Shatterbones Read online

  SHATTERBONES

  Robert Brown

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2016 by Robert Brown

  This book is dedicated to my amazing wife and partner of seventeen years. You are my one blade of grass.

  Chapter One

  Blue Haze

  Link-In Initiated

  12:37PM

  Washington D.C.

  The distinct popping sound of gunfire can be heard echoing through the armored and reinforced interior of Air Force One. Four Secret Service agents rush up the stairs into the president’s traveling office at the top of the jet’s cabin.

  The president is pushed through the communications room and into a corner of the lounge just outside the cockpit door. The agents take positions around the room hoping to save the president’s life. Two other people in the office follow protocol and crouch to the sides of the aircraft to stay out of the agents’ line of fire to the stairs. The third man, General McKinnon, draws his own weapon and takes position in line next to the agents. They all await the approaching threat to enter or for the all clear to be given.

  “What’s happening out there? Is it terrorists? Did someone sneak on board with the press pool?”

  A violent shudder reverberates through the 747 followed by the sudden loss of gravity as the plane begins to quickly descend toward the earth. Shouted warnings are given over the intercom as the president and his men are thrown against the ceiling of the craft.

  “Massive depressurization detected. We are making an emergency descent to eight thousand feet.”

  Immediately after the aircraft begins its controlled fall, the noise of gunfire ends and the clamor of screams and shouting echo up the stairwell to the men. The president watches lead agent Barlow holding his hand to his ear, getting filled in on his earpiece even as he works to steady himself on the ceiling and readies for the gravity to return.

  A chill runs along the president’s spine when he sees the fear etched on the face of this man he thought was made of stone.

  “It’s still heading to the president. We have to move him into the cockpit!”

  “Get ready, Mr. President. The pilot is leveling the plane and will open the cockpit door. As soon as you are inside, they will lock that door, strap you in and we’ll continue our descent.”

  “How many of you are coming with me?”

  “Mr. President, someone is back there tearing the plane apart and killing everyone. If it makes it past us and into the cockpit…”

  His words are interrupted by the odd sensation caused as the aircraft slowly levels and the men awkwardly drift to the ground. As soon as they touch, a somewhat familiar face appears at the top of the stairs and the men begin firing at the target.

  The approaching man’s movements are blurred with speed. Few rounds are able to be fired from the firearms defending the president, fewer still find purchase in the flesh of this attacker and none are causing him to slow down. He grabs an agent with one hand and tosses him against the back wall with an impossible force. A horrendous cracking sound is emitted as his body hits the solid surface.

  After placing his remaining bullets center mass into the assailant’s chest, a second agent is folded backward and in half by the massive arms of the pale white attacker. As the seconds tick on, the president watches as one by one, each of the men defending him die. The cockpit door behind him opens and a co-pilot attempts to pull the president to safety, but the president grabs onto the door frame to keep from being pulled in and watches the creature approach him.

  His mind is locked in turmoil as he looks at the pale white body stepping forward. The towering and muscular man before him has the president’s face but the first lady’s eyes and is familiar while at the same time completely unknown.

  With bodies littered around the galley and office of the upper deck, the president stands face to face with the blood-stained head and body of someone he now admits to himself that he knows.

  Hello, Father, are the final words the president hears before his death. Moments later, Air Force One begins an uncontrolled spiral and a pale, muscular man climbs out of the shattered cockpit windscreen and jumps clear of the plane as it falls to the ground below.

  11:37AM

  Chicago, Illinois

  Imelda Bautista passes a bowl of Pork Adobo to a festival attendee when the light in the sky turns an unusual blue. The festival is filled with strange sights, sounds, and smells, so the blue-tinged light is less noticed by people here than it is in other parts of the globe. The delicious aroma’s wafting through the air help to distract people from visual sensory clues and signify yet another marvelous food festival is being held in Chicago. This time, it is the annual Albany Park World Fest which features specialty dishes from around the world.

  Imelda remembers the tales her grandparents told her in the Philippines and becomes rigid with fear. Blue light in the day signifies the arrival of the Aswang. Her parents and grandparents were not superstitious people; in fact, they were not religious at all, which is extremely unusual in the highly spiritual and largely Catholic country. Her parents were scientists, like her grandparents before them, and they looked at the world with a skeptical wonder.

  She remembers her grandmother explaining one day, The folk tales and stories are all there to make sure you follow the rules, Imelda. Every one of them is made up except for one. The Aswang are real. We know because years ago, your grandfather fought one during the war. They show up during the blue light. If the world turns blue, you must leave where you are and find safety.

  Imelda’s husband is from Bohol Island in the Visayan region of the Philippines, the same area Imelda is from. While he doesn’t know her family history or the tales of the Aswang and the blue light, he knows his wife. She is a no-nonsense woman that is the love of his life and has kept him in check from the first day they were married. Depending on the tone she uses, if she says to do something, he knows how quickly he should get it done.

  She turns to him with a face drained of color and tells him firmly, “The Aswang are coming, we have to run.” Looking into her eye’s, Arvin knows not to hesitate. He drops his pan, grabs her hand and starts running out of the festival with her in tow behind him. Weaving between the booths and around the attendees that make up the thick crowd, they glance behind them as they hear the first screams.

  The shrieks and yells start erupting all around them as they see people’s children collapse to the ground. The Bautistas continue their run to the exit and nearly collide with a mounted police officer riding his horse at a gallop to find out what the commotion is about. He has to turn his mount away and head around a small wall as the flow of people running from the festival grounds intensifies.

  Here and there in the crowd, there are flashes of movement, something fast moving through or over the throng. A blur of speed and then someone gets knocked down. Arvin and Imelda make it another half block before stopping at a large tree to find a safe way to escape. Looking back the way they came, they see the police officer struggling to hold on to his horse as it rears up over the surging mob. Something, a fast and terrifying shadow flies at him knocking him off of his horse. The Bautistas continue their run from the festival grounds, not knowing where they can go that is safe.

  Only three blocks away from the festival, Arvin stumbles forward and falls in an awkward stop. A horrendous roar from around the corner just ahead of them forces a perilous choice for survival. While Imelda grabs hold of his arm to attempt reversing their course, Arvin is pulling against her tug to move toward a small pizza shop near them.

  “We can’t go back Imelda, look.” His arm thrust out pointing to the three white creatures bounding toward them.

  They reach the door, but it is locked. A sign in the window proclai
ms the owners can be found at the food festival in booth number twenty-three. Arvin pulls Imelda into a crouched embrace, huddling for impact from one of their approaching attackers.

  Daring a glimpse at his certain death, Arvin looks to the street where the three Aswang are nearly by him and his wife, but the runners’ focus is up the street instead of on the couple. Another immense roar echoes from the intersection. Turning his gaze farther, Arvin sees a gigantic monster being attacked by some of the pale creatures that have just passed by. It is easily twelve feet tall, nearly as wide and is swinging a motorcycle around as a club.

  The three new man-like creatures join in their comrades attack on this grotesque troll-like monster and enrage it even more. It swings the motorcycle around at them and succeeds in smashing one into the ground with the bike. The strength and motion of the swing causes the pale creature and the motorcycle to disintegrate into each other. The monster grabs another Aswang off its back, bites of its head and tosses the body away.

  The remaining pale-bodied mutants jump clear and stand surrounding the hulking brute as it increases in size. Frozen in place with fear and curiosity, Imelda and Arvin look on as several more of the pale creatures emerge from the surrounding streets to surround the giant beast. When the attack begins, the couple realize too late that they should have used the moment of calm to escape.

  In desperation, the growing behemoth picks up a small car, swings it at two of his attackers and then tosses it at another one leaping through the air. The vehicle misses its intended target but continues through the air until it bounces off a tree and crashes down onto the Bautistas, ending their flight to safety.

  10:37AM

  Frederick, Colorado

  The curtain above the sink is fluttering in a light morning breeze. Even with the wind blowing across her face, small beads of perspiration form on Laura Martinez’ forehead while she washes the pans from breakfast. The air is hotter than usual, and she isn’t looking forward to another day full of housework in oppressive heat.

  The summer temperatures don’t usually get too high and when they do, they don’t last long, so Laura and Jeff, her husband, decided against installing an air conditioner at the ranch.

  “I’ll be damned if I’m going to go through another summer like this,” she whispers to herself.

  This house was her childhood home and that also played a role in their decision not to make major changes to the house. The temperatures were never this oppressive when she was growing up, or at least she didn’t recall them as such, so it is primarily her influence that guided them in the decision. Only the last two summers have been difficult with the heat, but increasingly so.

  They moved in four years ago after her father, Clay, had to give up farming. He was in an accident with a drunk that was driving a state road grading tractor on a main highway. Her father’s leg and arm injuries were serious enough to make continued farming too painful, and the settlement from the state was enough to allow her parents to quit altogether and travel. She doubted her father would have left the farm even with his injuries, but the emotional suffering and shame he felt after the crash was too much for him to stay around his daughter.

  At the time the accident occurred, Laura and Jeff were already looking for a small farm they could buy and raise their three children. Their daughters, Julie and Samantha, were in the truck with Laura’s father when the drunk guided his tractor over the median, knocked their truck into a ditch on the other side and came crashing down to rest on top of her father’s vehicle and its occupants.

  Julie was killed instantly, and Samantha suffered severe brain damage that will prevent her from ever leaving the hospital. Clay wasn’t to blame in any respect for the accident. The girls were all strapped in, and he was even driving below the speed limit as he normally does in his non-rushed manner. He still feels responsible for their family loss.

  I insisted that I take the girls shopping, he told Laura during an emotional family grief counseling session. The counselor later told Jeff and Laura that Clay had internalized his own version of the events which he was able to reconstruct from the patchwork of memories he had before the crash. It might take years for him to accept that it was the girls who insisted he take them on a drive. He may never fully accept the truth that he has no guilt in the crash.

  The light at the sink changes to a strange color, causing Laura to squint at her hands then up to the bulbs in the ceiling. The light, of course, is off. It’s daytime, she chides herself and cranes her head forward to peer out the window at the unusual blue hue in the sky. The colorful interruption has given her the opportunity to glance at the clock and realize her son and husband are still not back. Drying the last pan, she heads to the backdoor on her way to admonish her two favorite men for allowing the time to fly by and not come in for Carl’s schoolwork.

  Too often, Jeff and Carl would get embroiled in animated discussions about the latest TV show or movie they had seen and the time of finishing the morning routine’s would drag on past the time to get to his studies.

  While always portraying outward annoyance at their careless lack of time management, inwardly she loved their bond. Carl has a mild Autism that wasn’t an issue with schooling early on, but after the accident and loss of his sisters, he stopped caring how he behaved. Carl’s reaction was severe enough that they decided it best to keep him home for his education until he and his parents could come to terms with their loss.

  With three years under their belts, they doubt they will have him return to public school. Besides the obvious benefit of having increased stability, Jeff and his son formed a tight bond of emotional recovery. They do everything together, and Laura gained strength herself from seeing their close interactions over the years.

  Dust and heated air hit her when she steps through the back door. Their three horses are kicking up a storm in the pen across the yard, and the cows are all running in the distance. Something is wrong with them, but the unusual light seems a plausible explanation and right now, Laura is mainly concerned with getting her husband and son back on track with his morning lessons.

  “Jeff, Carl, it’s time for school!” Walking toward the barn, Laura is getting aggravated that they won’t at least acknowledge her statement with a reply. “Boys, you can finish up your conversation inside, your geometry lesson won’t be any…”

  She stops in a moment of panic when she sees a pair of legs sticking out from behind an interior wall. Her panic turns to anger when one of the legs twitches, and she is sure her two favorite men are once again playing a horrible prank on her.

  “If you two think you’re going to scare me again, you’re wrong.”

  Walking beyond the wall, she freezes with fear at the scene. She understands this is not an elaborate joke, but her fight or flight response has locked her feet in place thinking she should fight to save what is left of the man on the ground. In her moment of terror, a familiar yet distorted face turns to look at her. She screams and runs in terror from the body on the ground and the creature that was feeding on it. Dirt is kicked up from the floor both by her feet as she runs and by the monster chasing her on all fours as it tears out of the barn section she just left. She makes it to the door when a large hand slaps down on her back, slamming her into the ground. Her screams of fear and agony echo into the morning air while the horses break out of the pen and run to freedom and safety.

  Chapter Two

  The Cavanaughs

  9:37AM

  Eugene, Oregon

  Pleasant visions of cruising in a boat on the lake dance in Greg Cavanaugh’s mind. He has been planning on buying a speedboat for years. The decision was made to finally get one as a victory gift to himself for winning the congressional seat to the U.S. House of Representatives. He won the 4th seat last November and hasn’t had the time to buy his present yet but made an appointment to see the boat seller tomorrow.

  With eyes closed, sitting in the lounge chair, he imagines that the light breeze flowing over him is ins
tead the wind as his boat speeds over the lakes waters. Even the drips hitting his face make him imagine the watery spray of waves. Drips?

  Greg opens his eyes to Evelyn standing above him. His wife was letting the condensed water from a cold glass of ice tea drip onto his forehead.

  “You were thinking about that boat again, weren’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged. Thanks for the tea.”

  “And why do you assume this is your glass?”

  “Because you always put lemon in yours.” He smiles and pats the chair next to him. “Evelyn, sit down.”

  She hands him his glass and struggles to lower herself into the seat next to her husband of fourteen years. The difficulty in sitting is due to her wish coming true as well. Greg wanted his boat, and Evelyn wanted another baby. They had been trying for eight years to have another child after their son, Lloyd, turned four, but the stresses caused by their lifestyles prevented her from getting pregnant again, that is until victory night after the election.

  She smiles at him and rubs her belly happily while giving him a beaming smile with eyes full of joy.

  “What can I do for you, Representative Cavanaugh?”

  “Close your eyes, Evelyn. Close your eyes and listen.”

  She leans back and listens to the mid-morning world. The leaves in the trees around them are lightly tapping each other and a sprinkler is spraying water in the distance, but she hears nothing else.

  “Do you hear it?”

  “What am I supposed to hear?”

  “You can hear the wind. I swear I could hear a cloud float by earlier.”

  Her head cocks to the side slightly and her expression changes to one of concern like the heat of the day or the stress of the bills he has been working on are getting to him.

  “I’m talking about Lloyd.”

  She gives a nod of understanding. Their son is away at summer camp. Normally, their backyard is a battlefield of terror that only twelve-and thirteen-year-old boys know how to conjure. Their son is especially fond of history, and he and his friends are part of a medieval reenactment group. They are often charging around the yard with swords and in knight and ruffian garb.