The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) (9 page)

As if he can read my mind, the dog jumps out of the hole and trots away.

“Scooter!” Grandpa yells. “Where’re you going, boy?

The dog stops, looks back, and then heads into the small cluster of older sheep.

Grandpa eyes me. “I don’t think my dog likes you.”

“That’s okay. I’m not a dog person.”

“I’m setting up the supplies. Got a flashlight and extra batteries and this,” Grandpa says, grabbing a huge, weird-looking shotgun made of heavy plastic and metal. “Now
this
is what I’m talking about. She’s pretty, isn’t she?” He rubs the barrel as if it were a living thing.

Grandpa’s snapped. He’s out to kill something I suspect is already dead. I shake my head. “I can’t shoot anyone. What if I accidentally kill somebody?”

He laughs, and the sound isn’t pleasant. “Boy, you need a lesson in guns. This,” he says, holding out the gun, “is a 40mm riot gun. It shoots out these, along with other things.”

He tosses me a small, heavy square. I catch it in my hands and test its weight.

He smiles. “Bean bags will give a guy one heck of a kick in the pants.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Got a friend who’s into non-lethal force. I use these to scare away wild dogs, wolves, and the occasional black bear.”

I jump into the hole and give the bean bag back. He hands me the launcher. The plastic grip feels cool beneath my fingers, yet there’s a heaviness to this weapon that doesn’t feel right. I try to concentrate as Grandpa shows me how to load the bag and explains the mechanics of shooting.

I shake my head as I study the big gun. The unsettling feeling that’s crept over me won’t go away. “I don’t know. It still looks like it can do some serious damage.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Let me tell you something. This great country of ours was founded on our right to bear arms. To defend our families and homes. To provide food. A gun is a tool. It’s not evil. Only the intent of the one holding it has that distinction.”

I understand what he’s saying, but it’s something else that’s bothering me. The launcher still feels threatening. The forest tilts and spins as I stare at it. I quickly lean the gun against the side of the foxhole. As soon as I do, the world rights itself.

I’ve gotten into a few fights, but they were all fist fights. Guns seem a bit extreme. I look over at Grandpa, unsure how to deal with this.

He vaults out of the hole and heads to his ATV. He brings back a small case and hands it to me. “Put this in the corner.”

I take it and read the box. US Army MREs. I put them where he tells me, and no sooner than I do, he hands me something else. Bottled water. I put the big bottles beside the MREs. When I turn back, he’s holding out some binoculars.

“Go easy with these, boy. They’re expensive.”

I put them to my eyes and fiddle with the knobs. They aren’t binoculars—they’re night vision goggles.

“A man needs to take care of his tools as carefully as himself,” he says, while scrounging near the ATV. “Remember that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Night has found the woods. Pretty soon it’ll be pitch black. Grandpa’s face is shadowed, as if he applied a coating of combat grease to every hollow. I put the goggles with the rest of the supplies, and when I turn around, he’s there again, handing me not one, but two rifles.

The cold iron blisters my fingers, and I hiss at the pain. These have nothing to do with non-lethal force. A wave of nausea passes over me, and I dump the guns near the rest of his supplies and try to ignore the throbbing in my hands. I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.

This is not the simple wait and see Grandpa had led me to believe.

He’s back at the ATV shoving boxes of ammo in his pockets. After hiding the ATV in a cluster of bushes, he grabs a blanket and trots back. As nimble as a twenty-five-year-old, he jumps in the foxhole and begins spreading out what I now see is actually a camouflaged tarp.

Excitement rolls off him. The old guy is really getting into this—maybe flashing on some war memories. I hope not. When it comes to people, I like them whole and bullet-free.

I slide my tongue over my suddenly dry lips. “Grandpa,” I say against a tight throat. “What’re we doing here?”

He stills. There’s tension in his features I’ve never seen before. An unflinching disquiet shines in his eyes. “Waiting for trouble.”

His stare lingers, and the warning is clear. Get on board or get out.

I nod, and he turns away to finish his preparations. Restlessness invades the foxhole, and it makes the hairs on my arms rise.

Oh yeah. He’s definitely flashing.

Like a Knife Through Butter

Hours later, the moon was high and Kera lay in the infirmary wide awake, refreshed by Faldon’s magic. She only felt a slight twinge when she touched the sting sights. Never one to stay put, even with her father barking orders to do just that, she found herself more restless than ever.

And she knew exactly what she needed to do.

Throwing off the covers, she strapped the dagger around her waist and treaded softly to the door. The back alley abutted a wall, though it was no normal wall. The builder had tried to disguise what it hid. Kera saw the barrier clearly now. It was as if, once she’d crossed it, she’d become sensitive to its presence. She pulled her fingers along the bricks and watched the energy sparkle and snap.

She pushed at the wall. It held firm. She pressed her shoulder against it, then her back. Nothing. It felt impenetrable. How had she pushed through before?

She backed away, staring at the wall, and put her hands on her hips. Her fingers brushed the dagger.

The dagger. The wall.

What had Faldon said? That
incordium
could cut through anything?

“Lani. You didn’t.”

She pulled the dagger free and placed the tip against the bricks. A tiny push. A sudden pop and sizzle. The
incordium
blade slid neatly into the barrier and a new opening appeared. She quickly sheathed the dagger and gripped the cold edges of the wall. The wet mist clutched her fingertips, already urging her forward. With a pull, the opening grew, and the thick mist burst free like a wild thing, wrapping her in a tight embrace. The air grew thin. Her head spun, and she gave in to the pull.

This time, even Faldon wouldn’t approve of her boldness. This time, she’d have to make sure he didn’t find out what she planned until the deed was done.

Fireflies

I want to leave, but I can’t. If I do, Grandpa might do something stupid. Like kill someone. It’s not like I really care—my feelings are compressed into a hard, tight knot nothing can break apart. I just don’t want any more trouble. I’m tired of
that
demon following me.

The tarp keeps us dry in the foxhole. He lounges at one end and I sit at the other, cracking my knuckles. After fifteen minutes of watching him scan the area, I consider grabbing his cell phone and calling Grandma, but I don’t. Mom’s beaten her up enough. Grandma deserves a break.

The more I think about it, the more I believe Grandpa’s going through a rough patch. I can handle rough patches. Mom’s given me loads of experience in that area. All I need to do is keep him calm. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We wait.” He pulls out a bundle of zip ties. “Which do you want to do? Shoot or zip?”

Instinct tells me to zip, but I’m afraid Grandpa will shoot first, restrain later. “Shoot,” I blurt out, then groan inwardly. How did I get myself into this?

“Okay.” He sounds proud, as if my wanting to shoot another human being is some rite of passage into manhood. Maybe for the Vietnam era guys it was, but not for me.

He picks up the bean bag gun and launches into another round of safety lectures. He doesn’t sound crazy. So why do I have that weird feeling something is about to happen? I try and concentrate on what he’s saying.

“… so you see, it’s really easy.”

“Yeah, well…um,” I sputter. “What if I can’t shoot anyone? What if I freeze up?” I’ve seen enough war movies to know it happens.

Grandpa purses his lips and after a moment, snaps his fingers and points at me. “Have you ever played with those paintball guns?”

“Yeah.” Last year, we had a junior class trip to a Civil War living history museum, and on the way home, we stopped off at a huge complex that had laser tag and paintball yards.

“Did anyone get hurt?”

That day had been a blast, but it hadn’t been pain free. “Most of us came away with a couple of bruises.”

Grandpa pats the bean bag launcher. “That’s what this does. Sure, the bruises are a little more intense than what a paintball can deliver, but it won’t kill if you don’t aim for the head. It’s been my experience that once they see us and our guns, they’ll lie down and beg us to zip them.”

He sounds pretty sure, and as the night swallows the last rays of the sun, I hold onto that hope.

As soon as the darkness descends, the soft chill of night takes hold and things gather close. It’s brisk enough to keep me awake, but not throw me into a teeth chattering call to the nearest woodpecker. Grandpa and I speak in whispers. What is it with the coming of darkness? It’s almost like there’s a rule that makes everyone talk in a hushed voice.

I shut my eyes, searching for the strange sensation that hovers close by. I inhale the wet, loamy earth with its sweet-smelling layer of rotting debris. The trees feel too near. I imagine I can feel the limbs grow. The roots dive deeper. The sap ooze beneath the bark.

The flutter of bird wings echoes in my ears. The scampering of a fox. The snuffle of a mole. The ground gives a quick shudder and my eyes pop open. “Did you feel that?”

Grandpa frowns. “Feel what?”

“The ground. It shook.”

“Boy, you need to calm down. You’re imagining things.”

Am I? I try to relax, but my senses have taken over. The woods have come alive and I can’t quiet the feeling. Ever since coming here, nothing feels right—I feel different, but I’m not sure why. It’s unnerving.

I turn my attention on Grandpa, needing the distraction of his voice. “How long were you in Vietnam?”

He leans his head back and sighs. “Too damn long.”

I can tell by the tone of his voice he isn’t interested in pursuing the subject, but I can’t stop. “Do you still get nightmares?”

The night is full, but I can see him, the look on his face, the sharp angles of horror. “Nightmares come and go. Nobody truly forgets the kind of shit I went through.”

There’s a light buzzing sound in the air. Bees? A twig snaps and Grandpa is instantly alert, reaching for his night vision goggles. His voice is whisper soft and filled with tension. “Grab your gun.”

I follow the sound and see something small and furry nuzzling at a patch of mushrooms. “It’s a raccoon.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“No, it is. I can see it. Right over there.” I point to the little guy.

“Over where? I can’t see past my nose without these, and you’re telling me you can see a raccoon at twenty paces?”

Grandpa must be half blind. I pick up the flashlight, click it on, and point it directly at the raccoon. It freezes for a split second, then scurries away.

A strange look crosses Grandpa’s face, and he shakes his head. “Give me that.” I give him the flashlight, and he flicks a switch to change the color filter to red before clicking it off. “Why do I suddenly feel old as dirt?”

The buzzing is louder, and I glance at Grandpa. “Do you hear that?”

I can see him strain at the night, listening to the flock. “Is it one of the sheep?”

“Sounds like bees.”

“Can’t be. Bees return to the hive at night.” He leans forward. “What the…”

A collection of sparkling little lights hovers along the branches of the far trees. “What is that?” The lights slip over the meadow and pause above the sheep. The flashing pulses are no bigger than bugs. “Are those fireflies?”

Grandpa stares out over the meadow. “Can’t be. We don’t have those bright fireflies around here.”

I slump back into the foxhole. “What else could they be?” I ask, but in all honesty, I’ve already lost interest.

“I’m a sheep rancher, not an entomologist.” He sits beside me with a heavy sigh. “Full moon.”

“What?”

“Whenever there’s something odd going on, it usually has to do with a full moon.” He clicks on the flashlight, coloring the immediate area in soft red, and scrounges among the food Grandma packed. “I guess the MREs from the Army surplus shop were a bit over the top. I should’ve guessed your grandma wouldn’t let me stay out here without something good to eat.” He pulls out two ham and cheese sandwiches and holds them out. “Want one?”

“Sure.” I take one, and after he plops a wide-mouthed bottle full of vitamin-enhanced water in front of each of us, he clicks off the light. I bite off a chunk of sandwich, lean my head back, and stare up at the night sky.

One of the fireflies has made its way over to where we are. The buzz of its wings is louder than I expect. Grandpa chugs his water, and with a quickness I find hard to believe, snags the bug in the bottle.

I hear a faint squeal and turn my head, listening for the sound again, but the night is quiet except for the buzzing. I turn back to Grandpa and his glowing bottle. “Won’t it die in there?”

Grandpa sits back, and the light slowly fades. He gently shakes the bottle until it glows again. It’s bright enough to light Grandpa’s face. “I’ll let it go before then. My brother and I used to catch all sorts of bugs when we were young. If they had wings, he used to tear them off so they couldn’t fly away. Kept them prisoner in a terrarium.”

“I thought you said you weren’t into bugs?”

“What boy isn’t? I’m just not familiar with every species that inhabits these woods.” Grandpa pulls the bottle close to his face and peers inside. “I’ve never seen anything glow with this kind of wattage. What kind of bug are you?”

The buzz grows even louder, the light in the bottle brighter. I shift and look out over the meadow. The tiny fireflies frantically dart about.

And then all the sheep slump to the ground.

“Grandpa?” I whisper roughly and turn to him. When I do, his arm relaxes and the bottle rolls out of his fingers and across the ground toward me. His eyes are closed and his mouth is hanging open and a deep breath rattles softly in his throat.

He’s asleep. Dead asleep.

I give Grandpa a harsh nudge. Nothing.

“Grandpa!” I yell and shake him vigorously. “Wake up!”

A firefly darts free of the trees and hovers over me. Something very strange is going on. As the firefly continues to hover, a smattering of shimmering dust floats down and lands on my head.

With a quick shake, the stuff flies off, and I scowl up at the bug. That is definitely
not
normal. I make a grab for it, but it darts away, and in no time, the firefly returns with a friend. More of the strange dust falls directly onto my face. I sneeze and shake the dust off again.

The fireflies gasp. I glare up at them. A collective squeal sounds and they dart away.

Fireflies do not gasp
or
squeal.

Grandpa lets out a loud snort and slides along the wall of the foxhole until he’s lying on his side. An ominous quiet descends. Within that tense silence rises a strange noise. The bottle resting near my thigh quivers. The firefly—or whatever it is—buzzes brightly, slamming itself against the cap in a bid for freedom. On the next zip and push, the cap shoots off and the firefly darts away.

All of a sudden, half a dozen of the strange bugs hover over me. Dust falls like snow, covering every inch of my head and clothes. I sneeze and sneeze and when I’m done, I’m ready to rip some wings off. A savage growl rumbles from my throat and I pounce.

The bright lights splinter and collide as I chase them around the clearing until they all disappear and I’m left standing in the middle of a flock of snoring, geriatric sheep.

My chest heaves and my mind glazes over with anger. I haven’t squashed one of them.

“Come back here, you…”

I don’t have a clue what they are. All I know is Grandpa’s asleep. The sheep are asleep. Even the bad-tempered dog is asleep. I’m the only wakeful being in sight.

Goose bumps spring up along my arms. I’m not alone. I twirl around, my senses on high alert. Near the cluster of trees, I see her. The girl in white. She’s barely three feet from the foxhole, crouching as she stares down at Grandpa. Tucked into her waistband is a wicked-looking knife.

“Hey!” I shout.

She startles, and in a blink, she’s gone. Such an impossibly quick disappearance unnerves me, but the sensation I’m still being watched gnaws at my skin. I stare into the woods, and just past a heavy clump of brush, I see her staring back at me. Without thinking, I take off after her.

I’m not a runner. Something about participating in aimless exertions of energy has never appealed to me, but as I stretch out my stride, I feel a ripple of power just like earlier, only stronger. It feels good. My reflexes are quick, my breathing strong. As the chase wears on, I wonder at the game she’s playing. She’s fast, far faster than last time, but so am I.

I hurdle the fence. Dart around trees. Scare creatures from their nests. In no time, I encounter a strange heaviness in the air. The same eerie, glimmering mist. I stagger to my knees and fight off a lightheaded feeling, sucking in air and calming my racing heart.

I know she’s gone, yet the scent of summer lingers. Like before, the woods have swallowed her whole, leaving only a trace of mist in her wake.

I know her, but I don’t. It’s frustrating.

“I’ll help you,” I say to the empty space yawning before me. It’s a guess, but I’ve got to believe she needs my help. Why else would she continue to haunt my dreams and Grandpa’s sheep?

I wait.

Nothing. She really is gone.

Retracing my steps is easy, and before long, I enter the clearing where Grandpa sleeps, undisturbed. I try waking him again, but he only snuffles and snorts. At least he’s smiling. That’s more than I can say for myself. Not with what I just witnessed.

I go to the sheep and count. One is missing.

“Not again!”

I search the perimeter of the clearing. No new symbols are etched into the trees. I can only hope I’ve disturbed whatever that girl and those flying lights came to do. There’s still a chance I can find the ewe, but how can I leave Grandpa for more than a few minutes? Even though I chased the girl off, the tiny lights are still around. I can’t leave Grandpa at their mercy.

I vault into the foxhole, unclip the walkie-talkie from Grandpa’s belt, and press the button. “Umm…hey. Anybody there?”