Dagon's Blood by Virginia Lee: Sample Sunday

The Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 Scotland casts its great shadow over the land, irrevocably changing the course of Lady Leigha Clairemont’s young life when her home is attacked and her father, a known Jacobite, is killed by invading English soldiers. Taken captive by the commander, Captain Simon Montieth, she escapes and leaves the man for dead, a man who will not stay down. Thus begins her journey that takes her from war torn Scotland into the Mediterranean and then on to the slave markets of Constantinople. Her heart is tossed and torn between the love and desires of three men. Despite the adversities and heartbreaks, she overcomes the winds of fate and the wills of men, maturing from her innocent youth into a courageous, beautiful woman who stands free and strong at last.

Lee, Virginia (2011-01-20). Dagon’s Blood (p. 285-287). Xlibris. Kindle Edition.

Seeing a glint of a tear tracing down his fine cheek, she felt a strong wave of warmth and tenderness wash through her, and instinctively, she knew that he needed and wanted her very much, perhaps even loved her. This sudden revelation slammed through her like lightning, causing an intense answering cry in her own heart for him. There was only this moment, this now, with him. She could no longer deny that the force she had been fighting against all of these months was love. Throwing all thoughts of caution to the sea winds, she came around the table to stand before him, her arms open and beckoning him to her. Her heart was racing and her head pounded as he took her hands in his. He slowly lifted his eyes to hers and drank deeply of her emerald pools with the crystal blue glaze of his own. He trembled as he stood and tenderly enfolded her in his warm embrace.

“Everything in my life has changed, I have changed. I want nothing that I valued before now, I need nothing, save for you, my little one!” his voice came softly, intense in timbre, and a small sob escaped as he pressed his lips against her ear. His next words sent her heart soaring ever higher, and her fingers clutched him tighter to her still as he spoke in a hoarse whisper, “‘Tis true that I wanted vengeance once, but that quickly changed. I wish only to hold you and to have you with me always as I have never wanted anyone or anything before in my life!”

Stepping back a bit, he tilted her face up to his and looked deeply into her eyes before bending to kiss her softly with trembling lips, his heart jumping in surprise when she gave no resistance to his kiss and made no move to back away from him. He pulled away enough to touch his forehead against hers, breathing deeply of her perfume and warmth, and closed his eyes as he sighed.

“Do you understand what I am saying to you, girl, what you mean to me?” he asked softly as he opened his eyes to look deep into hers. Her eyes were wide, and tears threatened to spill, for she did indeed understand the depths of his feelings for her. Not knowing the awakening in her mind and heart towards him, he went on, his tears now falling without shame, “I cannot stand another day, another moment, with this wall of hatred between us! You are destroying me every time you pretend that I’m not even alive when I’m right here with you! I cannot even find comfort in being near you at night for you jump whenever I accidentally brush against you in my sleep! Please, Leigha, would you at least be my friend as you were when you thought that I was Stephen? Would you at least grant me that much?”

“Simon, you must know that we can never be as we were at Dagonmoor,” she said, her voice hushed and full of emotion as she reached to tenderly touch his cheek with her open fingers, making his nerves jump with pleasure at her touch though his heart was shot through with pain as she continued to speak, “Terrible things have happened since we’ve met. I know now that, at first, it was your duty and your way of life, then your wounded pride that made you hurt me so, and I . . . I believe that I understand why you have taken me away from Robert, from everyone.”

“Leigha, please stop, please love me!” Simon choked as he pulled her against him, willing her to feel his love and to keep her from denying him any longer. “I have never loved or been loved by anyone, and I am afraid that now that I have lost my heart, my very life to you, you will continue to turn from me! I cannot bear that, little one!”

Simon was surprised when Leigha laughed softly into his shoulder, and he held her away so as to see her face as he looked at her in confusion and pain.

“But I do love you, Simon,” she spoke before he could utter any words. “I think that I have for quite some time now. I want you to know that though it sounds peculiar and perhaps ‘tis a sin, I love Robert as well as you. I am his wife, and I have a deep, gentle love for him. I know I should honor my vows to him, but oh, how I love you, my darling, I love you!”

Simon’s heart pounded and rang with her words as he impulsively lifted her up into his arms and carried her over to their bunk set against the wall of the ship. Setting her down gently, he knelt to kiss her deeply before laying beside her. His heart fairly burst as she returned his embrace and as eagerly sought his mouth.

“She loves me!” he thought to himself in elation. Sobering, he murmured aloud, “We will speak later of Robert, and everything else that stands between us, but for now, ‘tis enough to know that you love me.”

Leigha smiled warmly up at him as he turned his full attention to her lovely form. She had lain beside him many times before, but now, she was not turning away. Her arms were open wide to hold him close, and as he kissed her full mouth again, Simon’s thoughts of everything, save his love for her, vanished.

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Virginia Lee

The Gifted Ones by Lisa Vaughn (Sample Sunday)

Intro Chapter of The Gifted Ones:

It was as if a freight train had hit me. That's the only feeling I remember. Within a fraction of a second, I felt as if I couldn't breathe, could possibly pass out...or just die.

I was home, killing time upstairs in my room, like your typical teenager. My dad was also home, so it must've been a weekend. My name echoed from the bottom of the stairs, summoning me to the kitchen table. If only I knew then what I would soon come to know, I would've jumped out my bedroom window and never looked back. Caught completely off guard, like a lamb being led to slaughter, totally unaware of the shit storm ahead, I be-bopped down the staircase, as my mom gestured for me to take a seat, which I did voluntarily. Seemingly, out of nowhere, something flew from behind me - over the top of my head, practically grazing my skull. A dull thud diverted my attention as "it" plopped directly in front of me, landing on the kitchen table. Taking a few minutes to focus, I began to digest what I was seeing. I think my heart started pounding a few seconds before my brain told me what I saw.

"It" was my diary. MY f*#*ing diary! My PRIVATE diary! Blood rushed to my head, flushing it beet red, as perspiration instantly broke out from every pore, covering my young, adolescent body. I had never felt this level of fear before in my life - not even while giving an oral report in front of the class. My whole world passed before my eyes, and in a flash, I realized life as I knew it was about to change drastically. If there had ever been a better time to be stricken with a heart-attack and die, it would have been convenient then. I was not that lucky.

The first words spoken were my mother's. "What the hell is this?" she said sternly, in a low voice I hadn't heard before then. I felt the lump in my throat swell, blocking off my ability to speak. My mind was racing. What was I going to say? Desperation took over. In a lame attempt to get out of this tightening noose, I started to laugh. They looked at me as if I were insane, and frankly, at that moment, I truly believe I was. I opened my mouth and started to explain that this was not MY diary, but writings for a play I had been working on for school. It wasn't a true story, or even about me actually. I was abruptly cut off from my babbling web of deceit. Apparently, Peggy had had enough of my deceiving lies and wanted to know the truth. My immature mind raced as I searched my creative lobes for a more convincing route, but there was nothing more I could say. It was all right there in black-and-white, ratting me out like a two-faced friend. My beautiful writings of my incredible journey, my unbelievable love, sitting there on the family table right before my eyes...and theirs.

Funny, they didn't see it like that at all. The words in my diary held no beauty to them. Instead, my own words, the words that gave me so much comfort when I had no one else to talk to, had turned against me, backing me into a corner. A corner in hell!

All they saw was ugliness. The look on their faces told me right away that I was not winning over this crowd. I sat silently for what seemed like hours. My beautiful, perfect world was closing in around me, and there was nothing I could do. I felt as if I were sinking to the bottom of a pool with a concrete block tied to my ankle. The two people that had raised and nurtured me, who supposedly loved me, had suddenly turned on me. I was now their enemy in a matter of mere minutes. Do you know what that feels like? It feels like everything you ever trusted in your life was suddenly a lie, and always had been, you just happened to be the fool that didn't catch on soon enough. I felt abandoned, I felt stupid, I felt so alone - surrounded by my so-called-family.

And that's when my true, "official" introduction to hell would begin.

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Surviving the Fall by William Potter (Sample Sunday)

Chapter I

DECEMBER 26

James Goodal jarred the oversized revolver from a dying man's hand and then tossed the weapon across his living room. Even in the after-midnight darkness, he could see blood, soaking red the beige carpet near his feet. The man no longer stirred so James averted his gaze to the top of the staircase and to his surprise, he couldn't see or hear her.

"Ashley," he called.

No answer.

"ASHLEY!" he yelled as loud as his voice would allow.

Still no answer.

Fear held James in place; fear of what he would find if he ascended to the second floor of his home. He thought he heard a faint, weak whisper calling to him. A shiver went through him, and he knew he had to move.

He stepped over the body and charged up the stairs for the second floor, and after an instant, he found her a few feet from her bedroom.

"Oh god, Ashley, no!" The teenager had both of her hands clutching her left thigh a few inches below her crotch. Blood was seeping between her fingers. James knew that if the bullet had cut the main artery in the leg she could bleed out.

His mind was adrift in panic, searching for what he should do. Then it slammed into his brain. "I'll call an ambulance." He jogged for the phone next to his bed and quickly dialled 911.

"Ambulance!" he blurted when the operator asked for his emergency.

"My roommate was shot in the leg. It's bleeding badly!"

While sprinting back to where Ashley lay, he pulled off his pajama top and placed it on Ashley's leg.

"Apply pressure!" the operator said.

"I am!" He kneeled next to Ashley with one hand on his portable phone and the other holding the shirt to the wound.

"Is she breathing?"

"Yeah, she's looking right at me." The horror in Ashley's eyes sunk into him and panged his heart. He had never in his life felt so worried for another human and so utterly useless to help.

"The ambulance is just a few minutes away, sir," the operator said.

Then the operator began asking about how Ashley was shot, about the kind of firearm, and who fired it.

"Is the shooter still in the house, Mr. Goodal?"

"Yes, I think he's dead."

"Dead, sir?"

"Yes, I killed him."

James set the phone aside and took Ashley's hand in his. "It's okay, Ashley. They're coming. Just hold on, sweetie. Hold on."

"I love—you—James," Ashley said almost silently, and then her body wilted and her eyes rolled back and closed.

"ASHLEY, No!"

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Arrival by VH Folland (Sample Sunday)

A Sample from Arrival, a free short story on Smashwords. The full story can be read (or downloaded as an ebook) from Smashwords

Sample

"I lost the auction." Jim slung the kitbag down and slumped in a chair. Shaking his head, Jake stepped across and closed the door Jim had left swinging behind him.

"Just as well. What would you have done if you'd won?" he asked, and Jim stared at the floor.

"I dunno. I'd have worked something out. I hate to think of her in the hands of strangers."

"And it took you a week to tell me?" Jake sounded unimpressed.

"I didn’t think it would take that long to get home. Didn’t want to talk about it." Jim wasn’t being quite honest; he didn’t even want to think about. Jake raised an eyebrow.

"Were you even close?"

"Not a chance. She went for more than my entire backpay."

"Just as well. I don’t know what you were doing bidding in the first place. Why didn’t you try to buy something less life-changing, like a house?” Jake was utterly unsympathetic, and Jim scowled at him.

"Just sentiment, I guess. I need a drink." Since he was nearer, Jake grabbed two beers from the fridge and sat down, tossing one to his maudlin brother.

"Shouldn’t you wait until you’re out of uniform for that?"

"Who’s going to care?" Jim cracked the top of the beer and downed a swig, staring moodily at the floor. Jake chuckled, and his brother looked up and glared. He held his hands up in a soothing gesture.

"Jim, seriously, looking at this from the point of view of a rational person and not an obsessive pilot, what the hell would you do with a defunct nuclear bomber?"

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VH Folland @ IAN

A Love Rekindled by Myne Whitman (Sample Sunday)

Efe raised her head with a jerk, but there was no one else in the room. The white walls pressed in on her, and she closed her eyes, putting a hand to her pounding temple. She must have imagined what she saw earlier. The door opened, and her eyes flew open. Kevwe’s twin closed the bathroom and door walked over, handing her a small towel soaked with cold water.

“Let me guess, you didn’t eat today,” he said.

Efe thought of her Wakkis lunch and shook her head, pressing the towel to her face. At least there was no nausea, or she would’ve disgraced herself further. “I’m sorry. Did I faint?”

He nodded, and she blamed her high-strung nerves for seeing what was not there. His twin gestured at a glass of chilled water on the table beside her, and she gulped down some. As she put back the glass, she noticed the files she’d dropped stacked there, and wondered who put them there if the doctor had gone to get the towel. Was it possible Kevwe was here? Wouldn’t he had let her know if he wanted to meet and talk to her?

“You’re the same Efe Sagay who dated my brother while you guys were in university.” He walked to the desk, and shoved some files aside to lean on it.

Efe looked at him and scrambled for what to say. She wanted to ask if Kevwe was around, but didn’t want to appear the fool.

“Why didn’t you tell me when we met last week?”

Efe glared at him, needled by his threatening tone, and she did not understand his hostility too. Hadn’t she left Kevwe when they asked? She was the one who’d been hurt here, not him or his twin.

“I see no reason for you to speak to me that way.”

The door swung open, and her voice died away on seeing Kevwe walk into the room. A nurse was behind him. Efe blinked, head moving from side to side. Her eyes hadn’t been deceiving her; Kevwe had been there earlier when she came in. Without saying another word, Ofure took the nurse’s arm, and they left the room.

Efe sat up immediately. She couldn’t believe this was real. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

She jumped to her feet, marching to the desk and dumping Ofure’s business report. As much as she wanted to leave this office, she didn’t want to repeat the journey. Kevwe had caught her unawares this time, and she would not give him another opportunity. Being alone with him in this enclosed space was doing strange things to her, and she would be most happy if she could get out without having to speak with him. She took a deep breath and then tried to push past Kevwe who stood at the door.

He snagged her wrist. “You’re not going anywhere!”

Efe stared at a point beyond him. She didn’t want to deal with this. It had become apparent once she saw his brother she might run into him, but she had hoped it would not happen so soon. She wasn’t ready to face him yet. This man had broken her heart so badly. Her young self had adored him, allowed him into her heart, and shared her body with him. But he’d sent her away when it wasn’t enough.

She finally faced him, and her stomach quaked as warmth trickled over her skin. He looked even more stunning, more rugged. His dark latte skin and chiseled lips were sexy as hell. His hand on the skin of her inner wrist raised dormant feelings. She could not bear the heat in his eyes and closed hers, in a bid to wipe away the effect he had on her. They stood like that for another moment.

“Please let me go, you’re hurting me,” she finally said, though the spell they wove together still held her in its clutches. Waves of memories heaved over her, and she was powerless against them.

Kevwe’s hand loosened and dropped.

“You promised you would never break my heart Kevwe, but that was what you did seven years ago.” Efe couldn’t stop the words from escaping; they’d been on her lips for so long. It had been where all her pain came from seven years ago. After drawing her out, past her caution, and into a place of trust with him, he’d dashed it all. Tears threatened, but she blinked them away.

She walked out of the room, ignoring Kevwe’s call to stay, and he was left staring into space, reminded of past promises.

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Sample Sunday for April 17

Our Sample Sunday spotlight is on

Of Tapestry, Time and Tears

by

Carol Morgan

Of Tapestry, Time and Tears by Carol Morgan

Once the first four brave women came forward and Edwina’s piece was published in the Herald, the flood gates opened. Edwina was doing as many as twenty interviews a day. There were tales of the kalifas, of women being forced to dance in the gurudwaras, of being gang-raped in front of family. But it was the physical mutilations that were most horrible. Amputations of hands, ears, legs were common. Some women were thrown screaming in horror into huge bonfires while onlookers watched. The most grisly cruelties were the cases of women whose breasts were cut off. At one medical refugee center alone, there were twelve cases of women’s breasts being amputated and none of them survived.

From subsequent interviews, Edwina discovered it was common practice for women to carry poison. If the horrible fear of being raped came true, they could end their life immediately. Those who had no poison jumped into wells or made bonfires out of carpets and mattresses and jumped onto it, burning them alive.

Entire families of women committed suicide together or sometimes the male family members carried out the heinous familiacide. This was the story of another girl, only sixteen.

“My brother saw himself as my savior, my standard bearer. I didn’t think he was, I was afraid of him with this new identity that possessed him. To me, my dear brother had turned into some sort of demon. I ran away, but not before he threw kerosene on me and set me on fire. It burned my face. Now, no one will want me. I’m no longer chaste and I’m horribly disfigured, like a monster.” She raised her dupatta to reveal half of her body burned, the side of her beautiful face resembled melted plastic and she was blind in one eye.

“I ran. I ran away. I was in the other room with my mother and sister and they were talking about us—my father, brother and uncle. They were talking about what was going to happen to us. They were saying we were going to be raped and perhaps, forced to convert. They said it was better that we die than experience that disgrace. I tried to get out the door and realized we were locked in the room, then I smelled kerosene. I told my mother ‘They’re going to burn us alive in this room, we have to get out.’ My mother and sister said nothing, they were resigned to their fate, but I wanted to live, I didn’t want to die for something that might or might not happen to me, so I knocked out the window to the street and climbed out to escape. I can never go back; I dishonored my family by not allowing them to kill me.”

After these interviews, Edwina was angry at every government official who had anything to do with Partition. The interviews only reinforced her attitude about the vast difference between those making policy and those who suffered the effect of those policies. She even angrily visualized it in her mind—the white-robed aristocratic lawyers and office holders in the pristine marbled legislative buildings of Luytens’ Delhi versus the weary emaciated Indian in the foot convoys engulfed in an angry cloud of red dust, starving, and dehydrated, the specter of death waiting at every tree and hill. Edwina wondered, “While those decision makers composed their dramatic speeches touting lofty ideals and abstract philosophies--did they bother to think of the results of their decisions and the people it would affect?”

By October, India and Pakistan were in armed conflict over Kashmir.

Edwina met Rajil at the white house and after they made love, they lay together and talked about the tragedy of Kashmir.

“The house is gone, you know.” Rajil said quietly.

“Your house in Kashmir?”

“Yes, burned to the ground, all gone. And the barns and horses also.” He added.

It was tragic. The place where their love affair began was only ash now. They could never return to their beginning.

“No one will be able to go back to Kashmir, you know. Probably for years, maybe even never. If Kashmir had ceded to India immediately…but it was their hesitation and delay that made this happen.”

“It’s a division of lives.”

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Sample Sunday for April 3

Fighting the Devil

By

Jeannie Walker

Fighting the Devil by Jeannie Walker

“Fighting the Devil”

~ A True Story of Consuming Passion, Deadly, Poison, and Murder

By Jeannie Walker

In the midst of Texas ranch country, on a peaceful spring day in 1990, a 49-year-old millionaire rancher sat down to lunch with his wife and bookkeeper, as he often did. Less than half an hour later, he was deathly ill, with stomach pains, severe vomiting and intense intestinal distress. Three weeks later, he was dead from a mysterious illness. His wife seemed to show no emotion when she learned of his death. However, his bookkeeper became very nervous and upset upon hearing the news, and ran through the hospital corridor to the elevator.

The Texas millionaire rancher discovered his wife and bookkeeper had stolen thousands of dollars from him, he demanded the money back by Memorial Day, or else. Instead of getting his money back, the millionaire became very sick from some mysterious illness and was hospitalized, within a few weeks he was dead.

Doctors were mystified as to what had caused this otherwise healthy forty-nine-year-old man to become so deathly ill. The rancher did not smoke or drink and exercised daily. On the rancher's last stay in the hospital toxicology tests showed 4,895 mcg of arsenic in his system. Even while he was a patient in the hospital the arsenic level in the rancher’s system continued to climb. The dying man told his friends and everyone within earshot that his wife and bookkeeper were killing him. The man's wife said her husband was hallucinating from the drugs the doctors were giving him. The millionaire rancher became a virtual prisoner when hospital personnel strapped him down to his hospital bed with restraints on his hands and feet. The man's wife and bookkeeper were constantly at the hospital and at his bedside, keeping visitors at bay. In the last days of his life, the millionaire would scream out that the two women were killing him and beg for someone to help him. On June 12, 1990, the rancher died a horrific and very painful death while still strapped down to the hospital bed with leather restraints on his hands and feet and tubes in every orifice. Immediately after the rancher's death, a doctor called the police anonymously to report the arsenic poisoning death. An autopsy later proved the rancher died from extreme arsenic poisoning. The Death Certificate read: Patient was given arsenic over a period of time until lethal amounts finally killed him.

The widow was the sole beneficiary on his $350,000 Life Insurance Policy and his Estate.

It was later learned a teenager had visited the rancher's home just before the rancher died. The youngster had become violently ill after he drank cranberry juice that was in the rancher's refrigerator. Toxicology tests later revealed the teenager had arsenic poison in his system.

During the investigation, the widow's answers and statements raised the hairs on the back of the investigator's neck. Her story did not wash at all. Neighbors, friends and relatives of the dead man believed they knew the widow to be a loving wife. But, the police saw the widow in a different light. They believed the marriage had grown stale and a divorce was in the offing. They had an idea that the man's wealth gave the widow a taste for a more exciting lifestyle and she needed him out of the way to retain that lifestyle. They saw the widow as a person who may have wanted to dispose of her husband and may have used at least one accomplice or more to help her achieve that goal.

A troubling thought lingered in the minds of the investigators: If the widow was not responsible for the arsenic poisoning of her husband, then who was? The Sheriff and Texas Ranger believed they knew the answer, but would have to prove it. They were going to live with this homicide investigation both night and day. It was a murder case the Sheriff would work on and live with until his untimely death from lung cancer.

Two years after the rancher's death a bottle of arsenic was discovered in a storage locker. The storage locker had been rented several months before the rancher's death by the rancher's bookkeeper, under an assumed name. And, people connected to the rancher, who knew about his business dealings suddenly began showing up dead.

The millionaire’s murder might not have been discovered. But, the local police were tipped off by an anonymous call about the suspicious death. The murder case would become the jurisdiction of Clay County. The Clay County Sheriff had been in law enforcement for twenty-five years. He believed the widow planned the death of her husband. He also felt the widow had help in poisoning her husband to death.

The Texas Rangers were called in to help with the homicide investigation. This wasn't a typical murder or an ordinary homicide investigation. It wasn't an open and shut case like a homicide where the victim was shot or stabbed to death. This was a murder the perpetrator had planned on getting away with. It was going to be a hard case to investigate and prove. A death caused by arsenic poisoning could easily mimic or appear to be a natural death caused by some unknown disease. In essence, murder by arsenic could be a perfect murder.

With the case at a standstill, the millionaire's ex-wife and mother of his only children became a sleuth to help solve the murder. No one could have foretold the strange twists and unexpected results.

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Sample Sunday for March 27

Today we are treated to a Sample of

Piety and Murder

by

Thomas Drinkard

A Sample of Piety and Murder by Thomas Drinkard

Ahead of me, a tractor-trailer rig was in the right lane, brake lights flaring. I looked in the left rearview mirror, to pull into the left lane and pass, but a blue and white pickup pulled even with me and crowded me toward the rail. As I slowed, he slowed. It looked at first like the normal stupid driving one sees on the bridge every day, until I glanced in the rearview and saw an identical pickup on my rear… much too close to my bumper.

I started bumping the brake to keep the guy behind me off the back bumper. We were all still moving at about twenty or twenty-five mph. Where were we on the bridge? Yes, up there ahead. Just about a half-mile lay the last U-turn.

The pickup behind me tapped the Jeep’s rear bumper, the rig in front slowed even more. The pickup in the left lane had pulled alongside, then slightly ahead. These damned pickups looked like the ones I had seen at the turnarounds with trailers to haul off vehicles that have broken down. But these were sure as hell not driven by the Causeway emergency crews.

I had always idly wondered, and never knew, what those small trapdoors about sixteen inches square, on both sides of the large rear doors on some tractor-trailer rigs were for. Just then the one of them opened, and I saw one use. The door on the right side dropped down and the ugly nose of something that looked like an assault rifle poked out and pointed down at us.

I hit the brakes, still going about fifteen mph and was rewarded with hard smack on the rear bumper from the truck behind me. I simultaneously yelled at Rita to get down under the dash and snatched the Desert Eagle from its holster from under the seat.

The windshield exploded as two rounds slammed through. Either the bastard shooting was a lousy marksman, or the moving target and strange lighting on the windshield threw him off. He missed both of us.

Then the back window blew out. We were stopped. Surrounded. I slammed the Jeep into park. The engine was still running. I flipped the safety to the “fire” position
on the Desert Eagle.

As always, in the haze that envelops me in battle, I remember tiny, insignificant detail; like how the glass from the windshield had shattered into such tiny pieces and sparkled on the dashboard. The rig ahead was silver, and needed washing. The guy in the rig was swinging the barrel of the weapon for a carefully aimed shot. He had evidently figured the angle.

I put two quick rounds just below the trapdoor, about a foot apart, blowing neat holes through the thin skin of the trailer and probably out the other end of the rig. The “double tap,” handgun instructors call it. The rifle barrel disappeared.

The passenger door to the pickup on the left was opening. I couldn’t see who was exiting yet, but there was a weapon preceding him. I shot through the door of the truck twice. A man with a stubby assault weapon fell out to the pavement. I was about to put another shot through the cab at the driver, when I felt and heard the whip-snap of a bullet nearly taking off the top of my right ear.

The truck behind! Brinson, you dumbshit!

I was damned nearly deaf from the big .50’s roar inside the jeep, and had been totally involved in those who I could see ahead and to the left of me. I opened my door to drop out just as a round hit the left rearview mirror. As my door swung open, two rounds went through it. I pushed it to the full open position then spun across the seat to the passenger door, raised up quickly, shot through the windshield of the pickup behind us, left and right. The shooter was hanging out the passenger door with what looked like an AK-47. He dropped behind the door, apparently not hit.

I had two rounds left in the pistol and one more seven-round magazine. I shot one of those remaining in the pistol through the radiator of the truck behind me, ducked down, changed magazines and quickly popped up to see what was in front of me.

Nothing. Both the tractor-trailer rig and pickup truck to the left had gone. I left the door open, leaned left and looking at the road between the door hinge and body of the Jeep, snatched the gear selector into drive floored the gas pedal. I nearly jolted myself out of the seat, but managed to hang on to the steering wheel. A round from the truck behind us hit the left front roof column, and I swerved back and forth a little to screw up his aim. Screaming down the road with wind tearing at my eyes, my ears ringing I managed a glance back.

The truck wasn’t following. We were alone on the bridge.

The tractor-trailer rig had evidently gone straight ahead. One of those pickups must have been towing an emergency hitch and trailer—probably for my jeep.

I reached out to check Rita. She had not moved or made any sound since she had crouched in the well under the dash. I didn’t think she could have been hit, but a cold, immediate fear blanketed me. As I touched her back, she uncoiled to face me, her face white and eyes glittering. She held a small automatic. Then, understanding she was safe, shrunk back into her seat gulping for air.

“Keep your pistol ready and your head down.” I spoke to her as if she were a fellow trooper in combat, which was true enough at the moment. I paused long enough to make sure my pistol was on “safe,” and headed the Jeep toward home.

I shook like a drenched man standing in a cold wind.

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Sample Sunday for March 20

Today's Sample Sunday is

The Chosen: Book One of the Portals of Destiny

by

Shay Fabbro

The Chosen by Shay Fabbro

The Chosen: Book One of the Portals of Destiny

Volgon

Feeror glanced up from his work snarled in frustration as he saw the patrols returning to the colony empty-handed. Only one Gorkon prisoner remained. Feeror was sure he was close to perfecting the device but he needed more Gorkons on which to experiment.

He glanced at Seelyr, working on a schematic for a shield to help protect the Volgons from the sound weapon in the event that Feeror or the others could not make the weapon work only on Gorkons. She looked up from her drawings to stare at the wall. A single tear fell from her eye and slid down her cheek. She wiped at the tear absently and noticed Feeror’s gaze, hurriedly gathered her drawings and walked out of the weapons room.

Feeror felt a stab of guilt as he watched her exit the room. She had lost a great deal of weight and her shoulders slumped. I had no choice!

Seelyr and her mate, Niilor, had had a pup a few weeks prior. It had been born sickly and weak. General Kroylir ordered the pup to be killed immediately. Feeror had talked with the General and received permission to use the pup to test the newest modifications to the sound weapon. The weapons team needed creatures other than Gorkons on which to test the machine. Scouts had been unable to find any melgor in the vicinity near Colony 3 and the General forbade foraging missions for the armored lizards to extend too far from the colony.

The timely birth of Seelyr’s sickly pup offered an opportunity to test the device on a Volgon. Seelyr and Niilor had protested vehemently. Sacrificing the pup for the good of the colony was one thing; handing it over for cruel experimentation was another. Myrloir, in charge of disposal of Volgons too sickly and weak to be of any use to the colony, took those to be killed down to the restricted third level. Everyone assumed the bodies were disposed of in the incinerators. In actuality, Myrloir used them in generating food rations for the colony. Myrloir suspected that some knew, deep down, what he did with the bodies, but they never said anything and neither would he.

Seelyr and Niilor knew that their pup had to be put down. The limited resources of the colony could not be wasted on a Volgon who would never be able to fight. Knowing this fact did not make the task any easier. Both parents were heartbroken. They had only one young one, Nyilor, who was almost of mating age. Seelyr knew what was in store for her pup if the General allowed Feeror to use it to test the sound machine.

Seelyr was torn. She knew the importance of the sound device. She also knew how close Feeror was to making it work. What an advantage in battle to have a weapon that would decimate large numbers of enemy forces within earshot of the device when it was activated, yet leave others unharmed.

Yet, this was her pup being offered up for the experimentation, not some melgor. Though her little one was sick, she loved it all the same.

She wiped her eyes and glared at Feeror. “I refuse to be there when you test the machine.”

Feeror nodded in agreement, hating himself for what he was doing, yet needing to test the weapon on another life form, in addition to the Gorkon.

The experiment had been somewhat successful. The Gorkon had died immediately. The pup lived for several minutes. Feeror gently wrapped the small body in cloth before taking it to Myrloir for disposal.

Feeror felt guilty that Seelyr’s pup had suffered needlessly. He had been so sure that the new modifications would spare the pup. He sighed and looked at the dead Gorkon lying on the floor. He felt a surge of rage and hatred so strong that he found himself moving toward the body, almost against his will. He began to kick the corpse, each blow more savage than the last. He screamed out his frustration of being forced to live below ground like some animal, the exhaustion of fighting, the guilt at having to use a comrade’s pup to test the machine, the rage at that pup’s death being for nothing. A life’s worth of hatred came pouring out of Feeror and unleashed itself on the Gorkon lying on the floor. He growled and kicked the dead Gorkon until he was too exhausted to kick anymore.

He sat heavily in a chair, breath coming in gasps, his body covered with sweat beneath his armor. He called several younger Volgons into the weapons room to dispose of the body. They stared open-eyed at the bloody mess that used to be a Gorkon warrior. They glanced uneasily at Feeror as they did their best to bundle the mangled corpse in some sturdy cloth. The young Volgons took the body to Myrloir, who disposed of the carcass in the incinerators.

The Volgons returned to clean the blood and tissue off the floor. Feeror thanked them and they stammered a hasty response. The two were disturbed. While the two had seen death, it had been clean death, from plasma rifles not the bloody, smelly, violent mess that Feeror had left behind.

Feeror sat awhile longer, staring at the infernal weapon. He had been so sure! He picked up several long pieces of paper containing the read-outs of the pup’s brain wave pattern, the dead Gorkon’s pattern, and a read-out from the sound machine.

While a Volgon’s and Gorkon’s brain wave patterns were similar, there were major differences that Feeror had utilized when modifying the sound weapon. The pattern from the machine seemed to match that of the Gorkon perfectly.

There must be something I missed.

Shay Fabbro at IAN