Induction her world just.., p.1
Induction: Her world just got a whole lot scarier., page 1
Copyright © 2022 by S.E. Sharp
www.sarahesharp.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Paperback ISBN 9798986369402
EPUB ISBN 9798986369419
Printed in the United States of America
Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design (www.derangeddoctordesign.com)
Interior design and formatting by The Book Makers (thebookmakers.com)
Edited by eBook Launch (ebooklaunch.com)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, whether they be living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Hanna (Skully).
This story wouldn’t exist without you.
induction (noun)
• the act of bringing about, starting, causing
Mika – pronounced “mee-kah”
Eiko – pronounced “EH-iy-kow”
Jager – pronounced “yay-gir”
Dorei – pronounced “doh-ray”
Contents
The Accident
Strange Sightings
Stupid Girl
Captive
Secrets
Electricity
Don’t Freak Out
Ninjas and Boy Bands
Aftermath
Acronyms
FOMO
Standoffish
Lattes and Surprises
Momma’s Boy
Some Answers, More Questions
The Tour
Sparring
Okada School of Excellence
Questions, Carol, Life
Redcaps
Monsters and Demons
More on Eiko
The Jerk
Spill
Don’t Make Him Beg
Have Pity on the Boy
Let the Training Begin
Arachnid Payback
Light as a Feather, Cut to the Quick
Give Chase
Animal Prowess
Thorns
Imps
What Best Friends Are For
Another Sticky Situation
Let the Real Work Begin
Wraiths
Reconciliation
Hit and Run
The Beast Is Dead
Venomous Snake
Another Monologue
Induction
Here There Be Demons
Oh, Humanity
The Weakling Is Gone
Torn in Two
Lies
I Am You
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter One
The Accident
A semitruck rounds the corner, headlights briefly blinding me. I stare at the white line on the right side of the road, using it as a guide. The monstrous vehicle and its trailer rumble past, shaking the SUV. My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel, my armpits sticky with sweat as I navigate the curves.
I hate driving at night. Especially this stretch of road. The darkness is endless. My headlights unable to penetrate the dense forest of pine and aspen. I have a looming, unsettling feeling that I’ll be swallowed whole, disappearing forever.
With a breath, I release one hand, regrip, and release the other—only to resume a white-knuckle hold when another vehicle approaches. This one is smaller, a sedan. Headlights not as bright. But still.
I hate it.
My regret at volunteering to drive home adds to the already stress-tight muscles in my neck, but I need the nighttime hours of driving to get my license. I only have three out of ten. It would be nice to able to drive myself to work, as opposed to riding my bike. Especially when winter comes. Imagine, riding through sleet in the early morning hours, just to serve people coffee.
Yeah, no thanks. I’ll suffer the anxiety of driving a car at night.
With a glance in my rearview mirror, I’m reminded of the other reason I volunteered to drive home. My dad sits between my twin siblings, Anita and Aaron, nodding off even as he taps at his tablet. The glow illuminates strands of his salt-and- pepper hair. He and my mom helped chaperone over fifty fifth-graders for their summer carnival and assisted with setup and cleanup. They are exhausted after being on their feet for over twenty hours.
My mom has fallen asleep in the passenger seat next to me, her head resting against the window, her cardigan acting as a pillow. Her light auburn hair is pulled up in a haphazard bun.
Anita is asleep, too, curled up against Dad. Her auburn braids are loose and fuzzy from a busy day of riding each carnival ride twice, if not three times. Aaron peers out the side window, the light drumming of his fingers against the door’s armrest offering a peaceful percussion.
His hair color matches Anita’s, but he convinced Mom and Dad to let him shave it into a mohawk. The twins share Mom’s upturned nose and smattering of freckles. Our older sister Carol, Dad, and I all share the same sloped nose, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes.
I check my speed. Five under the limit.
If Mom was awake, she’d lecture me. “There’s a speed limit for a reason,” she’d say. “It wouldn’t be forty-five if it wasn’t safe to drive that at night.”
And Dad would interject with, “Let her drive at whatever speed is comfortable for her.”
My cell phone dings from the cup holder, signaling a text. The message is from my best friend, Vic, who is currently in France for some martial arts summer school. When the sun goes down here, it rises over there. He’s either getting up to go on an early morning run, or he already went for one. Probably the latter. The boy puts early birds to shame.
He likes to send me pictures of animals he sees on his runs. So far, he’s seen deer and raccoons, and a farmer with his cows. Lately though, he’s been obsessed with some girl. The love of his life, he says.
I resist the temptation to take a peek at what news he’s sent me and adjust the air vent for the AC, silently praising myself for relaxing a little. Even with the sun down, the temperature is still a disgusting ninety degrees Fahrenheit. July evenings in Colorado at their finest.
With my newfound confidence, and no other passing vehicles with blinding lights, I take a second to adjust the radio volume. The regular music isn’t playing, as the DJ talks about a teenage girl from the area who’s been missing for twelve hours.
I frown, biting my lip, eyes scanning the road and forest ahead, my mind already going to the worst place, wondering what happened to the missing girl.
Aaron gasps. “Whoa, do you see that?”
No sooner do I glance out the side window than something large leaps from the side of the road, right into the path of the SUV. My eyes shoot to the road, gaze locking on the reflective yellow eyes of a mountain lion—a mountain lion the size of a grizzly bear.
I slam the brakes. Tires squeal. The bumper clips the beast, jolting the vehicle. Then we’re spinning. A scream tears from my throat. Glass shatters. A force punches at my face and chest, slamming my body hard against the seat. My vision blurs red. A horn blares, piercing the ringing in my ears. Sharp lights clutter my fuzzy vision. I catch sight of a chrome grille.
Smash!
Pain shoots through my spine and my head, throbbing in my nose. I’m weightless, flying through the air. For a second, I think I’m dead.
The vehicle hits the ground, slamming hard against the earth, jarring my bones. I black out and come to several times. Each moment is like an eternity and a single second. Soft sobbing lulls me from darkness. I’m not sure if it’s my own or from my family. Maybe both. Movement hurts as if every muscle is being pinned down with sharp implements. The worst is the hot, stabbing pinch in my left shoulder.
Too scared to move, I try to focus on staying conscious. Each time my eyes open, vision unfocused and swimming, I attempt to talk. Ask if anyone is hurt. But I can’t. My mouth refuses to move. It just hangs open and aches with a deep throb along my left jawline.
Something warm and wet runs down my face. I tell myself the liquid is just tears, not anything else. My head rubs against the roof when I try to turn my head to check on my family.
How many times did the vehicle roll? I only remember hitting the ground once. The memory twists my stomach in knots. Bile burns in my chest, threatening to erupt up my throat.
Stop thinking about it! I need to focus on checking on my family, figure out how to get out of this crushed vehicle.
I force my eyes open and somehow manage to keep them open. The left headlight is broken and dim, but the right one pierces through the dark, illuminating a massive animal form as it rises to its feet. I don’t dare blink. I don’t dare breathe.
The enormous beast has the round head and short muzzle of a mountain lion. A long, sleek predatory body with muscles boasting of insane strength under tan, matted fur. It turns its head, glowing eyes unfocused as they skip over me. Dark blood oozes from its nose. Jaw hanging open, it huffs, showcasing rows of sharp glistening teeth.
&nb sp; Its unsteady gaze finds me, and I freeze. A moment, a second, a lifetime passes. Its muscles bunch, shifting its weight. Is it going to attack? My heart hits hard. Once. Twice. Then the beast turns and limps away from the vehicle, quickly consumed by the dark of the forest.
The vacating beast is the last thing I remember when I wake up the next morning in the hospital with my dislocated jaw, three fractured ribs, fractured humerus bone, and concussion. I don’t remember the couple who called 911 and stayed with us until the EMTs arrived. I don’t remember being moved from the smashed SUV to the ambulance, or the ride to the hospital, or surgery, where they set my bones and relocated my jaw.
And I definitely do not remember them pronouncing Aaron dead on the scene.
Chapter Two
Strange Sightings
Four Months Later
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I swipe my phone screen, silencing the 9:00 a.m. alarm, then return my attention to my laptop. Scrolling through the articles, from six months ago and later, on a forum called Strange and Unusual Sightings. Most of the posts are obscure and vague at best, despite the authors’ conviction they’d spotted Bigfoot or a UFO.
I don’t comment or interact with any of the posts. I’m here for answers, and if I start posting and asking my own questions on this forum, wouldn’t that make me just as crazy as DeeDee87, who swears Bigfoot walked through her backyard?
The picture on her post is grainy and dark. She’s circled in red what she says is the freakish humanoid, but the “thing” resembles a powerline pole next to a tree. A streetlight down the way offers the glow of an eye.
I click off her post and scroll through a few more. I’ve read most of them. These people haven’t seen anything resembling the beast I encountered. The closest thing to a mountain lion the size of a four-hundred-pound grizzly is an oversized wolf some guy saw, but that was up in Canada.
I’m starting to think maybe I do belong among these people.
With a heavy sigh, I type in my email website. The homepage has articles—most about politics, the rich and famous—but one catches my eye. Another girl has gone missing since last night. My cursor hovers over the article. What number is this one now?
A series of loud quick knocks rap against my door, and I clench my jaw. My heart thuds in a panic. God, I need sleep.
“Mika! Get up,” calls Carol, my older sister. Her voice stern and words clipped. Her blatant irritation heightens my dread. “You still need to empty the trash from last night.”
“I’m up.” My voice breaks with fatigue. I sigh, trying to ease the weight that never ceases.
I click on the inbox icon. Third in the inbox is an email from Vic, which came shortly after 3:00 a.m. when I first checked my email after I gave up on sleep and fell down the rabbit hole of the Strange and Unusual forum.
Vic’s in Peru right now for a school trip and doesn’t have cell service, so he’s reduced to sending emails when he can. He’s attached a picture, and a small smile tugs at my lips. He stands next to a llama, the loose hair from his ponytail sweat-pasted to his forehead as he grins from ear to ear. The llama, on the other hand, looks less thrilled, its eyes squinted in annoyance and ears drawn back.
I start to type a response, asking if he got spit on.
“Mika!” Carol yells, knocking again.
“I’m up!” My voice doesn’t break and my frustration builds. But I don’t let it simmer. I can’t. I’m the reason everyone is angry, and I accept that. A mountain lion the size of a grizzly? Not a real thing. Distracted drivers at night? That’s a real thing.
Four months since the accident that killed my brother. I’ve healed from physical wounds. I’ve returned to work at Scott’s Latte Stop, riding my bicycle since no one—including myself—wants me to drive ever again. And I research. I look for evidence of what I saw. Needing to prove that what I saw is real.
No luck so far. Just Bigfoot and werewolf sightings.
Another sigh and I sit up, the box spring squeaking. My left shoulder is stiff and sore, a constant reminder why Carol is irritated with me. I rub the muscles, trying to ease the tension.
I look around the bedroom. My work clothes—polo shirt with Scott’s Latte Stop embroidered over the left breast, and black jeans—lie in a pile by the closet. My dresser’s bottom drawer is ajar from when I retrieved my pajama pants last night. My journal on the bedside table is open to a sketch of the mountain lion. More of a doodle really. Unrefined lines, exaggerated triangles for teeth, scraggly fur, and angry circles for eyes.
This creature is the reason sleep eludes me, even with a dose or two of melatonin. It haunts my dreams. My nightmares. Along with my younger brother’s scream.
I wince, shoving my fist against my mouth, biting down on my knuckle. Tears prick my eyes.
His death is my fault. At first, I blamed the beast, the giant mountain lion that no one else believes exists. No one saw it except Aaron and me. Not even the couple who’d called 911.
When I told Vic what happened, he said he believed me, but that’s what best friends do, right? They stick up for each other no matter what.
I know what I saw, but doubt—heavy, bone-deep doubt—has me second-guessing. I did get a concussion that night, but I know I saw the beast before the crash. Aaron did too.
An animal that big had to leave tracks. I hit it with the SUV too; there should have been blood or fur on the bumper. I remember the dark, almost black blood leaking from its nose. But there was nothing. No evidence except of a distracted driver—me—spinning into the opposite lane and getting T-boned by a truck.
This has been related by my parents, Carol, and the news articles—articles I’ve read over and over again that make it seem that what I saw is a work of fiction I made up to alleviate the guilt over Aaron’s death.
My thought from earlier returns: I really do belong with the people on the Strange and Unusual Sightings forum.
When I force myself out of bed, my movements are slow and methodical. I brush my short, dark brown hair, working out the knots that formed in the few hours of restless sleep. Except, of course, for the side of my head where they had to shave my hair down to the skin to suture a laceration that looked worse than it was.
A four-inch-long scar mars the side of my head. The hair is finally growing in around it. If the hairstyle wasn’t such a gruesome reminder of the accident, I think I would keep it. But the strands won’t grow fast enough for my liking.
I glance around the room for my hoodie, only to catch my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the door. One wouldn’t be able to guess the hell I went through just by looking at me—average height, average weight, and sixteen years old. Dark, baggy circles hang constantly below my eyes, but maybe that’s just part of having a job. Between that, the dark clothes I wear and my punkish hairstyle, most probably figure I’m emo or goth.
I dress in a T-shirt and jeans. My hoodie is nowhere to be found, so I dig through my dresser and pull on the first long-sleeve shirt I come across.
On my way to the kitchen, I peek in the living room to see Anita curled up on the couch, gaming controller in hand. Her headset is on, and every once in a while, she talks with the other players. I look at the screen, watching her swiftly maneuver her warrior princess through treetops and dodge arrows.
She’s delved into the gaming world since Aaron’s death. They likely provide her an escape. She suffered whiplash, a mild concussion, and a few cuts and bruises from the accident. She was the least injured, along with Mom. Dad broke his collarbone.
Going about my morning routine, I sense that familiar tightening in my chest. I prepare my breakfast in the kitchen: cereal and a glass of orange juice. I skirt around the island to the dining room and hunker down at the table, sitting in the corner. One little colorful loop at a time, I eat my cereal.
Carol’s voice drifts down the hall from her room. “I’ve been carrying my bear spray. It’s basically Mace.” I listen, taking another bite. “Yeah… It’s clearly a serial kidnapper. This is the fourth girl taken since July…”
Right. The fourth one. I focus on my cereal, not wanting to let my thoughts wander. I can’t help but imagine who took the girls and what he’s doing to them. I shudder, hunching closer to the wall, as if it could swallow me whole and I won’t have to bother existing.
