Day Zero

by Kresley Cole

  Was the man her husband? Her boyfriend?

  I knew I needed to leave, but I was riveted to the spot, could no more look away than I could quit breathing.

  Then I saw Jackson on the other side of the bed, pulling her robe closed. Shaking her shoulder, he urgently muttered, "Maman, reveille!"

  She slurred something but didn't move. The way Jackson gazed at her face, so protectively . . . I knew he'd cooked her that breakfast this morning.

  When the drunk lumbered toward her, Jackson smacked the man's arm away.

  Both began yelling in Cajun French. Even with what I understood, I could barely follow. Jackson was trying to kick him out, telling him never to return?

  The man reached for Ms. Deveaux again. Jackson blocked him once more. Then the two squared off at the foot of the bed. Their voices got louder and louder, bellows of rage as they circled each other.

  Did the idiot not see that glint in Jackson's eyes? The one promising pain?

  Instead of heeding that warning, the man clutched the neck of his bottle, busting the bottom of it on the windowsill. Surprisingly fast, he attacked with the jagged end. Jackson warded off the blow with his forearm.

  I saw bone before blood welled. I thrust the back of my hand against my mouth. Can't imagine that pain!

  But Jackson? He merely smiled. An animal baring its teeth.

  At last, the drunk clambered back in fear. Too late. Jackson launched his big body forward, his fists flying.

  A stream of blood spurted from the man's mouth, then another, and still Jackson ruthlessly beat him. The strength in his towering frame was brutal, the wildness in his eyes . . .

  Why couldn't I run? Leave this sordid place behind?

  Leave these horrific sounds behind--the angry rain on tin, the woman's slurring, the drunk's grunts as Jackson landed blow after blow.

  Then . . . one last punch across the man's jaw. I thought I heard bone crack.

  The force of the blow sent the man twirling on one foot, drooling blood and teeth as he went down.

  With a heartless laugh, Jackson sneered, "Bagasse."

  Cane pulp. Beaten to a literal pulp. I covered my ears with my forearms, fighting dizziness.

  Now that the man had been defeated, Jackson's wrath seemed to ebb. Until he slowly turned his head in my direction. His brows drew together in confusion. "Evangeline, what are you . . . ?"

  He swept a glance around his home, as if seeing it through my eyes. As if seeing this hellhole for the first time.

  Even after Jackson's display of raw violence, I couldn't stop myself from pitying him.

  He must have seen it in my expression, because his face reddened with embarrassment. His confusion evaporated, that rage returning. His gaze was almost blank with it. "Why in the hell did you come here?" The tendons in his neck strained as he stalked toward me. "You tell me why you're in my goddamned house!"

  I could only gape as I retreated. Don't turn your back on him, don't look away. . . .

  "A girl like you in the Basin? C'est ca coo-yon! Bonne a rien! Good for nothing but getting yourself in trouble!" I'd never heard his accent so thick.

  "I--I--"

  "Wanted a look at how the other half lives? That it?"

  I backed across the front threshold, almost to the porch steps. "I wanted the journal you stole!"

  Lightning flashed, highlighting the lines of fury on his face. Thunder boomed instantly, shaking the house so hard the porch rattled. I cried out and swayed for balance.

  "The journal with all your crazy drawings? You come to take me to task!" When Jackson reached for me with that injured arm, I recoiled, scrambling backward into the pounding rain.

  That loose step seemed to buckle beneath my foot; pain flared in my ankle.

  I felt myself falling . . . falling . . . landing on my ass in a puddle. I gasped, spitting mud and rain, too shocked to cry.

  Strands of wet hair plastered my face, my shoulders. I tried to rise, but the mud sucked me down. I swiped hair out of my eyes, coating my face with filth.

  Blinking against the rain, I shrieked, "You!" I wanted to rail at him, to blame him for my pain, my humiliation. And all I could say over and over was "You!" Finally I managed to yell, "You disgust me!"

  He gave a bitter laugh. "Do I? I didn't last night when you were wettin' your lips, hoping I'd kiss them, no. You wanted more of me then!"

  My face flushed with shame. Then I remembered. "You tricked me so your loser friend could steal our stuff. You acted as if you liked me."

  "You didn't seem to mind!" He raised his uninjured arm, shoving his fingers through his hair. "I heard your message to Radcliffe. You goan to kiss me? Then let that boy have you just days later?"

  "Give me my journal!"

  "Or what? What you goan do about it? The little doll got no teeth."

  Frustration surged, because he was right. The Cajun had all the power; I had none.

  Unless I could choke someone in vine or slice them to ribbons, like the red witch in my dreams?

  As my nails began to transform, I felt something akin to the blissful unity that I'd shared with the cane. I was awash in an awareness of all the plants around me--their locations, their strengths and weaknesses.

  Above Jackson's house, a cypress tree shifted its branches over me. In the distance, I sensed kudzu vines hissing in response, slithering closer to defend me.

  And for a brief moment, I experienced an urge to show him who really had the power, to punish him for causing me pain.

  Punish him? No, no! At once, I struggled to rein back the fury I'd unleashed.

  "You want your drawings?" Jackson stormed inside, returning with my journal. "Have them!" He flung the notebook like a Frisbee. Pages went sailing out, all over the muddy yard.

  "Nooo!" I cried out, watching them scatter, about to hyperventilate.

  By the time I'd managed to crawl to my hands and knees, I was breathing so hard I choked and coughed on raindrops. I reached for the pages nearest me, but every handful of paper made a vision sear my mind.

  Death. The bogeymen. The sun shining at night.

  With each page, I jerked again and again, yelling up at him, "I hate you! You disgusting brute!" His handsome face hid seething violence.

  Even though he'd been protecting his mother, he'd liked beating that man unconscious. Jackson had just proved how heartless a boy he truly was. Bagasse . . .

  "HATE you! Never come near me again!"

  He blinked at my face, his expression turning from murderous to disbelieving. He shook his head hard.

  What was he seeing?

  "Evie!" Mel cried. She'd come for me!

  As she looped an arm around my shoulders to help me stand, she yelled at Jackson, "Stay away from her, you lowlife trash!"

  With a last dumbstruck look at my face, he turned to stride away.

  Just as he slammed inside that shack, my vines reached his porch. Mel was too busy checking me for injuries to see, but I watched them sway upright like cobras, waiting for me to command them.

  I whispered, "No." They raced back into the brush as fast as plucked rubber bands. Then I told Mel, "I-I need these drawings. All of them."

  Without a word, she dropped to her knees beside me.

  Both of us in the mud, collecting my crazy.

  _______________

  "You're being so quiet," I said to Mel as she helped me up to my front porch. The rain was receding, the screen door open to the night breeze. We were both still coated with mud. "I hate when you go quiet."

  On the way here, I'd told her about CLC, my visions, my mom, my gran--though not about the plants--finishing just as we'd pulled up.

  Now, after my confession, I felt battered, like one of those dolls that always bounces back up when hit. But here was the thing--those silly dolls got hit all the more for it.

  When will this day end? My bottom lip trembled as I fought off tears.

  "I'm waiting for you to tell me what happened in the Cajun's shack," Mel said. "I
mean, your expression was unforgettable--you were all like, 'Pa, I seen something behind the woodshed.'"

  "Maybe one day I'll tell you." Right now the memory was too raw.

  "How come I'm the last to know you have visions? The woman who spawned you knew before me. And that hurts."

  "I didn't want you to look at me differently." When we reached the door, I said, "I understand if you don't want to be friends anymore." I motioned for my backpack, stuffed full of sodden pages.

  With a roll of her eyes, Mel handed over my bag. "And miss my opportunity to sell your disturbed little drawings online? No way, my freaky minx." She curled her arm around my neck, dragging me down so she could rub her knuckles in my muddy hair. "I'm going to be rich! So get me some more drawings that aren't soaking wet with Cajun funk all over them."

  "Stop!" But amazingly, I was about to laugh.

  "You sure you don't want me to come in?" Mel asked when she finally released me.

  "I've got it," I told her. "I'm probably about to ugly-cry."

  "Look, we'll figure out all of this tomorrow," Mel assured me. "But check this--you are not going back to that CLC place. Ever. If we have to, we'll run away together, get married in a civil union, and live off your art."

  And there went my bottom lip again. "You've always been there for me, putting up with my crap."

  Mel glared at me. "You're being wank, Greene. Cut out all this sentimental b.s. and ask yourself: What choice do I have? Hellooo. You're my best friend. Now, get inside before I take off the filter."

  With a grave nod, I limped into the house, turning to wave as Mel drove off with her stereo blaring and her signature three-honk salute.

  When I hobbled into the kitchen, Mom was making popcorn. "Hi, hon," she called over one shoulder, her tone cheerful. "Can you believe it rained--" Her eyes went wide at my appearance. "Evie! What happened to you?"

  "I tripped in the mud. It's a long story."

  "Are you hurt?"

  I shrugged, gripping the strap of my backpack. Define hurt. "My ankle's a little sprained."

  "I'll get some ice and Advil." Had Mom's attention darted past me to the door? "And then you can tell me what happened."

  While she wrapped ice in a dishrag, I plunked myself down in a chair, keeping my bag of drawings close. "It's not a big deal, Mom."

  As I debated how to explain away this mishap, the winds picked up, blowing through the screened door.

  Though we'd gotten rain, the breeze felt hot and dry. Like a scarf out of the dryer rubbed against my cheek.

  When it blew again and harder, Mom frowned. "Um, just let me check out the Weather Channel really quick." She grabbed the remote for our kitchen TV and turned it on.

  The screen was divided between three harried-looking field reporters, the trio talking over each other. One of them was the guy who'd been all blase while at ground zero for the last major hurricane.

  So why was he sweating profusely now? "Sightings of bizarre weather phenomena in the eastern states . . . get a shot over my left shoulder . . . just look at those lights, folks . . . is that the sun rising?"

  The second reporter looked like he hadn't blinked in a week. "Temperatures spiking . . . fires in the Northeast . . . there's no cause for panic," he said in a panicked voice. "Radiation spikes . . . reports of aurora borealis as far south as Brazil . . ."

  The third guy's microphone shook in his trembling hand. "We've lost contact with our London, Moscow, and Hong Kong bureaus . . . all reported similar events"--he pressed his ear com--"what's that . . . New York? DC?" he said, his voice scaling an octave higher. "M-my family's in Wash--"

  One by one, the feeds cut out. Blip. Blip. Blip.

  "Mom?" I whispered. "What's going on?" Why is your face paler than I've ever seen it?

  She glanced past me; her fingers went limp. The ice cubes clattered to the floor.

  I lurched to my feet, my ankle screaming in protest. I was too scared to look behind me, too scared not to. Finally I followed Mom's gaze. Across the now-clear night sky, lights flickered.

  Crimson and violet like Mardi Gras streamers.

  I'd seen this very thing during the Fool Card's first appearance to me. It was the aurora borealis. The northern lights in Louisiana.

  They were utterly mesmerizing.

  As Mom and I both crept toward the front door, that hot wind intensified, beginning to howl, rattling the chimes around the farm. The horses shrieked in the barn. I could hear their hooves battering their stalls, wood splintering.

  They sounded terrified--

  But just look at those dazzling lights! I could stare forever.

  From the east, the cane rustled. A mass of fleeing animals burst from the fields. Raccoons, possums, nutria, even deer. So many snakes erupted from the ditches that the front lawn shone and rippled.

  A wave of rats surged. Birds choked the sky, tearing at each other or dive-bombing the ground. Feathers drifted in the winds.

  But the lights! So magnificent they made me feel like weeping with joy.

  And yet, I didn't think I should be looking at them. Had Matthew said something, warned me? I couldn't think, could only stare.

  The massive Haven oaks groaned then, distracting my attention. Mom didn't seem to notice, but they were moving, tightening their rain-soaked limbs around us. They spread a shield of green leaves over our home, as if readying to defend it.

  My cane seemed stunned, standing rigid, even in that wind. As if shell-shocked.

  They know what's coming. They know why I should . . .

  Turn away from the lights! "Mom, don't look at the sky!" I shoved her back from the door.

  She blinked, rubbing her eyes, as though coming out of a trance. "Evie, what is that noise?"

  A roar was building in the night, the loudest, most harrowing sound I'd ever imagined.

  Yet Mom's demeanor grew icy cold. "We are not going to panic. But we will be locked inside the cellar within thirty seconds. Understood?"

  The apocalypse . . . it was now. And Mel was out there alone.

  "I have to call Mel!" Then I remembered she didn't have a phone. "If I drive across the property, I can catch her!"

  Mom clenched my arm and swung me around toward the cellar.

  "I'm not going down there without Mel! I have to get to her!"

  I lunged for the front door, but Mom hauled me back, her strength unreal. "Get in the cellar NOW!" she yelled over the roar. "We can't risk it!"

  The sky grew lighter--hotter. "No, no!" I shrieked, fighting her. "She'll die, she'll die, you know she will! I've seen this!"

  "You both will if you go after her!"

  I flailed against Mom, but couldn't break her hold. Arms stretched toward the front door, I sobbed, thrashing in a frenzy as she dragged me back to the cellar stairs.

  When I clung to the doorway, she yanked on me, peeling my fingers from the doorjamb. "No, Mom! P-please let me go after Mel!"

  Then came a shock of light. A blast of fire shook the ground. My eardrums ruptured--

  A split second later, the force of the explosion hurled us down the stairs, the door slamming behind us.

  The Hunter

  Jackson Daniel Deveaux

  A.k.a.: Jack Daniels, the Cajun, J.D., the general.

  Special Skills: Expert fighter with keen survival instincts and weapons knowledge. Self-defense, marksmanship, bowmanship.

  Weapons: Crossbow, fists.

  Before Flash: A transfer student at Sterling High in Louisiana, fresh from a cage-the-rage prison diversion program.

  Basin Town, Louisiana

  (Cajun Country)

  Day 0

  "My decision is . . . yes. I'll spend the night with you."

  Rewind.

  "My decision is . . . yes. I'll spend the night with you."

  Rewind.

  "My decision is . . . yes. I'll spend the night with you."

  Rewind.

  Earlier that day

  When had Evangeline Greene gone from being Bran
don's girlfriend to Evie, the girl who was going to drive me crazy?

  I sat at the table with her drawing journal open, scrolling through Brandon's cell phone.

  This morning she'd been calling it from her house phone. How could she not know her boyfriend's cell had been stolen? We'd pinched more than a dozen of them. I had Evie's as well, but hers was locked; Brandon's was wide open and chock-full of pictures and videos of her.

  Ever since I'd gotten home from Haven last night, I'd looked through album after album.

  The phone also had texts. I'd read them all now. With Brandon, she was flirty; she made fun of herself and could take a joke. The two of them had texted back and forth with so much ease--almost like their conversation had been planned.

  Then nothing. As if she'd dropped off the face of the earth.

  Over the summer, only a couple of texts had come--on the exact same day of the month, at the same time.

  I scrolled to one picture from a year ago. She was on my father's yacht with Brandon. And no one had any idea I was the oldest son, the should-be heir.

  She was sunbathing in a red bikini that heated my blood. I scrubbed my hand over my mouth. "Mercy me." I'd never looked at anything so pretty in my life.

  The videos of her telling jokes and playing with a dog on a beach drew my attention too. She was so relaxed, so at home with herself.

  Now she was . . . different.

  I turned to her journal, full of grisly sketches. I didn't understand why she was drawing this eerie Goth shit now, but somehow I knew she hadn't been when those relaxed videos were taken.

  In one of her drawings, the night sky was filled with fire. Fleeing rats and snakes made the ground look like it rolled. In another drawing, a thick vine squeezed a man to death, so hard his eyes popped from his skull.

  The worst sketch was of a zombielike monster with filmy white eyes and leathery skin drinking blood from a victim's neck.

  Why had Evie drawn these things? I got to know, me.

  I didn't like puzzles. But deep down, I didn't think that was why she held my interest so strongly.

  I ran the pad of my forefinger over the red ribbon I'd taken from her last night. Raising it to my face, I inhaled her scent, my lids growing heavy.

  I stuffed the ribbon into my pocket right before Maman shuffled out from her room. She looked exhausted, and she'd lost more weight. Her threadbare robe swallowed her. Goan to get her to eat more.

  She took one look at my face and said, "You met a fille you like." Her gray eyes livened up, until she reminded me of the Helene Deveaux of old. When Maman was like this, I could more clearly remember the woman who'd read me Robinson Crusoe every night until I'd memorized the lines and would say them with her.