Light Within Me

by Fall, Carly

  Abby marveled at how much she now looked like her mom. When she stared at the picture, she sometimes felt she was looking at her own reflection. Her mother had long, auburn hair, big brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose, just as Abby did. Her mother was twenty-nine in the picture, the same age as Abby was today.

  And the ache of losing her mom was as strong today as it had been twenty years ago when her mother had been murdered. She had never known her father. Her mother had told her that he died before she was born.

  Abby had a special relationship with her mom. Even from a young age, she knew she was different than most kids, and it went beyond her cartoon choices. First off, she was terribly shy and had a hard time making friends. That was still the case. As a kid, and even now, she felt that at a base level she was different than other people, and that made her uncomfortable and socially awkward. Her mother’s death and her stint in the orphanage caused her withdraw from society even more, but it was something besides that. It was as if she didn’t really fit in anywhere. She really had a hard time relating to just about everyone she met, and most of the times she just kept to herself. Sure, she ate lunch with a couple of people at work, and she talked to a woman in her spinning class. She even dated when she was asked out. None of it seemed to satisfy her, and she felt she could never let her guard down and really get to know a person. She just couldn’t get past the fact that she lacked a true connection with anyone.

  She ran her finger over the photo. Her mom had been her everything. She had not only been a parent, but Abby’s best friend. Her mother took Abby’s little idiosyncrasies, such as her cartoon choices, and her fascination with the universe and what laid beyond that, in stride. Abby had been far happier talking about the gaseous consistency of Saturn than playing with Barbies. Needless to say, there weren’t many kids who wanted to hang out with her. She placed the picture in the table drawer so she didn’t have to look at it anymore.

  Abby sighed and set what was left of her TV dinner on the table. Neptune jumped up and began picking out the chicken. She knew she should shoo him away, but she simply didn’t have the energy.

  Looking out the big picture window, she watched as the sun slowly made its final descent behind the mountain.

  She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream.

  She wanted something, anything, to happen in her life that brought her some excitement. She didn’t know how many more nights she could take of CSI reruns and her demanding cat.

  Chapter 5

  After dinner, the Warriors met in the War Room to go over what they knew about the latest suspected Colonist number seven, who they believed was in Reno. Two of the walls in the room were floor-to-ceiling glass. They gathered around a large black marble table that seated eight in plush black leather chairs. There were maps on two of the walls from different parts of the United States. They were concentrating on the West Coast right now, as it seemed that there had been a spike in murders over the past few months. Pushpins decorated the maps of where the murders had taken place. They were also color-coded on whether the Six Saviors thought, or knew, the murders were committed by humans (blue), one of their kind (red), or unknown (yellow). There were far too many yellow dots on the map as far as Noah was concerned.

  “Okay, so here’s what we know. We know that S.O.B. number seven likes to slice and dice, but not butcher. He’s very neat. According to the police reports I’ve gathered, some possible eyewitness accounts have put him at . . . let’s see . . .” Noah looked at the notes. “Oh, what a surprise,” he said sarcastically. “A white male in his thirties, average height, with dark brown hair.” He slammed the notebook on the table, frustration boiling in him. “Short of these fuckers really sticking out like our boy Saddam Hussein, or us actually seeing the crime scene with our own eyes, we’re always looking for the goddamned proverbial needle in the haystack,” he shouted.

  Noah rubbed his face, wishing he had brought a bottle of scotch to the War Room with him. He was so tired of all of it. Luck played such a critical factor in their hunt for the Colonists, and Lady Luck had not graced them with her presence in a while.

  It was silent for a moment, while the feeling of defeat hovered in the room.

  “But Hussein was an awesome take-down, you have to admit,” Talin said.

  The banter broke out between him, Hudson, and Cohen reliving how they had traveled to Iraq, posed as US Marines, and had been part of the capture of Saddam. They had gone unrecognized in the melee with their handkerchiefs over their faces—just a few extra soldiers. When Saddam got pulled out of his little hidey-hole, they couldn’t kill him because there were real marines there, but their guy had gotten his justice.

  This type of talk was breaking out more and more frequently, and Noah knew why.

  All the Six Saviors were getting tired of their lives on Earth. Some, like Noah, had grown tired of it all long ago. Some were starting to feel the itch of irritation and the valley of loneliness and isolation at the realization that they weren’t leaving Earth. They would never again see their families. They would never again walk through a city where the golden colors shimmered around them. They would be forever stuck in the human bodies given to them, never to see their former selves except for the light of their previous beings shining through their eyes at night.

  Some had come to the conclusion that they were never going home. Some held out hope. This type of talk of the criminals they captured bolstered confidence, kept a flicker of hope alive. Even those who didn’t believe they would ever head home participated in the banter just to help fan that little flame of hope for those who still had it.

  Noah half heard the talk, feeling particularly low tonight. He stared at the table, imagining another one thousand four hundred and eighty-eight years that no one was counting. If—no, it had to be when—they got the remaining six original Colonists, they still had to find their offspring to see if the evil had filtered down through the generations. It seemed a never-ending mission, plowing through the sewers of humanity in order to find one of their own.

  Noah stood abruptly, bringing the banter to a halt. He needed space. He needed to get away. He figured he could either go to Reno and hang out with the vampires, or he would go to his room, sit on his bed, watch TV, and get piss-ass drunk. Neither seemed like much of an option, but his bed was just an elevator ride away, while Reno required more time in the car. He decided to let the vamps do their own thing. Maybe he would touch base with their leader soon and see if they had heard or seen anything having to do with the Colonist in town. Humans might not know that vampires and other worldly beings were among them, but the two minority races were very aware of each other. Every now and then they got together just to keep each other informed.

  Noah made a mental note to pick up the bottle of scotch from the bar before he headed down to his quarters, which resided at the bottom floor.

  “I’m done,” he said quietly. He wondered if that meant he was done with the day, done with the conversation, or done with his life. He didn’t care to look for the correct answer—he just knew he was done.

  He padded barefoot out of the room and headed for the bar. He grabbed the scotch and proceeded to his floor. Sure, eight flights of stairs were a bitch, but it was better than running into any of the others on the elevator.

  Chapter 6

  Noah flicked through the channels. The resident tech-head, Talin, had wired the place so that it had something short of every channel on Earth. If he really wanted, Noah could watch TV from Russia. Not that he really wanted to, and there was the small problem that he didn’t speak Russian, but it was nice to know the option was there if the desire ever presented itself.

  Maybe it was time to learn some Russian to add a little variety to his life. Frankly, it sounded like too much work. Maybe tomorrow night he’d get drunk on vodka instead of scotch.

  There’s your variety for you.

  This had to be his second or third time surfing through the channels. He was sittin
g in his gray overstuffed chair drinking for at least two hours, and he hadn’t watched more than a few seconds of anything. He knew he should just go to bed, but that was when the dream began. He hated that fucking dream.

  It always started the same. He was in a tunnel with very little light, and he ran. And ran. It wasn’t a panicked run, but a slow, steady jaunt. He was always looking over his shoulder, looking all around him, trying to see something that wasn’t there in the shadows. And that was the dream. He just kept running and looking around. It seemed like some mornings he would wake and feel as though he had been running all night long and fighting demons straight from hell—sweating profusely and shaking.

  He understood that it was a metaphor of what had become of his life.

  He kept chasing after something that was hard to find, and he had to keep running to find it. He hated that fucking dream.

  He shut off the TV and plunged the room into blackness. After a second, his eyes adjusted, throwing around a warm, orange glow. Noah always thought it was strange that his eyes burned orange, but he saw everything in their normal colors.

  He had designed all the bedroom spaces in the silo so that each contained a sitting area and a large bathroom with a walk-in shower and Jacuzzi tub. He looked at his huge king-size bed. Why he had bothered with such a large bed, he didn’t know. He was the only one to have ever slept in it. His sheets were a stark white silk, the comforter a dark brown. He had opted for the same plush dark-brown carpet in his quarters as upstairs in the main living space. He had the walls painted an off-white that didn’t glare, but soothed instead.

  He hadn’t bothered with a glass for the past half-hour. Instead, he drank straight from the bottle. He gazed over at his bed again and wondered what it would be like to share it with a human female. To feel her soft skin against his hard body. To taste her lips, and feel her hair run through his fingers . . .

  The females of their race were the biggest downfall for an SR44 male. The males fell in love easily and hard. To keep the Six Saviors focused, their human bodies were specially programmed. If they were to feel too much pleasure, their life expectancy would immediately decline. They would become the age of their human bodies, and they would age as a human would. It would be the ultimate failure—a huge disgrace, not only to them as individuals, but failing their race as a whole. True pleasure for an SR44 male consisted of falling in love with a female and making love to her. That was the ultimate pleasure they could have, and both components had to be present. If they allowed that pleasure, it would signal their weakness and their inability to complete their mission.

  None of them wanted to fail. They were all driven by duty and honor.

  And some, like Noah, were driven by sheer revenge to make the Colonists pay for the Warriors leaving SR44.

  Noah had no intention of ever falling for a human woman and experiencing the ultimate pleasure. He was too focused on exacting his revenge on the Colonists. He would stop at nothing until every single one of the original twelve Colonists, and all of their spawn, were eradicated from Earth.

  He cut the thoughts off. He had watched enough porn on all the thousands of channels in order understand the whole idea of human sex. He had to admit, he was intrigued. But duty, honor, and sheer revenge drove him. He had to clean up the mess of his people down here on Earth and restore the pride of the people of SR44 as a whole. He had to slaughter those who had taken his life from him.

  Human sex was far more involved than sex on SR44. He thought of his lovren and how they had made love, or “joined,” as they called it. Being that their forms were wisps of colored smoke, they simply entwined themselves in each other. It was a pleasurable experience, but one he barely remembered. Human sex was something all together different.

  He knew that all the other Warriors dappled in sex with humans at some time or another. The human women loved Hudson, with his long hair, big body, good looks, and expensive clothes. Hudson had told the Warriors about having sex with females. He said it was simply mind over matter to not experience too much pleasure, that you didn’t have to love someone to enjoy their body. He said that as he got closer to orgasm, his skin started to shimmer yellow, the color of his form on SR44. It was thought among the Warriors that once the tipping point was hit—that point of pure, unadulterated bliss of having sex while in love—the SR44 form would simply disappear from their bodies like a spirit floating to heaven, and they would become human.

  Hudson had bedded more than a few women. Actually, that was being kind. Hudson was a man whore through and through. He could control his pleasure, keeping his true form within his big human body. He also said it seemed as though the shimmer was invisible to human eyes. Or, as he said, maybe the women he’d slept with were so caught up in the sexual satisfaction he gave them, they didn’t notice.

  Hudson had a bit of an ego.

  Noah never had any interest in human women, unless they were a member of a police department from where he needed information. Even then, he kept the relationship strictly professional, which wasn’t difficult. No woman had ever made him want to take things further.

  He kept his focus on his work.

  He stood and began to sway. He unbuckled his belt, undid his jeans, and let them fall to the floor. He stepped out of them, stumbling and lacking any grace. Cursing, he took off his shirt, stumbling again. He stood naked in his room, the only light coming from his eyes, which cast the room in an orange hue. He gazed over at his bed, seeing two of them. That was probably a good sign that he had overdone it on the scotch. He lurched forward, then fell face first, hoping he hit the correct one and didn’t end up on the floor. Not that it mattered at this point, but it would be nice to wake up in the bed.

  Chapter 7

  Abby looked over at her coworker James and decided that she really hated her job at the Reno newspaper. She was so sick and tired of listening to him sniff his nose, and then cough. Sniff, cough. Sniff, cough. Some days she wanted to drag him by his hair to an allergist.

  “Do you need a tissue, James?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  He turned to her, his dark eyes cold. “No, but thank you,” he said quietly.

  She felt herself grimace, then rolled her chair to face her computer and tried to tune him out. She really hated even speaking to him.

  She sighed and tucked a lock of her wavy auburn hair behind her ear. She was working on an article about the murder that happened yesterday in downtown Reno, and she wasn’t having much success putting the words together. From what she had heard, part of the poor guy’s throat was missing. It turned out that he was one of the local drug dealers. Not that anyone should be murdered, but one less drug dealer off the streets of downtown Reno was a good thing, in her opinion.

  She’d tossed around the idea of doing a story on the murder of the drug dealer, or maybe moving on to something else. She knew that asking the police for any information on the murder would be a dead end. They were as tight as a miser’s wallet when it came to information. She was okay with her position in the crime section, but stories, well, good stories, were hard to come by. She could go out and interview the families of the victims, but she hated that. Maybe she should think about moving to the lifestyle section of the paper, but then thought better of it. Doing stories on recipes, cleaning products, and celebrities would be worse than doing stories on crime.

  She shook her head, not wanting to take a jaunt down memory lane.

  No, she didn’t want to write for the lifestyle section. She at least had an interest in crime, specifically unsolved murders. If people knew this about her, they would most likely think she was off her rocker. She was aware that her curiosity stemmed from her past, from the death of her mom, whose murderer had never been found.

  Abby looked through the photographs of the crime scene and the area around it, marveling at the decrepit buildings of downtown Reno. She had read articles and seen pictures of Reno when it was a thriving party town. The casinos had stood brightly, signs flashing the
entertainment of Marilyn Monroe and the Rat Pack. Most casinos were now boarded up thanks to that little place called Las Vegas rising out of the desert and the legalization of Native American gaming in California. Combine those factors with some really bad decisions by the City Council, and you had a recipe for failure.

  Pawnshops and low-income housing now dominated. You could hit the streets any night and find the drug of your choice, or get a fantastic deal on a blowjob. Downtown Reno was no longer thriving, but on life support.

  However, it did look as though Reno was in for a turn-around. Business leaders of the downtown community had come together to brainstorm a plan on what to do with the empty, boarded-up casinos that used to be the town’s bread and butter. She had heard some interesting ideas and hoped that whatever they came up with would better the area and make it a place that tourists and locals would really want to visit.

  As she flipped through the pictures, she was thankful she couldn’t see the body. The police had done a great job of keeping the deceased from prying eyes. The photographer had snapped some pictures of the looky-loos gathered. She studied each face, not recognizing anyone she knew. Except her highly annoying coworker James, of course. The guy went to almost every crime scene. He loved his job. Sometimes Abby thought he liked it a little too much.

  She turned back to pictures of the goings-on of the crime scene. She recognized the detective in charge, Matt Wilson. She paused for a moment, staring at the big guy who was talking to Detective Wilson. Had she seen him before?

  She looked at a few more pictures. The guy was huge. He had to stand at least six-five, and it looked like a small plane could land on his broad shoulders. Although the pictures were black and white, she could tell he had dark hair, probably a brownish color. She flipped through a few more, trying to get more detail on the guy, curiosity flaring in her, a scratch in her brain as she tried to place him. Who was he? She was certain she had seen him before.