Read Escape from Harrizel Online
Authors: C.G. Coppola
Tags: #Romance, #blood, #sex, #science fiction, #aliens, #war, #secrets, #space travel, #abduction, #weapons, #oppression, #labrynth, #clans, #fleeing, #hidden passages
Escape from Harrizel
Harrizel
By
C. G. Coppola
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
C. G. Coppola on
Smashwords
Escape from
Harrizel
Copyright © 2013 by C.
G. Coppola
Cover photo copyright
C. G. Coppola
Cover by Joleene
Naylor
This ebook is licensed
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the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for
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this author.
This book is a work of
fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places,
events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are
productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Adult Reading
Material
******
Many thanks to everyone
who supported and encouraged me throughout this process—I couldn’t
have done it without any of you! Special thanks to my editor,
Jennifer Flax, and my amazing cover designer, Joleene Naylor, for
helping make this story come to life.
******
For the lovers, the dreamers and you,
Kermit.
Thank you for making me a believer.
******
Escape from Harrizel
BONUS MATERIAL:
Escort
“
Can you hear me?”
It’s one long blurred sound, like someone
shouting at the other end of a tunnel. The words are there for a
second, broken apart for me to hear, to make sense of, but then
they’re gone again, swept away as their call dies faintly in the
distance. They repeat a moment later, in four distinct verses, the
third highest in pitch. It’s a question.
But what’s he asking?
It must be important by the way his blue
eyes flicker between mine. But then they’re gone. Disappearing.
They’re always disappearing, flashing in and out like an erratic
switch offering intervals of sight. One minute he’s here, a moist
brow wiped clean by an olive green sleeve and the next there’s
nothing. Darkness that is also white, quiet and still. And I’m
alone.
“
Fallon, can you hear me?”
The sound of my name triggers a rush of
questions I want answered all at once. Is my name really Fallon?
Why does that sound so wrong and yet, familiar? Where am I? What
happened? And most importantly, why can’t I remember?
I nod, although my guess at the question is
only that.
“Tell me you can hear me.” His voice echoes
but grows tighter than before, more distinct. The hum is gone and
words are here. The spells of darkness turn to sight and he’s here,
over me, wiping a brown curl from my face. “Fallon?”
“I can hear you,” I say, surprised by the
sound of my voice. That much is familiar.
“Can you sit up?”
I try, but my abdomen roars with soreness,
like a muscle spasm from one too many sit-ups. My arms shake, but
his hands are around them in a second. Soft and papery, like an old
man. Like a grandpa. Is he mine?
He helps pull my back from the floor and I
stifle a cry at the throbbing pain. Once up, I see my legs
outstretched in front of me—frayed bellbottom jeans with splatters
of crimson on my muddied Converse. The crimson dots the gray torso
of my baseball tee, a few specks staining the black sleeves. A
heavy pounding erupts at the back of my head and I reach my hand
around it, feeling a large lump under the crown. A curtain of curls
pads the bump which cups easily into the small of my hand.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m dizzy,” I gulp saliva down a raw
throat. “I feel like I’ve been hit with a cinder block.”
We’re in a narrow hallway, lined in brown
cabinets, a few unevenly hanging from their hinges. A black oven
sits to my left with a tattered dishrag of snowman and holly bushes
hanging from the handle. There’s a plastic gray trashcan across
from me, cornered by two walls of yellow and orange wallpaper.
“Is this your house?” I turn to the man. He
has yellow-white hair peppered with gray, and eyes that glimmer an
unnatural blue, as if he’d picked the color from a paint shop
himself.
“No.”
“Are we trespassing?”
“We’ll be fine,” he offers his hand, “Come,
let me help you up.”
I take it but my legs are unstable. It’s a
struggle to put pressure on them but I manage and find myself
upright, immediately overlooking a dining room with a solid oak
table. Beyond it, a long, empty sitting space with a television,
yellowy-beige couch and two maroon chairs—one near the kitchen and
the other, caddy cornered by the sliding glass door. A narrow
hallway separates the couch and chair on the same wall.
“Can you stand?” he asks, holding my elbows
in his hands.
“I’d rather sit,” I lock eyes on the couch
beyond him. He walks me over, hands still cupping my elbows, and
places me down gently. “What happened?”
He drops his mouth to say something but
instead, turns and heads for the kitchen, opening a cabinet that
sends a piercing squeak into the air. “Would you care for something
to drink?”
“Water, if you have it.”
The yellow and orange wallpaper continues
into the room, lighting the space. A brown shag carpet lines the
floors, sinking under a wooden stand which supports a small
television at the other end of the room, a thin layer of dust
coating the screen. There’s a large sliding glass door to my right
with billowing red sheers on either end, whisking in the scent of
oncoming rain.
“Where are we?”
“In a friend’s house,” he turns off the
faucet.
“Are they here?”
He approaches, his smile turning down. “Not
anymore. Have some water,” he says and hands me a glass of clear
liquid. I take it and gulp the cool beverage quickly. It soothes my
throat, the sensation trickling into my chest as the pain in my
head abates.
He takes a seat opposite me, in the maroon
chair near the television and crosses one khaki leg over the other.
I empty the glass in one sip and set it next to me on a wooden end
table. I lick my lips, lapping up the remaining liquid. “Thank
you.”
“You’re very welcome,” he smiles. “I always
find a good drink does the trick.”
“Should we check the cabinets then?”
“Maybe in a bit,” he laughs, “although,
probably not the best idea in your condition.”
“I don’t know. I’m sure all it can do is
help at this point.”
“And how are you feeling?” he tries, “A bit
better?”
“Not great.”
“It’ll subside here in a moment.”
A long, silent minute passes before the wait
becomes unbearable. “I’m sorry,” I lean forward as my stomach
roars. It might be rude to be so direct but with a migraine
forming, I’m in no mood for evasiveness. “Can you tell me what’s
going on?”
“Yes…” he starts, clearing his throat, “but
first, introductions are in order, don’t you think? My name is
Clarence.” He waits and as if anticipating my struggle to respond,
offers to help. “And you’re Fallon.”
Fallon. There it is again. My name. Or what
should be my name. Something rings in my core so I try it on,
testing it out. Fallon.
Fallon
. “No,” I shake my head
defiantly, “you have me mistaken for someone else.”
“For whom?” he glances around the stark
room.
“But that’s not my name.”
“Then what is?” Clarence asks, resting his
chin in the fleshy groove between his pointer and thumb. A pompous
grin sneaks across his lips in a challenging manner. I’m not one to
falter under a haughty threat but when I go to respond, nothing
comes to mind. I don’t know what my name is. Panic sets in,
swelling me with newfound fear. He must see it in my face because
his voice softens as he says, “There’s no need to be alarmed.
You’re perfectly safe. And this is normal.”
“Not knowing your name is normal?”
“Well,” he starts, his smile wavering, “not
knowing your name
isn’t
normal but with the situation we
find ourselves in, it is.”
“And what situation is that?”
His smile vanishes completely. “Let’s put
that on hold for right now and focus on a few things,” he threads
his fingers together on his lap. “You’re alive.”
“Yes,” I agree quickly.
“And you feel fine now?”
I lift my hand to the bump. “My head hurts…
and I feel like I just birthed a rhinoceros,” I look up to him,
attempting to hide obvious panic behind calmer eyes. “Did I have
some sort of accident? Did it cause me to have amnesia?”
“Oh no,” he shakes his head, “nothing like
that. You did have an accident—yes—but I saved you. If you know
anything, know I’m here to help you, Fallon. I came for you as soon
as I could.”
He wants me to believe him. He
needs
me to. This will only go well if I put my trust in him. A strong
feeling—is it intuition?—suggests I should, but uncertainty
pollutes it with doubt. Taking my time, I choose my words
carefully, focusing on his unblinking blue eyes. “Are you a
doctor?”
“No.”
“A policeman? Therapist?”
“No and no,” he refuses my guesses with a
humorous shake of his head, Rumplelstiltskin reveling in his
cryptic secret. Clarence’s mouth turns up after a moment, “I’m
curious to know why my occupation should define me?”
“…Trade says a lot about a person.”
“True,” Clarence nods along, “but I’m a man
of many trades.”
Why won’t he just tell me? It’s a game to
him—all a game. I play along though, hoping to win some truth. “And
your current trade?”
“Depends on how you look at it…” he sighs,
shifting in his chair as he crosses his other leg. “Some use the
word magician… though I’m far from pulling rabbits from my hat.
Others say missionary, thief… sometimes liar.”
“And what would
you
choose?”
“Escort,” he grins widely in a cocky sort of
way, “at the present moment. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you
think?”
“Depends on how you look at it,” I shoot
back. And then, after a moment, “Where would you be taking me?”
“Home. To your
new
home.”
He’s going too fast and not telling me
anything. New home? What does this mean? A silent alarm rings in my
head but I hide the fear in casual but curious words, playing
along. “What happened to my old home?”
His eyes flicker from mine, to the kitchen
on his right. “Give it a minute and you’ll remember. All of it. All
of
this
,” he glances around the room as if seeing it for the
first time.
