Date: Wed, 10 Oct 2001 09:16:50 -0600 From: Robyn Herrington Organization: University of Calgary Subject: SUB: CONTEST: TEN YEARS KING Here it is -- the first submission in the 2001 WRITERS Halloween Contest! Woohoo! Please send any crits to me - rmherrin@ucalgary.ca - and I'll make sure they're passed along to the author. ------------------------------------------------ TEN YEARS KING The rain hit the windows like pellets of lead. Edward heard the empty house rattle as the wind shook the nearby trees. He huddled deeper in his coat. It was too cold for October, he thought. His muscles ached, and he wished for dry clothes. Couldn't bring a suitcase, even a backpack. Too conspicuous, and his watchers could be anywhere. The thump he heard could have been the house's reaction to the storm. He crouched in a corner, all thoughts of warmth and rest gone. Someone was there, in the house, moving around. From behind the remains of a table, he saw a flicker of light. A flashlight, he thought. But it was furtive, hesitant. Not, he'decided, the owner of the house, or a police officer. He thought he could hold his own against another squatter. "Who are you?" asked a teenager's voice from near the flashlight. "Come out." The light flowed over Edward's corner. He winced. "I see you. Stand up." Edward stood up slowly, his muscles protesting. He held an arm over his face. "Turn that away from me," he said. "I can't see a thing." The beam of light danced to a spot to Edward's left. "Hey, you're nothing but an old guy." "Thanks," said Edward. Thirty nine wasn't old, except, perhaps, to a teenager. "What are you doing here?" asked the kid. Edward caught a glimpse of him, tall, gangly, dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. "What are you doing in my home?" "Just trying to get out of the rain," said Edward, moving away from the table. he didn't want to be caught against a wall if he had to move quickly. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Edward shrugged. "Nobody important. I'm just on the road. Looking for something better, you know." "Running away?" "You might say that," he said carefully. The kid moved the flashlight closer to Edward. "You from around here?" "No." "Funny. You look sort of familiar." Edward's muscles tensed. "I don't know what you're talking about." The kid made some gesture. "Maybe you just remind me of someone." "Probably." He didn't allow himself to relax yet. "You live here, huh?" "Six months. When the weather turned, and all the gangs started roaming around it got difficult." "I suppose so," he replied. The newspapers had articles about the recent increase in violent crime, and explanations for it. she'd say it was my fault, Edward thought, and shivered. "You cold?" asked the kid. "Kind of. It was really wet out there." "Well, I ve got a fire. You could warm up. It's over in the kitchen, this way." He gestured with the flashlight. "Thanks," said Edward. He picked his way after the kid through the garbage and remnants of furniture in the room, through a dingy hallway, to the kitchen. This was a good fire, well-controlled, in the oven. The room was warmer than the rest of the house, but there was no smoke, no signs of habitation that anyone outside the room would notice. "Have a seat," said the kid, gesturing to a bedraggled cushion a couple of feet from the open oven. "Warm up a bit. You don't have food, do you?" "Not much," Edward admitted. He turned out the pockets of his coat. Travelers rations, some protein bars, an apple, some crackers. He tried not to think of the meals he used to eat, the food he could buy at any restaurant with the cash he carried on him. If he dared to go into a restaurant, he added silently; if he could have been sure that no one would recognize him. The kid snorted. "Been on the run long, huh?" "A couple of weeks." "Huh. You lose everything in the crash?" "How do you know about the crash?" The kid shrugged. "Everybody knows. That's when the fighting started, too, a couple of weeks ago. Like someone pulled a plug, and all the bad stuff happened at once." I pulled the plug, Edward thought. He dropped his head into his hands. "Hey, it's none of my business," the kid said, a shrug in his voice. "You're not sick or anything, are you?" "No. I'm fine, really." "They say there's some virus, a lot of people are sick." "There's always some kind of virus." I didn't do it, thought Edward. It's not my fault. "Not like this. They say it kills people." Edward couldn't look up. "I didn't hear that." "Nice coat," said the kid after a few seconds. "Looks warm." Considering how much it had cost him, it should be warm, thought Edward. Maybe the coat had been a mistake. Maybe it made him look rich, and that was dangerous. He had been rich. He might still be rich, if he went back. Brigid would be waiting for him, and he knew what would happen then. he'd run from her. He couldn't go back, even if she'd set all this up to scare him. he'd prefer to think that this was some fake that she had created to persuade him to return, to face her and the others. The alternative was too terrible. If the market had crashed and the virus had started and the violence had risen because of his running away, then he didn't think he could bear it. But he couldn't go back. Just thinking about it closed down his throat with terror. she'd promised it wouldn't hurt, and she hadn't lied to him before, but he couldn't believe her, not now. "you're shivering. You aren't sick, are you?" "No." Not that kind of sick, he thought. "What day is it? Do you know?" "The thirtieth," said the kid. "I think. Why?" Oh, God, Edward thought. It's almost here. He didn't know what would happen if he survived past the date. Would they give up? Or would they do something worse? "No reason. Just losing track of time, I guess." The kid stood up, stretching. "Be right back," he said. "Gotta take a leak." He disappeared outside the door of the kitchen. Edward heard the kid mumble to himself. When he'd met her, when she'd proposed the deal, the date had seemed unreal. He mustn't have believed that she could do what she said she could; that must have been why he'd agreed. He couldn't remember his motives, his thoughts; it was ten years ago, and so much had happened since then. So much good had happened. Brigid herself was a Godsend, the woman of his dreams, beautiful, intelligent, incredibly well-connected. Everyone she touched seemed to love her, even worship her. And she'd touched him, Edward, when he had been nobody, when the name Edward Longimer didn't mean "financial tycoon" or "richest man on earth." she'd touched him and everything had become golden. But there was the price. The price he had to pay, buying the prosperity for so many. he'd known it all along, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he'd never let himself become conscious of it. Everybody dies, he'd said to himself. The day before he left, he'd come across the box in her drawer. The box itself was beautiful, deep red wood, polished to a glowing sheen. he'd never seen it before, and, curious, he'd opened it. The knife inside shone silver. Its curved edge looked sharp enough to cut through steel. On some level, he must have been preparing from the start. There had been no other reason for him to keep that wad of cash hidden, to hang onto those forged identification cards. And then, when he couldn't face his future, he'd run. The kid returned. "Want something to eat?" he asked Edward. "No, thanks. I'm I'm not hungry." The kid shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm making some soup." He busied himself with cans, pots, a bucket of water from one of the corners. He wasn't aware that he had dozed off until he suddenly woke, startled. The kid had his back to Edward, his bowl in his hands. How could he have slept that deeply, in the presence of someone he didn't know? Edward thought he must have been at the limits of his endurance, to have dropped his guard that way. What had awakened him? A sound, he thought, something his unconscious mind hadn't recognized, something unusual. Or perhaps it had been something he had recognized, Edward thought, dragging himself clumsily to his feet, turning around to catch some hint of it. Now he heard it again: voices. Female voices. Female voices just outside the house. Lightning flashed behind her as Brigid opened the door and stepped inside. "Edward," she said quietly. "You shouldn't have run." He saw the wooden box beneath her arm. She wore a long coat that hid whatever she was wearing underneath. Edward turned and bolted, until he collided with the kid. The adolescent arms, surprisingly strong, pinioned him, as Brigid approached. "You were right to call," Brigid said to the boy. "You will be rewarded." "No!" cried Edward. He struggled in the boy's grasp, but couldn't fight his way free. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the others entering the room. Some of them he recognized: William Strathmore, who had made millions in the stock market following Edward's lead, Julian Berry, whose sudden skyrocket to world fame had taken everybody by surprise (except Brigid), Catherine Valentine, that mysterious long-time friend of Brigid's. There were others, but he couldn't recognize them. Their hoods rendered them anonymous and doubly frightening. Two grabbed Edward's arms and body. Brigid watched his futile struggles. "I'm disappointed in you, Edward," she said. "You took the benefits, and then, when the time came to pay, you ran. Think of all the damage you did. I wouldn't have expected that from you." "No, Brigid, please, don't!" He tried to find some remnant of the woman who had loved him, the woman who had shared his life for the past ten years. There was nothing there. A touch of compassion, perhaps, a hint of pity, but this woman stood implacable, a goddess demanding her due. She gestured to the door. "Outside," she said. The door opened by itself. Edward noticed, in horror, that the storm had stopped. Even the wind had stilled. The eye of the hurricane? Or something worse? Brigid turned her back on him and walked into the yard in front of the house. When he saw the stones set up in the yard, he started screaming. They hadn't been there when he'd stumbled into the house. Four people, hooded and masked, stood around the horizontal stone. Edward fought all the way across the soggy ground, nearly falling, but unable to slow his captors. The four masked people waited for him, thick ropes in their hands. Brigid, still wearing her long coat, stood at the head of the stone, watching impassively. He saw the gleam of light on the silver knife. He screamed and fought as they bound him mercilessly to the stone. Brigid waited till the four helpers stepped away from the stone. Then she shrugged off the coat and stood beside him. She wore a multicolored robe that drew light from everywhere and concentrated it on her. She raised the knife, as the others chanted. He had only one hope left. "Brigid," he croaked, "you said that it wouldn't hurt." "If you had gone voluntarily, it wouldn't have hurt." She raised the knife, and plunged it into Edward's body. He screamed a long time, until he had nothing left to scream with. Philip turned the crystal glass, looking at the beautiful woman before him. "And if I agree to this, and do what you tell me, I ll be richer than I ever dreamed possible? For ten whole years?" Brigid smiled. "Yes. There will be a price to pay, of course." How bad could it be? Philip thought. He smiled back at her. "Tell me more." THE END -- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Robyn Herrington New Currents in Teaching and Learning / InfoServe Phone: 220-2561 Email: rmherrin@ucalgary.ca Story ideas are like rabbits that have ventured unwittingly into view. The slightest noise or movement can spook them and they bolt off into the dark undergrowth never to be seen again. -- Adrian Bedford ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~