Sable Book 1 of Chaos Time (Chaos Time Series) (3 page)

"Dude, your five minutes are up. Sorry, but you gotta go," Charles came up to him, not even pretending politeness at this point.

"Yeah. Gotcha. Got places to be anyway." Hunter slipped out the front door, hugging the building to try and prevent getting wet. But he needn't have bothered. Within seconds of stepping out he was soaked. It was like someone had picked up a bucket and dumped it on him. The rain was coming down in sheets.

Hanging his head to try and keep as much rain out of his eyes as possible, he shoved his hands back into his pockets and continued north.

He needed to find his people again. But before he could find the rest, she needed to be on board.

How different his world would be now if they’d only gotten their crap together the first time. If they’d worked as a unit instead of against each other. At first they had, but arrogance had taken them all in the end. They’d grown too cocky, too confident and sure that their way was the only right way.

God, they'd been so wrong.

In the end everything they'd loved, everything they'd known had disappeared. Hunter's world was no more. Dragden had won. He’d had a choice to make. Stay and die with the rest of them, or leave. Come back and do it over again.

He'd made his choice. Wrong or right, didn't matter anymore. All that did was fixing it. This time they had to get it right. Especially because the window of time they had to do it in was so narrow. Though Dragden liked to believe himself a God, he wasn’t. Once every fifty years his body betrayed him, forcing him into a coma that lasted anywhere from two weeks to two months. He was readying to enter his
god
sleep within a week, which made him vulnerable and unable to leave his crypt for any period of time. The time was now or never.

A semi-truck barreled down the road, its tires kicking up water and pelting him. The cold rank water felt like needles on his exposed skin, making him to gnash his teeth in response.

The newscast had helped fix the point in time he was in and he knew he skated a very fine line between victory and disaster. He had to find her now.

Hunter withdrew the beacon, a feather, from his pocket the length of his open hand, roughly nine inches.

The feather was unlike any that could be found anywhere, long and strong and incredibly flexible. A red so deep it almost seemed dipped in blood. He squeezed it. It was warm, heating his palm like a tiny flame and guiding him toward her.

Another time, another lifetime ago she’d shared with him the magical properties of the feathers. How she could be tracked, traced to within a yard, if someone knew the proper incantations. She’d never told others, considering it a great weakness easily exploited. He hadn’t been sure why he’d felt the obsessive need to get his hands on one, but one night he’d stolen it. If it worked, if he found her, if she’d told him truth that night long ago, they might still have a chance at redemption.

He wondered what she’d look like. What her life was like now. Who was she this time?

He was close. The feather was starting to sizzle into his flesh. Within an hour he stood before a large granite sign on a well-manicured lawn that read:
Fairfield Hills
.

“Damn,” he mumbled low as the feather finally turned to black ash and floated away on a stiff breeze. Not good. Volatile as she was, a place like this could potentially cause her to be catastrophically damaged.

He stared at the sign with unseeing eyes, debating within himself whether he should take that next step to her, to an uncertain future. All he had to do was think of the sightless eyes, the land charred beyond recognition and he knew he had no choice. If there were another way, another time, but there were no more feathers. There were no more options.

“Fairfield Hills,” he muttered with ironic disgust. Why was it that the worst places always felt they had to name themselves something benign and cheery? Why not just call it what it was. Youth home for the mentally insane.

Chapter 3: Will the real Sable Ray please stand up?

"Patient 152," the woman's voice was cold, detached. She thrust a paper cup covered in smiling faces into Sable Ray's hands. Ten pills all differing shades, lengths, and width filled the cup half full.

A rough pair of hands shoved her out of the line. "You ain't special. My turn now."

Sable turned and growled low at the black girl who'd shoved her. Her hair was wild and poking up all over the place. Her eyes were glazed, dulled by drugs and years of psychotic meltdowns.

A nurse yanked on the thick chain attached to the leather collar strapped to Sable's neck. "Shut yer trap, you freak."

His spit landed on her lips and she snarled, wiping it off. Her already bruised windpipe couldn't take much more abuse. Someday, she promised herself, someday she'd get out. Someday she'd kill them all—especially the big fat nurse who yanked on her collar like she was nothing more than a rabid dog.

He smacked her on the butt and a slow simmering fire began to burn in her belly. He let his hand trail down longer than necessary, tracing the outline of her nearly non-existent curves against the baggy pair of mud colored scrubs she wore.

But it wasn’t only her clothes that was so dark. Everything was. It was like the place wanted you to know you were in hell. Bars on the windows, ill lit hallways that more often than not needed light bulbs changed.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy...

Sable walked over to the window on slippered feet, the ridiculous long length of the metal chain clinked behind her. They told her the chain and collar was for the
safety
of the people around her.

Whatever.

She hadn’t strung more than ten words together in over five years now. They kept her on a dog leash because they liked the power it gave them. Period. At the beginning she’d protested the use of the chain, telling them as patient as she could that her talking would not hurt them. Only when her voice rose, like with singing, could she hurt someone.

Their response had been a beating—actually several, all involving a pillowcase and a bar of soap. Eventually the State noticed how bruised she was and questioned their absurd stories, bringing an end to the nearly nightly whippings. One of the kinder nurses had suggested a longer chain, giving her the illusion of freedom and the staff a sense of safety.

She no longer fought the chain; she’d learned the only way to leave her room would be with it on, or not at all. But that didn’t make her weak, only patient. Someday
it
would come off.

She stared out the window, at the nothingness that spread out like a sea of green. There were no trees. No bushes. No garden. Just grass, green as cut emerald but forbidden to walk upon. Ever. The sky danced with forked fingers of lightning.

"Swallow them pills," the nurse jabbed his finger into her bony shoulder.

She gripped the bars, entranced by the dancing light. Maybe someday she could be as free as that lightning, as wild and untamed.

He snatched the crushed cup out of her hand and twirled her around. "I said—"

"I know what you said," her voice was weak and scratchy.

He choked the chain, again cutting off her breathing. She wheezed as fire burned her raw throat and scrabbled to loosen its grip. She looked at all the blank faces staring back at her; watching the abuse with detachment. So many people. Nurses. Staff. Patients. But not one of them came to help. They never did.

We don't see nuthin'
: the motto they all lived by.

"Don't you never talk. Never!" His rheumy eyes were frantic and full of sadistic glee.

He grabbed her jaw with his fat fingers, prying them apart and dumped the pills down her throat. She choked, sputtering and hacking, trying in vain to spit them back out. She hated taking the happy pills. They made her feel bad. Like tripping on acid was what Harold her roommate said, not that she'd know.

His thick, beefy arm wrapped around her waist like a steel band. "I said—" He shoved his fingers down her throat, pushing the pills in deep.

Gagging, ready to lose the few remains of her disgusting lunch, she did the only thing she could. She bit him. Sank her teeth so deep into the meaty flesh that she felt it tear, blood coated her tongue.

"You, nasty little whore." He slapped her and stars exploded behind her eyes. Her cheek burned. Before she could gather herself, he hooked his ankle to hers. She fell hard, with him on top of her.

All the air rushed out of her lungs. Fear for her life drove a hot tidal rush of adrenaline through her body. She rolled over and reaching into her pocket, pulled out the fork she'd hidden after lunch. She stabbed him with it, sinking it into the side of his neck. It barely missed the carotid, but it still drew a lot of blood.

A red stain blossomed like rose petals opening up to the sun on the lapel of his white scrubs.

"Help," he grunted, the fork vibrated up and down from the exertion. It was so weird and macabre to see the silver handled fork dance in his neck, that for a moment she forgot to fight back, giving him the leverage he needed to grab her hands and slam them down.

Suddenly it was a beehive of activity. She was surrounded by a swarm of white coats. Hands grabbed her ankles, her arms, and around her midsection. She bucked, writhing and twisting. But it was too much. They were too strong.

She opened her mouth to scream.

Another nurse, the handsome new Latino she’d imagined flirting with earlier, shoved the fat one off her while also slamming her mouth shut. “Go, Rick,” he grunted. “We’ve got her. Now calm down, Sable,” he whispered through clenched teeth, not being as rough as Rick, but still his hold was strong. She moaned, shoving her tongue against her lips in an effort to open them and scream. It was her only defense, the only way she’d gain back her power.

The only way.

Rick gripped his neck, trying to staunch the blood. Other nurses surrounded him, dabbing his neck with whatever they had on hand. He swatted them away. "Keep her mouth shut! Now, 'fore she kills someone."

She thrashed around, but it was only making her more tired. Then more hands covered her mouth and all she could do was give a muted snarl.

The Latin grunted, his face contorted and flushed red. Hands smushed her cheeks, forcing her teeth into her tongue. Hot tears squeezed out the corners of her eyes. Madness raged inside her. If she could only scream. If she could only make a sound, she'd kill them all.

Someone shoved a needle into her hip. The long metal scraped against her hipbone.

No! No! Somebody help me. Please,
but the words never left her lips.

Whimpering, losing consciousness with each breath she punched at him. But it was useless, within moments she'd completely passed out.

She came to, who knew how much later. Her eight by eight cell they called the
room
was dark. Always was when she was being punished. She was strapped to a gurney with a gag in her mouth.

Her parents had abandoned her years ago. Guess they didn't like having a daughter with a dirty little secret that couldn't be swept under the rug. She was...different.

One morning she’d woken up and wasn't the same. Her mother was the state senator. Bad for business.

At first it'd been innocent. Singing in the bath and finding dead fish floating face up in her fish bowl the next morning. She'd kept it hidden from them as long as she could. But they'd found out. In the beginning her dad had been cool. Telling her mom all she had to do was not sing and everything would be fine.

And it was.

At first.

But then she started having night terrors. Dreams of wars and blood and violence on a massive scale. She'd wake up screaming, killing all their pets. Even then her parents had tried to conceal the matter. Taking her to specialists to discover what was happening to their daughter, to try and figure out if there was a way to stop it. The doctor had suggested complete removal of her vocal chords.

In her one and only act of love, her mother had forbidden such a debilitating surgery. Instead they'd crafted a harness she wore at night while sleeping. It had helped. They'd thought they'd successfully discovered a way to null whatever it was that was happening to their daughter. Until the night it all went to hell.

Someone hadn't strapped it on right. She was only five. Barely knew what was happening to her. Only that it was important she talk low. That she never ever sing. And that that harness stayed locked.

That night was the start of the crazy storms. It had scared her. Then the dreams started, as they always did. Blood. Bodies strewn out, horror still reflected in sightless eyes.

She should never have come to her. They all knew to stay away. But her nanny had loved her—the only one in the entire house who did. She'd come to comfort. To hold. Instead she'd died. They'd found her half in and half out of Sable’s room, crumpled in a heap with crusted blood oozing from her ears and nose.

The next morning her parents had sent her packing to Fairfield Inn. Twelve years had passed, without a call, a word, or even a letter. She'd been abandoned.

Forever.

“What’s your name, girl?” The voice was deep, rich with gravel and made her shiver.

Shocked, she gasped and stared at a blurry shape of black shadow slowly pulling away from the deep darkness in the corner of her room. Where had he come from?

Her heart banged against her ribcage at the movement. The figure coalesced into a prism of colors she hadn't seen in years. He wore a pine green hoodie sweater, light blue jeans and pumpkin orange sneakers. His face was still covered, he held out his hands toward her in a posture of submission.

She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. She felt like a mouse caught in a raptor’s glare.

Then he was on her and she stopped thinking about anything but survival. She bucked hard, causing the metal bed frame to shudder. Sable silently cursed the straps holding her wrists and ankles down. His hands reached for the gag. Her tongue tried valiantly to move the ball out of the way, but it wouldn't budge. With a deft flick of his wrist he unlatched it and threw it out of her mouth. The drool was everywhere. It would have been gross, except that she didn’t care and hoped it got on him.