Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves

by Richard M. Heredia

  There was another thud, much smaller, followed by a dragging sound. A moment later, something bumped into her, something wrapped in heavy cloth, bulky and misshapen. It did not quite hurt, but it was a near thing.

  Not only could the man-thing fly, it was super strong as well.

  “Eat,” it said in a voice sounding like regurgitation full with gravel - chunky, viscous and liquid at the same time.

  Marissa winced at the awful tones issued forth. She knew it was not a human throat. She knew the man-thing was something abhorrent, something unnatural.

  She heard it step toward her.

  She yelped in fear, scuttling into the darkness of the underground passage, uncaring of what may lay beyond. She knew the place had been abandoned for many years. The dust, the cobwebs and the pervasive smell of decay were evidence enough. If there were rats or worse down there with her, in the dark, she did not know. She did not care either. Nothing was as hideous as the man-thing with the ever-shifting face.

  “Eat, little one,” it spoke again, though the moniker was not uttered with a speck of affection. It rasped the words as if mentioning through contemptuous lips.

  Marissa Avalon could only shudder with revulsion.

  The man-thing chortled. “If you do not eat, I will force feed you myself.” He paused for effect. “You will not like it. I promise.”

  The nine-year-old remained as she was, on the verge of vacating her bowels.

  “EAT!” he shouted, horrible, rattling her teeth in her head.

  Marissa jumped in her skin. Her head came up in a flash, certain the beast of a man was about to grab a hold of her and shove god-knew-what down her throat. She saw him in the light of the lantern. His hideous face drifting from that of a well-known super-model to some unrecognizable jumble between African and Mestizo. It was male now, completely unlike what he had looked like moments before.

  “The Seeker wishes for you to be in good health by the time she returns,” he began. He pointed with a hand three times larger than her father’s. “It is my contention to see you are fit as my Lady commands.” He took another step toward her.

  Marissa froze with abject terror.

  “If you do not reach into the bag and pull out something to eat…,” he left the rest unsaid.

  The tiny girl was shaking so bad, her first attempt at the thick burlap sack lying next to her looked like that of a six-month old infant. Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated. Her hand slapped at the open, upper edges.

  The man-thing made to move closer.

  Marissa leaped to her knees, bruising them through her jeans. Her small fingers ripped at the sack, spilling the contents onto the cold, unyielding floor. Her eyes were desperate, searching for something - anything - to eat, but she was having a hard time. Everything the man-thing had brought with him was edible, but it was not nourishing food per se. The first thing she pulled out was a plastic jug of granular Cool-Aide. Next, came a bottle of Grey Poupon, then a box of bread crumbs, a jar of Maraschino cherries, a foil-bag of croutons… The list went on and on. The sack contained many ingredients, but nothing adequate enough to fill her aching stomach in the proper fashion.

  Above her, closer to the door now, the man-with-the-waxen-face chuckled. “You better have eaten by the time I return or I will force it all down your ungrateful throat.”

  Marissa whimpered, gazing over the growing pile with equal dismay. This was not stuff to eat! Dammit!

  At the far end of the passage, he slammed the portal without ceremony. The chain struck the steel-bound door, the lock clicking shut with tremendous force.

  Once more, she was a captive, taken against her will, from her family, her life... her friends…

  Elena.

  Mikalah.

  They were ghost-like thoughts, appearing from nothing, like sunlight through a morning fog.

  My friends… taken… just like me…

  She came from her knees to lean against the wall closest to her, a sideways kind of motion. Her back rested against the one-time smooth surface that was now pit-marked and gouged with time. She arched her neck, her head bumping lightly against the concrete. She breathed in shaken gasps, coercing air as regular as possible, hoping to find solace out of the routine nature of it. She found only desperation in her breast.

  Why is this happening?

  It had only been a few hours, or so she deemed. Yet, it seemed like it had been months ago when she had watched Sebastian run across the front room of her parents’ apartment. She had been mourning then, grieving over the loss of her best friends, praying nothing bad had happened to them. Now, others were doing the same for her. Her mother, her father and her beautiful little brother with his wild ways and jubilant demeanor would be crying for her. They would wish for her release, pray she would come back. She was as gone to them as her friends had been to their families. She was like them now – taken.

  Why is this happening?

  It had only been this past Wednesday when they’d all been together. She and the Herrera sisters had been playing handball with one of the mini-sized, sock-balls. They had not been competing against one another, but against the “ground”. They’d been trying to see how many volleys they could manage in a row. Each of them took a turn whacking the ball against the tall, wooden back-board. The strange Scandinavian girl, Nixy, had been watching with an acerbic expression on her face. It was like she had eaten too many sour Gummy-bears, but Marissa had not cared. They were having a good time of it. Much like when they were much smaller, playing upon the same campus. Only they had cavorted in a different part of the school. It was where the little kids spent their Nutrition and Lunch.

  It feels like so long ago. It feels like it never even happened, like I made it up.

  The muffled groan yanked her from her thoughts. Except for an errant drip of water, the silence in the long chamber had been absolute.

  Frantic, she peered about, coming from the wall, tense, ready to move at a moments’ notice.

  The second moan brought her attention to the bundle still lying in the middle of the passage. She stood with slowness, wary, her instincts screaming at her to be careful. Palms splayed to either side, she walked on her the balls of her feet along the wall, moving closer to the bundle, but remaining out of reach. She noticed the ripples of movement stirring from within the heavy fabric. It was thicker than a blanket, many layers stitched tight so it did not have the fluffy appearance of a comforter. No, this was more like a large throw rug or a swath of dense drapery. But, the movements were undeniable now, coupled with the odd sounds coming from it, she could not mistake it. There was someone – or something – inside, wrapped like a burrito.

  She would have stayed away. She had been content to let whatever was returning to consciousness do so on its’ own, without her help. She would have continued by the wall, her fingertips brushing against the harsh, cold surface. She would have stayed poised on her feet, waiting whatever might spring into being, if she had not heard it speak.

  In a groggy, yet distinct female voice came: “Help me! Can somebody please help me?!”

  After being a victim longer than it suited her, Marissa was all action. She was not about to sit aside while her captives tortured another kid. She’d had enough of that herself. She came to her knees once more, bruising her bruises, but not feeling the smarting pain she should have. Instead, her hands were racing over the surface of the weighty textile, trying to find a way to unroll it. Shocked at first, then frustrated a second later, she saw the man-thing had secured the bundle with copious amount of duct-tape. It was in three places – top, bottom and middle. If she could not find something sharp, it would take her hours to get to the girl wrapped in its’ center.

  “Help me! Heeeeelllppp! I’m covered. I can’t move. I need help. Will somebody please help me!” said the girl, her voice becoming ever more hysterical with every passing syllable.

  “I’m here!” began Marissa. She flattened her palms against the fabric, shaking them with vigor
, hoping the girl could feel the pressure and calm down. “I can here you. I’m trying to get the tape off. Ok? Can you hear me?”

  There was a pause. “Yes! Yes, I can here you. Can you please hurry! I can't breathe in here!”

  “Shit!” Marissa said aloud, but to herself. She glanced about with furtive orbs, trying to locate anything that would improve the situation.

  The sack! she thought of a sudden.

  “I’ll be right back! I have to find something the cut you free.”

  “No! Don’t leave me! Please, don’t leave. I can’t breathe!”

  “I’m only going a few feet away. I need to find something.”

  She could hear the girl begin to cry, her stifled wails loud in the nine-year-olds’ ears. Jeez, she must be screaming her head off in there.

  Enough, Marissa! Get moving! she admonished herself, knee-walking over to the sack, upending it for greater speed. The contents spilled about her lap and onto the floor, cans and various cylindrical items rolling this way and that. She rummaged through the throng, knocking aside useless items, searching. Her eyes darted over them like those of an Avian, breakneck almost, jerky and inhuman.

  “Can you please hurry…?!” She sounded on the verge of a full-fledged breakdown.

  “I’m right here! I’m still looking to -.”

  She saw it then, gleaming back at her – a white plastic knife bound to a few forks and spoons of like manufacture. The man-thing brought me utensils! How weird is that? she thought, quaking anew at the thought of the unbearable creature that had taken her from her family. She shook the thoughts away, reaching for the disposable implements. She broke the rubber band binding them together. She scooted back toward the bundle, knife at the ready. Which one do I cut first…?

  The one by her head, you idiot!

  She edged toward the end where the girls’ weeping was the loudest, putting the semi-sharp knife to the tape. She pinched up one of the sides so she would begin to cut along its’ width. This was the easiest way to slice through the ultra-strong, waterproof adhesive. It took a few hard back and forth motions, but once the knife caught it made a deep enough divide, enabling her the grab a hold on either side. She tugged with all her strength, hearing a satisfying tearing sound and the tape came apart.

  At once, the tension about the textile released and within seconds Marissa had the girls’ head free of the fabric. Only it was not a girl. It was teenager. A petite, half-Caucasian and half-Chinese girl with a face streaked with dirty tears. Her dyed-blonde hair was stuck fast to her scalp. She had been sweating ample amounts within the confines of the blanket (if that’s what it was).

  She turned her head to look at Marissa, her eyes wild with fright. “Oh, thank god for you, little girl. Oh, thank god!”

  The nine-year-old smiled, tired far beyond her age. “Let me cut the other two bonds, so we can get you the heck out of there.”

  As Marissa went to work, all she could hear was, “Thank god for you. Thank god for you,” over and over. It took the younger girl some time to realize the older girl was not praising her. She had been praying for quite some time. It might not have sound like one, but Marissa knew it was one all the same.

  The instant the nine-year-old had parted the third and final bindings, those about her feet. The teenager burst from the blankets, swiping at her clothing. Turning in a counter-clockwise manner, she bounced on the tips of her toes. It was like there were a thousand ants riddling her body.

  She wore skinny blue-jeans, a light brown, long-sleeved, form-fitting sweater. She had on a pair of chestnut-colored flats that grated against the age-old surface of the ground. The noise was more than a little annoying, and the fact the older girl was squealing like a stuck pig the entire time did not help either.

  She looked about fifteen years old, and weighed no more than ninety-five pounds. She had hazel eyes and a narrow face with prominent cheeks in the middle of delicate features. Her hair, as Marissa had assumed, she dyed. It was bright yellow-blonde, but there were varying shades of light brown the closer the strands got to her follicles. Marissa could tell she had not dyed her hair in a long time, and was instead letting it grow out, revealing it’s natural color over time.

  Marissa had watched with a bemused expression on her face, the first mien devoid of fear or anxiety she’d had in a quite a while.

  When the older girl finally stopped, she looked over at the smaller female for no more than a second before she rushed forward. She engulfed her in a tight embrace. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! You don’t know how grateful I am. Thank you…” She trailed off, swinging Marissa to and fro for a few more heartbeats. In was evident, her emotions were getting the best of her.

  The nine-year-old endured the outburst of gratitude, her arms pinned at her sides beneath the near-crushing grip.

  The older girl came away. “My name is Christine. Christine Sturge. What’s yours?”

  “M-Marissa Avalon,” she said, hushed, peering up at the teenager through her thin eyebrows.

  She leaned in and gave her another hug, much lighter than before. “Nice to meet you.”

  The nine-year-old nodded.

  “Although, it would be nice if the circumstances were a bit different. Don’t you think?” she added, scrutinizing their surroundings for the first time.

  Marissa clicked the roof of her mouth with her tongue. “You got that right.”

  Christine’s lips stretched taut with a grim smirk, though her eyes continued to glance about. “Where are we?” she asked after a time.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” began the 3rd grader. “I think we’re underground, though.”

  Christine turned toward her. “What makes you say that?”

  Marissa shrugged. “It smells like we are.”

  “Hmmm,” said the other considering her words. She breathed in the air out of habit, resuming her inspection. “I think you’re right.” Her hands came to her hips. “We’re in some kind of tunnel.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “And, you have no clue where we might be?”

  Marissa shook her head. “Naw.”

  Christine trembled with a new thought. “You wouldn’t happen to know why we’re here, would you?”

  The nine-year-old meandered back toward the concrete wall. Near to where the quasi-provisions the man-thing had brought with him. She leaned against the barrier, sliding down with care until she was sitting once more. “I don’t know,” she replied, her fingers formed a steeple before her face, arms resting on her knees.

  The teen sighed, weaving her way toward the girl. She decided to sit cross-legged on the ground, across the pile of boxes and cans and plastic containers. With alacrity, she wiped away the tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

  “You okay?” asked Marissa, her gentle, caring nature embedded too deep to suppress.

  Christine turned her Asiatic orbs toward her, brushing her hair behind her ears. Another tear escaped and fell into her lap. “No,” was all she managed before she broke into tears once again.

  Without another word, the tiny, 3rd grader pushed aside the “food” barring the way to encircle her arms about the young woman.

  They remained that way for quite some time.

  When they parted some time later, Christine asked: “What should we do now?”

  Marissa wasted no time. “We should eat.”

  “Why? I’m not even all that hungry.”

  “Trust me,” said Marissa. Her eyes were haunted when they met those of the teen.

  ~~~~~~~<<< ᴥ >>>~~~~~~~

  ~ 3 ~

  Questions

  Friday, November 26th, the Day after Thanksgiving, 2:47 pm…

  “What do you think happened to him?” asked the dark-complected, dark-eyed teen.

  He was slender, though muscled from many hours in the gym. He was not particularly athletic or sports-inclined. Rather, he liked to work out to look good for the girls. He had wavy, shoulder-length hair, parted in the middle. His large f
orehead, wide-spaced eyes and puffy cheeks were typical Guatemalan features. He dressed like any neo-punk-rocker of the twenty-first century. He had on torn black jeans (faded) and a t-shirt bearing the name of one of his favorite bands. His shoes were double-souled, black leather Doc Martins, splotched with white paint.

  “I have the faintest idea, man,” replied the large teen, sitting on the other end of the bench.

  Richard Fernandez glanced over at his friend, Daniel Florentine, shaking his head. He was miffed at the dude, because he had not even looked up from his cell phone. He’s definitely texting Mariah again, he thought. I swear to God this lug-nut obsesses over the girl! As always, his thoughts bounced toward those of his girlfriend as well. The memory of her well-made body in his arms warmed him for a second or two. Memories of her were some of his favorites, filled with long kisses and hands full of her firm flesh.

  Richard considered himself lucky to be dating someone like Melanie Dean. She did not resemble any of the girls he had gone out with in the past. First off, she was not from Latin America. In fact, her heritage had roots in some long forgotten European country, nowhere near those ones south of the border of the U.S.

  Though his mother might look at him funny over the top of her reading glasses when she saw the two of them together, he could care less. So what if Melanie was as white as snow? To him, she was beautiful. Her stringy, carrot-colored hair, freckles and smoky eyes of crystal-clear tourmaline made it so. So what if she had tattoos up and down her arms, one on her ankle and another along the small of her back. He knew what it meant. He knew people called body art in that location a Tramp Stamp. And, he knew many people of his culture deemed Caucasian girls easy. Or they would say she was of a loser moral character if they had a degree of tact.

  He did not care. She was funny. She was playful in his arms, unafraid to express herself with either mind or her body.

  He liked that more than anything.

  Then, thoughts of Anthony intruded and he forced those luscious recollections of Melanie aside. What was he doing? This was not the time to get all hot and bothered. There were more important things than hot shorties, right? Right?