daynight
Authors: Megan Thomason
daynight
by Megan Thomason
Dedicated to my muses/twenty-four seven comedic entertainment
Husband: Jon
Children: Ashley, Breanna, Ryan, Alyssa and Christopher
Copyright information
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, entities, events, portals, alternate worlds and the like in the
daynight
series are fictional and products of the author's overly active imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 2012 by Megan Thomason
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
PROLOGUE
The moment the perfectly styled, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl awakens to the sight of her own dead body, she swears and slaps her corpse across the face.
The gesture makes no impact. She checks her hands. Not a lick of vomit, despite the fact Dead Her’s covered with it.
“Stupid,” she yells at her dead-self. “If we were going to go, it should have been in grand fashion. A high speed car chase or skydiving or getting blown to bits by a terrorist. Not by some
fluke.
Not at my own party!” Someone will find us and fix this, she thinks.
She catches a glimpse of her animated self in the mirror. No longer dressed in her tailored Dolce & Gabbana dress or to-die for Prada jeweled satin 5 1/2 inch heel pumps, a simple and quite ugly grey shift hangs loosely from her body. An ear piercing scream leaves her lips. No, no, no. This can’t be real. Has to be a nightmare. There’s no way she’d ever wear such an insult to the fashion gods. She attempts to remove the shoes from her corpse as they’d easily make her top 100 pairs, but they won’t budge. Nor will the Tiffany necklace adorned with a most sentimental ring. Frustrated, she pummels Dead Her with well-placed kicks, but the stiff doesn’t flinch an inch.
“This isn’t a dream and we generally advise against beating oneself up,” a voice booms behind her. A tall man with white hair has appeared next to the girl in her locked parent’s master bathroom. His somber tone and white, pristinely pressed suit signal ‘all business.’ “Sit down,” he invites, gesturing to a small metal table and chairs that weren’t there a minute ago. The girl’s mother would fall down and die right next to the girl if she saw warehouse quality furniture adorning the special-ordered Italian floor and Louis XVI-era commode.
“Tell me what happened,” the man instructs.
“Am I really dead?” the girl asks, ignoring his request and pointing to the lifeless figure on the floor.
“I think that’s quite self-explanatory,” he says. “Determining the how and why will help me place you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Place me? As in Heaven vs. Hell? Let’s see. I don’t pray or worship anyone other than my personal shopper and tailor. I haven’t been to church in more than a decade. So, I’m thinking I’m headed downward. And if that doesn’t seal the deal, drinking myself to death at my own party should do it. But maybe you take pity on entitled kids left to their own devices by jet-setting parents?”
He opens a notebook and jots down a few notes, before asking, “You took some pain killers earlier this evening?”
“Yeah. I had some pain,” she snorts.
“From the tattoo you got after partying with your friends last night? A single black rose between your shoulder blades?”
“Uh, yeah. How’d you know about that?” she says, wondering if it is still present. The nagging itch and twinge of discomfort that were there yesterday have disappeared.
“Did you know your tattoo was infected?” he asks, not even looking up.
“Serious? No,” she gasps, knowing she shouldn’t have trusted that grimy Mission Beach tattoo parlor.
“You had fourteen drinks over the past six hours? Six shots, three vodka-tonics, and five glasses of punch?” he says, as he pushes his reading glasses farther up the bridge of his nose.
“Something like that,” she sneers. “As I said, it was a party.
My
party.”
“Did you know some of your male house guests supplemented the punch with an additive meant to loosen inhibitions?” he asks.
“Nope. Sounds like something the idiots would do though.”
“Were you depressed at all? Did you have a desire to die?” he says.
“It was a
mistake,
” she says. “It wasn’t about depression. It was about fun. Ever heard of it? It’s ridiculous I had to die over it. Everyone else seems to get a second chance. Why not me?” The man takes his time reviewing his notes and seems to make some sort of decision as he closes his notebook.
“I know just the place for you,” he says. “Follow me.”
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.
Genesis 1:3-5
If light is good, what does the dark bring?
CHAPTER ONE
Kira
Escape, I remind myself. That’s why I’m here. On a speedboat. With a creepy escort who looks like the human incarnation of Mr. Potatohead.
Heading into the open ocean towards an unknown destination. I’d eagerly signed the dotted line of The Second Chance Institute Recruit year-long contract, agreeing to leave all my earthly possessions in San Diego. It seemed easier to run than face my demons. I do regret abandoning my brother, Jared. He’s a year younger and it’s always been us versus them, and by
them
I mean the judgmental, self-centered beings who gave us life. My parents couldn’t shove me out the door fast enough, as my distress infringed upon their illusion of a perfect, carefree existence.
Just the thought of escaping reminds me of the events that led to my decision. I close my eyes and let fragments in, fighting the tears away. The ‘incident’ happened two months ago. My SCI Recruit Test preceded my senior year Winter Formal and after-party, which I attended with my boyfriend, Tristan and best friend, Briella. At the party, they ditched me after having tormented me all evening for considering a ‘do-gooder stint’ with the SCI. I figured they’d drink it off and get over it. In their absence, I met the perfect(ly unattainable) guy, Ethan. Who had me fantasizing about marriage, babies and growing old together. But, we were both ‘taken’ and, regrettably, parted ways.
The turning point of the fateful evening and reason I’m still alive: catching my boyfriend and best friend groping each other in a steamy make-out session. Refusing to discuss or forgive, I’d fled the posh Rancho Santa Fe estate and out into the darkness. Eerie silence was followed by ear-splitting, bomb-like thunder. Whatever the source, it leveled the house in seconds, raining fire and debris in every direction. I remember being hit by shrapnel and the resulting blood and pain. Being dragged from the wreckage. And then, medical personnel, police and the press all hounding me to know how I escaped the tragedy that left 110 of my classmates—including my boyfriend and all my close friends—dead.
I push the memories aside and lean back on the vinyl cushions of the boat. Listen to the whir of the motor. The spray of the boat’s wake cools the effects of the glorious Southern California sun and dampens my long, more-strawberry-than-blonde curls. Cutting through the waves at high speed rocks me into a trance. My SCI Recruiter, Ted Rosenberg—the Mr. Potatohead clone, who I’ve nicknamed ‘Spud’—encourages me to ‘enjoy the nice weather while it lasts,’ but I don’t respond. He yaps about Unit 27, my final destination, warning of ‘extreme temperature variations.’ Dump me at the North Pole, I think, if it puts distance between me and my memories.
According to their brochure, The Second Chance Institute places Recruits worldwide, with many prime locations throughout Europe, Asia, Africa and South America. Unfortunately, Recruits don’t get to choose where they serve and you can’t take anything with you other than the clothes on your back. The SCI provides ‘everything needed’ to adapt to one’s assignment. I sincerely doubt they can anticipate my every need, but don’t really care. I just want to get there and learn the where/what/whys about this mysterious Unit 27.
My blood apparently contains some random marker called DNT that made me an ‘excellent candidate’ for one of SCI’s more ‘remote’ and quite classified locations. So other than knowing that 50,000 residents make their home in Unit 27, I’m going in blind. I’ll help ‘those in need of a second chance at life,’ but in what capacity I’m clueless. Does it matter what I do? In return for my year of service, the SCI will grant me a full-ride scholarship to the college of my choice. Given I’m shooting for Ivy League or equivalent, I could use the help. My parents firmly believe in ‘supporting one’s self once one turns 18’ or in other words, not depleting my mother’s jewelry and vacation fund.
The boat slows and my stomach pitches up and down with the waves. I sit up and scan the horizon. What the—? Impossible. A dilapidated warehouse-like building, no larger than a two-car garage sits atop the ocean water. Other than squawking seagulls lining the roof, there’s no other sign of life. Spud easily maneuvers the boat up alongside the building and ties it down.
“Where are we?” I ask Spud. “Are we transferring to a larger boat here or something?” I’d spent the morning badgering him about our method of transportation to Unit 27. An airplane, I’d understand. A speedboat, not so much. No land mass off San Diego could house 50,000 people.
Spud bobbles his head and in a harsh tone says, “Ms. Donovan, please follow me. There is no time to waste if you are to adjust properly and start your training on time. We’re the last to arrive.” He offers me a hand, and helps me to my feet. We both leave the boat, though that does nothing to make me feel like I’m back on solid ground. The building sways with the waves. All directions offer no view of land or ships. Not good. We may be stuck here a while. Perhaps they’ll have a comfortable couch and food for the wait. I trail Spud into the dark and musty building. Disappointment strikes. The space we enter has a single, dim lightbulb which illuminates the small room enough to see peeling drywall and dark patches that look and smell like mold. A single arched doorway mirrors the door we entered on the opposite side of the room.
“OK,” Spud continues, “Ms. Donovan, go straight ahead to the end of the long corridor and into the large room. I will follow you.”
My brain won’t accept the thought of the small building containing a long corridor, much less a large room, but I’m eager to exit. I stumble forward through the dark, tunnel-like hallway for the equivalent of a city block before seeing a light ahead. My skin itches from small pinprick-like sensations from head to toe and I am parched beyond comprehension. I feel dizzy and ill, and have to stop to catch my breath as I enter the lighted room, an immense domed space as wide as a school cafeteria with pebbled walls and slate floor. Spud enters the room after me and vomits into a receptacle so violently his body convulses. He motions a small group across the room to join us before collapsing on the floor.
I notice that the wave-like motions have ceased. As I canvass the cavern-like room with my eyes, I’m positive that I am farther than the hundred feet from the boat I should be.
“Mr. Rosenberg, where on God’s green earth have you brought me?” I gasp.
“Technically, Ms. Donovan,” Spud grunts between spasms, “we are no longer on God’s green earth.”
“Say what?” I demand. I could have sworn I heard something to the effect of ‘not on’ and ‘earth’ in the same sentence, which isn’t possible.
