Catalyst

Catalyst

Copyright © 2015 by Casey L. Bond. All rights reserved.

First Edition.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior express permission of the author except as provided by USA Copyright Law. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

This book is a work of fiction and does not represent any individual, living or dead. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

All definitions are free for public use from varying dictionaries.

Cover designed by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs.

Cover Photography by Mandy Hollis.

Cover Model: Josh McCann.

Professionally Edited by AGC Services/ Anna Gorman.

Formatting by
Inkstain Interior Book Designing
.

Published in the United States of America.

ISBN-13: 978-1514236628

ISBN-10: 1514236621

THE LORD HAS
blessed me
in unimaginable ways. I’m thankful for my husband and our baby girls. Watching them grow into beautiful young ladies is one of the best and most profound experiences of my life. I pray that I never take that blessing for granted. Life is much too short, too fragile.

I’m blessed with a loving and supportive family and the most amazing friends a girl could ever find, let alone ask for.

To the readers: Thank you for reading what I spent so long writing. Without you, there would be no point in my dream. You give it wings. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

/ˈ
kad
(ə
)
lə
st/

noun

1. a substance that increases the rate of a chemical reaction without itself undergoing any permanent chemical change.
   
2. a person or thing that precipitates an event.
   Synonyms: stimulus, stimulation, spark, spur, incitement, impetus
   

Hur·ry

/ˈhə
rē/

verb

1. move or act with haste; rush.
   Synonyms: be quick, hurry up, hurry it up, hasten, speed up, speed it up, press on, push on
   

noun

1. great haste.
   Synonyms: rush, haste, flurry, hustle and bustle, confusion, commotion, hubbub, turmoil
   

GRIFFIN MOANED FROM
the couch where he laid prone, eyes bobbing beneath their lids. The sheen of sweat that had coated his forehead for the last two days—two of the longest of my life and his—was gone, replaced by scorched flesh that burned the back of my fingers.

His youth was more visible when his face was relaxed like this. There were no worry lines, no creases.

If he’d been awake, he would have been staring at the popcorn ceiling that was losing its kernels, at the strips of floral wallpaper peeling from the tops of the walls, stained yellow from the adhesive that had held it firmly in place for so many years.

He would have smelled the familiar scents of mildew and sweat, the residue of the surrounding swamp land and hard work.

“I need to check your leg, Griff.”

Another moan.

Pulling back the covers made his muscles tense. His teeth chattered violently. I thought they’d break.

His leg.

Last week, I’d taken him hunting with me. He would normally stay home, but he’d insisted he wanted to go, to learn how to hunt the gators and frogs I came home with. He’d puffed out his skinny chest and said he was a man. So I took him with me.

Hunting was hard. He learned that lesson very fast. You had to be constantly on alert, careful of each step and push all of the fear—and there was a lot of it—down beneath the surface. You had to make yourself believe you had the upper hand or you’d get eaten.

I couldn’t let my baby brother get hurt or killed. So my anxiety was doubled. Griffin had climbed a tree to get a better look at the swamp around us. He’d climbed trees since he was old enough to walk to them. But something happened. His footing hadn’t been as sure as he thought, his water-logged boot treads were more worn than he realized. He lost his grip on the tree trunk when he was about twenty feet above the ground and had fallen. The branch he’d chosen to hold his body weight wasn’t the only thing that had snapped.

We weren’t even far from home. It was one of the things he was hoping to see from the canopy. We lived in a higher clearing. If you climbed high enough, you could see the tops of the pines that encircled our property. In the winter, when the limbs were bare, you could see the roof of our old house. The moment I heard him scream, I ran toward him. But when I reached him, the damage had been done. The only thing left to do was tend to his break as best as I could and pray.

I carried his broken body out of the swamp, sloshing through the water to hurry, but trying not to get that nastiness in his wound. I was fighting a losing battle.

I’d set the bone as best I could, but the flesh was streaked with red. That was a bad sign. I covered him up and ran upstairs. I hated going in
their
room, but I needed Mom’s medical reference book. Throwing the door open and making my way past her overflowing bookshelf to the desk that was covered in piles of papers, magazines and books, I found it quickly. It sported the thickest spine among the ones she’d salvaged. And I’d memorized the section on compound fractures last week, having read over the information so many times.

The pages were slick, glossy with pictures and diagrams. The infections section was almost one-third of the book. Thank goodness, she’d taken the time to teach us to read. It took twenty minutes to find the diagnosis, or what I thought Griff had. But, in the end, I was no doctor. And the words in this book would be filled with more than ink and paper. They were a warning, Griffin’s plea for help when he was unable to ask for it himself.

“Sepsis, or septicemia, is a dangerous bacterial infection…
Sepsis may accompany infection of the bone, called
osteomyelitis
…
People who have recently been hospitalized and/or had invasive medical procedures… Symptoms include fever or decreased body temperature, diarrhea, vomiting, organ failure, red streaking near a wound… The only treatment is a strong antibiotic cocktail to fight the bacterial infection… Failure to treat sepsis will lead to the patient’s organ failure and ultimately, death.”

I wished I had a way to reach someone—someone who could stay with him, keep an eye on him, but I had to get medicine. He would die without it. And there was only one place that had antibiotics that would help him. It was dangerous, but it was a risk I’d have to take. It was Griffin’s only chance.

The whole thing was my fault. I shouldn’t have let him go or agreed to let him climb the tree. I should’ve taken better care of him. So getting the meds he needed was something I
had
to do.

Lacing up my boots, I glanced at his flushed skin, his dark hair and dry, parted lips. The sun had risen and moved above the house. Peaceful, yellow light bathed the room and Griffin as he lay on the couch. I shook my head and stood up, tucking my hunting knife in my pocket.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Griff. I’m going to get you some medicine that’ll make you better, buddy.”
Can’t let him die. Not like Mom and Dad.

He groaned again, quieter this time. I squeezed my eyes tight and sent up a prayer that my brother would be okay when I got back, that I would be faster than I’d ever been, that I wouldn’t get caught.

I crossed the room quickly. My body weight made each wooden plank beneath creak and groan. I closed the door behind me, stepped off the porch.

And ran.

I didn’t stop.

Ter
·
min
·
al

/ˈtə
r
mə
nl/

adjective

1. of, forming, or situated at the end or extremity of something.
   Synonyms: final, last, concluding, closing, end
   
2. (of a disease) predicted to lead to death, especially slowly; incurable.
   Synonyms: incurable, untreatable, inoperable
   

CONCRETE AND BRICK
blurred as I pushed harder, pumping my arms, willing my quivering legs to carry me just a little bit farther. There must be a shop still open, a back door left ajar or some crevice I could squeeze myself into. I just needed to hide. If I could just lay low for a bit, the soldiers would pass me by, and I would be able to stop.

Then, I would breathe in the oxygen I needed so badly. My lungs were screaming.

I could hear the two sets of footsteps pounding behind me. They were getting louder, closer. The men were strong and relentless. The dog snarled, gnashing its teeth in anticipation. The militia starved them just for this purpose. Hunger drove an animal to desperation, and the soldiers needed the animals to be on the brink of just that, for times such as these.

I stumbled when my stamina waivered. It always did. That afternoon, I found out why but it wasn’t something that I would accept. Not like Mother and Father, not like Sonnet. The prognosis hadn’t upset them at all.

Her condition is terminal. I’m very sorry. There’s nothing more we can do. Allow her to enjoy life while she can. That’s my only advice. When the illness or resulting pain becomes too much for her to handle, please contact me. I will assist her journey into death.

My father had asked, “Should we have her assigned? The plan has been accelerated.”

I didn’t know what they were testing me or other people for, but it wasn’t the first time Father had mentioned it in conversation lately.

“Her assignment won’t matter. She doesn’t have enough time.”

My father had nodded. My mother had picked at her cuticles. My sister had smirked. And I…ran.

They wanted to put me down? I didn’t think so. I wouldn’t go down without a fight. They’d have to take me kicking and screaming. Besides, the physicians didn’t know what was wrong with me—just that I wasn’t getting better. “The condition” was getting worse. Everything was. I ran from the physician’s office, out his door and into the streets.

From there, I’d stolen some clothes from off a clothes line. The pants were men’s, but I pulled them up and fastened them around my hips and rolling the top hem down until they fit well enough to stay up. I ditched my gown at the scene of the crime, tugging a tee shirt on over my head and running out of the yard of the person I’d robbed. It was impossible to disappear, but blending in was something I could do. Or so I thought. The soldiers were relentless and, as it turns out, very good at tracking.

My footsteps began to echo in my ears. Or maybe that was the beating of my heart or the clacking of high heels on concrete. If only there had been some boots in that yard. The glass shards colorfully sprinkling the pavement in macabre confetti were the only things keeping me from kicking the too-tall heels off.

And my breath, it wasn’t enough to keep me going. I couldn’t…

I needed to…

When I gave up. When I stopped running, the only things I felt were the pounding of my heart in my chest and the feel of the gritty brick of the nearest building’s exterior on my palm. I let it bite into my flesh. It was better than feeling the dog’s teeth tear into me.

I braced myself, wincing in anticipation of exactly that sort of pain. But it never came.

“Halt!”

Glancing back, my chest still heaving, a soldier not much older than me approached with his fist in the air. Clad in the navy uniform of cargo pants and matching T-shirt, he came forward hesitantly, as if I were the snarling mutt his friend firmly held back by a leash. The young man’s features were sharp and angular, but not in an attractive way. Just harsh.

Short, dark hair and small brown eyes, he eased his hands out toward me. “Come with me now, Seven.”

“Who are you?”

“Soldiers Enoch and Blaken,” he said, motioning first to himself and then to his fair-haired accomplice, who was still jerking on the leash, trying to restrain the dog. It lunged, growled at me and lunged again.

I exhaled deeply. He knew who I was. My disguise hadn’t fooled them for a second. I looked down at my black trousers that were two sizes too big and then at the black, long-sleeved tee that was two sizes too small. It had still been the best option. I was always cold—even now, at the end of summer.

At the end of the alley, heat distorted the scene, wafting up in waves from the pavement. But I couldn’t feel it. Despite my illness, I was covered in more than ice and stolen garments. Guilt was the heaviest shroud of all. Not everyone had enough clothing. I had more than enough at home, and I’d taken from someone else. Perhaps the person I stole from could sell my gown and purchase more clothing. It was worth more than most people would make in a year’s time.

The stifling, moist, heat made thick beads of sweat drip down the two soldiers’ foreheads and into their eyes. I couldn’t feel it at all.

The physicians said it was a symptom of whatever plagued me. And, believe me, it was a plague. I was sixteen, almost seventeen and could barely leave my home. I had never even been swimming. Even in the summer, it was far too cold. Bacteria lived in the water. It could worsen my “condition.” It might hasten my death.

I thought of Sonnet. She was meeting friends at the lake. She was probably there, laughing and having fun, kissing her boyfriend, Aric.

Soldier Enoch kept inching forward. “Seven. Your father has requested that you return home immediately. I am to escort you there.”