First Light
Authors: Samantha Summers
PROJECT FIVE FIFTEEN
First Light
By Samantha Summers
Project Five Fifteen - First Light
Samantha Summers
Copyright © 2012 by Samantha Summers
Smashwords Edition
www.projectfivefifteen.com
E-BOOK ISBN
978-0-9873288-1-6
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
For My Nan
Valerie Elizabeth Bristow.
Miss You
PART I
Prologue
Jesse knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.
He’d been running for so long his muscles were finally threatening to give way. A fence three times his height loomed ahead. It didn’t faze him. Fluidly he leapt up, scaled the wire mesh and somersaulted to the other side, springing straight back into a run. But every movement was laboured now, everything slowing down. If his pursuers had been civilians, or even the police, he would have had nothing to fear. But they weren’t. They were just like him, only better. Running now merely delayed the inevitable.
Still he pushed on, forcing his body over holes, branches and debris on the forest floor. When he least expected it, on the jump across a small stream blocking his path, his limbs finally buckled. His usual speed and graceful precision failed him and he toppled into a clumsy fall. It cost him only seconds, but he knew it would also cost him his life.
He steadied himself on the bank where he’d landed and closed his eyes in resignation. After running for two hours through the wilderness he allowed himself to stop and enjoy the cool air on his face, the rhythmic sound of his blood pumping in his ears. For what he knew would be the last time, he let himself smile.
He could hear them clearly now; they were very close. So, with some regret for a life he would never know, he turned to face his murderers as they came at him brandishing their nine-millimeter weapons.
Okay
, he told himself,
you tried your best
. He always had. Even in the darkest moments of his short life, Jesse had done what he could to be number one and today would not take that away from him. He would die with as much pride as he had lived.
They slowed as they closed in on him.
He placed his hands behind his head. ‘Took you long enough, boys,’ he nodded to those he knew. Some had trained him; some had taken care of him when he was a child. Tomorrow, he would have turned sixteen.
‘Well, you gave us a good run, J. Not that we expected any less.’ The one who led them broke away from the unit and inched forward.
‘You know me, boss, I don’t do things by halves.’
His tormentor smiled. ‘How true. No hard feelings, lad. You know you can’t go free. You’re a danger to the world – a liability.’
Jesse forced a tight laugh. ‘It’s funny how you can smile as you say that, Barker – you made me what I am. So perhaps you should be standing here instead of me?’
‘Perhaps,’ the man shrugged and lifted his gun, levelling it at Jesse’s forehead.
It took all his remaining strength but Jesse stood as tall as he could and held his head high so that it pressed against the steel barrel.
‘Barker,’ he spoke loudly so all could hear, ‘cowards always manage to weasel out of what’s coming to them, but I promise you, your time will come. K is going to mess you up.’
His words clung to the air around them.
‘Until then,’ the man said… and pulled the trigger.
1 – Funeral
I wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Blocking out unpleasant experiences usually came easily to me. I’d simply picture my hero – my knight in shining armour – and have him rescue me. Dreaming was my forte. Usually. For the past three years it had got me through the dullest of school days and the hardest times of my father’s illness. But today was different. Today, try as I might (and oh boy I was trying), I couldn’t disappear inside my head. I was forced to watch helplessly as my father’s body was laid to rest.
I swayed. A tidal wave of grief crashed over me. The rain was pouring relentlessly, rattling against the plastic of my umbrella, the dark grey sky mirroring my mood. The priest was saying whatever priests say at funerals. It must have been particularly moving because all around me people wiped their eyes and sniffed into hankies. Funny, because not one of them came to visit us during the months Dad lay dying.
I shut my eyes. In spite of being outside, I felt suffocated. I took a deep breath, but it wasn’t enough – no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get enough air. I began to panic, but as my eyes flashed open, something caught my attention:
Underneath a tree on the opposite side of the cemetery stood a boy dressed in black. It wouldn’t have been too distracting, except that he was, without a doubt, the last person I expected to see at Dad’s funeral. I didn’t know his name, but I knew of him – he and four other boys had moved to Clanots Ocean a few months back and rumours had been rife ever since. No one knew if they went to school, or who their parents were, but the consensus was that they were bad news.
The boy had no umbrella and, despite the downpour, made no move for shelter. His dark hooded jumper and converse trainers were completely soaked yet he barely moved; he simply stared, in what looked like my direction. I tried to come up with a good reason for him being there. Perhaps he was passing by and had some morose fascination with death, or maybe he was lost. But something about the way he was staring told me otherwise. He looked affected, as if he were really grieving.
He had to have known Dad
, I thought.
The distraction helped me through the rest of the service. The priest carried on talking, but I found myself glancing up from behind my dark sunglasses to check if the boy was still there.
Everyone began to disperse and people wanting to offer their sympathies flocked around me. When the crowd ebbed away, I looked back over in the direction of the boy, but he’d gone - the landscape, empty and grey once more, showed no trace of him.
As people began to make their way back to our house, our neighbour, Maureen Carpenter, took my left hand in hers and squeezed it, breaking me out of my trance. I had to concentrate to take in what she said.
‘... Going to be okay, Ronnie, love?’
I hadn’t seen Maureen for over a month. Usually, she was the type of neighbour you couldn’t get rid of. The stereotype, peep-out-of-the-curtains-and-run-round-for-a-cup-of-tea-to-gossip, nosey neighbour, but since Dad had fallen ill I hadn’t seen her at all.
‘Thanks, Mrs Carpenter, I’ll be fine. Rachel and I have each other for support.’
‘Oh,’ she stammered, ‘it, it’s just – I saw Rachel leave five minutes ago with her lovely boyfriend. She seemed so upset, poor dear, she obviously couldn’t bear it any longer.’
Ah. It wouldn’t be too surprising to learn my sister had left without waiting for me – at twenty-six, despite being nine years older than me and having a child of her own, she’d never been the typical adult, but leaving without me today would be a bit much, even for her. I peered over towards the exit. Rachel's blonde hair stood out within a crowd of people by one of the cars. I let out a small sigh of relief, but I didn't want to push my luck and linger too long.
‘He’s a lovely lad. So handsome,’ Nosey continued. ‘I know you’re only young, Ronnie, but you should try to be like your sister now. Get a nice man who can take care of you.’
I dipped my head in agreement, pondering just how screwed up our tiny family would be if I did, in fact, decide to be more like Rachel. At the same time, I saw my best friend making her way towards me. I made my excuses to Maureen and let myself enjoy a warm hug from Mae.
Then, with a deep breath I braced myself for the evening to come.
2 – White Knight
‘What are you doing still in bed?’
My sister’s voice was shrill. I’d been awake for hours, but couldn’t find a reason to get up. I moved the pillow from my face and squinted at her.
‘It’s only ten.’
‘You can’t let this get you down, Ronnie. We need to be strong and carry on. It’s what Dad would have wanted.’
‘I’ll get up soon.’
‘Well, the house is a mess after the party.’
‘The wake.’
‘What?’
‘The wake, Rachel, it wasn’t a party.’
Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Ronnie, that’s what I meant, don’t be melodramatic, please. It needs to be cleared up anyhow.’
I sighed, trying not to let her get to me, this was standard Rachel. Dad always said she was more like our mother in both looks and personality: beautiful, passionate… volatile. I don’t remember my mother, but Rachel does. She’d stuck around until I was three, when one day she packed her things and left, never contacting any of us again.
‘I’ll clear up soon. It wouldn’t hurt you to help out a bit.’
‘Yeah, I need to sleep though. I’ve only just got in. Yesterday was so awful it took a lot out of me. I’ll have a thirty-minute power nap then I’ll help.’ With that, she flounced out of the room, her champagne blonde hair bouncing as she went. I listened to her brushing her teeth before going to her old room, closing the door and turning her music up so loud I couldn’t make out what she was doing.
I covered my face with the pillow again, trying to block out the brightness around me. I used to love my lemon-coloured walls and sheer white cotton curtains. My room in our old farmhouse was always bathed in the first rays of morning sunlight. Dad called it the Happy Room. Today, however, the sunshine was in sharp contrast to how I felt. I threw back the covers and forced myself out of bed, heading downstairs. The floor was cold under my feet. I'd have to remember to put the heating on timer from now on.
Glancing around at the plates and glasses strewn about, I sighed. Taking a dustbin bag from the kitchen, I began swiping up left over food littering the living room, cleared a broken glass and set about getting a red wine stain out of the cream rug. As I cleaned, my spirits began to lift. I thought:
if I can just keep busy, I might be okay.
Keeping my mind occupied had always helped me avoid things that upset me. That’s where my hero fantasies had come from. That's what the trauma counsellor told my father, anyway. I saw her a few times after I was attacked on the beach three years ago, taking a detour home from Mae’s late one night. In hindsight, walking along the beachfront after midnight seems like a stupid thing to do. But, hey, I was fourteen.
