Women of the Grey- The Complete Trilogy

by Carol James Marshall

  Suddenly, Teresa remembered she was supposed to be crying because that’s what a human woman would do. Her lover left, she should mourn. Teresa should sob, because, isn’t that the way it’s done? She was about to crumble into herself, forget everything, and fall apart. The Mothers were coming; she could almost smell the orange-scented air. Then, she heard someone clear their throat. Eleanor stood tapping her foot on the ground while her head was tilted to an impossible angle. Eleanor looked like an angry sitcom mom. “Sweetie babe…I tried to stall…give you some time…but damn it…oh damn it…it’s time to go.”

  Teresa stayed seated. She wasn’t going to go so easily. She wasn’t going to just put her hands up and walk on over. She did no wrong. She tried. She wanted badly to stand her ground, but she knew that the older Mothers—the Mothers who had several missions—had jobs like Eleanor’s and weren’t sweet or kind. That was all show. It was all saccharine. If Teresa fought, she’d lose; plus there was no telling if there were other Mothers lingering where she didn’t have eyes on them yet.

  “I’m not going to fight you. I think I’ll lose…I think you have ways of making me do as you say, and I haven’t been trained for that…but…” With the “but” Eleanor lifted an eyebrow and sat down, stretched her legs and waved her hands at Teresa to go on. “But, your older. You’ve done more missions…I simply want to have a chat. An honest chat where I ask questions and you answer. Then, I will go.” Teresa looked earnestly at Eleanor. She wanted her to understand that what she needed was a bit of time, just a small blink of it, to understand their world better before tossing herself off the bridge.

  Eleanor nodded at Teresa. “Come along, Sugar. That kind of talk requires a walk. A long walk…” Eleanor pointed to the walls, windows, and then pointed to her ear, frowning. She smiled at Teresa then, and motioned for her to get up. “and milkshakes! I really miss milkshakes.”

  Israel

  Israel’s roommates noticed that he was behaving oddly. A man of coffee, laughs, and sports was now shut in his room, keeping secrets, and spending countless hours on his laptop. One roommate saw him hunched over his laptop scribbling notes, grunting in response to whatever was asked of him. This was not his friend; this was not his Bro.

  Israel heard the whispers about him in the hall; his roommates wondering if he was doing drugs. Why would a guy so open with his life suddenly be hidden, trapped in his privacy? All the whispers and concern did not matter to him though. He was plotting his plan for when they came for him. Israel was consumed by the ‘when they came’. There was no doubt in his mind that it would happen, and they would not catch him unprepared.

  He knew his roommates wouldn’t understand the war he was preparing for. They were uninformed and ignorant to the reality that he stood in. Let them think I’m crazy. Let them think I’m done. They did not stand where he stood. The nights once filled with friendship and ladies, were now hoarded by countless hours of graphs and charts. He wrote down every possible way that he could be sure he would be taken, and it always came back to one solution. Kill Lisa.

  Without Lisa, they would not find him—or they would have a hard time finding him. He was sure of it. No matter how he thought about it, it all came back to killing Lisa. Israel would kill Lisa and leave town, erasing any trace of himself. His coffee shop, his family, he would discard it all because the idea about being trapped in the cold was terrifying enough that he would do anything, anything to avoid it.

  In his bedroom, with the glow of the laptop keeping him awake, Israel was determined that it would be him or it would be her. It was simple really, when you did the math—kill Lisa equals be safe. Now, all that was left were the details of the task. The task of resolving to commit murder was simple; it was nothing but a proclamation. Now came the real dirt—the details of doing the deed. It had to be soon, very soon. Before Lisa had time to gather any more intel on him. If she had been reporting to her people, Israel was sure it would only be a matter of time, and the minutes where moving like seconds.

  He looked at the time on his laptop. Get up, get going, seemed the only answer. Walking through his living room while his roommates contently played video games, they gave him a ‘hey, you came out’ grin. Israel went for a walk. He was going to gather his own intel.

  James

  James was knelt in prayer. He prayed every prayer he could remember. He prayed for Teresa. He prayed for his soul. He prayed to the point of ecstasy, where the lines between himself and the prayer were blurred. He was euphoric and sensualized in a rapture so fierce he made himself hard—and wasn’t ashamed of it.

  He was so very sure of his actions. This was where he was meant to be. The Lord had shown him Teresa’s true face for a reason. The reason was to propel him to his true calling, a calling to faith, a calling to spreading the word of faith. He needed that fear of seeing a true demon wrapped around him to understand his purpose.

  At the back of the church, James’ father watched his son. He’d been timing him, and James had been praying for an hour. On his knees for an hour, and it didn’t look like he was going to stop any time soon. The priest noticed James’ father, and knowing who he was, sat with him, doing his best to seem concerned while not taking his eyes off James.

  “The boy seems troubled…” the priest watched James’ father’s face. He wasn’t looking for answers, just for acknowledgement.

  “That boy of mine is troubled, but not how you think Father.” James’ father popped his knuckles. “He’s always been weak, not a real man’s man type of guy. But now, something has got him running scared…not ‘coward’ scared, but ‘seen the devil himself’ scared.”

  The priest sighed a bit and looked at the cross at the front of the church. “You must trust in the Lord. He brought James to us for a reason.” Neither man believed what the priest had said, but both remained quiet. James’ father remained quiet out of respect for his wife’s beliefs—this being the church she attended. The priest stayed quiet because, for years now, he saw no evidence of the Lord, but knew not what else to do with himself. Being elderly now, he mostly repeated what sounded right and anxiously awaited the day he could step away from this church and never look back.

  Lisa

  Feeling like she was in a movie, Lisa headed to her bedroom to find a pair of shoes. She was going to take a night walk, and she was going to try terror. Figuring that, in this story, she was the evil villain—not the hero, not the best friend, but the villain.

  She fantasized about putting on that villain’s coat, trying it on for size. She would no longer be the loser; she’d be the one feared. I will be the one feared, she said to herself as she started walking down the hall. Suddenly, she noticed it. Lisa smelled oranges. Farther down the hallway, it was over powering. A citrus smell so strong it almost spit at her. Her bedroom smelled of citrus, but not fresh—like miles of orange trees would smell like—more like industrial cleaner. It was a chemical citrus, un-natural, not of this earth—just like The Grey.

  Sighing, Lisa noticed that someone had made her bed and placed a note on it. The smell came from the note. Looking around the room before picking up the note, she was truly annoyed that they made her bed. It was stupid that they felt the need to tidy up, always tidy, always clean. It felt even more stupid that it annoyed her so much. The worst part was that Lisa was sure they didn’t just make the bed; they probably put some clean sheets on it that were scented as well.

  The whole scene was a stupid, manipulative power play. The Mothers couldn’t allow to Lisa to be Lisa. They couldn’t let go of small power plays even when she was supposedly on her own in a mission. We are all the same and none different, and never really alone. Lisa flicked the note with her fingers, watching it catch air, then land softly in the exact same spot. The micro-managing of the Mothers killed Lisa’s groove. She was ready to play the villain, be the villain, and now these Mothers, with their subtle skills, killed it for her before it even started.

  Sitting on her bedroom floor, Lisa looked at he
r knees and toes. “So human-like am I.” She said to the note, “But, not really.” She was at a standoff with the note. The note stood its ground and Lisa wouldn’t budge either. Wishing she could punch the note, start a fight with it, Lisa wanted the note to punch back, push her, give her a sore jaw.

  No matter her inclinations, Lisa knew that it was just paper with more words on it, a jumble of words thrashed together by Superior Mother to get her to do her bidding. To get her to behave. A passive-aggressive tap from Superior Mother, scented orange and put on paper. Lisa wanted to send the note back BREAK THE GREY scribbled in marker and have it scented of cooked beast. She knew the consequence of such defiance. She had the wash of The White and the binding of The Black seared into her thoughts to remind her of what happens when someone says ‘no’ to Superior Mother.

  Still sitting on her bedroom floor, inhaling the orange scented power play, Lisa untangled her hair with her fingers—doing her best to seem uninterested in whatever the note had to say. She wouldn’t do whatever it said to do. She was sure of it. Positive of it. If she read it—because she must read it and would read it—at least that was what she told herself she’d do. Whatever message was there was merely for suggestion. Lisa had no boss, wouldn’t do the bidding. If she read it, she wouldn’t follow what it said. She just wouldn’t, couldn’t, she won’t damn it!

  At this point in the standoff, Lisa completely forgot her plan to be the villain and remembered Craig. She remembered his arms, his voice, and the twisted inside of him. His thoughts, his emotions, were tied in knots and not worth bothering with. But, Craig did introduce Lisa to steak and took her to the ocean. What would Craig do with this note? She wished he was there with her. She would casually hand it to him, then step back watch how he responded to the power play. Would he read it and follow orders, pretending to be a good little soldier? Or, would he burn it, like his home?

  Eyes on the carpet, Lisa tried her best to channel Craig, wishing she could call him up and ask him, but she already knew the answer. Craig was one of those humans that would rather watch the world burn. The answer for Craig would always be to destroy it or burn it down. There was no point in calling him even if she could because she knew the answer. Craig wasn’t the villain in the stories; the villain planned and schemed his way to what he or she desired. Craig was always chaos in his story. He was anarchy. When all else failed him, destruction was the key to it all. Getting up and grabbing the note, Lisa took it to the kitchen, lit it on fire, and let it burn. It popped and cracked letting out a cool looking orange glow that smelled of forest fire.

  Now, Lisa thought, now, I can take that walk.

  Israel

  Lisa left her apartment and Israel followed. He wouldn’t kill her tonight; well, he didn’t think he would. He wanted to track her movements. Better to know your enemy. Better to be prepared. He couldn’t let go of the ‘better’ idea. Every thought he had, every plan of murder and escape, he told himself there was one better. But one better was never done. There was always a way to make it better. The obsessive ‘better’ was making things move slowly for Israel, but that wasn’t his issue. He knew that if he could just achieve the ‘better’, then it would be flawless and done.

  ‘Done’ was another idea that kept circling around his brain. If he could make it better, and better still, then eventually he’d get it done. Done meant laughing again. Done meant sleeping again and wondering out loud about pretty girls again, not aliens, not late night panic attacks where his chest filled with ice and the thoughts of ice swallowed him.

  Tonight, Israel was in step with Lisa; if she moved, he moved. If she stepped right, he’d step right. He wanted to be her shadow and know where she went at night. Was there a dark corner where he’d be able to grab her? Was there a place he could sneak behind and kick her down? All this in hopes of achieving the better plan.

  Lisa seemed frail and easy to pound against the ground. Israel was athletic, in shape; he’d be able to out muscle her. He was sure of it. Positive of it. When Israel came along, on her next night walk, he could grab her. He wouldn’t tell himself that a better one would come. He’d get this done—done for the sake of his sanity.

  Step in step with Lisa, Israel wrote down every leaf, every corner, every time she stopped. He believed his notes needed to be meticulous and were vital to it all. Suddenly, Lisa stopped dead in her tracks to stare at a corner bar. She watched it intently, studying it like an architecture student. It was then that Israel achieved, what he believed, was one of the best ideas. This one was better. This one would lead him to done.

  He would survive this, he would win, and then he would help others. There had to be others. Together, they would find these aliens and kill them. Israel felt a light shine on him from the heavens. He could be solution. Lisa went into the bar and Israel got comfortable in a dark corner with a clear view from the parking lot. All while fiercely scribbling notes. These notes will help others, he told himself. These notes were the future of the movement he was inciting.

  In the bar, Lisa yawned and ordered a beer. Several blocks away, Allison was busy going through Lisa’s apartment. In another town, Teresa stood in line to order milkshakes while Eleanor hid in wait. Far away from them all was Abigail, knowing that any second her daughter would be born, and her guy wouldn’t allow Sunny to live. The neighbor watched it all in silent prayer—prayer for the girl and for herself, but not for the child or Jacob. Jacob sat at his parent’s kitchen table, bible in one hand and cup of coffee in the other.

  What he was doing wasn’t enough. He’d given himself to the church, yes but that wasn’t enough. He had to do more. Sipping his coffee, Jacob nodded to cup, to his bible, and to all those in spirit that watched him. Jacob would study demonology. He would fight them. He would fight them for Teresa, who did not choose her burden; she was cursed with it. Teresa was the victim plagued by what she was. Jacob nodded again, yes, I will fight them for her, because of her…

  The bar bored Lisa. The men in it were tired with jokes. Why were the men on TV interesting, but these men in this bar where mundane at very best. She felt insulted; not one of these mundane men had bothered to hit on her. Not one bought her a drink. They only cracked jokes to each other from different sides of the bar while occasionally saying, “Ain’t I right, sweetheart” to her. Lisa wanted to show them what a sweetheart she was.

  Getting up and walking out felt like a chore, but once she was up the weight of the men’s lame jokes, along with the affront of being called sweetheart, vanished. Lisa remembered that she had a mission to terrorize. She was chasing her high.

  That’s when she saw him—a young boy maybe sixteen skinny, ugly, and looking around to see what he could do to who. She walked up to him and smiled, hoping that her smile seemed sweet, not needy, not asking.

  “Got any?” Lisa looked at the boy. She didn’t know what he would have, but she had heard a character say it on TV and went with it. The boy motioned for Lisa to come around the corner with him, away from the street, away from the light. She walked to the hidden spot with him; it was a dirty little secret behind the bar. Dumpsters and trash cans hid the spot, making it a place for no eyes to see.

  In a blink, this boy turned man. He grabbed Lisa, shoving her down against the filth of the alley. The boy-man was sloppy, trying desperately to hold Lisa down, when there was no need; she wasn’t fighting it. She was interested, even slightly amused, watching him fumble to undo his pants while pawing at her shorts. Not bothering to fight, instead Lisa waited for the moment, hoping that when it came she could call upon her newfound gift to stop him and have a quick study of her ability. He fidgeted with shaky hands to undo his belt, which without question, made Lisa laugh. What an ass.

  The laughing stopped the boy-man. He looked at her, then leaned his hand back to smack her, but Lisa had learned what it was to take a hit in The Grey and wasn’t going to bow for this. She had been smacked enough by Mothers who claimed it was part of training. It was an excuse for violence and ev
eryone knew it. Lisa took that milli-moment, when he raised his hand, to grab the boy’s face.

  The cold came flowing like shower water from her. She thought it and it came. It poured from her like a fluorescent cascade of ice. Small microscopic ice pushed its way into his skin. The boy tried to scream, but Lisa held tight, pushing his cheeks together, wanting and hoping the cold would shatter his teeth. He tried to get loose, but the cold stuck him to her palms. He wanted out of this tug-of-war, but Lisa wouldn’t allow it.

  She started to feel where the ice was headed; it was now passed his skin, passed his muscle, and headed to his jaw bone. The ice was an extension of her body. It was her; she controlled it, felt what it felt, and knew that the ice shared her thoughts. Soon, the cold would push its way down and slice up his lungs.

  “Trickle, trickle…feel the tickle…” Lisa smiled at him. She could kill him and she might, but there it was again, that nag of a feeling. There was something more there. She was missing something from him to reach that feral high. She felt his panic and ignored his pain. The pureness of the boy’s panic was an elixir that filled her tongue and had her swooning. When his eyes went white, Lisa let go. She let go because she was full. It was like pushing a dinner plate away. Lisa was full and didn’t need any more for now. The boy-man crumbled, reaching for some breath that she wasn’t sure he’d ever reach again.