Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (9 page)

A few weeks later, with a
new beau holding her about the waist, she saw that same frank glare
from Anthony for the last time. It lasted no more than a blink of
an eye, but it was there. She had seen it. Then, it dissolved into
nothing, gone. They went back to being friends, confidantes when
things with their significant others got bad. Their window had
passed.

She had not realized she
had been staring at the lantern’s light the entire time. A couple
of her fingers brushed against her lips, a light touch, a Freudian
act brought on by an acute memory. It as a memory she liked to
relive now and again. Maybe there was a part of her that still
wondered what it would be like to be his girl. She could not help
but be curious how it would feel in her heart when Anthony
introduced her as his girlfriend.

It would feel pretty
freakin’ good if it were true.

“
What I haven’t been able
to figure out is why the Event started in the first place. Why are
we so special?” queried the 3rd grader.

Christina’s glance was
speculative. Her tiny companion had a powerful brain in her head,
which should not have been too surprising. She appeared bright
enough at first glance, but her ability to think with clarity at a
time like this at her tender age was impressive.

And yet, the girl made a
valid point.
Why were they so
special?

“
You don’t have any
ideas?” asked Marissa, staring into her hands, her back
hunched.

Too Christina, she looked
even smaller than her four-foot three-inch frame. She looked like a
Kindergarten child, scared, lost, on her first day of
school.

“
I’m still trying to come
to grips with the fact I’ve been kidnapped.” Christina strode
toward the smaller girl and sat down next to her. “I haven’t had
the time to think beyond that.”

Marissa smiled, some of
her vivacious personality coming to the fore. Her eyes twinkled in
the steady, blue-white light shining before them. “Don’t be too
hard on yourself. The man-thing just carried me over from my house.
I wasn’t tied-up like a burrito like you.”

Christina laughed, feeling
a great weight lift from her shoulders. The little girl was
magical, a gift on a day fraught with fear. A question entered her
mind a second later. “How did you get caught anyway?”

Marissa’s smile evaporated
like water before a tropical sun. “He came through the window.
Before I could get away, he had me in his arms. He was so strong I
couldn’t get away. Then, I realized we were floating above the
trees. I stopped struggling then, because I didn’t want to fall to
the ground and crack my head open.”

Christina blinked. “Did
you say you were floating?”

Marissa nodded. “That’s
how he was able to get me in the first place. He came through the
window in our living room.” She leaned toward the older girl. “And
we live on the second floor.”

“
There’s no fire escape
outside the window?”

The 3rd grader was still
shaking her head. “It’s on the other side of the apartment. Outside
the window were my Mom and Dad sleep.”

The teenager fell silent,
thinking.

“
I’m not lying if that’s
what you’re thinking,” added Marissa, her eyes big. She wanted the
older girl to believe her.

“
I know,” began Christina,
“it’s just hard to take in, you know. The world has changed so much
in the past few hours.”

“
You mean the past few
days,” corrected the girl.

“
Yeah, the past few days…”
The teen put out her hands to warm against the heat of the
lantern.

“
How did the man-thing get
you?” asked Marissa after a few moments had passed.

“
In the hallway, I think,”
began Christina, her cute brow wrinkling. She tried to put the
jumbled of images in her head together to form some semblance of
what had happened. “I remember walking out of my bedroom, turning
down the long hall that runs down the middle of my house.” She
stopped and scratched at something on her forehead, near her
hairline. “I saw a figure, standing at the far end. It was huge.”
She sat up straighter, rubbing her palms against the denim covering
her knees. “He was wearing a hoody or something, because I couldn’t
make out what he looked like. Or maybe the light at the other end
of the hall was brighter than where I was standing. Maybe I only
saw his silhouette.”

She rocked back and forth
on her butt. “I don’t remember much else. I think I heard a noise
coming from back in my bedroom, but I’m not sure.” Her face melted
into hopelessness. “I can only remember feeling sleepy – very, very
sleepy, faster than I have ever experienced in the past. I think I
took another step… or maybe I meant to take a step. I know I was
going to say something to the tall figure, but it was only a
thought I had in my head. I don’t remember anything after
that.”

Marissa peered over at her
with eyes as wide as teacups. “You’re lucky.”

Again, shock struck
through Christina like lightning through an oak. Her jaw hung slack
below the rest of her face.
How in God’s
name could I have been lucky?!?

The younger girl forged
through the awkward lull in the conversation. “You didn’t see his
face.” Her nod was emphatic. “Trust me, you were lucky.”

Before Christina could
reply, the girl turned away, bursting into tears.

Overwhelmed by the same
strange sense to protect the girl, the same notion she had felt
earlier. The teenager ignored her own befuddlement. Instead, she
scrambled forth to hold tiny Marissa in her arms.

Whatever she had seen, it
had been horrible. The girl was shaking so hard, she was
convulsing.

~~~~~~~<<<
ᴥ
>>>~~~~~~~

~ 6 ~

Cruel
Consequences

Saturday, November
27
^th
,
4:19 pm…

Clarisse McIntyre was
lying akimbo upon her full-sized bed. Between her contorted limbs,
her comforter had twisted as she wept bitter tears over what might
have been. Her corn-stalk-colored hair was in tangles, her
green-speckled, light-blue eyes shut to the world. The tanned
features of her visage were bunched and wrinkled with anguish. Her
fists were balls of righteous anger, her face the definition of
despair. Her lips drew back, revealing the teeth below as a
desperate keening issued from the core of her heart. For that
beating muscle of emotion, seventy hours ago, had broken beyond
recognition.

It had been a wonderful
time, though it had lasted for less than a week. Yet, to her, it
had seemed like they had spent years together. They had learned,
shared and held as they gazed into the others’ eyes and knew what
they had, had been was real. He had been everything she had ever
wanted in a boy – tall, muscular and athletic, but kind, caring and
well-mannered all the same. He was smart. He was funny. He was not
into himself though he was in tip-top physical condition and was
handsome in a rugged sort of way. And, above all else, he was a
gentleman. He had always waited for her to respond to him, made
sure she was a willing participant before he made any physical
move. He had held her in his big hands and had asked if she was ok,
if she felt comfortable. Every time he had asked, it had melted her
heart and she wanted nothing more, in that instant, than him. His
lips on her mouth, his hands on her body, she had wanted it all. If
they’d had the chance, in a few months, she might have given him
everything. And she would not have batted an eye. She trusted him,
knew he would take care of her, love her and nurture their
relationship for decades to come.

They had talked too. They
had not restricted their time together to just wild make-out
sessions alone. No, Joaquin had been content to talk as well.
Whether face-to-face or on their cells, he had listened whenever
she spoke. She had been rapt every time he had opened up to tell
her something about himself.

He had come from a good
family. His parents were the cornerstone of his young life. He was
not too cool to mention that to her, which was rare among the boys
she had dated before him. He had seemed at ease within his own
skin, though he was a bit overzealous about the sport he played,
but that did not bother her. He excelled at wrestling. Who could
begrudge his work ethic, his rigorous training regimen? If he was
good enough to one be All-American; maybe he could make the U.S.
Olympic Team?

She sure as hell would
have been so proud of him, proud of his dedication, proud that he
could stick by something so demanding. It would have been
incredible. She would have gone to every meet. She would have
cheered for him until her throat hurt, until she could not speak
anymore. She would have been there, on the sidelines, waiting for
him to come from the mats, to come into her arms. She would have
kissed him until her lips chapped. In front of everyone, even her
parents if they came, she would not have cared one iota if she
offended anyone. Joaquin was hers. She was going to show him just
how much she appreciated him with every available opportunity. Even
after a week with him, she could see that future as if she had been
experiencing it for real. Every taste, every smell, every texture
and color she had seen was in perfect clarity like 1080p Blu-Ray.
It was as vivid as life itself.

And now, all that was
gone, made impossible by the extraordinary consequences of the past
three days.

The Event.

That incident had taken
Joaquin from her. It had ruined what she knew would have been a
perfect life and shattered her dreams for all time.

The Event, according to
the tight-lipped authorities, was the country’s worst rash of
serial abductions in its’ history. And, it was still on-going.
Every day passing had ended with evermore kidnappings. They all had
been in the same general area. They were all taken in northeastern
Los Angeles. Some debauched group of people was taking the children
away. Some unknown enemy was stealing the hopes and aspirations of
hundreds, maybe even thousands.

Three days!
she raged within the snarl of her blankets.
Though her tears had dried-up long ago, the wracking sobs gone on,
unrelenting.
You have taken everything
from me! You fucking assholes! You have ripped me to fucking
shreds!
She pounded the mattress, crazed
with fury, insane with grief.
How could
you?!? How could you do this to me?!?
She
could feel the emotion building at the base of her throat. It was
molten. It seared her from the inside out, cooking, frying, then
burning her to the bone. She squeezed her eyes shut, the tension
growing, the fire filling her. It was too much. She had to let it
go. She had to set the world ablaze. Everything must crinkled and
char before the fury in her soul. Everything -.

She screamed.

With the last of her
strength, she rose from the bed, bending backward at the waist. Her
back curved the wrong way, her neck craned toward the ceiling. She
screamed as loud as she could, feeling her body become hallow,
drain, turn to a husk that was only a fraction of what it had
been.

There was the pound of
running feet through the house, but she had not taken heed through
the anguish consuming her.

She fell back onto the
bed, bouncing, the pathetic wails unending. She could not stop. She
lacked the ability. She could only hold on for dear life and ride
the tsunami-like currents wherever they might lead, wherever they
might deposit her. Aware she had come close to shredding her vocal
cords, feeling the agony there, she curled into a fetal position.
Her knees bunched up against her breasts, her elbows
overlapping.
Why? Why? Why did you have to
do this to me!?! To us!

“
Clarisse! Baby-girl, no!”
said a voice as if someone had appeared by magic, someone who could
walked through doors as silent as a ghost. It was a certain someone
with the voice of her mother. “No, no, no, no!”

The eleventh grader did
not feel the weight of her mother’s body as she struggled across
the mess of a bed. She did not feel her unwind her body from the
blankets. She did not feel her hands as her mother pulled her from
the snot-drenched pillow and into her arms.

What she did feel was the
warmth. She had felt it her entire life. She knew it for what it
was without anyone telling her, without having to open her eyes and
see for herself. It was protection from evil, sanctuary from pain.
It was calm. It was soothing. It was bliss.

Mommy…

Without conscious
knowledge, Clarisse’s arms came about her mother’s mid-section. It
was muscle memory and naught else. It was having done so a
thousand, thousand times. The movements known, the touches
memorized, she lost herself in her mother’s clutches and felt wrath
leave her. Her crying became less frantic, less lost and more about
mourning.

Though her throat burned
and her voice was raw as if someone had stuffed sandpaper down her
into her gut, she asked: “Why, mama? Why did this have to happen?
Why? After I finally meet the boy I’ve been waiting for my whole
life, why would they take him from me? Why? Don’t they know I love
him? Don’t they know he’s mine, that he’s special? Why would they
do that to me? Why, mommy? Why?”