Текст книги "Tearing Down the Wall"

Автор книги: Tracey Ward

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

When we pass by The Hive, a few men come out to stand on the dock and watch us go by. Their expressions are unreadable.

“And this is why they’re parading Westbrook’s head,” Ryan tells me from his spot on his chair. His eyes are closed against the sun. He looks so peaceful I almost worry about him.

“Why?”

“It’s a warning.”

“Hmm. They couldn’t have sent a letter?”

He smiles. “Who can afford postage these days?”

Next stop is the stadiums. That is a totally different experience than cruising by the empty MOHAI or the indifferent Hive. People come pouring out of the stadiums to swarm the shoreline. They scream and shout, clapping and waving to us like we’re heroes. And maybe to them we are. The Colonists here have been set free by the people on this boat. They’ve gotten their lives back and I’m glad I get to see this. It gives me hope that maybe this wasn’t all a mistake. I’ll never regret what we’ve done, but the sour taste I have in my mouth over what happened in the southern Colony is sweetened a little by the joy we see from the Colonists.

No, not Colonists. The people. The men and women re-released to the wild.

Trent shoves his binoculars against my chest roughly. “Don’t lose these.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, unsure why he’s brusquely pawning them off on me.

When I get my answer, I still don’t understand.

Trent goes back a few steps, crouches down, then sprints forward. He leaps into the air, up and over the side of the boat, and right down into the cold water of the Sound.

“Trent!” I shout, rushing forward to look over the edge.

I wait for a few breathless seconds but he finally appears, his blond hair bright against the dark water. He takes long, powerful strokes away from the boat, swimming for the shore.

“Did he jump?” Ryan asks, sounding shocked.

I turn to face him, my mouth hanging open. “I—he—”

I lift the binoculars to follow Trent as he swims the distance to the shore. I’m nervous the entire time. When he finds land and begins to stride purposefully out of the water, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Then I gasp in shock.

“What?” Ryan demands. “Is he okay?”

Trent walks onto the shore, pushes through the crowd patting him on the back, and makes his way directly to a girl—a tall girl with chestnut brown hair and a sweet smile.

Then he straight-up kisses her.

“What’s happening?!” Ryan shouts at me, getting annoyed.

“Trent kissed a girl!”

“Very funny. Is he okay?”

I turn to Ryan, laughing. “Come here. I know it hurts to stand, but you have to see this! Trent is kissing a girl!”

Ryan moves quick for a guy with a stab wound. He takes the binoculars from me, finds where I’m pointing, and nearly drops them into the water.

“Holy shit,” he mutters numbly.

“Right?”

“Who is that?”

“Amber.”

“Who’s Amber?”

“My friend from the kitchens in the Colony. Trent has met her like one time! Maybe two.”

“I guess he liked what he saw.”

I snatch the binoculars back. “Quit hogging them. I want to see this.”

“Pervert.”

“Yes,” I whisper happily.

I watch Trent bend Amber over backwards, dipping her until she’s nearly horizontal. The best part about it? She’s holding onto him tightly. She’s kissing him back.

“Joss.”

“What?”

When he doesn’t answer me I lower the binoculars.

His warm eyes are glowing with excitement. “Let’s do it.”

“Do what? Jump overboard?”

“No,” he laughs, “the woods. The park. Let’s really do it. Let’s live there. Together.”

The air is too thin. It pinches in my lungs, getting lost down in my stomach and making it bubble nervously.

“You don’t want that,” I protest weakly.

“Yes, I do,” he replies seriously. “I want that more than anything.”

Me too, I think.

So why can’t I say it?

“I’d make a crap roommate.”

He grins. “No worse than Trent.”

I take a step closer to him, my hand gliding along the metal railing toward his. “I can be a jerk.”

“I can handle it.”

I slide my hand closer. My fingertips brush against his. “I can’t cook.”

“I’d never ask you to.”

He slips his fingers between mine, weaving them together.

I blink rapidly. “I can’t live in Crenshaw’s house. I don’t think I can ever set foot in there again.”

“I’ll build you a new one,” he promises, tugging me toward him.

I go willingly, stepping into his space. “I’ll help.”

He smiles. “Is that a yes?”

I take a deep breath, pulling in the air, the sunshine, the water, his eyes. The world. I let it in and I let myself be in it.

I nod my head. I smile.

“Yes.”

He looks so ridiculously happy then, and my heart clenches with a strange joy knowing that I did that. I make him feel that. He looks relieved and light. He looks young, the way he’s supposed to be, the way we’re both supposed to be, and I feel it standing there smiling with him. I feel so many things I never thought I would or could.

I feel loved.

Free.

Wild.

Alive.

Thank you for reading the Survival Series!

I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please consider leaving a review for this or any of the books in the series on Amazon.

 

If you’d like to read more of my work, go to the next page for Chapter One of my highly rated Sci-Fi Romance novel, Sleepless.

Prologue

Nick

The first time I saw her, I was dead.

I was rolling down the river with two coins for the Ferryman, heading out onto the infinite, black sea. Worst of all, I was going without a fight.

How she found me is still a mystery or a miracle, depending on your perspective. Any way you slice it, I’m lucky she was there, though showing gratitude for it wouldn’t come easy for a long time after. How she put up with me for as long as she did is pure miracle, no mystery about it. She’s as close to an angel as I’ll ever get. Whenever I think of her, I always remember the way she looked there by the river; long auburn hair, glistening hazel eyes and a T-shirt that read Zombies Hate Fast Food.

When she reached out and took my hand, it shattered my world. Her eyes and the warm press of her skin against mine changed everything. Suddenly I was gasping for breath, fighting for life, and as she lowered her face to within inches of mine, I felt my heart slam painfully in my chest. She parted her lips, making me believe she would kiss me goodbye. If that had been the last sensation I experienced in this world I would have died a lucky man. Instead, she whispered one word against my mouth. One word that would press air into my lungs and pull me back from the void.

“Breathe.”

Then she was gone.

     

Chapter One

Alex

I wake with a start. My eyes immediately find the black sparrow decals flying across the white paint of the wall beside my bed, calming my racing heart. I trace one with my fingers, smiling at the familiar feel of its edges. This is what I always do. This is how they tell me that I’m home.

I actually hate birds. They’re too quick and erratic with their sharp claws and beaks. They’re like flying, disease carrying knives. But more than anything I hate them because they remind me of the Dragon.

“Are you here?” Cara calls.

“Present and accounted for.” I drop my hand from the bird just as my bedroom door swings open. My sister stands in the doorway. Watching.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“I’m glad you’re home.”

I chuckle quietly. It could go without saying but she says it every time. “Me too.”

“Where’d you go? Do I want to know?”

“Transylvania,” I lie.

“Okay, so I don’t want to know.”

I shake my head. No. She doesn’t want to know.

“I had the Dragon Dream,” I tell her, changing the subject. “It brought me home.”

“The Jabberwocky,” she corrects me quickly.

I roll my eyes. “It’s not the Jabberwocky.”

“I have shown you the pictures. It looks exactly as you described.”

“I know, but—“

“Is it or is it not the spitting image of the Jabberwocky?”

“It is,” I concede, “but how would I have started dreaming of the Jabberwocky when I was four years old? We never had the book.”

“You saw the movie.”

“We’ve talked about this,” I groan. “The Disney Alice doesn’t have the Jabberwocky in it. There’s no way. It’s not him, it’s just a dragon.”

“It’d be cool if you could dream about Pete’s Dragon.”

“Jesus, don’t put the idea in my head!”

“What? He’s friendly! And it’s not like you can Slip to Passamaquody.”

Slip is our word for what I do. For my tendency to fall asleep, dream of New York City and wake up in Times Square in my underwear. My parents called it sleep walking though it’s not at all accurate. It just made it sound normal, made it easier for them. I don’t stand up and walk out the door. When I Slip, I dream of a place then there I am. The base of the Eiffel Tower. The shore on the coast of Ireland. The third baseline at Wrigley Field. While it can take my mind a millisecond to raise familiar images of the Las Vegas strip, it will take me days to return my body home from it. I don’t understand how it happens. No one does. It’s mind over matter to the nth degree. It is unpredictable, terrifying, and most of all, annoying.

“He kicked my ass,” I tell her glumly, thinking of the Dragon. I rub my leg even though there’s no wound on it. Not anymore. Not now that I’m awake.

“Jabberwocky’s are the worst.”

“It’s not the Jabberwocky!”

“Sure. Hey, what are we doing tonight? Did you decide?”

I throw my arm across my face. “Nothing, we are doing nothing.”

“No,” she insists, pulling my arm away. “We were going to do nothing if you Slipped away to Antarctica. But you didn’t. You’re here and we need to celebrate.”

“It’s not a big one. Can’t we just let it slide?”

“Every birthday until your twenty-second is a big one. Your twenty-second is a bust. From there on out you receive no new liberties, other than the right to grow old.”

“That’s depressing.”

“It is, so enjoy the good ones while you can. You’re turning twenty! This is a big deal.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it affectionately. “Plus, you got shafted pretty hard on your last few birthdays. They should have been special and I know they really weren’t. Let’s use this year to make up for it.”

For my Sweet Sixteen my parents gave me an eviction notice and a new car. Worst Showcase Showdown ever. Since then birthdays have held little appeal to me seeing as I now associate them with abandonment and hush money.

My sister is eight years older than I am and was already an established, responsible adult when I got the boot. She’s a Certified Public Accountant making good money and was more than happy to take me in. She knew what was wrong with me, knew she’d have to support me because I can’t hold down a job, but she didn’t care. When I showed up at her door, a lost, crying mess, she promised that she’d always watch out for me. Then she went to our parent’s house, took my things, gave them a piece of her mind and never looked back. She’s fiercely protective of me and I want to say it bothers me and that I can take care of myself, but after growing up with a mother who kept me at a distance, knowing someone has my back is indescribable.

“Can we egg their house?” I ask, referring to our parents.

“No. But I will buy a big ass Margarita and let you take hits off it.”

“Deal.”

∞

I’m standing on the bank of the Missouri River in Omaha, wondering why I work so hard to stay here. I should embrace the escape and let my mind Slip me far, far away to a place that is warm. My hands are freezing and my toes would ache if they could remember what it was like to feel.

Cara brought me here to try and use her old driver’s license to get me into the casinos, but I’m having doubts. Doubts I like to call Mango Margarita: The Devil’s Drink. Or El Bebir Del Diablo? I don’t know, I didn’t do well in high school Spanish. I Slipped to Mexico once and it was a complete disaster. Turns out hambre and hombre are easily confused and when you adamantly insist in broken Spanglish that you be in possession of one, it doesn’t always get you a burrito. Sometimes it gets you a male prostitute. Who knew brothels had a lunch menu?

Cara is up at the car waiting for her work friends to join us while I and my dubious stomach have taken a walk to the river in case of emergency. I’m not fond of the idea of barfing in the parking lot in plain view of everyone. At the moment, I am not fond of anything.

I’m surveying the frozen beach, looking for somewhere to sit and wait out my troubles, when I spot the body. It’s a man, ghostly white and lying in the shallow waters of the freezing river. Before my brain knows what’s happening, I’m rushing down the shore, tripping over mounds of snow and ice slicked rocks until I collapse on my knees beside him.

He looks to be about my age, his pale skin contrasting sharply with his buzzed black hair. He’s naked except for a black Speedo-esque swimsuit. Even to my drunk mind, that seems like weird attire for December in Nebraska. I quickly strip off my heavy coat and throw it over his chest, shivering immediately in just my T-shirt. I don’t see his chest rising or falling so I grab for his hand to take his pulse. Relief floods through me when I find his skin is relatively warm and pliant. I’m hoping this means he’s not dead yet.

The second I touch him, he lurches forward as though I shocked him. His arms and legs spasm wildly before he leans over to cough. He ends up puking almost directly into my lap. It’s all liquid but I smell something chemical in it, something vaguely familiar. I wonder if it’s some kind of alcohol. He drops back down hard onto the rocks, but they don’t make a sound with the impact. I watch as he stares unblinking at the sky, lying so still I think he must be dead now. I may have just witnessed death throws.

I rub his hand between both of mine and lean in close, so close our noses are almost touching and my hair falls around us. His eyes latch onto mine. I gasp at how bright they are. How brilliantly green. How utterly alive.

I whisper one word to him, the only thing I can think to say.

“Breathe.”

He vanishes. My coat is lying on wet stones, my hand is holding cold air.

My heart stops beating. My breath freezes in my lungs. I clench my hands tightly, feeling them tingle and itch where my skin met his. He was real. I held his hand and I’m awake. I know that I’m awake. There’s no way that was a dream.

“What the hell?” I whisper, my voice quivering.

This is it. This is insanity taking hold. I’m breaking from reality. I’m losing my mind, though it never fully felt like mine to begin with.

Trembling from the cold, shock and a growing fear, I grab my jacket to pull it on. I can’t get my hands to work right. The zipper feels painfully cold between my fingertips and I abandon any hope of closing it. Standing quickly, I run back across the rocks and up the bank to my sister’s car. By the time I get there I’m nearly hyperventilating.

Her friends have arrived and they’re standing in a halo of streetlight, clouds of warm breath rising around them in the cold air. Cara sees me and my anxiety must be on my face because she rushes over.

“What’s wrong? Were you sick?” she asks, touching my arm. She frowns and pulls her hand back. “Your coat is wet.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you puke on your coat?” she asks, her face disgusted.

I think of the guy leaning over and throwing up river water.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“Gross. I think you’re done for the night.”

“Me too,” I say eagerly. I nod but it’s more of a convulsion and I practically run for the car.

Cara says a hasty goodbye to her friends who laugh in understanding. Once inside, she cranks the heat and eyes me, watching me shake.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I just want to go to sleep.”

“That’s a first,” she says, but leaves it at that.

Over the years Cara has learned that I don’t like to talk about half the stuff that goes on when I’m asleep. I’ve seen things and been places that I don’t like to revisit, waking or otherwise.

“What’s that smell?” she asks suddenly.

“My dinner’s second coming.”

“No, you smell like a swimming pool.” She scrunches up her nose and glances sideways at me. “Like chlorine.”

This night is getting weirder by the second. I vow to never drink again.

  About the Author

I was born in Eugene, Oregon and studied English Literature at the University of Oregon (Go Ducks!) I’m married to my best friend and an Airman in the United States Air Force, I’m the mother of the greatest little boy on the planet and a rescue dog with more soul than most humans, and I’ll read books in just about any genre as long as the story is good. I started writing when I was a kid and finally decided to self-publish when I read one too many books centered around disturbingly Alpha males and the sniveling women who inexplicably love them. There are strong women and gentle men out there, and a beautiful love story can be woven between them. I want to tell those stories.

Visit my website for more information on upcoming releases, Tracey Ward