CRIMSON

The first portion of a story that I had started on years ago, abandoned, and am now taking back up again. Welcome to the island of Old Towne, Georgia, a place where mysteries abound in every shadow...

 

Crimson

By Erica D Gray

 

                      

I.

Old Towne, Ga

2002 AD

 

It sounded like a single clap of thunder, reverberating in the air, ricocheting and bouncing through the dark shapes of the trees, a single gunshot hanging in the air, shattering the stillness and quiet that blanketed the night. The midnight songs of insects were silenced, the cry of night larks halted. The stars—cold, distant watchers of the night—looked on as a boy, aged fifteen or sixteen, ran like a panicked deer through the wild tangle of Old Wood, chased by boys he’d once called friends, companions, brothers. He stopped, trying to catch his breath, resting his hand on the rough bark of a tree. One breath, then two; inhale, exhale.

Another jarring gunshot resounded through the air and Charlie Patella drew back just in time to see the tree, where his hand had rested only moments before, blown apart, white splinters exploding around him. He gave a stifled cry of surprise and stumbled backward, away from the butchered tree and into the dirt, skinning his arms and legs. Grunting in pain, he struggled to his feet, up and running again. Sweat poured down his face from his damp red hair that lay plastered to his skull, his green eyes searching frantically through the looming shadows of the trees, hoping for a glimpse of the road. If he could get to Main road at the edge of the Wood, then he would be all right; he’d be safe. He could hitch a ride from a driver, go to the sheriff, seek protection; he could do anything.

But only if he reached Main road. Charlie struggled on, his legs burning, thigh muscles protesting the strain. His store of adrenaline had run out some time ago, somewhere near the river, where they’d nearly caught him the first time. He’d given them the slip, gone around to an unused path that led under the river’s old rickety bridge. They hadn’t been able to catch up with him, and he’d lost them for a few miles or so, giving him enough time to regain some of his strength.

He was running on pure fear alone; a cornered animal caught in the thralls of a hunter’s sick and twisted game. His heart thudded against his chest like a caged bird and his knees felt like silly putty, ready to collapse beneath him. But he had to keep going—he had to—his life depended on it. Those boys—those relentless pursuers—would kill him without a second thought. He’d broken the rules.

Broken the rules for a girl—a girl from Tide. Swan Bredict. A child born with the cash to get her nearly anything she wanted. Nearly.

He wished she were here, maybe she could buy him his life back.

The Law was simple; but he had only been with her a few days—a few days, when he had been with them his entire life. They were like his family, and as such, couldn’t they forgive him this one slip up? Couldn’t Astat reconsider this sentence? He’d first met her when she’d dropped her things near his locker. He had picked them up and given them back, joking around a bit.

He hadn’t meant to let her bright blue eyes enchant him nor her golden hair as it caught the rays of sunlight and captured the beams for one instance of gilded brilliance, framing her face like a halo. He never meant for her to be anything more than just a passing conversation, but she had—she had become so much more. And when Astat found out… Even as he ran, fear running through his system like burning, molten lava, Charlie still felt a tendril of fear, remembering the rage in Astat’s eyes, a look that called for his blood. Astat had passed his sentence: For disobeying the Law, Charlie had to die.

A gunshot, like a third, sharply whip of thunder, and a peal of inhuman laughter jarred Charlie from his thoughts, making him stumble again and land in a puddle of mud, stinging like the raw cut of a whip from his skinned knees. He scrambled to his feet, looking up. There it was! The road! He was almost there, just a bit little farther.

A smile of triumph spread across his face as he ran quickly towards it, the echo of the gunshot and his tormentors fading behind him. He was free! He was—  

One last, long howl resounded through the trees. He jumped and turned, a glint of metal catching his eye. There was a slick sound in the air. Pain shot through his leg, sending waves of throbbing agony to his brain. Charlie staggered to the ground, howling in pain.

Embedded hilt deep within his left calve was a bowie knife, six inches long. He knew; he’d practiced with it before, with Astat, one lazy day last summer, just taking turns throwing it into the stump of an old oak tree. His blood gushed black and thick in the night shadows, out of his leg and splashed onto the ground in a dark, wet pool. He whimpered when he heard that long, drawn-out howl again, so much closer than the last time, and caught a glimpse of four dark shapes moving towards him. He grabbed hold of the knife’s hilt, bit his lip and wretched it from his leg. He gave a sharp cry of agony as more blood flowed.

“Here, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” came the taunting whisper. “Here, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie…” Charlie struggled to stand as the quartet came closer. Despite his pain, despite his fear, he would fight them. He would fight them until the last bit of life left his body. He brandished the knife clumsily.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” he protested. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You broke the Law,” came the dark, silky reply. “Astat made the call and now you gotta die.”

“Please,” Charlie begged. “You know me. You all know me. You know I wouldn’t break the Law if there wasn’t a cause for it. We’re friends—family, even. I’ve grown up with you guys. Please…don’t do this.”

“Pleading won’t help, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” came that taunting voice again. The owner of the silky voice stepped into his line of view. Tall, dark, handsome, Charlie tried to utter his name.

“Shut up!’ came the sharp order. Charlie’s mouth closed with a snap.

“There’s no negotiation,” came the voice of the third figure. She was pale, almost angelic, with dark hair and glittering eyes. “You knew the Law before you spoke with Swan of Tide! You knew when you became Charlie of Crimson! You knew, and you broke it! Your sentence is death.”

“NO!” Charlie lunged at them, brandishing the knife. Within those few seconds, no one reacted and Charlie managed to cut the second figure, the owner of the taunting voice, across the brow. He drew back with a howl of pain and anger.

“Kill him!” he shouted, cradling his head, blood spilling to the ground. “Kill HIM!!”

Charlie lunged at the last figure, who had sat back in the shadows, watching silently. A single click and the solitary sound of gunshot rang through the air, and Charlie stopped short in surprise. He landed hard on his back and looked up with dawning terror, staring down the smoking barrel of a loaded gun.

 

II.

 

Jax McNolte stared out passed the railing of the ferry as it chugged its way from the Georgia mainland towards the distant island called Old Towne. He could just make out the rise of Old Towne’s single, most dominating feature: Stone Arches, a spectacular feat of nature and rock erosion. They had once been two minor, low rising mountains, but hundreds of years of winds and rains beating at them hollowed out their insides to create to twin arches of grey and brown rock. Below the Arches, were laid out rows upon rows of clapboard houses and seaside cabins in a spiral starting just outside of the main part of the island: an official town hall, a post office, the high school, police station, a little tourist shop and businesses, the junior high and elementary schools, the Library, a Pub and the court house. Now, he couldn’t actually see all of that from his perch on the ferry.

            He had a brochure of the island open, glancing up every so often to confirm if what he were reading was true.

“See? Just like home,” Jax’s father, Earl, said taking a deep breath of the salty, sea air. Jax shot him an annoyed glare and fiddled his lip ring with his tongue.

“Give it a rest,” Jax retorted. “It’s nothing like New York.”

“You’re going to get used to it,” Earl replied, glaring back at his son with just as much annoyance. Jax tilted his head back and sighed, letting the sea air run through his hair. The blue-green dye glinted in the early morning sunlight as the sun, el Sol, rose majestically over the Stone Arches, showering both sea and land with golden beams of light. Jax winced at this sudden spray of light and turned to study Old Wood, at the western end of the island. Not much sunlight shone within the woods.

It was a dark, green place of groves of wild, tangled trees and clumps of under bush. Old Wood, he’d read in the brochure some time back, was a mystery. It was said that the dark woods housed the spirits of runaway slaves.

“Scary woods, huh?” Earl asked, putting a hand on Jax’s shoulder. The young boy shrugged it off, and heard his father sigh softly beside him. Their relationship had been strained when Jax’s mother had died nearly a year and a half ago, had gotten worse when Earl decided to move him here.

“I’ll go there on Hallowe’en,” Jax speculated as the ferry choked into Old Towne harbor and other boats, fishing boats, moved out to the coastal waters.

“No you won’t,” Earl warned. Jax rolled his eyes as his father continued,” You’ll be trick o’treating.”

“Dear lord, Dad,” Jax said critically. “Boys my age don’t trick o’ treat.”

“Ah yes, that’s right,” retorted sarcastically. “You spend time the woods praying to moon gods. Why can’t I have normal son?”

“Normal denotes a lack of courage, I think,” Jax replied with a quirky grin. “Besides, you’re the one who wanted to be a parent. He turned to look at his father, who was moving below deck, shaking his head. Jax’s grin became wicked and he turned back to the island as the ferry docked and people began to get off.

 

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“The second ferry this week,” Titus commented, taking a puff from his cigarette. He handed it to his companion, Leto, letting a stream of white smoke escape from his nostrils. The black boy took a puff. They were an odd pair, Leto being a dark skinned beauty of a boy, a desert prince with his hard, defined features. Dark mini-dreds lined his face and brown fire peered out of his dark eyes. Titus, the smaller of the two, was pale, skin a striking white moon glow, face marred by a single scar running from the center of his forehead down to the bridge of his nose. His hair was of the lightest, platinum blond and his eyes shone like polished sapphires.

“You know how Astat is,” Leto replied, his voice deep and silky, smooth. Every ferry we gotta check for a new wenches and blow-ins.”

“Yeah,” Titus answered. “Yeah.” He drew his coat around him as a chill autumnal breeze blew in from the island. All over the island, the touch of Fall was on everything. Trees seemed like they were set on fire with leaves of blazing orange, red, yellow and brown. Light layers of frost covered the buildings and grass, tiny beads of frozen dew.

They watched as people stepped off the boat carrying with them bags, luggage and children, but no teens. Titus took another drag of the cigarette and sighed. Every month, the ferry came at least two times a week bringing blow-ins, or newcomers to the island, tourists and those more often than not, had teenagers with them, wenches as they were affectionately called by the teens who already lived on the island. This was the second time the boat had visited this week, and still there were no wenches. He sighed again.

There had to be something or some way he could spend his Sunday afternoon instead of—

“Hey! Look!” Leto cried breaking into his thoughts. He turned to where the black boy pointed and saw to his satisfaction, a boy get off the ferry. His hair was an odd blue-green dye and he wore all black: black, denim jeans, a black shirt and boots. He lugged with him an army duffel bag.

 “A wench,” Titus said with a grin and took a drag from his cigarette. “Excellent.”

 

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“See? Now this is what I’m talking about!” Earl exclaimed as he threw open the doors to the Williams’ Estate Manor. “Told you this move was a good idea.”

The Williams’ Estate covered an approximate five acres in either direction of the compass and sat just at the edge of Old Wood. The manor itself rested just above a cliff, overlooking crashing waves and jagged rocks below. It stood proud and undaunted, despite its age, an old house dating back before the Southern Reconstruction and before the Civil War. Ax stepped into the manor and looked around. What greeted him was the expanse of an open, airy foyer. There shapes of furniture were vague underneath their covers that had once been white, but were now musky and dust-covered with age.

“Uh, Earl?” Jax called. His father turned and glared at him. Jax continued, unperturbed,” What’s up with the furniture?”

“People tend to cover furniture, son,” Earl replied with a c**k of his eyebrow, “when they want to preserve it.”

“You’re not gonna make me have to clean all this up, right?”

Earl gave a huge grin. “Not you—“Jax gave a relieved sigh—“the both of us.”

Jax glared daggers at his father as the older man moved about the expanse of the room, side stepping the furniture, making small “mmhmm’s” and “ahs’.” Jax took a few more steps into the foyer. It was wide and open—Jax could feel a slight draft coming from the upper reaches of the foyer’s rafted ceiling, which ended, above the rafters, in a glass dome. Jax stepped fully into the foyer and regarded his father as the man stood beside an antique fireplace, perched on either side of it, were griffins in fine detail, poised at the ready to attack.

The manor had originally belonged Earl’s grandmother, Jax’s great grandmother. When she had died, the house had been passed onto Jax’s father, but he had been away at college and engaged to Jax’s mother at the time, so his parents put it up for lease. It had been in the family for generations, since the founding of the Georgia colony.

“So, when am I gonna do this forced labor?” Jax asked.

“After school.”

“What?!” Jax exclaimed incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?”

“After school,” Earl said thoughtfully. “What? Did you think I was going to let you run amuck?” Earl chuckled. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Dad, this is y first day,” Jax complained. Earl nodded, still thoughtful.

“Which is why you’d better make the most of it.”

Jax gave an exaggerated sigh, hitching his duffel bag on his shoulder and trudging towards the stairs at the far side of the foyer.

 

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Harlequin Stone watched curiously from behind her notebook, pausing in mid-sentence of her entry, as Titus and Leto entered the small room, its owner busy taking a shower in the next room. They were grinning like satisfied cats after a gratifying meal.

“Jeez, who died?” asked Maxi, or her more affection title, Skiz, rising from the heaps of army green blankets she lay on.

“Nobody, yet,’ Titus replied ruefully, scooping her up and—to Skiz’s disgust—gave her a peck on the cheek. She shoved him away and fell back into the blankets.

“Well, what then?” asked Harley. “You two look as if you bagged some big game.”

“Some blow-in,” Leto replied, “and a wench with him.” And proceeded to light a cigarette he took out of his pocket. He put it in his mouth and struck the match. Harley gave a hiss. He froze.

“What?”

“You know Astat doesn’t like the smell of smoke in his room,” she replied. Leto sighed and put it behind his ear. He blew out the match.

“Yeah, but it’s s’all right if he lights up I my room and nearly get me grounded, huh?” Leto replied unnerved. Harley was about to protest when a voice stopped her.

“Of course. That’s my prerogative.”

They turned, and lo and behold, Astat stood in the doorway of his bedroom. He wasn’t one of the most attractive of guys, nothing like a Kelvin Klein model. He was tall and slightly stocky, his skin the color of off-white ivory. His face had a thin sprinkling of unshaven stubble, his nose was long and narrow, and his hair was dyed a dark, mahogany red. But despite his appearance, Astat’s very presence reverberated with an unnatural pull. His eyes, hazel and green, went beyond intense penetration, but almost as if they could peer into the very depth’s of one’s soul. And his smile gave his face such a sadistical gleam, that most were scared on sight.

Harley watched his movements as he walked across his domain, letting his towel fall to the floor unabashed and put on the pair of devil boxers and camaflougue pants that lay crumbled on his bed.

“C’mon, man! I did not need to see that!” Leto exclaimed with a wince.

“I did,” Harley replied and gave an appreciative catcall. Astat turned and winked, then whirled on Titus and Leto.

“If you don’t like it, then get the f**k out,” he retorted. “Otherwise, too f*****g bad.”

“Okay, okay,” Leto conceded. “Chill, Astat. We just come to tell you that there’s a new wench on the island.”

“So?” Astat went to his dresser, covered with cat skulls and a pile of bones, and fished through for a tee shirt.

“Well, I think he could be one of us,” Titus interceded. Astat, after pulling on a black beater tee, turned to him and retorted,” That doesn’t prove anything, you idiot.”

“Well, maybe…“

“Bring real proof next time,” Astat cut in as Titus trailed off. “What’s the wench look like?”

“Typical Punk, I bet,” Skiz said sitting on her elbows and playing with a strand of her hot pink hair. “Blue-green hair, black clothes?” Her dark, glittering eyes went vague as she stared off into the distance a moment. “Am I right?”

“As always, little sister,” Astat said with a wicked grin. Leto’s eyes widened with surprise.

“That’s exactly right,” Leto confirmed, shock in his voice. Harley grinned.

“You’ve grown up within the inner circle, yet you seem so in the dark about the rest of us,” she mused. Her eyes, deep, dark brown orbs, peered at him cryptically.

“So, a new Crimson wench possibly,” Astat said more to himself. “Are you sure, Titus? Leto?’

“Well, I mean, like Skiz said and he looked like it,” Leto replied.

“Huh,” Astat grunted. “Harley—“ he turned to the black girl, her light chocolate brown skin suddenly a glow as light spilled through Astat’s window and upon her. He motioned her over and she complied quickly—“I believe it’s your job to find out about people. If he’s Crimson, get him before Tide does. We don’t need to lose anymore of people because of them.” His grin was wicked as he pulled her into his lap and planted a firm kiss on her lips that left her breathless.

She nodded when she regained her wits back.

“Will do, Astat,” she purred.

Author's Note

Concrit is especially welcome. Give me what you got!