She's Deadly (Shadow Soldiers Book I)
*Still needs some editing*
Marinah
The plane’s engine rumbles beneath my feet and the white plastic walls shake while I fight the urge to vomit. Why me? I ask myself as I swallow back the sour taste of bile and inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I read somewhere years ago that this relieves queasiness. Ha. Just another reason I don’t miss the internet.
The cabin of the plane is a small stripped-down passenger jet that’s seen better days. Someone pulled the seats out and now there are only two rows facing each other from opposite sides of the center aisle. The seat’s cracked vinyl pokes my bare skin below the stupid skirt I’m wearing making a miserable experience worse. The powers that be assured me the older aircraft offers the best chance of surviving the three hour flight from DC to Havana. Again… why me? I’m nobody of importance to the new U.S. Federation.
If anything I’m a liability.
Seven years of war against horrific creatures, thought to be from hell, almost decimated the human race. After one paranormal door opened it led to another breed of monsters that eventually came to our aid. The humans who survived, me included, have the latter to thank.
I’m fortunate to be among the living only because of who my father was. Or am I? Why am I here, a useless non-essential person, in a world that needs soldiers, doctors, and mechanics? Oh and politicians. We can’t forget them. Not even a new world order could smite government windbags from our planet.
Those blowhards are the ones who put us in our current situation with a novice like me in the middle. Bottom line: The devil’s monsters are regrouping and we have a thin to zero chance of surviving another war even with the help I’m on a mission to secure. It’s been twenty-three months since the last major attack from the monsters and we’ve gained little ground in reestablishing anything but our government.
After another deep inhale, I glance over my shoulder and look out the window. The president’s assistant told me that placing an aircraft at my disposal for this trip was an honor. He said it with a straight face too. Honor be damned.
Bursts of electromagnetic energy have increased during the past few months signaling the return of our enemy. It also makes flight extremely dangerous. I’m wearing a ridiculous clunky parachute after less than five minutes of instruction on how to use it. The blue water below offers no comfort. I picture sliding into shark infested waters as a mid-day snack. My vivid imagination pictures my limbs dislocating and muscles shredding between ginormous teeth as sharks devour me in small painful bites. If we go down there’s no way I’m pulling the cord of the chute.
My fingers are blue where they clench the armrests and I’m doing everything in my power to hold back a full on panic attack. It doesn’t help that the parachute is uncomfortable to lean back against and my neck is killing me.
All of this races through my brain until I’ve had enough. I pry my fingers from the armrest stretching them to regain circulation. Once the pin pricks subside, I unbuckle the chest straps and divest myself of the moldy smelling canvas. I sigh out loud. I’ve taken back my power. The sharks will still get a snack if we crash but I won’t be alive to care.
I lean my head back and enjoy that I can finally slouch into the crunchy seat. Closing my eyes, I count slowly by threes. The first few hundred come easy. Then, like always, I slide back into the thoughts that set off panic bombs in my head. Bottom line—I’m not adaptable to the new world. I’d give anything to return to life before Hell’s doors opened and the monsters decimated humans. I want to return to that innocent time. Go back to work in the bookstore where my worst day included a customer complaining about an unavailable piece of literature. I do not want to stay in present time when a bad day consists of rotting corpses, fear of attack, and good monsters verses bad.
Maybe they’re all bad. Many people think so. I’m not one of those people and that’s possibly why I’m heading to the island of a different scary monster.
Laughter bubbles up and spills into the empty cabin. The pilot, if he hears me over the sound of the engines, doesn’t turn around. That’s a good thing because he would think me crazy. He’d be right. My father, the defense secretary up until his death two years ago, would agree. The last thing he’d want is his daughter going on this insane mission. Of course, he would never have imagined that I’d walk in his shoes. Me, the shy brainiac with ambitions of becoming a research librarian after college. My school days ended as abruptly when Hell attacked. One day I walked the halls of Berkley and the next I stared at the television in my dorm and watched the beginning of the world’s destruction.
Many countries thought the electromagnetic pulses were the detonation of nuclear weapons. Of course it was easy to see why. We lived in a world where it was only a matter of time before a terrorist group got their hands on nuclear weapons. When the electromagnet pulses started, several countries jumped in and took out the majority of the Middle East.
The domino effect continued. All our enemies had to do was provide a few bursts of electromagnetic power to begin the end. Before the radioactive dust settled, Hell hit us with their ungodly monsters. Having no idea what the ugly dog-like creatures with razor-sharp teeth and nails actually are, I’ve adopted the military vernacular of “hellhounds” like everyone else. We also have no real idea if they come from Hell but the religious fanatics used biblical translations and gave the creatures a name. It didn’t matter. Hellhounds killed in waves leaving thousands dead after each attack and humans had no idea how to fight back.
I, unlike most humans who survived, never learned the physical art of war. The government put my brain to work instead. I made charts analyzing our chances and creating optional scenarios to access human casualties. I have no illusions about why I received the analyst job. My father was the man in charge of managing our military forces and he worked best knowing his only child was safe.
Yay me, the lucky one.
My father died three months before the end of the war. I was one of a handful of people trained in foretelling the probability and location of the next attack and kept my job. For two years I’ve wondered when my safety gig would be up.
You could have slapped me upside the head with a ballistic vest when the President of the U. S. Federation asked me to take over my father’s position. That was twenty four hours ago. This morning the president swore me in as defense secretary—a twenty-eight year old woman with no experience in war. Add in my lack of diplomatic skills, the fact I don’t even like people, and my analysis of the situation’s chance for success is two point three. I’m the third defense secretary since my father’s death. Having his title doesn’t bode well. My chance for survival is slightly higher than the mission’s chance of success at two point eight. That comforts me. Not!
The shadow soldiers I’m heading to meet terrify me to the point of unreasonable behavior. Think jumping into a pit of crocodiles, whipping out an umbrella, and whistling My Humps by The Black-Eyed Peas while floating over snapping jaws. Crazy right? And now that darn song will be stuck in my head again. I start humming it.
Shadow soldiers are elite fighters—larger and stronger than humans. They’re the polar opposite of Hell’s spawn because they think and strategize making them a more formable enemy. Due to fear and bigotry the Federation almost started another war when the threat of Hell’s monsters receded. Our government’s screw up gave me this advancement in office and began my mad dash to repair relations with the good monsters.
King, the reigning leader of the shadow soldiers, requested a female liaison. That’s “King” as in Cher or Prince. He provided no other name so I’ll work with it. The question is—will King work with me.
Our president swore me into office and gave roping in King as my number one priority. I’m not responsible for the mistakes made at the end of Hell’s War but my orders are to apologize, beg, plead, or do anything else to get them back on our side.
“Defense Secretary Church we’ll be landing shortly,” the intercom blasts and I jump half out of my seat.
Regardless of the abrupt blare, I’m unused to the title directed my way and my chest hurts at the remembrance of people addressing my father in the same manner. He died fighting. It didn’t matter that he was an old man barely fit for duty, his responsibility was to the men and women fighting an impossible war. Dad didn’t live long enough to know we won and he was gone before he could stop the heads of state from screwing up the relations with our allies. I know in my heart dad would have found a way around the diplomatic catastrophe that happened. The shadow soldiers respected him and he returned their respect. As his daughter, I’m following his lead even though the men I’m about to meet petrify me. They’re big, bad, and scary. I kid you not; their animal form is Bigfoot on steroids minus the shaggy hair. Goose bumps run across my skin and I go back to humming My Humps.
I peer out the small window again and think about the scenery when the plane first took off. Knowing our cities are destroyed and seeing an aerial view of the devastation are quite different. Tall buildings were nothing more than scraps of concrete and metal. We live mostly below ground and as much as I’ve hated it, I’m relieved I didn’t have the day to day reminder of all we’ve lost. Even knowing sharks lurk in the blue water below the image is preferable to the ruin left behind by the nearly catastrophic war.
I pull my gaze from the water, unbuckle my seatbelt, and head to the lavatory to check my appearance. I’ve grown accustomed to military fatigues provided to government workers. The dark blue suit jacket, skirt, and clunky heels I’m currently in are incredibly uncomfortable. I tug on the short skirt as I walk and almost trip. They put me in this getup to garner male attention. I’m not happy about it. I’m nothing but a piece of meat to the US federation. Believe me—meeting a group of monsters who grow six inch fangs is not a time to feel like food.
I close the lavatory door and glance in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed red from the training I took yesterday. The small outdoor space had high walls and no shade unless you hugged the perimeter. My skin, unaccustomed to sunlight, took the brunt of the ridiculous training. I’m too tall and uncoordinated to learn fighting skills that take years to master. Would they listen to me? No. At least they gave up after a few hours. I’m hopeless and training with kids in their early teens, more capable than me, didn’t help my self-confidence.
I adjust the clip holding my thick brown hair so the wayward strands conform once more. I’ve thought about cutting it a thousand times. A thousand times I resist. It’s my one vanity. Running a brush through my hair at night grounds me. It’s such a simple task even though keeping it clean and lice free isn’t easy. I shiver at the thought of the small creepers that make so many shave their bodies. The new world sucks.
After my first full shower in months, I’m clean and with hot water no less. It could be my only perk as defense secretary before I die. I glance into the mirror and stare at my reflection. I’m far from beautiful or sexy regardless of what clothes they put me in. My high cheekbones and pointed chin give my face a thin, haunted appearance even with my current cherry cheeks. Truthfully I’ve never liked sunshine and prefer a dark corner to hide away and work. The war took away the option of sunshine, and, against my personal code of dark and quiet, I long for it. At least until the heat yesterday realigned my thinking.
I can’t see more than my face in the small mirror which is a good thing. I’ve always been awkwardly tall and extremely thin with no coordination. Sit me in a spot, hand me a pen and paper, and I’m safe to be around. Put any kind of obstacle in my path and I’m as likely to fall as a new born colt. If no obstacle is around, I’ll trip over my own feet.
If you wanted to survive the war you toughened up and I’m the antithesis of tough in a world where only the strong survive. I have no idea what others see in me, so I continue staring deeply into the mirror. Eyes more gray than blue and my nose a little too pointed. In my opinion there’s nothing to attract attention and I only see the introverted failure I’ve observed a thousand times before.
So many humans similar to me took their lives because they couldn’t handle the harsh realities of the cruel new world. Some, due to ridiculous bigotry, refused to stand beside shadow soldiers and died as fodder in their unprotected militias.
My mindset is so far from soldiers who died in battle that guilt gnaws my soul. So many brave human lives lost. And shadow soldiers had casualties too. They fought and defended us while mistrust continued among humans.
Before I boarded the plane, a presidential staff member handed me a short overview of shadow soldier statistics. His instructions were to leave the briefing on the plane when I disembarked. According to the document, our government thinks as many as two hundred soldiers survived with a low estimate at one hundred. The federation wants me to establish the exact number if possible along with breeding information. I roll my eyes at that. They also want the number and types of weapons they hold. No one mentioned this before the plane took off—it was all in the paperwork. My anger at their bullshit request for added information kept my mind off sharks for part of the trip. The government hasn’t learned a single lesson when dealing with shadow soldiers. We really need my father right now and I’m nowhere close to being second best.
The first mistake the Federation made was thinking they could control the shadow soldiers once the war ended. No, not control… use them for experimental purposes. They expected the soldiers to voluntarily turn themselves into the new government. The president and his cabinet thought the soldiers would happily return to the passive half-men, half-beasts who walked unknowingly amongst us before Hell’s War.
Not even close.
The nerve of the shadow soldiers I think sarcastically. They wanted equal rights, an equal say in politics, and the ability to hold office. When our military attempted to round them up, human soldiers died trying to enforce the will of the Federation. When all else failed, a treaty was signed giving the shadow soldiers their own country. This happened about a year ago.
Hellhounds decimated Cuba early on. Cuban survivors straggled into the US in the first two years of the War. After a few more years and no sign of survivors the island was forgotten. I have no idea who suggested the shadow soldiers take over Cuba but it worked and they retreated to their new territory. Close enough for us to keep an eye on and far enough away that humans feel safe.
If I’m honest, I haven’t felt safe since the beginning of the war and the shadow soldiers have nothing to do with it. I’m a mouse in a world of starving cats. I’ve learned to use the fear as an obstacle I can’t trip over. It’s in front of me continually and I move through my nemesis with finesse. “Yeh, right,” I whisper into the miniscule room and roll my eyes. I trip over lint.
After a mental shake and last glance in the mirror, I walk out and take my seat again. The government sent no security to accompany me. The pilot has orders to leave as soon as I’m clear of the plane. The president warned me this could be a suicide mission and mousy me hasn’t slept in two days. Greystone, the shadow soldier in charge when my father was alive, is dead now. No one knows King. He’s a wild card but so is this entire mission.
If I survive long enough to say we’re sorry, I hope to learn about King and discover what it will take to bring peace between our nations. Trembling limbs aside, we need the shadow soldiers fighting with us or everything is lost.
I came to terms with death a long time ago. Getting there is what terrifies me. If the shadow soldiers kill me I don’t want to see it coming.