Artificial Light (Evolution of Angels Book 3)

by Wall, Nathan

The figure in the mirror smashed its fist into the glass, causing a spider-web crack to slither across its surface. It punched again, this time breaking through, and grabbed Jarrod by the throat. Its fingers turned into spikes, piercing Jarrod’s skin. Black goo frothed from the figure’s mouth as it crawled out of the broken frame. Its eyes were pure blue energy, its face shifting into a ghoulish form with prominent black, skeletal features.

  “You. Are. The. FAKE.”

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  The triplet of knocks jolted Jarrod awake. He drew a long, exaggerated breath, refreshed and ready to tackle anything that lay ahead, as if waking from a long night’s rest. A quick glance at his surroundings and he realized it wasn’t the same restroom as before.

  It had happened again. His palms began to sweat as he thought about the things he might have done on autopilot.

  “C’mon mate,” said the muffled voice filtering through the door. “I’ve gotta drain me-self. I’m burstin’ at me seams.”

  “Yeah, uh, just a second,” Jarrod replied, running his fingertips along the smooth glass of the mirror before touching his own face. He smiled mechanically, just to make sure it was his own reflection.

  “Naw, right now buddy.” The man pounded the door again.

  “I said SHUT UP,” Jarrod yelled with a ferocious growl. He punched the door and a large indent appeared in the metal. The cracked skin on his knuckles quickly resealed, leaving only a small trickle of blood that was easily wiped away.

  How can this keep happening? He stared at his wide-eyed reflection as his worried mind turned to his friends.

  Jarrod tried to avoid people; especially those closest to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in the cabin with his friends. He was too scared of what might happen to them. Every soul now called out to him, begging to be reaped—no longer just the corrupt ones. It was like an itch in his brain, begging for a good scratch. The lure was strongest when he slept, and too often he awoke in strange places, unsure of how he’d ended up there. When his willpower was strong enough, he avoided sleep altogether. Somewhere after the third straight day of no rest, time and space seemed to run together.

  A few days ago, Jarrod had begun hearing strange noises in his head. It was like the high-pitched feedback from a microphone. He didn’t know the meaning of the sound, yet it didn’t feel foreign. Sometimes it merely irritated him, while other times it would turn his brain upside down. Sometimes it lulled him to sleep. Or could that have been his self-imposed sleep deprivation? It didn’t matter. What did matter was that he found himself on autopilot more and more often.

  Yesterday, the ringing had become more frequent, more distinct, like the tolling bell of a sinking ship. A few hours later, the sound of the horn had started. Blaring louder than the rest of the chaotic tune in his head, the horn intimidated him—it seemed to demand to be heard.

  “I’m gonna piss me-self, mate,” the voice on the other side of the door pleaded. “Hurry up, you wanker.”

  Jarrod didn’t know why he felt so agitated, but the intense anger within him bubbled to the surface.

  “I’ll rip your damn head off, you pathetic piece of shit. SHUT UP,” Jarrod snapped, making a fist so hard that his fingernails dug into his palms. He was shaking, both from anger and the shock of his outburst. He stepped back from the door, rubbing his head.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  He turned the rusty knob on the sink and the pipes rumbled as a slow trickle emerged from the spout. A small pool collected in his cupped hands and he tried to drink. Although he wasn’t thirsty, he forced it down. He slicked his hair back with wet fingers, pushing the long, dark strands out of his eyes.

  His hands were glowing blue; the aura from his fingertips flashing like a neon sign at a jazz lounge. Wary that the light might be seen through the crack under the door, he reached into his back pocket for his gloves to cover his hands.

  He slid into his brown flannel jacket and pulled his black skullcap over his head, his hair jutting out the back of the beanie like metal spikes. As he left the restroom, Jarrod shoved the waiting man into the wall before making his way to the cargo hold of the large ship. He nodded at one of his supervisors and picked up a tool belt.

  “’Ey Cooper, wot nickel and dime is it?” his boss asked sarcastically. Jarrod nodded, acknowledging that he was late for work, and proceeded up a flight of metal steps. His supervisor spoke again. “’Old on, mate. I neet-a man down in B-19. We’re making our final preps fer Car’iff.”

  Jarrod nodded again, trying not to make eye contact, and turned to head back downstairs. His efforts to shield his eyes proved useless as his supervisor blocked his path, placing a hand on Jarrod’s chest.

  “Give me a look,” he said, trying to gaze into Jarrod’s eyes. “C’mon, now.”

  Jarrod obliged.

  “You been drinkin’?” his supervisor sniffed, leaning in close. While the smell of alcohol was absent, the look in the man’s eyes indicated that his mind was turning to more devious things. He pulled Jarrod’s sleeves up, examining his arms, and turned out his coat pockets. “What are you on?”

  “Nothing, I’m just a bit under the weather,” Jarrod said, smacking his lips, trying to give his mouth a bit of moisture. His supervisor went to remove the gloves, but Jarrod snatched his arm back. “I wouldn’t do that, sir.”

  “C’mon, wot ya hidin’?”

  Despite Jarrod’s protests, he pulled one of the gloves off.

  Everything was normal.

  “Well, perhaps when you’re done assistin’ Hank, gettin’ those last containers prepped, you can catch some fresh air.”

  “Will do, sir.” Jarrod gave the man a nervous smile.

  “Relax kid, the first leg of the journey is over. There’s lots lef’ ahead yet, though.”

  “Yes, sir. You couldn’t be more right.” Jarrod smiled tightly before hurrying off.

  “Hey, kid,” the supervisor called out again. “Knock i’ off with the sir rubbish. I’m no’ THAT ol’.”

  “Sure thing,” Jarrod agreed with a nod.

  Suddenly, his mind went blank. The itch crawled up from the base of his skull and his hands were no longer his own. The pitter patter of his feet echoing down a hallway, slow and dull like a grandfather clock, was the only noise able to make it through the thick, gelatin wall in his mind. He smacked his face and closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. Upon exhaling, he opened his eyes and found that he was in a new place. Again.

  What?

  “I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me,” a man pleaded. Jarrod turned around to see a fellow ship-hand shaking in fear while another lay inert on the floor beside him. “I think you killed him.”

  “No, impossible,” said Jarrod, shaking his head, although he knew it wasn’t. “I can fix this. I’ve returned them before... Their souls.”

  “I’m stuck on this ship with a loon,” the man wailed, covering his face.

  Jarrod knelt beside the unconscious man. When he found that the man was still breathing, a gush of relief washed over him. He removed his gloves and rolled up his sleeves, watching the blue hue snake through his veins. His fingertips moved to the man’s forehead.

  “Believe, Jarrod, you’ve got this,” he said to himself, exhaling. His arms lit up and a blinding light overpowered anything else they could see.

  The formerly unconscious man sat straight up as the energy surged from Jarrod’s arms into his body. The gash on his stomach stitched itself back together.

  Upon seeing this, the frightened ship-hand bolted from the room like an Olympic sprinter.

  “Just… rest for a second.” Jarrod patted the now healed man on the back and stood. He was hit by a woozy feeling, but managed to regain his balance and walk out into the hall. This area was familiar.

  I’m back here?

  He stepped lively, walking with intent towards a restroom. Once inside, fragments of glass cracked under his boots. Brushing the wall with his hand, he searched for the lig
ht switch, but there was no response when he flicked it. He unhooked a large steel flashlight from the back of his utility belt, turned it on, and scanned the small restroom. The light glinted off something in the dark and Jarrod stopped dead.

  The shattered mirror.

  “It actually happened?” he whispered, stepping into the darkness.

  Outside, he heard chatter as people approached the bathroom. Their voices were unmistakable—they were his friends, Claire and Austin, and they were looking for him. Turning off the flashlight, he closed the door, leaving only an inch-wide gap. They passed by the doorway without seeing him.

  Once the coast was clear, he turned around and flicked the flashlight back on. The area behind the mirror was smashed inward. He compared his fist to the hole. The size matched.

  But I didn’t hit it. He scratched his head. Did I?

  He spun around, illuminating the area where his head had been bashed into the wall. His heartbeat raced when he noticed an indentation. His head was fuzzy, unable to shake this lethargic feeling.

  I punched out the mirror and bashed my own head into the wall?

  His fingers caressed the indentation on the wall as he knelt to inspect it more closely. The evidence didn’t jive with his recollection of events.

  “You’re losing it,” a voice whispered in a mocking tone.

  Jarrod spun around, but there was no one there. He searched the darkness erratically with the flashlight but couldn’t see anything. Closing his eyes, he shook his head.

  “I need some air,” he laughed, slowly growing more unhinged. “Seriously, I need to get off this damn ship.”

  “You and me both,” the whispering voice replied.

  Jarrod opened his eyes, still smiling, but in a deranged sort of way. His right eyebrow rose as he turned his head slightly to look over his shoulder.

  “Keep your eyes forward,” the voice said.

  “Why?”

  “You can’t take it.”

  “Do I at least get a name?” Jarrod asked.

  “Introductions in due time.”

  “You’re all in my head.” Jarrod smirked, feverishly rubbing his face. “Charon put you up to this? You’re not real.”

  “I can assure you, I’m very real.”

  “Then prove it,” Jarrod growled, turning around and smacking another hole into the steel. There was nothing there. “That’s what I thought. You’re afraid.”

  Jarrod pulled his hand out of the wall and noticed that somehow his armor had manifested over his hand and forearm. It had never done that on its own before. He shook his hand, trying to command the stray portion of his suit to vanish, but it wouldn’t listen to him.

  “If I’m afraid, you are,” the voice replied. The aurascales crawled further up Jarrod’s body, but this time he couldn’t stop them. It felt like he was drowning. Worse, he was sure that he could hear Claire making her way back towards him. The voice laughed. “How many of them can you save?”

  Chapter Two

  Austin I

  A door creaked behind them. Claire didn’t notice it, and it wouldn’t have been fair to expect her to—her hearing wasn’t as refined as Austin’s, which was heightened thanks to his new animalistic senses. Since first shifting into a wolfish creature, caused by the infection spread to him through gashes made on his back while in Maya’s custody, Austin had gradually honed his skills. What he called his new ‘super hearing’ was the hardest. New frequencies not audible to the human ear—and some he lost when a concussion grenade went off near him during a raid—were gifted to him. At first they couldn’t be picked apart. As his skill grew, he was able to distinguish various notes and sounds in a flood of otherwise inaudible or jumbled information.

  “I think we passed something,” he whispered to her. Claire stopped in her tracks and spun around on a dime. She closed her eyes and leaned in the direction of the perceived noise, but shook her head and shrugged. Austin glared at a spot on the floor, though he didn’t see it in the normal sense. His mind’s eye was sifting through the sounds. Was it a man or a rat? Could the ship just be making noises? “There’s definitely something there.”

  “You would know,” Claire replied, nodding. She led the way back. “To be the only one without powers actually makes me feel like I’m the weird one.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Sorry you think we’re weird.” The way her blood thumped through her veins told him she was embarrassed. He smirked. “I’m kidding. I know what ya mean.”

  “Which way?” she asked, standing at a T-section in the hall. “I’d like to be good for something more than an ear to gab at or a pair of hands to bring coffee.”

  He tapped her shoulder and pointed with his thumb to the right. “Not everyone is capable of withstanding that type of monotony. Perhaps your gift is the most important.”

  “Knowing whether you like cream or sugar in your coffee?” she asked with a half-chuckle. “Is that really a compliment?”

  “Keeping up the perception of normalcy in a sea of paranormal and weird? Yeah, it’s a compliment.” The hairs on his arms stood up. He froze in place and held his hand up for her to stop . “There are eyes on us.”

  “When are there not?” She stepped back and leaned against the wall.

  “I’d like to think while I shower.” He knelt and rubbed his fingers along the ground. Black grime stuck to his fingertips. He smelled it and a vision formed. A path walked by a third set of feet flashed into his head.

  “What is it?”

  “A pair of boots that have been in the lower levels came through here. Could be Jarrod.” He stood and his brow furrowed. He motioned with two fingers for her to follow.

  “You got all that by smelling shit?” She covered her smile with a hand.

  “Not shit. Engine grease.” They followed a track mapped out by his nose.

  She sighed. “I was joking.”

  “That’s not one of your powers.” He bit his lip in order to subdue the laugh swelling inside. It didn’t work. She slapped the back of his head. “Hey, now.”

  A sound reminiscent of a mallet against sheet metal echoed down the corridor from behind them. Austin ducked and Claire dropped to her knees. The muffled tone of a male voice vibrated through the walls, tickling the back of Austin’s ears. He turned around and noticed Claire was walking towards a door. A blue light which had been shining through a crack underneath the door vanished. Her hand lifted to the knob. Austin pulled her back and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

  “What was that for?” She pushed away from Austin.

  “Go back to the cabin.” Austin narrowed his eyes. With trembling lips, he snarled and stared holes through the door. He looked over his shoulder at her. “That wasn’t a request.”

  “Is it him?”

  “Go.” He said forcefully. She sprinted out of sight.

  Austin moved forward, kicked through the door and broke the knob off. He held his flashlight like a club. The restroom was empty. The mirror over the sink was shattered, and in its place was a hole the size of a fist smashed into the wall. The acrid smell of vomit hung in the air. One of the ceiling boards was askew, making a hole just big enough to crawl through.

  “Jarrod,” Austin sighed, running his hand through his dirty blonde hair to shake the stress out, “What are you doing? We’re here to help.”

  He stepped out of the room and hooked the flashlight to the back of his belt. He thought of all the places he would go to get away. It would’ve been easy to ask Lian to find Jarrod, but she couldn’t hear Jarrod’s thoughts even if she wanted, and besides she was sick. No, this had to be done the old-fashioned way. For a second, he knew what Claire was experiencing. All of his abilities were good for nothing. They couldn’t make Lian better, let Jarrod know everything was going to be alright, or even help to find his friend.

  Two ship workers passed by down the hall, one dragging the other. When Austin caught up with them the conscious one turned to acknowledge him.

  “Do you need he
lp?” Austin draped the unconscious man’s left arm over his shoulder. “What happened to him?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I said.” The sailor was shaking. Austin could smell fear oozing from the man’s pores. “The world’s comin’ to an end, I say.”

  “I can keep an open mind.” Austin turned his attention forward so he wouldn’t make the other guy feel uncomfortable. “I’ve heard strange things at night. Weird glowing things too. Probably just my imagination.”

  “Were they—”

  “—Blue? Yes. How did you know?” Austin gawked, faking surprise.

  “I seen them too. There’s a man possessed among us.” The ship worker halted, looking all around as if prying ears were close by. He leaned close to Austin and whispered, “What do you think did this to him?”

  “Rum?”

  “No. I saw a feller with glowin’ blood in his skin suck the very life force out of this poor man. He argued with himself while doing it, as if talkin’ to a stranger.” His hand latched onto Austin’s wrist and squeezed. “Whatever’s overtaken him, he’s at odds with himself. I swear he looked at me and each side of his face was a different person. I don’t know why he let my friend live, but he brought ‘em back.”

  “Back from where?” Austin knew the answer, but was shocked Jarrod could do it. He’d been thinking for a while something was strange with his best friend, but had no idea the extent.

  “The dead,” the ship worker gasped, ask if his own words caused him to shake. “I say too much. Don’t concern yourself with this any longer. Hide in your cabin and lock the doors.”

  “You think locked doors will work?” Austin tilted his head and cemented his gaze in the man’s eyes. He could hear the guy’s heartbeat race. “You’re probably right. This man who was so conflicted, where did he go? Did he say?”

  “When he was draining my friend’s life he was mumblin’ about fresh air. I plan on staying below.” The ship worker pulled his friend away from Austin and scurried down the hall. “Don’t go searchin’. I’m pleadin’ with ya.”

  It was cold up on the deck. Not many sailors would dare brave the elements unless instructed. Austin knew if Jarrod was mumbling about fresh air, then he’d be at the ship’s front. Austin wasn’t a fan of the cold, but knew his friend would do anything to be avoided. He just hoped it wouldn’t come to jumping ship—and if it did, he hoped he would be strong enough to stop him.