The Risen Series | Book 2 | Margaret

by Crow, Marie F.

  Copyright

  Margaret is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  MARGARET: A NOVEL

  Copyright © 2020 by Marie F. Crow

  All rights reserved.

  Editing by KP Editing

  Cover Design by KP Designs

  - www.kpdesignshop.com

  Published by Kingston Publishing Company

  - www.kingstonpublishing.com

  The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Sharp, crisp clicking of a woman’s heels echoes off the walls like a ricocheting gunshot. It vibrates the walls, leaving an aftermath of panic with its sounds. Those caught in her path scatter with the sound that is aiming towards them like a warning. A warning that there is something very wrong today and it is only growing worse.

  She inspires no cheerful greetings to start the day as she passes the other scientists unfortunate enough to find themselves near her. Emotionless eyes are locked ahead of her steps, refusing to acknowledge how she is being perceived. Her lab coat billows around her small frame lending an extra emphasis to her desperation to reach her destination. It is not the cape of a hero that she is wearing today like she had planned, but the cloak of a reaper that floats behind her, filling the space between her and those she passes.

  “Have you heard?” The male’s voice belongs to one of the few that match her prestige in this building. His steps falter, trying to keep up with her pace and his voice is not the icy shards with which hers radiates.

  “Not here.” She chills him with her rebuttal. It is the first time her eyes have removed themselves from the direction marked as forward in her path and they gaze now at the many faces pretending to not watch them pass. The very thing she was hoping to avoid fills the hushed tones of the hall. Panic.

  With a glare that would cause Hell itself to cringe, she stares at the man beside her, slides her plastic encrypted card through the security process and enters a room where there has not been silence in days. Anger and blame has scarred this room and those inside it. All communication is now a blend of pointed fingers and raised voices with the attempt to pass the fault of the fallout on another. Truth is, the fault belongs with each one of them. Their raised voices and argumentative words will not spare them from this truth.

  “If you would…?” Her voice leaves no room for the question; it seems to form and there are none that risk asking.

  Voices lower as those in the room collect their emotions. Chairs slide against the short, woven carpet as the room comes to order. The Ice Queen is taking her throne and she may very well be the only one left with the courage to command them.

  “As you all are aware, the vaccine has had unexpected results. With no resources left to combat those results, we must now focus our efforts on containment. We have already begun reaching out to all those who are scheduled to receive the vaccine today and prepared them for any potential side effects.” Her voice held the emotions of the room at bay. It did, until she spoke the last words.

  The room becomes anger tainted again with the repetition of the words “side effects.” It is said with many accents, many tones and with many emotions, but it is always said with anger.

  “Yes, side effects. At this time, we are unable to justify any other explanation for what has occurred. Tests are still being run on the current subjects we hold. We feel confident we will isolate this new mutation and eradicate it, making the vaccine viable again. This is just a minor set-back.”

  The room explodes again with emotions and insults.

  “How many shipments have been released?” A woman with soft blonde hair and genuine concern shouts over the male disputes.

  “All of them.” The Ice Queen hates having to answer that question, knowing the reactions it will cause, and it does.

  “All of them being…?” Is a joined chorus of many pitches from in front of her.

  “Every ordered shipment to the schools, government, and medical facilities.” She fights to keep her face under control. This day was supposed to be the highlight of her career, marking her as a genius to not only her colleagues but to the world. Today, they will mark her for life, but not as anything she will want to carry on her transcript.

  “Right now we are sending out every available trained personnel we have to help combat the side effects in the larger areas.” No one will remember how hard she has tried to counter the inevitable. They will only remember her for the destruction.

  “Is there anything else we can do?” The room finally grows to true silence.

  “Go home. Hug your families. Tell your friends how much you love them. Wait. All we can do now, is wait.” Her voice finally holds an emotion and it seals the room in dread.

  How does one wait for the end of mankind, as the world knows it, to arrive? What preparations do you take to secure yourself in a world where the day holds only questions? How do you explain to your family the sudden need for seclusion without scaring them, or alerting anyone else, causing panic?

  What moral compass now points true north when you hold the knowledge of what is about to happen to those around you? Do you pray for forgiveness or for salvation? Do you bother to pray at all?

  Chapter 1

  I don’t want to go to school today. Today is the day of the school-wide vaccines that have been ordered to help fight against the many winter ailments that can spread like wildfire through a school this time of the year. We will be brought into the nurse’s office one by one to receive the shot with no amount of pleading or crying to save us from her, or her needle of doom. Tears will only result in many mocking jokes made about us for the rest of the year, if not longer. Already the horror stories are circulating about the pain the shot will bring, and the size of the needle that will be used. Obviously, I don’t want to go to school today.

  I can hear the birds singing. I can see the sun peeking through the blinds on my windows, making odd little shapes on the cream-colored carpet of my bedroom. They are telling me it is time to wake up with their subtle hints, but I don’t want to.

  I can smell the thick scent of breakfast in the air of my room. It makes my stomach rumble with its craving of the warm bacon that my father calls “pig flesh”. I try not to think of it like that. Nothing with the term flesh in it sounds like something I want to eat. The heavy scent of pancakes and sweet syrup weigh the air down with the depressing fact that morning is here, but I don’t want to get up, yet.

  Soon, my mother will be here to wake me. She will sing her normal, “Good Morning” song with her perky voice, as she has always done every morning that I can remember,
while she lays out my clothes to wear. It is inevitable that I will eventually be forced out of my warm bed and have to start my day. All of this will lead up to my going to school. I don’t want to go to school today.

  I hear my door slide across the thick carpet and I squeeze my eyes tight. I hope she will leave me alone for just a little longer if she thinks that I am still soundly sleeping. I know she won’t, but I hope so just the same.

  “Good morning. Good morning. I sing hello to you. Good morning. Good morning. Won’t you sing hello, too?” My mom sings her normal song, and I know all my hopes are wasted. I cringe, not from her voice, well not completely from her voice, but mostly from the inability to escape any longer from her.

  “Time to get up sleepy head.” My father sits on the foot of my bed with the attempt to double team me today. I still have a Plan B though.

  Holding onto my throat, I roll over onto my back and cough. Exaggerating my face with the make-believe pain of swallowing, I look to him and try to force sadness into my eyes.

  “I don’t feel good. I think I am already sick. So, I don’t need to go today anyway. It is probably best if I just stay home.”

  My father chuckles at me while patting my feet that are hiding under the blankets. “No such luck, Margaret.” He leans over me, kissing my forehead. His tie dangles between us with its crisp pattern of slanted lines and I know he will be leaving for work soon. That will leave me only with Mother to have to convince to keep me home. Sometimes my, “sad eyes” work better on her anyway.

  “No fever,” he tells me, with a wink to my mom. “I think the only sickness you have is a classic case of nerves. Lucky for you, your mom has the perfect antidote waiting downstairs. A hot breakfast and well packed lunch. Now let’s move, Scooter, before it grows cold.”

  “If it is cold, it is obviously not the perfect antidote and I will just stay sick. I better just not risk it and stay in bed.” I cough again and roll to my side, half out of the feeling of desperation and the other half trying to hide my disappointment that Plan B is not going as well as I had planned for it to.

  “If it is cold it is your own fault and you will just have to enjoy it that way.” His voice holds that warning tone that Dads sometimes have, and I know that it is not working on him.

  He pulls the covers from me, making my body shiver with the sudden temperature change. Fall is here, but some mornings it feels as if it is already slowly fading into winter allowing the house to be chilly in the mornings. It only adds to my already growing reluctance to leave my bed.

  Most days I do not mind the morning routine of getting ready for school. Most days I like school. I enjoy Art class the most. The chipper Mrs. Schulz makes the class enjoyable with her warm smile and mischievous eyes, but it is the painting that I enjoy the most. The swirling of many various colors together to make deeper colors, or new colors altogether, to paint with is like exploring new lands for me. With these new colors, I can paint the grass of my pictures or the skies of them whatever color I want. It is a new land of my creation and I love it.

  On the weekends, I often wake my parents with the sounds of my cartoons and my attempts of pouring the milk into my bowl of cereal. Some days, most of the milk makes it into the bowl even. Some days, I do not wake them at all and I can enjoy eating in the living room rather than at the kitchen table. It makes watching my cartoons seem like a hidden secret when I do that. I love that, too.

  Today, I do not want to get up. There is not a thing I love about today so far. I do not want to go through the routine that will force me to be at school. Something bad is happening at school today. Something that I, and so many of my friends, do not want to do.

  My father gives me a playful pat, signaling that he is over my attempts of refusing to accept the fact that I am going to school today. I sigh dramatically, voicing my opinion under the radar, at what they are making me do. They are still not moved by my unwillingness, though. My mother turns to my closet, with her silent refusal to save me from my father, to pick an outfit that will somehow make all of this better. Unless, she has stashed a pony in my closet while I was sleeping, nothing is going to make today better, but she is still going to try.

  “How about a pretty dress today?” I am not sure if she is talking to herself or me. If it is to me, then the answer is “no”.

  Lilly Hawthorn always has better dresses anyway. The thought fills me with bitterness for my classmate. A Teacher’s Pet title does not even really begin to embrace her perfection.

  “Can I wear my blue one? With the flowers? With the jacket?” It is my favorite combination. It makes me feel pretty. Not as pretty as Lilly, but still pretty.

  “Sure, Scooter,” she tells me, pulling the ensemble out of my closet that she keeps so well organized. “Do you want your boots or tennis shoes?”

  “Tennis shoes. The boots hurt my toes last time.” I wiggle my toes, remembering how the boots pinched them together.

  “Well, we can’t have hurt toes.” She reaches for my still wiggling toes, trying to tickle them, but I am too fast for her. I tuck my feet up under me and laugh at her attempt.

  Maybe it won’t be so horrible today after all. It is just a shot, right? A perky voice whispers in my head. I’m not sure who it belongs to yet, but I know it is not completely mine. I have no perk in my ‘tude.

  “Get dressed and then come downstairs to eat. After that, we will brush our teeth and fix our hair. How will you wear yours today?” She always says we but it is never, “we.”

  My mother is already dressed and her hair, that matches the red shade of my own, is already pulled back into a high ponytail. I think she just likes to feel included.

  “Pig tails with white ribbons!” I answer triumphantly. Lilly’s hair is too fine to stay in pigtails all day but mine isn’t. My mother has a secret weapon for frustrating frizz and escaping strands. She calls it hairspray. She uses a lot of hairspray.

  I watch my parents leave my room together, holding hands. My father smiles at me, giving me a wink to encourage my good behavior. I want to make them happy, but my stomach is rumbling with something different now and it does not fill me with encouragement.

  I am afraid of what Charlotte said about today. She told us that the shots are huge needles because of all the things it is supposed to help fight against. Our whole arm will go limp and then it will bruise, making it painful to move. We won’t be able to play on the swings or jump rope at recess. There will be no games of tag or hide-and-seek. Just the many sore arms and our pouting, sad faces.

  If they give it in the wrong arm, we may not even be able to move it to eat lunch. They will then have to give it in the other arm to fix the mistake! It only works if it is placed in the right arm, she said, and I am not sure if she meant the right arm or the “right arm”. How are we supposed to know? Will they know? If we cry, we will get two shots in the same arm if it is wrong or not and I always cry. I guess that means I will not be eating the special lunch my mom packed for me today. I bet it has a cupcake.

  Charlotte’s dad is a lawyer and he has told her all of this. She said he is super smart because he has all of these special things he has to do for his job everyday, so he must be right. She said so and no one argues with Charlotte. It doesn’t end well if you argue with Charlotte. It’s way worse than getting shots.

  I give my stuffed lamb one final tight hug before leaving my warm bed. His fluffy body always comforts me when I am scared, but today it doesn’t have the normal feeling. The stitched smile he wears doesn’t seem as happy today. Nor do his black button eyes seem as bright. His white body is a hue of a darker shade of white, as if he is covered in dust, but I still wish I could find a way to sneak him into my book bag even with his strange change in attitude. We both might feel braver if he was with me, even if it is our secret. We are not allowed to take stuffed animals to school though and I don’t want to get into trouble today. They might give me three shots, in the wrong arm even!

  Chapter 2

  I
am waiting for my goodbye hug from my father at the front door with his heavy, brown briefcase in my hands. I like the rich smell of its leather. The leather collects the saturating smells of his day and they each remind me of him. It is a swirl of his morning coffee and of his very male cologne adding to the incense of the cigars he sneaks at work, thinking that Mom doesn’t know. She does. Mom knows a lot of things we don’t want her to know. She just doesn’t always tell us that she knows until she needs to tell us. If she needs to tell us, that normally means we are in trouble. I like to let her keep her secrets. It is better for all of us that way.

  He is already on the phone, setting up his appointments for today and I have to wait silently for my good-bye hug. He is moving meetings around and scheduling his lunch while I stare at his shoes. They shine, reflecting the light of the room with the amount of attention he spends on them every night.

  I know that inside this leather bag, his files are stored in colored paper binders with the alphabetical order of his clients written neatly on inserted tabs. I know because he sits for an hour every night sorting the piles, labeling them with the correct names, and then he will pull out the dark shades of the polish for his shoes. This is, “Daddy’s Hour.” The hour that I must entertain myself, not make a lot of noise, or run around the house. It is a long hour, trust me.

  His jacket matches the dark shade of his slacks. His shirt and tie contain the only colors he has chosen to wear today. Even his sunglasses, that cling with one arm in the pocket of his slacks, are dark rimmed. It reminds me of an uncle’s funeral with so many half-interested conversations and dark-clothed people. I had to sit silently through that, too.

  He winks at me, noticing me waiting for him for the first time. He takes the heavy briefcase that has begun to feel like a suitcase while I have waited patiently for my hug. He ruffles my red curls, that he believes my mom and I gain our tempers from, before heading out the door. He is still talking to whomever is on the other side of that conversation and never looks back at me when he closes the car door.