by Vivien Vale
I try and stretch under the mountain of furry things covering me. Immediately, I stop. The pain shooting through me is unbearable. Maybe something is crushing me—something furry and warm and alive.
I dismiss the thoughts almost instantly. If it was living, it would have a distinct smell, and whatever is covering me does not smell the way I assume a wild animal would smell. At the same time…it doesn’t exactly not smell like an animal, either.
“Boof!” I something hear bark above me.
A dog. There’s a dog on top of me. A huge freaking dog.
At least that explains the crushing warmth.
I try again to open my eyes. Instead of opening all the way, they turn into tiny slits.
The world looks strange this way. Everything is kind of squashed and blurry. I feel like the camera app of an iPhone that’s been dropped one too many times.
Thinking hurts too much, and so I stop. I let my gaze linger on those flames instead.
Fire.
It plays with my mind and lulls me into a fantasy world.
Am I in Hell?
The thought upsets me a little. I know I haven’t been a model citizen, but then again, who has?
I went to the charity galas I was supposed to. I honored my father and mother. I don’t even really swear that much, for freak’s sake.
Look. Let it be known that while living, Avery Wilkins did her very best to behave as a very good girl.
But maybe I’d missed something. Maybe I’d thought too many naughty thoughts about Channing Tatum or said too many things in anger. Maybe God was angry at me.
Had I really behaved so badly in life that Hell is where I ended up? If that’s the case, I shudder to imagine where the likes of Hitler and Stalin and that sinister looking guy on the Quaker Oats box went.
I bury my head deeper into the pillow. At least I think my head’s on a pillow. Maybe it’s just another dog. It’s difficult to tell.
I’m not really in a fit state to check out what’s under me. I can’t even raise my head.
The flames continue to lick at the walls and change in size. Something makes them crackle, grow, and then throw sparks into the air.
With the increase in intensity, I close my eyes again.
If I’m dead, I may as well get used to the experience.
So far, it’s not exactly what I imagined being dead would be like. Or rather, how I would have imagined, if I had ever actually imagined being dead.
I mean, who would, at my age? I haven’t even reached my twenties yet. Now, I never will.
My ears detect a noise of some sort. Is that…heavy breathing?
No. Negative.
Ugh. This is all so frustrating. So confusing! So hard!
Whatever has happened to me, it is so much worse than one of those hangovers I suffer from when attending one of Daddy’s boring social gatherings. To cope with the entire ordeal, I usually drink too much champagne. One glass is fine, but two?
Daddy’s security agents usually have to escort me back up to my room at that point, before I fall asleep on the French ambassador’s shoulder again.
But what can I say? The champagne helps dull the agonizing speeches and bad jokes from those dreadful evenings. But never without consequence.
No, the next morning, the alcohol comes back to haunt me in spades. Massive headache, aching body, nausea, and lethargy are the after effects. They last for about half a day—and then I’m good to go again.
But all that seems like a piece of cake compared to what I’m feeling now. Half a day, a glass of ice-cold organic coconut water, and a greasy cheeseburger that Daddy’s security team promises not to tell Mommy about seems like a cakewalk compared to this.
I’m not sure that this will ever end.
Each and every time I wake up hung over from one of those silly events, I vow not to bow to Daddy’s will and attend one ever again, but my resolve never lasts.
Neither does my resolve to avoid that second glass of champagne.
I was a weak human being. No wonder I’ve been sent to Hell.
It’s a stupid version of Hell, by the way. No welcoming party, no gift bags, nothing.
Although, I guess at least there’s a dog here. I can feel his wet nose poking around in my hair, sniffing me with curiosity.
My useless thoughts are disturbed by a shadow falling across the fire.
Actually, shadow is the wrong word. Something blocks my view of the flames altogether.
I close my eyes again. The sheer effort of keeping them open is too much for me.
When I do, strange images fill in the darkness inside my head.
Someone’s yelling at me, grabbing my wedding dress, and ripping it apart.
Then there’s the broken headlights of a dying car.
Strong, big hands. A man smelling of wood and cold.
Then, nothing. Nothing at all.
Something touches me. It feels like a butterfly is landing on my cheek before moving onto my forehead and then to my hand.
I like it.
Butterfly kisses, that’s what it feels like. Hot, gentle butterfly kisses that leave my skin tingling with delight upon contact.
In my mind, I see tissue paper wings of purple, red, and blue.
This time when I open my eyes, I no longer see the fire. But there’s no butterfly, either.
Instead, what I see bent over and looming above me, is a bear.
No, that’s stupid. Not a bear.
A man.
But he’s certainly a big man, with dark, wild hair akin to a Grizzly. His facial features aren’t exactly friendly, either.
His thick, dark brows are knitted together, leaving his forehead with more lines than a road map.
If I thought some of Daddy’s security guards were scary looking, they now pale into insignificance compared to this mountain of a man.
Mountain man. He looks like a mountain man. Part man, part Grizzly, part mountain.
My eyes refuse to stay open for too long. I close them again. For how long I can’t tell, but when I open them again, he’s still there.
I can feel my heart beat faster.
Some Hell this is. Could he really be a man crossed with a bear? His shoulders are so broad, I think he could put an actual Grizzly back in its place without any trouble.
I can’t see his mouth or his lips. There’s a beard covering the lower half of his face, a beard that looks more unruly and unkempt than, I don’t know, Harry Potter’s BFF Hagrid.
Now that’s a thought—one that I warm to the longer I think about it: maybe I’m not dead. Maybe I’m just dreaming. Maybe I’ve entered some kind of book world, following along with the plot as a sort of bystander or something.
At least that would be nicer than being in Hell.
“Hi, Hagrid,” I say in a tiny, sleepy little voice. I smile a little at the thought. “Will you show me your magic umbrella?”
But unlike Hagrid, this big man is wearing a strange, red checkered shirt. It takes incredible effort for me to work out that the material is flannel.
It’s not something I would usually wear. In my super expensive, über cool wardrobe you won’t find flannel, not even in the night dress department. But like every well-educated girl, I do know my fabrics, so I recognize the stuff when I see it.
The chocolate eyes of the stranger now come closer.
Chocolate.
His eyes are like chocolate.
Dark, delicious, and not at all good for you.
Scary-looking men like this one are no good. I know this from Daddy’s security team. They might have their sweet spots, but they all have a terrible reputation for a good reason—most of them have at least killed one person and could snap my neck with just their forefinger and thumb.
Menacing and intimidating. That’s what they look like, because that’s their job: to menace and intimidate other people.
My throat feels dry and I find it difficult to swallow.
Fear is taking hold. Is this man go
ing to kill me?
Deep down, I know I need to be worried, but I just can’t remember why right now.
“Relax,” the beard says in a remarkably soft voice. “Relax. You’re gonna be okay. No need to panic.”
His voice is nothing like those of Daddy’s bodyguards. It’s like chocolate melting on my tongue.
Chocolate.
I’d really love some chocolate right now.
His face comes closer, and I find those brown eyes studying me intimately. If I were in a better frame of mind, I might ask him why he’s looking so stern. His lips, partially hidden by all that hair, are drawn to a thin line, not a hint of a smile.
There are worry lines around those eyes.
I move my gaze from his face and take in the rest of him. He’s so broad in the shoulders that it looks like the shirt, probably a triple extra-large as it is, would pop at the seams any second now. Even through my little slits, I can see that the top half of the shirt is unbuttoned and that there are muscles upon muscles and dark, thick chest hair beneath.
Daddy’s personal bodyguard, who looks like he’s spent most of his life in the gym, would take one look at this man and die of envy.
Is this even a real man? Maybe not. He definitely looks too good to be real.
If I’m dead, he could be a god. If so, my pastor is going to be totally put out. Jesus on the cross might have a six pack, but this man is packing more like a baker’s dozen.
I try and rummage around my head for any knowledge I have on the Greek and Norse gods and the afterlife.
The sheer effort is too much, and I drift into a light sleep once again. Now my head is filling with visions of gods: Apollo, Odin, Zeus, and Thor.
Maybe being dead isn’t going to be so bad after all. This man scares me the way that an all-powerful God should, but there’s something undeniably attractive about him as well.
He’s mumbling something to me.
I wish he’d speak up.
But try as I might, I can’t rouse myself into a fully conscious state. The world, whatever world I’m in now, stays out of focus and beyond my comprehension, until finally, I give in to the exhaustion and drift back to sleep.
Even in my unconsciousness, I don’t think the stranger—or his strange dog—leave my side.
Chapter 5
Jack
“Take cover! Everyone, take fucking cover!” I yell and sprint from the cover of a large rock to press my back against a twisted, bullet-riddled tree.
“Help! Jack, help!” one of my men screams but there’s no goddamn way I can help him.
All around me bullets are pummeling into the ground. One of them catches the loose edge of my sleeve and leaves a gaping fucking wound.
Something’s gone wrong. Something’s gone terribly fucking wrong.
The enemy is coming and we’re sitting like fucked ducks right in front of them without even the ability to fucking defend ourselves.
Thwack. A small explosive lands several yards away from me, followed by two more. Foley, my second-in-command, is hit. The impact of the explosion does things to his body that I can never wipe clean from my mind.
I look away. My insides feel as if they’ve been torn out of me. Pure survival instinct is the only thing that keeps me going. I need to get out of this fucking predicament. I need to survive, and I need to bring enough of my men through it with me so that whoever is responsible for this fuck up can pay.
The operation is already tits-up. Our original mission is irrelevant now. The important thing is the lives of my men—their lives, and our revenge. I want to make sure someone fucking pays for the slaughter that’s happening here today.
“RUN!” I scream. “Fucking RUN!”
And that’s exactly what we do. We run as fast as we fucking can. I can hear the boots of my men hitting the dirt behind me. None of our high-tech weapons—war-enders delivered courtesy of Stanton Engineering and good old Uncle Sam—are working. Not a single fucking one.
I, Jack Lawson, am not a man to run away, but I ain’t no fucking idiot, either. I know when it’s time to admit defeat and pull back. You don’t keep fighting a losing battle when you’re outmanned, outgunned and defenseless out of some false sense of glory. There ain’t no glory in being dead—you’re just dead.
No shame in retreat if it means you and your men can live to fight another day.
I never should have lead my men into this certain death fucking trap. Not on the promise of some high-tech weaponry that has turned out to be about as useful as an arsenal of water guns.
Actually, I’d trade these pieces of shit in for a water gun right now if I could. At least we could enjoy the illusion of doing something.
If I can get even a few of us out of here alive it’ll be a fucking miracle. I’ll buy a water gun for every goddamn one of us.
Smack! Thwack! Splat! The bullets and explosives rip up the ground beneath my boots as they pound dirt.
More screaming assaults my ears. Slowly, one by one, my squad is reducing in numbers. We’re the most elite special operations team the U-S-of-A has to offer, and we’re dying like fish in a barrel. Every body that hits the ground behind me is a letter home to a loving family that I don’t want to write—because I shouldn’t fucking have to.
Fuck. I need to get the rest out of here and to safety. Easier said than fucking done.
Desperate as I am I try one last time to shoot my high-tech, allegedly super accurate machine gun, but nothing fucking happens.
This time, I chuck the damn thing away. My remaining men do the same. At least we’ll be able to run faster without the weight of a useless fucking weapon. Whoever sold us these pups had sold us a dud. And what’s worse about all this is that fucking innocent lives are being lost. My men shouldn’t be dropping like flies.
We’re the best of the best. The hardest of the hardened. We’ve been training for years for this. We’ve been constantly deployed for months now. Each and every one of our missions has been a success. Until now.
This one is a fucking disaster.
For some reason the faster I run, the less progress I make. Around me, bits of my men are flying through the air. There’s an arm, a leg, a torso.
Just then, a volley of gunfire digs the dirt up to my left. It’s so close, a little pebble hits me in the fucking face.
My heart is beating so wild in my chest now, I fear it might rip it open. And still I barely cover any ground.
Ahead of me, I see giant explosions. Houses are being torn apart, debris flies through the air and there’s screaming like I’ve never fucking heard in my life. There are children crying, women screeching and men howling in pain.
All this turns into an almighty crescendo of unbearable sound. If I could, I’d cover my ears, but I need my hands to help me run as fast as I can. But where the fuck am I running to?
My lungs feel as if every last bit of air is being squeezed out of them.
Any second my life will be over, just like those of all my men and no doubt countless fucking innocent people who are caught in yet another fucking war. A war where no one even remembers why it started or how. A war that feels like it’ll never end.
My right foot catches on something. I feel the end come quickly. Regrets, I have a few. But there’s not enough time to dwell on them now—or ever for that matter.
I tumble. I roll. I try and grab hold of something, anything, to feel one last sensation before the world goes black and—
My eyes open and stare at the ceiling. My breathing is fast and shallow. My body is drenched in sweat. It takes me several seconds to realize I’m not really in that war and I’m not in my bed either.
I look around and I find I’m laid belly up on my bedroom floor.
One of my night terrors has obviously paid me a visit. I sit up and run my hands through my hair, trying to remember if I’d screamed.
The girl.
I recall the girl I picked up the previous day. Picked up being a fucking understatement More like barely r
escued from a burning car. She’s tiny, fragile. Exquisite, even in her pain—though I shouldn’t be thinking of her like that. What I should do is check on her, make sure Buck hasn’t licked her to death yet. But first things first.
I need a shower.
When I step under the shower head, I only turn on the cold tap. My body is practically burning and I need to douse the fire blazing within me. And the girl will need a shower too, later.
A shower or a bath. Whatever pretty women in destroyed bridal gowns prefer. There’s a limited amount of hot water available for bathing here, and I’ve never minded the cold all that much. Instead, I save it all for her.
When I’m a little cooler and calmer, I pull on a clean shirt and jeans, then make my way downstairs. I do my best to tread carefully on each step to try and make sure they don’t creak. It leaves my big, burly form tiptoeing around like an idiot, but if she’s still asleep, she needs it. I don’t want to wake her.
Last night, before I went to bed, she looked pretty fucking worse for wear. If I were closer to a doctor, I’d have taken her to get medical help. The tumble she took down that mountain…it’s a miracle she’s even alive.
She ought to get her head looked at, for one. What was it she called me? Hagrid, or some shit, wanted something about a magic umbrella.
Of course, driving on those roads that late at night, I’m not surprised if she winds up being a little touched in the head…but hell, maybe it was just a concussion talking. As it is, I’m miles from civilization and in this snowstorm, we’ll be trapped in here for a while.
Once I’m in the kitchen, I pull the blinds open and find myself staring at a mountain of white. The storm is worse than I thought it was.
My eyes move over my limited supplies. I could easily survive on what’s here for a month. With two people, it might get more difficult, more so when nursing someone back to health.
I turn around and look at the small head poking out from under the mountain of blankets I piled on top of her last night. With the place not having central heating, I didn’t want her to get cold.
On tip toes again, I go over to check her out a little more closely.