A Third Kind- Sample- Chapters 1-9

Chapters 4-6

Chapter 4

       LIGHTNING FLASHED, PIERCING the darkness beyond a window covered in grime and dissected by rusted iron bars. For a second or two Allie thought she was home in bed, waking from a bad dream, and then she remembered.

       An ominous rumble of thunder rattled windows, and moments later another bolt of lightning sent shadows leaping and dancing, scurrying across a gray and lifeless landscape of old furniture and boxes strewn with dusty cobwebs. The flash faded and a darkness so complete it was profound swallowed Allie whole. It was still night. The storm was still trying to wash the world away. 

       She sat up and rubbed at puffy eyes. It was all real. She was being kept prisoner by some psychopath. She scratched at her arms, trying to sate an itch that couldn't be sated, and chewed on her bottom lip. 

       Grateful that at least the headache had eased, Allie still felt like crap. She wasn't cold anymore. Instead, she was burning up, shivering, and slick enough with sweat that her clothes clung to her body. Every last inch of her being ached, and she felt as though insects were slithering beneath her skin. 

       She slid her legs over the side of the couch with a groan and checked herself over. Her ankle was swollen and hot to the touch. She traced her fingers over the bruise, feeling the raised outlines of his handprint, and pulled away when she found something wet and sticky. If she hadn't already thrown up, she would have now. She flicked her fingers frantically, trying to rid them of the skin that had sloughed off. 

       The room spun as she stood, and she limped toward the stairs. 

       Beneath the faint glow of the lone light bulb, she saw a purple and black bruise that covered her ankle as if his hand had been covered in ink. At the center of the bruise, the dime-sized scratch had grown to a glistening silver dollar swatch of infection that dribbled yellow and brown pus. 

       The clutter. Maybe there was something in there she could use...cloth to clean and bandage it. It was stupid and probably a waste of time, but anything that kept her distracted was worthwhile. She had to admit, even sick and wounded, she was more clear-headed than she'd felt in a long time. The panic had lessened. The fatalist glimmers were gone. Both were replaced by grim understanding. She was screwed, there was no arguing that, but she would rather die clawing his fucking eyes out than giving in to whatever he wanted.

       She glanced up the darkened stairway and walked on by. She'd tried that. He wasn't stupid. He was calm, collected, and had no fear of her whatsoever. She wasn't his first. 

       The light faded with every step into the debris. She pulled box after box back to the light and tore them open, digging for anything that might help. She found nothing more than ancient books and newspapers, moth-eaten shirts, and dozens of shoes. Some of the clothes were newer, but most were yellowed by time. Shivers rippled through her and her heart raced, skipping a beat and then catching up with a thud that ached in her left arm. The clothes weren't his. They were all different sizes. Scores of them, but almost entirely men's. A preference, not that it helped her.

       She sifted through the clutter, trying and failing to break apart the furniture and finding little worthwhile. One massive tome had some potential. It was leather bound and heavy, written in a flowing silver gild in old English. If she got a clear swing it might stun him.

       The going was slow, the searching done by hand and the occasional lightning bolt that turned everything a ghostly shade of gray. Too often her gaze was drawn to the barred windows above, near enough to be infuriating. At best she could wait for the storm to break, pile up enough garbage to stand on, and scream for help.