Union

  Contents

  Title

  Dedications

  My Other Books

  Join my Newsletter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  About Me

  Union

  Book 4 of the Gray Series

  Copyright © 2014 by Brian Spangler

  writtenbybrian.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  ISBN-10: 1503253538

  ISBN-13: 978-1503253537

  DEDICATION

  To my friends and family for their support and patience.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  While working on this novel, I was aided by several individuals to whom I wish to offer my immense gratitude and appreciation. Thank you for reading many drafts of this short novel, and for offering critiques and encouragement. As always, your feedback has helped to shape the story.

  To Don Shope, Lisa Akers and Kay Bratt for providing invaluable feedback and helping me recognize the potential of this series.

  MY OTHER BOOKS

  Supernatural Suspense

  Superman’s Cape — A grim tale of a boy lost in a forest that holds everything he is afraid of.

  A Contemporary Fiction

  An Order of Coffee and Tears — Friendships, romance, secrets and forgiveness center around a cozy mystery.

  Short Stories

  Naked Moon — For one young traveler, a naked moon may mean the difference between life and death.

  Some Sci-Fi, Dystopian Thrillers and Anthologies

  From the Gray Series — a four book apocalyptic and dystopian series

  Going Gray — Book 1

  Gray Skies — Book 2

  Blinded By Sight — Book 3

  Union — Book 4

  From the Indie Side

  From the Indie Side — An amazing collection of short stories by a dozen of the top Indie authors!

  From Hugh Howey’s World of Wool

  Silo Saga: Lottery — What happens when there is one too many mouths to feed?

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  Happy Reading,

  Brian

  1

  He stared absently at the ocean: breaking waves tumbled soundlessly and pushed white foam over blackened sands. He tried to imagine the vast sea just beyond the barricade of fog, and in his mind he briefly saw the still surface lapping at the air, birds diving, fish jumping. But like most of his memories, that one too had become distant and hard to reach.

  And though he could only see a mere sliver of the beach and beyond the machine, it was just enough to remind him that the world he had abandoned still existed. From inside the machine, on some days—those lucky few when everything lined up just right—he could sometimes glimpse the shine of a distant star. A black sky sprang from his memory, endlessly filled with small flickering eruptions of lights. And just as quick, the memory faded like the life he once knew.

  But maybe today?

  His eyes wandered upward, following the rolling wall of fog until the clouds broke into the twilight’s dusky afterglow. A wink of light shone just behind him, just out of reach. Straining to see more of the sky, the star blinked in and out, revealing another piece of it. But what he found wasn’t the star he was searching for. It wasn’t a star at all.

  They’re watching, he thought and then quickly emptied his mind, disconnecting it from the thousand years of his existence. He went to that place that was safe; quiet. It was the same place his nightmares crawled to in the moments before waking from a long sleep. But sometimes the days were his nightmares, confusing him with what was real and what was not. That happened more and more as time marched toward his world’s inevitable demise, and his annual expirations.

  Thirty days? But he had lost count by now. If only the star were out, I’d know how many days I had left this time.

  A mindless zombie. That’s what you've become, he told himself. No. That’s not fair… that’s not true. I am aware, he countered his thoughts.

  “I am aware,” he spoke out. His voice was soft, almost feeble. And the sound of it filled him with shame.

  From his white coveralls, he found the sharp metal wedge he’d tucked away earlier. The lights were busy, paying him no mind.

  One jab, he considered. Just one to know that this is real.

  He hesitated. I need to know. The blade’s warm edge slipped inside him. A small gush of relief spilled from his pursed lips.

  One more.

  The cutting continued, falling silent like the crashing waves.

  Enough? He questioned, struggling to measure the pain. After all, pain was the only connection to life he had anymore. But even that had begun to wane. He stopped when he felt the trickle of something warm running down his leg. And when he saw the patchy red streaks stretch the length of his coveralls, he couldn’t help but wonder how many times he had tested his reality? There were more stains, older and already drying stiff and becoming dark. I’ve been testing what’s real, he realized, feeling disoriented and confused.

  Turning back to the translucent panel, he imagined seeing Emily, his daughter, on the other side. She raised her hand and touched the machine, knocking for him to come out and play.

  “I’ll come out one day Emily,” he mumbled, swiping a glance over his shoulder toward the lights. Nothing—no response. “I swear it Emily. I will.”

  But the promise to his daughter had been carried shamelessly on the ripples of a long history—a history he had created centuries earlier. In his mind, she was a lie, banging on the machine, screaming for him to come outside.

  “Daddy… Daddy, why did you do this?” she yelled. But of course he heard none of it. Her voice was in his head, screaming at him, at the machine.
Emily thrashed her arms around wildly as though having convulsions. She slowed, her eyes meeting his through errant patches of long red hair that stuck against her sweaty face. Tears spilled, heavy and thick as blood.

  Another jab, he insisted. Just one to see if this is real, too!

  Blood ran, and another gush of relief slipped from his mouth. But the sight of his daughter also left him frightened. Remorse came like the waves, filling him with sorrow, and the heavy regret crushed his heart and mind like a vise.

  At once, the lights on the walls flickered, blinking on and off, instructing the others that Phil Stark had stopped his work and needed a correction.

  “I’m working,” he screamed at them, waving his arms around his head. “I’m working! Can’t you see that?”

  The lights flashed a jumble of light sequences that Phil had grown to know and loathe. The nearest zombie body turned to him and was set into motion.

  “You don’t care, do you?” he cried out with resignation. Tears prickled his eyes, and spittle ran from his mouth.

  A jab. Solid. Stoic. Pouring.

  “You’ve never cared! Look at what I built for you! Just let me stay until she leaves!” But when he turned back to face the outside, his daughter was gone. He pressed his hand against the cool shell of the machine, wondering if she’d been there at all.

  She couldn’t have been here, he thought, realizing the lie was in his mind again—the lie was always in his mind. It’s impossible. She died hundreds of years ago.

  “One Jab!” he cried out with a raucous laugh and stabbed the metal wedge deep into his neck. Blood sprayed instantly, covering the only window to the world outside. He heard the rush of blood in his ears and felt his heart thrum inside his chest, fighting for the life that he did not deserve.

  I shouldn’t be here, anyway. None of us should.

  Another push and his neck opened up like a fountain. The welcome smell of blood came to him. Powerful and engrossing: the machine had no smell at all. He saw the others turning their heads, sniffing at the air, wondering about the strange coppery odor.

  “That’s called life,” he gargled. “Dumb fucks!”

  And soon, the taste of blood was on his tongue and filled his mouth. The end was coming. His smile stretched across his face as he laid on the floor waiting. He stared up through the window, straining with the last of his strength until the star he had tried to find earlier came into view and winked at him.

  “There you are,” he said. “I know you.” But Phil also knew that the star might not be a star at all.

  “What does it matter, anyway,” he sputtered in drowning laughter. “They’re just going to bring me back.”

  2

  With her feet in the surf, Janice kicked up some of the ocean water, enjoying the feel of it on her skin. As she wiggled her toes, the foamy spray felt crisp and reviving after the long muggy walk from their Commune. Any respite from the stifling humid shuffle over the black sands—especially for her feet and legs—was welcome, and, to say the least, necessary. She let out a contented sigh, while she gazed at the wall of fog that was just a few dozen hands from the surf. Squeezing her toes around the loose sand, she watched the vaporous gray, as it rolled, busily moving about, like a nest of farming floor honeybees after pollinating the gardens. She stared long enough to see the myriad of fallen clouds dispersing and thinning, only to reform, hiding the other side of the world from them. She thought of all the people who’d stood where she stood, wondering what was beyond the wall; wondering what had happened to them all after the accident.

  Why did the End of Gray Skies fail?

  Puffy gray pockets coasted around her and Richard for much of their walk; she was sitting in one now. The veil of it reflected up from the watery ripples that were spurred on by the kick of her toes. Their walk was a dramatic change from her day-to-day in the classroom, but she couldn’t complain, since their journey had been mostly uneventful. While the fog was heavier most of the time, they’d had perfect weather for the travel to the VAC Machine. What Richard had warned her about, more than once, was the state of the weather. Outsiders were more apt to be on the move: prowling and hunting when the fog was thick, and the air was warming.

  Janice turned and waded through the surf, keeping her distance from Richard to no less than a few hands. With the mix of thick fog, and pits and hollows around them, she didn’t want to risk being separated. Richard’s step was slowing; she could tell by the way he favored one of his feet, occasionally stopping and shifting his padded coverall shoes. Janice called out to him, motioning to the ocean, and urged him to douse his toes too. He waved off the suggestion and then shooed away a salt-gnat, before explaining that he didn’t care for the surf. Janice considered this, scoffed at his silliness, teasing him, and then kicked the spray into the air. Richard dodged the water, curling his nose, and insisted that he wanted to stay dry.

  Having traveled for days—even on the softest beach sands—her feet had tired easily, and she was certain that his must have too. Soon enough, as they continued walking, she saw him venture closer to the ocean’s edge, where he finally dipped his feet. Only the cool ocean water helped, and she was glad that Richard had listened to her. They couldn’t afford to rest their feet; not with the chance of Outsiders being on the move.

  Richard glanced up at her, trying to mask a subtle smile, but she could see the appreciation on his face. He pushed his feet through the calm surf, creating a small wake behind him, and nodded.

  What a long way he’s come, she thought. At the beginning of their venture, Richard seemed to take pride in complaining. She dismissed most of his grumblings, knowing they were likely born from his ever-changing, and sometimes volatile, mood. It had been nearly eleven days since they’d left the Commune; eleven days without a drink. It wasn’t just the questions about the VAC Machine and the End of Gray Skies that they were after—with each day, questions grew like the distance from their home.

  Most of what they had come up with concentrated on the executive floor and the square numbers on the index cards. Some of what they’d talked about was why James had jumped to his death, and what the executives had to do with it. A few times, they’d even stopped and turned around, aiming to go back, when they questioned what they were doing. They’d talked about whether or not they should create a small group, and force their way onto the executive floor to demand answers to their questions. But when Richard described for her what had happened when he and Declan had a run-in with the executive guards, Janice thought of the index cards and told Richard that they should continue forward. After all, they’d never get enough people to overpower the executive guards.

  What Janice pondered more than anything else wasn’t James’ death, but the death of Declan’s sister and mother. Could her chosen have really been a part of something so evil?

  Not alone, never, she thought and kicked a dissident foot into the unsuspecting surf.

  A spray of water splashed onto her skin, startling her. It landed on the back of her legs, and up to her neck. The chilly touch stopped Janice where she stood; a reflex pushed her shoulders up, and arched her back. She heard laughing then, and knew at once what mood Richard was in. Turning, she kicked up the foamy surf at him and laughed as he darted around the white spray. It was good to see him smile, and even better to hear him laugh, even if it was brief. He’d left the remaining bag of potato juice in her dwelling, and along with it, the convulsions that came from not drinking. He was healing, but it was physical; she knew he had more work to do emotionally. This trip and finding Declan was just the start.

  While Richard pushed through the breaking surf, his smile gave back years, turning his aged face to one that was almost boyish. And there were times when she could see Declan in his gestures and mannerisms, especially when Richard told stories of when his family had been younger. He told her about Declan and Hadley and the sibling fun that they’d had when they had been growing up. As he talked, Janice wondered if he realized that she was there too
. She was, for most of their lives, their teacher. Her heart ached when thinking of them, and it especially hurt for Hadley’s death. She missed them both. She knew a teacher’s pain but could only imagine how it would feel if Hadley had been her child. In a way, she was though; all of her students were her children too.

  They always will be.

  More ocean spray came in her direction, and after she’d kicked off a return volley, she watched as Richard pulled handfuls of water over his head. The ocean was crisp and cold, but the air had already started to warm, and and had become muggy. They were moving into the hot months, and it wouldn’t be long before the air was thick and still. As he splashed more water on his face, she saw that his hands had grown still and quiet. In the first days—the worst days—he’d finished all of the carrot candy. Most of his control was back, ridding his hands of the shakes that had plagued and haunted him. Any threat of convulsion had passed. With his dark hair slicked back, she could see that Richard had already put back on the weight that he’d lost drinking. Even the sunken and taut skin on his face had filled in, pushing out the deeper lines around his mouth and eyes.

  He does look younger… a lot younger. It wasn’t until she felt a nervous flutter that she remembered something that had been lost twenty years earlier. She was attracted to Richard. Not since James had she looked at another man; especially not the way that she was looking at Richard now.