by Jason Parent
Now, Connor couldn’t trust his phone, Internet or even in-person conversations to be private, or at least kept that way. He presumed everyone around him to be an FBI plant or an unwitting participant in the Bureau’s investigation. Connor never discussed the property or Tryst with anyone, not even his own daughter. It was the only way he knew how to keep Tryst hidden from those who would do her harm.
And Tryst was gone. Although it saddened him deeply, Connor knew she was safer if he remained absent from her life. He wondered if she were as lonely as he was. Connor had a considerable network of acquaintances and fair-weather friends. He could turn to any number of people for insignificant social interaction, to fill his emptiness with temporary distraction. Tryst had no one. The thought of her alone, despairing, was like a dagger in his chest. Wishing things could be different, Connor stayed away.
Then, circumstances changed. Nearly six months had gone by without a word from Tryst or about Tryst. Talk of the alien invaders and their evil plan to overthrow the world’s governments had died down. President Cameron Stowe awarded some fancy medal to Lieutenant Jonathan Westfield, who became Captain Westfield, a national hero. The country, the world even, continued on as if nothing had ever happened. Everyone seemed to accept that the aliens were dead… at least, officially.
Yet, neither alien’s body had been retrieved from the crater left on Route 9. What the federal government told its people was belied by the agents it planted outside Connor’s door. The government was still looking for confirmation of Kazi and Tryst’s deaths. And Connor knew with undeniable clarity that at least one of them still lived. Thoughts of the other’s survival kept Connor awake at night, half-expecting a visitor to emerge from the dark spaces. If Kazi was still alive, Connor wasn’t safe in his own home. He doubted he’d be safe anywhere.
When the voice came to him late one night a week prior, Connor thought it must have been a dream. But it came again the next night and again the next. It kept coming until Connor thought himself crazy. The voice pleaded with him to go to it. It sounded like Tryst’s voice, but it couldn’t have been hers. She was more than three thousand miles away.
The voice grew more persistent, maybe even impatient. After four days, Connor began hearing it at all hours. It sounded as though it were in pain. It needed Connor’s help, and by the sound of it, time was of the essence.
Could it really have been Tryst? Connor didn’t know. He’d seen the Symorians do some amazing things. For Tryst to hone her telepathic abilities to the extent that she could communicate with him from across the nation wasn’t a possibility to which his mind was closed. The voice beckoned to him; Connor would answer its call.
Early winter had come to New England, and the biting cold had been quick to follow. The snow would be coming soon enough. Connor requested immediate time off for a much-needed vacation, some rest and relaxation in a warmer climate. At least, that’s what he told his boss.
True enough, Connor booked a flight to Los Angeles the next day. Expecting to be followed even after he landed at LAX, Connor exited the airport, got into a taxi, travelled to a hotel at which he had no intention of staying and walked through its front door, where he booked a room at the reception desk. Then, he quietly proceeded into the restroom.
There, Connor ditched his jacket and backpack for a fresh sweatshirt, hat and sunglasses he’d hidden inside the backpack. He exited the bathroom, then the hotel itself through a service exit, being as discreet as possible. He walked to a used-car lot nearby, right where his online research told him it would be. A beat-up Chevy Blazer won his affection, and Connor paid for it in cash. Anticipating the long drive north, he filled his gas tank and prayed the truck would make the trip.
Aside from the occasional rattle from somewhere inside the steering column and its urine-like odor, the shit-box Chevy held up fairly well. The miles piled up and the snow with them as Connor approached Anchorage, Alaska. He had no trouble at either U.S.-Canadian border and allowed himself to hope that the government had forgotten about him. It didn’t matter; he’d done his homework. He had located several alternative spots for Tryst to hide if he had been followed once again.
The trip into Anchorage took him more than a day, Connor having only taken a quick nap in the Blazer’s cab before continuing on the final leg of his journey. The cabin he’d purchased for Tryst was another ninety miles north of Anchorage, buried outside some old, gold-rush ghost town. The nearest supermarket was thirty-eight miles away.
Connor cleaned up, refilled his tank, stocked up on junk food in Anchorage and thanked his good fortune that the harsh Alaskan winter had thus far not lived up to its reputation. Still, the roads were tough going, visibility limited by flurries, a blanket of snow covering the roads where plows had already been. Connor couldn’t be certain the roads were where the signs claimed them to be. He prayed his GPS wouldn’t steer him wrong.
In fact, it was, albeit intentionally. Connor inputted an incorrect address in case his GPS was being monitored. He’d memorized the final directions beyond the GPS’ false end point. He’d taken every precaution that came to mind but was sure he’d fouled something up along the way.
It was late in the day when Connor pulled up to the cabin. He smiled, finding it remarkable how much the property resembled its advertisements. He was thankful for it. What was even more remarkable was how much it resembled Connor’s grandparents’ cabin, the pre-obliterated version anyway.
The structure was nearly identical, aside from it being clean and habitable. Connor might have believed it to have been crafted by the same architect had it not been a quarter of the way around the world and built long before the Internet could place its plans at everyone’s fingertips.
Even the lay of the land matched. Thick, evergreen-filled woods surrounded the cabin on three sides. The fourth side was adjacent to a short plain that led to a large, pristine lake. At that time of year, the lake was already frozen around its edges, but it was still a sight worth seeing, a beautiful, untouched wilderness. Snowcapped peaks hovered over its far end like stalwart guardians protecting nature’s abundant treasures. Connor gazed at them and was humbled by a force far grander than himself.
Connor, the voice called inside his head. It was louder than before, but only because it sounded so close. At the same time, it was weaker, fragile. Some of its vigor had left it.
Connor rushed into the cabin, its front door unlocked as if he was expected. A fire died inside the fireplace. Someone had abandoned it.
He looked around the living room and kitchen, finding no sign of life other than the nearly extinguished fire. The cabin was furnished, just as the online site said it would be. But the furniture appeared unused.
Connor tended to the fireplace, tossing in one of the logs stacked nearby. “Tryst?” he called, but no answer came. He continued down the hallway, peeking into doorways as he passed them.
In a bedroom, he found her. Tryst lay in bed, looking as pale as she did when they had first met, before the rains had come. The lower half of her sheets was soaked in a thick, dark-purple liquid. It’s blood. Connor recognized it for what it was.
When Tryst saw him, she smiled. It looked to Connor like even smiling hurt her. Her white complexion having returned, Tryst’s face almost looked skeletal, like the hand of Death that had caught her in its unretracting grasp.
Confused, Connor hurried to her side. He’d seen something like it before, a long time ago, when he’d held his wife’s hand as she died in her hospital bed. Tryst, too, appeared to be dying, but Connor couldn’t so much as hold her hand to comfort her. He knelt beside her, the tears welling up in his eyes.
“I’m so happy you came,” Tryst said, again forcing a smile. She looked like each breath she exhaled could be her last. “It must have been difficult for you. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on.”
“I wanted to come,” Connor said, and he meant it. “What happened?”
A terrible thought crossed his mind. �
�Has Kazi returned?” The words came out hectic. “Did he do this to you?”
“Relax, Connor,” Tryst said, offering a short laugh. “We’ve been safe here. You did an excellent job selecting this place. We can’t thank you enough.”
We? Connor didn’t understand Tryst’s use of the word. If not Kazi, who else would be there? His uneasiness made his skin crawl. Then, something moved beneath Tryst’s blanket. A pet? No. It couldn’t survive against her like that. Connor watched the movements by her knee, his thoughts spiraling in a thousand directions until his mind latched onto the only one that seemed possible.
His jaw dropped, at once overwhelmed and overjoyed. It suddenly all made sense to him. Connor really had seen this before. Feelings of melancholy and happiness swirled like hurricanes inside him, caught in a tempest of memory and revelation.
Tryst grinned. This time it wasn’t forced. “Do you want to see them?” she asked.
“Them?” Connor swallowed hard, nervous and excited. “May I?”
“Of course.” Tryst struggled to lower her blankets. Connor ran to the opposite side of the bed and gently tugged her covers back. Delicately, he exposed the creatures beneath.
Tryst’s legs were covered in blood, more than a human could stand to lose. The thickest puddle curdled between her thighs. To the right of her left knee, two tiny beings rested, still covered in their mother’s blood. They were no more than eight inches tall, a light pink in color even without the blood that stained them and much softer in appearance than their adult counterparts. The babies’ eyes were closed. Their ears folded over like a fox terrier’s. Their black hair was slick and already long.
“Twins,” Connor muttered, momentarily stunned. “Congratulations,” was all he could say after a long silence. He stared at the children, proud as though he’d had something to do with their conception.
Tryst shook him back into the real world with an unsympathetic truth. “Connor, I’m dying.”
“Don’t say that, Tryst.” Connor started to weep. He couldn’t help himself. So many emotions were battering him like floodwaters against a dam. The tears would not be stopped. Connor cried as though he were already at Tryst’s funeral. He turned away, ashamed.
“Tell me what to do, and I’ll fix you,” he said, desperate to do so but not really believing he could. It didn’t take a Symorian to see that Tryst wasn’t long for this world.
“That’s sweet, Connor,” Tryst said, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “But there’s no fixing me.” Her eyes drifted toward her children. “They will need protection at first, and someone to teach them right from wrong.”
Connor tensed. “What are you saying?” In his heart, Connor knew exactly what Tryst was implying. But the reality seemed unfathomable. There had to be a better solution. There had to be someone more appropriate to handle her request. Connor didn’t feel strong enough, fit enough, to do what she was asking.
As if the implication weren’t enough, Tryst made it explicit. “Please, Connor, they need you. Raise them as if they were your own. There’s so much love in you. You may think you lost it, and I know you’ve lost much, but it’s in there. I see it. Milliken saw it, too.”
“I wouldn’t even know how—”
“All they need is water, and lots of it. But they aren’t plants, Connor. They need a father.”
“But I can’t even hold them or care for them like only your kind could.”
“Yes, you can. They aren’t normal Symorian babies. They’ve evolved somehow, adapted to life on your planet. That’s probably why I had so much trouble birthing them.”
“Are you sure?” The thought of touching a Symorian came with a considerable dose of fear. After all, Connor had seen what happens when human and Symorian flesh met.
Tryst nodded. Connor hesitated. You can trust Tryst, too, he remembered Milliken saying. But to pick up one of the Symorian children would be to take a tremendous leap of faith. Could he deny her? Could he deny himself? Tryst’s proposal offered him something for which he’d always prayed but never expected to materialize, a second chance. Connor wasn’t about to shirk it.
Well, I lived a good life. He giggled uncomfortably. His shoulders dropped, and he frowned. Not really, but I tried. Here goes nothing.
Connor reached for the closest of the twins, the female. She lay spooning the male, whose nose and lips pressed against his mother’s thigh. The male cried when Connor removed his sister. Connor cradled her in his arms, awaiting his pain.
But the burn didn’t come. Connor slowly began to relax, then to appreciate the miracle of life, both the baby’s and his own. The little girl opened one eye. It was bluer than the sky and looking right at him, seemingly aware of his presence. Then, the eye closed, and the baby stretched, letting out what sounded like a yawn. She nestled her head into Connor’s fingers and drifted off to sleep.
“She’s beautiful,” Connor said. “What’s her name?”
“Remus,” Tryst responded, her voice filled with admiration. Even in her frailty, Tryst wore the face of a proud mother. A soft glow, a momentary flash of color, appeared in her cheeks but then faded. “And the boy is Romulus.”
“Both fine selections,” Connor said, intrigued by her choices and trying hard not to read into their meaning. If he were to care for the children, he’d honor their given namesakes.
“Life will be tough for them.” Tryst’s voice couldn’t mask her sadness. “For you, too. I’m sorry I’ve placed this burden on you. You may think I did so because there’s no one else, but the truth is, there’s no one else, alive or dead, Symorian or human, to whom I’d rather entrust them.”
Connor picked up Romulus and cradled him in his left arm. The baby boy seemed content to be held, and his crying stopped. Remus remained cradled in his right arm, and there, in the arms of a human, they both fell asleep.
Connor moved closer to Tryst so that she could see her babies’ faces one more time, one last time. As he did, her strain seemed to release from her. Tryst had literally carried the responsibility for her species’ survival inside her, and she had carried it alone.
How long had she known about them? Connor displayed the newborns to their mother. Tryst seemed happy to be near them, her children of two worlds.
Her breathing became slow and infrequent. Her eyes opened and closed, each closing lasting longer than the previous. Tryst seemed to be fighting the darkness as best she could, but the darkness couldn’t and wouldn’t be stopped. Connor talked with Tryst at first, then to Tryst, until she fell asleep.
That night, Tryst died. The twins wailed through the night as if they knew who they had lost. For all Connor knew, maybe they did. He tried his best to console them, but it was hard for him, too. He shared their pain.
When the morning came, Connor buried Tryst in the ground behind the cabin. It took him hours to dig a deep enough hole into the frozen earth. When he finished, Connor placed a stone marker over her grave. In the spring, when the snow receded, he’d honor her with a deeper grave and a more fitting tombstone. Connor knew he’d never forget her, and he would share his memories of the woman she was with her children—their mother: the soldier, the pioneer, the heroine, whose final act was to ensure their survival.
But for the moment, winter was coming. Connor needed to prepare. He cleaned and wrapped the babies in blankets and snuggled them beside each other in a wicker basket he found in a closet. Placing the basket on the floor in front of the Blazer’s passenger seat, Connor set off to the supermarket thirty-eight miles away. He needed supplies, at least six months’ worth, and not just for him, but for the babies.
By the time he finished at the register, Connor had little cash on hand. He hoped he’d bought enough goods to carry them forward. People would be looking for him. His ATM and credit cards would give him away. He’d only use them as a last resort.
Connor returned to the cabin, his new home. There, he and the babies would brace themselves for the oncoming winter. He smiled at Remus and Romulus, wond
ering what spring would bring.
THE END
About The Author
In his head, Jason Parent lives in many places, but in the real world, he calls New England his home. The region offers an abundance of settings for his writing and many wonderful places in which to write them. He currently resides in Southeastern Massachusetts with his cuddly corgi named Calypso.
In a prior life, Jason spent most of his time in front of a judge… as a civil litigator. When he finally tired of Latin phrases no one knew how to pronounce and explaining to people that real lawsuits are not started, tried and finalized within the 60-minute timeframe they see on TV (it's harassing the witness; no one throws vicious woodland creatures at them), he traded in his cheap suits for flip flops and designer stubble. The flops got repossessed the next day, and he's back in the legal field… sorta. But that's another story.
When he's not working, Jason likes to kayak, catch a movie, travel any place that will let him enter, and play just about any sport (except that ball tied to the pole thing where you basically just whack the ball until it twists in a knot or takes somebody's head off - he misses the appeal). And read and write, of course. He does that too sometimes.
Please visit the author on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJasonParent?ref=hl,
on Twitter at https://twitter.com/AuthorJasParent, or at his website, http://authorjasonparent.com/, for information regarding upcoming events or releases, or if you have any questions or comments for him.
Coming Soon
There is Darkness in Every Room by Brian Fatah Steele
Halfway to Anywhere – Volume 1