The Turning (Book 2): Whisper Lake Read online

  WHISPER LAKE

  by Micky Neilson

  Copyright © 2016 by Micky Neilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  http://www.mickyneilson.com/

  Cover by Paramita Battacharjee. creativeparamita.com

  First Edition

  This book is dedicated to the courageous men and women of the United States armed forces.

  Other books in the Turning series:

  The Turning

  Suggested reading order:

  The Turning

  Whisper Lake

  Author's note: I know, you're thinking, "If Whisper Lake is a prequel, shouldn't I read it before The Turning? Actually, I started this series in the middle, intentionally. The twists and turns will be more meaningful if you read The Turning first, then Whisper Lake. And yes, there is already a sequel in the works.

  PART ONE: HUNGER MOON

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART TWO: CROW MOON

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  PART THREE: WIND MOON

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE: BLOOD MOON

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART ONE: HUNGER MOON

  CHAPTER ONE

  Iraq, February 1991

  "Okay. First off, don't freak out…"

  Her first words to him in more than a month. The only other letter he'd gotten so far was from a third-grade class, addressed to "dear soldier" (which he had to admit was pretty damn cool). Still, he had been looking forward to correspondence that began with "Dear Jason." Hell, he would've settled for "Specialist Emblock."

  He had waited to read the letter because he knew there would be downtime upon arrival at the pick-up site. There always was. That was the Army: long stretches of "Boring-As-Shit" punctuated by periods of "Double time, soldier, now, now, now!"

  So he had arrived, and—shockingly—been told to wait. Then he read the letter. He wished he hadn't. Sentences flashed through his mind: "Tried to force himself on me…" "You know I don't take shit from anyone…" "Kneed him in the balls and threatened to kill his stupid ass…"

  Jason adjusted his Kevlar helmet and rubbed his temples. He had read the letter at least five times and still couldn't fathom it: the friend he had grown up with all the way from grade school to high school had tried to assault his woman, Celine. Truth be told, CJ had always been kind of an asshole, but this…

  Fury was building inside Jason, and he could feel his patience meter reaching zero.

  "Emblock! They're 'bout ready for us."

  Jason turned to see PFC Styles, one of the prettiest black women in 84th Trans, adjusting the M-16 slung over her shoulder. Styles was also Jason's co-driver. They had come here—the middle of nowhere, even in Iraq—to transfer prisoners of war to a more permanent base.

  He had no idea why; talk was that the war had basically ended. Saddam Hussein's blustering aside, the U.S. and her allies had actually met with very little resistance (despite the bodies that littered Death Highway, scenes of carnage that still hid behind Jason's closed eyes at night). The conflict had wound down considerably after the early stages of the ground war. Hell, just days ago Jason had heard of an entire Iraqi armored division surrendering to a news crew. Most of these people just wanted the chaos to be over. He could relate.

  So why shuttle these guys around? They weren't criminals or soldiers, most were just teachers and students. Still, Jason had learned a long time ago to stop questioning orders. More often than not, the NCOs and officers didn't know shit, or if they did, they refused to share anything until they were damn good and ready.

  Jason looked back down at the letter. "Let's get a move on," Styles said and walked away.

  Damnit, CJ, we had history.

  They had ridden their bikes to the corner store every weekend, wrestled in the backyard, and watched every single Jean Claude Van Damme movie at least fifty times. CJ's mom had whooped both their asses with a wooden spoon when she had caught them looking through his dad's old Hustlers. For many years, they had been more than friends.

  They had been brothers.

  Jason folded the letter and put it in the cargo pocket of his camo NBC pants. The nuclear, biological, chemical suit was heavy as hell and lined with a carbon that got on your skin and made you look like a coal miner. He hated the outfits, but if Saddam unleashed chemical warfare on their asses, the NBC suits and the gas masks they wore on their hip were potentially the only things standing between them and an agonizing death.

  As the last light of the day faded, a commotion rose up from the nearby holding area. Jason walked back to see two soldiers restraining a wide-eyed Iraqi, who was struggling and ranting in his native tongue.

  There were four "containment areas" set up in the open space— basically circles of concertina wire with an American guard posted at each one. For the most part prisoners sat or stood cooperatively. The man currently having a fit was now getting his wrists bound behind his back with a zip tie.

  There was one other set of drivers who had accompanied Jason on this assignment: his buddy Serrano and Private Szymczyk, who everybody called "Alphabet." Serrano's sister had married a Muslim, and he had taken it upon himself to learn some Arabic so he could tell if his brother in law was talking shit at the dinner table. He claimed that there were different dialects, but he was able to figure out what the Iraqis were saying more often than not.

  The two soldiers were still trying to calm the distraught man when Jason approached Serrano. "Yo, Emblock!" the private said, smiling.

  "You put together any of what that guy was yelling about?" Jason asked.

  Serrano shrugged slightly and answered "Mostly nonsense. Sounded like he said we're all gonna die."

  "He say why?" The prisoners were no threat but Jason wanted to know if there was an escape bein
g planned, or if they should get ready for an attack.

  Serrano chuckled. "Yeah, cause it's a full moon tonight."

  Five minutes later they were ready to roll out. The unruly prisoner would go alone with Serrano and Szymczyk, guarded by a skinny private named Fitz. The remaining eight POWs climbed into the back of Jason and Styles' five ton.

  Serrano departed. Jason and Styles secured the tailgate; Jason jumped into the driver's seat and Styles piled in beside him then they were off. But as they pulled onto the long stretch of two-lane blacktop, Jason still couldn't get the damn letter out of his mind.

  Up ahead, Serrano's taillights shone like two angry eyes, while one key sentence from Celine's letter continued to surface over and over— "tried to force himself on me." The more Jason focused on those words, the more distant Serrano's taillights grew.

  "Emblock!" Styles blurted out beside him. "They're pullin' away."

  It was protocol for trucks in a convoy (even if that convoy numbered only two) to maintain a specific distance. Right now, Jason couldn't give a shit about protocol. Maybe Serrano didn't care either, or maybe he just wasn't paying attention, because he hadn't slowed down.

  The more Jason thought about that one line in the letter, the more his imagination ran wild… he thought of CJ clumsily trying to woo Celine, becoming forceful when she spurned him… sneering as he pinned her down, his hands all over her…

  I'm gonna fucking kill him!

  Jason swerved to the shoulder and brought the truck to a skidding halt. Styles snapped forward; several voices raised in alarm from the back of the truck. "Emblock! What the eff?"

  Styles' voice was a mile away. Jason squeezed the steering wheel as if trying to wring water from a stone… or blood from the neck of his one-time friend.

  The chorus of Arabic voices in the back was increasing.

  "It's that letter, huh? You ain't been right since you read it," Styles said.

  After he had calmed down enough to speak, he gave her the abridged version. She considered it all for a moment and said: "Yeah I get it. Look at it this way: we'll be outta here soon. Everybody got leave time comin'… so you can go and get it all figured out, right? From what you told me 'bout Celine, she can handle herself just fine. So stop worryin'. My momma always said worryin' over a problem you can't fix only hurts the person who can't fix it. Shoot, by the time you get back, things will probably have worked themselves out anyway."

  Jason wished he could believe that. He looked out the window, where the crest of the full moon was breaking over the tabletop-flat horizon. What month was this? February…

  When Jason was little his dad had said there was a name for each full moon of every month. What was February? Hunger moon, that was it. They had always joked, "how can it be hungry, it's already full!"

  Thinking of the time spent with his dad, those cherished moments that were too few and gone too soon, calmed him slightly. "You ready to roll or what?" Styles asked.

  Jason nodded, put the truck in first, and eased back out onto the blacktop.

  ***

  They drove in silence, Jason stepping on the gas to catch up to Serrano. After a moment the headlights' dull luster caught something in the distance. As they drew nearer that something became an obviously prone form lying in the road, with the angled bulk of Serrano's five ton sitting a few yards beyond. Jason slowed. "What on Earth," Styles asked, tightening the grip on her rifle.

  As Jason came to a stop they got a clearer view— it was a soldier, but the body position made identification difficult. The figure was on its belly, head turned away from the lights, a widening pool of dark liquid spreading out beneath it.

  Shit, shit shit shit…

  The front end of Serrano's truck faced outward, headlights shining into the endless desert. The passenger door was open.

  Styles was already popping open her door as Jason slammed the shifter to park and snatched up his M-16. Voices raised once again in the back. "Quiet back there!" Jason yelled, knowing they wouldn't understand his words, but hoping they would get his tone. It seemed to work; the voices immediately hushed.

  Jason held the M-16's butt to his right shoulder, left hand cradling the handguard as he carefully stepped around his open door. He walked out to see Styles kneeling in his headlights at the fallen soldier's body. "Oh my—it's Fitz," she said. To Styles' credit, her voice remained calm as she felt for a pulse.

  Where were Serrano and Szymczyk? Jason continued forward, rifle aimed before him. He could see another immobile form, a soldier lying a few feet from the back of Serrano's truck. No no no no… he took several steps and registered that something was very, very wrong. The body was lying face up… although "face" up was a misnomer, since there was no face. Or head.

  Jesus Christ, oh Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened…

  His pulse thundered. There was an object sitting under the truck's rear bumper. Jason took a step and his shadow fell over the back of the truck; weapon still at the ready, he moved to let his headlights illuminate the void…

  Horrified, he saw Szymczyk's lifeless eyes staring back at him.

  The "object" was a head, resting beneath the tow hitch like something out of a comic book where a husband or dad had been buried up to his neck at the beach. Jason's blood ran cold while bile rose in his throat. Holy Christ what happened?

  Sounds drifted to him from the vehicle's other side: sounds he could only identify as… lapping.

  Serrano, where's Serrano?

  He stepped around to the driver's side, weapon held high. What he saw in the moonlight shook him to his core.

  The driver's side door was open. The still body of who he assumed was Serrano was lying on its back a few feet away. There was a figure bent over it on all fours, head dipped to the ruined remains of the prone body's neck. Jason could barely make out the thing's tongue, flicking out to lap up the blood collecting in what had once been a throat.

  Jason's family had owned a pug when he was little. The sound their dog made when it went to drink water out of the bowl, especially when it was very thirsty, was the sound he was hearing now.

  He leaned over and vomited the half-digested contents of his last MRE.

  There was a second noise then: a sound like celery stalks being broken. The figure stopped drinking, and contorted. Its back arched and expanded. One by one, vertebrae punched upward—pop!—pop!—pop!

  The thing turned so that Jason saw its profile, its mouth opened wide. He could just barely make out long, pointed teeth and dribbling slaver as the maw gaped wider. There was a loud crack and a noise like rope being pulled taut, the entire lower half of its face jutted outward.

  Jason stared in mute shock, standing stupidly still as he lowered his M-16. The creature's head swiveled then and its eyes—shining like those of a coyote at night—landed on him. The beast growled a low, deep rumble, and leapt.

  The next second Jason was on his back, air knocked out of him. His rifle had been shunted away but he had managed to raise his left arm in a defensive gesture. The thing's teeth ripped through the padding of his NBC sleeve and began shearing through flesh and muscle. Those bright yellow eyes glared at him, utterly devoid of emotion, the eyes of an apex predator ready to devour its prey.

  He had just enough time to think that he didn't want to die this way, eaten alive, when the reports of several M-16 shots reached his ears. The thing atop him jerked like a puppet on a string. It recovered, looking at something behind Jason that he couldn't see, then its head whipped to the right toward the sound of an approaching motor. The creature retreated, still on all fours, licking blood from its muzzle. An instant later it was gone from sight. There were four more shots, each followed by the sound of a shell casing hitting the pavement.

  Another figure loomed in his vision, Jason could barely make out Styles' features. She was breathing hard, her eyes wide and frightened. Headlights flooded them both.

  "You're gonna be okay," Styles said. Jason, however, wasn't so sure. After this nigh
t, he didn't know if he would truly be okay ever again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A montage of indistinct dream-images paraded through Jason's mind: white lights, hovering faces—two Asian females and one light-skinned man—his uniform being cut off with scissors, an IV, the beeping of monitors, a clear mask being placed over his nose and mouth…

  Then darkness. And out of that darkness a flash: yellow eyes, bared fangs, and a low growl that triggered the immediate evolutionary response of fight or flight.

  Jason awoke suddenly in a strange environment, lying in bed, covered in blankets, and hooked up to an IV. His head was cloudy, his mouth was dry, and his left arm was bandaged from hand to elbow. He tried to move his fingers and succeeded only in wiggling his pinkie. Memories of the previous night surfaced slowly.

  Wasn't real, couldn't have been.

  The walls were blue. There was a window to his right on the same side of his IV, to his left was a chair on rollers and a small table, and beyond that a doorway. Standing in that doorway was a black man in desert BDUs. Beneath his left arm was his cap, and in his right hand was a spiral notepad and pen.

  "You're awake," he said. His voice was calm, low, and resonant. His uniform was meticulously starched. The man stepped into the room, placed his cap on the table, rolled the chair to the bedside, and took a seat. There was no name patch above his breast pocket, no rank displayed on his uniform. He wore no patches on his sleeve. He retrieved a badge holder from his left cargo pocket and flipped it open. "I'm Agent Clay with the Criminal Investigation Division."

  Agent Clay replaced the holder, buttoned the pocket, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, pad and pen in hand. He fixed his dark eyes on Jason; eyes that somehow both reassured him and made him want to confess every sin he had ever committed.

  "Where am I?" Jason asked.

  "You're in a Baghdad hospital. Good people here, a lot of volunteers from all over the world. I'm told the surgery went well."

  Silence passed between them. Agent Clay remained as still as a statue.