James Axler – The Mars Arena

Krysty’s hair tightened against her neck. Reminding herself of the potential booty that might lie inside the craft just for her taking at a time when the companions might need it, she thrust the torch forward.

Reflections of the flames danced in the webbed lines of the Plexiglas. Shadows wavered around the corpse like dark things that had been disturbed from their restor feeding. The hollow eye sockets seemed locked on Krysty as she took another step forward.

The door opened easily, creaking with the decades of disuse. A fresh shower of dirt and pebbles rolled down the incline in an earthen wave.

“Krysty!”

“I’m okay, Doc.” She glanced up at the old man, peering anxiously into the gloom. “I’m going to take a look inside.”

“Be careful. I do believe friend Ryan would be most vexed should I allow anything of ill nature occur to you.”

Krysty turned her attention back to the aircraft. The helicopter had a low ceiling, which didn’t give her enough room to stand. But it held seats for the dead man and one other, as well as space behind for cargo.

She pulled herself in through the door, pausing a moment as she felt the craft wobble under her. Metal shrieked in long, low notes, then it stopped. Evidently the helicopter was wedged firmly.

She held the torch as high as she could inside the cockpit. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the front of the dead man’s skull was broken, smashed in completely along the right cheek and temple.

She grabbed the corpse’s shirt and shook it. Dust and dirt fell away from the material, and a chunk of it came away in her fist. She smoothed it out on the empty seat, keeping the torch raised high. The pockets held an assortment of coins, a penknife and a few butterscotch candies in individual wrappers that had turned black.

Satisfied there was nothing of use in the cockpit, she went into the cargo area.

A stretcher clung to one wall, halfway covering a red fire extinguisher. Shallow metal racks covered the other wall, filled with narrow drawers that looked almost as big as bread loaves.

All of the drawers were marked with names. She knew only some of them, but they all had to do with pharmaceuticals or surgical equipment. She opened the drawers in succession, working quickly.

In minutes she had filled her pouch and pockets and every empty space on her person. It pained her to see that so much remained they could use. Once she got back with the others, they could arrange another raiding party.

She took up the torch from the fire-extinguisher mounting and headed back toward the cockpit. As she passed through, she felt something bum along the back of her hand. When she examined her hand, a long scratch dripped blood.

Using one of the packages of gauze she’d left in the supply bins, she wiped at the scratch to make sure it wasn’t anything to worry about.

Her mutie ability kicked in with a force she’d seldom felt when not actually threatened with physical harm. Her senses swam, taking her into the bloody splotch on the back of her hand. It felt as though her heart had stilled.

Chapter Seven

The crimson smear expanded, drawing Krysty as if into a tunnel, eclipsing her surroundings. A magnetic force with unbelievable power pulled her inside.

Dean was in there with her. She felt him, then called out to him but he didn’t answer. Shadows gathered around her, and she could almost see through them. Images changed and darted about, hinting at shapes or things she was familiar with.

Mother Sonja had mentioned experiences similar to the one she was having now. She’d seen trouble coming at times, and been able to warn the family members whom she saw in her visions.

But Mother Sonja had also said all her visions pertained to those who were related to her by blood.

Dean was Ryan’s child, not Krysty’s, born to another woman. Maybe that was why the vision was so unclear. That it existed at all was testimony to her love for Ryan.

Another deep breath, and clarity came to the vision.