Adrift, p.1
Adrift, page 1
Adrift
Bridget E. Baker
Copyright © 2021 by Bridget E. Baker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For Jocelyn and Jesse
* * *
The only thing better than a sibling is a twin
Contents
Prologue
1. Erra
2. Earth
3. Earth
4. Earth
5. Erra
6. Erra
7. Earth
8. Earth
9. Earth
10. Earth
11. Erra
12. Ancient Egypt
13. Earth
14. Erra
15. Ancient Egypt
16. Erra
17. Erra
18. Earth
19. Earth
20. Earth
21. Ancient Egypt
22. Erra
23. Erra
24. Earth
25. Earth
26. Earth
27. Erra
28. Rra
29. Ā
30. Earth
31. Sample Chapter of Marked
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Bridget E. Baker
Prologue
When I was eight, my favorite cartoon featured a red-haired, arrow-slinging main character. Her best friend was a dashing black horse that she rode without even using a saddle. The wild-haired hoyden’s defining feature was her in-your-face bravery. I wanted, badly, to be just like her. I wanted to spit in the face of fate when it outlined the life I would have as an orphan, when it tossed me into the home of an aunt who wanted nothing to do with me.
So when Aunt Trina told me I was lying about my dreams being real, when she told me to stop talking about Terra, I channeled my inner cartoon heroine. I insisted that I wasn’t lying, and when she slapped me for my insubordination, instead of curling into a ball to protect my squishy parts like I had learned to do, I tried to kick her.
After all, a Scottish princess wouldn’t have curled up to mitigate the damage—she’d have fought back. She’d have done something to dissuade her oppressor from any future torment.
I’m no Scottish princess, as it turns out.
My kick had the opposite effect that I intended. I took the worst beating of my life that day, and it was the last time I faced something head on. I’ve tucked tail and run every day since.
And you know what? Running gets a bad rap. I think the media pushes a false narrative. Books and movies and even religious texts all teach the same thing: if you don’t stand and fight against the evil of the world, you’re making a huge mistake. . . and you’re a coward.
The message is inspiring, sure.
It probably also feeds the delusion of a heroic inner self we all long to possess, the hope that deep down we’re the person who will confront injustice and triumph. Like I did, we all secretly believe we’re brave Scottish princesses who will take on the world.
But most people aren’t like that.
I’m guessing that most of the writers sitting behind their keyboards, churning out these inspiring stories, would do the very same thing as me when faced with identical circumstances. Otherwise, they’d all be killed for their idiocy and we wouldn’t have any inspiring stories at all.
Because sometimes, kicking someone three times your size just makes you an epic moron. Sometimes, poking a bear gets you mauled. I probably know that truth better than anyone.
Bottom line: running is a legitimate option that more people should consider.
I wish I’d insisted upon it. When Jesse encouraged me to stand tall, I should have thrown a bag over his head and dragged him onto the Greyhound bus, kicking and screaming. I didn’t, and now he’s dead. Or at least, Earth Jesse is gone. I ripped Terran Jesse out of the ether and slammed him onto Earth, but I’m not sure how well that worked.
Which is why, from now on, I’m not standing tall. I’m not standing at all. I’m running and hiding and crouching and sneaking away quietly from every single thing that comes at me—just like I learned at the age of eight.
Hey, maybe that tired old cliché really is true. Maybe you really do learn everything you need to know in kindergarten.
1
Erra
I’m lying on my back, staring at the bluest sky I’ve ever seen.
Actually, that’s a strange thought. I don’t recall seeing any sky, other than this one, in the entirety of my life. I’m not sure how I know that the vast expanse of deep blue above me even is a sky. Or that the color I’m staring at is blue.
Something hisses behind me and I shove myself up into a seated position.
I promptly scramble backward like an awkward crab, covering the back of my jeans and the palms of my hands in sooty black ash. No longer distracted by the sky, I peer at my surroundings in horror. A sandy, barren wasteland stretches away from me for 180 degrees, and an enormous charcoal mountain looms directly ahead.
The hissing and spitting sound that first drew my attention recurs, but I’m facing the right way to see the cause this time. Lava erupts down the side of the mountain—the volcano—and oozes downward, streaming steadily toward me.
Where the heck am I?
Who am I? What’s my name? I should have a name. I drop my face in my hands, probably smearing soot on my face, and the action seems familiar. As soon as I focus on the familiarity of the movement, any understanding evaporates. Why can’t I recall who I am? Why don’t I have any idea what I was doing yesterday, or where I was, or what brought me to this miserable point? I’m acutely aware that I should know these things—but I have no idea how to find answers.
I must have done something pretty bad to have been dumped here, wherever this is. It doesn’t look like a place anyone would want to be. It’s certainly not hospitable. I glance around for any kind of supplies or identification I might have brought with me and find nothing. Which means not only did I wind up here—I’ve done it with either no preparation or no support system in place. It feels like it might be a punishment.
Am I a bad person? I don’t feel like a bad person, but wouldn’t bad people think they were alright?
I force myself to my feet and begin to move away from the active volcano. I’ve heard—where?— that volcanoes that are currently erupting are erratic. Sometimes they hiss and spark. Sometimes they overflow much more quickly. That thought motivates me enough that I break into a jog. It doesn’t take me long to realize something about myself.
I don’t like to jog.
In fact, I don’t think I’m in great physical shape.
Since I don’t seem to be in any imminent danger, I slow to a walk, dragging the miserably dry, ashy air into my lungs. At first I moved away from the volcano, but there appears to be nothing in front of it other than sand dunes as far as I can see. Walking off into nothingness is even more nerve-wracking than standing near a live volcano.
At least the volcano’s a landmark.
I shift directions to circle it instead, careful to give it a wide berth. I quickly realize as I make progress that, bizarrely, there’s another volcano directly to the left of it. At least this one isn’t spewing lava like the first, but why are there two? Where in the world am I?
Am I in purgatory? I have to consider the possibility.
It’s hot. Check.
It’s never-ending. Check.
I’m suffering. Check.
Technically, I’m not in agonizing pain, but maybe that’s coming next. Goodie.
I keep walking, for a really, really long time. Then I walk more. The sun starts to set. My stomach growls with hunger. Turns out, it’s not only jogging I don’t like. It’s also walking for long distances. And being hungry. Beyond the second volcano is. . . another friggin’ volcano, even smaller than the second one. It’s also black, the color of the igneous rock into which lava cools. Okay, how do I know any of this and still have no idea who or where I am?
When I move in closer to investigate, I discover a smooth pathway between the second and third volcanoes. It’s flat, wide enough for about three people to stand shoulder to shoulder, and I’m gripped with a desperate desire to discover where it leads. With the sun setting, I better investigate now, or I’ll have to wait for tomorrow. The prospect of lying down on a vast expanse of sand or a bed of black ash for the night isn’t appealing. I start trotting down the path that I hope leads to someone or something friendly before I have time to second-guess myself. Even if whoever or whatever made this path doesn’t welcome me, perhaps they can tell me who I am and what I’m doing here before they send me packing.
Small details pop out at me as I move away from the sand dunes, even in the dimmer light. Pebbles, not ash or loamy soil, line the walkway. Someone clearly carved the sides of the volcanoes to allow this path to continue. When I look around, I see nothing but tall, sloping walls that reach up to the top of the volcanoes, and an empty path ahead of and behind me. But someone must have made it.
“Hello?” I call out. “Hello! Is anyone there?”
Once I start, I can’t seem to stop myself from talking. The words pour out. “Where am I? Who made this pathway? Where does it lead? How did I get here?”
The spear misses my shoulder by less than an inch, slamming into the thick, porou s rock at the base of the larger volcano hard enough to punch through the crust of rock and sink into the loamy soil beneath. I drop into a crouch and leap toward the wall on the same side from which the spear came, hoping they can’t see me as well if I’m directly beneath them.
“I mean you no harm!”
Who’s throwing spears? And from where? And why? I’m in between two volcanoes. The only place anyone could even be that I wouldn’t have noticed is the rim of one of the volcanoes. . . so I look up. It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be people standing on the top of a volcano for heaven’s sake.
But there are. Dozens of people stand in a long line on the top of the third volcano, the smallest one.
I stand slowly, my arms raised and my palms clearly empty. “I don’t know who you are or where I am. I’m not armed and I mean you no harm, I swear.” I wonder whether they can understand me.
No one says a word, but at least they don’t throw any more spears. I can’t really see their faces, between the waning light and the angle—they’re all kinds of backlit.
I consider grabbing the spear they tossed me, but that doesn’t feel like something I’d do—and I doubt I could throw a pebble that would reach them where they are, much less a hefty wooden spear. And that’s assuming I could even dislodge it.
I’m still contemplating what more I might say, or why they’re standing up there staring at me, when lava erupts from the second volcano and spews toward me, large blobs of it flying right at me. I see it coming, but I’m not fast enough to avoid it. A large blob slaps into my leg, melting through my jeans and plowing onward. The agony as it melts my skin and muscle is beyond anything I can imagine—I writhe.
Fire. Flame. Unquenchable heat. My entire world narrows to that one place, the size of a pancake, that is melting through to my bone. And then the heat just. . . disappears. My leg gives out anyway, and I collapse on the ground. The now-cool black stone drops out of my leg wound and onto the ground, and I’m unable to look away from the smoking flesh of my ruined thigh. Something inside me snaps and the pain shuts off.
It’s not gone, but it’s contained. I’m not sure how or why, but I’ve locked it down. I’m still stuck on my knees, in between two volcanoes, with hostiles hovering above me. I can’t fixate on the blob of lava or become insensible from my injury. For all I know, another attack is coming any moment. I need to stand up and get away. I need to hobble back the way I came. Endless sand is better than attacks and lava.
But even if the pulsing, incapacitating pain is gone, my leg doesn’t work, no matter how much I try to force it to stiffen so I can shove to my feet. The pain was horrifying, but this. . . what I feel now is abject terror.
Something new clicks: I’ll probably never walk again.
And I may be about to die.
In the middle of I don’t know where, attacked by I don’t know whom, for no reason I can comprehend. Maybe it’s a mercy that I don’t know. Maybe I really am a bad person. And at least, if I can die, this will end. I won’t be stuck here forever, in a never-ending purgatory of confusion, boredom, and pain.
But even if I don’t know who I am, or why I’m here, or where I am. . . I know I don’t want to die.
The image of a dark-haired male smiling swims through my memory. The same man, but as a boy, laughing, his head back, his eyes narrowed. And then again, as a young child, handing me something, with a look of affection on his face. I don’t know who he is, but suddenly, I just know.
I’m not evil. I don’t deserve this—none of it. I shouldn’t be here. And I need to get back to him, somehow. He needs me, and I need him. Because if I’m here, he’s alone.
Someone loves me. That’s all I needed to know to fight.
I crawl toward the spear, dragging my leg behind me. The stabbing pain radiates up my thigh with the jarring movement, but I freeze long enough to lock the agony away again. I can’t let it stop me, or I’ll die slowly here in the middle of some kind of nightmarish pathway to nowhere.
The second I reach toward the spear, the people above me start shouting. At first I can’t quite understand them. I might be going into shock, or maybe my ears are taking a break while my body deals with the trauma. Either way, a moment later, their gibberish begins to make sense.
“—can’t ignore it. What if she’s Wind Called? Or if those ”
“We’re so far up—”
“You’ve been hiding too long. They can do—”
“I think she’s listening to us.” I blink at the backlight and try to make out the speaker who’s paying attention to me. “Now I’m sure of it. She’s looking right at me—she knows we’re discussing her.”
“I can hear you,” I say, my brain somehow spitting out the same language they’re using. “I mean you no harm.”
“Who are you?” The same woman calls. Based on the timbre of her voice, she’s older. She might be a grandma, but her voice is still hard. She clearly holds no sympathy in her heart for me.
“I don’t remember. I was hoping you might tell me—”
“She shouldn’t be here. We need to eliminate her.”
My plan to grab the spear seems more pathetic than ever, since I still can’t quite reach it. I stopped moving too soon. I grit my teeth and try to force myself to my feet again, imagining my bad leg is merely in a cast.
Bizarrely, it works. Flashes of light and blinky spots flicker in front of my eyes, but I shove to my feet anyway. “I’m not a threat, and I’m not an enemy. I’m not sure what this ‘wind’ called thing is, but I’m not that either.”
“You said you don’t know who you are.” The older woman’s voice sounds even flintier than before.
“I guess you’re right, but if I don’t know I’m ‘wind called,’ how could I pose a threat?”
The gathered people, whom I’ve come to realize are mostly women, murmur amongst themselves. After a moment, the older woman straightens again. “Why did you come to Volcano City, if you aren’t Fire Called?”
“Volcano City?” There’s a city somewhere? It must be where the path leads.
Before anyone replies, someone else crests the ridge of the volcano, someone much larger, with a broad, heavily muscled chest. I can’t make out his features between the dim light and the fact that what light exists comes from behind him, but his arrival startles the women and they shift away from him.
That can’t be a good sign.
“I told you to execute her.”
“The lava didn’t harm her,” a figure I mistakenly took for a female says.
“What about the spear?”
The slender man’s voice drops lower. “I missed.”
The burly man grunts and grabs the younger one, yanking him backward. “You’re worthless, Jackson. Report to Kent and tell him how miserably you failed at dispatching one lone traveler.”
“In his defense, the lava spew did injure her leg.” The woman points. “She can barely stand.”
“I’m not a threat,” I shout. “There’s no need to execute anyone.” My hands tremble, but I still them with a substantial effort. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand upright, but seeming competent feels important to my survival. “Do you have a healer? That’s all I really need right now.”
“I have to do everything myself.” The disgust is plain in the man’s voice. He clenches his fists and roars, and the mountain next to me rumbles.
I’m beginning to grasp that, somehow, these people of Volcano City. . . control the lava.
But thankfully, nothing happens, in spite of the rumbling. I finally exhale and shake my head. I need to calm down. People don’t control volcanoes.
Maybe this is all a bizarre nightmare. Hopefully I’ll wake up soon and remember who I am, and this will be hilarious.
