Pay Up Or Fall Behind: Phalanx Blood, #4

By Bruce E. Arrington

Bernard's parents are taken, likely by those who want his blood. In order to play and win this deadly game, Bernard will have to raise millions of dollars in a short period of time. Hopefully it won't come too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pipe Dream Books
• Release date: Dec 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386970347

Bruce E. Arrington

Bruce Arrington is the author of more than fifteen books, including fantasy children's stories, sci fi/fantasy teen and young adult, and even a new adult romance novel. He likes to take average, everyday characters, and upend their lives through unusual and powerful circumstances. His latest thrill includes ziplining in the tropics of Costa Rica. Catch up with his latest writings here: https://www.facebook.com/PipeDreamBooks/ https://www.amazon.com/Bruce-Arrington/e/B0064TKY1G

Book preview

My blood kills cancer.

Yep, you read that right. The big bad C word that scares just about everyone these days. My blood kills it. Dead. Dead Kennedys’ invitation to the White House dead. Disappointed George Romero dead. Doesn’t matter what type of cancer. It quickly finds itself outmaneuvered, surrounded, and mercilessly crushed by an iron-red phalanx. Just a few drops of my blood—drops mind you, and miracles start happening.

I OPEN MY EYES TO FIND both wrists cuffed to the cold, unyielding steel gurney: the terrible prison from which no escape is possible. At once, the darkness bottled up in my soul breaks free and envelopes me amidst the blinding glare of surgical lamps all around. What? I wonder. This makes no sense. Is this another nightmarish day on the way?

I can’t control when I eat, drink, or even when I get to drop the kids off at the pool. I’ve lost control of just about everything in my entire life. When I refuse to eat on their time schedule, those monsters hiding behind surgical masks force my mouth open and shove this green, slimy stuff in. They clamp my mouth closed before I have a chance to spit it out. And eventually I have to swallow.

Bastards.

I clench my fists, kick, scream. I know I can’t escape and will end up likely breaking some bones or ripping the skin against my bonds, but I really don’t care. I absolutely, above everything else, hate not being in control of my life. This is my life, not theirs to do with as they please.

My gurney rocks back and forth, tipping precariously as it gains momentum. Maybe if I fall on my head this nightmare will end. The hatred is so deep that the idea seems about as morbid as a sunlit day at the fair. Denying them what they want, even the possibility of it, has me thrashing like an epileptic breakdancing at a discotheque. If my brain is damaged severely, will I continue to produce blood? Or could they keep me alive as a blood-producing vegetable?

Rat blood-sucking bastards!

Four goons in scrubs rush over, grab my gurney, steady it, and force my legs down. My bowels and bladder release simultaneously, bringing about a horrific stench. I shout until one of them locks onto my throat and squeezes with his gloved right hand. His strength is inhuman, my voice cut off with an abrupt squawk. And I look into his eyes—his evil red eyes, which don’t reflect the blinding light all around so much as glow from within. It would give anyone cause for renewed panic, except my attention is instantly drawn elsewhere as his gloved left hand grabs my privates and squeezes. Hard.

Red Alert! Shields up! Life support systems bricked! Recreation deck under assault! Permanent damage probable, dry dock or not!

I stop thrashing with a melodramatic jerk, hurting so bad I’m utterly Shatnered, and focus on sucking air. Jags of pain like ice burning along every nerve pulse from the vice that is his grip in time with my heart, and man-oh-freaking-man is my heart jackhammering. After five endless seconds, Ole Red Eyes shakes his head and releases my throat, then the important bits. He departs, humming a low, haunting little melody that’s familiar but much too slow. My way.

My nerves quickly calm as the pain subsides and I can breathe. I feel lightheaded, sleepy. Then all is darkness.

I LURCH UP, SOAKING in sweat, trembling like a Chihuahua catapulted into a high-voltage line. T-shirt, face, neck: all a watery mess. My heart thunders in my ears. My thoughts reel, muddled with the momentary panic of not knowing when and where I am. Memory comes in a rush. Not all of it is welcome these days. The penultimate realization to come rolling in like a wave, breaking over me in a wake of taut muscles gratefully loosening, is the knowledge that I am actually safe. In my house on the beach. With three bodyguards who will kill anyone who threatens my life.

I rub my eyes and take a deep breath. Just another nightmare of the past. My past. I shudder to think where I’d be if my friends never broke me out of that awful place. Would I still even be alive? Or maybe I’d just be a lobotomized bloodbag hidden away in the sub-sub-sub-basement of some corporate pharmaceutical archology. Better living through chemistry, right?

Rain dances on my window as it has for the past few days. The wind buffets the glass lightly, pushing rivulets in meandering rivers. I look at the gray ocean beyond, churning just like my head. Then my bladder warns me what else is churning.

Handy fact: A shower accomplishes two tasks at the same time. No, not that. I like to think I have some respect for the noble plumbing arts. I meant I can think back to my recurring PTSD dream as I soap up. I mean, shouldn’t I be over this by now? Why does it keep coming back? It’s been at least a month since I was chained like an animal with nowhere to go and no place to call home. You’d think those memories would start to fade, but they haven’t. I wake feeling I have no control over my life, like I’m unhinged. I have to re-remind myself where I am, who is with me. Every. Single. Time.

To top it off, today is one of those important days. I get to check in to the Mental Blood hospital as a potential psych patient of someone called Maxwell Looney. My nerves are shot from the dark dream. I wonder how I’m gonna handle things if those uniformed guys come at me with a straitjacket. Alexis has taken my karate skills