Blackbird

By Shauna Granger

What if YouTube warned of the end of the world? Would we even take it seriously? Or just assume it was some lame, internet hoax?

Maggie has her first college finals to prepare for; she doesn’t have time for pranks and conspiracy theories. But a super flu has broken out on campus and her dorm mate keeps coughing, threatening to get her sick before she can get through the tests and get home for Christmas.

More and more people are coming down with the super flu and the vaccines aren’t working for everyone and when one of her professors is dragged out of the classroom by cops and doctors, Maggie realizes she’s waited too long to leave campus.

Finals are the last thing she should be worrying about—she needs to get home, but can she make it in time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shauna Granger
• Release date: Jun 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370017218

Shauna Granger

Shauna Granger lives in a sleepy little beach town in Southern California with her husband, John, and their goofy dog, Brody. Always fascinated by Magic, Shauna spent most of her teen years buried in books about fairies, elves, gnomes, spells, witchcraft, wizards and sorcery. When she's not busy working on the next installment of the Elemental Series she enjoys cooking, entertaining, MMA fight nights, watching way too much TV and coffee. Lots of coffee.

Book preview

Blackbird

An Ash & Ruin companion novel

Smashwords Edition Copyright 2018

By Shauna Granger

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.

Published by Shauna Granger

Copyright © 2018 by Shauna Granger

Cover art designed by Shauna Granger

Like the blackbird, she flies.

Feathers falling, rushing across the night sky.

Will wings beat faster than Death can run?

***

Books by Shauna Granger

Ash and Ruin Trilogy:

World of Ash

Time of Ruin

Age of Blood

*

Dandelions

~

The Elemental Series:

Earth

Air

Water

Fire

Spirit

~

Matilda Kavanagh Series:

Wytchcraft

Samhain

Yuletide

Bewytched

Cursed

Maleficium

Wycked

Hexed

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter One

The relative silence of the library is broken by a harsh, wet cough. The kind of cough that makes you flinch because you’re thrown back into a memory of the last time your throat hurt, like some kind of low-grade PTSD flashback. Shhhhhhhes erupt around me when the cougher can’t seem to get it under control. The sound is muffled, and I imagine they’ve put a hand or tissue over their mouth.

Oh shit, he whispers, but no one asks what’s wrong. His words are met with more demanding shushes.

Just go, some random voice hisses.

I pick my head up from my massive art history book and lean back to look around the edge of the cubby I’ve been tucked in for the last four hours. I hear people muttering and whispering curses and one person shuffling, gathering up their items as they try—and fail—to stop coughing.

Finals are in a week, and the libraries have become the most popular places on campus. The study cubbies with outlets for phone and laptop chargers are the most in-demand things right now.

Coughers and interrupters will not be tolerated.

My phone buzzes next to my laptop. A text from my dorm mate, Brenda.

When are you coming back?

I glance at the time—past ten—and realize I haven’t checked in with her. We have a deal to make sure we know where the other is after hours, just to be safe.

I text her back: Sorry. In Hesburgh. Lost track of time. On my way.

Closing the book and shoving it into my bag feels good, even if I know I’m nowhere near ready for my final for that stupid, pointless class. I need to pick a major soon so I can start focusing on core classes or I’ll be stuck in a never-ending cycle of classes I can’t keep straight. At least this class has helped me narrow the field down by one; there’s no way in hell I’ll be an art history major. Not if the freshman class is this damn hard.

On my way out of the library, I see a couple of people have fallen asleep on their open books, pens drooping in their hands, laptops having gone dark. One guy’s forehead is dotted with sweat under the dim glow of the tiny light in the cubby. My bag is heavy on my shoulder with the weight of my books and laptop, but the library is cool, like usual. If he’s sweating, that means he’s sick. I hear him sniff, and I skirt around his chair as if his germs will jump on me as I pass. This flu season has been brutal and I haven’t had time to get my flu shot yet.

The night air hits my face when I step outside, and I take a deep breath. Dropping my head back, I close my eyes and take a moment to leave the stress of the library behind me.

As the door falls closed, I hear another wet, angry cough, followed by the groans of dozens.

One thing I didn’t consider when I applied to this school was how big it is. Walking on campus is a joke, unless you’re a cross country runner. My parents hadn’t gotten me a car when I was in high school, but when I got accepted to Notre Dame, we pooled resources to get me one. It isn’t anything impressive, like some of the cars on campus, but I love my little Civic, and the gas mileage makes it practical. When I open the door to dump my heavy bag inside, I’m so grateful for this little silver car that I almost kiss it before falling into the driver’s seat. Almost.

Even though it’s the week before finals, the dorms are loud with people and bright with lights and screens when I go inside. The common room on the ground floor is covered in bodies—study groups gathered in circles, claiming almost every square inch of floor so I have to tiptoe to the stairs.

On my way, I hear some coughing and sniffling.

I jam my hands into my pockets to keep from touching anything as I hurry up the stairs to my floor.

Our door is ajar, so I know Brenda is still awake—plus she texted, like, five minutes ago. She has two jobs—waitress at a sports bar and cashier at the campus bookstore—and a full load of classes, so her sleep schedule is a little off.

Hey, I say as I come inside, using my foot to close the door. I think the flu has finally hit campus. Dropping my bag on my bed, I make a beeline for my desk to grab the bottle of hand sanitizer.

Great, Brenda says from her bed. She’s on her stomach, highlighter in hand and her book for Mathematical Statistics 101 open in front of her.

Yeah, so don’t touch people or things or whatever, I say as I rub my hands together. The gel is cold and quickly evaporates.

Oh sure, that should be super easy, she says without looking up from the line she’s highlighting.

At least keep a bottle of this stuff with you. Do you need some? I have a few travel bottles. I need to put them in my car and bag.

I got it covered, Mags. She looks at me as I crouch over the plastic bin that holds my toiletries. I’m sure it’s no big deal, probably just people over-working themselves for finals.

Maybe, I say, tiny bottles of hand sanitizer in both hands.

Brenda rolls her eyes before holding out a hand. But if it’ll make you feel better.

I hand her one of the bottles. Yes, it will, thank you.

Brenda takes the bottle but doesn’t pour any into her hand, so I clear my throat and give her a pointed look. She rolls her eyes again, clicks open the top, and squirts too much of clear goop into her hand in her effort to be sarcastic.

Damnit.

Serves you right.

Just then her phone buzzes, making her swear again. She flaps her hands around, trying to make it evaporate faster.

I got it, I say as I grab her phone. Her passcode is the month and day of her birthday, too easy by a mile, but she won’t change it no matter how many times I bug her about it. It’s Rick. He wants to know if you can come in for a few hours to cover closing. One of the other girls is sick.

Brenda groans loudly and dramatically, dropping her head back as her mouth goes slack. It’s all for show though; we both know she’s going to go.

I shake my head at her. How can he ask you to come so late?

That’s what you get when you work at a sports bar.

Can’t they manage a couple of hours?

Probably, but I need the cash. I didn’t get a full ride here, you know.

Tell me about it, I say as I hand her the phone.

She sends a quick text back to her boss, then she’s off her bed in a second, grabbing her waitress uniform of cut-off shorts and baseball jersey that won’t buttoned all the way up. Once her knee-high blue-and-yellow-striped socks are in place and her tennis shoes are laced up, she’s grabbing her purse and jacket to head out.

Be careful, I say from my bed.

I’ll get an escort to my car, she says as she digs in her bag. And I have Old Faithful. She holds up the little pink stun gun.

I don’t mean that. I mean catching whatever’s going around.

It’s just a flu. A day or two and that shit will be over.

Do you want to be vomiting during your econ midterm?

Brenda makes a face at me.

Right, so don’t let anyone breathe on you and take the sanitizer, damnit!

I got it! She’s almost out the door. Don’t wait up.

Text me when you’re on your way back! I yell as the door closes.

I dig my books and laptop from my bag, fully intending to get some more chapters done before turning in. But it isn’t even twenty minutes later when I realize I’ve read the same paragraph three times in a row and still don’t know what it says. My eyes are starting to cross, so I give up on any more studying and get ready for bed. Before getting into bed, I turn off all the lights except for the tiny lamp on Brenda’s desk so she has something to see by when she gets back.

The buzz of my phone jolts me awake. I feel as though I’ve only been asleep for a minute, but according to the clock, it’s almost two in the morning.

I try and fail to stay awake until Brenda comes back, so when she comes through the door, I jolt up again. My heart is somewhere against my spine and my eyes are too big as I gasp.

Sorry, sorry, she whispers even though I’m awake now.

You good?

Good.

No one breathe on you?

No more than normal.

Gross.

You try waiting tables and see just how gross people are.

Thank you, no.

Go to sleep.

When my alarm goes off in the morning, I’m more confused than ever. Light is coming in from under the door, so I know the hall lights are on again, meaning it’s morning for real this time. I click on the light on my desk between our beds. Brenda is a mass under her covers, her pillow over her head to stay asleep.

I swat her ass. Don’t you have a morning class today?

She groans under her pillow, but I can’t make out any real words.

Are you skipping?

Another unintelligible response.

Finals are next week. You shouldn’t miss class.

Brenda groans and finally rolls over, letting her pillow fall to the floor. I snatch my hand back and step away from her. Her eyes look black and there’s a red gash on her cheek.

Holy shit, are you okay?

What? she croaks.

Oh, oh my god. I take a breath that comes out as a laugh when I exhale. That’s makeup. You forgot to take your makeup off last night.

Aw crap, she says as she manages to sit up. That’s real good. Good job, Brenda.

Better hurry before all the showers are taken.

I grab my shower caddy and slip on my flip-flops, not waiting for my dorm mate. She’ll come in her own time. But as I step into the hall, before the door closes, I hear her cough. It almost sounds as if she’s clearing her throat, but I can’t be sure.

Probably just strained her throat, I say to myself, earning a raised brow from a passing student. Working at a sports bar means Brenda has to yell most of her shift and it’s hell on her throat. And it was cold last night.

I shake off my hypochondria and hurry down the hall before all the hot water is gone.

***

Over the next couple of days, the flu outbreak gets worse. The halls and common rooms aren’t as full or as loud as they should be, since people are either hiding in their rooms from the germs or are quarantining themselves as they fight off the bug.

Brenda stopped teasing me about the hand sanitizer and actually bought a can of Lysol, which we keep by the door so we can spray the knob, inside and outside the door, before either of us touches it. We both look tired and a little frazzled, neither bothering to straighten or style our hair. Makeup is a lost cause except when Brenda goes to work. We keep giving each other side-long glances, making sure the other hasn’t reached for a box of tissues.

A couple of people are absent from my statistics class, but if it weren’t for the sniffling in the library and the relative quiet of the dorms, I wouldn’t think anything of that. Stats was the class you took to fulfil your math requirement if math had nothing to do with your major. It was a gimme class. As in, gimme an A. It was the one final I wasn’t stressing about.

Still, it was a little odd for people to skip any class so close to finals.

Art history is a pre-req for art majors though, a class they had to do well in to continue. So when I get to art history, the missing students stand out like sore thumbs.

Where is everyone? Professor Strathmore asks.

Everyone glances around. There are only maybe four or five people missing in our huge class, but he’s not joking.

You know, today could be the day I give you all the answers to the test. Maybe next class? There’s no way to know. So it’s in your best interest to show up to class. He says the last few words so low that we have to lean toward him to hear them. It’s scarier than if he had yelled.

But as the days tick away and finals get closer and closer, there are more and more absences. Some come in and tell teachers about their dorm mates, asking for class work for the sick. Some teachers comply; others shake their heads and remind us this isn’t high school.

My skin crawls every time someone takes a seat next to me, and I find myself lingering in the backs of classrooms until everyone else is seated so I can take a seat without a neighbor. As more and more people miss, that becomes easier. I start carrying Clorox wipes so I can sanitize seats and desks before I sit. People give me weird looks, but I don’t care; I haven’t caught the bug and I don’t intend to.

I barely made it into this damn school—I was waitlisted for a couple of months before I actually got an acceptance letter. No way am I going to let something as stupid a flu cost me my first finals and make me fail out.

My paranoia spikes on the Friday before finals, when booths pop up all over campus. The people manning them pass out medical masks, free packets of Emergen-C, and bottles of Echinacea. I take a mask and look at the woman behind the table. She’s wearing a mask and has on latex gloves and blue scrubs under a thick coat. They look like they’re from a county hospital but I don’t know for sure.

Is this really necessary? I ask.

Better safe than sorry, she says behind her mask.

I glance around and realize how many students are wearing the masks now. Those who aren’t stand out.

It’s also good because if you’re already sick, you won’t pass the germs.

I turn back to the woman. What?

How are you feeling? She eyes me carefully, and I realize I’ve done something to raise a red flag.

Quickly strapping the elastic bands over my ears, I step back. Thanks, I’ll be careful.

She nods, and the pinch at the corners of her eyes relaxes. Be careful, and if you see anyone with symptoms but not wearing a mask, make sure to call Student Services and report it.

Her words follow me as I hurry out of the quad, a knot tight in my gut.

Chapter Two

When I get back to my dorm, the halls are empty. Not just kinda empty with a few people here and there. No, it’s a ghost town. Inside the front door is a hand sanitizer dispenser mounted on the wall, and bottles of the stuff are on every table.

I touched the handle to open the door, so I hold my hand under the dispenser and wait for the almost-liquid goop to pour into my hand. Instead of the elevator, I use the stairs so I don’t have to touch any buttons, and I rub my hands together as I hurry up to my floor.

Using my sleeve, I cover my freshly sanitized hand before I open the door. Brenda coughs by way of greeting, and I freeze in place.

What? she asks from her desk chair just inside the door.

I still haven’t come inside the room. What was that?

What was what?

That cough?

Uh, it was a cough.

Are you sick?

She furrows her brows at me. Are you? What’s with the mask, Dr. Maggie?

I’d already forgotten the thing on my face, but now I’m happy I’m wearing it. They’re passing them out to stop the germs. Do you have The Germs?

"The germs?"

I finally step into the room and skirt around her chair to get to my bed. Brenda pushes the door closed since I left it open.

It’s pretty bad out there. If you’re sick, you gotta tell me. I can’t get sick for finals.

I know. Like, half my civics class was missing today.

Right? So what the hell was that cough?

Oh my god! Will you chill? It was a cough. It was nothing. She sounds fine, but as I stare at her, I can’t decide if the flush in her cheeks is her temper getting the best of her or if it’s her body temperature, like a fever.

I pull my bag onto the bed with me to pull out my books and laptop, but I don’t remove my mask until I go to bed—well after Brenda has crawled into her own bed and pulled the covers over her head.

The next morning, Brenda is still asleep when I wake up. Usually the first thing I reach for is my phone to check my emails and messages, but not this morning; this morning, the first thing I reach for is that medical mask. It’s over my face before I sit up. If I’m this easily manipulated into paranoia, it’s a good thing I didn’t choose a psychology major. I can’t imagine what those classes would do to me—especially Abnormal Psych.

It’s Saturday morning, so I don’t expect to have to fight for a shower, but the bathroom is actually empty. So empty that it’s creepy and I can’t stand it. I’ve never taken a faster shower in my life.

On my way back to my room, I see a small cluster of people in the hall, all huddled around one phone that Lisa, the girl who lives across from us, is holding out for everyone. Lisa and I had bonded on the first week of school when we discovered we were both southern California transplants. In high school she would have been too cool to be in my tiny circle, but college was a whole different universe.

What’s up? I ask, my curiosity getting the better of my paranoia of germs.

You haven’t seen it? Lisa asks, her black brows lifting high over her striking amber eyes, and I shake my head.

Two of the others look up at me, but the third, Corbyn, doesn’t. He takes Lisa’s phone and turns it toward me. It’s a video on pause, and I touch the screen to make it play.

It’s a little grainy at first, but then it focuses and I see an urban neighborhood, lined with apartment buildings, in the middle of the night. That’s why the images are so hard to make out—the only light is cast by the intermittent street lamps. The shadows are dark and deep and the edges of the video are basically black.

Dude, c’mon, let’s go, a voice whispers over the phone.

Shut up, wait, another voice says a little louder, making me think that’s the person holding the phone to film.

I will leave you here, man.

Just wait one fucking second.

No, not one fucking second. Now.

They’re stage whispering now, which is pointless. Their voices are too loud. For some reason, my stomach is twisting, like when I watch a horror movie and the music is building and something is going to come at me through the screen at any moment.

Shit! Shit! There it is! the videographer hisses. The phone shakes when he sees it, and I have to wait for the video to come back into focus again.

When it does, I see it.

Someone comes out of one of the apartment buildings. They’re dressed in black with a hood up over their head so I can’t see their face. The way they move makes them look as if they’re almost floating, like they aren’t walking, but they’re hunched at the shoulders and their hands are up near their chest, hidden in the thick black sleeves of the cloak.

What is the big—

Shhh, Corbyn cuts me off. Wait for it.

The two behind the camera are silent now, but the one holding the phone moves again. He’s creeping toward the cloaked person, keeping close to the buildings and bushes so that leaves keep blocking the view. He turns the camera around when he looks back the way he came, and I see his friend crouched by a red car parked under a street lamp. He waves frantically at his friend, trying to get him to come back, but the videographer turns back around and continues forward.

The figure in black is getting bigger and clearer, but it isn’t until the camera is just a few feet away before they finally turn toward the creeper.

My throat closes as I suck in a breath, and the bubble of air catches in my throat.

The guy holding the camera curses and the video scrambles as he falls. All I can see are blurry images of night sky and a streak of a white light, then most of the screen is covered by his hand as he grips the phone and crawls backward before he gets to his feet and runs.

It was a woman under the cloak, but it didn’t look like any woman I’ve ever seen. Her skin was a sickly green, with black splotches that looked as though she had a flesh-eating disease. Her eyes were milky white, like a corpse’s. I only saw it for a second, but that was enough to burn the image into my brain, and when I blink, I see her face.

What the fuck was that?