The Death Series: A Dark Dystopian Fantasy Box Set: (Books 1-3) (68 page)

Volume Three: The Death Series

Copyright © 2012 Tamara Rose Blodgett

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved.

Edited by Stephanie T. Lott

DEDICATION:

Shannon French

CHAPTER 1

1929

Margaret “Maggie” Parker felt the warm breath of him on the nape of her neck before kisses fell like soft rain and the tug of her apron strings loosened in his capable hands.

He was insatiable, her Clyde. And she loved him for it.

Clyde looked at Maggie, her large pale green eyes brimming with trust and he felt his resolve strengthen again to make an honest woman of her.

Soon.

He studied the lightweight and slightly sheer flowered dress she wore; it clung to every curve. He ran his rough hands down the smoothness of her arms and gooseflesh rose in response to his touch. Clyde smiled as she managed a feeble attempt to resist his advances while cooking at the hellaciously hot stove. It was the beginning of summer and jamming wood in the box for a hot supper seemed almost sacrilegious, what with summer's heat upon them. The sultry night lifted her natural fragrance to waft between the two of them, roses and morning glory, an intoxicating mix.

Clyde sighed, wrapping his strong arms around her. If only he could get ahead of the loans on the farm. Maggie turned in the circle of his arms and pressed her cheek to his chest, she grabbed one of his large hands and kissed the scabs that marred his knuckles from the fighting. He smiled down at her, the smooth skin of her hands contrasting with his wounded knuckles.

He pulled her away from the stove and toward the staircase.

“No, Clyde!” she squawked in mock horror, “supper will burn.”

But he saw the desire light in her eyes, burning there like she said the supper would.

Clyde lowered his lids to half-mast. “Turn down the heat, then.”

She flushed furiously, the pink blooming from some point down low and effusing her cheekbones a delicious rosebud color. Maggie giggled and ran back to the stove, turning down a dial that wouldn't make the stove lose its heat until the middle of the night. Once that porcelain Behemoth gained a head of steam, it stayed hot for hours.

Clyde held out his arms and when she got close enough, he swept her up into his embrace, cradling her against his chest. His height and breadth gave him the extra money they needed to get over this financial burden they faced.

Enough to give her the wedding she deserved.

The home.

The life.

They were locked in the bedroom for a long time, the supper sticking inside the pot, forgotten.

*

2010

Kyle Ulysses Hart kissed his wife's bulging belly with enthusiasm, lifting dark eyes to her bluish gray pair.

“You're terrible, Dr. Hart!” she laughed, tugging at his hair while he pressed his cheek to the warmth of her womb. Her girth would soon be a thing of the past; the arrival of their son bringing an end to her discomfort. Kyle laughed at her shyness, she was incredibly sexy with their unborn son inside her. Kyle was uniquely suited to understanding the miracle of birth and what things transpired to cause its inception.

He'd been instrumental in mapping the human genome, after all.

Kyle smiled at his wife, trying to erase the meeting he'd attended earlier with the pharmaceutical companies, making an effort to listen to Ali's prattle about the newest plant for their garden. The birth tree they'd be planting for their son. She'd already picked out a name, but he'd nixed the middle name. He liked Sebastian, after his great-grandfather. It was unique, like his son would undoubtedly be.

Caleb Sebastian Hart.

He liked the sound of that. He helped Ali off the couch and gave her a light smack on her rear as she went into the kitchen. She managed to contain the waddle with an effort even as her laughter spilled over him like musical notes.

He grinned, turning to settle down and work at his laptop as Ali readied supper. It would be very good when he began testing the Pulse Technology’s answer to the computer age, the laptop, as they knew it, would soon be obsolete.

Brain Impulse. It was the wave of the future.

Even with his excitement over scientific advance, his good humor faded as he remembered the conference from earlier that day.

Michael Dunham the Third drummed his perfectly manicured fingertips on the solid wood table of the conference room within The Human Genome Project Center.

He hated sucking up to these scientists. It was a necessary evil, however. Without their approval, the public would balk at little Johnny getting stuck with their juice.

Very powerful juice.

Dunham smoothed his tie down for the twelfth time and tried to contain his bored expression as Dr. Kyle Hart outlined the genome to the gathered pharmaceutical representatives and his scientific team that were present; who followed his summary with rapt attention.

It made Dunham want to yak on the table.

Who gave a ripe shit? Why couldn't Hart just roll over like a well-trained dog and take the money they were offering to fund the inoculations? It was confounding. Of course, the government agency that had funded the monies to make it possible for this advancement was highly covert. As far as Hart was ever going to know, non-existent.

It was better that way. Better for Dr. Kyle Hart, though he didn't know it.

Dunham raised his hand and watched Hart pause mid-sentence, a frown of concentration shifting to mild annoyance.

The sap actually loved what he did. And not for the money.

It was mind-blowing to Dunham.

“Yes, Mr. Dunham?” Kyle Hart asked, eyebrow cocked with the,
I hope you understand I was just about to make an important closing point
look.

Yeah, he'd gotten that.

“Thank you for expounding on your research, Dr. Hart, but it won't be necessary. We have been extensively briefed as to the markers, their discovery and the subsequent drugs that will allow the activation of said markers.” He spread his hands as if to say,
let's get down to the nitty-gritty.

Kyle didn't like this guy. He stank of bureaucracy and cunning slyness. Dunham needed to appreciate the importance of human trials before widespread inoculations. It would unlock Pandora's Box. Had he considered what that might mean? Kyle wasn't going to be a part of playing God on the children of the United States.

It was not lost on him with his own unborn son would be inoculated along with everyone else.

Their eyes locked and Kyle stated, “I will not sign off on human trials.”

Dunham's smile widened into a grin. “Now that just works out fine, Dr. Hart. We don't need you to. We just need you to approve them after they're completed. Establish credibility that the drug works to enhance what may have taken evolution a hundred or even a thousand years to naturally occur. Really, the inoculations allow immediacy to what evolution would have inevitably provided.” He shrugged.

Kyle stared him down. It was nothing more than a playground pissing contest.

Prick.

Fine, but how many parents would allow their child to be involved in experimental science?

Kyle Hart didn't realize how naïve his internal question had been until they were finished with the trials.

The answer was plenty.

CHAPTER 2

1929

Clyde pegged his fists at both sides of his jaw, narrowly avoiding the swing aimed at the fragile spot every man has at their chin.

Hit it and most went down.

Every man wished to bring Clyde Thomas down. It was rumored he could take a punch. It was good news if he won a fight but bad as well. The ring leaders kept hunting up the meanest dog to step into the ring.

The heaviest-handed, the most brutal; acute and immediate.

But when Clyde won, it was a victory.

Unfortunately, he had about played out his hand here in their small town of Kent, Washington. He would need to travel, leave Maggie by herself for a few days.

He frowned at that, Clyde would rather be with her than away.

Clyde had plowed through more than the dirt in his fields of late. The betting was off now. Everyone knew he might win, so everyone was betting on his win. He had to show up in another town where he would be an unknown.

An underdog.

Clyde made a low jab that slammed into the solar plexus of a man that had not seen the bottom of a bathtub in two weeks. The smell of acrid sweat and sourness rose off his opponent in a gag-worthy cloud of filth, meeting Clyde as he drove into him, delivering punches in the classic one-two-three strike formation;
jaw, eyeball, nose
.

His smelly opponent got a good one to Clyde's hardened gut. Clyde used the reflexes he was known for in these parts instinctively to guide him next, landing a well-placed punch to the vulnerable kidney.

Clyde was an organ man, enough punches laid to that area and they all fell like a box of rocks.

The man went down, spittle and blood edging the corners of his mouth like gruesome lace.

Clyde gave a grim smile as the announcer swung up his arm and booming in a loud voice that rang unpleasantly in Clyde's ears bellowed, “And heeerrreeee is our winner, gents! Clyde Thomas, local boy and...”

Suddenly the crowd scattered as sirens wailed in the distance.

“Shit and Shinola!” the announcer sputtered, hiking up his pants by the suspenders, he jammed his fedora on his head and took off, plumes of dust from the dirt floor rising as he did.

Well
, Clyde thought,
he guessed this was where he'd be getting the bum's rush
. He glanced at the stink bomb writhing around in the middle of the makeshift ring, the solid ropes of twine swinging from the disruption of the crowd scattering to the four corners of the earth and smiled.

Clyde would be long gone.

*

Theodore Glummer straightened, looking around the brawl hole. Illegal liquor bottles strewn about in the haste to scurry out of the dump like rats.

But there were a few in the paddy wagon. Oh my, yes and they would be singing like canaries when his men at the station leaned on them.

Glummer was going to find out who was enterprising enough to keep putting on these little shows for the townsfolk of Kent.

His town, by Christ.

Why could people not abide by the law? There was plenty of legal fighting to be had. Albeit without boozing or betting, but dames aplenty, where blood flew and flesh got soundly pounded.

Humanity never learned, preferring to skulk about in the whispering shadows, taunting the police into irritated oblivion.

Well, it would stop. This time one of the birds in the back of the wagon had chirped a name on the wind and he'd caught it.

Clyde Thomas.

Glummer shrugged. As far as he knew, that man was a farmer. Always been a farmer, like his daddy before him.

No matter, they'd pay a visit to that farm of his down in the valley. Lean on him right proper. If there was something Thomas knew, he'd squeal like a pig that needed slopping.

He was just one man.

Glummer strode off to that wagon, one of the officers from his squad winding the motor.

“Get 'er cranked, Lewiston!”

“Yes sir, Chief Glummer! That's what I be doin' here!” Glummer watched that fool Lewiston hand-crank the custom 1929 Packard they'd just been given by the governor of the state.

Glummer smiled. Bribe money paid well.

Another reason to be madder than a hatter over this illegal fighting ring.

They were not yet giving him his due.

Finally the engine turned over, Lewiston wiping sweat off his brow.

“Ready?” Glummer asked as he heaved his girth into the shotgun position.

Lewiston nodded, jumping into the driver's side, he tore the gear shift through the motion into first gear, cranking the wheel with both hands as it smoothly rolled away from the speakeasy where a fight had just been.

A fight Glummer got no dough for.

Bastards.

*

Clyde whipped his sweaty hair off his brow and shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand, deftly judging the position of the sun. He was almost done plowing the field for the day, the fragrant earth moving to the sides of his plow like brown sugared water off the bow of a ship.

Clyde had been up since five this morning, fatigue edged in around him like an old friend.

That damn cow would bellow and that was his alarm clock.

He could not complain overly much, Adele was a tough old broad and she'd been providing milk past when most cows would have dried up.

Clyde sighed, thinking about the expense of procuring another milker.

No matter. He would unhook his horse and get her put in the stable, brushed down and cooled off. Maybe do a light muck out  so it wouldn't be such a glaring disaster in the morning.

As he swung the plow to a soft area to ease his horse through, he caught sight of sunlight glinting off glass from the kitchen window.

Maggie was starting the supper then. He could just make out an elegant arm pushing the window wide open, allowing the heat of the day to enter.

He put the plow away and freshened the horse with oats, water and a light muck. Clyde wiped his dirty hands off of his work cloth that hung from the back of his pants and sauntered out to the shady spot in the yard where the well was located. Using the hand pump, Clyde scooped out a small dig of soap from the tub and lathered it in the cold water that flowed out of the pump. The iciness felt enticingly good after the day he'd had in the field. The soap didn't lather well with the coldness of the water but it was a sight better than using water alone.

And Maggie would be much happier with his hands on her if they were clean.

Clyde grinned at the thought of Maggie.

Maggie-girl.

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a flicker of light and turned as a police car hauled its way up the steep drive.

Clyde watched its progress, following the green winding ribbon of grass that bisected the long dirt road from the main drag.

He wiped his hands off carefully on the rough cotton cloth that hung on a brass ring, screwed into the rim of the well and looked up toward the house.

Trouble was coming.

He wished that Maggie was not here this day. He gazed down at his raw knuckles and thought through a careful explanation, if one were warranted.

He watched Maggie slip out the door, the sheer apron she wore barely covering her brightly flowered dress.

She looked at him. Then shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun, she walked to where he stood.

Maggie held out her small hand and he took it just as the fuzz came to a stop and three of the largest on the squad stepped out. They used their hats to knock the dust off from the travel and the Chief came forward, hand outstretched.

Clyde reluctantly released Maggie's hand and took his.

His grip came down with crushing force on Clyde's, his tender knuckles howling under the force of it.

But there was never a flicker of emotion, pain or hurt on Clyde's countenance. He had been raised hard and had become a tough man. He was gentle when there be need.

But that need was not at present.

Clyde studied the men and noted they did not possess their sidearms.

Thank the good Lord.

The Chief released Clyde's hand and Clyde could see him fight not to clench and release his fist. Clyde had given a good shake, had been told it was quite hard.

“Clyde Thomas,” the Chief began.

“Yes, that's me.”

His eyes slid to Maggie.

“This is my lady friend, Margaret Parker,” Clyde said by way of introduction.

One of the men cleared his throat disrespectfully. Maggie's eye's flicked to his.

Clyde's expression darkened, thunder rolling in, his face holding the promise of a storm.

He clamped down on his irritation with an effort, intervening before Maggie got her ire up. It was likely to happen, that fiery Irish temper rose to the surface like a bubble released underwater.

“What seems to be the trouble...?” Clyde began.

“Chief Glummer,” he supplied neutrally. Clyde took note he was a man of sloth, a full belly that couldn't be hidden by his custom-made suit.
Dough must be plentiful for police
, Clyde mused.

Clyde suspected he was corrupt. His stare swept the other gents that began to spread and surround him and Maggie.

Since he was a youngster, Clyde had always had a special sense of danger, his mama had said it was the second sight.

That sense was currently ringing alarm bells deep inside his psyche. He always listened, had learned to trust it.

“So, Mr. Thomas?”

Clyde nodded, keeping his eyes latched to the three that were behaving like prowling cats from the foothills of the Cascades where he and his Pa used to hunt for cougar.

“I've had my ear to the ground and a little birdie chirped about your whereabouts last night.” Glummer began to clean his tidy nail with a small switchblade. Then his eyes went to Clyde's. “Where were you last night?”

“He was with me,” Maggie said, her large seawater green eyes flashed with righteous anger in a face with creamy skin and bright red hair.

Oh no,
Maggie-girl. Clyde knew she was covering. He reached out and squeezed her hand in subtle warning and she tightened her grip in understanding.

Glummer shook his head to the negative. “No, now... Miss...”

“Parker,” Maggie said in a flat voice and Glummer narrowed his eyes on her.

“... Parker. There are some that would contradict your statement. Those that place your lover-boy at a condemned speakeasy on the wrong side of the tracks.”

“Don't speak to her like that. Maggie deserves your respect. She'll be my wife soon,” Clyde said, giving him a hard look.

Glummer smirked. “But she ain't yet, is she?” He stepped forward and Clyde moved in front of Maggie protectively, instinctively.

The three moved in to flank them. Glummer said, “You won't 'fess up and come clean. We think you'll speak a blue streak if we give your honey a squeeze here.”

Glummer lurched forward to put his hands on Maggie, and Clyde responded as he always had to violence.

In kind.

Clyde slammed his elbow into one of the three that was nearest, bashing him in the nose as he slapped the flat of his opposite palm into the nose of the other. The third thug moved in behind Clyde and had him in a lock-down as Glummer grabbed Maggie.

She shrieked, whacking him over the head with her thick, wooden spatula, held strategically in the pocket of her apron, swinging the red sauce and splattering Glummer. His perfect suit now wore red spatter, some droplets speckled against the car behind him like blood.

While two of the corrupt police writhed around on the grass, holding their tenderized faces, and Clyde was held in a vise-like grip by the third, he used the man that imprisoned his arms and swung his legs up to strike Glummer in his thick gut.

“Argh!” Glummer stumbled backward, his arms pinwheeling as he fell on his giant posterior.

Clyde didn't waste time, turning, he took one of the hands that held him and pulled the finger he could pry back to the wrist. Howling, the fella let go suddenly and Clyde turned, laying him out with a solid strike to a jaw that was not used to being hit.

Perfect.

The blow knocked him out cold.

Maggie ran to Clyde, his chest heaving from the exertion of fighting them all at one time. He gathered her close and looked down at Chief Glummer.

“Get out,” Clyde said in a low voice.

The Chief made an unsteady attempt to get to his feet. “I reckon I know where you really were last night.” His eyes fell on Maggie and she glared at him from underneath Clyde's arm. “You can lie for him, but there's no boy around these parts that can take pieces out of my men like that and not know how to handle himself.” His eyes glared into Clyde's as he spit a wad of bloodied phlegm on the dirt of the driveway. “This isn't over. I want that bankroll,” he slapped his fist into an open palm. “And I'm not going to take no for an answer.”