Writing with N. D. Hansen-Hill...

On writing SFF & horror novels, publishers & publishing...and the writing life... Watch for book excerpts!

I'm so close to finishing BoneSong, my latest WIP, that I'm already listing in some places, "Author of 24...", but that's a bit of a cheat, isn't it? As books go - mine, anyway - I could have another 5K - 10K - 20K - words to go.

That's another thing -

I wrote my first several books in chapters, but then I realised I was changing the locations of chapter endings, so it was all a little artificial and fluid. It wasn't long before I began waiting until the end of a book, dividing it into +/- 10-page sections, and putting in chapter headings at breaks in the action. Oh, there are places which you can see are perfect for a chapter ending, and every once in a while, I'll put in a notation for the "Later Me", but the majority of the time, I can "chapterise" my finished novel within 10 minutes. Since my action goes up and down, I can always find peaks and dips to address!

And I write in Ks...

I discipline myself to write in Ks=thousands of words=minimum 1000K/day ('course, I blow this all the time, but I try!).

Enough about writing methods! About BoneSong: think non-extinct Neanderthals with a superiority complex...and difficulties in separating body and soul. Think walking dead...and coercion beyond the grave.

All my published books are in print again (save Gilded Folly - Cerridwen Press will bring the print version out in a few months) here in New Zealand! And ELF and TROLLS are in print INTERNATIONALLY! woohoo!

It's summer here and I'm loving it - kids are home, and that's the greatest! So much fantastic time together - the best thing in the world!

Cheers, and best wishes to y'all,

ND

N. D. Hansen-Hill

http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my ebooks...except Gilded Folly)

http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my INTERNATIONAL print books - so far, ELF & TROLLS )

http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under construction new website)

http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)

Oh, below is an excerpt from Elf - just to celebrate its print release!

Prologue

 

e jogged along in the mostly dark. The infrequent orangy streetlights didn’t do much to brighten his path, but they suited his mood. He’d spent the last three hours stocking shelves with cans of dog food and boxes of cereal, and his day had been spent running lab tests. Night job, day job.

His eyes ached from the fluorescent lights of the supermarket, and his nose burned from all the chemical scents in the lab.

Here, he had the illusion of being away from it all. He smiled, and sucked in a deep breath of clean air. This might be the industrial section, but after midnight it was the quietest place in town.

The day-drudge buildings were empty shells at the moment. In a few minutes he’d get clear of the factories and loop past the old city cemetery.

More empty shells.

The moon was rising and it was as fat and yellow as he’d ever seen it. The wind ruffled his hair, and touched him briefly with an icy breath. Autumn was coming. The rustle of scattering leaves was loud in his ears. Yellow moons, yellow pumpkins. Children’s laughter and costumed invaders at his front door. His smile widened.

He’d outgrown his fear of all things dark a long time ago. His eyes were keener than most, and he’d found that what was bleak and black to others was seldom fearful to him. He was certain he’d left all his childhood fears behind.

He was nearing the graveyard now, and he could smell it on the wind. Old flowers, new blossoms, stagnant water, fresh-turned earth. None of these bothered him. What snagged him was the light.

Little flickers of dancing light were hovering in the windswept night. Maintaining themselves against a wind that was tearing at his clothes now, and making his eyes stream.

What the hell?!

Not mere light—flickers of flame. Scattered across the cemetery and beyond—buried in the shrubbery landscaping and rising from the shadowed skeletons of cross and stone.

Oh, God! His breath caught and he missed a step.

The fitful clouds ripped apart, and moonlight etched the staring figures on his vision—confusedly silhouetting vacant buildings, angel wings, and snarling beasts.

Teeth and claws and flaming eyes.

In that moment, an eardrum-shattering howl hit his sensitive ears. It was both obscene and mournful, carrying with it the scent of rotten meat and ordure. At his back...

Some part of him recognised the sound, the stench, and his body broke into a sweat.

No mere memory—something worse. They say the smell brain never forgets...

Hunters. Hounds.

And in that moment, he was suddenly certain they’d been waiting for him...

 

Chapter One

 

uist picked up the phone reluctantly. "I’m not here," he said, with a sigh. "This is a recording. Call back next year." He added sarcastically, "Maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s the middle of the night—"

But it wasn’t the damned fool he’d thought—it was his damned fool of a brother instead.

"Have you seen Zander?" Mac’s voice was worried.

Quist smirked at the phone. "What—no ‘hello’?" he retorted. "What’s this sudden fascination with Zander?" He sniggered. "’s there something you’re not telling me?"

"No joke, Quist!" The concern in Mac’s voice made Quist frown. "He’s in trouble."

Quist shook his head, still unwilling to accept it. "What kind of trouble? Have you been sniffing something nasty again?" he asked kindly.

"Find him," Mac ordered. "Now."

"I’ve got company. I can’t just go off and abandon a beautif-"

Mac cut across his blathering, to say harshly, "If we don’t find him—soon—he’s going to die."

*

Quist ripped out of his driveway with a squealing of tyres. This kind of night affected him much the way it did Zander. Truth be told, he was happier being out on a windswept evening, than cloistered in the so-called safety of his house.

He wondered, briefly, whether he should be worried about Mac. He’d had these premonitions or whatever they were, before, and they’d always proved out. If he said Zander was in trouble, chances were he was. Shame Mac couldn’t be a little more specific, though. It would be nice to know whether Grocery Man was facing the long end of a knife, or the short end of a gun. Things that might make a rescue a little more difficult.

He glanced around. Who the hell would mug somebody in a place like this? Maybe ol’ Zand had changed his route, and was now jogging through the red light district.

I would, if I worked nights...

Mac sometimes acted like Zander was his kid brother as much as Quist. Maybe he felt that way. Both Zander’s parents had died when he was sixteen, and Mac had been watching out for him ever since. It had been years now, but Mac still kept tabs on him. They’d never lived very far from Zander, either.

Quist raised his eyebrows. Mac had always seemed flamboyantly heterosexual to him, but there was no accounting for tastes. Maybe Mac did have a thing for Zander. He thought about it: my best friend and my brother. And grimaced. How totally unappealing. Appalling, even...

He was still silently berating Mac when he reached the locked gates of the supermarket loading yard.

No Zander—and stupid Mac was supposed to have met him here. He felt like a fool for chasing down a grown man, who’d no doubt elected to spend the night at some lady’s house. And I’ll be damned if I’ll ask him where he’s been! he thought. Mac could be a real dumbass sometimes.

It was obvious there was nobody here. Quist’s eyes were as keen as Zander’s and it was easy to scan the parking lot. For thoroughness’ sake, he climbed off the motorcycle to make a better search.

He’d no sooner lifted the helmet than he heard it. Gooseflesh danced along his skin at the long, drawn-out howl in the distance. His nostrils flared and his gut tightened. Some part of him recognised the sound.

He also knew what it meant.

Mac was right...

He listened for a moment longer—his keen ears picking up the direction. Then he hopped on the bike and tore out of the lot, as though the hounds of hell were at his back.

*

He ran. The wind whistled in his ears, but it couldn’t tune out the pounding feet at his back. The running pace that matched his heartbeat. The howls were louder now—practically on top of him, and his eyes wept in terror. Streaming, not crying, with the wind and the salty sweat and the strain of his exertion.

It was one thing running home and another pounding flat out across the paving. He was beginning to feel the strain. He’d worked all day.

He couldn’t run all night.

He needed an advantage—any advantage. They’d have him in seconds...

He dove off the sidewalk, tripped and rolled, then wobbled to his feet, and swung up, momentarily out of reach, onto a flimsy tree branch. In that second, they lost him.

It was enough. It told him what he needed to do. This perch would never hold.

The park. He needed the trees...

He dropped, and was toppled off his feet as a heavy body plunged into him, jaw-first. Shark-like teeth gouged into his thigh—slicing muscle and tendon. His blood poured between locked teeth. He could see the glitter in the dark.

Blood? Glitter? No, that wasn’t right...

He screamed, and pounded on the head that was deadlocked on his leg. Pounding, pounding. Hard bone and eye hollows. He socked and pummelled and poked and pounded till the brain box should have been mush.

He’d lifted his arm to hit it again, when teeth locked on his raised arm and dragged him back, so his head went crashing against concrete.

They’d be at his throat next.

The trees. I need the trees.

He fought. Fingers in eyes and up nostrils and gouging into ears. Kicking and punching, snarling back, fighting back. He was coated in saliva and blood and hair.

Then, it got worse. At the point of the bites there came a burning, that traversed his nerve endings in an agonising frenzy of pain, that was nowhere and everywhere at once. He arched his back and howled, as loudly as the beast that was now at his breast.

It was coming. His ears filled with a roar that came not from without but within. His eyes widened as a growl issued from his lips.

The hound—the one whose saliva was dripping in his eyes—froze.

At his core, where the burning of the bites formed an escalating pyre, a shard of ice jagged and seized. Like a seed crystal, its surface grew, layer on layer.

The frozen mass weighed him down, but as it spread, it must have made him unpalatable. One by one, the hounds spat him out and shook their heads, spraying him with a splattering of saliva and blood. Zander clasped his ripped arm against the gouge in his chest. Rolling onto his stomach, he managed to push himself up and stumble to his feet.

He looked back—a dozen flaming eyes were watching him hungrily—padded feet moving restlessly.

They were eager—anxious—desperate, even—to taste him again.

The tree...

Zander limped away in a stumbling, tumbling run—trying to put as much distance between them as he could. Panting, he kept his eyes focused on the big tree in the distance.

He was halfway there, when the howling broke out again.

*

The howls were broken by the roar of a powerful engine, yelps, the squeal of tyres, and a scraping of metal. Zander twisted, and saw Mac’s car go side-sliding into the pack. Hounds were jettisoned across the road, and one ploughed into Zander, tossing them both back on the ground. The hound continued to writhe, and Zander, panicked, rolled away.

Mac’s car was still in motion. It slammed into a curb, which sent it rolling over and over. The whining squeals of the hounds were drowned by the clanging bang, the crunch and shrieks of torqued metal and shattered glass. As the car came to a shuddery halt, upside down, there was a hissing sigh, as though the engine had given its last breath.

Mac...

Get him out. Zander hitch-crawled across the paving toward the car, as fast as he could. He was in a shocky daze, filled with glittery blood spots and whining canines with glowing eyes. With cars that sighed out a last breath, and fetid panting at his back.

At his back...

The last things he remembered were the now-familiar teeth tearing into his shoulder.

*

Quist roared into a scene from hell. He was on his phone to emergency services before he’d even slowed the bike. There was Mac’s car upside down, and there was Zander, being savaged by a massive black dog. As Quist drew closer, he saw the giant beast lift Zander off the ground and shake him. In his headlight, froth and saliva and blood flew everywhere. Quist felt sick.

And angrier than he’d ever been in his life. He opened up the throttle and gunned the engine. As the dog turned flaming eyes his way, Quist ran it down, in a satisfying crunch of meat and bone. The teeth were yanked free of Zander’s skin, and in his periphery, Quist saw Zand linger briefly on his knees, before toppling over, onto the asphalt.

Where the bristly dog hair had brushed Quist’s hand, his skin reacted, in a hair-standing, gooseflesh-dancing wave of revulsion. His nostrils flared in a sneer at the dark-haired mass now crushed beneath his feet. Lips curled in aversion, he leaped off the bike, then moved swiftly to haul Zander’s bleeding body out of contact with that vile form—and away from the now-slackened jaws.

Quist lifted Zander up, and balanced him over one shoulder. He could feel the warmth of his friend’s blood pulsing down across his back. It was in such contrast to his centre, which felt abnormally chilled. For a moment, Quist tensed, scared, until his keen ear picked up the irregular thudding of Zander’s heart.

Still alive. But for how long?

"Mac!" he yelled worriedly at the car.

"Still," came a mumbled response. "Zander?"

"Not good. You?" Quist heard a low rumbling growl, and squatted next to the broken windscreen, his back to the crunched metal. Around him, there was a shifting in the blackness, and his eyes searched their surroundings warily. The hounds were coming back for more. He was beginning to wish he’d left his bike running. "Can you get out?"

There was a grunt, and a thud, and Quist flinched. He had a feeling Mac had just landed headfirst on the roof. "You okay?" he asked again.

"Yes," Mac replied, but his voice sounded strained. "I’m coming out."

There was a warning snarl to Quist’s left, and he felt a tremor as a heavy body bounded onto the car at his back.

Near Zander’s head.

"Negative," he hissed to Mac. "Move over! We’re coming in!"

*

The next few seconds were something out of nightmare. Quist had no sooner shunted Zander in past the broken windscreen, than he felt the first jab in his side as the canine to the left lunged. Teeth, clamping down on his hip. At the same time, the hound above decided to take advantage of his bent position, to come in for the kill. Quist was halfway in, halfway out of the window now, and he knew he didn’t stand a chance. Mac was tugging and grunting to yank him in through the gap; Quist was yelling and shrieking as the slavering jaws snapped at his face and neck. He jerked sideways, and thunked heads with Zander, who gave a low groan. Mac, meanwhile, was stuck—caught by the crunched seats and Zander’s limp form. He was panicking at the thought of his brother becoming dog chow, and was beating and pounding on any exposed flesh he could find. Some of it was Quist’s.

Zander was roused by the hollow thudding of Quist’s head against his own, and dazedly opened his eyes. It took him a moment to figure it out—it was all snarls and howls and ows and yelps and thuds and curses as Mac added his bit. In the distance, there was another sound—the whine of an ambulance.

It wasn’t going to make it—not in time. Quist was in the position Zander’d been in only minutes before, but the hounds were here for the hunt, and they wouldn’t be satisfied without some kind of reward. Quist was about to provide it.

Quist squirmed onto his stomach and tried to pull himself inside. Zander’s keen eyesight caught the panic in Quist’s eyes as he was tugged backwards out of the car. Mac was clinging to him, yelling, with tears running unchecked down his face. Quist’s fingers were white at the effort to hang on.

And then, the dogs had him. They yanked him back and pounced. At the first snarl, Zander felt something inside him snap.

It went beyond rage, or horror, or outrage at the bestial brutality. It was something else—something he’d felt just a short while ago.

A chilling resolve. Mac, sobbing, tried to hold him back as he squirmed out of the car. Zander stilled him with a look.

The dogs would want him. Him—not Quist. He didn’t know why or how, but the knowledge was there. Innate. He cleared the car, somehow pushed himself to his feet—and whistled.

It was a shrill whistle, a demanding whistle, and the dogs froze. Zander’s flesh crawled as they dropped Quist’s squirming form and turned—as one.

The chilling resolve had a home—in his gut. Cold, implacable purpose. The most terrifying thing of all was that he suddenly wasn’t afraid.

He felt the cold move, filling him up, and he wondered in the back of his mind if he was going into shock. Shock numbs the pain, so you don’t even feel it...

Then this wasn’t shock. Because he felt every gouge, every slice. But what hurt him most of all was that terrible cold. It was like a freezer burn that makes you flinch and sting. Like the icy ache behind your eyes that made him want to double over with the pain. When it reached his throat he was choking. The frost was blocking his throat, occluding his airway. As the first padded foot stomped on his, he opened his mouth in a silent scream...

Only, it wasn’t silent. It was a shrilly horrifying banshee cry, and Mac slammed his hands against the sides of his head—forgetting all else as he sought to cover his ears. He only hoped his little brother was doing the same.

The echoingly hollow screech went on and on. Now that the chill was thrusting out of him, Zander couldn’t stop it.

The dogs howled, turned tail, and ran—but they didn’t get far. Zander’s eyes were squinted nearly closed, he was gripping his middle, and he knew the dogs were in retreat—but he couldn’t stop it.

Nor could he avoid seeing the outcome.

The flaming-eyed monsters were writhing in agony as they ran—and at the last, one of them turned back with a snarl, desperate to demolish the instigator of this pain. As it clamped down on Zander’s calf, the shrill song went up a pitch. The dog released him, jerking in spasms.

But it was too late—for that hound—for all the hounds. Zander flinched in pain and horror as the flames in the eyes suddenly expanded, and the closest canine burst into flame. One by one they ignited in masses of yellow and blue flames, that seethed sideways in the breeze, flared—before imploding into a splaying of wind-driven ash and pale grey smoke.

Zander’s song died, and in the end, it sounded as though he was choking once more.

He dimly heard Quist mutter "hot dogs", and Mac call his name, but he wasn’t hearing too well right now. He could feel a trickle tickling his neck, and he guessed that blood was now running out his ears.

It was running down his throat, too. He gagged and choked and dropped down onto the asphalt.

He never heard the ambulance arrive.

*

"Dog pack." It was all the man—Maculley Craigen—would admit to. Nothing more. He’d been driving along (at one am?) and seen a friend of his, Alexander Brody, being savaged by a pack of dogs. His brother Quist had been following him on a motorcycle, and had been brought into the fracas, too.

No medical records—on any of them—so they’d had to do a work-up from scratch. Quist Craigen, who’d been more garrulous than his brother, had openly admitted he’d never been to a doctor. "Never been sick," he’d said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. Apparently, he’d never needed immunisations, either.

Well, he was sick now. He and Brody had some infection from the dog bites that Dr. Benjamin Lowry had never seen before. Foul smelling and invasive—and nothing seemed to work on it.

It was driving the older brother out of his mind. Maculley had some internal damage—Lowry was sure of it—but he’d refused tests. They’d set his leg and stuck him in a bed, but he was unwilling to stay there. He also seemed desperate to avoid further exposure of any kind. No x-rays or imaging, no blood tests, no police reports, no interviews with the local paper. The nurses were starting to complain because he was never in bed—always either in his brother’s or Brody’s room.

Watching, listening.

It would have made Lowry angrier, if he hadn’t seen the fear in the other man’s eyes.

Maculley had good reason to be fearful, and the paramedics had been the first to point it out. They’d been startled by the extent of blood loss, and stunned by the quality. By the oddly luminescent glitter.

Ben Lowry hadn’t believed it until he’d seen it for himself. Then, he’d used it. After an initial clean-up, he’d hauled the Craigens and Brody into dark rooms to find further tears in tissue. Convenient.

But scary as hell. Who were these men?

Not normal, though Quist Craigen seemed to think he was. His ears were attenuated, as were the others’. There was also an odd slant to their eyes that Ben had at first attributed to some Asian forebear. But wherever their forebears derived from, he’d decided now it wasn’t Asia.

No records, so no idea of allergies. Ben had nearly killed them with an antibiotic infusion this morning. It had been mild—an attempt to get the infection under control—but both Quist Craigen and Zander Brody had gone into anaphylactic shock.

It had been close. Maculley had refused to leave the room since.

That was the other odd thing. It wasn’t his brother’s room he’d refused to leave. It was Brody’s. Ben couldn’t figure it out.

He poked his head in the door, and glanced at Maculley’s bed, already knowing he wouldn’t be there. He detoured to Brody’s room. Supposedly, Zander Brody wasn’t having visitors, but that didn’t stop Maculley. Hadn’t stopped him all day. Somehow, he was getting in, cast, nurses, orderlies and all. The man was there now.

He was asleep in the chair, the casted leg up on the bed. He looked sick and exhausted. There were bruised marks under his eyes, his foot was swollen, and he didn’t stir when Ben laid a hand on his shoulder. Concerned, Lowry checked his pulse, then shook him, gently. "Maculley!" he hissed.

Mac opened his eyes blearily. As awareness seeped back in, alarm replaced the pained look. "Zander—" He jumped, and let out an unwilling groan.

"He’s fine." Ben looked at the bed, checked the monitors, and sighed. Mac’s sharp ears picked it up.

"No, he’s not," Mac said raspily. "I’m not going."

"Room’s off-limits," Ben told him curtly. "If you don’t like hospital policy, you can leave."

Mac shook his head. "No," he said quietly, and in that moment, Ben guessed how desperately he wanted his bed. The man was sick, and worn, but for some reason, he couldn’t let go.

"It’s not going to help either of you to stay," Ben told him reasonably. "You know," he added almost conversationally, "I’ll have to discharge you soon anyway—if you won’t agree to treatment. Whole lot less trouble for everyone."

"Covering your ‘ass’ets?" Mac growled. His eyes grew distant and he turned to the window. His attitude told Ben he was listening, to something beyond Ben’s hearing.

A chill went down Ben’s spine.

"They know where Zander is now," Mac whispered. Ben knew he wouldn’t have admitted it, unless he’d been desperate. His eyes were pained, and Ben could tell he was scared. Maculley Craigen didn’t know how he was going to cope. "They’ll be coming."

*

Zander woke in the dimly-lighted hospital room. He was shivering, and his chest was on fire. In that moment he wished he could return to sleep. He didn’t want to think—didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to remember.

Maybe it was all one with his restless dreams. Anything so he wouldn’t have to recall the way it had felt. That icy slough in his guts, his limbs. The ear-splitting notes of his own screams.

How he’d killed, incinerated the dogs so easily, without lifting a hand.

Only by lifting his voice.

He was terrified. Horrified that anger could bring him to this. For that’s what it had been: fury, at the damage to himself, to Mac, to Quist. Fury that the pain was being visited on someone he cared about.

But he couldn’t forget the stench of roasted dog hair, or the anguish in the beasts’ eyes.

Some things you should remember...

It was a voice from the past. Six years past. From the day Mac’s dad had died. He’d said it solemnly, seriously, but sadly, as though he’d known what was coming.

Maybe he had. Maybe he, like Mac, had been a victim of dreams. All Zander knew was that Mac’s dad, nearly as close to his heart as his own father, had driven away like a madman. His body had turned up a thousand miles away, in a wild stretch of forest.

He’d been savaged by some animal...

Zander went cold, and for an instant, he felt as chilly as he had the night before.

Brian Craigen had been killed by a wild beast. Too big for a dog, they’d said. Possibly a bear or a cat of some kind. It had been a terrible end for a good man; a horror story for family and friends. They’d never talked about it much, but that day had marked a change in Mac’s behaviour. He’d gone from playing annoying "big brother" type to Quist and Zander, to even more annoying self-proclaimed protector. He’d been doing it ever since. For the most part, Zander had been able to ignore it—to build his own life and ignore Mac’s warnings and worried expression, but now he wondered.

For he knew how it felt to be savaged by wild beasts. Those black hounds hadn’t been domesticated puppies gone bad. They were bad to begin with. And it was too much of a coincidence to have two attacks like that to people he knew. People he’d lived with.

He lay there, wondering what had wakened him. It seemed he’d arisen from the depths of a near-comatose slumber, and he guessed Ben Lowry had drugged him. Whatever had stirred him, had penetrated those depths.

It was then he saw it. One of the windows was open to the night—the glass missing and the frame bent and mangled. He’d been awakened by a tapping, a banging. A strong wind had risen and was slamming some of the metal framing back against the wall. The chill he’d felt—the iciness that was beginning to invade him—was real. His blankets were gone, and he lay there in his hospital gown, exposed and shivering. One of his sheets was halfway out the window hole, and he wondered confusedly how the hole—the sheet—the mangled frame—had gotten there.

Outside, a storm was brewing. Thick clouds roiled just beyond the glass, and the dangling metal slammed harder, in loud, clanging bangs. There was no way to keep the cold out now. He shivered, so hard it hurt.

Have to get warm...

At least, the cold was sharpening his senses. Zander felt for the call bell where it had been pinned to the sheet, within easy reach of his hand. The search became a little desperate when he realised it was gone, too—and horror set in when he saw that it had been yanked out of the wall.

Outside the window, lightning blasted the night. His breath came in panicky gasps as he saw the impossible—the black clouds, thick with mist, were slithering in through the gap.

Get out!

He rolled on his side and yanked out the IV. If memory served, his movements—the yanking of connections and wires—should send a warning to the nurses at the desk. They should come streaming down here en masse, crash cart in hand.

He watched as the machines ticked merrily on, though all connections with his own body were severed.

There’d be no nurse, no doctor. No help.

He slid out on the side nearest the door—and took a lurching step before he noticed the chair—or what was left of it. The mangled metal legs had been ripped off, and jabbed into the floor. Four legs, four spikes behind the door, to act as barricade.

There was only one exit, and it was by air.

Zander froze, hearing something over the wind. It was a sound he was sensitive to now, after last night. It would be a long time before he’d forget the scratch and click of claws. Unwillingly, his eyes seemed to turn of their own accord toward the window—and he saw the sheet tugged and stretched, as some heavy weight sought entry from below.

The sheet was snagged in the metal. Rip it loose. Toss it out...

Almost as though the climber could read his thoughts, the tugs on the sheet became more vigorous.

Too late...

As much as he wanted the light, instinctively, Zander now sought the dark. He slammed his fist hard into the nightlight, shattering it. Then he stood unsteadily in the darkness, buffeted by wind, and waiting as the night sky poured into the room.

*

"He’s restless," Steven Kern told him.

Ben nodded and looked at Mac’s chart. "What about the other Craigen?"

Kern grinned. "Ya mean, is he a pain in the ass like his brother?" He nodded toward the monitor. "Sleeping like a baby. Same with Brody."

Ben stood there for a minute, watching the monitors. Quist Craigen’s showed some normal variation from movement, but Brody’s remained constant. No ups, no downs, no jags, just a regular rhythm.

Too regular. "When’d you last look at Brody?" he asked.

"Thirty minutes. Why?"

"Just a hunch." He was halfway up the hall, heading towards Brody’s room, when one of the monitors started to scream.

"Craigen!" Kern yelled.

Ben tore into Quist Craigen’s room.

Only to find him out of bed. He had an ear—one of those weirdly attenuated ears—against the wall, and he was agitated, panicked. He ignored Lowry entirely and slammed a fist against the plaster. "Zander!" he bellowed. When Ben tried to grab his arm, Quist shrugged him off. "Help him!" he yelled.

Something in the other man’s eyes told Lowry this wasn’t hysteria. "Stay here!" he ordered. He tore out of the room, and pushed against Brody’s door—stunned when it wouldn’t open. Some of Craigen’s panic had hit him now and he latched onto Kern’s arm as he came by with the crash cart. "Help me!" he said, and the two of them thudded shoulders against the door.

"Brody! Open up!"

*

They can’t get in.

Quist saw the whirling black clouds outside his window—the ones that must be outside Zander’s as well. He didn’t know what it was—all he knew was that he couldn’t sit here and calmly listen to his best friend die. He grabbed a chair and slammed it into the glass.

As Lowry came running back in the room, he was just in time to see Quist Craigen disappear out the window.

***

*If you'd like me to post a few more chapters, drop me an email to tell me (sfnovels@gmail.com)!

posted by: NDwriting at 08:51 | link | comments |

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