descending back to earth.

My hand tightly grips the top edge of the dumpster. A hand, covered by a fingerless black-laced glove, grabs my hand. Shark flies over the edge of the dumpster. "Lilly Rose, you have the look of tattered road kill."

"I can't move," I say.

My eyes close – a reprieve from the pain of the observable world.

# Chapter 8

#  October 5, 2092

#

Off-white and magenta patterns of a wall come into focus. The anesthetic smell of the room brings back recent memories. I'm in a hospital bed, again. An IV bag slowly drips at my bedside. My bracelet is encoded with instructions for the doctor to never contact my parents. I tend to end up here quite often. They are out of town most of the time, so they don't know about my hospital stays. I'm lucky to be only here. For interfering with the arrest, I should have been assigned to heavy labor in the Bovary Towers, an infamous reconditioning facility.

I trace the looping IV tube from the bottom of the transparent amber-tinted solution bottle to my arm. Textile cables descend from the ceiling, adjoining steel tubes housing three tubular bulbs that dimly illuminate the room in shades of gold-yellow. The TV projection on the wall is close-captioned at the bottom of the crystal-clear picture. The sound from the TV plays lightly from a stereo speaker mounted on the bed railing.

The turquoise-bordered logo for Talent Hunt flashes across the TV screen. Lasers and fog precede the entrance of the three Judges. They walk to the stage in their regular order: Deala Rae, Johnny Patten, and Sir Geoffrey Q. Galligar. The last episode was horribly cruel – my stomach turns just thinking about it.

Today's episode is the two-hour finale where the winner goes on the Talent Hunt stadium world tour, and receives a class upgrade to Psi – a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the winner.

As the episode progresses, most of the contestants become victims of cruel pranks and verbal abuse. And those were the lucky ones! In the previous segment, Johnny threw his motorcycle helmet at a juggler and knocked him cold. The paramedics had to carry him out on a stretcher. The audience roared at Johnny in excitement.

The cameras pan to the announcer, introducing the final contestant: "Please welcome, a guitar player from West Texas, Wes Ashby."

My body freezes. Inside my frame, my heart races. If it had seams, they would have burst. Air resists commands to enter my body and I don't blink.

"West Texas, you have got to be joking," Johnny Patten says. He tosses a drink over his shoulder, into the audience. Deala Rae is doing a little dance in her chair as she places her finger in the shape of an L on her forehead. That is until she actually looks at the new contestant. She gives him a smiling grin and the L drops immediately. In seconds, her expression changes from one of mockery to one of desire. The satin cocktail dress she wears begins to sway as she stands up and dances slowly, pointing her finger at him.

"Back off, you scum attorney. Don't even think about Wes that way," I say to the television.

My anger sets in and I take a breath. Wes, why are you on this show? You are above this type of thing. Johnny had better be glad I'm not sitting in that audience.

"West Texas boy, you understand me? Do I need to speak slowly?" Johnny Patten asks. Johnny digs through his pockets, looking for something to throw.

"You think your backwoods ranch hands can actually win the Talent Hunt?" Sir Galligar asks.

Wes doesn't speak. The camera zooms closer on his rectangular face. He simply tips his brown felt derby and adjusts his smoke-tinted circular spectacles. Strategically sliding out of camera focus, Wes walks over to a twisting wooden-and-chrome stool and sits in front of the microphone stand.

Wes looks amazing, simple, but amazing. He is wearing a form-fitting burgundy Regency coat and striped trousers. His stage presence commands the arena, to the dismay of the Judges, who usually have the contestants sweating by this point.

Wes has a sly smirk on his face as he pulls his acoustic guitar onto his lap and looks down at the stage. Sir Galligar, slightly red in the face, yells, "Get it over with."

Subtle sounds arise from his fingers, almost magically. I swear he has a golden glow around him as he begins to sing. His emotion-filled voice fills my heart, taking away any thoughts of the pain I felt before. He sings to me, and I am in the moment with him:

Wake up feeling fine

little girlie by my side

wake up feeling slow

that's how the day should go

oh when she lying close to me

oh there's no place I'd rather be

oh it's my happy sanctuary

waiting for the day to end

so we can do it all again

wake up feeling fine

little girlie by my side

wake up feeling slow

that's how the day should go

...

The song ends as his arm ascends to the heavens, two fingers held in the air. The audience roars and he takes a bow. I jump up in bed and scream, pumping my fists.

"Yes, yes, yes!" I shout, repeatedly. I jump up and down on my white hospital bed, tears flowing down my face.

Deala Rae's shoulders arch back as she walks forward. She prances like a predator with long lifting strides across the stage. The camera zooms in on Wes and she rubs her finger across his cheek. The camera pans away.

I scream at the amazing performance and at her as tears continue to stream down my face. The door to my room flies open and three nurses and a security guards rush inside. My emotions are wildly out of control.

Thoughts and images rapidly flash in and out of my mind. I continue to scream at the TV. The results are up next. Adrenaline and anticipation flood my body and mind.

My elation turns to horror, as I spot Deala Rae's nightcaller gaze overtaking Wes. He pauses, looks her directly in the eyes, and reaches for her face. "No Wes, she's not who you think!"

I look around my room at the hospital personnel and realize what they must be thinking. Two of the nurses push me back down in the bed, while another injects something into my IV bag. "Don't worry sweetie, with this medicine, you won't remember much in the morning," the older nurse says.

"Stop! I can't forget this! Please, she's gonna..."

A chilling stream of flowing waves goes though my veins. I try a fight off the dizziness, staring at the blurring television.

I turn to my shoulder, tightly wrapped in bright white bandages, and then return my gaze to the TV. "Wes..." My shaking hand points to the television.

My shoulder no longer hurts – a relief only from the physical pain. Reality begins to blur, my thoughts lose focus as a spinning dizziness hits – like the haze of a dream. It must be the medicine. I no longer care about the spinning world, as my eyes shut.

# Chapter 9

#  March 13, 2093

I roll away and crash down to the floor below – the floor of my bedroom. A voice of light penetrates the darkness. The actual sound is even more charming in real life than in the deepest ponderings of my imagination. Incredible singing backed by amazing music resonates through the air. It awakens me from my dark nightmare. Reflective steel braces enforce the twin blown glass globes of my alarm clock/tablet dock. My tablet runs an alarm app, a Wes Ashby song for each morning of the week.

I sit back on my bed. A single blood red candle rests on my bedside table, smelling of cinnamon. As for the app on my tablet, I bought it last month for 4000 credits from the Popso online store. I have a weakness when it comes to Wes and my pocket book. My hand drapes over the side of my bed as Velcro wetness glides abrasively across it. Looking to the side of my bed, Silas is licking my hand.

"How did you get in here, cat?" I run my hand over his soft head, massaging his scalp between my thumb and forefinger.

My body aches from my insane week – mundane student life by day, the life-threatening nightcaller bounties by night. The world was once a much more glamorous and less desperate place to live in, at least according to Great-Grandma. Her favorite story to tell me is the one about the great disaster.

"The year was 2020," is how she would begin her animated narrative. Deadly strains of the black typhus disease mutated and became airborne. This deadly pandemic came crashing down on all humanity, and left our thriving human race nearly extinct. The plague shook off 98% of the entire population through rabid outbreaks. The infections caused many of the people exposed to take their own lives. Painful death was only hours away from the infected. All of the world's governments crumbled and the survivors were left in a state of bloody anarchy. Technology, education, and law enforcement all came to a halt in a matter of weeks.

Any person showing symptoms resembling the plague were burned at the stake. People turned against their friends, neighbors, and their own families, in order to stay alive. For a brief moment in history, everyone was equal, and everyone was scared.

Many bloody decades later, a new security force made up of seven-foot tall robotic police, later called Government Security Agents, or Gs began to restore order to the lawless society. Once the Gs controlled most of the inhabitable U.S. territory, the military government took control. Technology was set back nearly a century with most experts in such fields long dead. Radio came back first and the word went out about the new government. Strict laws and curfews followed.

The robots could not be infected, and soon there were thousands of them roaming the cities, collecting the dead and the sick and hauling them away in giant nets. Whatever became of those they took, no one knows. The new government, in an effort to control the population, forced a lockdown on all communication and food distribution.

It became illegal to own, and even eat, food not assigned to an individual at government-controlled stations. People gather twice a day at these massive ration stations to have their blood tested and eat their assigned rations. If the blood test shows a person eating extra food, that person is suspended from the ration station and may face starvation. It is also a federal crime to share food with another person. Rations are marked chemically, so that blood tests can confirm that each person is eating only their assigned types.

Society was divided up into classes, where only the high classes could enjoy some of the remaining technology like cell phones and video tablets. Books were all burned, as the government had no way to spy on things written on paper. Books were replaced with electronic reading tablets. Each tablet had government monitoring devices for all electronic communications and book purchases.

On top of everything, a terrible drought recently devastated half the remaining states. It caused food to become suddenly scarce. There hasn't been enough food for all the people to eat comfortably in the last few years. It has been seventy-three years since the 2020 outbreak.

This is where I come in. My name is Lilly-Rose and I am fighting the urge to hit the snooze icon on my clock one last time.

My bedside clock reads 5:05 A.M. Uncle Bud and Aunt Leah are usually up at about 4:45 on weekdays. I rub my fingers over my eyes, gently massaging them. I still have a headache from yesterday.

My tablet displays my grades for last week. I smile, as I hadn't had the time to check. How many students can make an A- on an AP English test one period and then hit a pinecone dead center with a crossbow from twenty feet the next period?

Today is a partial teacher in-service day, and the school will be having early dismissal. Do the people ever actually get a full-uninterrupted week of school around here? Nevertheless, it is a day of great national importance. That is a lie, but it is definitely important to me. Today is the release day of the new Wes Ashby album. My heart quickens just at the thought.

Young Hannah walks in my room, insulin in hand and I pull up my sleeve. She places the narrow tube against my arm and taps the injector. Without a word, she sleepily walks back to her bed, her doll securely in tow. I run my fingers through my tangled hair, which has been unmanageable this week.

While it's fresh in my mind, I get out of bed and walk to the living room. I sit down in front of Aunt Leah for my promised hair trim. Her lesson plans written on several electronic tablets rested on the circular table in front of us.

"Aunty, earlier this morning on my electronic tablet, I was trying to check my Popso page on the interweb. My signal bars were all empty."

"Oh you city kids, there is no interweb or email out here sweat pea." Aunt Leah smiles and focuses on correcting the back of my hair.

My heart sinks. The entire world closes in on me. I am trapped, isolated, and alone – a digital outcast in these ancient mountains. When she is satisfied with the length and evenness of the cut, I thank her and smile.

I grab my crossbow case and sulk off to the basement. I close the door behind me. I feel the crisp pages of my illegal paper journal between my fingers. I carefully check to see that I'm alone. I pull out the attached pen and attempt to continue writing where I left off last time. I need to put my dreams from last night on paper before they fade away.

I hear the thump of footsteps upstairs near the basement door. Snap! I hurry and replace the book before I have the chance to write anything. I place the book in its hiding spot, and replace the panel hidden behind the dehumidifier.

I emerge from the basement with the thought of breakfast creeping in my mind. My thoughts are all over the place. My normally sharp focus is non-existent today. His new album releases at midnight.

I need a plan. I pull out my music phone card, put in the earpiece, and begin to text Sara about my dilemma. "Need 2buy Wes 2day" I'm getting pretty good at following the sixteen letter touch-texting limit.

After I tie my hair back, I begin walking down the rocky path from the cabin. After a few short minutes on a covered bench, I hungrily board a shuttle to the ration station. The shuttle arrives quickly and I jog inside.

All the glass doors and windows at the ration station are reinforced with heavy iron bars.

I wait in line behind a redheaded man who looks to be in his late thirties. The shadows of room cast heavy lines across the angular bones of his face. His eyes speak of exhaustion and the lines on his face of stress. A little brown-haired girl stands by his side. They must have used half of their rations to buy huge mugs of hot cocoa with whipped cream. After they complete payment with their ration cards, they walk past me.

"Thank you Uncle Dave," the little girl says with a glowing smile.

"You're welcome sweetheart," replies the man. He is thin with hunger. He should have used the rations for food. The little girl smiles as she breathes in the steam from the cocoa. This appears to be worth the sacrifice to him.

The little girl is wearing a scarf with an eagle design. The unusual design stands out to me. I recall a poacher that Hollywood and I once had arrested. Curiously, she had been wearing the same scarf. I approach their table. "Hi sweetie, where did you get that lovely scarf?" I ask.

Her eyes water up instantly.

"It was my mommy's, before they took her away. She went to get food. That was the last time I ever saw her." The girl covers her eyes and begins to sob uncontrollably.

"That's enough child, let's go," says the man carrying off the cocoa, and quickly leaving with the girl. A tear runs down my check and over the side of my lip. I taste the saltiness. The realization hits me with a feeling of disgust. I am responsible for that little girl's scarring pain.

Hollywood and I were only looking to make some extra money. We were only supposed to be catching criminals. I only thought of poachers as lawbreakers, not mothers trying to feed hungry children. They don't advertise the human side of sending poachers to prison. To think that it was all a big game. We laughed most of the day, high-fiving as we caught more and more poachers.

I wait until they are both out of the ration station's coffee shop window, and walk back outside to get air. The sun is peeking through partly cloudy skies as I slowly walk the side streets of the station. My mind replays memories, images of tagging the woman who wore the eagle scarf with my tracking laser. Government probes zeroed in exactly where she was, swooping in for the arrest. Geo-tagging poachers for money, for entertainment money, what was I thinking?

Shaking my head, I walk the smog-scented sidewalks. The area is a strange mix of desolate abandoned buildings and rebuilt businesses. Cars fly by at high speeds, blowing my hair in all directions as they pass.

Self-doubt comes and goes in waves with me, crashing all at once against me at high tide, overwhelming my emotions at times. What's wrong with me? Why am I so different from my friends? I feel like such an outcast. I look enviously as a bright yellow bus bound for a football game, bus two twenty, passes by with half football players and half cheerleaders on board.

Why can't I just make a living like normal girls my age? Is that what's holding me back? Maybe that is why I can't get boys to notice me. They must think I'm a freak. It's just so lonely sometimes.

I continue to walking along turning a corner, my head tilted down towards the decaying sidewalk. Lights in pairs of three pass overhead, probably flying to arrest more mothers trying to feed their children.

I'm such a wreck today, but I need to keep myself together. Being in control of my emotions is how I am going to get a spot in the Ceremonial Guard. Whenever weeks go by without practice, I try to visualize targeting and shooting. Sometimes it works and my accuracy and form actually improve.

I jump against a brick building, making way for ten officers on two-heeled patrol scooters racing by on the sidewalk. One officer jumps down and presses me forcefully against the wall. He begins scanning my body. I close my eyes waiting for the indignity of the body scan to pass. I wish the frequency of these forced scans would make them feel less intrusive, but they feel just as intrusive as the first ones did. The officer releases me and walks dismissively away. He jumps on his patrol scooter and heads in the same direction as the lights that flew by in the sky earlier. Faint plumes of smoke rise from the horizon in the direction in which they are heading. At least all of this government action is a distraction from the earlier thoughts from the ration station. I need to remember to watch the news tonight, to see what's with all the commotion.

Hunger forces my return to the ration station. I should order some comfort food, something filling. However, I'm craving something sweet. I hold out my hands, cold hand sanitizer squirts onto my hands, and the automatic door slides open. Some nasty diseases spread by people touching door handles, counters, and railings. To prevent this, the Department of Health installed hand sanitizers in most public places.

I enter the coffee shop wing of the station. Hollywood, attending to her second job, stands alone at an open cashier station. I approach the counter, browsing the drink menu. She turns a small silver key on her register, then glances up, looking me in the eyes. Today her contact lenses are the color of violet flowers. They remind me of South Texas morning glories.

"Welcome to Westmoreland County ration station, home of the fresh fruity goodness, how may I serve you, ma'am?"

I attempt to hold back my laughter, but it just flows out. "Ma'am, did you forget my name already?"

"I'm required to say that each time someone walks to the counter, no exceptions." She holds an artificial smile and awaits my order.

"Really?" I ask mischievously.

With a quick glance, I see no customers behind me. I jump away from the counter, duck under the line divider, and re-enter from where the line forms, approaching the counter again.

"Welcome to Westmoreland County ration station, home of the fresh fruity goodness, how may I serve you ma'am?" She clenches her fists and maintains her smile.

I check over my shoulder. Still no customers are in line. I jump away from the counter, duck under the line divider, enter from where the line forms, and approach the counter yet again. I look her in the eyes and grin.

"Welcome to Westmoreland County ration station, home of the fresh fruity goodness, how may I serve you ma'am?" The smile is gone. The look of death enters her eyes.

She leans over to me, and into my ear she whispers. "Lilly Rose, I swear if you cross the entrance one more time this week, I will impale you through the heart with every spork in this ration station, one at a time."

She stands back into proper posture. "Now, ma'am, what can I get for you?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I say, winking my right eye. "I would like a tall triple affagato sugar free caramel and dark cherry soy with whip, chocolate-drizzled with coconut topping double chocolate chip frappachino, and go light on the ice."

"Would you like a quick or painful death – I mean would you like that with a fresh baked blueberry scone?" Hollywood corrects herself as the café supervisor walks out from the back room.

Hollywood's smile is elegant and beautiful, like that of a game show contestant. If I didn't know any better, it almost looked genuine. Her eyes, on the other hand, are sending a dark message, one that implies I should fear for my life.

It takes almost five minutes for Hollywood to make the drink that I have been inventing in my head all day. I'll pay dearly for this later, but for now, it is so worth it. She smiles at me as I swipe my ration card.

"DECLINED"

Oops, I'm out of ration credits. All joking aside, I really thought I had enough credits for the drink. Hollywood glares at the declined message. The supervisor has since left the area. In one motion, Hollywood drops the drink in the trash, and points to the exit. "Get out," she says with a masochistic half grin.

I arrive back home as my phone card in my pocket grabs my attention.

BUZZ BUZZ

"SORY LIKE BUSY WORK"

Snap, Sara is busy tonight.

An older Wes Ashby EP plays in the background. I walk back downstairs and past the tidy living room. Bud is sitting in his recliner watching professional wrestling – his version of a soap opera. I walk up behind him as his show cuts to a commercial. My eyes draw to the TV as a magnet would to an anvil, locking onto a commercial. I feel a pulse beating behind my ears, my heart pounds against the walls of my chest. Wes Ashby will be at the Greensburg Mall tonight, autographing special edition music cards.

I bite my lip, then scream the minute I comprehend the meaning of the commercial. The resulting scream causes Bud to fly out of his chair. The pieces to the model plane in his lap go flying. "Lilly Rose!" He pauses, looking for an emergency. "You mind explainin' why you just sent me to the floor with your yellin'?"

I shriek again and jump in childish joy, ignoring Bud until I realize what happened. "Oh Bud, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." I hit the floor and begin picking up model pieces.

"No harm I reckon. But what's with all the hysterics?" He watches me carefully as I pick up the plane pieces.

"Uncle Bud, the most amazing boy in the world will be at the mall tonight." I scoop up the last of the parts.

"Do you have one of them boyfriends I haven't met yet?" I laugh as he turns his head, frowning at me.

"No Bud, I also haven't met him yet either," I say in a dreamy grin.

Bud's eyes speak of his confusion.

"Sorry again Bud, I just get excited at these things." I kiss him softly on the cheek and run to my room.

"Wait, are you goin' to the mall, Lilly Rose?" I barely hear Bud's question as I fly into my room.

I turn the corner in such a hurry that my music phone card flies out of my hands, bounces on the bed, and slides down the wall, falling under the bed. I yank the bed away from the wall by the headboard. Grabbing the music phone card, I touch text.

"OMG WES 2DAY MALL"

What am I going to say to Wes? Maybe I will remind him of that time I was in the audience, and he took my hand while still playing his bass. He looked deeply into my eyes and spoke to my heart. I was so into him and his music at that moment.

Tonight however, hundreds of women will be in line competing for his affection. How can I compete with that? So will any of this really matter? For a matter of seconds, we will be mere inches from each other. However, how close will we actually be? Nevertheless, I have no choice but to try my hardest. To get with Wes, there is no other way. People who want things, who truly want them, go and make it happen. Relying on so-called fate is simply not having the guts to make it happen. Fate is giving up and hoping it happens anyway.

I pick out a coral-colored dress and slip it in a wrinkle-free bag. I look up at my clock. I will be late for the bus if I don't hurry up. I throw on an outfit just for school, and throw the wrinkle-free bag in my backpack. I take a whole four minutes to put my face on, and then run past Aunt Leah.

"Thanks, bye," I say. I fly out the door.

I begin drifting away on the bus ride. The misty clouds and brilliant pallets of green are great backdrops for spacing. In the imaginary world, my mind flows in every direction. There is of course Wes Ashby and his brooding contemplative nature.

A memory of Alan, of all people, comes to mind – my very brief ex-boyfriend. Alan is about 6'2" with blondish-brown hair and light blue eyes. He is very good looking, which is why I stupidly agreed to go out with him the first time. In science class, he would always stare at me in a sort of creepy way.

My daydream darkens. Alan bends down, holds up a metal bat, and runs at me swinging. I jump and snap out of the daydream. The bus is silent. What was that about?

After the bus ride, I quickly make my way in front of one of the ration machines. As I try the think of ways to make this afternoon work, I slip my clear card into the ration machine and grab a box of Puff-Nogs and an electrolyte ration. Both drop into my red shoulder bag and I walk alongside Hollywood. "Just how are we going to get to the mall?" I ask.

"I'll ask a few people with rides, don't stress over it. I'll tell you if a ride comes up in science." I snap shut my transparent school bag.

"OK let me know," I say as she walks off. She strides off, in a cute pair of sheer black knee-high leggings covered by a reflective skirt. The sun reflects heavily off the skirt as she walks into the main building.

BUZZ BUZZ

"SLVR HEAD 15 000"

Quinn is selling a silver bolt tip for 15,000 credits. Too bad I'm not after werewolves. Hollywood did mention better safe than sorry, but I can only afford to be somewhat safe now.

I reply. "NO SVLR .COL ORS?"

I'm looking for some brightly colored tips for crafting some decorative ash wood crossbow bolts. I will display them in my trophy case when finished. The color schemes I hope to use are those of the characters from my dreams. This crafting project has been in my mind for so long. I really should pick up the pace and make this idea happen.

My lifelong friend Shark may be able to find some paints for the ash wood. My mom raves at the quality of the paints Shark provides for her. I touch text Shark.

"NEED PAIN T4 WOOD"

Smiling, I maneuver though the crowded hallway. I stop by my locker and unload one set of targeting boots and a few art supplies weighing down my bag.

The locker closes. Alan, my evil ex-boyfriend, stands a foot from my face. "I've been thinking about you today Lilly." His tone is quiet and almost introverted.

"Why don't we go hang somewhere after school?" He backs me against my locker.

"We broke up for a reason. You seem only interested in one thing," I say.

He bumps me against the locker with his chest, positioning himself directly in front of my face. His arms press against the lockers, caging me in. I look angrily into his eyes. A sudden flash blinds my mind. His will suddenly envelopes my own, clouding my thoughts in murky fog. Confusion reigns as my heart races. I crave Alan, I need him and no other. My hands ascend to his neck and the touch of his rough skin intensifies my inner cravings. Never in my life have my wants and needs been so focused. My heart pounds with a desire to give my very soul to him.

His strong hands slither around my back and he pulls my body against his. I smile in his arms. I lick my lips and lean in towards him. As I slide my arm against his shoulder, a sharp pain jolts through my body. The pin on his collar slices into my finger. I jump back away from him. The shock blusters away the fog and throws me back into reality. I pull my hands to my temples and begin to rub, activating my special gift.

My gift of purple vision flushes against the perfect edges of Alan, slowly eroding the falsely perfect façade that blinds my senses. My thoughts return, and immediately and I realize what's happening. In shades of purple, I see the true Alan. Somehow, nightcaller control flows from his body, his warm-blooded body. I push him away from me with both hands.

"My dear Lilly, I know you didn't mean to do that." He speaks softly, but without any of the overpowering persuasion moments ago.

"No, I really did mean to, now get away from me!" I glare into his eyes.

"Lilly Rose, you desire me. After all I have been through, you desire me!" He yells at me in a piercingly grievous tone. The entire hallway full of students stops to stare at the heated exchange.

He raises his arm, revealing a tattoo of an ace of spades on his right forearm. His left hand pulls out the peppermint-scented toothpick from his mouth and hurls it to the floor, scowling. He approaches angrily.

I back up against the cold metal locker trying to move away from him.

"I don't understand what's going on, you should not be able to resist what I'm doing to you!" He moves in close once again.

"I can't believe you would try to have me against my will!" I drop down, slip off under his arms to my left, and start to walk away.

"How can you possibly know that?" He turns to follow me.

I round the corner quickly and slip into the bleach-scented dioptase girls' restroom.

The silent white-and-silver trimmed restroom is empty. Thank goodness. I approach the double basin and cup some liquid in my hands. I am about to splash it on my face. As luck would have it, I remember the make-up I'm wearing for the Wes signing. I drop the liquid back into the sink.

"Wow, almost disaster," I say quietly.

I turn the sink off and look up in the mirror. An incensed Alan is in the restroom right behind me. "How do know? Who warned you?" He grabs my shoulders, turns me and looks into my eyes. "You will have me!" He shakes my shoulders violently.

I reflexively spin out of his arms, and sweep-kick his feet. He drops instantly, his rear thuds against the hard Spanish tile. "You will never control me. Now leave me alone!" I point a threatening finger him.

He jumps to his feet and belts out a guttural yell. He then kicks the black plastic trashcan across the bathroom. It ricochets off the wall and he walks towards me with clenched fists. He pulls back his fist as a G hall monitor walks into the restroom. "Boy!" I yell pointing in Alan's direction. In what seems like only a second, the G grabs Alan by the throat and flings him against the wall. The G begins scanning his body from top to bottom. I run out quickly to my first class.

My first class is a blur of confusion and tiredness, an hour of reading art theory from my tablet. Afterwards, I find myself dragging into science class. I sit down next to Hollywood, who is wearing a small bandage on her forehead. I would ask her about her head, but conversations about our government job are off limits in public, no matter how minor. She looks bored as she runs her fingers though her silky black hair. Silver studded red ribbons run the length of her hair.

The emergency lights flash as masked government agents flood into the classroom. Students are forcefully ripped from their desks and shoved into the walls.

Seconds after this government intrusion, I find my face pressed flush against rough immovable stone. Bags are emptied out, and coats are searched. I grit my teeth as it feels as though the agent will snap my neck if he presses any harder.

The leader of the agents, a large man with a square chin and thick mustache, waves a copper colored wand up and down my body.

"Nothing!" the leader barks.

He shoves me to the ground and motions for the group to follow as he quickly exits the room.

My hands shake as my fingers slide across the cold floor tiles. As often as these shakedowns occur, they still are quite unnerving.

The bell rings.

"Ms. Aura, I think I have a ride to the thing," Hollywood says, attempting to ease the moment. She pulls out her heavily decorated tablet from her bag.

"Oh, who is going to take us to the signing?"

The lights begin to flicker again – darkness. My throat tightens up and I feel around the table in front of me. The room used for science class is prison like with a heavy solid surrounding of painted blocks and no windows. It is pitch black now. I reach in my pocket, pull out the LED light attachment for my crossbow scope, and twist the top. It works very well, too well. The entire class lights up in a blue aura. Then as thirty eyes start staring right at me, I hear a voice.

"You are such a dork, Lilly Rose," says Hollywood, cracking a blue smile. "How did I not guess you would have a flashlight in your pocket?"

The masses in the class begin chuckling, as my face must be five shades redder than normal. Luckily, the light is bright blue, and paints everyone the same color, like extras from Willy Wonka. The rest of the shortened school day is thankfully uneventful.

BUZZ BUZZ

It's from Hollywood.

"GOT RIDE OUT FRNT"

We meet and walk into the girls' locker room. She changes from the skirt into a shorter black, lacy skirt layered over a solid black background with a bit of sheen. It's tighter fitting that what she usually wears. She is in amazing shape from her training. I pull a few times on my coral v-neck dress to slide it on.

"Hey, can you zip this?" She is in the middle of snapping what seems like hundreds of little snaps bordering the seam of her skirt.

She grabs my shoulders and twists my body, pointing away from her, and slowly zips the dress to the top. "Well, that is even tighter than the one I had picked out for you," Hollywood says with a devilish grin.

"What are you talking about?"

"I hate to admit it, but you certainly have the body to pull it off. The boys will be fighting in the alleys to get a shot with you."

I look in the mirror and realize exactly how tight my dress is. It almost looks painted on.

"Oh no, I'm not going to that kind of party." I reach for my old clothes. Hollywood intercepts my arm. "Come on little girl, live a little. Life outside the chess club can be exciting too."

Rolling my eyes, and feeling naked, I zip up my school bag and follow Hollywood out of the locker room.

We walk the halls, heels clacking on against the tiles of the floor. I pull out my music phone card to touch text Bud. The plan is to spend the night at Hollywood's house. I will go to school the next day with her.

I press the end icon on the small touch screen of the music phone card. The phone slips back into place in my back pocket. We stop in front of a familiar looking '67 Chevy Impala.

"Snap, he is our ride? What about those things you told me about him?"

She smiles, a hint of mischief, and walks up to me. "Don't worry," she says, adjusting a strap on my dress, "I've known him for years. He's quite harmless outside of his fantasy world of popularity. Just don't tell him I said that."

Hollywood walks over and runs her finger across the top of the car. She holds her now-dusty finger up to Ben as he walks up. His plaid button-down shirt and dark wash jeans blow about in the strong breeze.

"You are slipping in your old age. The youthful Ben would never have allowed this vile dust to defile his ride." He ignores her and opens the passenger door.

"You know Melissa, you shouldn't press your luck. I'm the one doing the favor here." He folds his arms as he receives a look from Hollywood.

Once inside his car, we speed down the road listening to the lush soundscapes of his high-dollar stereo system. The first note of the second song playing on the radio catches me. My heart pounds and I bite my bottom lip. His full voice echoes from the amazing stereo system: Wes's voice.

But there's places she'll never know

out there all left alone

and the places I've never seen

so please take a ride with me

The lyrics are unfamiliar, so I focus undividedly on what must be his new song:

From Tokyo to Paris streets

Mexico and ocean breeze

my hometown to New York City

there's places we'll never know

out there all left alone

there's places I've never been

so please take a ride with me

time is filled with space and numbers

still leaves things undiscovered

we're just another trying to find

all the places we'll never know

out there all left alone

there's places I've never been

so please take a ride with me

...

"You heard it here first, the new track from Wes Ashby, "Places Out There." Join us downtown tonight. We will be broadcasting live from Greensburg."

Hollywood turns to me from the front seat. "That song was hot." She adjusts the overhead mirror and begins to apply glossy black lipstick mixed with silver glitter.

I bask in the thought of getting to meet Wes, beyond that one moment we has a few years ago where he reached for my hand at a concert.

I just love Ben's sound system. It is as clear as the flowing springs, downhill from the administration offices at the rehab center.

The DJ also teases the listeners with the possibility of hearing one more track from the album. I so hope that he does. The first song he played was unbelievable.

Wes's lyrics cover themes and subjects like staying rooted and grounded in his life, love, and loss. So many musicians in the fame and celebrity of the spotlight grow arrogant, but not Wes.

Hollywood takes hold of Ben's tree-shaped air freshener. "So what's the deal here? You have all factory originals on the car, and yet you feel it necessary to have some forty-nine credit pine tree air freshener hanging on your rearview mirror."

"Just keeping the experience original you know, that tree is all they had back in the day."

"Oh original just like that HGT music card player you have there on the dash." Hollywood grins confidently, knowing she has caught him in a contradiction.

"It's externally mounted over the top of the dash. It doesn't mess with anything original," Ben says, defending his player.

"Yeah, it doesn't mess with the original sixties experience. I don't remember reading anything about music cards back then."

"You know, Ms. Original, I hope you are enjoying your free ride to the music card signing."

"Oh yes, this one-hundred-percent authentic trip back to the sixties is so groovy, thanks."

I laugh, sinking into the seat. The glass on the passenger side is perfectly clear, and I begin to soak in the rich greenness that is completely absent from the city I moved from.

A specific tree brings back a memory of this guitarist. He was playing nearly the same color of guitar. His name was Edgar and his band was getting ready to sign with a major label. They only drew about a hundred or so people every night, but it was just a matter of time before they hit it big. Edgar was impressed that I had positioned myself right in front of him for most of the concert, and sang every word of every song. After the concert, we hung out in the rather small and smoke-filled backstage area. The area was rather cramped, so he asked if I wanted to take a walk outside. We walked out the back service entrance, into a dark graffiti-filled alley. He had his arm around me and it didn't feel awkward. He talked about is how difficult road life was, just trying to make ends meet until they signed with the label.

"Sometimes I wish I just worked forty hours a week at the mall, and after work I'd have time to have a steady girlfriend. I would take her out and treat her right. The road is crazy, it makes you crazy, and you're all alone. The girls I meet on the road are no comfort. You blink and it's on to a new city and they're gone" He spoke softly, from the heart, as we walked.

As the real world begins to come back into focus, the city draws nearer. I reach into my red shoulder bag and grab my box of Puff-Nogs.

"Do you mind?" I hold the box up to him. Lifting one eyebrow, he makes eye contact in the rearview mirror.

"No, I do not mind, as long as you feed them to your mouth, and not my seats." He adjusts his perfectly polished rearview mirror.

"Thanks." I open the box and start eating. As I bite into the last Puff-Nog, I return to Hollywood and Ben's conversation, which has taken a more serious tone.

Ben looks at Hollywood. "So can you get me an invite into the Nineteen?" Ben asks.

"I have three invites left, but I don't know if they are legit. They are from a government informant, so I have the feeling they might be tracking the invites."

"I'll chance it. We need to start talking truce, forming alliances."

"Do you think all the talk is true, about the vaccines?" Hollywood asks. The car speeds over a railroad crossing outside a small abandoned town. "Well I'll put it this way – I don't trust that they have abandoned the project. It almost worked the first time."

The road curves continually as our route cuts directly through the dense forest-covered hills. Everything is such a long distance away from Texas. Back at Mom and Dad's, I was ten minutes away from everything. Here in the middle of nowhere, it is an hour or two to get anywhere.

I pull out my music phone card and send two messages –

To Quinn: "NEON TIPS FOR BOLT" and to Shark: "ASH WOOD PAIN T".

Our rumbling ride roars into the freshly repaved mall parking lot. Hollywood steps out of the front seat. Ben extends his and takes mine as he helps me out of the car. He pulls me up towards him, face to face, and looks deeply into my eyes. I bite my bottom lip and look away. The mental connection begins again, I can sense him, but I can't hear him. He pushes my windblown hair out of my face. I look deeply into his dark eyes. Hollywood cuts directly between the two of us, breaking our hands apart. We follow. Heat radiates from the pavement and a strong smell of tar turns my head. The new pavement hasn't completely dried yet. This better not stick to the bottom of my new shoes.

I get a dirty look from a passerby in a welder's outfit, mask flipped up on the top of his head, and coal-tinted stains on his cheeks. He looks me up and down and grins. Self-awareness kicks in and I immediately remember what I'm wearing – I feel naked. I cross my arms over my chest and continue walking.

Hollywood puts her arm around my shoulder. She pulls me along into a half sprint, and we stumble quickly to the mall entrance. Ben flies past us, and pulls open one of the double doors to the main entrance of the mall. He taps his foot impatiently waiting for us to approach.

"Thank you, Ben," I say, catching his glance. My gaze moves down to my feet.

Hollywood follows next. "Thanks but no thanks," she says, and opens the other door herself.

"Hollywood, clarify something. If I don't open the door, I'm insensitive, but if I open the door, I'm some type of chauvinist."

"Yes" Hollywood replies, as her lacy skirt squeaks when she walks by.

"Yes what? What exactly should I do at the door?"

She twists her face into a clever grin.

"I know, how about you exit?" The spot lighting reflects from the glitter on her full lips.

"You know you're not as funny as you look, Melissa," Ben replies, folding his arms calmly.

"You both sound like a married couple," I say. Hollywood turns and whips Ben in the face with one of her ponytails and looks at me. I immediately receive two deadly stares.

"Lilly Rose, people have said less vile and offensive things to me and not lived to tell the tale." Hollywood turns her chin up and away from me. The heels of her four-inch stilettos clack against the marble floor as she continues walking just ahead of us.

BUZZ BUZZ

A new message from Quinn shakes my phone card.

"NONE NOW... SOON"

Too bad, I really want to get tips for the ash wood bolts.

We pass a ginourmous, crystal-clear, winding staircase: the centerpiece of the mall. It goes four stories high with exit points at each level. As we approach the black and yellow steps of the escalator, I jump onto the second step. It suddenly becomes quiet.

I turn around. Ben and Hollywood can't agree on who is going to get on the escalator first. Eight or nine people impatiently begin to gather behind them. They finally decide to squeeze onto the same step together. An impatient old lady behind them raises her hands and rolls her eyes, signaling "finally".

I can't hear Ben and Hollywood, but I can tell that they are engaged in some type of intense discussion on escalator etiquette. The second story of the mall is alive with dozens of potted trees and hanging plants. The silver railings house lush potted plants lining the length of the walkway.

The ground is lively with some crazy zigzagging holographic patterns that change as we step over them. The holograms just beg people to follow with their feet.

I catch my first glimpse of the music store as we turn the corner. Its silver and brass colored walls contrast the plain brick of the adjacent stores. Ben stops suddenly when he sees a mirrored column and pulls out his black switchblade comb from his pocket. After about thirty seconds of combing his long straight hair, he puts the comb away. "Sweet," he says admiring his reflection one last time.

"It will take more than a comb to salvage what you're trying to pull off," Hollywood says, bending over a bench to tighten her left stiletto. Her blouse unintentionally gives me more of a show than I want to see. She stands up and we turn down a walkway, heading towards the entrance to the music store.

"On the subject of salvage, look who's talking: Danatra Manson." Ben is referring to a gothic B-movie star of the last decade.

"Oh no you didn't," Hollywood replies, stopping on a dime. Her stiletto heals produce a loud clack.

"Oh yes I did, Gregory." Ben, arms still folded watches as Hollywood spins around facing him. She slowly straightens his collar.

"Maybe I wanted it like that," he says, trying to play off her actions.

"Come on guys, quit flirting and pick up the pace," I say anxiously. Hollywood shoots me an evil squint. Ben smiles and makes an "hmmmph."

A scrolling marquee races flashing red text over the doorway of the music store. According to the sign, they will not be handing out line tickets for another half an hour.

Hollywood and Ben begin walking towards Jimmie's Phone Card Shoppe. "You coming Lilly Rose?" Hollywood asks with a playful grin, twirling one of the silver-studded hair ribbons in her hair around her finger.

"No, I want to check out the listening station inside the store. Just meet me back here," I say, pulling down the bottom length of my dress. This dress doesn't quite go as low as I remember either.

I walk by the panels that beep if someone is trying to steal something and into the store. This music store is huge, music cards on the left and holovisual cards on the right.

I walk past the best sellers heading to the new releases, and nearly knock down both displays as I lunge for a copy of the new Wes Ashby music card.

False alarm, the box is empty, just a display. The real ones, I suppose, are going to be wheeled out at midnight. The album has the most amazing cover – a picture of Wes and some gal, their backs to the camera facing down some dude that looks like Ben. Ben has to see this.

I spot a free listening station and grab a few local indie music cards to check out. Two hulking men pass the listening stations to my left. One of them grazes against me trying to get by. They both turn and sit down at the station next to me. Through my headphones, I heard one of them mumble: "You were correct, more potential than I have seen in years."

The taller one taps me on the shoulder. I flinch from the contact. I pull off one of the sides of the headset and look at him. The man's reddish-brown hair is slicked back and exposes a scar on his forehead.

He wears a sadistic grin and has a rough look about him. He brushes the sleeve of his dusty black leather jacket. A gold tooth sparkles as he smiles. "Hey love, name's Dameon and I seem to have lost my phone card number. Can I borrow yours?"

That is an epic failure of a line, amazingly the delivery failed even worse. "You want to go party with us love, after the signing?"

"No thanks, I have plans," I say, keeping a straight face as I put back on the headset and try to ignore him.

After a few moments, they disappear. Looking back down at the machine, I attempt to conjure back my focus. I have been going through local and indie music withdrawal ever since I left Midland. I scan the first indie music card box on the rack. The rather live sounding recording starts playing, and reminds me of when some friends and I went to The Cube back home. This was the first time I had seen Wes Ashby. My friends were thrilled that they hadn't carded us.

The place was packed that night. Some of the girls had gone to get drinks from the ration booth. I remember pushing through the crowds of people to get closer to the stage.

Holograms of the state flag and the band's logo projected all over the ceiling. I had found the perfect spot right under the bass player. He was super cute, and I think he noticed me looking at him. My smile must have caught him off guard. He rubbed his chin, stumbled a bit, and looked back at the drummer. At that moment, I was totally feeling the song and started moving myself to the rhythm.

The bass line really held the song together and gave my body something to follow along. The heat from the crowd was beginning to make me sweat, but at least I wore a sleeveless top that night. The setting felt intimate, unplanned, and spontaneous. My eyes traced the outlines of the players on stage. The fog and lights illuminated the band. Their bodies glowed against the blackness of the stage background. The young bass player was amazing. He really knew how to work the crowd.

Some bassists just stand playing, but not this one. He really got into the music with his movement on stage. His sweat soaked through both his white sleeveless muscle shirt and his open vintage vest of dragon designs and pewter buttons. I saw his chiseled arms glistening as the spotlights panned across him. The bass felt like part of my body and I felt myself reacting to the music almost before he played it. My rhythm was synchronized with the music as I extended my left arm up towards him. He reached down and stroked the top of my hand while he continued to play the open notes with his right hand.

Zap!

He squeezed a couple of fingers for a split second and I felt a connection that was electric. I know he felt it too because he rose back to his feet, pointing his finger in the air. An electric spark jumped between our hands. He began crouching lower, extending his arm further, and rubbed a few of my fingers together in his hand. He rose again back to his feet, pointing his finger in the air. He attacked the bass parts with intensity, as his eyes met mine.

I pull the headphones off as flashing lights catch my attention. My focus returns to the present. A bass-driven rock song plays over the store's expensive black-and-silver two-toned overhead speakers. Strobe lights housed in black shells and automated lasers lay dormant, waiting for the right moment – the moment I've been waiting for the entirety of my young existence.

Ushers begin collecting the orange plastic line tickets. The crowd, visibly nervous with anticipation, meanders in a single snaking line. Two robotic Gs patrol the store with stun sticks. A government sensory dressed in a dark goldenrod trench coat follows closely behind them. Such is common for a patrol team in the mall.

We wait forever. Then we wait even longer.

Crackle!

The lights dim slightly and an announcer strolls out with a microphone. "Yo!" An unseen voice from the loud speakers brings cheers from the crowd.

The cheers turn to screams as a spotlight shines on a poster of Wes. I can't hear the announcer over the earsplitting roar of the crowd. The volume lowers for a moment. "Who do you wanna see?" the announcer asks the crowd.

"Wes, Wes, Wes!" the crowd chants. My ears buzz.

"I can't hear you!" yells the announcer, mocking the crowd.

"Wes, Wes, Wes, Wes, Wes!" The crowd chants even louder.

"Yo, first things first. I'd like to introduce to you, the lovely Yes Girls."

The men in the crowd yell and whistle. Twin blondes in full-length black skin-tight gala dresses walk through the fog. Their flawless walk and look have the men captivated. The announcer said, "Women, it's your turn. Are you ready for Wes to bring the house down?" I yell as loud as I can, jumping to see over the people in front of me.

"And the lovely Yes Girls, are you both ready?" The announcer places the microphone in front of the girls.

"Yes Greensburg, we are." The Yes Girls say in sultry unison. The response brings roars and whistles from the audience.

"Audience, are you ready for Wes to step through this door?"

The audience chants. "Wes, Wes, Wes, Wes..."

I chant along with the crowd. "Well, you want him, you got him. Sun Rose Rocket Music presents Wes Ashbyyyy!"

The lights dim. Fog and laser projections flash against the employee break-room door. A silhouette of a man holds a golden microphone in the doorway.

As I lie awake

does magic lie in fate

before you came along

adventures carry on

they just carry on

you're music to my ears

lying dormant all these years

before you come along

here's my greatest song

won't you sing along

will you be my baby?

will you be my son?

will you be my everything 'til I'm gone?

take me as I am

I hold you in my arms

before you come along

here's my greatest song

won't you sing along?

will you be my baby?

will you be my son?

will you be my everything 'til I'm gone?

will you be my baby?

will you be my son?

will you be my everything 'til I'm gone?

...

Wes walks out of the doorway to thunderous applause. He's wearing a black felt derby and a velvet-trimmed morning coat. The unique stitching of the outfit glows in the black lights around the door. He looks much taller today than his actual six-foot height. His arms stretch out to the sides, hands in fists. Lights flash from hundreds of camera cards from every direction. He jumps to a stop as projections of fireworks explode around the store.

The crowd is in frenzy – a sea of people bounce, jumping up and down. The security team looks at each other. After about a minute, Wes lifts the golden microphone in front of his flawless face. "Hello Greensburgggg!" The Yes Girls hug him from both sides.

I jump up where I'm standing and yell. My breathing is fast, nearly out of control, and my fingers are going numb. "He's here, he's here, I can't believe he's here!" I scream.

The crowd is so loud that I can't tell if my words are even coming out of my mouth. The TV does him no justice. He has aged incredibly, since I last saw him. His rectangular face and electric eyes, both taken straight from mythology, inject energy into the ravenous fans. He slowly walks the aisle with a confidence and a unique style to his every step.

"Did you all know I am releasing a new limited edition music card today?" He points his mic at the crowd.

The crowd yells.

"Let's do this." He returns the microphone to his pocket and walks over to the signing booth. My heart nearly stops.

All six of the store's cashier stations staffed to check people out quickly. Ten Gs, a sensory, and one National Guard now stand ready and stationed for crowd control. I still don't know what to say to him. My turn to talk to Wes draws closer. I can't swallow. The line advances. It's almost my turn. I stand right behind the Yes Girls unable to steady my hands.

"Yes Girls, is the next fan ready?" Wes asks. He hands the last girl a signed music card.

"Yes Wes, she is," They both say at the same time as they place their arms around my shoulders and guide me to Wes.

Fear and panic set in. I stop breathing. My hands are shaking. What's wrong with me? I've had knives and blades pulled on me before, and kept it together better. I walk up directly in front of him. He glows under the warm lighting. "Hello lovely girl, I'm Wes Ashby. To whom should I make the autograph?"

I look into his awaiting eyes. I am the poster child of the star-struck fangirl. I bite down hard on my lip, and slam both my hands on the table startling him. "Wes, my name is Lilly Rose. Remember that time, The Cube?" Sweat drips from my forehead.

"Um, like an ice cube?" Wes asks, confused. He grabs a box containing a special edition music card from a stack.

"No you were playing with it, I mean at it." I fumble even the most basic of English words.

"You saw me playing with an ice cube?" He pulls the cap off a fresh holographic marker.

"No, The Cube is this place you played in with your old band. I shocked you when our hands touched, we connected."

"You shocked me before, I don't remember that. OK, here you go Lilac." He hands the autographed card to me. As he does, our hands touch. A jolt, an electric spark between us pulls our eyes together. I drop the box on the ground. Our eyes lock.

Now, for this brief second – I see a look in Wes Ashby's eyes, a faint recognition of our past. Then, just as soon as it came, it is gone.

"Lilac, you are a peculiar girl. Try not dragging your feet on the carpet before touching people." The people in the booth break out into heavy laughter. "Yes Girls, that is one peculiar girl, don't you two think?"

"Yes Wes, she is one peculiar girl," the Yes Girls say simultaneously.

People all around me laugh and point.

My body reacts instantly without consulting my mind. I slap the closest Yes Girl across the face, sending her tumbling to the ground. I grab the autographed box from the floor and run out of the line. The bass from the music must have muffled the slap, as none of the Gs react to the scene. I throw a two-thousand credit card at the cashier, and fly out the door, causing the electronic sensors to beep as I run by.

I sprint down the escalator to escape, as if a wild beast was chasing me down a desert valley. I fly across the first floor. Tears flow down my cheeks. I feel the pulse vibration of my music phone card. I don't care what Hollywood wants. I ignore it and continue running. The bathrooms are to my left. I fly through the door and into the first stall. I collapse on the bench next to the toilet and begin sobbing uncontrollably into my hands. "Why Wes... why?" I scream out in sobs.

I sit living yet lifeless, the tears long gone. I listlessly attempt to fight off the dizziness, to compose myself. I get up, slowly walking out of the dark blue-tiled restroom and touch text Ben. I type in a daze.

"MEET @CAR GETN FOOD"

BUZZ BUZZ

"OK HURR Y YOU" Ben responds.

My arms shake. I wish I had saved a few Puff-Nogs. My stomach is cramping from stress and hunger. I need a ration machine. Somehow, a brief recollection comes back. The recruiting station upstairs has an automated ration machine in front of it.

I walk slowly upstairs and slide my clear ration card into the glowing slot of the ration machine. I touch select from the screen and pull out a box of Puff-Nogs. I apathetically begin eating a few of them.

The overpass of the clothing level is silent and the area is empty – it's closing time. Before I miss my chance to leave the mall altogether, I sprint. I jump on the black-and-silver escalator that slowly descends to the floor below. I am the only one left on the floor. "Snap!"

I run to the mall entrance by the restroom. They have already dimmed the overhead lights, giving the impression that the mall has already closed.

A digital map reads only one exit is open, on the opposite side of the mall from where Ben parked.

Piercing through the darkness, millions of sparkling stars dot the sky. The parking lot lights are out. This is not safe.

Still in a daze, I make an effort to watch my surroundings. I walk by an old black Chevrolet Chevelle, the only vehicle by the exit.

"Hey love, you came after all. Ready to party?" asks the familiar deep voice of the gold-toothed Dameon.

The sight of the car triggers memories of recent news headlines. A similar vehicle has been linked to several kidnappings.

I slowly turn my head towards the voice. As I do, Dameon stands in clear view. Two ruffians and three other well-dressed men stand ten feet away in the parking lot. My adrenaline kicks in and I jump into a full sprint.

"You want to play hard to get, love?" The group begins to follow me.

I am hauling, but not losing them. They pursue and keep pace with little effort. How are those losers able to keep up? A hoodlum streaks beside me, like a nightcaller. He laughs at my running pace. "You want this hard or easy?" The streaking man is buff, six-foot, and wearing a black tank top.

"Hard!" I yell.

"Have it your way, meat. I'll inform Dameon of your decision." The man streaks back behind me. They must be nightcallers, creatures of the night with inhuman speed. I have no weapons with me. With how this night has gone, it figures that the nightcallers have come put me out of my misery.

Something flies through the air whizzing past me, a rock maybe. Black smoke, similar to the smoke that blinded my friend last week during an attack, bubbles around me, blocking my vision. "Get ready for a blackout, love," yells Dameon.

I know just what to do. It worked last time. I press my thumbs to my temples and begin rubbing in circles. I have never tried this while in a full sprint before. Instantly, deep purple waves flow down my body and wash away the black smoke. The parking lot illuminates, my surroundings glow.

I look back. They slow down and look at each other, probably confused, as the smoke did nothing to stop my progress. They streak and make up ground on me. I'm not going to make it all the way around the mall.

I scan the now-illuminated mall parking lot. A mall service alley directly ahead catches my attention. I turn into it as fast as I can. On patrol, a G walks out of the alley. I yell at him. "Those men robbed me."

Seconds after I run by, the G grabs the closest pursuer with its cybernetic arm. The pursuer happens to be Dameon. The G throws Dameon against an adjacent red cinderblock wall. Three of the men jump on the G, attacking it. The G grabs the wrist of the larger man with the black tank top and flings him into a light pole.

Dameon streaks into the illumination of the street lamp. He grabs the arm of the G and rips it completely off its body. Sparks fly out of the arm socket. Green viscous fluid spews all over Dameon. The others grab the G and begin to tear the robotic police officer limb from limb.

My body tenses. The G will not save me from this, but he will buy me some time. I run deeper into the alley. About ten seconds later, a grim realization occurs to me. The alley is a dead end. I look around the dark and silent alley for ways to escape. I look for a ladder, a door, but there is nothing.

Just before I break down in utter panic, a large brown and red trailer parked in the alley catches my eye. My legs kick into a sprint.

I grab the door handle to the trailer, which thankfully is unlocked. I throw open the door and fly inside. I lock the door behind me and sink down to the floor, breathing heavily with temporary relief, and stare at the ceiling, pitch-blackness surrounding me. The lights turn on and I squint my eyes.

Standing above me in a white shirt a few sizes too small, and causing my lungs to stop functioning, is Wes Ashby. He rubs his handsome squared-off chin. It takes a moment, but then recognition comes into his eyes. Spicy and sweet accents, his fragrant cologne, intertwine through the passages of my airways as I close my eyes to heighten the sensation.

"Lilac, what are you doing here? I thought I locked the door. Do I need to call security?" He flips his phone card between his fingers, smooth like a magic trick.

"Wait, don't make me go outside. Five men were chasing me around the parking lot. They killed a G." I try to catch my breath. "I run everyday, but somehow, all five of them were right on me the whole time."

I jump to my feet. We both look out the trailer's side window. Five men look about the alley, turning over trashcans and kicking freight boxes. One of the five men spots us through the window. They begin walking towards the trailer.

Wes looks beside me and grabs a pipe. He looks tough with his muscles and the pipe. He holds it pipe up to the window. One of the men points at the trailer. Wes lifts his phone to the window.

The nightcallers look at each other and begin streaking off toward the waiting dark Chevelle. They all jump in and the classic car peels out.

"Lilac, you have a natural talent for causing mischief," Wes says, staring down the alley.

Exhausted, scared, and cranky, I let out at him. "Mr. Ashby, my name is Lilly Rose, not Lilac. What you did to me today is one of the cruelest things anyone has ever done." I get in his face. Tears begin running down my blushing cheeks. I don't have the energy to hold it in.

He traces his forefinger along my chin, catching a tear. A line of energy runs across my face and through my body. "I was just having a bit of fun. I can make it up to you." He slides a poster into my hand.

"Are you kidding me? A poster won't make it better. Maybe an apology will."

As he releases the poster, our hands touch. Sparks dance between us.

"Are you some type of lighting rod? What's with all the strange electricity?" Wes asks.

My feelings, and this entire evening, are making it difficult to keep my composure. "Come, have a seat," he says as he directs me slowly to a table with brown benches. "Would you like one of my homemade organic frappuccinos?"

"No, but a water would be great, thank you." My music phone card begins to vibrate.

"I forgot about my ride," I say as I jump.

I touch text Hollywood.

"BACK MALL BY A LLEY"

As I text standing at the table, I catch Wes admiring my skintight dress. "I should have complimented your amazing dress at the signing."

I cross my arms. "Don't get the wrong idea. I don't normally dress this way."

"Not normally, but today for me you did." He walks slowly back in my direction.

"Are you implying something?" I ask as I put my music phone card away. Wes Ashby places the steaming cup next to me. He has a nearly arrogant confidence that flows from his body, a suave rhythm in his movements – Mr. Darcy in the flesh.

Perfection breaks down for just a moment. He accidentally knocks an old mug off the table. It spills on my dress. Coffee! I jump. It's not hot, luckily. He quickly tosses me a towel and we both wipe my leg dry. The spill mostly missed me. "Sorry Lilac – Lilly," he says quickly.

"It missed mostly, it's fine." I smile back at him as I wipe the table and booth.

I hand him the towel and look into his eyes – pools of sparkling wonder. "Does this make you nervous, being here alone with me?" Wes asks.

"Should I be nervous?" I demand.

"You are in private audience now with me. You should be honored," he says with and arrogant smile.

I pull my hand away instantly. "Wes, I can't believe you said that. That statement is so beneath you, the type of thing you criticize in your own lyrics. Such a statement makes you seem out of touch, and also pretentious – a bit of a downer to hear from you actually." My tired irritability makes the words rough.

Wes sits, mouth open, stunned by my words. "Wait, what did you just say?"

Raising my brow, I flatly state, "If you think you are higher class than me, you are wrong. I am actually of a higher social class than you are. I am not working class for your information, not that it should matter. I'm shocked that you would treat someone of a different class with such dishonor. You are beginning to lose my respect." I flash my government issued class bracelet in front of his face for effect.

"I've earned the right to outrank most of these people. I don't think you understand me Lilac – um Lilly. Why are you acting this way? Is it how I look? Maybe it's the lighting, the florescence."

I almost spit out my water laughing as he says that.

Standing up from his side of the table, he walks over and sits next to me on the bench. He places his arm around my shoulder and runs his fingers along my cheek. Pulses of electric energy jump between us. I smile, and my heart races. Then, I catch myself.

"If I truly have offended you, I'll make it up to you." He leans in as if to kiss me.

My life long dream is suddenly a reality. My own personal Mr. Darcy is in front of me, and our lips soon shall meet. Cumulus clouds gather in my imagination, thundering to the beat of my heart. The most perfect daydream from the most perfect walk on top of the most perfect sands along the most perfect coasts can not touch the brilliance of this moment. I part my lips as I draw closer to his perfect face.

The sensible Lilly Rose wins this round over the rash one. Against my natural instincts, and with every ounce of my human will, I raise my hand. With two fingers, I cover his lips. I take a deep breath and sigh. "Wes, you have no idea how many nights I have dreamed of this moment, no idea. But a kiss is not always going to make things better." I sit, staring into his beautiful face as he pulls back.

"When I kiss a girl, things get better, I'm Wes Ashby." Though steady in tone, and smooth in motion, his eyes look confused, as a child would be sitting in a college class.

"Before I forget, there is the matter of one defense attorney – your girlfriend. She wouldn't agree that kissing me would make everything better."

"You know my girlfriend?" Wes asks, looking around the room innocently.

"Yes, I mean, I know of her. She is so wrong for you, Wes, but that's another subject." My eyes avoid his.

He laughs loudly, taken back a bit by my statement. "Oh, is she? Truth is, I really don't know her very well. The dating thing is a show put on by the record company. The tour, my paycheck, it's all contingent on playing the role of power couple in the media," he says, smiling.

"That is a convenient line for a rock star alone in his trailer with a girl in a hot dress." I am unimpressed.

"I'm speaking the truth, what we have is not real," he stammers.

"The kiss you planted on her at the Rasbys looked real to me."

"The record label insisted that we seal the deal in front of the media. I had no choice. I won't get a single paycheck until my contract is fulfilled."

"I can't imagine the difficulty, being forced to make out with her. Do you consider her your girlfriend?" I ask directly.

"I had no choice, but make no mistake, they can't buy my heart. I don't love her. But yes, if you wish to be technical, I suppose, by definition she is my girlfriend."

"Why did you just try to kiss me if you have a girlfriend?"

He slides closer to me. Smiling gorgeously, he softly grazes my cheek with his fingers. My heart pounds, but I shake it off.

"I was simply trying to make things better for you."

"Such a humanitarian you are, but I'm not a cheater. I'm not some other woman! You live in your rock star ivory tower. You just don't know any better." I look at him, into the most amazing blue eyes I've ever seen. I lose myself for a moment.

"No girl has ever acted like this around me. You are intriguing. He runs his ringers through his hair. My hair must be a fright. You know I was in bed when you jumped in here."

"No Wes, it's not your hair. Your hair actually looks amazing," I stare at his soft-looking multilayered hair, yearning deep inside to run my fingers through its layers.

He pulls out a breath strip and put it in his mouth.

"No, you are not getting it..."

He interrupts. "Now that's better." He runs his finger along my bare shoulder.

I shutter from the chill of his touch and he leans in to me again. His eyes are brilliant in the lighting of his trailer. Years of yearning and desire slam at my defenses, a pent-up balloon of wanting, ready to burst. Now he wants to kiss me, he wants to release all those years of frustration. He wants to end all those years of being the best friend of all the boys I liked so much. I bite my lip as my mouth begins to water.

Reluctantly I hold my hand up to his lips, his soft lips, and cover them. His lips are amazing to the touch. "So pretentious you are, Mr. Darcy." I accidentally say aloud.

I want to let go, to give in, but I know I will hate myself forever. I would be the other woman I so despise. I won't, not even for Wes. This is the only time in his life he will learn this.

"Who is Mr. Darcy? A math instructor or a school teacher maybe?"

"Wes, your kisses may keep your groupies in line, but in reality, it's unhealthy to think you can solve your problems with your lips." I force a serious tone and look the part as well.

"Lilly Rose, they do solve my problems." Wes keeps his arm around my shoulder.

His strong hand begins rubbing my arm. The pressure feels wonderful on my sore and tired muscles. I try my best not to let on. I tell him about the concerts I'd seen him at, and how I had pictured he would be in real life, and about Mr. Darcy.

"So you want me to behave like the character from your books. You would have me act like a commoner?"

"No, I simply want you to behave like a gentleman," I say, slamming my hand to the table. "You need to get this through you thick head Mr. Rockstar, if you have one bad album, and the label dumps you, you will be a commoner like the rest of us. Your parents are engineers, not Elites!" I freeze, turning shades of red, when the replay plays back in my mind.

"Lilly Rose, I am who I am, and I will not become your idea of who I should be. I have high expectations, and I like to get what I want. Remember, for Wes the answer is yes. You know, like they say on my new commercial?"

He begins increasing the pressure, squeezing and working the knots out of my shoulders. He brushes my neck with his nails. My adrenaline surges. My desire is so intense, and my will is so tired. Then the mighty dam buckles to the massive pressure of building floodwaters.

My hand quickly slides to the back of his neck. My fingers run up slowly across his head, parting through his highlighted hair. I lean in towards him. Licking my lips, I pull his head closer. His amazing eyes draw closer as I hold his gaze the entire time. My heart races in sheer anticipation. The rhythm of my heart beats faster as I draw closer to him.

My will to fight collapses, and I pull him to me. Our lips meet with feverous energy. He pulls me in closer in his firm muscular grip. We kiss passionately, years and years of frustration channels directly into his lips. He traces his strong hand across my forehead and down my cheek. Flames, melting my very heart, morph us together in ecstasy. Please Wes, don't stop. He draws my bottom lip into his mouth and gently releases me. The sensation, the excitement of the release draws me back for more. My tensed fingers trace down the back of his neck, as my heart, mind, and emotions all are at lifetime highs. He pulls me into a passionate kiss and I return his energy fully.

The theme song from Talent Hunt begins to play. His phone card vibrates on the table. Appearing on this phone card is a picture of her. The picture slaps me across the face, as a wife slaps a cheating husband.

What am I doing? He has a girlfriend. "I will not be your mistress. I will not be your other woman!" I cry.

HONK! HONK!

A horn from outside the trailer sounds. I jump, pulling back from Wes. I look away from his hypnotic eyes. What just happened?

"I need to go, I'm sorry," I say, jumping up from my bench seat.

I nudge him and he vacates the bench. I walk past him to the door.

"Lilly Rose, how can you just leave? Will I see you again?" He follows closely.

"Maybe, Popso makes the world a very small place," I say, and blurt out my screen name "Tracker Rose", from the very popular social networking site. I open the trailer door and jump down the metal steps.

"Lilly Rose are you crazy, do you know what time it is?" Hollywood yells. Half her body is sticking out the passenger window of Ben's car.

I pump my fist in her direction as Wes follows me out of the trailer. Hollywood's jaw nearly hits the ground. "That was a most engaging encounter. Lilly Rose, about what you said, I am who I am, just accept that." I turn and impulsively give him a tight hug, one last feeling of being close to him.

He looks in my eyes as a big screen star would, gently his left hand presses against my cheek. "Does this mean that you accept my behavior?" He grins as I break away.

"No, it most certainly does not Mr. Darcy." I shoot him a disconnected smile as I run to the car and jump in. "You will learn, someday." My ride speeds quickly away.

These rock stars are probably accustomed to all the women saying yes to anything they ask. I was hoping Wes wasn't one of those.

Hollywood grabs me by the neck of my dress. "OMG Lilly Rose, how did you get into his trailer? What is he like? What did you talk about and did you kiss him?" Hollywood asks, rambling at a hundred miles an hour.

I can't tell her what really happened, about how weak I was. I was so stupid, what was I thinking. "Alright Hollywood, I'll answer one at a time." I struggle to catch my breath. "We talked about manners, and how he's full of himself, and he tried to kiss me twice but I didn't let him." I avoid eye contact to hide the truth in my eyes.

"Lilly Rose," Hollywood yells, shaking me, "what the hell is wrong with you? Wes Ashby, the idol you obsessed over your whole life, wants to kiss, and you tell him some other time. You need to seize the moment. Do you think that opportunity will ever happen again?"

"He needs to learn. If not kissing him is the price I have to pay for breaking him out of the ivory towers, then I'll pay that price, for him." Unfortunately, I failed miserably as a teacher.

"You and your ideals – my ideals would have landed me some hot kisses. I hope your feel-good lessons keep you warm at night." Her sarcasm only serves to rub in the disappointment in myself even more. I need to be stronger, unlike my biological father when he cheated on my mother. I will not be the other woman.

"I care too much for him. I couldn't let him remain in such ignorance."

"Ignorance is bliss, and in Wes's case, it's hot bliss." Hollywood's face creases into a dark smile.

I've experienced a lifetime's worth of adventure in just about a week's time. The serene drive and the glow of the moon bring to mind reflections of the past week. I vividly recall each day, each event. I stare out the clear backseat window. Tiny drops of rain begin to gather on the glass, the moon emanating brilliantly through each drop. The rain takes me back to the beginning of the week, the one that changed the direction of my life forever.

# Chapter 10

# March 16, 2093

#

Two moon-faced bronze dials spin, polished brass gears uniformly rotate – moving the clock hands forward. Time is a slow, yet irresistible force. Two puffs of smoke rise from the steam-powered clock as the top of the hour arrives. My tired eyes move from the hypnotic movements of the wall-mounted brass clock, to the video clip of Wes playing on my stationary electronic tablet. A dark steel blue sparkle graces the eye of my lifelong obsession, as he forcefully flips his trainer down to the gold-brown canvas mat. My fascination with Wes grows, though I detest the memory of my lack of self-control around him.

I shut off my phone. What does it matter anyway? The planet is slowly dying – subtlety, yet unmistakably. The land's once plentiful bounty of nourishment, yields less and less each month. Hundred-day droughts are becoming more common these days. I began tracking the decline in wild game three years ago. As a scout, I witness firsthand the massive shortages at the local food rationing stations. The local TV news portrays the opposite, a flowery picture of growth and prosperity. Television specials constantly remind us of how society survived the Great Disaster, and how dramatic our recovery has been. The cloak of denial can't continue forever. With no preparation, what will the masses of people do when all of the food sources are exhausted?

I've not eaten for two solid days prior to this moment. It was my fault this time and I typically don't have such problems. I should tell others about my theories of the dying world, as I have a very dangerous job. It would be a shame if my knowledge died with me. However, for the moment, precious air flows through my youthful lungs. For now, I must deal with another pressing matter of unfinished business here at the local food ration station. The volume level from the aging P.A. system increases. A sea of humanity, voting tablets in hand, and in the midst of their dinners, focuses on the projected 3D screen. "Television jury, prepare to cast your votes. Vote now by pressing guilty or not guilty on your approved voting apps," says the charismatic Southern judge. A small chrome silver strip borders the edges of the projection and reflects the rooms dimmed florescent lighting.

I select the red guilty icon on the screen of my tablet. "Confirm? Yes or No" appear on screen. I click yes. The bailiff approaches the bench and hands a glowing robin egg blue tablet to the judge.

I clench my fists. This murdering sociopath is going to die today. Five years ago, Roxenette, an adorable crystal-voiced seven-year-old won first place on the show Talent Hunt. Investigators discovered her body in the mountains a week later. In my opinion, the evidence points to a vile man, a tower of arrogance named John Velos. This man, his slick brown hair glistening in the lights, sits smugly in his expensive suit – staring into the camera as if looking directly into my soul with his cold and calculating eyes. He sits next to his blonde defense attorney. She wears an ivory blouse with a high collar and peers into the camera with evil, lifeless eyes.

"Will the defendant please rise, with counsel?" asks the judge. Several people around me place their hands over their mouths, shaking in anticipation. I grasp the smooth metal edge of the table and squeeze. The tension in the room is thick. I've been following the trial every day for the past four years, and finally a jury of the public at large will vote to end this psychopath's life today.

"Madam Clerk, has the jury of viewers reached a verdict?"

"Yes your honor, a majority vote has been reached."

"You may now publish the verdict." One of the country's most respected judges awaits the reading.

My left hand shakes as the older woman sitting to my left, cloaked in modest orange, grabs rubs her hands together in anticipation of the verdict. A tall woman shushes the audience and the room goes completely silent. Either of these charges should be enough for a death sentence.

The curly-haired, and to this point emotionless, clerk Jenna Stevens, walks forward and begins reading the verdict. "Case 43561 State of Pennsylvania vs. Velos CW16205, as to the charge of first degree murder, verdict as to count one, the public jury finds the defendant – not guilty."

"What?"

I slam my open hand on the table and yell at the sun-faded screen in total shock. The gasps and jeers of the audience resonate through the room, but are quickly overcome by shushes, quieting the audience. The clerk begins to read a second tablet. "Case 43561 State of Pennsylvania vs. Velos CW16205, as to the charge of aggravated manslaughter, verdict as to count two, the public jury finds the defendant – not guilty."

I say nothing, staring in grim silence at the screen, mouth open and in total shock. I blink a few times, breaking the daze. "What?" I yell again.

Screams and cries abound about the lunchroom. The now-angry mob of ration station patrons, from nearly every social class, yells and points at the television screen. I slam my drink container down on the metal table and storm out of the rundown station.

# Chapter 11

# March 17, 2093

Silently, I lead our small group as we slowly approach the oddment of a brush-lined path of woods. Dark canopies of eighty-foot-tall sugar maples block the protective rays of sunshine. The pale green leaves of the sugar maples darken our surroundings – danger may lurk around.

The path ends at a wall of rosebay bushes. A few rose-colored blooms decorate the wall of bushes blocking our path. I cautiously approach the rosebay bushes. My steps do not make a sound. I am experienced as a tracker and proceed silently in my movements.

A cherry-red blur takes flight from the bushes, darting straightaway towards my head. I block my face with my crossbow and I drop down, landing hard on my back.

A single bird, a scarlet tanager with its brilliant red body, soars over me. It passes in a hasty flutter.

I don't take a breath. The scarlet tanager appears to be the final creature in this place. The woods are now silent, even the birds know the danger of trespassing here.

My machete makes quick work of the brush and we continue probing deeper.

We pause.

A dark gray wash of circular clouds dim a small area of the sky once dominated by the burning sun. I'm here thanks in part to Samuel, my recruiter from F.O.R.A. He is the only living person who knows of my special gifts. My gifts first appeared when I was younger. I began to relate with certain animals. The connection grew and I began to share at the thought level with the animals. It was not quite talking, more an understanding of purpose. My gift seems to be the most in tune with dogs and wolves. I've begun tuning into other levels of energy: spirits. I have never been able to link with a living human, but these spirits, have been faintly crossing my streams of thought. I'm the only one I know of that can sense these spirits, except for Ben. He also can sense remnants of the once-living. Luckily, the military won't ever draft Ben as they did me. Ben is not a boastful puppy.

My special assignment, separate from that of my group is to find spirits of the recently-murdered and find out how they died. Trauma tends to cause them to linger longer, hopefully long enough for me to investigate.

F.O.R.A. believes anaturals, nightcallers or werewolves specifically, are involved in both the killings and the growing unrest against the government. The public knows nothing of this classified subject. The government has tight control over what we see, so I'm lucky to know as much as I do. The government is always watching us. Samuel used this fact to persuade me to join F.O.R.A. While in his office, he pointed to a video of me shopping in the illegal black markets. He could have sent me to prison, but instead gave me the option to join F.O.R.A. – if you call that an option. Working for F.O.R.A. however does grant me official permission to hang out in the underground markets, and gives me the unique opportunity to see the world from both sides.

The blonde, muscle-packed Corporal Troy Denning, a longbow specialist, is our assigned tag-a-long. The tag-a-longs always seem to slow us down. Our employer must not trust us enough to execute missions without direct supervision. Though the corporal outranks us, we have full control of the mission.

"The GPS has us at 40.151667 by -79.331667," says Jenny, the younger of two sisters on our team.

Sunlight escapes the edges of the dark clouds, reflecting off the golden hand-etched skulls on the sides of the other sister's tablet – Hollywood's tablet. "Permission to kill the subject is denied. The supervisor sent us a search warrant instead," Hollywood says. She squints at the small screen on the front of her tablet.

"I think I'm gonna tell our good supervisor what he can do with his search warrant." Hollywood stands in front of my sister Prudence. Prudence turns to look at me. Her aquamarine eyes sparkle in the light.

Lines of anger highlight Hollywood's face as she begins touch-typing frantically on her tablet.

I quickly jump over a fallen tree branch. I land in front of Hollywood and press the disconnect icon on her screen. "You can't talk to the F.O.R.A. supervisors like that. They'll place you in reconditioning camp faster than you can see the probes coming for you."

"I'll talk to them how I please. Recondition camp couldn't be much worse than drafting me into this brain-dead agency against my will."

Annoyance solidly graces her face. "Lilly Rose, for once I wish they would listen to us. They need us more than we need them, you know. Compared to most of our so-called supervisors, we are definitely the experts here."

"Well, it's not like we have much of a choice, and besides, you know the drill. Only one in a hundred official orders authorizes a kill." I look directly into her silver-tinted contacts.

"This should have been one of those times. We know she is responsible for at least some of the treaty violations, the kidnappings," Jenny replies. She also appears quite annoyed at the news from F.O.R.A. Her Kappa class bracelet, which she is required to wear by law, jingles as she waits impatiently.

"Grunts, this is getting tiresome—," Troy says. A loud noise in the distance interrupts him.

Several loud shrieks follow the sounds of cracking trees and branches. A monstrously-large spidery creature appears. The creature bears its razor teeth at our group. It has the skin tone of a drunken clown, and the snaking muscles of a man-crushing constrictor. The creature tears trees from the ground as a government farmer pulls carrots from the soft soils.

Troy plants down on one knee and fires a silver arrow at the creature. The shining arrow flies dead center towards the heart of the creature. The monster swats it out of the air with little effort.

The beastly creature methodically scans the area and gazes in our direction. It screams out a horrible screech, worse than fingernails scratching down a metal pipe.

"That's a wicked looking Grizara. Run!" Hollywood yells.

Instantly, and in uniform speed, we all break into a sprint.

"I told you this was a bad idea. We should have taken more time to plan." I grab Jenny by her leather wristband and pull her into a faster run. We duck under several large branches, running full speed through a denser part of the gray-green forest. I listen carefully for any sounds. Hollywood turns briefly and points her tablet in the direction of the pursuing Grizara.

"What are you doing?" I run past her.

"Geotagging it." She breaks into a full run past an apple tree.

Hollywood catches up beside me, maneuvering through the dense brush.

"I have an app on my tablet called 'Curfew-Breaker.' If you geo-tag a felon or curfew violator, the state will send a satellite. The tagger is awarded 2000 credits if there is a conviction. It's a public narc app." Her breathing shows no signs of distress.

"How long will that take?" I ask, winded.

"Who knows, but maybe by the time we leave, the Grizara will be dealt with. I don't think they pay money for Grizaras though." She stumbles on a large root, but keeps her footing.

I can almost feel the breath of the Grizara on my neck. I don't have the nerve to turn and look. I simply concentrate on my sprinting.

The area that we are investigating is completely of our choosing. The Federal Organization Regulating the Anatural, our employer, wouldn't have a clue where to begin with this type of investigating. Our group's objective today is to track a suspected nightcaller believed to be involved in the disappearance of several high school athletes. One of them is Sara, a friend of mine.

Jenny mentioned last month that a nightcaller was showing up at Sara's window. Fortunately, Jenny was at her place, flashing a cross and stake, chasing the persistent nightcaller off.

"Up ahead! I see a clearing!" Hollywood motions for us to follow. Prudence arrives first. We follow immediately, jumping through the dense greens and browns of the forest's edge.

We all slow to a walk in the wide-open space of the clearing. "That Grizara appears venomous," says Prudence, cautiously surveying the area.

The unusual stillness of the clearing induces a soul-stirring anxiousness in my stomach. It's too quiet \-- the birds appear to all be absent.

I inspect the area in front of my brown hunting boots, haggard from many missions. Clear and sparkling rainwater swirls in a nearby copper bucket, no sense of how the motion started. Maybe it was the wind. I take a breath of fresh mountain air and look to the sky.

Cobalt blue adjoins the whites of cautious, distant clouds traveling behind violet hills. I lower my head and glance over the visible horizon. Warm yellow foliage runs along the base of a meandering waterway to the east.

Troy, bow ready, draws a bead on some moving branches in a section of the forest line, waiting. His reputation is that of a deadeye sharpshooter.

Prudence directs my attention, pointing her finger into the distance. Rays of gilded sunshine illuminate a large clearing. An age-worn two-story cabin resides in the sunlight. The area remains soundless. The scent of freshly-cut pinewood grows stronger as we approach the black cabin.

A jack-o'-lantern and an antique kerosene lamp embellish the front of the cabin. The sound of grinding teeth directly behind us sends my hand to the grip on my deadly crossbow.

Sunbeams gleam across Troy's green camouflage jacket as he fires his second precision arrow and begins to run. We run towards the cabin, passing the shadowing line of its roof. Our quintet flies up the weather-cracked wooden steps and onto the rotting wooden porch.

"Snap!" I yell. Hollywood accidentally shoves me into the solid wooden doorframe. The last of the group reaches the top of the creaking stairs.

An icy chill blows across my neck, and a whisper breathes the words: "Death Cabin."

Sensing something supernatural, I look over my shoulder, but see nothing. Jenny pushes the rotting door open. Creaking wood and dust greet us as we all walk cautiously in an entrance formation through the doorway.

I shut the door after the last one of us enters and slide the age-cracked wooden latch across the dock frame. "If the curfew breaker app doesn't work, how are we going to get back through the forest with that thing out there? We can't be here after dark, we'll all be dead," Hollywood says with a sharp tone, scowling in the direction of her little sister Jenny.

"Chill sis, this is going down just as I thought it would. This cabin is exactly how my friend described it would be." Jenny looks confidently in my direction.

"My a—", Hollywood starts.

I cut her off. "Shut up, the both of you! The sun is racing down to the horizon. Let's do what we need to do and get out of here." I reach for my music phone card, the earpiece already in my ear, and accidentally press the Play icon instead of the Phone icon. My heart races as I hear his voice, singing:

She's troubled and it bothers me but I know she'll curse the way I'm thinking of her got wasted now I'm trouble free she'll hate the way I'm dealing with it

"Oh, Wes..." I whisper, closing my eyes and pressing the Stop icon.

I slowly open my eyes and tap the Phone icon. A robotic voice reports "no signal". "We are in a Black Out zone, no chance of getting a signal here. The state blocks all signals with a triangle of metal towers above the valley." Jenny double-checks for a signal.

Her wristband with the word "Bram" in silver letters sparkles in the flashlight's beam.

"Well, at least the curfew breaker transmitted before we entered the valley," Hollywood says. Her probing light slices though the fields of darkness.

Several other teens, in addition to the ones at the bus crash, have also gone missing in the last month, and most of the whispers speak of the nightcallers. Two of the missing teens walked out of the woods starving and dazed. Both were loaded up with some kind of new drug and no memory of their disappearances, or of the time since.

Through a cracked dusty windowpane adjacent to the locked door, the massive trees surrounding the clearing appear predominating. The landscape clutters the area beyond the clearing with lush green foliage, thick brush, and hanging vines that blend seamlessly into one another.

A light flashes in the sky as a glowing green probe trails by, lines of smoke hovering at the base of the tree line. A net of scanning lasers projects from the probe. The lasers sweep like a sheet of silk enveloping the forest's edge.

The Grizara, a Brobdingnagian man-tarantula, leaps out from the trees. The creature, over seven feet tall with ripped, unnatural muscles, pulls his arm back and flings a glowing red flash at the probe and misses. The orb responds by unleashing two flashing lights. Both strike the beast. The lights open up into constricting and entangling laser nets. The more the beast-man struggles, the tighter the nets constrict. The orb floats above the entangled nets and lowers a glittering cable and hook, which attaches to the nets. The orb hovers away with the netted creature in tow, quickly flying out of sight.

"Epic app! Curfew-Breaker is going to number one on my favorite apps list the moment I get back," says Hollywood, clinching her fists.

"Alright, show's over grunts. Are we sure this is the place?" Troy asks. He shines the bright and narrow beam from his bow in my face.

"I have no doubt this is the place, so let's get this thing on." Jenny adjusts her goggles and creeps across the wooden floor in her oversized industrial boots.

Hollywood and Jenny move slowly as the floorboards creak under the weight of their footsteps.

The creaking with each footstep reminds me of the movies where campers wander off at midnight into the woods and come upon an isolated shack. The campers typically tread, stupidly unaware of their surroundings, while a slasher waits in the shadows of a hidden corner.

We press forward. The cherry wood doorframes and panels reflect most of the light back at us. "This is her cabin, I know it. The nightcaller should be sleeping for a while. What time is it by the way, Lilly Rose?" Jenny asks.

I look at my watch and then at her. Her black tapestry corset top glistens in the light of Hollywood's flashlight and my crossbow's scope light.

"It's a little after two, which, come to think of it, is a strange question coming from someone wearing a cog-banded wristwatch," I reply. My crossbow and scope light aim ahead of our path.

"Oh, I forgot I accessorized this morning, thanks for the heads-up."

"So Jenny, rumor has it you saw the nightcaller we are after, walking in broad daylight?" I ask. My steps match those of Hollywood as she brandishes a blessed knife and an oak wood stake.

"She is mistaken, nightcallers fry during the daytime," Hollywood interrupts.

"Talk to the hand sis, she was not a human, and it was certainly during the day. I even saw her streak," replies Jenny.

"You really saw her streak?" I say.

"Ya, sure as glass, she streaked across the field by the Old Duck Boutique yesterday before the sunset." Jenny walks in a perfectly uncurving line as a runway model would.

"Sorry, she is wrong, it was simply later in the evening than Jenny realized – now talk about something else," Hollywood snaps.

Silence lingers after Hollywood's outburst. I pause as a flash of a past dream vividly races through my mind. The ominous interior of this cabin is familiar – a scene from a past dream.

A violin begins to play, its light sounds drift down the hallway, past the living room.

The sound isn't quite right, scratchy, almost like a recording.

My heart burns. A strange feeling of excitement comes upon me. An obsession of impatience overtakes me. I feel the need to follow the music to the end of this hallway. I should be weary, but my excitement pulls me to the front of the group.

"Hey Lilly Rose, slow up a bit," Hollywood says.

"I'm fine, we just need to hurry up, we are losing time," I reply. The burning in my heart and soul is beyond intoxicating.

"Oh, do we?" asks Jenny. She appears suspicious of my behavior.

"Wait!" Hollywood says. She flashes in front of me and grabs my face with one hand, turning it into her gaze. Their voices fade away and I can only hear the music. I read their lips with little interest.

Hollywood peers into my eyes and then turns to Jenny.

"It could be a siren call," she says, though I barely comprehend the meaning. She reaches into her bag.

"Let go, we can't wait, we need to hurry." I insist with the same urgency if I were late for a final exam, and they were about to close the doors to the testing center.

"Grab her! I think she's being pulled in." Jenny yells.

Two sets of arms grab my shoulders as the door is within my grasp. My progress stops, but my heart draws onward, and the craving becomes more intense.

"Let go of me! What are you doing?" I scream, pleading at them without taking my eyes off the door.

A tingling in every part of my body urges me to grab hold of the door handle.

Jenny takes out my legs with a sweep kick and I fall to the floor. I land on my back. Jenny jumps down on my legs and Hollywood sits on my stomach. Hollywood holds both of my wrists together over the top of my head with one of her hands, and with her other hand, she places something under my nose.

Instantly my nose, throat, and lungs are ablaze. Fear seizes me. I'm unable to scream. I lay squirming, burning inside, trapped in silence. I struggle with all of my strength, but the two of them have me locked down. Hollywood continues holding the fiery thing under my nose for what seems like an eternity.

"Two minutes," Jenny yells. Hollywood looks at Jenny's watch and pulls the fiery scent away.

Jenny jumps off my legs. Hollywood smiles and rolls off my stomach. "Are you both crazy?" I swing my fists wildly, but contact nothing. I yell at them between gasps for air and then jump to my feet.

The fiery pain is gone, and strangely, so is the intense desire to get to that door. "Hollywood, what did you do, what..." My mind staggers to output words clearly.

"The nightcaller behind that door was calling to your soul. Some of the trackers call it a siren call. We broke you out of it with a special recipe," Hollywood says, smiling at Jenny.

Troy bends over laughing and smacks me mockingly on the shoulder. "So those backwoods remedies do actually work."

"Thank us later. You should be resistant for a while," Hollywood says. She leans on the doorframe, her neckline glistening with sweat.

Jenny unzips the cover of her bulky backpack, revealing a burnished steel frame, housing six flexible brass tubes. The six tubes braid together, converging into a stainless-steel sprayer. Brown leather straps secure brass and glass pressure gauges to the sides of the pack. Jenny appears ready for a Victorian water fight. She aims the sprayer at the awaiting door. Brass tubes also extend from the sprayer to the inside of her backpack. They connect to what looks like at least a gallon-and-a-half copper container.

"Is that Holy Water?" I pause, taken aback by the discovery.

"Why yes it is," Jenny replies. Her golden facial designs sparkle in the scope lights. She pumps the sprayer like a shotgun, causing the copper hands on her pressure gauges to rotate a quarter turn.

"Where did you get gallons of Holy Water? One, it is illegal and two, the underground priests don't just let you haul buckets of the stuff away."

"It's all about who you know." She adjusts the elastic strap of her dark-tinted goggles as we all stand by the door.

"Ok on three. One..." Hollywood says. Jenny opens the door without waiting for the count and walks inside.

I follow third in line. Troy and Prudence take the rear. Hollywood shines the flashlight around the new room.

To the left, there is a stone double-decker fireplace with a wooden mantle against the wall, next to a large gold-bordered painting. A family of four highlights the painting: mother, father, son, and daughter. Something is wrong with them. Their skin is too gray, their faces unintelligent, like characters from the classic video game Silent Hill. Glass-enclosed bookcases run the entire length of the wall, containing hundreds of old leather books.

"Wow. If the state knew about this, someone would die," Hollywood says.

I glance over the spines of the unfamiliar book titles.

"Well they do now." Troy snaps a picture with his camera.

An old solid oak desk sits at the end of the room in the far corner and next to a coffin that is resting on a bimetallic stand. Two windows hover above the coffin, completely boarded up to where, not even a crack of sunlight can make it inside the room.

"Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place to the point over the heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for the dead, I shall read him, I have here the book, and the others shall follow, strike in God's name, that so all may be well with the dead that we love and that the undead pass away," Jenny says.

"What the bloody earth is she talking about?" I ask.

"Oh just ignore her, she's just quoting Dracula again." The glow of the light traces the edges of Jenny's slim form against the darkness.

"No killing while this nightcaller sleeps, per the warrant. You should get a good look at her, see if she looks like the nightcaller you told us about," Hollywood says, pointing a finger at Jenny.

"But it's not asleep. You said it was calling to me," I say.

"The siren call is a psychic connection that can draw a victim while the caller is awake or sleeping. The victim will simply wait until the caller awakens if it happens to go out when the nightcaller is sleeping in the day."

"Let's get this over with," I say. My light traces the edges of the, freshly-polished gold-trimmed coffin.

Troy aims his bow at the coffin, this time loaded with an ash arrow.

My hand is steady, ready to pull the trigger if I need to fire my wooden bolt at the nightcaller.

"Jenny, when the lid opens, ready yourself to take an insta-sketch with your tablet."

Hollywood and Jenny each seize one end of the lid to the coffin and slowly open it. I point my crossbow and light inside the casket, and we all stare into the empty coffin.

A brilliant flash of orange light accompanies the sound of sweeping air behind me.

"Where is..." Jenny flies into the wall surrounded in an orange glow and falls to the ground.

A streak of black and white flings Hollywood into the coffin and latches it closed. I spin, aiming my crossbow around one-handed. I fire, impaling the far off wall. The black and white streak smashes into my chest. The crossbow flies from my hand. I hit the floor hard, knocking the wind out of me. Stars fill my eyes. I try to ignore the pain in my chest and back.

Troy, our division's most rugged agent, finds himself pinned to the wall helplessly by a female nightcaller. She effortlessly twists his neck to the side and drives her fangs into his flesh. He convulses violently. Blood streams down his shoulder as his horrified eyes glaze over. His body wilts against hers, like a chrysanthemum in the desert. She tosses him across the room. His body smashes though a wooden table. She holds his camera up above her head and crushes it between her fingers. The fragments fall to the floor.

I begin to tremble. I try to battle through the fear, fighting to shake off my dizziness. The light from my crossbow illuminates the white clothing and black cape of the woman. She presses Jenny down by her shoulders. My back throbs from the landing. It is too overwhelming to move. Jenny lays motionless under the graceful movements of the woman. The nightcaller leans in, tilts Jenny's head back, and speaks loud enough that I can hear her from the ten-foot distance between us.

"So little girl, you like to quote the noble Count Dracula of Transylvania? Try this one: there is a deliberate voluptuousness that is both thrilling and repulsive. As she arched her neck, she actually licked her lips like an animal till I can see in the moonlight the moisture then lapped the white, sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head. I close my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited." The poetic nightcaller turns her gaze to me with deadly grace.

I turn my eyes away just in time. A second later, she is lying on top of me. Cold porcelain fingers brush the hair out of my eyes. I force my eyes away from her gaze. Rubbing my fingers together, I feel the texture of the fabric she wears. The cape I thought she was wearing is actually her hair: jet black and amazingly soft, going down the length of her body. A gemstone dangles from her neck, an orange sapphire, swinging back and forth from her rapid movement towards me.

Her voice is clearer now. It is familiar. "When you walked into the house, I began calling to you. You didn't run through the door to me, why is that?" She asks in a whisper. Her lips press against my ears as my body shivers in terror. "I call to you all the time, at night. I watch you stir in you bed while you dream. But you never awaken. You never get the chance to invite me in."

The sound of tearing paper resonates above me. "Paper, your government doesn't allow you to possess it. It doesn't want its citizens to read unmonitored. What might they discover, a seedy past possibly?"

Her cold, slick lips press against my neck and they part. I feel the smooth enamel of her teeth brush my neck. "Your blood calls to me. You are very rare, as I was. I offer you the chance to live forever, by my side." She hisses, sensing something and pulls back, licking her lips. "Your blood calls to me stronger than any I've come across in centuries. You could be such a weapon to me, a servant that can converse with the dead. Unfortunately, I know my self-control when feasting." She closes in on my neck.

The flame of my life in its final moments flickers as I arrive at this point of imminent death. I close my eyes trying to find peace within my soul. I find no such peace.

To be continued...
