Fifteen-year-old Alex and his learning-disabled friends barely survived the events of Spinner, but their nightmare has only just begun.
Alex’s wheelchair has never stopped him from doing what he wants, but his supernatural power to heal every human ailment known to science has put him in the crosshairs of a dangerous doomsday cult that will stop at nothing to capture him and his long-lost twin, Andy, who can shift illness from one person to another. When the boys combine their “gifts,” they unleash the power to control life and death.
Now Alex, Andy, and the others have been kidnapped by the U.S. military. On a creepy Air Force base in the remote Nevada desert, they must decide who to trust and who to fear while uncovering secrets this base wants to hide from the world. Who is the young boy with unusual abilities who’s treated like a soldier? What is hidden in an ultra-secret hangar that no one can access? And what unnatural experiments are conducted in that closed-off laboratory?
As Alex unravels these mysteries, he strives to bond with his twin, but Andy is distant and detached, trusting no one. He’s also more attracted to the dangerous power they wield than Alex would like. When misplaced faith in science ignites a hidden lust for supremacy, rescue can only come from the most unlikely source, and Alex must confront a terrible truth.
Allison woke with a start. Had she been dreaming? She wasn’t sure, but she was sure she’d heard her father’s voice. She sat up in bed, the coverlet tumbling into her lap, and listened. Yes. It was her dad. His room was next to hers, but the voice was muffled enough that she couldn’t make out the words.
She slipped out of bed and dropped to the plush carpet. Not bothering with a robe to cover her pajamas, she padded across her expansive bedroom to the door. Easing it open, she peered out into the dimly lit, lushly paneled hallway. None of the household staff were up. Why should they be? It was the middle of the night.
The burnished wood flooring felt cold against her bare feet as she darted to the door next to hers. It was closed, but she pressed her ear up against it and listened.
“…just you and the two men left? Did you find any blood in the house?”
Allison gasped. Blood? Somehow, she knew her dad was talking about Alex. She yanked open his door, trembling with fear.
Her dad sat on his bed, wearing his fancy brocaded silk robe and black velvet slippers with the gold crown insignia, cell phone to one ear, worry creasing his face. He looked over as she rushed inside but didn’t seem surprised to see her. He held up a hand for silence and listened intently.
“All right. Get back here with the men. I’m going to contact my sources for any clues as to who took them.”
He ended the call and eyed Allison with a grim expression. The worry lines around his eyes looked deeper, almost like they’d been carved with a knife, and there seemed to be even more gray peppering his short dark hair.
“It’s Alex, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Armed men attacked the safe house and took him along with the other kids. Nathan and his older son were knocked out by some kind of drug and left behind, along with Martin.”
Allison felt her chest constrict with worry. “Does Martin know who took them?”
He shook his head. “The brief glimpse he had made him think military, so it might be the same group who brought Andy to that church.”
“Our government?” Allison felt disgust well up within her.
He didn’t look the least bit surprised at the idea. “There are some at the Pentagon who will use anyone or anything in the interest of national security, even children.”
Allison knew she should be angry, but she’d overheard enough of her father’s business dealings with the government over the years to know he spoke the truth.
“Go back to bed, Allison,” he said. “I’ve got to do some research.”
She knew better than to argue. “Just find him, Dad. Find all of them.”
“I will.” She returned to her room. Knowing she could never sleep now, she sat on her bed and lay back against the heavy wooden headboard, thinking about Alex. He’d literally brought her back from the brink of death at the risk of his own life. What kind of boy would do that? Most people seemed to care only about themselves. He had to be all right. He had to be!
Michael J. Bowler is an award-winning author who grew up in Northern California. He majored in English/Theatre at Santa Clara University, earned a master’s in film production from Loyola Marymount University, a teaching credential in English from LMU, and a master’s in Special Education from Cal State University Dominguez Hills. Michael taught high school in Hawthorne, California, both in general education and to students with disabilities. When Michael is not writing, he serves as a youth mentor with the Big Brothers Big Sisters program and a volunteer within the juvenile justice system in Los Angeles, but mostly he takes care of his recently adopted son. He is a passionate advocate for the fair treatment of children and teens in California and hopes that his books can show young people they are not alone in their struggles.
Title: Eau De Parfum Author: Lisa Acerbo Series: Hell in a Handbasket Genre: Young Adult Horror
The smell of Streaker lingers in the air.
I must be dead!
I woke up naked and covered in blood. Teeth marks littered my arms, creating holes and revealing muscle. Someone or something attempted to gnaw off my elbow.
I’m alone! So, maybe, I’m worse than dead.
If friends and family abandoned me, I must have turned into a Streaker. On second thought, it’s an easy “no” to eating body parts.
The idea of brains for dinner disgusts me.
I only see one option ahead, and that’s to find my family and ask why they left me as dinner for the undead.
His glance was quick and furtive. Nostrils flaring, Eric recoiled from the gore around him and the smell of death saturating the air. He held back a scream.
Where am I?
The irregular beat of his heart pounded in his ears like a truck accelerating under a bridge. Although the room was murky, the red ochre stains decorating the floor and walls like abstract paintings remained vivid.
What had happened here?
Eric sat naked, covered in blood, but alive. He lifted himself onto his knees. Everything hurt. He stared at the carnage that was his body and gagged.
Teeth marks littered his arms, creating holes and 1 revealing muscle. Someone or something had attempted to gnaw off an elbow. The tears in his thigh reached bone. Eric yanked his hand to cover the wound then tore it away. Half-healed scabs and open sores covered from fingers to wrist.
Is this what it’s like to be dead? How long have I been here? Like this?
Memories surged back to him. A few days ago, he and the rest of the survivors had taken refuge in this old movie theater, but Streakers found them.
The maggoty swarm had assembled along the large glass windows and doors. Agitated, held back from their sustenance, the zombies writhed and swayed against the barrier.
Dead eyes had stared from outside. Decayed, naked bodies, twisted limbs, peeling skin, and pustules, the Streakers blurred into a mirage of rot and decay. Many lacked clothes, leaving everything that hadn’t decomposed dangling in the open air.
His friends, Jenna and Caleb, had tried to herd Eric and his twin brother, Billy, to safety, but he’d pushed them away. Nearly sixteen, he had wanted to prove himself.
The shattering window had left him frozen in fear. One of the zombies focused its lifeless eyes on him.
A sound? Eric’s thoughts rushed into the present.
Quiet.
What happened to his friends? Had they all perished? Worse, had they abandoned him?
The crunch and crackle of broken glass had Eric jumping to his feet and heart thumping against his ribs. Adrenaline flooded aching limbs into action. Frantic, he searched the ground for a weapon but found nothing. He sprinted, pain in each step, to the corner and waited. There was little else to do.
Lisa Acerbo is a high school teacher and adjunct faculty at a local community college. She lives in Connecticut with her husband, daughters, two dogs, and horse. When not writing, she mountain bikes, hikes, and fosters dogs.
Among the immortals that inhabit our world, Arnaud Demeure is known as the man who can fulfill your one true wish or who can also conjure your worst nightmares.
Eight invitations are sent to eight immortals, and when Arnaud Demeure hosts a party, no one refuses his request. Why have they been summoned? Is it for a celebration or does a sinister fate await them? After all, in the ways of Magick, a party can also be a ritual to end the world.
As the mystery deepens, the attendees must overcome their personal grudges to unravel the threads of Demeure’s grand plan that has been centuries in the making. But, with one of the guests secretly working with their host to sabotage the group’s every move, it seems impossible to look behind the curtain to learn Demeure’s true intentions.
With each guest hiding dark secrets and darker intentions, will they be able to uncover Demeure’s mysterious motives or will the party prove to be the deadly nightmare that they each fear?
The young sister ran through the silent city while the prophet waited for her to arrive. The old man knew she would come; he had seen her already. Hidden by the shadow of an old staircase, eyes fixed on the door, he tried not to get distracted by the creatures in his vision.
Thousands of them, maybe millions, all crammed within glass walls.
The youngest sat at the center of the glass prison. It was taller than the tallest mountain. It was quiet amid the frenzy of its brothers. Its head so high it saw beyond the ceiling of its prison, straight into the realm of the Eldest Lords. Light leaked from underneath its shaking, half-closed eyelids. It peeked into the future.
As the prophet watched them, the creatures stared at him from far away. He could see them, yet his mind could not make full sense of their shapes, only of a few features. A crowd of wings, fangs, stingers, and every piece of every animal he could think of, and some he had never seen, crawling on each other while human parts pushed their way through. The tall one, its eyes closed, hummed over and over.
“We are so close. It won’t be long.”
The others followed its chanting and moved back and forth in front of the glass holding them prisoners, just like animals expecting a bite of their prey.
The prophet almost missed the nun’s arrival. She ran up the stairs, hesitating as she put one foot on the first step.
Unseen, the prophet followed.
From the roof, he tasted the entire city. A forest of concrete and metal spreading in every direction, so much so that nothing existed if not within it. The sun blinded him, shining in white and gold. Dawn was a miracle. He stood still, in awe of the most magnificent city, and he almost forgot he had followed someone.
But there she was, the young sister, standing close to the balustrade, her arms raised to the sky, her shape dark against the sunlight.
The tall metallic tower pierced the sky and stabbed the sun, just like an arrow. The star bled, scattering its light all over the town.
White particles fell from the sky. Snow perhaps, or dust, he could not say. He dared to look up. The sky had turned dark despite the sun shining in it, light still leaking over the city.
In the cold air, no sound but the wind.
Nothing else made a noise. No sound of cars or their horns. No talking or music playing, no chirping of birds.
The prophet stood transfixed.
Cars were still on the asphalt, their lights on. Some stuck in place, some coasting along the streets. Many had slid, hitting nearby objects. Tombstones in an old graveyard, they lay against each other, against lampposts, or sat on the sidewalks.
Men and women, asleep, still clung to their steering wheels.
Their heads blasted out of the windshields or hung from the windows. Hundreds and hundreds of bodies covered the sidewalks and the streets. More must have been resting within the buildings, unmoving, untouched.
Here and there, white, black, and red stains, each tens of meters long, covered the streets—flocks of birds caught in whatever happened.
Nobody moved, nobody talked, everyone rested in this cemetery, testimony of a dark miracle.
The world had moved on. The city, now empty, stayed behind. Paris was dead, and the Great Ones were free.
Born and raised in Sicily, M.L. spent most of his early life inventing stories and believing he could live in them.
In high school, he spent way too much time watching B movies, playing video games, and reading everything he could get his hands on, provided it wasn’t recommended by any authority figure.
M.L. spent most of his college years and adult life writing in languages only machines can understand until he decided to put some of his stories on the page.
After a few years spent in Scotland, now M.L. lives in Seattle with his wife, his cat, and a large assortment of books. When not writing, he still enjoys playing video games and explaining board game rules to his friends.
