Blinded By Sight (Gray Series Book 3)

by Brian Spangler

  There is more to remember about that day. Another flutter, and she realized that her hand was still pressed to her middle. A strange notion came to her then as she massaged her belly. Her heart swelled at the idea—and emotion suddenly overwhelmed her. She was listening to a child growing inside her. But it was too soon; it was impossible, wasn’t it? Sammi shook her head, ridding her mind of the thought. Instead she considered what had killed her.

  Maybe this is where the theater post stabbed through me? Am I remembering more? Sammi began to wonder if she might instead be feeling what had happened to her during the End of Gray Skies, as though her body were holding onto it like a bad dream.

  She brought back the images of Declan with the sun behind him. She remembered having to squint, and that she’d forced her eyes open to see all of it, no matter how bright. I’d eat the sunlight, she remembered having said once.

  But what happened to the sun? And what happened to the End of Gray Skies?

  Warmth rose on her neck, prickling her skin, as though she’d done something wrong. I should have asked that question before, shouldn’t I have? But why now? I should have been asking all along. Sammi forgot about the twinge in her belly, as her recognition of this innocent sin of neglect spawned more questions. Her mouth went dry while she thought of how important to her, to everyone, the End of Gray Skies had been. So why hadn’t she given any thought to it until now? What happened?

  She’d forgotten about the End of Gray Skies. That was about to change: she’d make sure of it. But hadn’t she known all along? The sense of something new, something miraculous, fluttered again, grabbing her attention, and lowering the veil of guilt.

  Sammi glanced at the lights, looking for the calm that she’d felt and heard so many times before. Concern came then as another flit tumbled inside her. She suddenly felt ill. Soon the dryness in her mouth was replaced by a sickly wet. And when the back of her throat opened up, Sammi could think of only one thing: that she was going to be sick.

  A wave of queasy heat took hold of her, reeling in her stomach, causing her to fold over until her insides were splayed across the floor. Sammi heaved again, arching her back as she sucked in air. When was the last time she’d been sick? She thought back to Ms. Gilly’s class, and the time she’d spilled her lunch. The other kids had been cruel; they had always been cruel. “Sammi Sunshine,” they’d teased, having added another verse or two.

  Declan had come to her side that day with no fear, no reservations. He’d knelt down next to her, pulling her hair back as she finished vomiting. She remembered being afraid to look up, worried that he’d think differently of her. But he’d only asked if she was feeling better, and then he’d offered to walk her back to her dwelling. He’d even made jokes while they’d walked the morse lines; the laughing had helped her to feel better.

  She stayed down on the floor, waiting for the nausea to pass. From there, she looked across the room, and saw legs and feet moving about busily. Blood raced to her head, causing her ears to ring, as images of being chased by Harold came to her. Another memory surfaced from that teasing void in her brain that held the good and the bad of her past. In the memory, they were on the ground, she and Declan, sitting in a pocket of open fog, surrounded, and in danger. She then heard the distant sound of a cat’s mewl and shuddered. Sammi quickly shrugged it away, knowing the unpleasantness of what had happened next.

  Feet shuffled back and forth beneath the tables, working a mindless grind of sorting rocks and other samples. Curious, Sammi pretended to vomit again, heaving even louder this time and slapping the floor. The work continued. It was as if they’d no idea that she’d gone missing. Her belly flipped, but it wasn’t from being sick. No, it was the miracle of what was growing inside her: the miracle that was a part of her and Declan. But her miracle was doing something more: it was opening her eyes to this place. Her salvation wasn’t a salvation at all. She didn’t know what it was. Declan had been right to ask questions.

  From above her, she caught a glimpse of the lights flashing, bouncing off of everything in the room. She ignored them, but she couldn’t disregard her growing concern. It was the type of concern that bordered on fear, but never quite breached that boundary.

  How long before I am afraid? she thought. Sammi considered Declan’s questions about what had happened to the End of Gray Skies. Maybe she was scared for him. But the VAC Machine had saved his life too, hadn’t it?

  Sammi stood up from the floor, knowing that it would be the last time she’d ever be in this room. She felt different in more ways than one, and decided that she needed to find Declan. When she saw her reflection in the tabletop, she reached her arm up above her bosom.

  It’s missing, she thought. She quickly cut a curl from her hair, and using a loose bit of wire from her work station, fastened and pinned the new lock of hair onto her coveralls. At once, she felt like herself again. She felt good; she felt whole.

  Then her mind went blank as a torrent of deafening sound pierced her ears, and a flash of brilliant white filled her eyes. When her knees gave, she braced herself against the table. Only once before had a sensation been so unmistakable, and it had been her last: when she’d fallen from the old theater’s balcony and landed on her back, her head crashing against the hard ground.

  Is this the beginning of death? she wondered, and gasped at the overwhelming sensation that was assaulting her.

  Beneath the unforgiving tones and mordant lights, Sammi found pain. The torment started behind her eyes, then made a fiery path that traveled through her brain and down her neck. The painful streams bored their way deep into her heart, which she was certain would burst into pieces. Underneath her coveralls, her skin buzzed with short waves of static tingles as though it were suddenly energized. When the goosebumps came, she shivered hard, rocking the table, and had to pinch her thighs together when her bladder nearly let go.

  Sammi didn’t understand what was happening to her. Yet she had a vague awareness that it wasn’t new; she’d felt it before. Pulsing and alive, the burn behind her eyes eased somewhat, becoming tolerable. The explosion of brightness faded to soft, glowing spotlights that bounced to the thrum in her ears. She knew the rhythm—the sequence anyway—like a childhood memory of a nursery rhyme. Sammi gathered her senses, and recognized the bright flash for what it was: a message. She was being summoned by the lights.

  Sequences of colors flashed on and off, reprimanding her, and pouring out commands that now seemed moot. She could see the bright wash of colors through her eyelids. Hadn’t she followed every instruction, every command, until now? Sammi tightened her grip on the table and prepared to open her eyes.

  It shouldn’t hurt, she told herself. It didn’t hurt before. But still, she anticipated the pain.

  The lights beamed brightly, the message still directed at her. Another flutter turned in her belly, stronger than the last, and Sammi took hold of the table again, thankful to have something to lean on.

  Another volley of lights followed in rapid succession. The message needled its way into her consciousness, repeating, stronger each time. Sammi shook her head until she’d become dizzy, and then she surprised herself by turning away from the lights. The urge to look at them was still there; but it had been trumped by the revelation that she didn’t need to see, didn’t need to obey, didn’t need to understand what they were saying. Not anymore.

  This is what Declan has been talking about, she realized. The lights don’t drive him; they never have. A flutter from her belly welcomed the thought. Sammi saw the brightness bouncing off the other workers, splashing rainbow shades from their iridescent coveralls. She looked one last time and then moved her eyes down and away.

  The urge to listen to the lights faded, grew distant and lost. I’m listening to something else now. While Sammi knew that it was too soon, and maybe even impossible, a pleasing calm settled into her when she felt the first kick of her unborn child.

  THANK YOU

  Thank you for reading Blinded by Sight.
I do hope you enjoyed my book. Want to know what happens next in the series? Pick up Union where the Gray series concludes. At the end of this eBook, I’ve bundled the first chapter for free. Give it a read.

  Something that you may not know about Blinded by Sight is that it is an indie novel, meaning it is an independently published work. Something else that you might not know is that you can help be a part of its success. When it comes to indie novels, nothing helps more than telling your friends and family about the great book you just read. Reviews help too, and it would be greatly appreciated if you would please leave an honest review on Amazon.

  And don’t forget about the FREE stuff that I mentioned. Click the newsletter link, or navigate to http://writtenbybrian.com/sign-up to subscribe to my newsletter and get some freebies.

  Look for some of my other novels and upcoming novels:

  An Order of Coffee and Tears

  Superman’s Cape

  Naked Moon

  Going Gray — Gray Series Book 1

  Gray Skies — Gray Series Book 2

  Blinded by Sight — Gray Series Book 3

  Union — Gray Series Book 4

  From the Indie Side

  Silo Saga: Lottery

  Over the Pond

  Glass Horses

  Fallen Pages

  Even Monsters Need Love

  ABOUT ME

  WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?

  I'M A WALRUS!

  Brian Johnson - The Breakfast Club

  Who am I?

  I'm a resident of Virginia, living with my wife and children, along with three cats (sometimes more), a mouse, parrot, lizard and the funniest chinchilla on the east coast.

  Although I live in Virginia, my heart is still in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where I grew up. And I hope that one day, I'll be able to call Philadelphia home again.

  Growing up, I liked to read short stories, but struggled with the words. You see, I had a secret: a sad little secret. Ashamed and embarrassed, I was the little kid in the back row of the schoolroom, quietly moving my lips along with the class while everyone read aloud. I couldn't read. I couldn't write. I hoped nobody would notice, but they did. They always did.

  By the time I'd reached the fourth grade, my secret wasn't a secret anymore. The teachers knew something was wrong. Dyslexia. Maybe that is why I liked science fiction so much? All those crazy looking glyphs on the screen, glowing, flashing.

  The fix? Back to the third grade for me, and then special classes three days a week. It worked. Once I started reading, I never stopped. Stephen King, Piers Anthony, Dean Koontz, and even the Judy Blume books my sisters discarded.

  I'm still one of the slowest readers I know, but school was never a problem again. I finally graduated the third grade, and then kept on going until I finished my Masters.

  These days, I work as an engineer and spend my nights writing, editing and thinking up the next great story.

  Happy Reading,

  Brian

  UNION

  Excerpt from the Union novel (Book 4 of the Gray Series)

  ** Chapter 1 — Sneak Peek **

  With her feet in the surf, Janice kicked up some of the ocean water, enjoying the feel of it on her skin. As she wiggled her toes, the foamy spray felt crisp and reviving after the long muggy walk from their Commune. Any respite from the stifling humid shuffle over the black sands—especially for her feet and legs—was welcome, and to say the least, necessary. She let out a contented sigh, while she gazed at the wall of fog that was just a few dozen hands from the surf. Squeezing her toes around the loose sand, she watched the vaporous gray, as it rolled, busily moving about, like a nest of farming floor honeybees after pollinating the gardens. She stared long enough to see the myriad of fallen clouds dispersing and thinning, only to reform, hiding the other side of the world from them. She thought of all the people who’d stood where she stood, wondering what was beyond the wall; wondering what had happened to them all after the accident.

  Why did the End of Gray Skies fail?

  Puffy gray pockets coasted past her and Richard for much of their walk; she was sitting in one now. The veil of it reflected up from the watery ripples that were spurred on by the kick of her toes. Their walk was a dramatic change from her day-to-day in the classroom, but she really couldn’t complain, since their journey had been mostly uneventful. While the fog was heavier most of the time, they’d had perfect weather for the travel to the VAC Machine. What Richard had warned her about, more than once, was the state of the weather. Outsiders were more apt to be on the move: prowling and hunting when the fog was thick and the air was warming.

  Janice turned and waded through the surf, keeping her distance from Richard to no less than a few hands. With the mix of thick fog, and pits and hollows around them, she didn’t want to risk being separated. Richard’s step was slowing; she could tell by the way he favored one of his feet, occasionally stopping and shifting his padded coverall shoes. Janice called out to him, motioning to the ocean, and urged him to douse his toes too. He waved off the suggestion, and then shooed away a salt-gnat, before explaining that he didn’t care for the surf. Janice considered this, scoffed at his silliness, teasing him, and then kicked the spray into the air. Richard dodged the water, curling his nose, and insisted that he wanted to stay dry.

  Having traveled for days, even on the softest beach sands, her feet had tired easily, and she was certain that his must have too. Soon enough, as they continued walking, she saw him venture closer to the ocean’s edge, where he finally dipped his feet. Only the cool ocean water helped, and she was glad that Richard had listened to her. They couldn’t afford to rest their feet; not with the chance of Outsiders being on the move.

  Richard glanced up at her, trying to mask a subtle smile, but she could see the appreciation on his face. He pushed his feet through the calm surf, creating a small wake behind him, and nodded.

  What a long way he’s come, she thought. At the beginning of their venture, Richard seemed to take pride in complaining. She dismissed most of his grumblings, knowing they were likely born from his ever-changing, and sometimes volatile, mood. It had been nearly eleven days since they’d left the Commune; eleven days without a drink. It wasn’t just the questions about the VAC Machine and the End of Gray Skies they were after: with each day, as the distance from their home grew, it seemed that they had more questions, and even more theories.

  Most of what they had come up with concentrated on the executive floor, and the square numbers on the index cards. Some of what they’d talked about was why James had jumped to his death, and what the executives had to do with it. A few times, they’d even stopped and turned around, aiming to go back, when they questioned what they were doing. They’d talked about whether or not they should create a small group, and force their way onto the executive floor to demand answers to their questions. But when Richard described for her what had happened when he and Declan had a run-in with the executive guards, Janice thought of the index cards, and told Richard that they should continue forward. After all, they’d never get enough people to overpower the executive guards.

  What Janice pondered more than anything else wasn’t James’ death, but the death of Declan’s sister and mother. Could her chosen have really been a part of something so evil?

  Not alone, never, she thought, and kicked a dissident foot into the unsuspecting surf.

  A spray of water splashed onto her skin, startling her. It landed on the back of her legs, and up to her neck. The chilly touch stopped Janice where she stood; a reflex pushed her shoulders up, and arched her back. She heard laughing then, and knew at once what mood Richard was in. Turning, she kicked up the foamy surf at him, and laughed as he darted around the white spray. It was good to see him smile, and even better to hear him laugh, even if it was brief. He’d left the remaining bag of potato juice in her dwelling, and along with it, the convulsions that came from not drinking. He was healing, but it was physical; she knew he had more work to do emotionally. This t
rip, and finding Declan, was just a start.

  While Richard pushed through the breaking surf, his smile gave back years, turning his aged and pained face to one that was almost boyish. At times, she could see Declan in his gestures and mannerisms, especially when Richard told stories of when his family had been younger. He told her about Declan and Hadley, and the sibling fun that they’d had when they had been growing up. As he talked, Janice wondered if he realized that she was there too. She was, for most of their lives, their teacher. Her heart ached thinking of them, and it especially hurt for Hadley’s death. She missed them both. She knew a teacher’s pain, but could only imagine how it would feel if Hadley had been her own child. In a way she was, though; all of her students were her children too.

  They always will be.

  More ocean spray came in her direction, and after she’d kicked off a return volley, she watched as Richard pulled handfuls of water over his head. The ocean was crisp and cold, but the air had already started to warm, and it was edging back to mugginess. They were moving into the hot months, and it wouldn’t be long before the air was thick and still. As he splashed more water on his face, she saw that his hands had grown still and quiet. He’d finished the carrot candy in the first miserable days of walking the black beaches, but now he’d gotten back most of his control, ridding his hands of the shakes that had plagued and haunted him with threats of more convulsions. With his dark hair slicked back, she could see that Richard had already put back on the weight that he’d lost drinking. Even the sunken and taut skin on his face had filled in, pushing out the deeper lines around his mouth and eyes.