The Mark

By Victor James

A chance encounter introduces Linda Mark to Henry Collins, a recently discharged Green Beret. Used to dealing with war veterans because of her husband Shawn, a former Army Ranger, they quickly strike up a friendship.

Yet, events spiral out of control, and Linda and Shawn struggle to survive as Henry's affection for Linda turns

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Megacosm
• Release date: Jul 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986456812

Victor James

About the Author: Read more from Victor James at victorjames.substack.com and join him on www.minds.com/themegacosm/ for more works in the Megacosm

Book preview

Novelette –

Writing a novelette allows the writer to create all that supporting information to back up a short story. Whether a short story is meant as a scene in a larger story, or simply as a story by itself, it will always be taking part in a larger world. -ThisIsWriting

Chapter 1

The Mark

By Victor James

     It all began innocently enough, as nightmares usually do.

     Dammit, I remember saying in a whisper, as my finger clicked on the mouse with nothing changing on the computer screen.

     Realizing that I was getting nowhere, I stood up with a sigh.

     Anyone else's program freezing up? I shouted to the office.

     Over the drone of gossip, ringing phones, and the clacking of keys on keyboards, I heard back responses that floated over the partitions, No. Not mine. And Not over here, Linda.

     Try clicking the mouse, someone added.

     A grumble left my lips as I sat back down and clicked furiously on the mouse again, as if the program would begin to work if I tapped in a secret code with a right and left click.

     As I tapped, a small white box opened in the corner of my screen. The help desk ticket I submitted was the first line in the message, then my name, followed by a numeric code blinking beneath.

   Hello, the tier two engineer typed in the box. The initial troubleshooting at tier one did nothing to unfreeze the troublesome program, so my ticket was, thankfully, escalated.

     Hello, I typed back.

     I hear you're having problems with the sales program? The person replied.

     In my mind I imagined some sweaty twenty-something typing back at me, with bed-head hair, thoroughly annoyed that I was bothering them with my program.

      But I was just being mean.

     Yes. It's frozen, I typed, thinking a silent prayer to clear my mind, trying not to take the program screwing me again out on the poor engineer. It wasn't their fault our systems were hopelessly outdated.

     I can't lose this data, I whispered as I typed the same words.

     You should save your data often, ma'am, the engineer replied.

     I let the cursor blink next to my name, my mind racing with a series of expletives to reply with.

     I prayed again.

    Just kidding. I do it all the time, the engineer typed, saving themselves from a very unladylike series of words, and me a trip to the confessional. Mind if I cut in? The engineer continued.

     Before I could type a response, the black cursor on the screen moved on its own.

     Strange programs flashed on the screen, buzzing with words moving too fast to understand. The programs then disappeared, filling the bottom of the computer screen with a row of minimized gray tabs. I watched the screen with my chin on my palm and tapping the eraser of my pencil on the desk in a cadence.

     The video meeting with the chief financial officer was already going on without me, and I was hopelessly behind; saving the data I had entered into the program while it was working was the only thing that could salvage a blown morning.

     Then the programs stopped popping up, the still frozen accounting program almost mocking me with its static image.

     Hmm, the engineer typed in the box.

      A flush of worry chilled my skin cold, and I sat up quickly.

     Please don't tell me you can't fix this, I typed quickly. And please don't tell me to hold the power button for ten seconds. Don't ruin my life help desk.

     Lol, the engineer typed back. It's not responding, but I'm not defeated yet. Mind if I come to your desk, ma'am?

    I glanced about, watching as the rest of the accounting department forged ahead, leaving me behind – and with promotions just around the corner.

     It was a no-brainer to allow them in my space to fix the program, right?

     Sure, I typed back.

     Rgr, is what they typed back.

    The engineer confirmed my location with me, column C-24, on the third floor, and was at my desk within minutes when it normally took these engineers hours to respond.

     To me, it was nothing.

     Nothing but superb customer service. I didn't question otherwise.

     I didn't have a reason to, then.

    Hi, I'm Henry, was the first thing he said to me. I thought I could hear an accent in his voice. Southern, but not the slow Georgian drawl.

     Henry looked nothing like how I had imagined the IT person before. He was tall, with a full head of short shaven dark brown hair. Wearing the company polo shirt, it was hard to miss the muscles that stretched the material. Several of the women in my cubicle looked over, probably noticing his lack of a ring on his finger, like I had. He also had deep blue eyes, the kind that made you look twice. There was an arrogance in them, something I recognized, and I knew right away that I had the right man for the job.

     Henry leaned on the desk, looking me directly in the eyes.

     May I have this dance? He asked. I did not respond, and he smiled before indicating the computer with a nod of his head. He didn't talk like I imagined either. His smile reminded me of Christopher Reeve - you know, Superman - but again with that hint of haughtiness that implied assurance.

     Oh, I blinked, feeling my face flush as I stood up. Sure, let me get out of your way.

     My head came up just to his chest and bowed as Henry moved past me, the sweet, musky scent of his cologne trailing him as he took my seat. He slipped a thumb drive into the slot of the desktop, and with a crack of knuckles, began typing away.

    I watched as he worked, my arms crossed and leaning against a filing cabinet, seeing the same boxes flying on the screen. As Henry's arms moved, the short sleeve of his shirt rose up his muscled bicep, revealing a series of numbers that I realized was a date tattooed in black. Above the date, I could see the bottom jaw of a skull, a bone white.

     Were you in the military? I asked.

     Henry stopped typing and looked up at me, eyebrows raised. Embarrassed by the sudden attention, I pointed at his arm, and he smiled again, going back to work.

     Yes ma'am, I was army, Henry replied. He had that crisp way of speaking, like a military man. The kind that was used to giving orders instead of taking them.