That Moment When: An Anthology of Young Adult Fiction

by A. M. Lalonde

  One hand steadying the yoke, I grabbed the boy’s neck, and shoved him ahead of me, over to the feeding area where the overseer had the wights queuing up before a wooden trough, forcing the boy to remain on his feet until we arrived.

  Once we were there, once I let go of him, the boy fell to his knees, holding his hand over his nose trying to keep the stink out—there was no keeping the stink out—and staring at the horror before us, the graying bodies decomposing even as they staggered around, each wight groaning with their pain, shambling toward the side of the pit where we were. The yoke slid from my shoulders, easing the baskets and buckets to the ground without spilling a thing.

  Feeding time.

  “Come on.” I grabbed the boy beneath his arms and picked him up, setting him on his feet. “Don’t get too close and don’t get bit, or I’ll be feeding you along with them.”

  I pitched the first bucket into the trough, the fouled water pooling up at the bottom. Not waiting to see if the boy followed my lead, I tossed more of the noxious contents into the muck.

  The wights threw themselves at the trough, their mouths clamping down on anything that was once human. With both hands, I threw a thigh in, the water splattering up on the wights, on the remnants of clothes clinging to their emaciated, decomposing bodies, their groaning and moaning frantic, almost comical if it weren’t so disgusting.

  We emptied a basket, another, setting them aside as Fi Cheen waited behind us, peering out at the mountains and the clouds, Lyu-ra at his side.

  “Just like feeding the pigs back home, eh?” Lyu-ra said, grinning at Fi Cheen, the grin fading at his exasperated glance, at his disgusted breath.

  “Take them back to the cell when they’re done.” Fi Cheen stalked off.

  The last dregs of the last basket plopped into the trough, and the boy smiled up at me. “My name is Rucker.”

  I sighed.

  I do not need to know your damned name. I do not want to know your damned name.

  ***

  The gong of arrival sounded rich and full, reverberating through the monastery, a call from the gate, from the guards on the watchtowers. A new batch of souls for sacrifice, of human slaves for work duty, of undead wights for heavy labor, had arrived. A blessed break from the monotonous toil of building the new hall, Fi Cheen gestured to Syo-see, his senior assistant. “Continue the work.”

  Syo-see bowed deep, with much respect, her fist in her palm. “Yes, Master Fi.”

  He watched the new assistant beating on the boy with her fists, kicking him in the ribs, the Onei boy on one knee beside them watching, his hand resting on a stack of stones beside some of the worker’s tools. Fi Cheen waved his hand toward the new assistant, saying to Syo-see, “Relieve the useless girl. I believe she’s had a long day, and has forgotten herself.”

  “Of course, master.” She bowed once more.

  Fi Cheen nodded, and strode down the path to the Dragon’s Gate, his left fist pressing into his lower back, holding his head high, his right hand in a loose fist before his chest as was the fashion in the empress’ court. His thumb caressed the onyx ring on his forefinger, the ring of his office, a source of power.

  Lower rank monks, a group of acolytes who looked too young to even set foot in the monastery, jogged from their study halls and their current work duties to form up in ranks before the gate. They moved their hands in unison, sliding their feet apart, chanting a magical phrase. Arms shaking, they pressed their hands up, finger’s breadth by finger’s breadth, beads of sweat forming on their brows, their chanting growing more ragged with each repetition.

  The gate, a hulking collection of iron and wood, rose a hand’s breadth from the ground, the guards yelling down at the acolytes, a few words of encouragement, but mostly crude and vulgar comments about their mothers, sisters, and the acolytes’ own sexual habits.

  Fi Cheen sighed, stifling the smile threatening to appear on his face, walking to the edge of the main path, shaking his head at the acolyte’s substandard technique, and the guards’ lack of general creativity.

  “Are these your charges, Overseer?” a rich, basso voice said from behind him.

  Fi Cheen spun, bowing with utmost respect, staring down at the tiles in the pavement, at Archbishop Diyune’s pointy-toed silk slippers, red and black with gold stitching. He said, “No, Archbishop, sir.”

  “Are they a new batch of acolytes?” The archbishop stood, tall and proud in his rich silk robes embroidered with dragons and clouds, his eyes hooded beneath heavy lids, appearing bored, left hand behind his back, his right hand before his chest, his fingertips touching the golden amulet hanging from his neck. His mustache hung down from his upper lip to his chest, the hairs long and black, his eyebrows thick and bushy, his head shaved bald.

  One of the junior masters, one of Fi Cheen’s newest assistants, the one who’d lost her temper and been relieved by Syo-see, sprinted from the direction of the slaves’ quarters, yelling at the young acolytes, correcting their form, taking a spot with them, showing them how to perform the spell first-hand. She was a shapely junior master, and he made a note to learn her name.

  “I believe they are, sir,” Fi Cheen said. “And assigned to the new junior master recently assigned to me. I fear I have much work to do to bring her up to an acceptable standard.”

  “Yes,” the archbishop said, never turning his eyes to Fi Cheen. “You do.”

  With the junior master aiding them, the iron and metal gate creaked, rising with greater and greater speed, until it slammed against the uppermost bracket, the acolytes holding their position, their hands shaking, sweat pouring from their brows, running down their cheeks, dripping from their chins, the junior master’s face a mask of fury.

  The guards pulled their levers, locking the doors into place. “All clear.”

  General Esmela Silverhewer, bane of the Onei, trusted Hand of the Empress, a giantess from the world of Stone standing nearly as tall as two tall men combined, her skin gray with patches of green moss, her hair white, drawn back into a ponytail, with tusks similar to an orc except larger jutting up from her thick lower jaw, her grey eyes oddly human set in her stony brow, swinging her massive hammer at her side, strode through the Dragon’s Gate into the outer yard. A platoon of imperial soldiers, orcs and humans, trailed behind her, herding a new batch of slaves into the monastery: not just children this time, but also the spoils of war, magic-users and enemies of the empire with magical aptitude, even a few blue-skinned coulven witches, a nice batch of souls for the next few sacrifices, along with non-magical slaves, and the undead wights, people whose own treasonous thoughts and actions had resulted in their enthrallment, their turning.

  The general approached the archbishop and Fi Cheen, swaggering, smiling. Fi Cheen bowed, backing off to the archbishop’s side, knowing his place.

  The general set her hammer down on the dirt, the very earth trembling beneath its weight. She inclined her head, bending at her waist only slightly, a lack of respect that grated on Fi Cheen’s nerves, an affront to the archbishop, an affront to the monastery, an affront to him. She said, “Archbishop, I bring you the spoils of war.”

  “So I see, and I thank you,” the archbishop said. “Although I am—”

  “I need more than a thank you.” The general placed her fists on her hips, peering down at the archbishop. “I need troops. I need at least a new brigade and five new shaman.”

  “Odd.” The archbishop raised his hand, turning it over to inspect his fingernails. “Your reports have been glowing, the war effort proceeding as expected, the Onei in retreat, the last remaining states on this continent begging for mercy, their armies collapsing before you like fields of wheat and barley. Wasn’t that in your last report to the empress?”

  “Just so.” The general nodded. “And here I thought you’d been sleeping during my reports. But Nayengim is a fair voyage away even with the favor of the gods, and I have immediate needs.” She turned, her arm rising, indicating the slaves in the yard, collars around t
heir necks, manacles around their wrists. “I have brought you souls for your spells to get me what I require. I formally request you cast those spells.”

  “We performed the sacrifices last night when the harmonic resonances were at their most attuned.” The archbishop spread his hands. “I would have to consult the charts, but at least another fortnight will pass before a suitable alignment occurs.”

  “No,” the general shook her head, her voice rumbling. “Now. Tonight.”

  “Would you have me use up these precious new souls you’ve brought me fighting through the dissonances?” the archbishop asked.

  “That bit you just said?” The general pointed down at the archbishop and winked. “The answer would be yes to that. I don’t care how many of these enemies you go through, get me that brigade.”

  The archbishop stared up at the general. Fi Cheen wondered what he might say, but the archbishop looked back at Fi Cheen, gesturing toward the slaves, saying, “Overseer. Please take our new charges and assign them to the appropriate cells.”

  Fi Cheen bowed. When he turned, the junior master who’d had such a hard time with the opening of the gate waited before him, looking up at him with her big dark eyes, her face clear and pure. He said, “You heard the archbishop, get these new bodies to their proper places.”

  Pain enveloped Fi Cheen, a burning weakness clutching his heart, billowing out through his limbs. Falling to his knees, he cried out in agony, “Forgive.”

  “I did not say for her to take them,” the archbishop whispered, fingertips pressing on his amulet. “I said for you to take them. Do not cross me, overseer.”

  The pain relenting, Fi Cheen scrabbled around, remaining on his knees, turning toward the archbishop, placing his forehead on the ground. “Yes, Archbishop. Of course.”

  The general laughed, a sound not unlike an avalanche crashing down on a herd of cattle.

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  —ABOUT THE AUTHOR—

  Watson Davis wrote his first short story when he was in the fifth grade, but soon moved on to his other great love – music – and started composing and writing songs. One day, a co-worker challenged him to come up with a story for an online comic, and he knew it was time to start writing again. An avid reader, Davis loves action and adventure in fantasy and science fiction settings, military science fiction, comic books, urban fantasy and steampunk.

  THRILLER & HORROR

  THE WAITING

  Laurie Treacy

  Part One

  Amber Sterling stares up at Spook Hill and smiles, knowing what lies there. Templeton Psychiatric Hospital in the village of Misery Falls, New York, spreads out across one-hundred-and-fifty acres, all of which she’s roamed. Abandoned over a decade ago, no one except her and her family seems to care—about its’ history or the unfortunate souls once housed there.

  She crosses the quiet two-lane road, hoists her backpack onto her shoulder, before breaking into a run. Her sandaled feet tread along a familiar hidden path covered by overgrown weeds. At a break in the copse of trees, there’s a jagged split in the silver fabric of the chain-link fence surrounding the entire property. Stopping, Amber remembers to hold her dress against her legs to prevent it from getting caught. She doesn’t have much time to visit today. An aunt is throwing a bridal shower luncheon for one of the cousins in Hyde Park. At fifteen, Amber’s old enough to enjoy these ‘adult’ functions.

  Straightening, she travels along another well-worn dirt path, weaving around patches of tall grass, sun-bleached the color of wheat. On this August morning, the numerous trees provide shade from the increasing humidity. She hurries over rocks and twigs, careful not to scuff her sandals or mar her pedicure. Finally, she transfers over onto the old street, its asphalt faded gray, much like the concrete, weathered sidewalk broken into huge pieces where dandelions have taken residence.

  Against a picture-postcard sky of striking blue clouds, the institution could be confused for a Tim Burton movie set. Amber stops to catch her breath in front of a tall, round turret—the entrance to the High Victorian Gothic Administration building. Its blood-colored bricks and six patient wings spread out across the property on either side of this main building like long, jointed insect legs. The sight is imposing and creepy.

  Shielding her eyes, she peers up, still amazed by its beauty. Perched above every window, high arches rest, each one set in stone of different colors, sizes, and shapes. These fancy ‘eyebrows’ watch over passersby below, heightening the already eerie environment provided by the numerous broken windows they frame. With every passing breeze, remaining curtains billow outward like ghosts springing from behind hidden spaces to scare unsuspecting riders inside a haunted house.

  A headache stirs. Being late summer, she blames ragweed for her allergies.

  Still not deterred, Amber climbs the front steps, avoiding the disintegrated sections. For many years, she’s traversed the underground tunnels, discovered secret hiding spots, and gazed off rooftops at the murky Hudson River below. Her parents, long accustomed to her peculiar choice of playmate and destination, simply remind her to be careful and take her phone. She’s spent more time in and around the asylum than some kids spend playing video games.

  Buttoning up her cardigan, she steps into the decaying lobby. The lewd graffiti may not surprise her anymore, but the sudden charge of wintry air still does. Her skin pebbles as her eyes adjust to the lighting. Each step deeper into the room kicks up pockets of dust and paint chips. She wrinkles her nose.

  “Hello, Miss Sterling.”

  The familiar voice. She stares at the nurse’s station, still intact and almost as tall as she. There is nothing there except for slats of sunlight that paint a prison bar design across the mahogany, but she can feel him. “Hey, Sebastian. You know it’s okay to call me Amber.”

  “How handsome you appear, Amber.” His dignified tone turns playful. When she first met him, he was always so serious. Months later, he has changed, except for his language.

  “Thanks. Got a party to go to. How’re you?” She sets her pack on the ledge. The area cools.

  “Better now. I have a surprise for you.” He sounds close.

  She spins around, trying to spot a difference in the air. Though she has sensed the presence of others, heard what might be considered whispering, and seen movement reflected in windows, none of the hospital occupants have interacted with her. Not until Sebastian spoke to her after her fifteenth birthday last fall.

  Before her, a tall pillar of air shimmers and flickers like a mirage. She watches it change. First, into identifiable arms, legs, and a head. Then, a face and hair.

  “Oh!” She exclaims. “Is it really you?”

  Dressed in dark trousers and a yellow button-up shirt, Sebastian beams. “I’m mad as hops. I’ve been practicing. I wanted to show you the real me.”

  “Whoa…” Amber walks around him, fascinated. Tall, blond, and lanky, his pale blue eyes remind her of eastern bluebird eggs. He’s definitely cute, in an old-fashioned way. “You could be in a boy band.”

  He chuckles as she stops in front of him. Even his deep voice sounds clear, not his usual whispery timbre. “I have to borrow some of your energy. You might feel tired soon.” He touches her wrist.

  Shuddering at the frigidness and rubbery consistency of his skin, she manages a smile. “Th-that’s weird.”

  He hesitates. “May I hug you?”

  She nods. “Make it short.”

  His coldness penetrates her cardigan, but she endures. After talking with his spirit for months, this new development is exciting. He smells of antiseptic, moth balls, and winter. She pulls away. Something snags her sweater button.

  “My apologies.” He unravels his chain.

  The silver locket catches her attention. “How pretty! Can I see it?”

  His long fingers tremble as he pops open the oval piece, revealing a creased black-and-white photo of a woman and boy.

  “Is that you and your mom?” She touch
es the frame. It’s warm, the heat increasing intensely. She draws her hand back. “How odd.”

  He makes a face and then relaxes, letting the locket dangle between his fingers. “Can you keep a secret?”

  She clasps her hands together. “Yeah.”

  “When I was alive, my aide, a lady from the islands, did something special to my locket.” He whispers, eyes fixated on her. “All I need is someone to touch it. And then I can find a way out of here.”

  Amber blinks a few times, processing his words. “A way out? You mean it’s like magic?”

  When he doesn’t answer, she presses on. “Or are you saying it’s cursed?”

  His smirk waivers before he nods. “Yes. Want to test it?” Without waiting, he shoves his locket down onto her palm.

  The silver glows, heating up against her skin. At first, it’s comforting, and her eyes slip closed. Then the images flash inside her mind—unraveling like a speeding train across tracks—as though she’s psychically linked to the pendant.

  A girl, laughing. Holding up a diary. Taunting a boy. “Miss your mommy?”

  A doctor restrains someone on an examination table.

  Nurses grouped together. One forces pills into an unyielding mouth.

  A young man tethered to a bed. Thrashing about. Wrists bloody. Screaming. In pain.

  Sebastian.

  Her skin burns. In shock, she screeches, shoving him away.

  He stands firm and removes the locket. Its pink outline brands her skin.

  Tearing up, she tries to draw her hand close to her chest, but he cradles it, tenderly kissing the hurt flesh, his coldness strangely soothing. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t realize it would hurt you.”

  Disconnected, other images linger behind. Horrible pictures. She blinks, trying to disengage herself from them. They pass before her eyes like wispy clouds.

  The ones who caused him harm. Bleeding. Pleading for their lives.