Rage, page 1
RAGE
L.B. MILANO
Copyright © 2024 by Sterling & Stone
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Contents
Prologue
I. Visions and Voices
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
II. Questions and Quests
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
III. Death and Destruction
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
IV. The Coming
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
An excerpt from The Play by Algernon Pierce, pg. 32.
On nights such as this, when the cradle moon hangs like a smirk in the sky, the black dog roams the highways seeking its next victim. Razor-sharp nails scraping along gravel, its breath is a soft chuff of dragon mist, its eyes glow with demon fire. Searching. Searching.
In smoky bars and truck stops, men speak of the black dog in hushed voices. They know it’s out there, waiting for the long-distance hauler trying to push his way to the next stop, hoping to eat up another mile of highway on the long journey home. Hypnotized by the glitter of moonlight on macadam, all it takes is one wrong move—a nod of the head, a jerking snap awake before sleep rolls over into death—to summon the demon hound of the highways.
Some truckers swear they’ve seen the dog rushing toward them, blending into the black-on-black of night and never-ending road. Only its eyes give it away—eyes that can blind you for life and scorch a hole through the soft tissue of your brain.
Not everyone believes. It’s easy to scoff when the lights are bright and the coffee strong and hot. But oh, when the night is lonely and the road an endless ribbon of emptiness, they all—each and every one—watch the road, searching for signs of the black dog around every deadly curve.
Death came disguised as GOD. Blaize Donovan knew it was GOD, because the letters were painted in blood-red on the side of the Gateway Overnight Delivery truck barreling toward her. What she couldn’t figure out was why God had it in for her.
Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d just caught her fiancé relieving his pre-wedding jitters in the arms of his secretary? If she hadn’t been replaying the sordid scene over and over in her mind, Blaize wouldn’t have been distracted, but all she could see was Richard, the way she’d left him, mid-coitus interruptus, with his pants pooled around his ankles and his face a wide-eyed caricature of shocked surprise.
She’d stormed out before he could recover or make excuses, hit the interstate and headed north, driving fast and furious, with no destination other than escape in mind. She turned the radio up full blast and opened the windows. The wind whipped her hair around her face and dried a tight trail of tears along her cheeks.
She would have been fine. She was an excellent driver, even at high speeds. But suddenly the GOD truck came out of nowhere and swerved in front of her. Her reaction was instinctive and immediate. She slammed on the brakes, jamming the pedal flat to the floor, pressing, straining, holding. But it wasn’t enough. There wasn’t room to stop. They were going to hit and they were going to hit hard. She gripped the steering wheel, clutching it toward her chest like a lover, her knuckles tight white knots of tension.
There was nothing she could do. With that realization, she sank to a level of numb acceptance, slumping in resignation. Her grip loosened on the wheel, letting go and watching as if in slow motion as the inevitable happened. A peaceful calm settled over her. She was lulled by a wave of acceptance so complete it was almost serenity. So this is it, she thought. This is what dying feels like.
Time stretched as the truck jackknifed, coming at her with the screech of locked tires in a long, slow slide that seemed to go on forever. She focused on the words emblazoned on the side of the trailer. Gateway Overnight Delivery. They seemed important somehow. A crescent moon logo on the side of the truck grew larger as it slid toward inevitable collision.
Out of the corner of her eye, Blaize glimpsed a black dog rushing toward them, snarling and leaping at the truck’s cab. Its eyes glowed impossibly red in the headlight’s glare.
Then she saw the driver’s face through the window of the cab perched high above her—his eyes wide, one hand reaching for the air horn and giving it three sharp pulls. The angry blasts split the night, sounding like a question--Why? Why? Why?
If there was an answer, it was swallowed in an explosion of shattered glass and crushed metal. In that suspended moment before impact, her only thought was that she never imagined her life would end like this.
But it wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.
PART I
Visions and Voices
Chapter One
Blaize glanced around the hospital room one last time. Part of her couldn’t wait to wake up to the soft pastels of her own bedroom instead of the institutional green of the hospital. Another part wondered if she was ready yet.
She’d endured weeks of searing pain, her body held together with metal pins while she hung suspended like a rotisserie chicken encased in pounds of plaster. Then came months of therapy as her bones tried to remember how strong they once were, endless days of pushing herself beyond the pain when her mind and body screamed for relief.
Even that she could have handled. It was the injury to her head that terrified her. The doctors called it post-concussion syndrome and assured her there were no signs of permanent damage. The blackouts had nearly stopped, although bouts of dizziness still sent her reeling and reaching for something to steady herself.
But there was more—things she couldn’t explain without sounding insane. Late at night the thought haunted her that perhaps she was crazy. Maybe she’d lost her mind even before the accident had sent the tender membranes of her brain slamming against the hard walls of her skull.
Voices.
Visions.
And worse. Sometimes she felt a blind rage wash over her, a hate so deep and encompassing she wanted to drill holes in her skull to drain the abscess from her mind. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the rage would be gone. Vanished. She’d try to recapture the feeling, to understand and describe it, but it drifted out of reach, almost but not quite forgotten—until the next wave hit.
All in all, she considered it a small price to pay in exchange for her life.
“You ready to go, sweetie?”
Blaize looked up and smiled at her friend in the doorway. Joyce looked impeccable. She wore a tailored suit and her dark hair was pulled into a smooth, efficient twist at the nape of her neck. She must have come straight from work, Blaize realized, feeling a pang of longing. She missed having a job to go to every day. She missed her old life. She missed being in control.
Blaize forced herself to put on a brave front. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Joyce bustled into the room, checking the closet for any items Blaize might have left behind. A hospital orderly followed Joyce into the room with a wheelchair.
Blaize waved her hand. “I don’t need a wheelchair.”
“Hospital policy,” the orderly replied, helping her into the chair.
Joyce leaned down and whispered in Blaize’s ear, “More like anti-litigation policy.”
Blaize grinned and settled into the wheelchair without an argument. It didn’t matter whether she was wheeled out of the hospital or walking under her own power. The important thing was that she was finally going home.
Joyce hefted Blaize’s satchel and swung it over her shoulder, leading the procession down the hall, into the cramped elevator and outside to her waiting car. Blaize took a deep breath, wondering if she’d ever really appreciated fresh air as much as she did at that moment. Freedom had its own smell, its own taste and texture, and she swore she’d never take life for granted again.
When Joyce opened the passenger-side door, the orderly locked the wheels of the chair and Blaize stood up, surprised by how weak she felt. Suddenly this didn’t seem like such a good idea. Her knees felt as if they’d buckle and she was suddenly very aware of her heartbeat, holding her breath as if each beat might be her last. She closed her eyes for a moment, hearing again the sound of shattering glass, the squeal of metal along metal.
She hadn’t been able to remember anything about the accident, no matter how hard she’d tried. But she hadn’t had to get into a car before now either, and faced with the challenge, all the sensations and emotions of that moment came rushing to the surface, as if they’d been hiding, lurking just beneath her conscious mind and waiting to attack.
“I…can’t…”
Joyce gestured to the orderly, who took the wheelchair and left. She put her arm around Blaize’s shoulders. “Take your time. We won’t get in the car until you’re ready.”
Blaize felt clammy. The blood seemed to drain from her head to her toes, leaving only a shivering husk behind. Her voice trembled. “What if I’m never ready?”
“Then we’ll walk home,” Joyce said.
For a moment Blaize felt a brief flare of relief. Then she realized that Joyce was only humoring her. Walking wasn’t an option. Blaize would have to get in a car eventually, especially if she planned to start teaching again in the fall. How could she get her life back to normal if she suffered a panic attack every time she had to drive? She needed to do this, and she suspected the first time would be the worst.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and climbed into the passenger seat.
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Joyce asked. But she didn’t move or close the door. She just stood there letting Blaize get her bearings.
“I feel silly,” Blaize admitted.
“Don’t.” Joyce’s voice was the calm, cool voice of reason. “Under the circumstances, I’d say a little panic attack is perfectly normal.”
Normal. Blaize wondered if she’d ever feel normal again. After several deep breaths, she reached around for the seat belt and buckled herself in. “I’m ready.”
“You sure?” Joyce asked.
“Positive.” But she couldn’t disguise the tremble in her voice. When Joyce closed the door, Blaize clutched her purse in her lap, trying not to feel claustrophobic and trapped. She focused on little things—the vanilla air freshener hanging from the mirror, a crumpled cigarette wrapper peeking out from beneath the driver’s seat, the way the sun dappled the surface of the dashboard.
Joyce climbed in beside her, but didn’t start the car right away. Blaize knew her friend was giving her a cushion of time to adjust. Joyce could sometimes be abrupt and maybe even a little abrasive, but she was the kind of friend you could count on through good times and bad. She’d been a godsend while Blaize had recovered in the hospital. Joyce had paid her rent, picked up her mail, watered the plants and canceled all the wedding arrangements.
Blaize cleared her throat as Joyce started the car, hoping to distract herself with small talk. “Thank you so much for taking care of the apartment while I was in the hospital.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Joyce laughed. “All your plants are dead.”
“Plants can be replaced.” Blaize swallowed hard as the car inched forward. They pulled out of the hospital parking lot and onto the road. Blaize played with the clasp of her purse, opening and closing it, the sound a rhythmic clicking in the closed car…
…like the scrabbling of sharp claws over blacktop.
Blaize jerked upright. Where had that thought come from? She leaned forward, her breathing shallow. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching for…something. A quick, sly movement beside the road caught her attention. She jerked her head around, but it was just the fluttering of bushes. She realized she’d been expecting something else.
A dog?
In her mind she could see it leaping through the air, black as a murderer’s soul, its mouth widened in a silent howl, razor-sharp teeth dripping with venom. A shudder rippled through her entire body as she realized this was more than a vision. It was a memory.
She cleared her throat, afraid to ask but needing to know. “Joyce, you read the accident report, right?”
Joyce nodded, not taking her eyes from the road.
“Did anyone see a dog? A black dog?”
Joyce spoke carefully. “There was no report of a dog at the scene of the accident.” She shot a quick, worried glance at Blaize. “Why? Are you remembering something?”
“No…maybe.” Blaize shook her head. Nerves, just nerves.
But the vision remained with her all the way home.
An excerpt from The Play by Algernon Pierce, pg. 52.
The room smelled of warm breath and nightmares, dirty somehow, as if fouled by the musk of soiled dreams. Soon there would be a cleansing fire, but for now there was only silence.
Like a new love, fire creeps on silent feet, unseen, unheard and unexpected. It begins with a flickering spark, its blue heart pulsing as it grows, ravenous tendrils expanding and spreading and reaching toward the object of its desire. But soon it rages out of control, becoming a voracious, greedy lover that consumes everything in sight. Possessively, it licks and devours in a passionate heat, leaving nothing behind but ash and memories and blackened bone.
Blaize twisted and turned, whimpering in her sleep. The nightmare started out the same each time. One moment she was planning her wedding, then rushing to Richard’s office to surprise him. Only she had been the one surprised. Richard and his new secretary were working late all right—assuming having sex on the desk was considered work.
Then the dream rushed forward, always ending just before her collision with the GOD truck, jerking her awake before the moment of impact, her body covered in cold, clammy sweat, the sheets twisted around her like a shroud. She couldn’t remember anything after that.
Caught between wake and sleep, she could still hear Richard’s voice in her mind, the muffled words she’d caught just before opening the door and seeing the evidence of his faithlessness for her own eyes. “You can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse,” he’d said. “But if you marry the sow, the purse is yours.”
Bastard.
She climbed out of bed, determined to put the whole episode behind her and get on with her life. Richard couldn’t hurt her anymore. She wasn’t that naïve girl who’d rushed into traffic all those months ago. She was stronger. She’d faced death and pain. She could deal with anything now. The past few weeks of resting at home, along with daily physical therapy sessions, had healed most of her physical injuries.
If only the emotional wounds were as easy to remedy.
Since the accident, she’d been walking around in a closed bubble of anguish, protected from the rest of the world by an invisible barrier. Other people could see in. They could see her moving around in their everyday world looking normal, maybe a little distracted, a little pensive, but still visible. She could have told them it was all an illusion. There, inside her safe little bubble, she was unaware of everything else. She didn’t see the world or other people. She didn’t hear the birds or smell the flowers or feel the sunshine on her cheeks. All she saw were reflections of her own grief looking back at her. Nothing else existed.
But that was all behind her now. She was ready to step out of the bubble, ready to move on to her own peaceful, uneventful life. It was time to take control of her life.
When the phone rang, her throat tightened, all her newfound peace of mind shattered. A sharp pain of premonition blossomed at the base of her skull. She knew it was Richard. There was no question in her mind.
She reached out, her hand hovering above the receiver through one, two, three rings. Then finally closing around the cool plastic and bringing it to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Blaize, can we talk?”
She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memories his voice triggered, but they tumbled over her in waves, each one overlapping the last until she thought she’d choke. What hurt more than Richard’s brazen infidelity was finding out that he’d only intended to marry her to share in the substantial insurance benefits she’d inherited after her parents’ untimely death.
