Thunder: The Shadows Are Stirring (Thunder Stories Book 1) (16 page)

~~~

I
WAKE UP GASPING,
with someone’s fist pounding me. It’s pitch black and I am lying on a hard sleeping platform. Jamie stops whaling on me when he sees my eyes are open.

“Dude?” My brain is full of sheep fuzz.

“I just saw something!”

“Wha—? Where?” I fumble for my slingshot. Whatever it was has Jamie all riled.

“No, not here. In a dream.”

“You woke me up ’cause of a dream?” I settle back with my arms under my head. A slingshot won’t help with a nightmare. “Tell me about it.” We’ve all had our share of bad dreams, and this is how we handle the lingering images. Talking about it helps clear it from our system.

“It wasn’t like a regular one. It felt real.” He explains to me how Livs had been twisted and swollen, trapped within the coils of a massive golden snake. He gulps in a lungful of air and chills run through my body. This is a land where dreams can come true. And possibly even stories.

Out loud, I begin, “Once upon a time there was a very brave girl named Olivia.” And I feed Jamie’s dream image of her with all the strength and hope I have. I do not fall asleep again for a very long time.

Chapter Thirteen: No Bull

(OLIVIA)

W
E HAVE SPENT THE PAST TWO WEEKS
communicating
with other Dweller outposts, getting reports on Slider activity and feeling out where it’s heaviest. We figure the areas with the highest rates of aggression indicate potential target areas on which I should focus. Assuming they mass near the rift.

I’m not sure what I’m searching for yet; I’ll have to feel it out as it comes. Which is why Ethan and I pretty much have to walk our way through the Shadows. I need to be able to recognize the pull. Even underground, here with our snake hosts, I get that tugging in my gut. Like it knows something my brain doesn’t yet. Now we’ve received our intel and we have a starting point—even if my instincts eventually end up leading us elsewhere.

Of course, now I’m totally freaked out for Sam and Jamie. And Ethan. From what Xaiben said, I know what the Sliders will do. They will soon figure out pain to my own body means nothing to me, and then they will begin to use the people I love dearest to break me. I don’t think I could live through
their
pain, inflicted for my benefit. I wish I knew where the boys are. No outposts have come across them yet.

Maybe I should leave Ethan behind somehow and search for the rift on my own. Distance myself physically and emotionally. If I don’t care about a person, they can’t use him against me.

Yeah, and my name is Santa Claus.

I’ve got to admit, it’s way too late for that. I already do care. Instead, I decide to stay close to Ethan; keep my eye on him, keep him safe. He doesn’t own that whole Guardian role. There’s plenty I can do along those lines.

Actually, I’ve been working at it already. While waiting to gain greater mobility, I make a bow and some arrow shafts for both of us. The blisters pop, leaving us stiff with scabs over every burst-blister site. Those slough off, and all that remains of our ordeal are coin-sized pink circles of fresh skin.

The Dells burn our original clothes because the mosquitos’ poisonous saliva is too difficult to remove. New clothes are made for us out of the same spider web material as our initial blanket wraps. Marrah tells us the material contains a natural chemical that helps prevent scarring and promote healing. Ethan and I both receive pants and loosely fitted tunics, which tie at our waists. Ethan gets an extra shirt since he came without a change of clothes. I tuck it into my pack, and we’re pretty much set to go.

~~~

W
HEN HE’S PROPERLY DRESSED
, Ethan searches me out in the main cavern. Shaking his arms inside the roomy long sleeves, he comments, “We’re like Jedi warriors in these things.” He scrutinizes his clothing and narrows his eyes thoughtfully in my direction.

“What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

The squint deepens. “You don’t suppose you could do that … that thing, do you?” He points to the sides of his head, twirling his index fingers in a spiral over both ears.

I snort and raise my eyebrows. “Really? You mean the whole cinnamon bun thing?” I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “I think not.” He’s too crestfallen for his own good. Honestly! Boys and their fantasies. I have to admit I’d love to see his expression if I ever decided to go for the hair-pastry look. Making Ethan smile is one of those things that brightens my day.

Laughing to myself, I walk around him to hunt down Xaiben and his wife. They’re in one of the side cavities, hissing in undertone to one another. They seem pleased to see me, but sadness reflects in their jeweled eyes.

Saying goodbye is harder than I’d ever imagine. These snakes are not the coldhearted reptiles you see on those nature shows. They’ve allowed us to basically become honorary snakelets of their knot, living closely with them like family members. We’ve been sleeping in their cavern, sharing their meals, and swapping our stories. They have earned both my respect and gratitude. I mean, if Xaiben hadn’t found us, we would’ve been sucked dry the morning of our arrival.

Both Xaiben and Marrah follow us to the concealed crack that is the entrance to their subterranean home. They’re almost parental with their sendoffs. They’re practicing; Marrah has just laid their first clutch of eggs.

“Keep a low profile. Try to blend in, but do not stay anywhere for an extended time.”

“Strike to kill; you’ll have no second chances.”

“Remember, the whole point for the Sliders is to destroy you.”

“And don’t forget to send word! We’ll be worried, otherwise.”

I can’t exactly picture my dad or mom ever telling me these things, but I’ll take what I can get. It’s nice to know they care.

I hug them both around their massive necks and have to discretely wipe at my eyes as they flick their tongues around us. We both wave over our shoulders as we turn and walk away.

There is a human city, Cropton, which is roughly a week’s journey from here. A road from there should lead us to one of our “Points of Interest.” Something about an above average number of rats. Gads, I hope they’re a normal size. Probably they’re not. I shudder at the thought.

As we walk through the open air again, I flinch at little noises. My skin prickle. I wish we could have some type of invisibility cloak. Why do the coolest things have to be fictional? How useful would something like that be for us right now? Being exposed makes us easy targets and I expect something to jump out and get us at any moment. But nothing happens—for the first few days anyway. We cross through the vast orchards, leave behind several small wooded areas, and head into the open blue skies. At times, we walk on roadways, but it seems more direct to cut across the land.

This particular morning, the sun takes its sweet time heating the air as we navigate our way across the barren, stubbly ground. When we hit wildflowers, the atmosphere becomes oppressive and contains a disturbing mixture of foul and sweet odors, a combo of stagnant water and the late summer blooms. Well, Ethan insists they’re just weeds. But they’re not.

It’s the flowers that distract me. At first, everything seems normal. My allergies act up again and we stop for medicine, which makes me think about Sam and Jamie. I don’t let on exactly how worried I am about them. Ethan’s as aware as I am about the dangers we face solely by being here in the Shadow Layer.

We put ourselves back together and start walking through a field, which covers the entire expanse of our route forward. The plants are tall enough to reach my upper thighs and are covered with little blue flowers. Birds and bugs are lazily fluttering all over despite a strange glittering, which glares into our eyes whenever the breeze gets going. There’s a faint tinkling too, like whoever planted the flowers really did not want this field messed with. The bells or whatever don’t seem too effective on the birds since they’re still flying around, but they’re not landing or anything; maybe that’s all the farmer wanted.

I bend down to slap at my leg thinking a bee has stung me, and jerk my hand back in pain. Thin red lines are drawn against the back of my hand. Confused, I stare around me. The legs of my pants are snagging on something sharp, and I’m glad my boots protect my skin everywhere below my knees. I hold still, taking it in. Ethan yelps.

“What the—?”

I start to pick up my feet and turn around, scanning the area around my legs. “Ow! Ow! Don’t move!” I holler. Ethan goes still.

I’m at a loss, until I peer closer at all that shimmering. “No way! These plants are growing needles.” Real metal sewing needles. And they’re effectively holding us in place; we’re about five feet in, with several acres spread around us. Xaiben did
not
mention a bloody
needle
farm.

Ethan, a few steps in the lead, calls back to me, “Okay, here are our choices, right? We can try to back out and see if we can work our way around—there has to be a border somewhere—or we can try to hack our way through. What do you think?”

“Let’s hack. It’ll take us forever, though.” I huff; this is downright frustrating because it’s got to be here on my behalf. Honestly, who grows needles? “Gads, how wimpy do they think I am?” I demand, and I tip back my head, calling out, “You’re going to have to try harder than that! Needles aren’t going to turn me away from my mission!”

“Um, Olivia?”

“What?” I challenge. I’m feeling feisty. This so totally irks me.

“You shouldn’t ask for anything worse right now.” He sounds strangely hollow toned. I couldn’t have made him angry with my flippancy. Could I?

Baffled, I squint at him and then over at the direction in which he’s staring. “Oh, criminy. Honestly? What is it with things coming at us through the fields? I don’t think I like fields anymore.”

There is nothing good about this, and my hand does not hesitate as I nock an arrow and let it fly; Ethan releases one as well. Both appear to bounce harmlessly off the hide of the massive black bull thundering in our direction. He has a dark fringe of hair around his head and trailing down his chest. And three-foot horns, which gleam like the needles in the fields. He’s on us before we can disentangle ourselves from the plants and run. We drop our pointless bows and grab for knives instead.

Ethan crouches into a springing position. I don’t know for sure what he’s going to do, but if he’s planning what I think he is, he’d better time it right; experiencing Ethan-kebob is definitely not on my bucket list. The bull lowers his head and charges. Ignoring the needles, Ethan jumps, grabbing a hand around one horn and twisting himself across its back. Trying to get a clean shot at the softer underside of the bull’s neck, Ethan makes a quick jab with his knife. The bull stops running and Ethan sails all the way over its head and ends up hanging with his arm twisted above him, his legs dangling too closely to the animal’s side.

The bull’s gigantor; you’d think there’d be plenty of surface area for him to cling to, but its bulk appears as firm as metal, and Ethan can’t keep a grip. I’d throw my knife, but I don’t want to make the beast mad; it could chuck Ethan and trample him under its killer hooves. But despite my lack of interference, the bull begins bucking and jerking around. Blast it. I wince as Ethan is violently heaved to the ground, landing on the pointed needles, which he then has to roll through in order to escape being plowed over. Ouch. He scrambles to his feet in record time, to wait for another go.

But it’s my turn. Ignoring the snagging plants, I take a leap. The thing tosses me in the air before I even have time to strike with my dagger, and I land behind the bull on the ground, my lungs oompfing out their last bit of air as I crunch painfully into a needle bush. Fine. I’m not cut out to be a cowgirl. At least I distracted it from Ethan. I twist my head to see what’s going on behind me, keeping my stomach to the ground to protect my internal organs. Of course, the bull’s horns could go straight through me from any side, no problem. I see a cloud of dust get kicked into the air as the animal spins adroitly around, lowering its head and aiming his metallic horns at me. This time for the kill. Drat.

Ethan takes advantage of the bull’s new focus and throws himself at the animal’s side; it shakes its head and Ethan slips, falling between the animal’s forelegs but managing to cling like a monkey to its chest hair. A bellow of anger at the hair-pulling echoes around us and I lie as still as possible. Ethan grabs for me with one hand, keeping his other fisted in the shaggy hair, but he misses and catches ahold of my bag, which rips from my back as he is dragged away. He releases his grip on the bull and drops into a ball as he hits the ground; the bag gapes open in his folded arms.

I can’t see well enough to tell what he’s planning to do, but I do see when he lifts his arms. He’s holding the bag open for some reason, and then he startles both me and the bovine by slapping the satchel over the beast’s snout. Not a deadly attack, not exceedingly dangerous. But for some reason the bull staggers and muffles around, snorting and sputtering. Ending with a gagged swallow.