The Risen: Courage

by Marie F. Crow

  This is a Marie F Crow Book

  Published by Marie F Crow Publishing

  Copyright © 2013 by Marie F Crow

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by electronic, mechanical or other means, known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Marie F Crow Publishing, 205 Saint James Avenue, STE 2 #333, Goose Creek, SC 29445, USA

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  ISBN-13: 978-0-9910199-6-0

  ISBN-10: 0991019962

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921897

  The following are exclusive trademark properties of Marie F Crow

  Publishing: The Risen™, The Risen: Dawning™, The Hawthorn Angels™, G.R.I.T.™, The Risen: Margaret™, The Risen: Remnants™, The Risen: Courage™. These trademarks may not be used for any purpose without the written consent of Marie F Crow Publishing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, images, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book / E-book cover design: Darko Tomic

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  “Courage is not a goal set in the dark throes of desperation. It’s the need to survive. It’s the need to push through the fears and find the strength to face the perils ahead. It’s not a brass ring to be claimed or a trophy to boast over. It’s the personal level of discomfort we all must face when no outstretched arm is there to help you.”

  Helena Hawthorn

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  The screaming won’t stop. They surround us with their panic-filled screams that beg for random help. The agony of the prolonging screams of misery at the sight of so many lost to us forever. The mind piercing screams of panic resulting from confusion and helplessness at the sights before their eyes. All of this is mixing with the moans of the wounded in a delicate recipe of death. It’s the icing upon Death’s birthday cake. It swirls with the red and crimson colors of the blood that coat the hall and floor like a whipped topping. For today, there will be no celebrating of any birth in a manger. There was no bright star leading us to salvation last night. Today, the only celebration is being held by the wicked, walking Demi-Gods of life.

  The ones to which we pretend to not hold homage. The ones whose wrath we fear just the same: Truth, Karma, Death and Fate. These are the ones celebrating today. These are the ones dancing around us. They dance around us and along this hallway of suffering with bare feet of jubilation. Santa did not bring us gifts this year, but they did. Oh, how they did, and their holiday has just begun.

  CHAPTER 1

  Rhett rocks the limp body of my best friend in his arms like a small child with a broken doll. His pleadings are soft murmurings that fill the air like a priest’s chants as he begs God for Aimes’ life. He pleads with her to forgive him, but she won’t answer. Her white-blonde hair with its faded pink streaks sweeps the floor with his movements. It makes her appear that much more fragile in his desperate embrace. So lost in his own grief, he will not let her go. He is too afraid of what it might mean to no longer hold her body to him.

  Chapel has given up the fight to remove Aimes. Instead, he attempts to lean around Rhett to hold pressure to the wound that slowly spills her life, hot and red, between his fingers. His tears mingle with her blood as they fall from his face. They are just as hot and escape just as freely.

  The same scene is being mirrored behind them as another set pleads over a fallen loved one. Simon is moaning his pain over the unresponsive body of his wife, Shelia. I watch their memories play out across his face with his hope for her survival. His words echo his love for her as he begs her to stay with him. In an attempt to keep her with him he begs for her to remember certain shared events of their life. I know that this is his attempt to mentally refuse the truth. There will be no more events for them.

  Dolph is pressing his trembling hands to Shelia’s shattered head. They are covered with more than just her blood from the damage that has been done. The dark, thick matter that has spilt around her and onto him is proof that her bleeding can’t be stopped or slowed until her heart exhausts its energy to fight. Dolph’s hands shake with that fear as each pump of her heart is slowing a fragment at a time. She is making her escape from this world. There is no stopping her death, but they are not ready to accept it yet. Their queen has been captured, tortured, and now lies dying between them.

  Ross stares blankly ahead with unfocused eyes. His breath is a rapid, short panting of pain with his wound seeping dark under Richard’s hands. No one cries for Ross. No one mourns the possibility of his death. Richard is only trying to prevent it to give his conscience a rest from the guilt it would harbor if he simply walked away. He doesn’t offer simple words of comfort to his friend. He is too focused on Shelia to have anything left for Ross, and Ross pretends to not notice that his death will slip by as ignored as he was by them in life.

  There is another who no one is pressing their palms against. His life is already lost. J.D.’s blood flows without pausing onto the cold tiles around him, warming them and painting them with his death. His eyes still stare at me, pleading with me to accept his apology. I am locked in the deep depths of their betrayal. I’m still confused over the “why” of his actions. My body trembles with the aftershocks of what I have seen. My mind is stuck in a loop. It is a queen of details replaying the last moments with vivid accuracy. She holds every scene and sound with perfection, and like any cruel queen, she wields it with brutal authority.

  Marxx is whispering something into my ear but I can’t focus on his words. There is too much around me. It competes for my attention and I don’t fully hear him. His voice mingles with the screams like nothing more than a buzzing sound. All of it swirls into a whirlwind of emotions inside of me. The panic and pain of what I am feeling bubbles in my chest. There are too many things to break my heart and I refuse to visit any one vision for too long, or I will run the risk of drowning with defeat. The moment that started it may have passed, but the hour still lingers. It’s drawing out every second
of torment in which it can celebrate; every second that can cost us so much more than what we have already lost.

  I force my breathing to slow and each breath draws my walls back around me. My eyes begin to focus. I close down the many screams that fragrant the air with their trademark perfume of torment that this new world has shown us. I force past the smells that send my stomach into a fear-filled fluttering.

  Fear is a poison. It finds a way inside your veins and burns away all self-confidence. It fills you with visions of false, foreshadowed futures and impregnates you with doom. J.D. has taught me that. The only antidote for his fear was courage; courage and love. I have to find both inside myself now if I want to survive this and protect the ones I love. I am Helena Hawthorn. I have lost one family already, and I will not let fear take another.

  Marxx moves with me like an unspoken soul mate. He is cautious and protective of me. He feels my mood switch with a new determination. Like always, there will be time to cry and mourn later. Now, there is only enough time remaining to save a precious few. But which few?

  Dolph’s eyes tell me that Shelia is not one of those who can be saved. The green of his eyes flash between anger and sorrow as he accepts Truth’s damage. With a reluctance that echoes through his body, he releases his hold on Shelia’s wound and sags with the defeat of it. It triggers an outcry from Simon that can only come from the depths of a pure loss of a love. In his grief, he rocks Shelia’s body, clutching her close. With his incomprehension of how to accept her death, he still pleads with her as his hands roam from her face to her skull.

  Simon has lost everything today at the hands of one man. There are no words to give him. There is no embrace comforting enough to take this away. He is being shredded bitterly with rage and grief and there is nothing I can do but watch. A year ago, this holiday would have been spent around another tree with memory-making moments of love and laughter. The only memory this date will forever hold for him now will be the memory of blood-covered hands and pleadings that went unanswered.

  Time is frozen for his family the way only Death’s freezing grasp can master. A little girl will never grow up. A wife will never grow old. However, a husband and a father will be forced to carry on alone. Truth gives this gift to him today. This is the present that Death offers him and his misery is the only acknowledgement they are wanting.

  I wonder if Simon will now hear the haunting laughter of what he has lost. Will smells sneak up on him when his mind wanders too deep into the shadows that try to protect us from memories like this? When his eyes are closed, in the moment right before sleep takes him, will they be with him again whispering for his attention? Will he open his eyes, or like Chapel, will he just pray for them to go away?

  CHAPTER 2

  There are footsteps running towards us as the sun races against time with each bright ray it casts over the earth. Paula’s face is sculpted into one of neutral compassion. She wears it like a shield, protecting her from what she has to do. It protects her emotions from the carnage around her that her duty requires to dive deep. Every shattered life is a life she once held in her heart. A heart fighting against a calm exterior with every beat it creates.

  Our eyes connect as she kneels down next to Aimes, and all sounds vanish in our silent communication. She is drawing out the moments left to her before seeing what is waiting. It is not just Aimes that she is avoiding, but also the men that are breaking in front of her as well.

  What lingers in our nightmares is not always the obvious. Sometimes it is the little things, the little sounds and smells that will torment our minds long after the memories are made. This is one of those memories, and we are both trying to avoid as much storage of it as we can. As our eyes disconnect, the sounds pour forth again, and it is crippling as time continues to seep away.

  There is nothing I can do for my childhood friend, and like a coward, I turn from her not wanting to hold the sight of her in my mind. My heart flutters with the pain of possibly losing her. I once prayed I would give anything for Lawless’ return, but I never thought it would cost me her. We never really know who is truly listening to our prayers and who will call our bluffs.

  I move to the only victim left without an active aide, Ross. Ross’ eyes are dulled by his pain. They watch me from behind a thick haze of disinterest. He expects no help from those around him. He has already accepted his death with that realization. Watching him float on consciousness with fluttering eyes, I finally feel pity for the man who so many have used for their own goals and ambitions. These same people who now have forgotten him with the depths of their suffering.

  Their goals and ambitions awoke beasts in men, causing a full circle of torment that Karma knows so well. This wheel is her world. She spins it as well as the Fates do with their golden scissors perched for the inevitable. Just like the Fates, she can cut lives short with her own reasons and justifications. She never asks, nor needs, to hear ours.

  Ross’ shirt is soaked with the blood from the wound to his stomach. The shirt no longer absorbs or blocks any of the blood that his heart beats in vain to produce. His heart is too stubborn to admit defeat, and with its refusal, the blood continues to slip away. It seems impossible that there is any left in his body with so much weighing heavily on the fabric of his clothing, turning the color of his shirt into a thick, dark, irregular cloud.

  “I never meant….” Ross’ face contorts with pain, locking the words on his tongue. He doesn’t have to finish his thoughts. He knows I understand. He just needs to hear my words of acceptance to ease a different type of suffering he is feeling.

  “I know. No one is innocent anymore, Ross. We have each made our mistakes thinking it was for the best for our own people and our own needs. None of us stopped to think what it might do to the other.” I give him the full weight of my gaze. He deserves at least that much.

  This man has been put in the middle of everyone’s plotting. He has been used more than a pawn in a chess game; only his side was never a clear color of black or white. Their actions made him grey with blurred alliances and mistrust from both sides. Ross’ shoulders were not used to bearing the weight of the blame. They were just used to carry the load that others were too afraid to carry themselves. This man who gave up his ego so long ago in the simple attempt to save lives now sits with his life being forgotten.

  My hands press against the wound of his stomach and instantly the thick blood flows over them, coating them like vinyl gloves with a thick shine. Pressing firmly forces more to flow through my fingers like warm, wet sand. It flows with a life of its own, filling in the crevices and fine lines as it fights to escape. Everything about Ross is weary from the constant abuse and he is ready to let go.

  “It’s not so bad.” My voice is barely a whisper, and with the strength of a feather, it holds no convincing powers.

  “It’s not so bad” is the same as telling someone “I’m fine”. These statements are uttered when, in fact, things are very bad and nothing is fine. This is what we say when we do not hold the strength to admit how very bad everything really is. This is all very bad, and he is not fine. However, you never admit that to people. White lies are at their finest in moments of deep dread and desperation.

  “I’ve got it. Go help Aimes.” The voice above me is cold and empty where warmth and laughter vibrated only moments ago. Moments that now feel like days lost when we all stood celebrating his life.

  Lawless’ hand rests flat on my shoulder, pulling me away from Ross. It once touched me with kindness, but now it only holds authority. The void of his normal personality frightens me. It inspires no trust in me to leave Ross with him. It only warns of what is to come.

  “I can save him,” I hiss through my clamped teeth.

  “Hells...” Marxx echoes the same tone conveying the same statement that Lawless spoke. Ross’ clock has run out. Promises are about to be kept.

  “It’s too late, Hells. Go help with Aime
s.” Lawless’ tone holds no room for arguments, but when did that ever matter to me?

  I have faced bigger monsters than Lawless and won. He may be the “prodigal son”, but he doesn’t carry the same bat as Daddy.

  I ask him, “You want me to just let him die? Just to turn my back on what you are about to do?” If he wants to intimidate me, he is going to have to bring a bigger stick.

  My face must have shown my defiance as Ross and I stare at one another. A simple shake of his head tells me of his acceptance and I feel my heart break. I cry for Ross. I cry for a man no one else has taken the time to comfort. He reaches to touch my cheek, seeking the proof his eyes are telling him, and I feel a new trail from his fingertips. I bless his death with my tears. He blesses me with his blood.

  “I want you to walk away, now,” he says. Lawless has missed our silent exchange. He will think he has won this round, but Ross and I know different. We will always hold the truth like a guarded secret long after he is gone.

  With my final good-bye, I place a soft kiss upon lips that once smiled brighter than the noon sun. “I forgive you,” I whisper to those lips, and I leave him with Lawless and Marxx.

  I don’t glance back. I don’t spare him the anger of those who surround him. My cowardice shames me.

  “I promised you I would kill you one day.” I hear Lawless tell him.

  It’s not the comforting good-bye I had left Ross with, but it is what Ross’ last moments are. Those words and the long black barrel of Lawless’ gun are his farewell from this world.

  The shot echoes and I feel my whole body flinch with it as if it were I under that barrel. I cry, not for the man who led us into that trap of a store, but for the man who I met that first day at the Welcome Center. The man who another had left behind, too concerned with his own safety. A man who continued to find himself placed between the two warring sides, never finding some place for himself. His shaggy brown hair that day hinted at the stress he was put through and continued to show the wear of never really being allowed in on either side of the battle. Did I seal his fate that first day we met or was it Simon, Dolph, and Richard under an abandoned strip mall? Either way, another name is signed to the list of the dead. A list that is still growing and I am not sure if I have the courage to keep writing.