Master: Arrow's Flight #3 Read online

  Arrow’s Flight #3

  Casey Hays

  Whispering Pages, LLC

  Books by Casey Hays

  The Cadence

  "La Faim" - A Cadence Companion Story

  The Arrow's Flight Series

  Breeder

  The Archer

  Master

  Coming Summer 2016

  A Scent of Lilac

  An Arrow's Flight Novella

  Copyright © 2016 by Casey Hays

  Cover Art: Zach Hays

  Editor: Anna Faulk

  Published by Whispering Pages, LLC, an independently owned company.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Master: An Arrow's Flight Novel, bk 3 / by Casey Hays

  429 p. 22.86 cm

  ISBN 978-0-9905698-5-5

  1. Young women - - Fiction. 2. Survivalism - - Fiction 3. Christian fiction

  I. Hays, Casey, 1972-

  PZ7.H3149176 MAS 2016

  [FIC]

  Author's Note about the Cover Art

  All artwork for the Arrow's Flight series was personally sketched and designed by my very talented son, Zach Hays. It has been a blessing and a joy to involve him in this project. Thank you, Zach.

  For:

  Elohim

  El Elyon

  El Roi

  El Shaddai

  Jehovah

  Adonai

  Yahweh

  Yeshua

  The Creator

  The God Most High

  The God Who Sees

  The All Sufficient One

  The Provider

  The Healer

  The Master

  The One True God

  The Savior Messiah, Jesus, the Christ

  Drip down, O heavens, from above,

  And let the clouds pour down

  righteousness;

  Let the earth open up and salvation bear fruit,

  And righteousness spring up with it.

  I, the Lord, have created it.

  Isaiah 45:8

  Prologue

  I take another swig of water from my canteen, and wipe the beads of sweat from my brow. It’s hot. So damn hot in this forsaken part of the world. I silently scowl at my surroundings and recap the canteen.

  I’ve been here for three weeks, and still, I haven’t adjusted to this heat. My black uniform sticks to my back. I tug once on the collar. It, too, is wet, and it threatens to strangle me. Muggy and stifling and miserable beyond all things miserable. That’s the best description for this deadbeat town and its pea-brained people. Seriously, a little air-conditioning couldn’t hurt.

  Most of the troops have gone on to Eden. I’d much rather be there, getting a piece of the action. But nope. I was assigned to this place: Jordan. A small town full of small families, most of them squeezed into two-room, dilapidated shacks lining dirt streets. No running water, no electricity. They haven’t even attempted to advance, not a single step since the Fall. In my opinion, refusal to advance equates regression.

  The Fall. That’s what they call it in these parts. The single most devastating calamity to ever hit this world. It brought us to our knees. Not me, per say. I wasn’t born until years after. But thanks to the preservation of history, we’ve been educated on the gruesome details. Some by word of mouth only. Either way, we still bow to it.

  I suppose it’s not the worst name for what happened—The Fall. In fact, it’s pretty fitting. The problem is, we’re still falling.

  Maybe that’s what we should call it. The Falling. Now that’s more accurate. It indicates an action in progress rather than an historical event. A never-ending, agonizing, misery-filled action in progress.

  The sudden pinging of a blacksmith’s hammer attacks my ears and drags me back into the present. I cringe. Another aspect of Jordan I loathe.

  All day long, every day, we endure it—the hundred or so left behind to make sure Jordan stays in line. The fires ignite in the heat of the day, adding insult to injury, and the incessant hissing and banging and clanging and melting doesn’t cease until close to dark.

  Granted, these people know how to make quality weapons—archaic as they are. Yeah, I’ll give them credit. Earlier in the week, I held the black handle of a steel-pointed sword in my grip just before I placed it in the locked bin. It glistened with a brilliant, silver sheen, and I have to admit, my heart danced a little. There’s never a bad time to wield a weapon created with such precision. And this Aaron? He’s good. His handiwork will bring us a more than decent price in the north.

  I lean against the trunk of a large, looming willow and prop up a foot. The whole place is covered with them, their long, wispy branches flowing like a woman’s ragged hair. They hunker over the squat shacks as if to play the roles of protective mothers. In the middle of the town, the plaza has been cleared of them, and here is where you’ll find the blacksmiths playing with their fires.

  Honestly, it’s a little unsettling to see what they can create. Pistols and rifles, as well as ammunition. We found the weapons when we arrived, just lurking inside the warehouse at one end of town, waiting for the right pair of hands to take them up and realize they were the perfect fit. We’d heard this was a smithing town, but never had we imagined what we’d find. Swords, arrows, spears of all lengths and weights. Truly magnificent work. A soldier’s dream come true.

  The warehouse is locked for now, the key dangling from a silver chain which is safely tucked in the collar of Lieutenant General Ross’s uniform. Ross isn’t letting anyone near that place, but I toss my eyes across the plaza, scanning for any activity. Our squadron isn’t the most welcome sight, and Jordan’s citizens maintain a quiet resistance that makes me wary.

  Personally, I despise these people for supporting Eden. I’m disgusted by it, in fact. How can anybody give their allegiance to those monsters? Jordan’s leaders deserved what they got for their insubordination.

  They couldn’t deny it. We caught their little messenger. It’s unfortunate the poor soul had to die, but he wasn’t the first casualty, and he won’t be the last. I still remember his eyes, though. How bright they were just before the end. I could have sworn he was smiling, the young fool. As if the assassin had given him a gift by killing him. Those who witnessed it say every one of those Board members were smiling at the end, too. But to see it for myself? It was eerie. I have to admit, it left me with an ugly taste in my mouth.

  The boy was commissioned to run ahead, but we stopped him forever from warning Eden that we were coming for them. Coming for the glorious concoction that would be our salvation. Save our children from this pestilence that plagues us. None of us are untouched by its hands. Everyone I know, including myself, has watched a little one cough out a last breath in an oozing anthem of black blood as they stare at us through blind and feverish eyes. We see the helpless agony written there . . . begging us to fix them. To save them.

  My son was only three months old. I bite the inside of my cheek, hold back the bitter threat of tears. He would be ten if he had lived. If Eden hadn’t been so stingy with their precious cure. My heart grows cold when I think of it. They’ve done well keeping their secret, but secrets only last so long before someone with a big mouth and an agenda shares it. A spilled secret spreads like fire.

  I tug on my sweat-drenched collar. I hate Eden. I’m not afraid of them.

  I wish I was there . . . to watch it fall.

  Jordan has settled in for the night. The plaza is quiet and empty
but for the low glowing coals in the bottom of the blacksmiths’ barrels. This, and the splintered wooden cross that stands ten feet high and dead center. It’s an ugly eye sore if you ask me. But I’ve been here long enough not to underestimate the importance it holds to these people. Ugly or not, that cross isn’t going anywhere if they have a say.

  Funny thing is they don’t say much. They smile when we take their beds; they offer extra helpings of food at dinner. Their eyes tell us what they think of us, but still, they don’t retaliate. They don’t resist.

  It’s odd.

  I don’t know whether this should make us nervous or not, but I’m not turning my back anytime soon.

  I make one round through the plaza, double-checking the area for any stragglers. Not that I expect to find any, but protocol must be followed. The deaths of their leaders sent a strong message—the death of that courier, even stronger. He was just a kid, and they get it now. If we’re willing to kill a kid, we’re willing to do much more.

  I inspect a couple of the barrels, even take a stab at heating the very end of a long leftover piece of metal in the dying embers—a soon to be sword, I imagine. It glows red hot, and it makes me sickly excited to see it. Hot steel could do some damage in a torture situation. I hold it out at arm’s length, imagine the steel point penetrating the flesh of one of those Eden monsters. I smirk. Now that would be fun.

  I return to my station at the tree. Pete will be here in a few minutes to relieve my post. As uneventful as the day has been, I’ll be glad to call it a night. I’m exhausted. I yawn, watch as the few lights flickering in the windows of nearby homes fade into darkness. It’s been a long, hot day of nothing much. Too long.

  And then . . .

  The boy crashes onto the scene. I jerk upright, instantly alert, and reach for my sidearm.

  “Penelope!” The boy screeches the name, fear laced into each syllable. “Penelope!”

  Lights flit back to life one by one. Someone opens a door. I step away from the tree.

  “Get back into your home,” I say calmly, and the woman dips inside.

  The boy spots me then, and before I can blink he’s towering over me. He’s huge—six foot five at least. Full of muscle. His frightened eyes are intense, burning into me, but his breathing? It flows out of him in even, regular intervals despite his panicked state.

  My jaw tightens. I know where this boy is from. There is no doubt.

  A slow anger begins to boil in my gut, and my gun leaps into my hand of its own volition. I take aim, straight at his chest. It doesn’t even ruffle him. I frown. What good does it do to point a gun at one of them if it has no effect?

  He takes a step closer. My fingers tighten around my weapon.

  “Please. Can you tell me where Penelope is?”

  I whip out my flashlight, pierce him with its sudden brightness. He squints away.

  “Please!” he bellows.

  I hear the tears in his voice, and in the light of the beam, I see the girl.

  She’s cradled in his arms, tiny and limp. A rag doll. Wrapped around her chest are thin, ragged strips of torn material tied tightly into a knot. But blood seeps through, slowly extracting her life. She’s pale; she may already be dead.

  The boy turns away from me—a wide circle—and screams again, “Penelope!”

  “That’s enough,” I say. His eyes find me. His lip is trembling. “What happened here?”

  He narrows his eyes. “What—I don’t have time for this. Can’t you see she’s dying? Penelope!”

  “I said that’s enough.” I take a closer look at the girl. She’s breathing. Barely. Another beat, and I make up my mind. “I’ll take you to Penelope. But you have to stop screaming. You’re scaring people.”

  “We have to hurry,” he says.

  He follows me. I pick up the pace to trudge the two blocks to Penelope’s house. He’s deathly quiet now, the dual crunching of our feet on the crumbling street the only sound.

  Everyone knows Penelope—even those of us who don’t belong here. When you’re on a mission that could cost you your life, you familiarize yourself very quickly with the medics. And when there are no medics, you find a doctor.

  A curtain or two shifts aside to reveal gawking eyes as we pass, but no one comes out. No one is curious enough to open the door once they see me: a soldier with the Vortex. We’ve made a name for ourselves in the short time we’ve been here. We’re in charge, and they know it.

  I glance toward a window with hard eyes. The curtain falls back into place.

  I walk slightly to the side and one step behind the boy. The moon is bright in the hot night, and I study him, my weapon trained on his back. I consider how thrilling it is to have the enemy in my sights, and I wonder if I should just take him out. I want to. I want to suck the life out of this mutant in the same way Death is gulping up what’s left of the girl he carries. It would serve him right to know with his last dying breath that he’d failed to save the girl.

  Yeah. I should kill him right now. I steady my grip, bend my finger over the trigger.

  And then . . . I pause.

  He could be more useful alive. A hostage. I contemplate the possibilities. What would the people of Eden do to rescue one of their own children?

  I ease my finger back. What kind of reward could I buy myself by presenting one of Eden’s own to Commander Berg? In fact, I just might be marked a hero.

  It’s my greed, really, that makes up my mind. That... and the rumors that it’s almost impossible to kill someone from Eden. I’ve never seen someone from Eden. Never been presented with the opportunity to kill one until now. And what if our mixture doesn’t work? What if all it does is anger him? What does a monster from Eden do when he’s angry?

  No, I won’t kill him. Not yet. He’ll be my little secret.

  A shiver of excitement rattles my spine, and my eyes survey my surroundings to insure no other troops are around. I won’t tell Ross; he’ll only use it for his own gain. In a couple of days, General Berg will arrive. I’ll turn this boy over myself, and I just might get that promotion I’ve been longing for. A promotion that might very well get me out of this stinking village.

  Pete must be at my post by now, wondering why I left early. I can just see his puzzlement as he scratches at the fuzz on his face. I’ll have to make up an excuse.

  The boy picks up speed; I have to take four steps to his one. We pass one dark house after another until we come to the very end of the main street—the last house. The road stops here, a dead end marked with a long fence overgrown with tangled weeds and wildflowers. And more of those incessant willows. A small light burns in Penelope’s window. I point.

  “That’s her place.”

  He nods. “Thank you.”

  I blink, and he’s standing on the porch, violently knocking. I grip my rifle, astounded. How did he move so fast?

  He’s a mutant, that’s how. Don’t forget.

  The answer bumps around in my head.

  The door opens, and the house appears to swallow him whole as he lurches through without so much as an invitation. A sudden burst of light flashes from a front window—and then another and another—until the little shack glows like a potter’s oven.

  I think about the girl. Small, barely breathing. Not much the doctor can do for her.

  Then . . . I think about the boy.

  I’ll be watching him.

  Ian †

  Chapter 1

  A

  single candle sits on a small plate in the center of the kitchen table. Its orange light laced with blue flares occasionally, like the silent pulsing of a heartbeat. I stare at it—trace each tiny leap in the flame as it reaches up to lick the air. It sends shadows dancing across the walls. It’s full of life.

  I’m dead inside.

  I’ve been here for hours. Four . . . five? Maybe more. I stopped counting after two. That was right about the time Penelope’s husband, Aaron, rushed out of the house in a mad dash, throwing hurried words over his sho
ulder. “She’s bleeding out!” Soon after, a woman arrived, rapping frantically on the front door. I opened it. She was the blood donor, she explained. Penelope scurried into the room, donned in a dirty apron and soiled, plastic gloves. She spoke quickly and with precision. Aaron dipped in long enough to announce he was headed to the clinic for supplies, more I.V. lines, medicine. Penelope spouted off her list as he mentally checked each item. I stood like a statue, filled with despair, my own hands crusted over with dry blood. Helpless. Penelope took one second to squeeze my arm before disappearing into the other room again.

  I paced the floor—and paced some more—before Aaron finally returned. And the long night of waiting resumed.

  Now, I sit at the small kitchen table and stare at the candle. Wax slides down its sides forming a hard puddle on the plate until it’s nothing more than a stiff flat mass with a long flame. It licks the air. I wait.

  I wait for Penelope to tell me my life isn’t over.

  It’s questionable.

  The candle’s flame snaps its tongue, calling out to me like a siren on the sea. It challenges me, dares me to touch it with each flare. Kate is dying, and my heart can’t take it. The flame promises a sick, momentary relief from my internal torture if I just give myself over to a different kind of pain. And the longer I stare at the flame, the more skewed the oranges and reds and yellows become until my reason is burnt out.

  I jut out my hand, spread my fingers above the fire. The heat isn’t so bad. It tickles my palm like a feather at first. I close my eyes, focus on the ebbing pain.

  This pain is easy. Unlike the relentless ache flooding my heart, this pain can’t spin out of control. No. Because I control it; it’s mine to inflict, and I bask in it.