Rage of Winter

Sam Herrera

Description

Mara Hale is a bored little, rich girl living in a fancy mansion in Upstate New York. She mourns the loss of her mother, the neglect of her high-class entrepreneur father and longs to escape the suffocating limos and bodyguards. An albino who is frequently bullied over her strangeness, she finds solace and freedom in guitar playing and song writing. Kyle Thayer is an ex-soldier with no family and very few friends. His dishonourable discharge has left him few options and he spends his nights dodging knives and fists while working as a doorman at Cielo, a has-been nightclub, and dreaming of something better. These two people have nothing in common and may never have even met if they hadn't both made a very strange discovery in a cave beneath Thompkins Park: the Rage of Winter, an extremely advanced fighter aircraft unlike anything ever seen before. It is capable of invisibility, crossing oceans in minutes, has mounted guns, missiles, medical supplies, an armoury and can even leave Earth's orbit. The two keep this a secret for as long as they can, using it to take vacations and even rescue people from the odd house or tower fire, but soon a dark power from the outside forces them into the open: a murderous, sociopathic dictator whose influence rapidly spreads from the White House, all across the Globe.

Sujets

• Science fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 13 avril 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781788034814
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

RAGE OF WINTER





Sam herrera
Copyright © 2018 Sam Herrera

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador®
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 9781788034814

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
To my family
For their unending love and support
MARA
I wondered, for what must’ve been the millionth time, why I was doing this. I looked from the hand-written song I was holding to the solid oak door of “Father’s” office. He always insisted on being called Father instead of just plain and simple Dad and I never understood why. Here goes , I thought, opening the door. His high-backed swivel chair swung around. He was wearing, as always, an earpiece and an annoyed frown. I’d often wondered if that expression was permanent.
“What’s this on my ear?”
“Phone,” I answered, my smile vanishing instantly.
“Why’s it next to my ear?” I walked away without even bothering to answer.
Once outside the office, I sighed deeply as I flopped on the couch. It was hopeless. He didn’t care, never had and never would. As a kid, I’d duped myself into thinking there would someday be a Christmas or birthday when he would start paying real attention to me instead of sending me an expensive toy from hundreds of miles away. But, over the years, I came to realize it would never happen. I was an afterthought, nothing more. Unlike Andy. My father and my brother were best buddies. I suddenly didn’t want to ride in the limo with the hired help or hang around this huge, empty manor with nothing to do. I went for a walk.
I hid in the bushes and waited, checking my watch. Father’s client meeting was only a few minutes away. There was at least one every day, usually at exactly this time: three-thirty in the afternoon. Timing it perfectly, I let the client’s limo go by and slipped out the gate just before it swung shut. I grinned. These snobs were nothing if not predictable. I wondered where I would go now. Mom’s grave? I often went there when I got more lonely than usual. A friend’s house? What friend? I just wandered down the busy road into town with nowhere particularly in mind. When I reached the center of Gramercy, I suddenly found myself looking up at Father’s new construction project: another multi-story parking lot even uglier than the last one. Yeah, he hasn’t built a million of them already. I looked up at Father’s picture as it hung down from the scaffold railing. He was smiling, and waving, and dressed in his best suit. When was the last time he’d smiled at me, I wondered. Oh yeah, it was when those P.R. interviewers came to ask me about what it was like being the daughter of one of New York’s most prominent businessmen. I’d always made a point of avoiding being photographed and I guessed no one had told them about my strangeness. It was an awkward interview anyway; they just wouldn’t quit staring until I’d grown sick of it and walked out. I turned left along Third Avenue on my way to the park; I realized I was pretty hungry. I checked my pockets and found I had about seventeen bucks. I looked around and saw what looked like a bar and restaurant called Pete’s Tavern, across the road, and went gratefully into its cool shade. Inside it was pretty crowded and people were surprised to see a kid in there. I waited until my turn and moved up to the counter.
“I’ll take a lasagna with salad to take away, please.” And a little less gawking. Once outside, I headed to the park, hoping for a quiet place to eat. I looked around at the other people as they walked or cycled by: couples strolling arm-in-arm, suits on their lunch breaks, families picnicking. There was one old couple, sitting on the bench across from me and I wondered how long they had been together. Normal people, able to do what I never could. I looked up at the sky, watching the clouds. Some of them were shaped like the orc’s faces from Lord of the Rings . If I looked hard enough I’d swear I could make out a scorpion. I leaned back, letting the bright sunshine warm my face. This, at least, I could enjoy.
KYLE
I smirked as I walked into the park. When was the last time I’d gone for a walk, driven a car, talked to a woman? I knew exactly how long: two years. It felt more like ten. Jail not only drags out the years, it puts years on ya .. When I’d looked into the mirror of my cell on that last day, I’d seen an older man, a lot paler and at least fifteen pounds lighter. I’d exercised a lot while in there and been careful to eat only enough of the trash they fed us to avoid passing out. I didn’t know how I’d got out at all. I supposed it was because I’d always been the one getting trouble, not giving it. I gave a small smile as I remembered sending Rawly, a small-time drug dealer who’d pulled a knife on me, to the prison hospital with a fractured wrist and a smashed jaw. I had no idea where to go from here. I just thanked God my father, the only parent I’d ever known, wasn’t an option. Fuck. Him! Casting all thoughts of the future from my mind, I carried on with my stroll. Some woman smirked and batted her eyes at me. I sighed. I hated that. Sure I was love-starved, but damn. Women like that…? I kept walking, coming to a busy road. A gaggle of schoolgirls came up behind me and I was, for the next ten minutes at least, treated to info on the latest Justin Bieber gig. I exhaled through my cheeks, amazed at how loud they could squeal and how long they could keep talking about the same subject. I bought an ice cream at the park stand and sat at a bench, in the sunshine, to enjoy it. I groaned as I turned on my bench, seeing a movement out of the corner of my eye. Another schoolgirl?! Any more pop shit and I’m outta here . I watched her sit beside me, open her Styrofoam box and get out her plastic set. I didn’t get any pop shit. In fact, I didn’t get a single word. I smiled at the back of her white-blonde head, seeing only the tip of her nose as she tilted her face up to let the sun warm her while she slowly chewed. What I had at first taken to be a uniform jacket was, in fact, a plain leather coat. A kid that appreciates peace and quiet? Hallelujah.
MARA
I swallowed, a little nervous around this guy; he was kinda nice looking with large, bright-green eyes and sandy-blond hair. He wore a red T under a denim coat and jeans and had an outdoorsy look about him. He reminded me of a picture I’d seen on National Geographic: a long distance traveler, or desert hiker, or surfer, or something like that. He did look a rough sort with fading bruises on his face and his nose crooked like it had just been mended. When he leaned his forearms on the bench head, I saw there were bruises all over his hairy hands as well, especially around the knuckles, too numerous to be accidents. I went back to eating and cloud-watching. That one looked like a lion’s tail, the one next to it like a bird’s nest. A strange, chip, chip, chipping noise brought me back to the present. The guy had, from somewhere, produced a knife. At first, I went on high alert, but then I saw he was just using it to carve chunks out of this square of wood he was holding. I watched for a while, interested, as he whittled it, every so often looking up at the closest tree. As he carved out the bottom into roots, I understood: he was copying it.
KYLE
“Fuck,” I cursed as another root went wrong, causing me to cut my thumb. This thing was proving a bastard to get right.“Sorry,” I said to the kid as I sucked the injury. Scowling, I put the knife away, not in the mood, and watched awhile as she ate the last of her meal, got up and crossed the lawn to a trash can some way off. Forgetting her, I sunbathed some more. Something made me look suddenly to my right. People were running towards a gaping hole where the grass and earth had collapsed.
“What’s happened?” I asked some guy running towards the place.
“A kid’s fallen in there.”
“God!” I muttered. It was Blondie, I was sure of it. I joined the crowd standing at the edge of the hole.
“Hello!” some guy hollered down, his hands cupped around his mouth. There was no reply and no way to see down there: it was too deep and dark.
“I’ve already called the firemen,” the guy said. Will they get here quick enough if the kid was badly injured, though?
“I’m going down there,” I said, pulling off my denim jacket.
“You don’t know how deep this thing is,” the hollering guy protested.
“Look, I’m the biggest and the heaviest here; if I can find a foothold, anyone can.” Without waiting for further argument, I lowered myself down into the hole, an inch at a time, bracing my hands and feet against the dirt. This is crazy. What do you want to be the hero for?
“Kid,” I called down, “make a noise so I can find you.”
“I’m down