Chapter One

I ask myself what I was doing out there that night, in the dark and the rain. 

I'd just finished a long night's shift, and I was exhausted. And yet, for some reason I waited. I lingered along the sidewalk under the shelter of the overhang, lost to myself and my thoughts, as if to be held back by some inexplicable thing.

My name is Rob. I work as a packer for a distribution company in the port town of Brookings, Oregon. It's a simple job, but some days are tough, and they take everything out of you. Tonight was such a night.

I gazed out across a dimly-lit, oversoaked parking lot and eyed a lonely black motorcycle parked far in the outer fringes. She was mine. A 2007 Kawasaki Ninja 250R, bought off a friend a few years back because he needed the space, and I couldn't resist her charm. Helmet in hand and jacket pulled snug across my shoulders, I looked on towards the bike through the cold, wet gloom. There was an odd sensation in the air that night, I could feel it. Something electric and rousing that took hold of me.

It was at that moment I saw him. Some distance away stood a stranger, his eyes locked with mine. His stance hindered as he gripped his torso.

He was injured, and there was an instant, pitted feeling of nausea in my stomach when I realized it. 

Suddenly, he lurched forward into a run and began heading in my direction, so hard and desperate that I was almost certain he'd fall. I watched as he faltered and limped, still clutching at his side in heaving pain. It was his wound I eyed as he drew nearer, and I could see that he'd been terribly burned, the skin of his side appearing charred and raw. 

By some automatic impulse, or perhaps simply instinct, I found myself running to meet him, where he immediately latched hold my shoulder for support. 

"Please, take this!" he cried hoarsely before I could say a word, a trace of German in his voice. He reached down for my hand and forced it open, placing a small, gem-like object in my palm.

"What--?"

"It will reveal its contents to you," he interrupted. "But you must give it time. I've ordered it to do so, but it's leery of strangers. You will be given a set of basic instructions - you need only to follow them."

"But--" 

"I know you don't understand," he continued, his speech staggered and breathless. "I wish I could explain it more to you, but I have no time. There's no one else. You must take my device and continue what I started. You must find them."

"Find them? Find who?"

I would have thought this guy to be out of his mind. Delirious from whatever accident had occurred. There was no telling what he'd gotten himself into, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. But through the pattering of constant rain I heard an unearthly, ominous sound. An electronic, high-pitched tone that rose in sharpness and intensity, trailing out from the darkness. A phone perhaps, but it was too loud. Too different. Like a cold and terrible screech that reverberated in the mind, and it sent a chill through my spine. 

"And there he is," said the stranger in a pained whisper. "I knew he couldn't have strayed far. It's all right. He's only recharging his Dracon beam. For me - not you. It's not you he's after."

Now I was nervous. I peered past the stranger and into the gloom beyond, trying hard to catch sight of anyone lurking in the shadows. 

"He's pursued me for some time now," the stranger went on, each word he spoke becoming more strained and difficult. "He seeks to take the device from me, and now I know why. He'll kill me for it - and I almost wish he would." 

His remark jolted through me. "Sir you need to calm down," I finally interjected, trying to be a voice of reason. "You're hurt. You need medical attention, okay? Let me get you to a--"

"That's not possible now!" he answered so fiercely that it was almost a shout. He clenched my shoulder even tighter, but suddenly leaned in more, wincing in pain. 

"My life no longer matters," he managed to say, the faintest trace of a laugh in his words. "That device in your hand is my Castant Key, one of my own modified scouters. Capable of locating a target across the universe - and retrieving it without fail. You must use it for what I intended it for!" 

I thought I was just done at this point. He very nearly lost me with his talk of scouters and devices "across the universe." Anyone with an ounce of sense would've walked away. I probably should have. But I didn't. Instead, I only continued to listen to him, standing there as a support for his wounded girth. 

"If my adversary gets ahold of it first," he continued, "he will return it to his superiors - and I dare not imagine what they plan to do with it. Everything I've done... my research, the data - it will all be for nothing, and it will be too late. Please - do this for me." 

The thought had already crossed my mind - many times over - that this guy might be nuts. Way off the deep end. Delusional, even. I typically have a nose for BS, and everything he was spilling to me sounded like something I'd seen in a B-movie once or twice. But I couldn't ignore the look in his eyes. Eyes that seemed to tear into my very conscience. It was a look of pain and fear - and desperation. As if his eyes alone spoke to me - compelled me - and I could almost hear them. There was truth in those eyes I could not ignore. Surely, I had nothing to lose by simply taking the object that he pleaded for me to take.

I glanced down at the thing in my hand to find that it was nothing more than a thinly-shaped octahedron - a small, geometric object very much like an eight-sided gem hardly bigger than my index finger. It's frosty-white faceted faces glistened and refracted in the distant light, and I wondered how such a simple-looking item even held the ability to do the things he described.

"Fine," I relented with a whispered sigh. "Sure. I'll take it. Just know that I have absolutely no idea what you want me to do with--"

"It's all right," he assured gently. "I understand that. But you will, soon enough. Just promise me you'll keep it safe. Promise me you'll do everything in your power to find them."

His words then were pained and stressed, as if this were perhaps his own personal task that he had sought to carry out with all his heart - but was prematurely cut short. It had been ripped away from him, and there was nothing he could do for it, except to pass it on to another. 

And once again, there was the mentioning of "them" - though no explanation as to who or what "they" were. 

"I'll do what I can," was all I could manage to answer. "You have my word, friend." 

With that, he let go of my shoulder, once again taking to grasping his wound with a deep, anguished groan of discomfort. Then with a look of fire in his eyes, he trudged back through the darkness and towards his pursuer. By now, the rain had intensified into a heavy, thunderous downpour. And it was as I began to lose sight of him that he appeared to almost change; as if his shape began to warp and melt before my eyes into something else, though by then he was lost to the rain - or perhaps it was only an illusion. 

I continued to look on after him, as drenched as I was. I had no idea what might happen, or what to expect. For a moment, there was nothing to be heard or seen except for the heavy curtain of rain. But then I heard the piercing, high-pitched tone again - louder than before. There was the odd yet distinct sound of clattering, delicate hooves on concrete. A series of phasing shots and distorted blasts that echoed into the night. Beams of brilliant orange sent flashing through the mist. And a terrible, agonizing cry. Then all was silent. 

Confusion and wonder seemed to root me in place. My heart was pounding now as I thought of the stranger and his fate. I wanted to go to him. And at the same time, I felt as if I were being eyed by something hiding in the dark. Whether by the stranger, or something else. A thin, roseish light flickered through the gloom and focused onto me, followed by a piercing, familiar zing. 

At that moment, I turned and bolted, running desperately to the bike still sitting alone in the lot - my only escape. From the corner of my peripheral I caught sight of a dusky-haired figure sprinting fiercely towards me. It wasn't the stranger - but someone else. A gleaming pistol-like weapon grasped tightly in bloody hands.

A stream of rapid metallic blasts fired behind me, the searing heat of each shot felt close behind. 

I pushed myself harder and faster to the Ninja, nearly slipping on waterlogged asphalt and my own footfalls, and asking myself why I'd parked way out in the North Forty. 

By the time I reached the bike, I was shaking to the point that I thought my knees would snap beneath me. My own actions felt slowed and surreal, almost dreamlike. And then I heard the rising tone of the piercing, electric charge yet again - close enough that my ears tried to dissect its foreign, crackled whine. I thought for sure I'd be hit. He would fire, and he wouldn't miss. I could see it and feel it in my mind. Throwing myself over the seat and slinging on my helmet, I shoved the tiny octahedron in a pocket as I shakily jammed a key into the switch, revving the engine with a loud snarl. 

Then with a foot slammed hard onto the gas, I flew out as fast as the motorcycle would allow, and into the drizzly night.

Reviews

[Ian P. Albrecht]

Hello Mel,
Thanks for sharing your book so far. I've really enjoyed it so far. I've liked the way you've painted the scenes; it's almost like being there. I've also liked the pacing. You do a good job of matching your writing to the action of the scene.

I feel duty-bound to make a suggestion for improvement, but I'm hard-pressed to think of anything. The only thing I would suggest is when you're doing your rewrites be thinking about if you can say the same thing and get the same meaning and feel across with fewer words. Like I said, though, you've done a good job here. I'm looking forward to the next chapter.

Thanks for sharing.
-Ian