The World Was Gone

By Imogen Markwell-Tweed

Christopher Turner has woken up in terrible situations before. A veteran of both war and a frat house, he’s used to waking up at the drop of a hat, to something he didn’t fall asleep to and some place he didn’t fall asleep in. But this — in the middle of an otherwise empty forest with only the clothes on his back, half of his memories gone, and a panicked, twitchy civilian — is definitely the worst way he’s ever woken up.

Turner doesn’t know where he’s at or how he’s gotten here. He doesn’t know if he trusts Ambrose, the rugged, sarcastic, and petrified passenger on this trip from hell. But the one thing he does know is that he’s going to figure it out — and he’s going to get home to his daughter. As the mysteries of the forest start to unveil themselves, and Ambrose becomes more and more intertwined with the answers, Turner’s got a lot to figure out and not a lot of time to do it.

Follow Turner and Ambrose on their journey to the truth — and to each other.

This queer paranormal suspense romance is about finding the truth, and a reason to live, no matter the cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Aug 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781094413280

Imogen Markwell-Tweed

Imogen Markwell-Tweed is a queer romance writer and editor based in St. Louis. When she's not writing or hanging out with her dog, IMT can be found putting her media degrees to use by binge-watching trashy television. All of her stories promise queer protagonists, healthy relationships, and happily ever afters. @unrealimogen on Twitter and Instagram.

Book preview

Chapter One

When he was stationed during the war, Turner had seen a lot of things. He’d seen pain and agony, joy and confusion — he’d seen bad men rise and good men die, and vice versa. He’d seen enough to become jaded, and was convinced that there was another way. Turner wanted to change the world and he knew that to do so, he had to get out of the rat race. He’d left the military and tried to become better — tried to create better — and he tried to be a good person. He tried, over and over and over again, each time failing, to be a good person.

Turner’s had a big life. He’s had a full life. But he’s not had a complete life, and he’s not saved anything, let alone anyone, and he’s not ready to quit until he makes a difference. Turner’s seen too much death to think life has any meaning besides stopping more death from happening.

So when he wakes up, pillowed on a bed of warm grass, the bright, light-blue sky above him, he only has one, defining thought:

Thank God I’m alive.

It’s a thought he’s had before, and one he’s sure he’ll have again, and he thinks it to himself once, twice, a third time, before he’s ready to evaluate what else is happening. He opens his eyes.

The first thing Turner notices is that there are birds flying in circles above his head. They’re actually flying above a break in the tree line, round and open like something specifically designed for someone to lie down and see the sky. The birds circle, like a cartoon, as Turner blinks himself awake and tries to recognize his surroundings.

He rises slowly. His stomach hurts, like he’d been throwing his guts up for the last few hours, and the ache in his head is closer to a migraine than a hangover. Turner doesn’t remember how he got here — it looks like he’s been dropped right in the center of a clearing. There are giant sequoias all around, except for the clearing about ten feet around him. He doesn’t even know how there could be sequoias, because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t live anywhere near a forest like this.

Though, to be fair, he’s not certain. Turner isn’t certain about anything right now.

He pats his arms and legs, makes sure he’s not bleeding or otherwise wounded, and tries to remember… anything. He knows a few things: he knows his name is Christopher Turner. He knows he was a soldier and, after that, a father, though he can’t quite remember where or why or to whom. He doesn’t know where he lives or what he does but he knows that he’s really, truly late for something he can’t quite put his finger on.

He thinks he must’ve been drugged. His memories will come back; he just has to wait.

Oh, fuck, a voice drawls out.

Turner jolts and is on his feet in a second. His hand reaches for his waistband, searching for a weapon that’s missing. Across the clearing, right on the line of the light spilling down from the clearing’s sky, another man slowly sits up.

"Oh, god. My head," he says, long and low and sounding miserable.

The man tucks his legs underneath him, staying in the shadows, and, clearly exerting a lot of effort, puts himself in a sitting position. Turner watches him and frowns. He doesn’t seem like much of a threat — he’s small, smaller than Turner at least, long and lanky but not particularly broad. He’s got a mess of a bed-head and a beard that’s at least a few days old, thick and dark. He’s rubbing his hands along his face and groaning.

He looks… familiar, almost, but then as soon as the thought is there, it’s gone again, and Turner shakes his head. It feels foggy. He’s still waking up.

Tentatively, Turner takes a step toward him. His boot crunches on a twig, snapping beneath the weight of his body, and the guy shoots straight up like he’s been shocked.

Whoa! Whoa, stay back! He holds his hands up and takes a few large steps backward, stumbling a bit and one hand slapping out to a nearby tree trunk to keep him upright.

Mimicking his pose, Turner lifts his hands. He turns them from front to back and slowly keeps moving forward. Hey, pal. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.

The guy scoffs and keeps backing up. "Uh, yeah, and considering our very storied past of, um, say, literally nothing, I’m gonna pass on the whole ‘trusting strangers’ thing, if you don’t mind."

Turner stops. He’s just on the edge of the clearing now and the guy is almost shrouded in shadows. Turner’s reluctant to leave the relative safety of light he’s in right now. So you don’t remember how we got here either?

The guy stops. No. You don’t?

No. Turner looks around. There’s no one else that he can see; he listens, holding up a finger. The other guy quiets. It doesn’t bode well for them that neither remembers how they got here. It seems like they’re alone, but Turner knows better than to be lulled into false security without his due diligence. What’s the last thing you remember?

I… don’t… know! Saying it out loud seems to send the guy into a panic, and Turner surges past the clearing’s line to slap a hand on his shoulder. He squeezes, firm, and tries to steady the stranger. Up close, the guy is clearly freaking out. He’s breathing heavily, chest almost comical as it rises and falls in deep, exaggerated breaths. His eyes are wide and he stares up at Turner, breathing out of his mouth.

It’s okay, Turner says. Turner’s glad for his years of military training, and time with his daughter, which taught him how to steady his voice even in the most high-pressure situations. I don’t remember how I got here, or what I was doing, either.

Well then…. The guy throws his hands up and gestures wildly around them. "What the hell?"

Turner’s lips twitch. He smothers the smile and tries to keep his expression blank. He looks at the man and makes a decision: Chris Turner.

He holds his hand out. After a brief pause, the guy swallows hard, audibly, and slips his hand into Turner’s. I’m Ambrose.

Turner lifts his eyebrows, waiting, but the guy doesn’t say anything else. Hippie, Turner thinks, and shakes his hand. A bolt shoots up his arm, static electricity, and he suppresses a wince. They finish the shake and when Turner pulls away, he stretches his fingers out, flexing his hand. The little shock is still working its way through him but he shakes his head. Static electricity is normal and Turner has too much to worry about to be distracted by something so unimportant.

He takes a few more steps, looking around. Now that he’s out of the clearing, he can barely see the sky above. The trees are enormous, stretching as far out and up as he can see, and the sunlight streams down in patchy, uneven stripes.

So… I have to tell you, I think we’re on a reality show, Ambrose says, pointing at the trees. "There’s no such thing as a tree this big. It’s Styrofoam for sure, for sure."

Turner quirks an eyebrow. It’s a giant sequoia.

Exactly! It’s giant! He slaps one of the trees and then winces, pulling his hand to his chest. He’s not bleeding, so Turner feels fine about rolling his eyes.

"No, I mean the tree is called a giant sequoia. It’s real."

Ambrose frowns, staring at his hand. Yeah, I guess. Styrofoam isn’t that intense.

Turner’s eyes snap to Ambrose, focusing on him. He shakes his head. Right.

Ambrose goes back to checking the trees. He pokes at them, wincing and cursing when he scrapes himself on the bark. Turner ignores him and pats himself down.

He’s in his work boots — steel-toed, that’s good — and denim jeans. He’s got his wallet in his pocket — fat lot of good his credit cards are going to do here, trapped in the forest — and belt. The belt’s his favorite. It’s worn leather, comfortable, but still tight. He’s in a white T-shirt and a dark-green plaid shirt but no jacket. If he doesn’t get out of here before dark, the green shirt will be better than, say, a red one for camouflage, but no jacket means the cold night might prove the fear of wild animals pointless.

What’s in your pockets?

Ambrose furrows his eyebrows. What?

Turner closes his eyes and pinches his

Reviews for The World Was Gone

[Colin O'Brien · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

My favorite from imogen so far. Very unique concept with an unravel set of surprises around every corner.

[Babiche · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Very different and engaging. Unexpected adventure and romance. Definitely an author I will follow.

[Kelsey Laurent · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this story. Such an interesting landscape for love. 10/10 would recommend