Endangered

  ENDANGERED

  THE FALLEN

  BOOK 1

  ISLA JONES

  Endangered

  Book 1 of The Fallen series

  Copyright © 2019 by Isla Jones

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission—this includes scanning and/or unauthorised distribution—except in case of brief quotations used in reviews and/or academic articles, in which case quotations are permitted.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether alive or dead, is purely coincidental. Names, characters, incidents, and places are all products of the author’s imagination.

  Imprint: Independently published.

  The Culling

  They came from the sky…

  That’s the first thing I remember. But even now, after all this time, I don’t know why. No one does. We only know that they came from the sky, and they invaded—they destroyed.

  And one of them knows me. It’s out there. Hunting me.

  I’ll tell you why.

  I’ll take you back to the best and worst mistake of my life. The mistake that made me live, and killed me mercilessly.

  I’ll take you back to when they came from the sky.

  1

  The sun pounds through the windshield and turns my beat-up sedan into an oven. Sweat pebbles on my forehead and thickens the hot air.

  It’s hard to breathe, even with the windows rolled down.

  We’re at a standstill.

  Ahead, the highway is clogged to the brim, cars jammed from every entry and exit, nearly piled on top of each other.

  Still, engines purr gently all around me, cars running just to keep on the air conditioners. I don’t have one of those. I have a foreign car from the same decade I was born in and a desperate need to distract myself from what’s coming.

  I feel the panic attack closing in on me.

  Shorter breaths. Foggier head. A sudden dizziness that stings my eyes and rolls them back.

  Please, no, no. Not now. Not now...

  My fingernails cut hard into the driver’s seat, leaving frayed marks in the stale material.

  There are few things I hate more than people. Traffic is one of them. Maybe because I’m boxed in between giant trucks that roar louder than cornered lions, or that there are hundreds of people in those cars chugging out fumes all around me.

  Trapped.

  That’s how I feel. In my sweaty palms, pounding heart, lips cracked from over-biting. It’s not the traffic, it’s the people.

  The same nauseating sensation clutches me in shops—especially when I’m standing in line. The urge to run trickles through me and curls my fingers deeper into the seat. I don’t feel the pain weakening my nails. The dizziness that rattles my head is too strong for anything to pierce through its walls.

  And I can’t run.

  This time, I can’t turn my car around and drive back to the comfort of my empty apartment. Highways cage me in, stretching farther than the gridlocked cars, and I’m in the middle of it all.

  I’m trapped.

  This is who I am, who I will always be.

  I shut my eyes and picture my doctor in my head.

  ‘When you feel an attack coming, close your mind and count to ten.’

  It’s stupid, but I do it anyway. Count to ten.

  One.

  My lips move with the numbers and I whisper them to myself.

  Three.

  My mind won’t close. I’m not even sure what that means.

  Five.

  A car somewhere ahead blares a long, blood-curling honk that tightens my shoulders and prickles my skin into tiny bumps.

  Some people are tryna meditate, asshole.

  Eight.

  I grip onto the steering wheel to ground myself.

  Ten.

  I don’t feel any better. I never do.

  The bottle in my bag flashes in my mind and I grit my teeth.

  ‘If you still feel control slipping from your grasp, count backwards. Remember, you are stronger than your illness.’

  If I’m stronger, why the hell am I drowning? I count backwards. Still drowning.

  All I hear is that asshole-car honking on and on, like anyone on the highway has a choice in being stuck under the Sydney sun on a Saturday evening. The car is tearing at my scraps of patience, shredding my control.

  I still see the bottle in my mind. It’s white. Fits snug on my palm.

  It’s a kiss to bruised skin, and my body flares with need.

  Just one pill.

  One pill and the fear will be numbed. Not gone—it will never leave. But it will soften from a cry rushing through my icy veins to a muffled voice echoing through me.

  My countdown finishes, and I open my eyes. That bloody car won’t shut up...

  Teeth bared, I bite back a strangled noise and slam myself around in the seat, like it’s electrocuting me.

  In the car beside me, the driver stares. She has her feet on the dashboard and sings to the two kids in the back, strapped to their ugly seats, all juice-stained and crumby. I can’t see that well into their car, but kid’s seats are always the same.

  I can’t look at my audience. If I do, I’ll unravel completely.

  “Fuck it.” I lunge for my tiny bag on the passenger seat.

  Even the mere sound of the pills rattling in their bottle sends a sudden jolt of relief through me. Not enough, though. Never enough to kill my illness the way it’s killing me.

  I wrestle the ridiculous childproof lid until it pops off. The cap lands on my sticky thighs, slick with sweat that clings my damp black dress to my skin as if glued.

  I bring the bottle to my lips. And that blasted woman still watches me. She doesn’t understand. Her smug look tells me she thinks that I’m weak.

  I’m not weak, I’m sick. Only, my sickness never leaves.

  I tell myself just a couple of pills. That’s all. I need them. That stupid woman doesn’t understand.

  I can’t be like her. Sitting all relaxed in my car, chilling in the traffic, feet up on the dash. I’m young, I’m fun (when not crippled), and I once knew how to have a good time. Now, I’m the person I used to look at and not understand. And now, I have people looking at me the same way.

  I force a pill down my dry throat, then slip another under my tongue. It dissolves faster that way—kicks in faster. I need it now.

  Like always, I busy myself while I’m waiting for the meds to wrap around me and hold me tight. Ok, I’m sounding a bit weird now, like I’m in love with my benzos. Obviously I’m not. I just appreciate the hell out of them. And if benzos were a man, I’d be all up in that.

  I throw the bottle back into my bag, grab my phone, and fiddle with the radio stations. Too much at once, but it keeps me distracted.

  Every station is news. News blows. It’s not real, any of it. Fluff pieces and neighbour disputes with occasional, grossly-exaggerated horror stories. No thanks. It’s all too aggravating for me. I’m aggravated enough as it is.

  Finally, I settle on a channel and flick through my texts. There’s only two. One from each friend I have left, asking me where I am, when I’ll be there, and the kicker—am I cancelling again.

  You know, two years ago I had friends flooding my phone with missed calls, group chat messages, and texts. They would tag me in every meme they found and hilarious tweet they saw. These days, my phone is drier than a town in an old western movie.

  My last two friends are closer to dumping me every time I don’t turn up to their birthdays and housewarmings. They think I don’t care. I do. It’s my anxiety that doesn’t.

  My anxiety ... my disease ... hates every bit of life that means leaving my small, shitty apartme
nt. It hates phone calls, jobs, friends and cars. It hates everything in this world, and most of all—me.

  After I batter replies into my phone, I chuck it back into my bag and fall against the seat. My back sticks to the spine of the seat, all clammy moisture and wrinkled dress. I run my fingers through my hair, and all hope that it survives the heat even remotely is dead upon contact.

  I’m sweating like a diabetic in a cake shop. Before you get all social justice warrior on my ass, I can say that because my mum had diabetes. So back off. I’m pissed.

  I dressed up, did my hair, I put in effort. You don’t get it, but I really tried to look well. Healthy. And now, I look into the rear-view mirror and see mascara has sweated into smudges under my brown eyes, and I look like something found on the side of the road. My dress is brand new, I bought it just for tonight. But now it hangs off me, all dense and icky, and I swear my sweat is actually stretching the material.

  I’m just about to have another self-pitying, aggressive fit in my seat—no judgement, ok? —when my phone buzzes in my bag.

  Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

  They hit my phone so fast that fear instantly surges through me, and I know it’s Emma harass-texting me. I’m almost too afraid to read the messages. I can’t count how many times I’ve used ‘stuck in traffic’ as an excuse to bail on my friends. Now that it’s the truth, well...

  Girl who cried traffic. That’s me.

  As I read the texts, I feel the sharp tones in the words slice at me.

  ‘You’re not coming, are you? Just say so.’

  ‘Wish you would have let me know earlier. Don’t know why I bother.’

  The final one is the shortest and by far the worst.

  ‘Quinn bails again. Shocking.’

  My thumb, as sweaty as my back, hovers above the screen. I chew over truths and lies.

  It’s a chance to back out. I can say I’m not feeling well and had to go home. I can ignore the messages and pretend I never got them.

  No, I’ve used all of that before. And for once I’m telling the damn truth.

  I take a picture of the traffic in front of me, all around me, spiralling into the city centre. With a firm nod to myself—like I’m proud or something—and I hit send.

  You know what, I am proud! I got out of bed, hopped myself up on motivational speeches, managed to drive my car into highway-Armageddon, and left my little town for the dreaded city. I did good. I did more than what I’ve done in months.

  But my bout of pride doesn’t last very long. After a struggling moment, the pictures bounce back to my phone. They didn’t send. I try again, and watch the little square, my boots tapping on the floor just before the pedals.

  Message failed. That’s what my screen says.

  And I realise, with a surge of cold dread that my reception has dropped out.

  Oh no. This ... this is not good.

  Anxiety spears through me and a dozen worst-case scenarios rampage in my mind.

  No signal. What if my car breaks down and I’m stranded? I could hurt myself. Have a heart attack or someone might ram into my car. I would need to call an ambulance. But no signal means no help. No escape.

  Paranoia has its clutches on me. I lunge for my bag again, mind on the pills.

  They’re my escape. I need them.

  Just a couple more.

  Before I can get a grip on my bag, silence sweeps through my car. The radio cuts out.

  I still.

  For a moment, it’s just silence. Ear-crushing silence. Then static crinkles out from the speakers like scrunching paper.

  I pull back to my seat, a frown tugging beads of sweat together on my face.

  I try all the channels. They’re all dead. I glance around at the cage of cars and trucks.

  It’s not just my radio. As far as I can see, drivers are hunched forward, hitting buttons on their dash, or moving around their phones for better reception.

  We all come up short.

  A few cars up, the honk-horny guy jumps out of his station wagon and moves the antenna wedged into the hood around in circles. I stick my head out of my window and strain to listen.

  Silence has taken us all.

  It sweeps over the highway—a real, hollow quiet.

  Then our engines all cut out. Just like that.

  In a blink, every car is off. There are no deafening chugs from the trucks, or radio noise muffled by windows.

  Sinking back into my seat, I hold my breath and stare at the steering wheel. If I stare long and hard enough, it could pulse with the return of my engine purr. That’s what I hope, anyway. But noise doesn’t lift back over us.

  It doesn’t come.

  With a panicked breath, I fiddle with the keys and try the ignition. It’s like the battery has gone flat or been scooped out of my car’s guts. Not even a sputter.

  All around, people try their ignitions, and hit their dashboards when nothing happens. Others get out of their cars and check under the hoods, as though they’ll find the reason for every single car just stopping under there.

  My fingers coil tight around the steering wheel, and I fight my hitching breaths.

  Not now, not now... I am stronger than my illness. I am in control—

  The mantra doesn’t get the chance to sink in.

  Before I can finish it, a sudden pulse of noise runs over the highway.

  It’s coming from above, like thunder rippling through the clouds before a crack of lightning hits.

  There’s something off about it.

  I lean out of my window and look up at the sky. The noise is so strong that the tarmac of the road shudders, and the cars vibrate along with it. I’m rattling in my seat, my whole body wound tighter that coiled rope.

  That’s when I see it.

  And I’m suddenly cold all over.

  The face of an aeroplane falls through the sky.

  It nose-dives, the horrible groan growing louder and louder. Shaking the whole highway.

  I have to slap my hands to my crying ears as it speeds towards the skyscrapers ahead. My scream is drowned out by the thunder as the plane hits the city.

  And it hits.

  The crash tears through Sydney.

  Flames and smoke billow up from the rattling city.

  Cars tremble down the roads in a violent ripple. I drop my hands from my ears and stare, horrified, at the fiery cloud of smoke swallowing the tall buildings ahead.

  Again, it’s total silence on the highway. Way too similar to the eerie quiet before.

  The calm before the storm comes to mind, and brings with it a dizzying pulse of nausea. But this quiet is thicker. Fraught with shock.

  Stunned, the entire highway stands still.

  It passes so quickly, and an eruption of screams and shouts blast all around.

  I don’t scream. I stare, dazed, as car doors kick open and streams of people pile onto the road.

  Names are being cried. People are dropping to their knees, anguish strangling their cries. And tears are falling from so many that I wonder if they can flood us.

  We are—we were—all heading for the city. Most of us have loved ones somewhere in those tall clouds of ash.

  Finally, I let that sink in, and numbness takes me. I grab my bag and slip out of the car. And with the others, I face the falling city.

  Emma is in there. Right in the heart of it. Laura, too. The last of my friends. But now...

  I think I’m friendless.

  Another rumble cracks through the sky.

  Heads jerk up, twisted faces meeting the clouds. We all expect another plane. Another to hit the city and kick all hope out of us.

  But the rumble keeps growing. It gets so loud and strong that cars around me start jerking around, moving side-to-side.

  I stumble to the white lines, wild eyes watching for a car to flip over and crush me. I’ve never hugged my bag so tightly before.

  Beneath my boots, tarmac shudders then cracks.

  I scream and scramble for my car. I’m on t
he scorching hood before the cracks can touch me.

  Metal sears my bare legs, but I don’t feel it. I tuck into myself and turn my bulging eyes on the shuddering sky above.

  Like a storm, thunder booms, then spears into light that streaks through the clouds. But the sheer force of it sends a screeching sound down to us on the highway, a noise that tangles in the mind and rings in the ears.

  My ears pop. The high-pitched screech brings people to their knees.

  I see one man cup his face, not his ears like the rest of us. And then I catch sight of the blood-river gushing from his nose. He jerks once. Crashes to his knees. Then, he slumps forward, face down on the road, as still as the silence that took us before.

  The sky tears apart above us. And a giant rock, bigger than the damn city, plummets from the clouds.

  “What the fuck!”

  My cry tangles with those all around me.

  The rock spears past the city flames and crashes beyond it, into the harbour. A wall of water rushes up from the sea, climbing higher than the clouds of ash.

  It crashes into the city.

  The hit takes Sydney.

  More waves come. Punching the city with a stunning violence. Hitting millions of people.

  And all we can do is watch.

  We watch as entire families and lives are wiped out in front of us.

  All by a rock that fell from the sky.

  2

  I’m glued to the hood of my car as the chaos erupts.

  A man rips his daughter from his car and runs down the road as far from the city as he can get. A woman is fighting through the racing crowd, calling out for someone.

  Some try to start their cars again, the wild looks on their faces firmly set on driving others off the highway to save themselves.

  Panic rips down the lanes, making the people scatter like mice, and it’s all I can do to just ... watch.

  For the first time in a long while, the urge to run doesn’t have its clutches in me. The pills are working too well, maybe. Or it’s the knowing dread that there’s just nowhere to go.