Don't Look Back (Warders of Earth)

by S. E. GILCHRIST

  DON’T LOOK BACK

  Book 1 of Warders of Earth

  By

  S. E. GILCHRIST

  Copyright © 2015 S. E. Gilchrist

  All Rights Reserved

  Suzanne Hamilton

  ISBN: 978-0-9925266-2-7

  Dedication

  To my wonderful CP and friends, Erin Moira O’Hara, Cathleen Ross and Stacey Nash.

  For Kerstie, Kyle & Blake and their endless support to their mum.

  ~

  Warders of Earth

  (An apocalyptic, science fiction New Adult series)

  Almost twenty, Tara has no direction in her life. She longs for a trendy lifestyle, far from the responsibilities of her crazy parents and their preoccupation with apocalyptic predictions.

  But what happens when it all comes true?

  The hottest guy she’s ever seen blows into town, claiming he’s here to protect her. The tattoo on his nape reads: Warder of Earth.

  Alien seeder meteorites rain down bringing chaos and destruction.

  The town is overtaken by gun-toting, zealous soldiers and a mysterious virus spreads with terrifying and deadly results. Someone close to her, is leaking information to the enemy. She no longer knows who to trust.

  Fighting for her family and the world’s survival, Tara must accept the secret of her past; she was genetically bred for a specific purpose.

  But every victory comes at great cost.

  And heroes are ordinary people who in a heartbeat, choose to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  ~

  In the not too distant future.

  Chapter 1 – PREPARE

  I reckon hell couldn't get any hotter. Forty degrees in the shade and still rising and here I was stuck inside the Adults Literacy classroom enduring another day of torment. The air conditioner jammed in the window, rattled and wheezed, intermittently puffing hot, dusty air into my face. My nose tickled while I fisted my hands and stared so hard at the projected image on the whiteboard my eyes watered.

  Judging from the loud sucking noise coming from Phil Johnson, my lecturer, he was shifting those disgusting false teeth of his around his mouth.

  He raised a hand to smooth a few strands of greasy hair covering the bald patch on the top of his head. Beneath his arm-pits, sweat stained his puce-coloured business shirt.

  This guy had a serious hygiene problem.

  But at least I was out of smelling range.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught the Sudanese boy picking his nose then inspecting his finger, a look of utter boredom on his face.

  My stomach rolled. Eeuw.

  Another classmate, a turbaned man in his mid-thirties and who’d hit the shores twelve months ago, had his head on the desk and snored like a snuffling pig. I'd heard the shifts out at the local abattoirs were killers.

  The rest of the class didn't look any more enthusiastic and as a teacher, Phil was just as depressing. Unless I passed this exam I could be doomed to spend the rest of my life in this room. If I did pass then I'd be accepted into the local college and I wanted that land-care apprenticeship so bad, I could taste it.

  Talk about pressure.

  In a month's time, I'd be twenty and I had to find some direction in my life. There weren't a lot of options for me. I’d failed my Higher School Certificate about sixteen months ago, not that I’d ever thought I’d do otherwise, given my disability.

  I guess it could be worse.

  At least, I don’t see dead people.

  Phil finally clicked his teeth into place. “Well, Tara?”

  Think. It could be a trick. But if I'm wrong....

  A lone bead of sweat trickled between my breasts making me itch. My heart jolted and hiccupped like a deranged circus clown as desperation clawed its way up my throat. Please. Please. Please.

  Focussing so hard, pain sliced through my brain, I mumbled the first line of the first verse in the Australian National Anthem.

  “Excellent.” Phil beamed.

  Am I awesome or what? Although it wasn't too hard a guess. Phil had been humming the song while he set up the data projector.

  Placing one hand behind his back, Phil paced to the desk and pointed to another classmate, a thirty-something single-mother. She had an awesome tat of an eagle on the top of her shaved head. “Gloria, read the third line of the second paragraph.”

  “Huh? Who me? I don’t read this shit man,” drawled Gloria.

  I collapsed onto the hard, plastic chair. Whew. That was close. I slunk lower in my chair, breathing deep to try and steady my racing heart. But it didn't work.

  I had to look.

  I had to see if it was still there.

  With the attention deflected off me for a few minutes while Gloria and Phil entered into a feisty argument at the front of the classroom, I stared at the whiteboard.

  That’s it. I really am crazy.

  I squinted.

  I blinked.

  I rubbed my eyes.

  It did no good. Four paragraphs but to me, as usual, it was a bizarre jumble of letters and spaces that would take me like forever to decipher.

  Apart from a message that stood out in bold, double-sized font:

  GM#9 Prepare.

  Like huh? What was GM#9? Or maybe it didn't mean anything at all. Maybe it was my stupid brain playing its usual games.

  I rubbed a hand across my forehead that throbbed like I'd indulged in a two day drinking binge. Problem was, this wasn’t the first time I’d read something that couldn’t possibly exist.

  But I’d learned the hard way over the years to keep my mouth shut and my head down.

  “Very well, then,” snapped Phil, obviously giving up the battle with Gloria. He swung round to glare at the class. He stomped over to the data projector and changed the screen. His gaze swept the room and alighted on me.

  Seriously, why me?

  Do I have some kind of red target painted on my chest?

  “Tara, you will show your classmates the correct way to behave in a room of learning. Read the third line of the second paragraph.”

  There was no way it could be the National Anthem a second time round.

  What could I do?

  I straightened and focussed on the board. Another mad jumble of letters, numbers and spaces taken from some blog – a favourite trick of our teacher to test the extent of the classes’ reading skills which were pretty pitiful to say the least.

  Nothing made sense but at least there was no longer any weird message amongst the mess. Plucking my glasses from the case on the desk, I perched them on my nose. Playing for time. Nope. Didn’t do a thing. My mind raced over various possibilities.

  I could fall to the floor in a fit, yell fire, attempt another bluff in the certain knowledge I’d fail.

  Why did everything have to be so hard?

  Voices sounded from outside the corridor. The next moment the door opened and in trooped a bunch of people.

  Another reprieve.

  The district mayor, with two self-important PAs in pencil-tight skirts either side of him and, god forbid, three suits who looked like they’d come off the set of an old gangster movie. They sported shades darker than midnight and jerked their heads as if scanning every nook and cranny of the classroom.

  As if they suspected there was a terrorist in here masquerading as an English student.

  I sniggered then stopped as my gaze landed on the last incomer; Crystal Chambers, the mayor's pampered brat. The same Crystal who’d played every 'mean girl' trick possible on me, from the moment I'd arrived in this hick town. I was positive the term, snitch bitch, had been specially invented for this chick.

  Wow. This day could not get any worse.

&nb
sp; Dressed in a trendy linen skirt suit, model-perfect makeup and with not one hair out of place, she was such a wannabe.

  Leaning over my desk to get a better look, I sucked in a sharp breath as her unnaturally firm chest caught my eyes. OMG, Crystal's had a boob job!

  “Tara Ferguson! What are you doing here?” Crystal called out in that clear, carrying, high voice of hers making me slink lower in my seat.

  Cow. She knew full well what I was doing here, since she'd made several snide comments on my Facebook page three weeks ago when I'd posted my news.

  “Daddy, look it’s Tara; you remember, from high school.” Crystal struck a pose on her six-inch fire-engine red stilettos that I instantly lusted after and soothed a manicured hand down her short ice-blue skirt. From under her broom-sized false lashes, she snaked a look at me and cooed, “Still can’t read, Tara? Oh you poor thing.”

  The group of officials turned to look. Now the entire classroom had roused from their heat-induced stupor and stared at me too.

  If only I had a gun.

  Glaring at Crystal, I crossed my arms over my practically non-existent boobs.

  The next instant, my beeper went off. (And yeah, I know, so old tech but it was courtesy of my mother and seriously not worth the grief she'd direct at me if I dared move without it.)

  Yes! Thank you God. I was so outta there.

  With the speed of a bullet, I shot to my feet, shoved books, iPad and a water bottle into my back pack and hustled to the door. “Sorry, Phil. I have to go.”

  “Must we go through this every lesson, Tara?” bleated Phil, sucking loudly on his teeth. “Or is your mother determined to persecute me?”

  The mayor stuffed his hands in his pocket and puffed up his chest to an enormous size. Any minute now and a button would pop off his vest. Possibly blinding someone for life. “What exactly is going on here? This is an official visit. I have the media lined up in the cafeteria.”

  “Mr Mayor, your honour....” bleated Phil, an oily smile spreading over his face. He was such a brown nose.

  “Still at your mummy’s beck and call, Tara,” sniped Crystal.

  Shrugging the backpack over my shoulders I pushed past, sending Crystal teetering on those gorgeous heels of hers. “Still at your Daddy’s beck and call, Crystal?”

  “Oooh! Just you wait!” screeched Crystal slamming the door behind me and missing my heels by an inch.

  The classroom erupted into a muted roar of jeers, whistles and catcalls.

  Mr Johnson’s squeaky voice called the class to order. The thumping noises signified he pounded on his desk but as I passed down the corridor the sounds died until all I could hear was the slapping of my canvas shoes against the scuffed linoleum covered floor.

  I signed out and left the five-roomed building that passed as Wallaby Creek's technical learning centre and jogged to the bicycle rack. Another pain in the arse. Because I couldn’t interpret road signs, I was unable to apply for my license although I could drive a car as good as anyone. Plus I had the memory of an elephant and a pretty good sense of direction. Still, none of those skills counted when you fronted for a driving test.

  If you didn't tick all the boxes, you never fitted in.

  Sometimes, life totally sucks.

  I yanked my bike out of the rack and jumped on. Pointless to keep the thing chained. It was so old, if anyone was desperate enough to steal it, they were welcome to it.

  Pumping the pedals, I shot down the drive and onto the main road. It was a considerable ride to the other side of the small country town where I lived with my mother and younger brother. But not for much longer. Everything hinged on obtaining that apprenticeship. Soon I’d be living and working on a farm and only returning home for a weekend now and then.

  That was my dream.

  It didn't sound like much, but shit yeah, I wanted it bad. I only hoped it wouldn’t be forever out of my reach.

  The afternoon sun beat down on my head burning my scalp along the line where my hair parted. Sighing, I braked and rummaged through my backpack until I found my battered Akubra. The last thing I needed was a lecture on the dangers of skin cancer when I got home.

  Using my pent up frustration as fuel, I pedalled as if going for gold, weaving my way along the dusty streets. A few straggly gum trees raised their arms in mute supplication to the sky, begging for relief from the dry heat.

  I could feel their pain.

  The shade they cast over the gravel road was sparse. Sweat beaded my forehead and trickled uncomfortably down my spine. My cotton tee-shirt and cut-off jeans felt sticky against my warm skin.

  My knees wobbling like jelly I swerved onto the verge before bumping my way down a rutted path running along one side of our house.

  Finally.

  At the sight of a boy’s bicycle propped up against the old weatherboard and iron-roofed house with grills over every window, I gritted my teeth. Looked like my brother Dan had also been ‘summoned’ home.

  This has got to stop. The chances of the alarm being for a real emergency were about a billion in one. Angry thoughts swirled through my head, as I rode past the sagging door and into the shed where I left my bike. But boiling under my anger and embarrassment was genuine worry.

  Mum was getting worse.

  Somehow I had to talk her into seeking the help she needed.

  Trudging up the back steps, I yanked open the screen door and strode into the kitchen. I threw my backpack onto the old timber table and tossed my hat after it. The bag skidded across the surface, knocked over a vase of bush flowers and sent everything crashing to the floor. This really wasn’t my day.

  I looked up from the mess, to see my mother standing on the threshold and shaking her head and marvelled at how normal she appeared. Nut-brown hair, the same colour as mine apart from the glints of grey, but she wore hers to her shoulders and held back from her face by one of those flowery headbands she loved so much. She already had on her exercise outfit; off-white, baggy cotton pants to her shins and a loose, short-sleeve, cotton tunic in butter-yellow.

  She looked just like any other mum; except for the stopwatch she held in her hand.

  I planted my hands on my hips and resentment welled as I remembered the number of times she’d embarrassed me. Problem was I still couldn’t figure out whether my mother was crazy as a fox or just plain bat-shit crazy.

  Mum clicked the stopwatch she held in her hands. “Sixteen minutes. I don’t think that’s fast enough. You really will have to try harder next time, Tara.”

  “Mum! There can’t be a next time. You have to stop doing this odd behaviour. There were complaints last time. Mr Johnson talked about placing a restraining order on you.”

  My mother waved a hand in the air as if she was royalty. “Nonsense. I spoke to Phil and we sorted it out. In fact, he was quite interested in my theories.”

  Repressing a shudder at the image of my slimy teacher and my poor deluded but naive mother having a cosy chat over a pot of tea, I turned the tap with a vicious twist. The pipes shuddered and groaned until a stream of water spurted into my glass.

  “This place is the pits. We really need to get someone in to look at the plumbing.”

  “Details.” She placed the stopwatch on the side-table. “How did you go today?”

  I buried my nose in my glass. Anything to avoid the concern in my mother’s eyes. I shrugged. “Fine, Mum, don’t stress.”

  “Mmm. I wish you’d give up this idea of applying for an apprenticeship. You already have a job.”

  I sighed. “A casual bar-tending job is not going to see me clothed and fed in my old age. I need to complete my training, get experience in working on the land.”

  “I’ve told you before there is no need to worry about such matters. The important thing is to keep off their radar. Daniel made it home in eight minutes,” my mother prattled on.

  Maybe she was trying to drive me crazy?

  I placed the glass in the sink. “The high school is closer than the community co
llege,” I pointed out feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

  “If this had been a real situation, Tara, you wouldn’t be standing there looking so irritated.”

  Totally pissed off and running out of options is more like it. “There is not going to be an Armageddon. There is no secret society watching our every move.”

  “How can you say such things, Tara? We’ve discussed this so many times.”

  I rolled my eyes, groaning at my mother’s obvious bewilderment at my lack of belief. Drawing in a steadying breath, I tried for reason for the umpteenth time. “How about we concentrate on what we can fix; like say, the house? It’s falling down around our ears.”

  “No. We need more focus on our survivalist skills. We have to be prepared.”

  “Crap,” I mumbled, resisting the urge to rub the bristling hairs on the back of my neck at my mother’s use of that word, prepared.

  A coincidence. It had to be.

  “There is no need for that language, young lady, regardless of how old you are.”

  “There is no conspiracy, no terrorist cell living in the house next door, no imminent death, doom or disaster about to crash into our lives.”

  “We have to be prepared,” she repeated. “Why only yesterday I was positive I served a Warder at the supermarket. If they’re here then the time is close.”

  Pain spiked over the top of my head. This ‘warder’ thing was something new. Mum was getting worse.

  “He’s our new sensei. If only I knew whether or not the Warders can be trusted,” Mum continued to speak. “They were made differently, you know. They’re not like you and if they’ve arrived, then the others could turn up at any moment. You have to be strong and trained to survive. You’re one of the special ones. The ones who will lead us into our future.”

  “Right.” I rubbed my head. My fatigue fled as frustration rose and my headache gained momentum. What I wouldn’t do to be out of here. Let someone else deal with this problem. But if I left who would look after her? Dan at barely sixteen was too young to hold any influence over her.