The Taking
Becky Johnson
KDP
Copyright © 2018 by Becky Johnson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com
The Taking / Becky Johnson. – 1st ed.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not be possible without the incredible efforts and support of my family and friends. Without you, this would not have come together. Also, a very special thanks to my editor Leslie Stuart who always polices my commas. As always, any remaining errors are my own
To the truth tellers, the whistleblowers, the terrified and the fearless, the #metoo, and the survivors, your truth conquers fear.
If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.
ADOLF HITLER
I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.
―Nelson ManDela
The Beginning of the End
Last spring
11:35 p.m.
A loud squeal of wood scraping against wood broke the silence as the old, oak framed window protested movement. Angie Carter crouched under the window, inside the white Cape Cod, her head cocked to the side as she listened for any sign the noise had attracted attention. She held her breath for the creak of a floorboard or squeak of a door indicating someone else inside the small home was awake. The only noise she heard was the rustle of wind through the trees and the chirp of crickets. She let her breath out with a sigh; she was almost free.
Angie grabbed the backpack, stuffed with babysitting money, three changes of clothing, deodorant, makeup, and a bottle of water, sitting at her feet. With the strap grasped tight in her hand, she leaned out the open window and dropped the backpack with a soft thump to the ground outside. She froze again and listened desperately for a sign that the bag hitting the ground had alerted her parents. Nothing.
She slid back into her bedroom and took a last look at the twin bed with a pink ruffled comforter – the most colorful thing in the room and the source of many parental fights, the posters hanging on the walls, and the pictures shoved along the frame edges of her mirror. Angie thought she was ready to say goodbye, but the pictures caught her attention. She had planned to leave everything behind but gazing at the important moments she shared with her family and friends she was, for a second, hesitant. She peeked back out the window at her bag waiting on the ground outside. Everything she needed was inside it. She was ready. This was right.
She didn’t look back at the pictures. She slid out the window feet first and lowered herself to the ground. The early spring night was chilly, and Angie zipped her hooded sweatshirt up before sliding her backpack on and tightening the straps. She looked up at the night sky with its partial moon shining, illuminating the street. With one last look at the small house she had known her whole life she turned left and started down the road toward Main Street. She refused to look back. The rest of her life began today.
Heritage was set up in a large square with only one road going in and out, Main Street. Main Street ended on 1st street, with 17th street as the last crossroad before exiting Heritage.
The farther Angie walked from her childhood home, the happier, more excited she grew. This was the first day of the rest of her life. All she had to do was walk ten more miles on Main Street to Route 50 and then catch a ride east to New York City. She hadn’t really considered the finer details of her new life; she was too busy imagining the most significant aspect, herself on a red carpet. Caught in the fantasy as she walked the miles, Angie imagined herself taller, skinner, with longer, blonder hair dressed in a glamorous, ruby red, sparkling gown with a gorgeous man on her arm. She longed for colors: emerald, sapphire, ruby, jewel tones rich in pigment. No one in Heritage wore any color. It was all grey, black, navy, and white. Color drew attention and no one in Heritage wanted to draw any attention to themselves. Maybe that was the problem. Angie longed for attention. As she walked away from everything she knew, she imagined the flash of cameras and the rush of a crowd calling her name. But not her name now, not Angie. No, they would call her something special like Destiny or Flower.
As she walked, engrossed in her fantasy future, she didn’t notice that the wind no longer rustled the leaves in the trees above her or that the crickets hiding in the grass no longer chirped. She passed the school and the soccer field. This was it, the end of town. She paused for just a moment, drew a breath of courage, stepped over the boundary, and officially left town. She wanted to remember how it felt to leave Heritage. Someday she might be asked about just this moment in an interview, the moment everything changed.
The lone street light overhead flickered. Angie stopped and looked up. The light flashed again and went out. Her fantasies vanished with the flickering of the light. Cold fingers slid across her cheek. She jumped and turned, but there was nothing there.
It was quiet and still. Too quiet and too still. The night air didn’t move, and each breath felt sticky and thick. Her cheek tingled, frozen and stiff where she swore a hand had brushed against her. Another brush of cold against the back of her neck. She jumped and spun to face the dark, but the street stretched behind her, black and empty. Her blood pumped faster through her veins, fear freezing her from the inside out. Her feet felt locked to the ground, too heavy to move. Her breath panted in and out, but she couldn’t draw any air. There was something there, something in the darkness watching her. She could feel its eyes on her like a touch. The streetlights flickered again, casting a circle of dim light. Beyond, in the shadows, she saw a figure.
Less than fifty feet away it watched her; dark, cloaked, and tall. A hood covered its head, and the dark opening yawned cavernous and deep with no hint of features to give a clue to its identity. The black cloak that fell around it was both heavy and finite and hazy like smoke. The figure shimmered, fazed, disappeared, and then reappeared closer. Her brain screamed. Move! Her feet didn’t obey the command. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t a new moon. They weren’t supposed to be here. She should be safe tonight.
The ground pulled at her like mud, sucking her down. The more Angie tried to move the less mobility she had. She opened her mouth and tried to suck in air as the figure disappeared and reappeared again a few feet away. Her heart pounded loud and fast, the only sound she could hear in the heavy silence. The figure was right in front of her. As the hand reached for her shoulder, the black abyss inside its hood pulled her in until she was lost.
The New Moon
October 16
5:12 pm
The sun washed the sky in vibrant shades of pink and orange as it dipped down to the horizon. The air was crisp and chilly, filled with the scents of fall – leaves, and apples, and dirt. It was a beautiful evening.
Sarah Lindsey didn’t notice.
She didn’t notice the air or the scents, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the sun creeping toward the horizon. She was late. Too late.
Sarah tucked her long brown hair behind her ears before folding her arms around her thin torso, her battered copy of The Hobbit tucked close against her chest and picked up her pace. Her brown eyes in a long face dotted with freckles darted from side to side. She was technically still walking, but it was close to running.
As Sarah rushed down Fourth Street cars pulled into driveways, front doors closed and locked, and shutters pulled shut. Every white Cape Cod looked the same as the next. Porch lights off. No plants or decorations to draw attention to one house or the next. Sometimes Sarah wondered how people were able to tell their home from their neighbors, but then that was the point. No individuality. Nothing to attract any interest.
Sarah’s feet slapped against the pavement as she moved just that little bit faster. She passed the houses of people she knew, people she had known her whole life, but no one waved or called out to her as she passed. No one took the time.
The crisp October air cut through her gray sweater and navy jeans and slid along her skin. The brisk cold that only came in those fall days just before winter. A cold that was heavy with promise.
Brown leaves and barren branches that had shed their yellow and red leaves rattled in the wind their stark silhouette stuck up into the fading light like black skeletons. Ominous and threatening. With people all inside and doors shut the only noise was the pounding of Sarah’s heart and the rattle of dry, dead leaves scuttling along on the sidewalk.
As Sarah rushed down the walkway, the thud of her heartbeat and the rattle of leaves merged into one long continuous pattern.
Scrape – rustle – scrape. Rustle – rustle - swish.
In Sarah’s mind, the innocent sound morphed and changed. Instead of leaves rustling on the ground, it became a warning. Instead of the reassuring sound of her own heartbeat, the thump grew into a message that fed her deepest fear.
Scrape – rustle – scrape. Run along. Rustle – rustle – swish. No more time.
The words chased her as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Darkness fell quickly. Shadows stretched and moved taking over the light an inch at a time. One moment the world was painted in pinks and oranges, the next, the dark took over.
Sarah was cold. Colder than the breeze that cut through her clothes. This cold came with the darkness seeping into her bones like the shadows that slipped up the sidewalk. The distance remaining to her home stretched endless in front of her. She was surrounded by houses that were all the same while the dark closed in. Logically she knew she was mere steps from home, but the rapid pulse of her heart told a different story. It spoke of cold, illogical, fear.
Sarah rounded the corner to see her family’s simple Cape Cod up ahead. The same as every other house she passed, with one exception. It was the only house with a porch light still on. A beacon that drew her forward with the promise of safety.
She stumbled up the steps and through the front door, slamming it shut behind her. With the door at her back and the dim but welcoming light of the living room calling to her, the irrational fear started to fade, and foolishness took over.
Sarah laughed at herself. Now safe inside the warmth of her home the cold terror that gripped her when facing the dark made her feel foolish. If she lived anywhere else, her terror would be illogical, but here in Heritage, especially right now, fear was smart.
Sarah pushed away from the front door and flipped the porch light off. Now her home looked the same as every other house on the block. All she needed to do was wait out the night, safe inside, and she would be fine.
Off the entryway, the living room and den stretched to the right, while the dining room and kitchen stretched to the left. The living room boasted a flowered sofa and two brown armchairs with an ancient television topped with rabbit ear antennas. A stairway off the living room led to three small bedrooms and a tiny green bathroom upstairs.
Sarah headed toward the kitchen with its old brown cabinets and worn Formica countertops. On the counter covered in foil, her dinner waited for her. She peeked, peanut butter and jelly, just as she suspected. Her Dad tried. He wanted to take care of her, and she knew he cared, but he just didn’t know how to relate to her. They barely talked and when they did it was stilted and awkward. Ever since the death of her Mother years ago, her Father was lost. When she got her period for the first time his explanation was almost incomprehensible. Next to the plate of her dinner was a folded note with her name on the top. It was the most common way she and her father communicated now. Notes.
Right now, Sarah knew her Dad was at the Town Hall meeting with the other town leaders. No one knew exactly what happened in those meetings except for those who attended, but every time the Takers came the leaders met, and every time the Takers came someone went outside. She shivered as a chill slid up her spine at the thought.
As secret as the Town Hall Meetings were Sarah knew they had something to do with The Taking and who exactly vanished. The town leaders knew more about what exactly was going on than they disclosed.
Sarah bit into her sandwich. Strawberry jelly and crunchy peanut butter. Her favorite. She chewed as she walked around the counter to fill a glass with water. While she sipped she contemplated the note, it probably said the usual: ‘be safe. I’ll see you later.’ If her Dad really wanted his daughter to be safe, he would be here with her. She almost didn’t open the note.
She tried to finish her sandwich, pretending it was a regular night and not one of those nights.
But despite her best attempts to distract herself, the note mocked her. A little white square of paper, but it seemed to call to her.
If she never read it, then she wouldn’t have to be disappointed.
Sarah focused on her sandwich, resolute. She planned to eat her dinner and curl up in her room with her book. With any luck, the night would pass without incident. She certainly wasn’t going to sleep.
The note beckoned her. What if this time it said something different? With a sigh, Sarah slapped the last bites of her sandwich down and rounded the counter reaching for the square of paper.
There was no introduction. No dear, or sweetie, or love. Just two lines.
Henry will be staying with you tonight.
Be safe.
Henry. She looked around. “Henry?”
Nothing. Sarah’s heart raced. “Henry?”
She ran out of the kitchen and through the downstairs. With each step, her heart thudded harder, and her hands shook as panic threatened. He wasn’t here.
“Henry?” She hurried upstairs, desperate to find him, hoping he was there.
Her bedroom, her father’s bedroom, the guest room. Nothing. He wasn’t there.
Sarah jogged back down the steps. Her gaze swung from side to side taking in the small living room, dining room, and kitchen. Henry wasn’t here.
Almost against her will Sarah’s gaze slid to the front door and the darkness beyond it. A chill set in her soul. Henry wasn't safe inside with her. He was out there.
5:12 p.m.
Henry Frederick Watson was done. Done with this town. Done with his uncle. Done. As far as he was concerned Heritage was the stupidest, slowest, worst city in the world. He missed Pittsburg. He missed his friends. He missed pizza and bagels and comic books. He missed his parents.
But he didn’t like to think about that last one too much.
Heritage was stupid. All of those ghost stories. And the kids in school actually believed them. Ridiculous. Henry scoffed as he stuffed his favorite comic books into his backpack. A couple of cans of soda, an apple, and some granola bars fought for space with a spare pair of jeans and a t-shirt. His Batman underwear was tucked down at the bottom. He felt a little stupid and embarrassed about having a pair of underwear with the bat symbol on the front. He was eleven years old. He wasn’t a baby. But deep down inside in a place he wouldn’t admit having, the bat symbol made him feel a little bit like a superhero.
He zipped up his dark gray sweatshirt over his Spiderman t-shirt and pulled his backpack on over his slender shoulders. He pulled a ball cap over his light brown hair and set his narrow face in a determined expression.
Henry was leaving. He was going back to Pittsburg, back to the real world. Tonight. Uncle
Paul was out for the night and wouldn’t appear until sunrise, so Henry figured it would be a while before he was missed.
He thought for a moment about Sarah and wondered if she would look for him. He was supposed to be on his way across the backyards and to Sarah’s house. The houses in Heritage backed up to each other so that the backyards met. Very few people had fences so most of the time people just cut through a yard to get to their neighbors.
Sarah was one of the few people he liked in Heritage. One of the few people he might miss, but this was his chance to be free. His opportunity to get out of this stupid town with its stupid people and his stupid uncle. This was his chance to return home to his friends and his school and everything that made sense. Maybe a part of him even thought that if he could get home, he wouldn’t miss his parents so much.
Henry stood at the back door and looked into the tiny kitchen with its small round table. A table he’d shared with his uncle for the last ten months. He thought of his bedroom upstairs with its white paint and the twin bed with the navy comforter. There wasn’t anything special about the room. There wasn’t anything special about his uncle. It surprised him a little bit then when he felt a twinge, a moment of hesitation. A moment where he wondered if he was doing the right thing.
Henry shook off the doubt. He couldn’t stay here anymore. This town was pathetic. His uncle was pathetic. He was done.
Henry stepped outside and shut the door to the white Cape Cod behind him. He looked down the street at all the other plain white houses. This was exactly why he was leaving. This town was so boring. All the other kids laughed at him. None of them liked comic books or sports teams. They played sports in school, but when he tried to talk to them about football, they didn’t even know any of the teams. But then, how could they? This stupid, backward town didn’t even get cable.
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