by Sean Platt
“Excuse me,” I say, “do you carry organic grapes?”
The guy looks over to where I’d been looking, then says, “What kind you looking for?”
I’m not sure. Jinx didn’t specify, and I’m not getting any grape-related memories from Bo.
“Red?”
“Okay, lemme check the back,” the guy says as he leaves the cart next to the double doors, then returns to the stock room.
I watch as a young couple pushes their cart into the produce section. They stick out because they’re both wearing tight workout clothes that accentuate bodies built through sweat and great genes. They’re arguing about something, but I’m too far away to hear. The guy, wearing a baseball cap to seemingly hide thinning hair, is bitching about something, his hands moving frantically as he tries to understand why the woman is being so unreasonable. “It’s not for you to decide,” the woman says, not even looking at him, her attention on her phone. I wonder if she’s doing that to annoy him further. If so, it’s working.
He looks like he’s on the verge of violence, though maybe not, as he’s doing a pretty good job of keeping his voice down. Usually, people prone to violent outbursts in public aren’t all that concerned about lowering their voice.
Suddenly, another sound has my attention, though — static.
And a woman’s voice saying something inaudible.
I look around, trying to see where the sound might be coming from.
But then I realize it’s just like that broadcast I heard in the parking lot just before I first saw the assassin.
I look around for any sign of the assassin, not that I’d know what body he or she will show up in this time.
Is that why I’m here? To prevent another murder, or perhaps screw up something again?
The broadcast gets a bit louder as if I’m getting closer to the source of the signal.
“Wearing blue jeans and a gray shirt. No weapon.”
I look around for someone wearing blue jeans and a gray shirt.
I’m the only one.
Shit. Am I a target?
There are only three other people in the produce section: the arguing couple and an old lady who is hunched over the melon section testing each and every one, it seems, to find the perfect fruit.
Suddenly, another person steps into the produce section, a Latin girl in her twenties, with bright pink cotton candy-colored hair, wearing shades, blue jeans, and a sky blue shirt.
She’s making a bee line right at me.
Her hand is in her purse.
Oh, shit.
I try not to panic. Try to tell myself she’s just looking for squash or something, but no, she is passing all the fruit and veggies, heading toward the rear of the store where I’m standing.
I don’t know what to do.
I look around for something I can use as a weapon, but come up empty. I doubt even a ninja could put a box of bananas to use in self-defense.
Even though I’m in someone else’s body, and I don’t think I can be harmed even if my host is killed, the fight-or-flight response is always there.
And right now it’s telling me to run away — fast.
She’s twenty feet away.
I want to run, but I’m frozen in place.
I can’t understand why my host’s body is refusing to cooperate with my instruction to get the hell out of here.
Pink Hair reaches me, removes her glasses.
I see the flash of blue light in her eyes, just barely there, and then gone.
“You’ve got to get out of here,” she says, keeping her voice low.
“Why?” I ask, relieved she doesn’t seem like she’s going to kill me, but anxious to know why she’s here, and why she’s telling me to flee.
“They’re here.”
“Who?”
“The Collectors.”
“Who are The Collectors?”
“No time to explain, but you need to go, Ella, or they will eat your soul.”
She knows my name. Is this the assassin from before? Or … another one?
“Eat my soul? What? How?” I say, trying to pull reason from her words.
The confirmation that I, the person jumping between hosts, can actually die sends a chill to my core.
Suddenly, a loud clash, someone dropping something.
I turn to see the blonde fitness freak standing over her phone lying broken on the ground.
She’s staring at it blankly as if struggling to figure out how it got there.
As I try to figure out whether or not her boyfriend snapped and knocked the phone from her, another realization dawns on me.
She’s no longer looking at the phone.
She’s looking at me.
As is her boyfriend.
Their faces suddenly flicker. For a moment, it’s their faces. But then, for just a second, I see something else — almost a blank face, as if the details of their faces were sanded down.
Then their faces are normal again — except the vacant stares.
What the hell is happening?
They begin walking toward us, vacant stares marred only by the slightest flash of white light in their eyes.
“Go!” Pink Hair yells, pulling out a gun and firing at the male fitness freak.
Two shots hit him, but he keeps coming.
I turn to run along the rear aisle along the back of the store, then stop dead in my tracks when I see two more people with flickering faces — a stock man in a blue apron and an old black man clutching a cane, blocking my escape. They have the same vacant look in their eyes — almost like marionettes being controlled by someone, or something.
The stock man grabs me before I can react.
I kick and thrash, trying to break free, but his grip is like a vice.
As he holds me, the old man approaches, his mouth open impossibly wide, as if his jaw were unhinged.
Behind me, I hear Pink Hair shooting: one, two, three shots.
Are there more Collectors, or is she just shooting the same ones and not doing any damage?
Suddenly, a terrible shrieking sound screams from the old man’s gaping maw as he comes closer.
I can’t move. The stock man’s grip is almost supernaturally strong.
But there’s something else. I find myself struggling to move at all, transfixed, staring into the old man’s wide open mouth.
I can feel a part of myself being sucked out of my host and toward the old man’s mouth — as if it were some horrible soul-sucking vacuum.
And in a sickening instant, I realize that Pink Hair was being literal when she said that The Collectors were here to eat my soul.
I cry out, straining to turn my gaze away from the old man Collector and his wide-open mouth and its terrible shriek that sounds like the end of the universe.
Pink Hair turns, sees the situation I’m in.
“Help!” I scream.
She runs toward us.
But instead of shooting the Collectors, she brings the gun to my head, “Sorry, this is the only way.”
She pulls the trigger.
**
I wake, in another body.
Safe.
But for how long?
THE END
THE SERIES CONTINUES IN
THE COLLECTORS: BOOK THREE OF THE KARMA POLICE SERIES
COMING NEXT MONTH TO AMAZON
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Sean Platt is co-founder of the Collective Inkwell and Realm & Sands imprints, children’s author under the pen name “Guy Incognito,” speaker, and author, with breakout indie hits such as Yesterday’s Gone, WhiteSpace, The Beam, and Unicorn Western, as well as traditionally published titles such as Z 2134 and Monstrous, published by 47North.
Sean is one-third of The Self Publishing and Better Off Undead Podcasts with co-hosts Johnny B. Truant and David Wright. He currently lives in Austin, Texas with his wife, daughter, and son.
Follow Sean on Twitter: http://twitter.com/seanplatt
* * * *
&n
bsp; David W. Wright is the co-author of the Yesterday’s Gone, WhiteSpace, ForNevermore, Available Darkness, Z 2134, and Monstrous series as well as the Dark Crossings collections of short stories. He’s also a cartoonist.
He talks about creativity and his attempt to lose weight on The Walking Dave podcast twice a week.
David lives on the east coast with his wife, his 8-year old son, and just the right amount of paranoia.
He writes about Collective Inkwell stuff at:
http://CollectiveInkwell.com
He blogs about himself, creativity, pop culture, and other stuff at:
http://DavidwWright.com
Connect with David at:
[email protected]
http://twitter.com/thedavidwwright
http://facebook.com/CollectiveInkwellPublishing
* * * *
::OUR OTHER BOOKS::
//SERIES//
Yesterday’s Gone: Seasons One - Six
Karma Police
WhiteSpace: Seasons One & Two
(Season Three coming soon)
ForNevermore: Season One
(Season Two coming soon)
Available Darkness: Season One & Two
(Season Three Coming Soon)
Z 2134 - Z 2136
Monstrous
//STANDALONE BOOKS//
12
Crash
Threshold
::OUR SHORT STORIES::
Dark Crossings: The Collection
Dark Crossings Double Feature: Rites of Passage
Visit our website to find all these books, and more!
Visit www.CollectiveInkwell.com/our-books
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THANK YOU FOR READING!
Sean Platt & David W. Wright