Frostbitten: The Complete Series
Read Frostbitten: The Complete Series Online
Authors: Ilia Bera
FROSTBITTEN
THE COMPLETE SERIES
BY
ILIA BERA
KEEPING UP WITH
ILIA BERA
WANT MORE? THERE IS MORE COMING…
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This book is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious and any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidence.
Published By
Honey’s Book Hut
Copyright © 2015 by Ilia Bera
Model License Holder: CURAphotography (Shutterstock Inc.)
Background Image License Holder: Marten_House (Shutterstock Inc.)
Cover by Fleet Lebowski
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
“I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge, you see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.”
—KURT VONNEGUT
PROLOGUE
AN OVERTURE
Sometimes, if you sit back and just simply watch the world around you, you will realize that our seemingly insignificant lives are actually part of an epic tale, unfolding right before our eyes.
Like the elaborate underground of a thriving metropolis—Endless tunnels and corridors—abandoned subway lines and sewer systems—all passageways to lives that, unless explored, you would never know existed. Life itself is an incredible story, so meticulously structured that every single word—every single syllable is as important as the entirety of the fiction itself.
It was during that time of year when the sun only rose for a couple of hours every day, and the long nights were as cold as all hell, that I found myself that little room.
That little room where all of the players in this little tale came together for the first time.
I arrived early, before anyone else, and I took a seat in the back corner of the classroom. I didn’t realize it then, but as I was sitting down in the back of that quiet, forlorn classroom, I was taking a front seat for a show, much more incredible than I could have imagined.
This tale is not about me.
I was simply there. Fate had led me to the perfect spot at the perfect time to witness the events of those cold, long December nights. Like a formless spectre—my role in this tale is that of a passive observer.
But before I describe to you the details of that fateful winter month, it is important to explain how I came to be in that quiet little room.
I didn’t know at the time, but the events and the characters from my own past would turn out to be vitally important to the future of the characters in the tale you are here to read.
I hadn’t always wanted to be a writer. It wasn’t until I was finished high school that I wanted to be anything at all. My banker of a father wanted me to become an accountant, and my nurse of a mother wanted me to become a doctor. Growing up, all I wanted to do was read.
I would zone out during school and I would read classic book after classic book. I never cared about my grades—they meant nothing to me. The only thing I cared about was reading.
When I was very young, my parents didn’t have a lot of money and they couldn’t afford day care. Instead, my father would take me to the bank at the centre of town, where he worked. He would sit me down in the waiting area where the bank kept a small red table and a bucket of Lego Blocks for children, as well as a bookshelf for the adults. I would sit there all day, watching as person after person came through the bank. Children my age would sit down and play with the Lego Blocks until their parents finished their bank meetings.
I was more interested in the books.
I would read book after book while I waited for my dad to finish working.
All of the bank staff loved me—especially the bank manager himself.
My father worked for a very successful man:
Philip Riley.
Everyone in the town knew Philip. He was a charismatic kind of guy who loved to mingle in the waiting area with all of the bank’s customers.
He was a man of extraordinary taste. He smoked Cuban cigars in his office, and ate out at fancy restaurants during lunch. I didn’t know much about him as a child; aside from the fact he gave my father a job during the recession, when the bank wasn’t hiring.
My father only ever had nice things to say about Philip Riley.
When I became old enough to stay at home alone, I stopped going into my dad’s workplace.
One day, when I was about twelve years old, my father came home from work upset. He explained that he had been promoted as Philip had unexpectedly quit. My father worshipped Philip Riley—he owed him everything we had.
Philip fell off of the town’s radar, and as the years went by, the memory of Philip slipped from all of our minds.
It was about five years later, when I had just turned eighteen that Philip Riley reappeared in my life.
It was the middle of the winter, and our town had just set new cold and snowfall records.
Because of the spell of unbearably cold weather, my mother hadn’t had a day off in weeks. She was becoming worn out—completely exhausted.
The town’s only hospital, where my mother was working, was filled with victims of frostbite and hypothermia.
I woke up one morning with a weird sensation inside of my body. It seemed to flow through me—making me feel anxious and panicked for seemingly no reason at all. I will never forget that strange tingling.
It was a Friday—the last Friday before schools broke for winter. The air managed to become impossibly colder and the snow managed to get heavier. Every radio station in town was repeating a warning message: “If at all possible, stay inside!”
I was surprised to see my mother in the kitchen when I woke up. Apparently, the hospital was making her stay home, as they were struggling to pay their employees’ overtime.
Throughout that day, my mother kept commenting on a strange sensation that she was also feeling. I didn’t tell her that I felt it too. I’d never been a big believer in “spirituality” or anything like that.
My friend, Derek Enderby and I had plans to go to a big house party, being thrown by a friend of Derek’s brother.
The party had been the talk of our school for weeks leading up to the winter break. The party host’s parents were both out of town and they’d left their sizeable liquor cabinet unlocked.
But as the night approached, the weather became worse. Derek and I decided at the last minute not to go to the big party. Instead, we chose watch movies at Derek’s house, with his brother, James and the pretty little blonde James was dating at the time.
The worsening snowstorm took out the whole town’s power. We didn’t have a generator, so we were left with very few options—the library, the hospital, or one of the few houses with working generators—assuming they would let us in.
The library was the first place to become packed to the teeth with people—and the hospital was urging people to try their best to find another place of refuge.
As fate would have it, the big party had a working generator. I found myself headed for the party, with Derek, James and James’ new girlfriend.
At the party, the host and his friends were turning strangers around at the door, despite them being freezing cold and desperate for a place to warm their hands and feet.
We had to fight through a crowd of cold people to get into the house—freezing women and children desperate for a place to go.
The whole hectic situation made me uncomfortable, and I still had that strange sensation fluttering through my spine.
I decided not to drink that night. Instead, I did what I had always done best.
I watched.
As the drunken teenagers danced and mingled, I explored the house. The large warm home was decorated with army medals and award plaques.
Horny teenaged couples occupied all the bedrooms, and queasy teenaged drunks occupied all the bathrooms.
The large open living room was the centre of the action—where the music was the loudest and where all of the tipsy students were dancing. The huge kitchen was the desired location for the socializers, and the basement was where Derek, his brother and the party’s host were hanging out with their small circle of friends—a much more intimate setting.
I continued to watch the partygoers become progressively drunker, and I continued to explore the big house. Over the booming bass from the music, I heard a faint smashing sound. Then, I felt an icy cold breeze cross over my body, coming from the end of a desolate hallway. Alone, I walked towards it.
I turned around a corner, and found myself face to face with him—
Philip Riley, my father’s old boss, had crawled through a broken window.
He’d grown a thick beard, and his face had become weathered and worn. He was dressed in ragged clothes, and he looked as though he hadn’t showered in years.
He was holding a knife out, pointed directly at my gut. He prepared to stab but stopped as soon as he recognized me.
He stared at me for a moment, lips trembling from the icy winter air.
“I—I’m cold,” Philip said.
Philip looked up towards the attic access. Quietly, he snuck up into the attic, and I turned my back, pretending as though I’d seen nothing.
I returned to the party and went down to the basement where I’d last seen Derek. He was no longer there, so I started to search the rest of the house. I couldn’t find any of my friends—the party had become too loud and too crowded.
Suddenly, the life was sucked out of the party by a high-pitched scream. I ran towards the source of the cry.
Derek was crawling down the hallway, holding his stomach firmly with his hand. He’d been stabbed repeatedly.
Running away from the house, with blood on his hands, was Philip Riley. Derek had taken a girl up to the attic—the only private place that was seemingly vacant. When he saw Philip shivering in the corner, Derek threatened to get the homeowner.
Angry about the unforgiving woes of his life, Philip stabbed Derek six times in the gut and then ran away.
The phone lines were down and there was no cell reception. We did our best to put pressure on Derek’s stab wounds, but he was losing blood quickly, and he needed immediate medical attention. Me and the only other sober person at the party put Derek onto a makeshift stretcher, and we carried him through the frigid cold—eight blocks to the hospital.
Unfortunately the hospital was packed full of people who were just as desperate as Derek for medical attention. Given the necessary attention needed, saving Derek likely meant someone else dying.
