Epitaphs (Echoes Book 2)

by Knite, Therin

  Even the brain of a genius can be overtaxed, and I got far too close to the point of no return this time—with all those memories of death and pain and fear and blood, so much blood, burning through my veins, slowly turning me to ash—far closer than I’d ever admit to anyone.

  So I lounge in the cold in a chair I think my ass is probably frozen to, listen to the muffled laughter of the party I spent all day arranging, and think, blissfully, of nothing at all.

  For what may be the first time in my life.

  Huh. I never realized how relaxing—

  My Ocom buzzes, and I jump so hard at the unexpected vibration in my pocket that I almost overturn the chair and break my face against the icy pavement. Chilled, stiff fingers fumble to tug the tablet from my pocket, and when I finally force it free, hold it close enough to my face to see the alert on the screen, it’s silent again.

  (The whole courtyard is silent.

  Not even the wind whistles now.

  The winter air is empty.)

  All is quiet. All is calm. All is dead in the dark of night.

  And really, I think that’s what makes it truly terrifying.

  There’s a new message in my inbox. I double tap to open it. It contains two words.

  Hello, Adem.

  The profile of the sender is…absent. Not restricted. Not “hidden by request.” Not even anonymous. It’s just not. There’s a blank space where the sender information should be.

  And that isn’t possible. The profile networks that underlie the internet forbid messages, public or private, that carry no sender identification whatsoever. It’s the law. It’s the system. One of the most heavily encrypted systems ever conceived by man.

  Hair rises on the back of my neck. My skin prickles. Sweat forms on my hairline despite the freezing air. I hit the reply button and respond:

  Who is this?

  I analyze every inch of my surroundings. But there are no people on the sidewalks. No cars on the road. No curious eyes peeking through curtains at the redheaded boy in the chair in a snow-filled courtyard. There is no one, but I feel with more certainty than I have felt anything in the past seven days that someone is watching me.

  The tablet buzzes again, and I have to lock my fingers to prevent myself from chucking the small plastic square into the nearest trashcan. There, on the screen, is a reply to my reply. The sender box is still blank.

  A trembling thumb opens the message.

  That’s right. I’m watching you.

  My chest constricts, air like concrete in my lungs. I run my eyes, frantically, over the entire neighborhood again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

  I’m missing something. Not someone. Something. Something obvious. Something in plain sight that allows this unseen mystery sender to—

  Of course.

  Three blocks away is a small arts and crafts shop, and above the front door of that shop, bolted to the wall, is a security camera. And that security camera is pointed my direction.

  I rewind to the moment where I helped Jin out of the car, hours ago, and find a single frame of memory where I glanced in the direction of the shop. The camera was pointing down at the sidewalk then, not toward Jin’s building.

  It’s moved.

  And while I sit there, frozen not from cold but a creeping terror, like nothing I have ever experienced before, the camera moves again. Back and forth. Waving at me.

  My fingers type as quickly as they can, spelling out another reply to the sender:

  WHO ARE YOU?

  The camera stops moving. The reply comes:

  Three guesses.

  I only need one.

  Finn? Are you Finn?

  A longer silence, and the tablet buzzes, and it sounds louder than Lang’s wind and all the suffering that followed it.

  Indeed I am.

  One last reply on my part, written with wildly shaking fingers.

  What do you want?

  For five and a half minutes, I sit motionless in the courtyard, heart pounding slow against my ribcage, blood flowing sluggishly through my veins, thoughts ten shades of static, all incomprehensible. Above me, the party marches on, laughter and cheers permeating the air. I hear it—but it doesn’t reach me, doesn’t break the shell of ice forming on my skin. Nothing reaches me except the shadow of the future that might fall into my path if the final answer is what I—

  My Ocom buzzes, one last time.

  The final answer is a single word.

  And that word is…

  You.

  To Be Continued!

  The story will continue in Encodings (Echoes #3), coming Winter 2015!

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  THANK YOU FOR READING!