Title: Dead of Night
Author: Carlyle Labuschagne
Series: Aftershock Series (#1)
Genre: SciFi/YA/Dystopian
Publisher: Fire Quill Publishing
Release Date: Sept 21 2015
Edition/Formats Available In: eBook
Blurb/Synopsis:
In a dark and desolated After Earth, love still does exist,
but the cost of bearing such a flaw is death. World War III has left Earth in
utter turmoil. People’s beliefs are said to be the cause of the worldwide
destruction. After The Clearing new laws are set about – to show certitude in
anything besides the law is weak and chargeable as mutiny. To be illogical and
have faith in religion is illegal, to be limitless is dangerous. And Illness is
seen as a defect – all flaws that are inexcusable.
But to love is the greatest betrayal of all mankind. It is a
fault the world has long forgotten and punishable by death, a fatal risk Aecker
and Opel are fully prepared to take – because in love there is freedom. But how
far can they push back before it claims their lives and of those they care about?
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CHAPTER ONE
HEART ON FIRE
HIS VOICE ECHOES THROUGHOUT THE VAST room. It’s a voice I
feel I could know, one that is as
familiar to me as his handsome face. When he moves, the bunk’s springs squeak
like a little rodent that is desperate to scurry away. I don’t mean to
stare—but those soft gorgeous lips and strong jaw, the warm smile that brings
sparkle to his honey-colored eyes, carries forth a loud voice in my head,
telling me this boy can be trusted.
Lingering beneath his gentle stare I can see something else,
the embers of concern. They drown out the spark in his stare as he waits for my
answer.
Why would he show me this consideration? I don’t know who
this beautiful stranger is.
I look around, realizing that I don’t even
know who I am. Or, if the blue cotton
uniform I am wearing is even mine. I glance back down at the green tin cup I
hold in my hands, and the sweet and salty aroma of corn soup fills my nostrils.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice is calm, but the
quickening thump of his pulse and the tight set in his jaw relays something
else entirely.
He inches closer, beads of sweat darkening his dusty blond
hair, giving away the secret he is trying so hard to hide. He is upset.
Nervous. Maybe both.
Is he withholding something?
Unknowingly, my head tilts to the side, trying to figure out
what happened to me, and who this perfect stranger might be. And why I think I
might know him. The stabbing sensation in my head throbs with each breath I
take, making it hard for me to think clearly. I feel wrapped up in a thick fog,
and just beyond it lives some useable memory.
From across the room, I stare at dirty clothes disregarded
near the burn shoot. They reek of vomit and old blood. Staring at the clothes,
I can immediately tell they belong to a female. The material is new, stretchy,
and cut for a slim, short figure. Quickly glancing down at my body, I assume
they could be mine―those
clothes most definitely hold clues as to who I really am.
My familiar stranger sits across from me on the bunk bed,
his body turned slightly toward mine. My hand creeps up to my head wound,
making me wince at the feel of the raw, painful flesh. At my obvious
discomfort, he immediately moves closer, his breath warm and sweet as he leans
in. His gentle fingers lift the hair from my forehead as he inspects the
injury. “We need to get you to a doctor.” His voice comes out shaky,
uncertainty tainting his beautiful tone.
“No.” I jerk away. The dregs of my warm soup spill over the
rim of the cup, splashing onto my raw fingers and wrists.
He watches me carefully as I stare forcefully into his eyes.
His hand suddenly moves away and then I feel it―pain.
I pull back farther, even though I crave his touch.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, moving one seat over, his back resting
on the gray, concrete wall beside the bunk.
“It hurts,” I say, confused as to what hurts more, the wound
or the fact that I have no idea what is going on. “How long have I been out?” I
ask him.
He shrugs. “Not more than two days.”
I sigh at his answer, one that comes from somewhere deep and
mournful inside me. As the feeling of loss wraps around me, it’s like a vice,
squeezing tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe anymore. I close my eyes,
attempting to block out whatever memory is making me feel so utterly terrified.
“It’s okay. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that.”
But, I must ask myself, who is ‘he’? Who is this brutal
attacker I do not even remember?
Standing slowly, I place the soup cup on the wooden bench
situated beside the metal-framed bed. As he looks up at me, I feel the sudden
need to run far and fast and never look back.
“Thank you for your
hospitality, but I-I must go.” I stumble over my words.
Moving too quickly, my head meets with the source of light
above me. The light ebbs out for a second, and I pull in a sharp breath as pain
shoots through me once again. Suddenly, I am terrified of the dark and feel
myself reaching out for him. His forearm is soft, warm, strong, and alluring
all at the same time. The fear that makes my pulse race alters slightly. I
suddenly fear being trapped by an emotion I do not understand. Ruled by a
feeling that is strong and fatal. I lose control of my thoughts.
He chuckles. “Where are you going to go in this storm?”
The light flickers back on. I look up as it continues to
sway back and forth above us, searching the room for something, anything, yet
I’m not sure what it might be. A feeling of anxiety washes over me. It’s so intense
it spreads and enters my chest, as if a bald eagle has flown down to take my
heart on gilded wings. The feeling to run tugs at me again. But when I look
down, I notice I’m still gripping his arm. Instinct tells me that what I’m
doing is wrong, that I should never be so close to a human.
“Sorry,” I apologize. When I release his forearm the golden
color immediately returns to his flesh.
“It’s okay.” He smiles, invitingly. “Quite a grip you have
there.” He keeps the grin, shaking out his hand as if I have stopped the blood
from flowing through his veins.
I look away. “I can’t stay,” I announce, staring at the
glimmer of light bouncing off the silver armlet wrapped tightly around my wrist―that shine, that glow,
the entire piece is trying to remind me of something.
As he moves, the light brings out the blond streaks in his
hair, and his shirt pulls tight around muscular pecks as he crosses his arms
over his chest. He grins mockingly, and ever so slightly his feet shift toward
me.
Nevertheless, I am aware of every single move he makes, like
the way his eyelashes touch the top of his cheeks when he blinks, and how the
corners of his eyes crease with the revelation of his gorgeous smile. His
impeccable chest moves slowly as he breathes. His eyes hover on my face, making
me shift uncomfortably. I don’t like the way he looks at me, it’s wrong. But I
don’t know why I feel this way. All I know is that I don’t want to feel weak.
“What?” I ask
sheepishly, suddenly feeling as if my dark, blue pantsuit has become transparent.
Heat rushes to my face―an
unexpected and unpleasant moment.
“You’ve been stalking me for weeks, and that’s all you have
to say? You’re not even going to ask me my name? Or thank me for saving your
life?”
It’s like an anchor falls, dropping me back to the depths of
the uneven mattress. The squeak fades away as shock kicks me in the gut and
allows me only one long, shuddering breath.
“I-I,” I falter. I have no recollection of my assault, or
anything else that came before.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he whispers, his charming voice
now peppered with unease. “It’s me, you can tell me anything. You know that,
right?” Sitting down, he keeps his distance, as if making sure that I do not
feel I am prey to his predator.
“I’m not sure…I know anything.” My brows furrow, as my
fingers tremble over the soft skin of my lips. The frigid cold forms goose
bumps on my skin as I stare into the thick, dark, naked concrete walls of the
bunker. I am just that. I am colorless and empty. I have no present. And the
past has vanished. I am back in that tunnel in the dead of night, with no sense
of anything other than the blackness and the loneliness reaching out for me,
attempting to make my soul crumble into dust.
“I don’t remember,” I finally admit, the words bitter and
brief on my tongue.
I wait for a while in
the silence of the moment, hoping my inner animosity will dissolve, and that
the fear will leave me alone so I can figure things out. What thought might
trigger a memory?
Gingerly, he grabs my hand and turns it, flattening my palm
against his hard chest. “Aecker. My name is Aecker. You don’t remember me at
all?”
I shake my head.
His eyes are gentle, digging up unsettled feelings within
me. But he is not really sad or bothered by my sudden memory loss. In fact, he
seems almost relieved.
I stare at his long fingers as they wrap around my tiny
wrist. The contrast between his tanned skin and my pale hand is strikingly
beautiful. But the shiny, silver bracelet that takes up most of my forearm is
what bothers me. I wish I knew what it meant. I feel my pulse ticking beneath
his fingers, sense the beating of his heart through my palm. It’s slow and
steady at first, but as time passes and as the silence mounts, the heat of our
touch grows into a black hole, sucking me in to his endless gravity. I feel
attached to him, as if my hand is melting right into his chest. I want to grab
hold of his human heart and become one with it. I wish to wrap my hand around
it and try to translate the language that’s making it move. We are suddenly
tethered to each other in ways I cannot begin to fathom.
With my gaze shamefully glued to his chest, his heart rate
increases. Strangely, this effect rubs off on me and I can feel the beat of my
own heart increase to match his, causing a perfect symmetry between us. In slow
motion, I watch his Adam’s apple move up and then down as he swallows
nervously. My eyes affix to his luminous, ochre gems as they grow wider―the darkness of his
pupils swallowing up the magic of his irises.
Abruptly, it all disappears, and I am aware of another
presence in the room. Jerking my hand away, the feeling I now own is
awkwardness, almost as if I have somehow been caught trespassing.
“Aecker, what are you doing?” a deep voice calls out.
“I can explain.” Aecker stands, the bed springs moaning at
the release of his weight.
I stare up at yet another beautiful man, with similar eyes
and square jaw. He places a device on the center table, and then his gaze falls
on me. This tall man’s eyes widen.
“What happened?” He moves closer, lifting my hair from my
face, his other hand―fingers
unbelievably icy―grips
my chin, raising my face to the light.
“I couldn’t leave her…” Aecker begins.
“Who did this to you?” the man asks, sitting me down beside
him, allowing the creaks and groans of the mattress to once again spring to
life.
“She has no idea,” Aecker replies. It’s almost like his
words filter right through me, and I feel like I am falling into a downward
spiral, face first, swirling into the void where the forgotten stray.
It’s all sitting wrong with me; my sudden memory loss, and
the fact that this boy known as Aecker called me a stalker. But the most
disturbing, are the feelings I just experienced between him and me. It felt
sinful, but I couldn’t stop myself. So perhaps it was just as well the stranger
interrupted when he did, or who knows what would have happened.
The tall man stands, clears his throat and asks me my name.
From the corner of my eye, I see Aecker shaking his head.
“Do you have a name? Or shall I just call you ‘girl’?”
“No, sir.” I shake my head, too.
“Sir?” His head jerks in Aecker’s direction then back to me,
as a look of confusion appears in his eyes. He takes a few steps back, like I’m
infected with some horrific disease that he will do anything to protect himself
from. “Do you remember anything at
all?”
I continue to shake my head as if I were made of nothing but
wires and conduits―something
completely mechanical that is unable to think or feel, just follow orders.
“She must be a City
Dweller.” His words are said with distaste, sounding like he wants nothing more
than to spit on the floor at the mere thought of something as hideous as me
infiltrating his life.
When he notices the bracelet around my wrist, his shoulders
slump dramatically. Closing his eyes and pressing his long, dark lashes against
tanned skin, he looks as if he is trying desperately to hold back something,
yet impatience appears in his voice.
“She’s a Tracker. She
must leave right now,” he states with finality, making me feel like I have
successfully drowned in that black void where my forgotten memories live, where
I will be washed away and swallowed up, never to be seen again.
“She does not look anything like a Tracker!” Aecker’s words
are defensive.
“There are whispers
of the new generation.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dyllian!” Aecker says passionately,
moving closer and pushing the older boy away so that he is now standing between
us.
“You know it does. You have to get rid of her. If they find
her, if Cupola even catches one scent of this intruder and your involvement
with her, you will be killed and I can’t do anything to stop it. Trackers bring
nothing but death. You know that!”
Aecker moves even closer to me, his hands come to rest on my
shoulders as he stares into my eyes. “She’s nothing like them.”
“What is a Tracker?” My thoughts are finally voiced.
Dyllian steps back, resting an elbow against the wall. With
the other hand, he pulls out a dirty old rag and wipes his face. “Trackers are
soldiers, spies, assassins. They are here to kill any Inborns and infiltrate
their hideouts. To bring violent death to Believers and make examples of their
flaws.”
“Believers of what?” I interrupt again.
Dyllian’s eyes pin mine so strongly, I feel like a deer
staring down an eager hunter’s arrow.
“Of anything.”
Aecker notices my distress, and I grip my hands together so
they don’t see me shaking. Fear is a weakness.
“Like I said,” Aecker strokes my cheek with the back of his
fingers, “You are not one of them.”
Despite his tender eyes holding mine, trying to offer
comfort, his words still burn a hole through my chest. A deep and intense heat
causes my heart to beat erratically, because I realize that he is looking at me
like I am his only possession; his to protect until his very last breath. And this
time, I don’t mind the way it makes me feel.
As Dyllian turns to study me, something alerts my brain that
my small, dark world is about to be buried by this revelation, and the flicker
of hope I saw in Aecker’s eyes just moments ago is about to be extinguished. I
know why my heart feels as if it is on fire; I want to be his hope, but I don’t know how I possibly can be. If I
am a Tracker, it will mean the death of something that is being born between
us. I might not know who or what I am, but I know unequivocally that I don’t
want to live without the promise of a future and a life beaming in Aecker’s
eyes.
I like the way it makes me feel.
Author
Information
Her goal as an author is to touch people's lives, and help others love their differences and one another by delivering strong messages of faith, love and hope within every outrageous world she writes about.
"I love to swim, fight for the trees, and am a food lover who is driven by my passion for life. I dream that one day my stories will change the lives of countless teenagers and have them obsess over the world literacy can offer them instead of worrying about fitting in. Never sacrifice who you are, it’s in the dark times that the light comes to life."
Carlyle used writing as a healing tool and that is why she started her very own writers support event - SAIR bookfestival.
"To be a helping hand for those who strive to become full times writers, editors, bloggers, readers and cover artists - it’s a crazy world out there you don’t have to go it alone!"
Founder of SAIR Book Festival
Co-Founder of Fire Quill Publishing.
Founder of Help build a Library in South Africa.
Co-Founder of Fire Quill Publishing.
Founder of Help build a Library in South Africa.
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