Ghost Hand

by Ripley Patton

  I started nodding off almost as soon as we turned onto the highway. Under normal circumstances, I was a drowsy passenger. One of my dad’s nicknames for me had been Sleepy Gonzales, because I’d always fallen asleep so fast in the car whenever we traveled. And these weren’t normal circumstances. I’d slept like crap for weeks, and I hadn’t sat in a comfy, cushioned, leather anything for way too long. It just felt so damn good. Camp life had definitely worn on me more than I’d realized.

  I was just beginning to drool against the window when Marcus suddenly swerved off the interstate onto a dirt road.

  “What the hell?” I asked, gripping the dash with my gloved hands and glancing frantically in the side view mirror, expecting to see a caravan of CAMFers in hot pursuit.

  “Just a quick stop,” Marcus said, avoiding my gaze.

  When we passed an old wooden sign that read Warren Gun Club, I stared at him until he looked at me.

  “We all need to know how to protect ourselves,” he said, glancing back at the road. “Not just Jason.”

  I wanted to argue, but I really couldn’t. I had always disliked guns, but I’d disliked seeing Marcus get shot in Greenfield while trying to save me even more. The CAMFers tended to come well-armed, and who knew what kind of opposition we were going to face in Indy?

  Marcus pulled the van up to an old farm house, a long low building next to it stretching into the endless fields of rural Indiana. Just as he shut the ignition off, a large man in dirty coveralls came out of the long building, shotgun in hand, moving toward us.

  “As soon as I close my door, lock the van,” Marcus said, handing me the keys, “and get in the driver’s seat. Don’t get out, under any circumstances, unless I tell you to. And, if something goes wrong, drive away.”

  “Wait!” I said, but he was already out, slamming the door behind him.

  He walked slowly around to the front of the van, arms out to show he had no weapon.

  The guy with the shotgun was advancing on him, and two more guys had come out of the farmhouse, guns in hand.

  What the hell was Marcus doing? Everything about these guys screamed CAMFers, but that made no sense. I had no idea what was going on.

  “Fuck,” I said, clicking the button on the key ring to lock the van. The little chirp it made was completely at odds with the adrenaline and fear surging through me. I looked back and saw the shock on the others’ faces as they peered out the windows of the van. So, he hadn’t told anyone about this little stop. Well, he wasn’t the only one who could bark orders.

  “Jason, I need you up here, right now, with your weapon,” I said, sliding across to the driver’s seat and putting the keys in the ignition. “Nose, can you reach the other guns?”

  “I can try,” Nose said, diving down to rummage for them.

  Jason slid into the seat next to me, rifle in hand, and I tried not to show my surprise that he’d actually listened to me.

  “Let them see it,” I told him, “but don’t point it at anyone. Yet.”

  Jason nodded and made his rifle as visible as possible.

  Outside, Marcus had moved further away from the van, but he was still in front of it.

  The three gun-toting country boys were nearly upon him, and I cracked my window just as the one in the front said, “You David?”

  What the fuck? Why would Marcus give these guys his real name? He always went by Marcus, and he’d obviously gone to the trouble of getting us all fake IDs, including himself. Why not use his new identity? What was he thinking?

  “I’m David,” he confirmed, “and we’ve come unarmed, as specified.”

  “That one has a gun,” Shotgun said, gesturing at Jason.

  Marcus turned and looked at us, frowning. He turned back and said, “It’s not loaded. I emptied it myself this morning.”

  I looked at Jason, and he looked at me. Then he yanked open the chamber of the gun and showed it to me. It was empty.

  “Do you have any ammo on you?” I asked him.

  “No,” Jason shook his head, looking more pissed off than I’d seen him look in a long time: and he usually looked pissed.

  “Nose, any luck with those guns?” I turned to the back of the van and Jason turned with me.

  “I can’t reach them,” came Nose’s muffled voice in response.

  Shit. We were screwed. Jason and I both turned and looked back out at Marcus.

  “How do we know you’re who you say you are?” Shotgun asked, his buddies grunting in Neanderthal agreement behind him.

  “Come and see,” Marcus said, gesturing Shotgun forward.

  At first, I didn’t understand. I thought Shotgun was just getting a better look at Marcus’s face or something. He walked up to him, his gun held up between them, and gestured at Marcus’s chest with it.

  Marcus reached down and began to unbutton his shirt.

  Jason went stiff in the seat next to me. You could have heard a pin drop in that van. No, you could have heard a feather drop. This could not be happening. Marcus didn’t reveal his PSS chest to anyone. He hadn’t even told me about it until I’d seen him come back from the dead and, at that point, he’d pretty much had no choice.

  I jammed the keys into the ignition of the van and turned it on. I thrust the stick into drive and, with one foot on the brake and one on the gas, I revved the engine.

  Marcus paused in unbuttoning his shirt and glanced at me, looking annoyed. Then he turned back, resuming his little striptease.

  Shotgun and his buddies were eyeing me, but they couldn’t seem to keep their eyeballs from straying back to Marcus.

  They were all right there in front of me. I could take them out like bowling pins. Yes, Marcus might get hurt in the process, but probably not fatally, and he could always reboot. The hillbilly brothers might get off a shot or two, but Marcus wasn’t a complete idiot. I had noticed earlier the tiny little labels on the van’s windows indicating they were not only tinted, but bulletproof.

  I revved the engine again.

  Marcus unfastened the last button of his shirt, and it fell open.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is my dream and it has finally come true. But this was not a dream dreamt alone. It simply would not have happened without the support and help of the following people:

  My husband and the love of my life, for supporting me financially, emotionally, and creatively, and for believing I was a writer long before I did.

  My children, Valerie and Soren, for loving my stories, for putting up with mom living in her bedroom and her head for years on end, and for being my inspiration to write YA.

  My Dad, for teaching me to think and for encouraging me to devour literature at a very young age.

  My extended family, for loving me and for being my first fans.

  The speculative fiction community of New Zealand, particularly SpecFicNZ, for backing me in every way possible. Writers need writers. You taught me that.

  A special Kickstarter thanks to the following backers for making Ghost Hand possible:

  Pam Bainbridge-Cowan, Pip Ballantine, Susan Bernardo, Kevin Berry, David Bishop, Roxanne Bland, Grace Bridges, Laura Buchholz, Jan Butterworth, Kura Carpenter, Angie Chute, Angelica Clark, Brenda Cooper, Matt Cooper, Matt Cowens, Tatiana and Natasha Crenshaw, Nathan Crowder, Clare Davies, Petra Delarocha, Mark English, Amanda Fitzwater, Tricia Grissom, Stephanie Gunn, Jess Haley, Kelly A. Harmon, J.C. Hart, Edwina Harvey, Joffre Horlor, Deb E. Howell, Elaine King, Jim and Paula Kirk, Catherine Langford, Kam Oi Lee, Helen Lowe, Kevin Maclean, Juliet Marillier, Deborah L. Marshall, Angel Leigh McCoy, Karen Johnson Mead, Elizabeth Millin, S.P Miskowski, Virginia M. Mohlere, Terry Morris, Bill Mulholland
, Matt Mulholland, Royal and Sarah Mulholland, Deirdre Murphy, Sylvia Oliver, Colum Paget, Neil Patton, Simon Petrie, Mark E. Phair, Beaulah Pragg, Dan Rabarts, Paulette Rae, Rebecca Rahne, Jim Ryan, Ted Sanders, Silvernis, Darian Smith, Hannah Karahkwenhawe Stacy, Sonia, Tevarre, Jhakka Turul, Rob U, Mary Victoria, Paul Wilson, and Jeremy Zimmerman.

  All those who who gave of their skills and talents to make Ghost Hand the best book it could be: Angel Leigh McCoy for very early readings and for convincing me I was a novelist. Kura Carpenter for the most amazing cover ever. Debbie Marshall and Tricia Grissom for their passionate creative and content editing. Edwina Harvey for her proofreading magic. Catherine Langford for the beautiful typesetting, and Simon Petrie for turning Ghost Hand into an e-book I could be proud of.

  And to the many other writers who have influenced and encouraged me throughout the years, particularly and more recently, Helen Lowe and Juliet Marillier.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ripley Patton is an award-winning author who lives in Portland, Oregon with two teenagers, one cat, and a man who wants to live on a boat. During a five-year adventure in New Zealand, Ripley and her family survived the Canterbury Earthquakes (a 7.1 and a 6.3) that rocked their home city of Christchurch. While in New Zealand, Ripley won the Sir Julius Vogel Award for Best Short Story of 2009, and the Sir Julius Vogel Award 2011 for Services to Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror. Ghost Hand is Ripley’s fist novel, and the first of a three book series.

  To learn more about Ripley and read some of her short fiction be sure to check out her website at www.ripleypatton.com. You can also sign up for The PSS Chronicles series updates by sending an e-mail to ghosthandupdates@gmail.com.