by SF Benson
I didn’t understand what she meant by we. Going solo was smarter than relying on intoxicated help. I jumped to my feet and headed for the elevator. Tru needed me. Hell, I needed her.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a gravelly, masculine voice from behind me.
I spun around and found the male version of Gliese—same red hair and blue-green eyes—with a scruffy beard. He wore a moth-eaten black sweater, ripped jeans, and scuffed up black boots.
“You’re not me.”
“No, but I’m smart enough to listen to my sister. It’s not nice to cross her.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Griffin.”
“Zared.” I cautiously shook his hand. “So, what is she going to do to me? Stare at me until I turn into a block of ice?”
Griffin, his lips curling at my comment, leaned towards me. “No. She’ll just tell me and, I’m not a pleasant person to cross.”
He made direct eye contact. I’d bet any amount of money that at some point in his life Griffin had been military. Too damned cocky.
“Yeah. Right.”
“Have a seat. Time to talk.”
I returned to the sofa with Griffin. “What do we have to talk about?”
Griffin relaxed on a dark green leather recliner. “Gliese didn’t tell you about us?”
“No.”
“Long story, short. We’re both from the AR. Gliese and I help other survivors.”
“Survivors of what?”
“The New Order’s vaccine.”
I tilted my head to one side. He had my attention. “Go on.”
“Gliese received the vaccine during the first round of inoculations. The one’s right after the pandemic ended weren’t tested first. No one knew how bad the side effects would be. The formula was unstable, but the New Order didn’t care. They just pressed forward with their agenda. Gliese was sick for days. My stepdad and I weren’t sure how to help her. There was no precedent dictating treatment.”
“She doesn’t seem sick now.”
“It took about two weeks for her to recover. But she’s not the same.”
I leaned forward putting my elbows on my knees. “What did it do to her?”
“She doesn’t feel emotion.”
“Want to try a better story?” I jiggled my foot. What he said wasn’t fathomable. At least, I didn’t think so. After reading my father’s journals, however, I was inclined to believe almost anything. “There’s no way a vaccine left her that way.”
“The first batch of vaccines eliminated one of the New Order’s goals.”
“What goals?”
“Remember gender reassignments?”
At one point in our country, the requests for gender reassignments was as common as a cold. Plenty of people wanted to make the big switch.
“Well, before the inoculation, Gliese was in a committed relationship with a girl named Angela. My sister didn’t want a reassignment. She just wanted to be free to love whomever she wanted. None of that mattered after the vaccine. She lost interest in everyone, girls and guys. Angela couldn’t handle it and she walked.”
There’s no way my father’s research led to such a barbaric practice. A person’s gender was a private matter. How did controlling someone’s preferences affect my father or anyone for that matter? Reflecting on the man made my temperature rise. My father’s legacy was effed up.
“What about you?”
“Never vaccinated. I joined Riza and got an exemption.”
Nice to know my theory was correct. I’d guess he might be a specialist. “So, how do you help survivors?”
“We established an underground community here in Windsor. We provide food, shelter… If you’re trying to avoid the vaccine, we’ll give you whatever you need. We also help those who’ve been inoculated.”
“Wait. What happens with those inoculated?”
“Somehow the vaccine’s side effects are worse for Creatives. They act like they’re brain damaged. We help them get to a safe place. Find people who can care for them. The damage can last anywhere from weeks to months to years.”
All the more reason to find Tru. Fast. “How do you get past border patrol?”
“It’s been harder sneaking past them with the crackdown.”
“You’re talking about the runners?” Every night some poor fool attempted to cross the International Bridge to Canada. And, every night the New Detroit Police stopped them. Shot on sight. Going to Canada without permission was an act of treason.
“Yeah. The patrols have gotten tighter. So our efforts have been hampered.”
Gliese entered the room. “Hey Griffin, are you filling Zared in on what we do?”
“Yeah, sis.” Griffin sniffed the air. “Spaghetti again?”
“You don’t have to eat it.” She huffed and returned to the kitchen.
“Is there a problem with her cooking?” The pungent, savory scent of oregano filled the air. My stomach growled its approval.
“Yes. No. Not a serious problem except all the girl can cook is spaghetti. Her memory is random. She’s apt to forgetting how to do plenty of things. Boiling water and dumping crap in a pot is easy for her to remember. Fortunately, I cook. If I didn’t, I’d be in a pasta coma by now.”
Maybe Griffin overlooked the fact Gliese’s drug arsenal prevented her from doing much in the kitchen. A smile tugged at my lips. Cooking wasn’t one of my skills either. I wondered if Tru could cook.
“How can you help me?”
“You need help to get your girl back, and you can’t do it alone.”
“She’s not here?” I clenched my fists. “Where is she?”
“Possibly in a holding facility until they transport her.”
“Transport?”
“Piss off the AR and you’ll find yourself exiled. It’s a common practice, but the New Order won’t admit to it.”
My face tightened. The Riza grunt, spoon feeding me information like I was a toddler, pissed me off. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s a well-orchestrated operation by our illustrious leaders. First, there’s a public announcement about your death. If people think you’re dead, they stop looking for you. Then, they destroy all evidence you ever existed. Finally, you live the remainder of your days locked up in a facility praying for the torture to end.”
Damn. I took a deep breath. “Do you think that’s what happened to Tru?”
“Possibly. We’ll listen to news streams today. They have to report her death within twenty-four hours.”
“Why twenty-four hours?”
“After twenty-four hours a missing person claim can be filed. Once the report is released, we have to act. She’ll be in transit right after the announcement.”
“Where are they taking her?”
“Former military base in the Upper Peninsula turned exile prison.”
Not possible. The UP was a wasteland. No one lived up there but a few backcountry diehards. “How would you know?”
“I’m the only one to ever escape.”
Rescue: The Alliance Chronicles Book Two is coming summer 2016.
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First of all, I thank my family for having patience with me. My husband, J.R., encouraged and supported me through the journey. Along with my daughter, Brionna, they listened to my complaints and frustrations. Without them, none of this would have been possible.
My critique partner, Natasha, I thank you for helping my words sing! I’m so glad you sought me out at UtopYA Con. You’re more than a partner. You’re a good friend that I’m glad to have in my life.
Speaking of UtopYA Con (now, called Utopia Con) … I am so grateful to the tribe I cultivated through this event. I have met some wonderful women (and men) who have been inspirational and helped guide me on this journey: Casey L. Bond, Rachael Brownell, Jo Michaels, Bella Roccaforte, Susan Burdorf, Heather Hildenbrand. All of you have given me words of wisdom, which I cheris
h. Some of you even talked me off the ledge when I was ready to jump.
I thank my beta-readers. You gave me great feedback to re-direct parts of my novel.
A special thank you to my copy editor, Maria Pease, and my proofreader, Gaynor Smith.
I thank my cover designer/artist, Regina Wamba. She put up with a crazy author who had no real concept of a cover and created something beautiful. I am honored to say I’ve worked with her, and I look forward to our further collaboration.
I thank my formatting team, Cover Me Darling and Athena Interior Book Design.
Last, but certainly not least, I thank my parents. Mom and Dad instilled a love of reading before I knew what words were about. They provided me with the education needed to grow that love into a dream. Thanks for your support and undying love.
SF Benson resides in Georgia with her husband, a human daughter, and a couple of miniature fur kids (two female short-haired guinea pigs). At one time she wrangled a household which included three Samoyeds, saltwater fish, a hamster, and three guinea pigs. When she’s not busy playing Doctor Doolittle, she enjoys answering the question “what if” by writing mostly Dystopian/science fiction and paranormal stories for young adults and new adults. And if a spare moment happens, she morphs into a bookworm and devours a few books simultaneously.
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Dear Readers
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