Authors: Shannon A. Thompson
Take Me Tomorrow
TAKE ME TOMORROW
Shannon A. Thompson
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-10: 1940820219
ISBN-13
:
978-1-940820-21-7
Co
pyright 2014 Shannon A. Thompson
Published by AEC Stella
r Publishing, Inc.
Dedication
To my father – for every chat over coffee, the words will never cease.
Acknowledgements
My dedication says it all. “Take Me Tomorrow” was inspired by a single chat my father and I had over coffee. Many years have passed since that unforeseen afternoon, and my father supported me through every single one. Even though his psychic abilities couldn’t predict my future, he always believed in my publishing dream. For that reason, I want to thank him.
A lot of research was done for this novel, including hours of hunching over texts that morphed the story in a direction I never expected it to go, but my loyal team at AEC Stellar Publishing, Inc. always believed in it. For that, I want to thank Raymond Vogel, Heather Hebert, and Ky Grabowski. Special thanks goes out to Clarissa Yeo for designing the cover of my dreams, even before I saw it.
To all of my readers at ShannonAThompson.com and beyond, thank you. I love and appreciate every moment you’ve shared with me - today and into tomorrow.
~SAT
Don’t Come Back
“Argos!”
I yelled
at my elkhound-husky mix as I sprinted across the familiar ground. Dangling thorns tore at my clothes − a pair of grass-stained jeans and a worn gray sweater. The August heat made it too hot to wear fall clothes, but the durable cloth received most of the forest’s abuse as I dashed through the trees.
My dad’s land
− the small patch of woods behind our house − was my home. Among the acres hid a long river, patches of old trees, remnants of a hiking trail, and a creek bed that curled throughout the land. I was in charge of checking on the land when my dad was out of the Topeka Region, which was more often than not, and I had learned where everything was when I was a child.
Spring was t
he best season − when everything smelled of moss, alive and wet. But it was August. The muggy air sucked all the life out of the plants, leaving them dry, disheveled, and dead. Today, the forest smelled of burnt grass and dried mud. Among the pivots, the creek bed, and the broken logs, I followed the trail, and my dependable dog ran in front of me. He explored the ground as if it were new every time.
Argos’ coarse
, black coat bobbed through the oak trees, encouraging our twilight run. As the sun lowered in the sky, the forest swayed, barely cooling the summer air, and I relaxed, trying to breathe easier.
“Come on, boy,
” I shouted, throwing a steel blade into a tree.
The trunk's bark
split as Argos’
woof
echoed around me. He barked every time I hit my target, and I laughed as I pulled a heavier blade out before continuing my sprint.
Slash. Stab. Sho
ot.
My father’s three ways to use a k
nife repeated like a mantra as I assessed which tree to practice my aim on next.
Release the blade horizontally when you throw it.
The rotting wood split on impact, and I leapt up, cheering for Argos to congratulate me with a bark, but he didn’t. He was silent, and I dug my heels into the ground.
Holding my breath, wind rushed through the shriveled leaves, and my heart thundered with the sudden gust of oxygen.
The low growl of my dog was louder than any bark he expelled, and I reached up to grab my knife. Argos continued to growl as I slinked forward through the weeds, clutching the grip and listening.
Plants
scratched at my heated face, but my entire body remained still. From the brush, I watched as Argos lowered to the ground, his fur rising, his canines bared. His keen brown eyes locked on his prey, a tall boy with broad shoulders and frayed, blond hair that hung in his eyes. The plain black t-shirt he wore made his skin look tanner than it actually was, and the right sleeve was ripped into pieces. He could’ve been living in the forest for days, but he didn’t seem bothered by his disheveled appearance. He seemed comfortable with it, like the forest had grown into him, and he definitely wasn’t afraid to attack my dog in order to survive.
“Down
!” I shouted, hurdling out of the trees, and my dog’s paws dug into the dirt.
Thund
er rolled across the clouds as the boy’s eyes locked onto mine. His chapped lips parted as if he was going to speak, but Argos barked, and the boy stepped back. Even then, his gaze remained locked on me. His irises were as green as the forest.
“Heel,” I
commanded, and Argos walked to my side before sitting down.
The boy’s eyebrows rose, a light dancing in his eyes. “Oh, good. The demon has an owner.”
His voice was rough, as if he hadn’t spoken in days, and a smudge of dirt coated the side of his face where he had wiped sweat away. Even though his tone was sarcastically carefree, his stare was intense, shadowed by the setting sun. I recognized the stillness in his expression. It was a predatory look, the expression of an animal preparing an attack.
I raised my knife,
and the blade flashed. “What are you doing here?”
His mossy
eyes focused on my weapon. “Don’t you think the dog is a big enough weapon?”
“He’s trained to attack.”
His chin lifted. “Are you, too?”
I tensed. H
e wasn’t afraid of my knife, dog, or me. The muggy air was suffocating, and my curly hair scratched against the nape of my neck.
“Who are you?” I demanded an answer, holding my ground with Argos
at my feet.
The stranger simply stared, his lips pressed together
in a thin, white line. We remained frozen, neither of us willing to move first, except for Argos. My dog walked forward, growling. The boy bent his knees as if to prepare for a fight.
“
Heel, Argos,” I repeated, keeping my eyes on the stranger. If he wouldn’t look away, I wouldn’t either.
A
thin, red scrap curled down his bicep to his forearm where his shirt ripped. He kept one hand on the strap of his backpack while his other hand pressed a piece of paper into his palm. A black watch wrapped around his wrist, and when I looked back to his face, his eyes grew shadows beneath them. He couldn’t have been much older than me, but he looked at me as if I were a naïve child.
He waited a moment before
he spoke, “So, you like the
Odyssey,
then?” he referred to my dog’s name.
I ignored him.
He shrugged at my focus and gestured to my knife, “Do you even know how to use that?”
“Get out of here,” I threatened, thinking of all the times my father
had cautioned me about the woods. Tomo addicts would collect in our acres after curfew. I was only supposed to check the woods during the day, and this was my karma for checking them at dusk. “I’ll call the police.”
“I don’t think you’ll call the pol
ice.” His laugh mimicked Argos’ quiet growl. “Or don’t you know those are illegal?”
My eyes flickered to my knife for only a moment.
Throwing knives were illegal. I knew that. He knew that. Everyone knew that. Any kind of weaponry was illegal. The State deemed them too dangerous for the general population after the tomo massacre. My father had never listened. Using his governmental status to protect us from randomized searches, he welded knives in our basement and taught me how to fight with them properly.
The boy’s arrogance infuriated
me. “Get off of my property.”
His eyes studied my face quickly, quietly, and
undoubtedly efficiently, yet his expression was blank. “This is your property?” he asked. “You’re sure?”
I nodded
, and he looked to his side, dropping all eye contact. My toes pressed into the ground, and my calves burned. A predator never turned their back on their prey, yet he did effortlessly. My father taught me to always face someone with a weapon, but here he was – shifting away as if I didn’t exist.
His
eyes glanced at the black face of his watch as he ran a finger over the screen to clean the dirt off. When he looked up, he studied his surroundings instead of me. When his jaw locked, Argos barked, and the boy leapt back, so startled that I was sure he had forgotten we were standing right in front of him. He even dropped his paper.
When h
e leaned forward to grab it, Argos leapt toward him, snarling. Rage flashed behind the boy’s glare. Before he could do anything, I snatched up the slip of paper and shoved it deep into my pocket.
The boy straightened up,
and his rage averted toward my pocket rather than my knife. Apparently, taking his piece of paper was more of a weapon than my knife was.
I didn’t say a word. The boy, on the other hand, opened his mouth to speak
, only to have a car horn interrupt him.
Argos’ ears perked up as a
red car drove into my driveway and stopped somewhere near the edge of the forest − only six acres away. The intruder leaned up as if his height allowed him to see over the trees. When he rocked on the back of his feet, he spoke, “Someone’s here.”
I kept my blade
up. “I don’t care.”
He smirked. “You sure?”
“Sophia!” my name ripped through the trees as the sky continued to darken. Lightning shattered across the clouds. “Sophia! Argos!” I recognized my friend’s voice immediately. Miles was here.
The stranger
grinned, flashing his teeth. “Sophia?”
I glared
back. “I can stop Argos, but I can’t stop Miles.”
His head tipped to the side,
and his blond hair sheltered his eyes. “Miles,” he repeated the name like a simple statement.
Miles yelled again,
“Where are you?”
“Over here,
” I screamed backward, keeping my eyes locked on the boy as I dropped my voice. “Get out of here, and don’t come back,” I ordered.
Instead of taking the moment to run, the boy
glanced down at my pocket where I kept his paper. I tensed, waiting for an attack.
“Am I near the park?”
His quiet tone was rushed. “That’s where I meant to go." His shoulders slumped in defeat. “Really.”
M
y heart lurched at his sudden change in demeanor, but I managed a nod toward the north. The forest opened up to the only park Topeka still had. “Don’t come back,” I whispered.
T
he boy’s expression softened. “Thank you,” he said before disappearing into the forest as quickly as he had appeared. The place where he once stood was empty, and it somehow seemed wrong, like a hundred-year-old tree had been cut down and removed without so much as an explanation.
The trees brushed against themselves, but I wasn’t sure if I was listening to the boy run or Miles as he got closer. It only took a minute for Miles to burst through the b
ushes. Argos' tag wagged at my friend, but Miles ignored my loyal pet.
My usually goofy friend was a mess. His mop of brown curls sprung into his widened eyes, and he
wheezed from the run. His alarmed expression ruined any lasting comfort I maintained.
Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my heart already pounding, the rain beginning to fall around us in thick droplets.
“It’s Broden.” He shoved
a recognizable silver-faced watch into my hands. “He’s in the hospital.”