%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
An excerpt from a serial novel that I have started writing. |
|
PART I: JANUARY 1, 2010: New Year’s Day CHAPTER ONE: THE THREE OF XUEL 1. 12:00 am Daryl Rodgers stands akimbo among the crowd, face upturned towards the sky as it is lit by a multifarious display of pyrotechnic colors. “Happy New Year,” the crowd around him cheers, screaming above the cannonade of fireworks hammering at the sky overhead. They blew party streamers and horns and a couple of them even had those little square noise makers whirling above their heads. New Year? What’s so new about it, he grouses. It’s gonna be the same old crap as last year. Daryl lowers his head as a sense of melancholy washes over him. He scans the crowd with his eyes, seeing so many happy, excited faces. For the moment, with all the people looking upward, the backwash of light playing over their faces, there are no young or old, no black or white or Hispanic. There are only people and in that frozen frame of time, they are incredibly, undeniably beautiful. And yet, all he can do as he looks upon his friends and neighbors and fellow citizens is feel a sadness so deep that it frightens him. What’s wrong with me, he wonders, frowning. The last of the fireworks fade away, leaving only the echo of their ghosts chasing one another across the sky, and a heavy, blue-tinged swath of smoke hanging low over the park, smelling strongly of black powder. The people around him hug and kiss their loved ones, their friends, and they begin to drift apart, going in opposite directions throughout the park. Between the terrible band out on the gazebo, the meal tents, and the game booths, there is plenty to keep people occupied. And yet, Daryl seems to be the most occupied of all. He is not aware of the crowd dispersing. He doesn’t register with him when several people stop by to wish him a happy New Year. He shakes hands and exchanges hugs. These are his people, his constituents. These are the very people responsible for keeping him in office these past twenty years. For the moment, however, their words don’t register, their faces seem blurred and featureless. Sixty-seven years old, he thinks. That’s what the problem is. Too damn old. Sixty-seven years old and this is the last year of his last term in office. The chief of police in Oscoda, Louisiana is only allowed to serve the public for five years at a time before having to run for reelection. He is limited to four terms. Truth of the matter is, however, even if this was not his last term in office, he would not be running for reelection anyway. This is a realization that startles him. He is too old, too tired, and suddenly he can’t get out of office fast enough. In the midst of his catharsis, a sudden chill races up his spine. It reaches the base of his neck and makes the little hairs there stand on end. He shudders as goose bumps ripple along his arms. There is something wrong here. Something dreadful. He can feel it behind him, watching him, targeting him. Marking him. He turns around and as he does, he finds it remarkable how someone can be surrounded by so many people and still feel utterly alone. He finishes his turn, not immediately seeing whatever it is that has filled his heart with such dread. But then the crowd parts around him and some twenty feet or so distant, there stands a little boy. The little boy makes his heart go cold. He has not seen the child in years, but even so he easily recognizes the blonde hair with its cowlick, the green-blue eyes. Daryl has not seen his brother since he himself was twelve years old. Doug would have been ten way back then and it seems as if he is still just ten years old now. Apparently, the dead never age. Daryl’s mouth goes dry. He swallows hard and there’s an audible click in the base of his throat. His heart has just dropped into his underwear and now it springs up into his mouth. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. One part of his mind, the analytical part, the cop part that is always observing, registers that he should not be able to make out his little brother so clearly. Central park is lit up by tall street lamps and additional klieg lamps have been dispersed to add even more light then usual to the premises. But still, the child is not standing directly under a light source, but in the shadows between. He should not be able to see the color of the boy’s hair, the color of his eyes. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, the face completely impassive, the little boy raises a hand and points in Daryl’s direction. At first, Daryl believes the ghost of his dead brother is pointing at him and it causes his stomach to do an atavistic crawl of fear. The little boy shakes his head from side to side, however, and Daryl understands. He is not pointing at Daryl, he is pointing at something behind Daryl. Daryl realizes that it is a warning. But of what? Daryl turns back around to try and see what the boy is pointing at and when he does his heart almost skids to a complete halt in his chest. His youngest son, Bobby, is walking up to him, cupping a Styrofoam cup with both hands. Steam rises from the cup in thin tendrils and Daryl decides that it is either coffee or hot chocolate. His youngest son is a sensitive child, a thoughtful child. Although he loves all of his sons, Bobby is truly the son of his old age. There is a special place in his heart for the child. Perhaps it is because he reminds Daryl so much of Doug, with the same blond hair and blue-green eyes. Something is going to happen to Bobby, Daryl Rodgers thinks. That’s what Dougie’s warning me about. He remembers in a flash as bright as a solar flare the night Doug died; the night Douglas was taken from him forever; the night Dougie was dragged underground. And then it occurs to him that Doug isn’t just warning him that something is about to happen to Bobby. He’s telling Daryl that Bobby is danger of the same thing that had killed Douglas on that dark and terrible night so long ago. Xuel, he thinks as his knees come unhinged and he suddenly plummets to the earth. It called itself Xuel. It is this final thought that follows him into the darkness. |
| This book is currently empty. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
