The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters

by C. A. Newsome

  “Sure,” the doctor said. “As far as I can tell, she’s fine. A few bumps and bruises, but otherwise, she’s tip-top.” The doctor looked at Abbie. “Do you have any questions before I leave?”

  “I suspect,” Abbie said, pointing toward Wallace, “he will have the answers to most of the questions I have.”

  The doctor smiled. “You’re probably right. Well, if you need anything, just let us know.” With a nod to Wallace, the doctor left the room.

  “So,” Wallace said, “do you want to do this with a question-and-answer session or would you rather I just launch into my sales pitch? I’m fine either way.”

  Abbie smiled. She liked this man. “Let’s start with my last question. Where am I?”

  “We’re in the medical wing of an underground military facility,” Wallace said. “The exact location isn’t important. What is important is the fact that you’re safe.”

  “What about the others?”

  “They’re here, too,” Wallace said. “I suspect you’ll get a visit from that Tim kid as soon as he hears you’re awake. He’s asked about you nonstop for the past two days.”

  “He’s a good boy,” Abbie said.

  “I agree,” Wallace said. “He’ll make a fine soldier.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Abbie said.

  “Me either,” Wallace said, “but these are desperate times.”

  “What happened? Those things… are they really…” Abbie was surprised to find she had trouble saying the word.

  “Vampires?” Wallace said. “Yes. As for what happened… well, we’re now at war with creatures we thought were bedtime stories this time last week.”

  “War?” Abbie asked. “I do hope you’re being dramatic.”

  “I wish that were true,” Wallace said. “A lot of people have died while you were asleep, Sister. Millions.”

  Abbie felt sick.

  Millions.

  It just didn’t seem possible.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in,” Wallace said, “but I don’t really have time to break it to you slowly.”

  “Tim mentioned werewolves,” Abbie said, “not vampires. That whole TV thing…”

  “It was real,” Wallace said. “And yes, it’s what started this. Dr. Bates should have never televised the transformation. If the declaration video is any indication, the werewolves are in charge. From what we’ve seen, vampires aren’t exactly thinkers. They run entirely on instinct. Most likely, the wolves are using the vamps as foot soldiers.”

  “Did you know this was coming?” Abbie asked.

  “Humanity had no idea this was about to happen,” Wallace said.

  Abbie cocked an eyebrow. “You’re hiding something.”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” Wallace said, “but I am leaving out some details, for security reasons. You can trust me, though. This attack was a complete shock to the human race. We lost several major world cities on the first night. Since then, we’ve gotten our footing, but things are bleak, Sister. Very bleak.”

  “Why do you want to recruit me?” Abbie asked. “I’m not a soldier. I’m a nun.”

  “The two professions aren’t mutually exclusive,” Wallace said. “Not anymore.”

  “They told you, didn’t they,” Abbie said. “They told you what I did.”

  Wallace smiled. “Of course they did. You’re a hero to them. Hell, you’re a superhero to them. You have a very rare ability.”

  “Can you explain it?”

  Wallace shook his head. “Not really. During the first assault, we got a few reports of others who could do what you did. They were able to hurt vampires with a touch. We don’t really know why. This is all very new. We’re still trying to separate myth from reality.”

  “The others who could do it,” Abbie said. “Were they religious people?”

  “Some,” Wallace said, “but not all. As far as we can tell, there’s no correlation between religion and this ability. We’ve found Christians, Jews, Muslims, and atheists who can do it. The only thing we know is that it’s very, very rare. Probably less than one percent of the population.”

  “Interesting,” Abbie said.

  “And,” Wallace added, “we know the vampires call you ‘channelers.’ Whatever that means.”

  “That’s why you want me to join you,” Abbie said. “Because I have this ability.”

  “That’s one of the reasons,” Wallace said, “but it’s most certainly not the main reason.”

  “What’s the main reason?”

  “You’re a warrior,” he said flatly.

  Abbie laughed. “I’m many things, Mr. Wallace, but a warrior isn’t one of them. I despise war.”

  “Spoken like a true warrior,” Wallace said with a smile. “Sister, I don’t know how much you remember from the other night, but you killed hundreds of vampires. Hundreds.”

  “I simply did what I had to do,” Abbie said.

  “Exactly,” Wallace said. “The world isn’t what humanity thought it was. Evil creatures exist. In the past week, humanity has learned that evil is not a point of view. It’s a tangible thing. A thing that must be stomped out of existence. There are other channelers, Sister, but there aren’t many like you. You’re not just a channeler. You’re not just a warrior. You’re both.”

  “What exactly would I be joining?” Abbie asked. “An army?”

  “We don’t have a name yet,” Wallace said. “At least nothing official. Right now, we’re simply a coalition. Every military organization in the world is working together. We’re pooling all resources, from information to soldiers.”

  “So it took an invasion of vampires to make us finally stop killing each other,” Abbie said.

  Wallace chuckled. “I suppose so.”

  “I’ll think it over,” Abbie said. “I have a thousand more questions, but I suppose they can wait.”

  “I hope that’s a yes,” Wallace said. “I really don’t have time to court you. Just know, we need you, Sister. Humanity needs you.”

  “Of course it’s a yes,” Abbie said. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

  Wallace sighed, obviously relieved. “I’m sure the doctors will want to keep you for observation for another day or so. As soon as they release you, we’ll start your training.”

  “So when I join your group of soldiers,” Abbie said, “what will I be doing? I have no military training.”

  “All that stuff can be learned,” Wallace said. “And let me be clear about something… I’m not asking you to join my soldiers. I’m asking you to lead them.”

  Abbie fell back onto her bed and stared at the room’s ceiling. “Nothing will ever be the same again.”

  “You’re right,” Wallace said.

  “Do you really think we can win a war against an army of monsters?” Abbie asked.

  “Yes,” Wallace said. “I do. And when you meet the men and women signing up to fight this war, you’ll believe it too.”

  “I don’t need to meet them to believe it,” Abbie said. “I’ve always believed the human spirit is the most powerful force on this planet.”

  “That’s precisely why we need you,” Wallace said. “But for now, I’ll let you rest. Get some food. I’m sure you’re starving. Welcome to the team, Sister.”

  “One last question before you go,” Abbie said.

  “Sure.”

  “You said there’s no official name for this coalition of armies,” Abbie said. “Is there an unofficial one?”

  “Yeah,” Wallace said. “Several of the soldiers have adopted a nickname based on the fact that we’re fighting the darkness and protecting the light.”

  “What’s the nickname?”

  “They’re calling themselves Day Soldiers.”

  “Day Soldiers,” Abbie echoed. “You know, I think I like it.”

  “Yeah,” Wallace said. “I think I like it, too.”

  * * *

  Abbie’s story is just the beginning. If you’d like to read more about the W
ar Against the Darkness, Day Soldiers, the first book in Brandon Hale’s action-packed Day Soldiers series, is free at most major online retailers.

  *

  When he's not writing post-apocalyptic adventures, most of Brandon Hale's time is spent with his wife in the mountains of Virginia. Brandon loves to dabble in all forms of art, from drawing to sculpting, but writing will always be his first, best love. Most of his time is spent writing novels and keeping up his blog:

  http://booksfromhale.com

  *

  How Jessica met Simon: A Tube Riders Origins Story

  Chris Ward

  Jessica

  It was a risk to go looking for the boy again, especially after the pitiful smudge of hazy sunlight had dropped behind the high rises to the west, leaving only the few working streetlights and the trash fires to illuminate London’s streets. Camden Market, once a buzzing hive of subculture, wasn’t the place her father said it had been forty years ago, before the Governor took power. It was as dangerous at night as anywhere else, but there had been something in the boy’s look, those bright eyes, that was tugging on her like a fishhook embedded in her heart. The boy had cast his line and now was reeling her back in.

  With a defiant sigh, Jessica put down the book and stood up. She switched off her reading lamp and went to the window, drawing back her curtains to reveal the quiet Richmond street outside.

  The streetlight at the front of their house had gone out again. Jessica frowned. The loss of power was never a good sign, but it did mean it would be easier to get out without her parents noticing.

  She took her jacket from the hook behind her door and slipped down the stairs. In the living room, her father was snoring on the sofa, his head resting on his shoulder. Her mother was watching the TV with the sound turned down low, a blanket over her knees. Jessica slipped back into the shadows, pressed the temporary deactivation button for their security system and slipped out.

  The street was dark, the night thankfully quiet. She zipped up her jacket and pulled the hood over her face, even though it was neither raining nor especially cold. In a pocket in the inner lining something heavy jostled – the knife she never left home without. Her parents might consider it bad form for the daughter of a respectable family to carry a street urchin’s weapon, but if they knew they would understand.

  They lived in London Greater Urban Area too.

  A hollow whump sounded from a few hundred metres away and a glow appeared above the line of houses to her right. Jessica sighed, pulled the hood lower over her face, and hurried for the tube.

  There was some kind of commotion going on by the entrance, but she ignored it, easing her way through the crowd and down into the station. She had just passed

  through the turnstiles when a gunshot rang out from above. Several security guards appeared from nowhere and hauled huge sliding riot doors across, blocking off the exits behind her.

  ‘Get on the next, lass,’ the nearest guard said. ‘All further trains tonight will be diverted until that mob clears out.’

  She wanted to ask what was going on, but one glance at the three security guards halted her tongue. Between the escalator down to the platform and the riot doors were just her, a pretty posh girl, and three disillusioned men. She had nothing to gain and everything to lose. She nodded and hurried down to the platform.

  No one got off the next eastbound train as it pulled in, the notification of the station’s temporary closure obviously having been announced. She climbed up into the sticky warmth blasting from a broken air conditioner, took a seat in the corner and folded her arms over her chest.

  The train rumbled off into the tunnel. Gazing out at the blurred advertising hoardings rushing past, Jessica wondered whether she would even be able to find the boy again.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you … but do you have the time?’

  His words had been so mundane, so throwback, so antiquated. Jessica had stared into the piercing blue of his eyes, the words bouncing around in her head like fragments of a long forgotten song.

  And she had felt something she had only ever read about before, something which terrified and excited her at the same time.

  Simon

  He slammed a fist against the wall as tears welled in his eyes. The door to his flat hung loose on one hinge, swaying back and forth. A huge puncture in the centre showed where the Department of Civil Affairs had broken it open.

  He listened for a few moments but only silence came from inside. He crept in through the open doorway and looked around. Their things were strewn everywhere. Everything that could be smashed had been, and all their cupboards and drawers had been upended, their contents strewn across the floor like flotsam on a beach after a powerful storm.

  Only one thing seemed to be missing.

  His father.

  ‘I told you, I told you…’

  They won’t find out, his father had said, over and over, crouched in front of the computer and its illegal internet connection. How could they? Stop worrying, Simon.

  They had. The computer was in pieces and his father taken by the government’s henchmen, dragged away into whatever hellhole of interrogation now awaited him.

  Simon turned at the sound of footsteps beating out a heavy rhythm on the stairs below. Simon looked up, frowned, and hurried inside, grabbing what he could, stuffing a few clothes and some personal items into a hold-all. He made it back out on to the landing as the first of the looters – maybe alerted to the arrest by the DCA cars in the street – appeared on the landing below.

  He had just scrambled up to the higher landing and ducked down behind the metal railing before they barged into his flat and began to ransack it, taking everything they could, pushing each other aside to grab handfuls of food cans, clothing, pieces of furniture. Simon grimaced as a fight broke out, wincing as heavy fists landed with hollow thuds. While the men were distracted he took his cue, hurrying down the stairs and out into the cool autumn air, his bag of belongings wedged under his arm.

  He ducked into the nearest alleyway and leaned back against the cold concrete of the building he no longer lived in, sucking in a couple of deep breaths.

  Everything he knew had turned on its head. His father would never return, and he would never be able to find him. When the DCA took you, you were gone for good. His father had demanded a modicum of respect in the community, but now the gangs would move in, take over his flat, and steal or sell everything he and his father had called theirs. Simon felt strangely empty; not angry, not disappointed. Relieved, even. While his father had ploughed the digital airwaves looking for some shred of news that Europe gave a crap about life in London GUA, Simon had felt the watching eyes of the DCA hovering at his shoulder.

  It could have been worse, he supposed. They could have sent the Huntsmen, and half the building’s tenants would now be dead.

  He glanced up at the thin sliver of grey sky peering down at him from between two grimy walls of concrete. It would be dark soon. He had to find cover before then.

  St Cannerwells London Underground station, where the Tube Riders hung out, would do. With a bit of luck Marta, Switch, or Paul would be there, and while he couldn’t rely on any of them for somewhere to stay, they could at least help him out with some gear until he found a new place. London was filled with abandoned buildings, so it wasn’t difficult to find a roof. The hard part was finding a safe one. Wraiths that had once been respectable people haunted the dark corridors of derelict apartment

  blocks and factories, preying on anyone not resourceful enough to put a lock between them and the outside.

  It was only a handful of tube stops to Hopewell, the nearest operating station to St Cannerwells. He could jump the tube and be with his friends in half an hour.

  He headed out on to the street, threading himself through the piles of rubbish and abandoned cars, the stench of rotting food and decaying flesh so familiar it barely registered. At the end of the street he turned left, dodged out of the way of the rusty,
lumbering hulk of a government-run bio-bus, and hurried across the street to the nearest Underground entrance.

  At the top of the steps he paused, his heart sinking. A notice taped to the metal shutter doors at a crooked angle flapped in the breeze.

  STATION CLOSED

  NO FURTHER TRAINS TODAY

  Simon ran a hand through his hair. It was a long way across London to St Cannerwells on foot, and he didn’t dare risk a government bus once twilight set in.

  There were too many shark operations that would sell you a ticket and then cut your throat.

  The market where he worked during the day was halfway there. Perhaps he could find somewhere nearby to sleep. It was worth a try.

  Feeling a leaden weight hanging about his heart, he hurried off into the gloom. Around him, the fires and the lights of London crackled into life.

  Jessica

  She hung back in the shadows, the hood pulled down over her face. The market was dark, most of the streetlights broken, only a couple of trashcan fires further down and a tired, indistinct moon illuminating the closed market stalls, the awnings pulled down over them and tied up.

  The boy who had asked her for the time had been working on one of these little stalls. She immediately felt foolish for coming back here – after all what had she expected, the market to still be bustling with people and the boy to be standing there warming his hands over a paper cup of steaming coffee? She knew London. Nothing savoury happened after dark.

  ‘I’m a stupid little girl,’ she muttered. ‘Dad’s going to kill me.’

  A clattering dustbin lid somewhere behind her brought more immediate danger to mind. She glanced around, looking for somewhere to hide. Several pairs of running feet were approaching, but she was too far out in the open to make it to an alleyway before whoever was coming reached her.

  ‘Shit,’ she muttered, spinning around, assessing her options. A friend of hers had been raped and murdered just a few streets from her house. London was so dangerous that even in her up-market part of town the schools had armed guards. At nineteen she was unemployed, but hopeful of getting a lower office position in her father’s government office so she could ride the same armoured transport to work and avoid the dangerous streets.