Reap (The Harvest Saga Book 1) (26 page)

Comm Alert from Anonymous:

Abigail Blue Kelley, 17 years of age, Fertility confirmed.

Harvesting and implantation successful.

Tracking device successfully planted in utero.

Current Location: Lesser Village of Orchard.

I stared at the palm-sized communicator in my hand. It had buzzed urgently. When I realized what it was, I memorized every word as fast as I could, before erasing it from the device. Who had sent it? Crew’s comms always came from someone named Senn.

The second thing that crossed my mind was the fact that she was fertile. They had taken Abby’s eggs and put a tracking device in her womb. What the hell was implantation? The last sentence made me shake with pure, unadulterated hatred. They knew where she was. I had no idea how to fix this mess, how to keep her safe, how to make her love me. But, I would go down fighting for it all if that’s what had to happen. The Greaters would never touch her again, and I would somehow work on winning her heart. Now that Crew was gone, I had hope.

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Winter Shadows

Devil Creek

Pariah

Shady Bay (Releasing in the Summer 2014)

Slashed in differing directions, the
sky bled bright orange, contrasting against the pale blue behind it. White paint peeled up from the worn sill and curled toward my fingers. I could feel the cool draft flowing in from around the window, sneaking into the room around me. Dad threw open my door, which ricocheted off the wall behind it. Taking a deep breath, he calmly but directly said, “It’s time. Get your things.” The deep-set lines on his furrowed
brow and the urgency in his warm brown eyes indicated the seriousness of the situation. Would this really happen today? My nineteenth birthday?

Months ago, he made me pack a bag just for this occasion. Reluctantly and with both eyes rolling in defiance, I succumbed, and tossed some clothes into my black duffel and threw it in the bottom of my closet. Discarded clothing now heaped on top of it. Shirts and jeans flew over my shoulders as I tried to unearth the bag before Dad returned. I could almost hear him sigh in disappointment at my reluctance to take his warning seriously.

I ran into my bathroom and began to stuff the side pockets with toiletries and make-up. Dad would disapprove of anything unnecessary. But, I didn’t care. I just wanted the familiar to travel with me to the unfamiliar. The reflection in the mirror stared back at me, revealing an empty shell of a person that I no longer even recognized.

“Claire!” his voice, agitated, urged me to hurry. My hand grasped the cold doorknob. I turned and glanced over my shoulder for just a moment. My eye caught the dark purple down comforter my mother had sewn for me. The headboard was barely visible through the mound of mismatched pillows. A red rose, beaded with dew hung on the wall, above my bed. The last photograph my mother took from her garden.

A tear carved its way over the fissures of my skin, slowly slinking toward my jaw line. I wiped it away with the help of my sleeve and bounded down the stairs, the front door wide open revealing my father standing near his truck. Rusted and old, the tractor-trailer was a dinosaur, craving for extinction. Somehow through all of the turmoil thus far, Dad had kept his job, probably due to his fierce mechanical skills more than his reputation. The corruption of the government made good men fall out of fashion and favor.

“Get in the truck, Claire.” Glancing back at the house, I remembered my father and uncle hammering the wooden beams into submission when the hair on their heads was brown and thick. The black shudders and fixtures clung to the rusty brick. White wooden chairs, worn by weather and humidity, softly rocked forward and back in the persuasive breeze, waving goodbye. I jumped at the sound of rusted, squeaky metal as he pulled the trailer’s tall doors apart. Pulling myself up into the empty vessel, my hands awkwardly caught hold of the bunched bag Dad launched at me.

Familiar faces jogged across the yard, toward the truck, mists from their breath quickly expelled as they climbed up dragging the belongings they could carry with them. Dad stiffly and slowly climbed up into the trailer behind us, walked to its wooden wall, carefully eased out a small, stubborn door. A false door—revealing a space only a few feet deep and wide as the trailer. It concealed the refugees and the only remnants of our lives that we could carry.

Motioning for the other family to enter first, one by one they ducked into the small door and shuffled into the space, situating their bags as they took their seats. Last to duck in, I caught a last glimpse Dad’s face disappeared as he repositioned the panel. Muffled, but discernable, Dad yelled that we would be passing through three or four checkpoints on the way to our destination and instructed us to be quiet during the inspections. Would the guards find us?

The false door, constructed brilliantly, with varying lengths of wood, as if it were a piece of a perfect puzzle was the only thing separating us from them. My heart beat rang fast in my ears, and my breath quickened.
Calm down. We haven’t even left yet.
The similarity of Anne and her family, hidden behind a false wall trying to elude the Gestapo flashed into my mind.

I tightly squeezed my eyes closed, in a feeble attempt to forget the fact that they were ultimately apprehended.
In America?
The truck’s engine roared to life. The grumbling rattled the trailer violently, as its wood and metal retaliated. Regretting that I hadn’t taken Dad seriously when he told me we may have to run, I realized that I had no idea where we were going.

How long would we be cramped in the back of this trailer? I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the vibrating metal, its reverberations echoing down the length of my spine. I didn’t even want to look at the others cramped in here with me. It was too much to take in at once.

After driving for a while, the brakes squealed and the truck violently jerked to a stop, forcing my eyes open in fear. The faces of the others were sober and intense. Their eyes flashed back and forth in silent but understood conversation.
The first checkpoint.

We could hear Dad talking to another man—undoubtedly a member of the guard and I imagined him tall and muscular, clean cut and shaved, armed and leery, even of my dad who had a government I.D. and truck. After his examination of my father, he asked Dad to exit the cab for inspection of the trailer. “Are you hauling anything?” he asked my father, flatly but sternly, his voice very deep.

“Not yet. I’m going down to pick up some medical supplies for the Kentucky camp. Here’s a copy of my instructions,” said Dad. I heard the doors squeal open and the floor shift right then left as he climbed up. Heavy footsteps fell on the old wooden floorboards causing them to creek and protest with each progression he made. He walked slowly, which seemed strange.

The trailer was empty, except for us.
What is he looking for? It’s
empty. Does he suspect something?
We were all as still as possible
as he paused and walked, and paused again. My chest was still
as I held my breath, but my heart felt as if it would leap from
my chest and run as fast as possible into the hills.
Exhale.
Relief
swept over me as I heard him jump down and tell Dad he could
secure the door.

We all looked at each other, and I felt a slight
release from the tension that had built up in my shoulders and
abdomen. We weren’t out of the woods yet.
The engine revved back to life and we jerked forward, passed
the checkpoint’s speed bumps and began to accelerate toward our
destination.

The next section of roadways was much more curvy
and hilly. Though, it was no surprise. It was nearly impossible
to find a straight, flat road in West Virginia. Unfortunately, I
began to feel bile rise in my throat. I had always gotten sick in
vehicles when I couldn’t see out the front windshield. Today
made no exception.

Dad’s best friend, Michael Jones, was somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 years old. He was at least 6’5” tall and lanky. On his head, silver clung to the few brown remnants of his youth. He was quiet and serious, and sometimes avoided eye contact when he spoke with others, which really bugged me for some reason. He and Dad were deacons in our small, country Church and very devout men. Michael’s wife, Trish, was his polar opposite. She was short, maybe 5 feet tall in heels, round and shapely. Her hair was completely gray now, and soft curls escaped her bun, and framed her round face. She had a beautiful, toothy smile and her dark brown eyes danced when she laughed. And apart from right now, she was always laughing.

The two sat directly across from me. One of his arms squeezed around her shoulders and the other was cradled in both of her hands. She leaned her head lovingly against his chest. Ethan and Helen looked at one another and rolled their eyes at their parental display of affection.

Ethan was a year older than me. Like his dad, he was quiet and tall, though not lanky at all. Having been on the football and basketball teams of Arcana High, he was muscular and athletic. His dark brown hair parted in the middle, slightly longer than his father approved, gently grazed over his coffee brown eyes as he stared forward past Helen. We three grew up together in a sense. They lived three houses away and we attended the same school and Church. Though Ethan was older than me he always made a point to say hello, or at least waved and acknowledged my presence. Most people didn’t even know that I existed.

Helen was a lovely sixteen year old. Her curly black hair grazed her waist. Ebony eyes glittered hovered over cheeks always the perfect shade of peach. Whenever I saw her with friends, she was bubbly and talkative. Though sometimes, she would sit alone and scribble away in a little notebook, furiously as if whatever she was writing would disappear if it was not placed on the page immediately. I always wondered what she was scribbling.

Of one thing I was certain, if we did make it to our destination we would all get to know each other very well, very soon. Crossing my arms over my knees, I laid my heavy head down, only moving when mandated by a sharp curve. The truck again slowed and then squealed to a stop.
The second checkpoint.

I heard another man ask for Dad’s I.D. and paperwork, both of which my Dad immediately produced. Again, he asked Dad to exit the truck and open the rear trailer door for inspection. His footsteps resounded quickly through the seemingly empty trailer and then disappeared altogether. Again, I exhaled, after the trailer door slammed closed. My father and the guard exchanged a few other niceties and the truck and trailer slightly rocked side to side as Dad climbed back into the cab and started the engine.

We lurched forward and began to slowly accelerate, as the gears ground and groaned in protest. I just hoped this old truck would make it, to wherever we were headed. I tried to rearrange my bag to get more comfortable, sitting cross-legged with the duffle in my lap. I knew it was not an option to stop, but I really needed to use the bathroom. My bladder was getting angry. I wondered if the others felt the same or worse.

It sounded like the truck went over some train tracks or a bridge and then it stopped.
The third checkpoint.
I was wrong. The engine never stopped and we started forward again, making a sharp left turn that slung us all to the right, and the metal behind me ground into the flesh of my back. Gravel popped and crunched under the wheels of the huge machine. We went a short distance again and then everything sounded strange. The roaring of the truck was amplified, and yet muffled.
A tunnel.

The hollow roar ended and the truck ground to a stop.
Now the third
checkpoint?
No, I realized Dad didn’t speak with anyone. He was alone. I snapped back to reality as Dad’s footsteps approached the false door and slowly it was pried open. Dad looked in at me, sweat beaded on his nose and upper lip and dripped from his forehead. He dragged the white handkerchief across his face and said, “Get your things and hurry.”

The pins and needles in my feet pricked as I shimmied from the small space. My joints popped and cracked as I exit, stood and finally was able to stand erect. The others threw their bags out into the trailer and climbed out behind them. Then, we were off. Dad slammed the door of the trailer closed, locked it and then turned around to us. His voice was gruff and jaw stern, as he spoke.

“Michael, take them half a mile to the west. You’ll come to a small creek. Stay near it and I’ll find you. I’ve got to lose the truck,” he ordered. Michael nodded his head in agreement and immediately began hiking off to the west toward a large looming mountain. My dad climbed back into the truck cab and started the engine once more. He waved to me as he drove away, disappearing around a curve, leaving a slithering trail of black smoke in his wake.

I rushed to catch up to Michael. It was the fifth of December and the leaves had already fallen from all of the deciduous trees. The thick brown carpet crunched and crumbled beneath our footsteps. The evergreens were the only remaining hints of color. Clouds hovered in the gray sky above as if to mock our attempted escape.

I was never a follower. After Mom died, I tried to “grow up” and left my dad little to worry about. I guess most teenagers would have caused problems out of some primal rebellious instinct. But, I wasn’t like most other teenagers. My mom always said I had an “old soul.” She was right.

The noon sun peeked through the spotted gray clouds. I didn’t know if this trek through the woods would lead us to our destination or to another means of transportation. We walked up and down three or four more hills, before we could see the small creek at the bottom of the hollow below. Water trickled over rock and land in nature’s soft symphony composed by God himself; far more beautiful from the music of my soul
.
Smoke hung thick and heavy in the afternoon air, filling them with its acrid scent.
What
is on fire?