The path to the Point was dark and densely forested, but Alma knew the path well. Her feet had traveled it numerous times, so walking it with nothing but a dying flashlight to guide her was rather easy. Beyond which, she had company—her best friend, Joëlle, was there to keep her company, and they were chattering about old memories oriented around the Point. The point was an exposed peninsula, surrounded by the surging waters of a river. Many nights, Alma’s former group of friends went there just to relax—occasionally, there was alcohol, your run-of-the-mill mind-altering substances, but Alma tried to avoid those. Her friends had cheap tastes, and beyond which, someone needed to be clearheaded enough to lead everyone else back to their respective cars.

But, ever since Almas’ mother had died in the Outbreak, ever since They had begun to appear, she hadn’t been to the Point.

Indeed, even They had followed her this evening. Their forms melted into the darkness that the weak flashlights couldn’t reach, but their glowing eyes were a testament to their presence.

“Remember when we were having a contest to see who could jump the farthest out?” Joëlle spoke-up, “And Marcel was so terrified, that Benjamin tried to push him in, and Marcel shrieked like a girl?”

“That was funny,” Alma replied in fluid French, laughing faintly. The trees were growing farther apart, revealing glimmers of the water before them, until the trees parted completely, revealing the scene before them in its full glory.

The river reflected the light of the full moon and the net of stars that supported it, scintillating in the light. The forms of five others—each of them, among Almas’ former and current friends—stood silhouetted against the night sky, their faces casted in shadow. There was no bonfire to be seen.

“Guys, where’s the fire?” Alma hollered at her friends, before smiling at her own wittiness. It was her own, personal inside-joke. In English, the phrase held connotations that it didn’t hold in French. As she drew closer, she noticed the grim looks that they wore. Had they forgotten firewood? The trees surrounding them were so accustomed to a damp climate, that it wouldn’t be effective to glean wood from there.

Desiree, the leader of the group, stepped forward, brown eyes blackened by the night’s weakened light.

Two, simple words parted her lips, spoken with an air of iciness.

“Get her.”

In a moment, the two boys of the group—Marcel and Benjamin—were upon Alma, jerking her free of Joëlle’s hold. They grasped for her arms, but didn’t grab her quickly enough, and Alma was thrown to the ground.

“Hey!” Alma shouted, “What’s the big idea?”

They grabbed a hold of her arms, forcing her most of the way upright.

“Hold her arms behind her back, Marcel,” Desiree sneered, “Ben, bind her legs. Tightly. Don’t want her kicking.”

“What the hell is this!?” Alma interjected, “Guys, come on, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Joëlle murmured quickly, bolting back towards the tree-line. Alma fought against the hold of the two boys, but their grips held her like a vice.

“Joëlle has informed me of something that is rather disconcerting,” Desiree purred, “That there is a traitor, in our midst.”

As she spoke, she knelt in front of Alma, rolling up the leg of her her jeans. She rolled it over her red cowboy boots—one of Desirees’ prides, and tucked between the top of her boot and the light curve of her thigh, a large blade. Alma’s stomach dropped.

“Are you a traitor, Miss Elizondo?”

“No,” Alma said, her voice quivering, “I’ve n-n-never betrayed any of you. You’re m-my friends. Please.”

“Liar!” Desiree shouted. Her free hand connected to Alma’s cheek, the blow strong enough to leave a sting upon her cold flesh and rattle her teeth. Alma grit her teeth. She could fight her way out of this, but these were her friends. They surged closer, They approached just as the humans did, pressing in, sensing that something ominous was about to transpire.

“Our motto is, ‘Human and Proud’, Alma Nadine,” Desiree snapped, “Your entire dedication to our cause has been a lie.”

“I never was part of the cause,” Alma growled, “As soon as you had gained a cause, I knew it was a step in the wrong direction. I stepped back.”

“You confess that it was a lie?” Desiree said smugly. Murmurs unheard by the humans’ ears arose. They were conversing. They were planning their next move.

“No,” Alma avowed, “It was never a lie.”

“You, the niece of the current Falcone,” Desiree snapped, “A blood relative of an organization that stand for everything that is contrary to our values.”

Desiree used the flat side of the blade to lift Alma’s chin, forcing her to look her in the eye.

“Let this be a message to your family.”

The pain was blinding and ice-cold, and Alma crumpled. The air had been pressing inwards as Desiree lunged, but with the piercing of the blade, the tension snapped— the cosmic rubber band that had been gradually drawn back was stretching to its maximum, and then—

SNAP!

All at once, a frenzy ensued—They were charging into action, and came into focus. Alma heard the shrieks of her friends, heard the crackle of motion amongst the shadowy things. The small ones were latching onto rocks and hurling them straight for the heads of their masters’ attackers, while the larger ones took to shoving at and boxing them relentlessly. Marcus and Benjamin lost their grips on the things, and Alma was permitted to collapse to the ground, hands blindly fumbling towards her stomach. Her shirt was gradually coloring with crimson, spreading from her abdomen outward—no.

The world around her blurred, shouts and cries of ”Monster!” and ”Demon!” cutting through the confusion. Above all, there was a single voice, Desiree’s, who screamed, “You’re dead, mutant! Dead!”

Alma staggered shakily to feet. Where would she take her chances? With her “friends”, the forests, or the rapids? Anything was better than the people who had tried to kill her. The world tilted as she stood, and she looked frantically towards the woods—how far could she run? Alma looked towards the rapids—how strong was the current? How well could she swim? How cold was it? Alma made a break for the woods, her legs carrying her into the trees.

“She’s getting away!” Marcel’s voice swam towards Almas’ ears.

“She won’t make it far!” Desiree snapped. Alma ran, adrenaline giving her an extra push, heart rate frantic. Her hand was pressed against the bleeding gash, trying to stop it without avail. The minutes melted together, all of the trees began looking the same. She remembered bumping into Joëlle, and her friend shrieking in terror. One of the human-sized creatures arose and, latching onto her hat, pushed her against a tree. Alma screamed too, continued running.

Time swam fluidly about her, and in moments, it seemed, she found herself at the edge of a wide road. The highway. The nearest civilization was… North of them, so she would have to cross to the other side of the highway, where the road ventured in the opposite direction. She had to put as much distance between her and her friends as she could, had to get help. She couldn’t die tonight.

As Alma plodded on, the world began to tilt and bob and spin, much like an off-kilter merry-go-round. For a surreal amount of time, she was able to remain upright, but with a final pitch, the world tilted upwards, and the unyielding surface of the highway rose to meet her. Alma groaned—the highway itself was abnormally desolate this evening. No cars had passed her yet, and her escape on foot was now brought to a harsh stop.

She had to carry on. But, as she tried to push herself up with arms that were indescribably tired, her weight seemed to increase. Her body weighed a ton, and she was too weak. Alma sank back to the ground, and her eyes slowly blinked at the seesawing world.

Was this what it was like, to die? The pavement was icy cold against Alma's feverish skin. Each breath was a struggle, as if she were a fish who'd been dropped onto the deck of a ship. And, with how the world tilted and spun, it might as well have been one, enormous ship.

Alma lifted a hand, which had been previously been clutched to her stomach. Her abdomen spasmed in pain, and her hand came out red. Alma furrowed her brow. Since when were her hands red? Why hadn't-?

Pinpricks of light broke her train of thought, and they were expanding. Alma shifted, trying to sit up. Her grandma, in all of her spiritual wisdom, had always said that when one died, there was a tunnel of light. Alma tried to stand, but was too weak to.

As it drew closer, the sound of an engine became more apparent. A car? She was going to Heaven in a car? The thing rumbled closer, but as it went past, it came to an abrupt halt. Then there was silence.

Alma sank back onto the pavement, lifting her gaze as yellow lights flashed in her eyes. Hazard flashers. Two feet emerged from the car and rushed back. A man. A stranger.

At last, salvation.

He knelt, shouting something, but his voice sounded far away. Alma furrowed her brows, pressing her arms to her stomach. He shouted again, and his voice sounded closer, but was still garbled.

Finally, in perfect French, he yelled, "Ma'am, I'm going to get you to a hospital."

"Please," Alma replied. Then, the world went dark.

It was cold, and the air was sterile. Not clean, not homey. Sterile. The chill was an unmoving, insulated coldness, the air was not thin like the familiar Canadian air. Alma was inside. She shifted and her stomach protested, a cushion giving-way beneath her head. Blankets scratched exposed legs. A bed. Alma opened her eyes. A hospital room.

“I lived,” Alma murmured softly, sitting up quickly. Her stomach spasmed in pain, and she groaned, holding it as if to quell the rising pang. The teen pushed the blankets down—she was wearing a long pair of pajama shorts with a matching top—probably donated by the hospital—they weren’t cute, but they worked. Alma lifted her shirt marginally, and found bandages. She’d lived. There was a giggle, and Alma lifted her head sharply.

Alma’s breath caught in her throat. They were all standing at the foot of her bed, staring at her—the little ones, literally sitting on her bed, while the larger ones stood there, staring at her blankly. A chill coursed down Alma’s spine, and she flapped a hand at them.

“Go away, go away!” Alma shouted in English, “Go! Away! Now!”

When she received no reaction nor any response, Alma tried to kick at them, “Shoo!”

They exchanged glances, as if perplexed by the girls’ actions, and some of them began to mimic her.

“Shoo… shoo… shoo…” they chirped, “Shoo!”

Alma blinked, bunching her legs up to her chest, and a doctor came bustling in.

“Where am I?!” Alma demanded, her voice a little too loud.

The doctor winced, “Je suis désolé, mademoiselle. Je ne parle pas anglais.”

Alma stared at him for a measure, than glanced at the creatures at the foot of her bed… then back at the doctor. One of the things gave a timid “shooo” in response. He…. Didn’t see them. At all. A few more cries of “shoo” simmered up, shyly.

He spoke like a Parisian—so formal. Alma cleared her throat in embarrassment. Obviously, still in Quebec. Alma smiled apologetically and replied, “Pardonnez-moi. J'ai oublié que j'étais au Québec. Où suis-je maintenant? Un hôpital?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

He then rattled off of the name of the hospital, and began to explain what had happened the night before transitioning into an explanation.

“A man found you by the roadside,” he explained coolly, his French still proper and formal, “He brought you here, and when we examined you, we saw that the stab had managed to lacerate your liver, but dodged all other major internal organs. The bleeding stopped, internally, when we went to mend it, so the liver had begun to heal itself, and we were able to stitch the wound closed.

“How long will I be here, Doctor?” Alma inquired, “A couple of days?”

The doctor smiled, “You’ve already been here a couple of days. You will stay today, at least, so that we can observe you—take a blood sample, make sure the hemoglobin is where it should be… Then we may release you tonight or tomorrow morning.”

He lowered his clipboard and gave her a smile, “You should consider yourself very fortunate, miss.”

“I am,” Alma said lightly, bowing her head. The doctor departed. Alma glanced towards the creatures at the foot of her bed, puckering her lips contemplatively.

“What are you looking at?” she demanded, reverting to English.

She was answered to silence.

“Have you seen my cell phone?” she tried again.

Again, the crushing silence. Alma groaned.

“Great, I have these things follow me, and they’re too stupid to talk,” she grumbled. A few indignant proclamations of "shoo" answered her. Alma leaned to the right, towards the table that was beside her bed. It had two drawers—she opened the top, and found a Bible. Alma slid that drawer shut, and opened the second. A ha! Her cell phone was there, but no clothes.

Probably crusted-over with blood, Alma realized. Alma leaned over and retrieved the phone, flipping it open. There were fifteen missed calls.

She scrolled through the list, perusing the names—all of them, were from Uncle Jack or from her Grandpa Hector. Alma selected her uncle’s name, and held the receiver to her ear. The phone rang once…. twice…

Her uncle picked-up on the third ring.

“Alma-” he greeted, the lyrical cadence that usually colored his baritone tinted by worry, “Where have you been? You haven’t answered my calls in days.”

“Uncle Jack,” Alma greeted, exasperated. She covered her eyes, looking for the right words to say this. She’d nearly died for her uncle’s reputation, for Falcone, “I need to pull a disappearing act. Something happened.”

Arrangements were made to have Alma leave Quebec, and likely Canada as well—her Uncle Jack had insisted that she leave without taking anything, take the first bus or plane out, and let the professionals handle damage control. Alma was nineteen, though, and wanted to grab some of her things. She couldn’t be told what to do by “professionals”. Besides which, Joëlle had bolted when Alma had arrived, like the coward that she was. If Alma broke into her own bedroom, she doubted Joëlle would do anything in retaliation.

It was two a.m. and Joëlle’s family was populated by those who got up early, and therefore never went to bed later than ten. All of the windows were dark. Alma glanced around her—the bigger shadowy things were down the street, mulling about slowly. The smaller ones trailed trailed behind her like ducklings, occasionally shouting, “Shoo!”, as they went.

Joëlle’s family lived in a spacious two-story house. Almas’ bedroom was downstairs, in the designated “spare bedroom”, along with the living and family rooms, the kitchen and dining areas, the garage, the laundry room, and the first of three bathrooms. Upstairs, there was the master bedroom, Joëlle’s bedroom, and their respective bathrooms. Alma walked towards the front door quietly, thanking the lord that Joëlle’s father had severe allergies to pet dander, and therefore they didn’t have a dog, a cat, or any other shedding animal that might give her away. All they had was a snake.

Alma drew out her keys, flipping through a few until she reached the key to Joëlle’s house. She slid it into the lock, and unlatched the door, swinging it open and stepping inside. Alma was greeted by silence. Such relief. Her senses on high-alert, Alma swung the door shut quietly and latched it again. She’d grab a big suitcase, a small duffel bag, and a backpack, and fill them with some of the necessities before bolting—important things, but things that no one would necessarily notice were gone. She kept her gaming system in a cabinet, for example, locked-up. That would be safe to take. The rest of her room was already in boxes, anyways.

Alma stole across the foyer and into her bedroom, through the closed door, which she shut once again behind her.

“Clothes,” Alma murmured, “Lots of clothes… toiletries, sentimental things, game system, laptop… just pack.”

Alma scurried towards her closet, pulling her two largest bags off of the top shelf. Her uncle would handle the rest, she would handle this. Alma couldn’t trust all of her things to the traitorous friends of her, could she? Alma packed quickly and efficiently, stuffing her favorite summer clothes into the bag. Uncle said someone from the family would be up here within a few weeks. They can grab the other stuff. Once through with stuffing the summery clothes, and pajamas, into a bag, Alma began to grab for possessions—she slid her laptop into its sleeve, tucked it in her backpack, grabbed the gaming system and tucked it into a box, continued humming about the room. Once her bags were stuffed, Alma grabbed a Mag Light, and turned towards the closed door. It was time to get make-up and toiletries. She bee-lined to the door, pulled it open—

And was greeted by Joëlle. The dark-haired girl lunged into action, taking out her former friends’ legs with a swift kick. Joëlle crumpled to the ground with a cry.

“You let out a single peep, I’ll knock you out cold,” Alma growled, bouncing the flashlight for emphasis, “Don’t think I won’t.”

“Je ne vais pas dire une âme, Alma. Pas une âme,” Joëlle whimpered, “S'il vous plaît, ne me blesse pas.”

“You’d better not tell a soul,” Alma hissed from the bathroom, “Falcone knows where you live, and he’s sending his men to get my things. You tell your parents—you tell Desiree or the others—anything more than they already know, do you think my uncle will spare you because of the way things once were?”

Joëlle began to cry quietly, and shook her head.

“Good,” Alma snapped, “Because he won’t. Falcone pays no kindness to anyone. He doesn’t know mercy. The only thing that’s keeping him from exacting his revenge on you, is me. Remember that.”

She finished filling her toiletries bag, and walked back out, facing Joëlle briefly, before trailing into her bedroom.

“Alma, I didn’t know she was going to stab you,” Joëlle whined, getting up sorely, “I didn’t know that she’d try and kill you. I thought she’d forgotten about that.”

“Apparently not,” Alma grumbled, zipping her bag. She kept the Mag Light in her grasp, wriggling into her backpack, shouldering the duffel bag, and grabbing her suitcase by the handle, fixing her friend with a glare.

“Where are you going?”

“Away,” Alma answered flatly, stepping out of her bedroom and closing the door behind her. She held the MagLight up to Joëlle’s chin, her expression cold, “Remember, not a word. Your silence is the only thing that’s saving you. Capisce?”

“Not a word,” Joëlle agreed. And, with that, Alma walked out the door, heralded outside by proclamations of “shoo” from the smaller creatures.

Alma strolled out of the cul-de-sac, down the familiar twists and turns of the neighborhood. The bigger guys, who were still lumbering along after her, saw that Alma was now walking in the other direction, and went to follow her again. Alma wove her way out of the neighborhood, and onto a main street. There, a cab was awaiting her, engine running—just as arranged. Alma walked up to the driver’s side window, which was open, and a clean-cut man looked back.

“Miss Elizondo?” he greeted, in English.

“Yes sir.”

“Good morning,” he greeted, “Shall I get the trunk for you?”

Falcone must have paid him handsomely. Alma nodded her head, “Yes sir, thank you.”

The guy got out of the taxi, and went to open the trunk for her. He slid the larger bag and the duffel bag into the trunk, while Alma opted to keep the backpack with her. She slid into the back seat, and the driver reclaimed his post.

“The man who paid your fare ahead of time instructed to drive you to wherever you needed to go,” the man explained.

“Quebec City, please,” Alma replied, watching as a few of the little guys wriggled in through the window, “The airport.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the driver replied. He turned the key in the ignition, and the yellow cab pulled onto the deserted road. Only four of the smaller things had slithered in through the window, the rest had been too slow. Alma said a silent farewell, and didn't look back.

By the time that the taxi-cab had rolled up to the curb of the airport, all of the smaller-sized creatures had caught-up with Alma. And, as the cab driver stepped-out to assist her with her bags, Alma spied the larger ones a good distance down the sidewalk. As if they hadn’t just flown down highways at between eight to one-hundred kilometers-per-hour.

“How much do I owe you?” the dark-haired girl inquired of her driver. In all the casual conversation, the cost of the trip or methods of payment had never arisen.

“The man who called ahead of time has it covered,” the cabby said reassuringly, “He’s paying me double virtually—as a matter of fact-” the man flipped open his phone, punched a few buttons, “-I just sent him our coordinates.”

The cabby held out his hand, a smile upon his face, “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Elizondo.”

“You as well, Mr. Paine,” she replied, shaking his hand. The cabby slid back into the driver’s seat, and pulled away from the curb, leaving Alma with her invisible little demons.

“Come along, pests,” Alma murmured, “Let’s see where we’re going.”

Alma strolled into the terminal, tilting her head back to look at the board listing times of arrival flights, and estimated departure times.

“Somewhere far away?” she asked the small creatures that mulled about her feet, “Vancouver? Los Angeles? Mexico?” Falcone held connections in the latter two, so it wouldn’t be unsafe to venture in those directions, “Santa Fe? Or… the City?”

She spoke the words “the City” with disdain, and perhaps a note of dread. Daniel had died in the city, as had her mother, and at the hands of humans. It was where Falcones’ power was most influencial, seeing as he lived there, and it was where Alma would be safest, but also at the most risk. Her phone hummed in her pocket, and Alma fished it out. Falcone, again.

She flipped it open, “Uncle Jack?”

“I hear you got to the airport safely,” he greeted calmly, “I was informed that you’d insisted upon getting your things first, though.”

“Certain stuff I didn’t want to leave behind,” Alma murmured.

“Understandable,” Falcone agreed, “Where are you headed? Your abuela has been worrying ever since I gave her word of your unfortunate circumstances.”

“Tell Lela I’ll be safe soon,” Alma murmured, “I don’t know where I’m going yet. That’s part of disappearing, tio. Not supposed to know where I go. How’s Grandpa?”

“He’s going on about the old days,” her Uncle Jack chuckled, his warm baritone rippling through the phone, “Your friends should be grateful, I’m sorely tempted to listen to your grandfather, for once.”

“No, uncle,” Alma chastised, “They all think I’m dead. It’s done. Just want to start anew.”

He didn’t need to know about Joëlle.

“Good talking to you, Alma,” he said warmly, “Don’t be a stranger.”

Alma grinned, “Take care.”

They said their goodbyes, and Alma shut off her cell phone. This was how she disappeared.



PROLOGUE END