After close to three months, we were drifting close to Ohio again. I could tell something had been bothering Camus for days, maybe even two weeks. He sat me down and told me some things, about his life before Feeder epidemic, about who he had been and the family he had once. Once. It never really clicked that Camus was old enough to be my dad, and that his “parental affection” was somewhat out of his usual character.
Rainie said I was dim.
A wife and two daughters. That day by the crater, he had seen a way out through me. Our travels began because he had been trying to find a way to ask me to destroy him. Utterly erase him. Thing is, he told me, after a few weeks, he came to realize he didn’t want to die anymore.
“I know what you call yourself, my dear,” he said to me. “But I don’t feel that word truly reflects you and what you can do. You bring light, Sienna. Kayleigh was right… you’re hope.”
He kissed me goodbye on the forehead, like my own father had done years and years ago before he died. He told me he had work that needed attending to, responsibilities long avoided, and that I’d see him again. There are few things I believe in any more, but I believe Camus wouldn’t lie to me. I hope I’ll see him again sooner than later.
So now it’s just me.
The red remnants of Pittsburg are at my back and the true purpose of my countrywide jaunt continues to be successful. The T-Net is down to forty percent. Buffer times, data gaps, code errors, everything. I hadn’t been this far east yet, but when we had been backtracking from the west coast, we had seen far less Feeders. Functioning ones, at least. Quite a few ashy corpse piles, though.
Lots of people oppose what I’m doing. Mostly Mancers who rely on their Feeder armies to keep people controlled by fear, but there are enough humans who simply can’t conceive of a world without their Servants, Feeder threat or not. I don’t know, maybe it’s because now, with the T-Net crumbling, once you’ve leeched too much you just die.
Too bad. This is happening.
I can feel a group of people approaching me from the northeast. Even though it’s cold, I unbutton my light grey coat to reveal my white shirt. Even snagged a new white scarf. Somehow it became my thing, a symbol. The colors, the light, I don’t know. Gemmel would’ve got a kick out of it. Camus and I joked it’s because the “future looks bright.” Some people overheard and took that way too seriously. Still, I don’t want to disappoint.
My name is Sienna Doyle, and I’m the only one of my kind that I know of. I call myself a “Blinder,” and I can reduce any form of energy back to a pre-atomic state. I have every intention of destroying every T-Net tower on the planet, therefore wiping the Feeder epidemic out of existence.
So yeah, I’m going to save the world whether you like it or not.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brian Fatah Steele, a member of the indie author co-op Dark Red Press, describes the majority of his work as “Epic Horror with lots of Explosions.” Along with multiple books, his articles and stories have appeared in various e-magazines and online journals. Steele lives in Ohio with a few cats that are probably plotting his doom. Surviving on a diet primarily of coffee and cigarettes, he occasionally dabbles in Visual Arts and Music Production. He still hopes to one day become a Super Villain.
WHITE SANDS
by
C.L. Stegall
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First off, I would like to thank (and praise) my Dark Red Press cohorts, Jack, Brian and John. They have made the last nine months of my life the literary adventure I have always dreamed it would be. Bringing us all together was a team effort and every day continues to make me happier than I’ve ever been (in the writing world). You guys fucking rock!
Second, I would like to thank my lovely, irrepressible Wife, Mona, for putting up with my long days and nights behind the keyboard banging out stories, editing and working with the DRP guys. You put up with a lot more of my crap than anyone else would, I’m certain. I love you more and more every day.
Last, but definitely not least in this instance, I want to thank Robert Verde who did a truly amazing job editing White Sands for me while I was busy editing everything else for this collection. I can’t thank you enough for you harsh but fair criticisms and fan-freaking-tastic editing skills. You are the man!
With all of that in mind, and all of the other editors involved in each of the tales, I thank you all and any existing errors in this manuscript I take on myself. Peace!
CHAPTER 1
The two attackers came out of nowhere. I put the first one down with a slug from my best friend, Wilma. The bullet plowed into his chest, the life chuffing out of him when he hit the ground.
The second son of a bitch had moved around behind me when I shot his companion. Before I could move back and cover him he swung a length of pipe at my head and connected. He clocked me pretty good. I saw a billion pinpoints of light explode behind my eyes, even as I twisted and pulled the trigger on Betty. I saw the back of his head spew out into the New Mexico sky just as my own noggin slammed into the pavement.
I was pissed beyond belief. If I could have cursed, I would have. Instead I mumbled some nonsense bullshit, the azure sky collapsing into blackness just like my Donald Duck night lamp had when the world was dying.
“Sweetie, this medicine is for your own good. It’ll help, I promise.” My father’s words drifted to me from the distant past. Looking back, I have no idea if that shot helped me, or if I was just one of the lucky ones. There certainly weren’t many of us. I had watched my mom die only days before. Now, I could tell my Dad was sick, too. The whole world was sick. I didn’t understand it all then, but time has a way of eliminating the clutter.
“You can’t die,” I stated. He smiled at my innocence, although, even at six years old, I was a precocious little girl. I remember that he loved that about me.
“You have to be strong for me, Rock.” He had called me Rock for as long as I could remember. He told me it was because when I was a baby, I never cried. My mom thought something was wrong with me, but the doctors had given me a clean bill of health. Dad claimed it was my way of dealing with the world, watching and learning, always strong. Like a rock. His little Rock.
I accepted the medicine, knowing it was what he thought was best. And, who was I to argue with my father? He put the needle away and brushed my hair from my face.
“You will go on. You will survive and make me proud. You hear me? You will do whatever it takes. Are we clear?” His military bearing reinforced the sharpness of his tone, but it didn’t frighten me. It only steeled my resolve to obey him. I nodded agreement.
I would have done anything to make him happy. I would have saved him if I could. But the world was dying and so was he. I wrapped my two little hands around his rough, calloused paw. I would do whatever it took. I told him so. I remember that smile he gave me. It was the gift of a father’s love, undying and unconditional.
The one thing I remember most about my dad was that he never lied to me. He never coddled me. No matter what, he told me the truth. I didn’t understand it then, but as I grew older, I came to appreciate the courage it must have taken him to be so honest. The letter, for instance, must have been a nightmare to write. Nevertheless, he did it. He shared it all and hoped that someday I would understand. Now, I think I do finally understand. Then, it was just a lot of big words about the fall of mankind. Even after his death, my dad was a fucking hero. I didn’t care how anyone else saw it.