Night World - Dark Angel Part 1

Night World.

Dark Angel.

by Lisa J Smith.

CHAPTER 1.

Gillian Lennox didn't mean to die that day.

She was mad, though. Mad because she had missed her ride home from schoo l, and because she was cold, and because it was two weeks before Christm as and she was very, very lonely.

She walked by the side of the empty road, which was about as winding and h illy as every other country road in south-western Pennsylvania, and viciou sly kicked offending clumps of snow out of her way.

It was a rotten day. The sky was dull and the snow looked tired. And Amy N owick, who should have been waiting after Gillian cleaned up her studio ar t project, had already driven away-with her new boyfriend.

Sure, it must have been an honest mistake. And she wasn't jealous of Amy, she wasn't, even though one week ago they had both been sixteen and never been kissed.

Gillian just wanted to get home.

That was when she heard the crying.

She stopped, looked around. It sounded like a baby-or maybe a cat. It seem ed to be coming from the woods.

Her first thought was, Paula Belizer. But that was ridiculous. The little gi rl who'd disappeared somewhere at the end of this road had been gone for ove r a year now.

The crying came again. It was thin and far away-as if it were coming from the depths of the woods. This time it sounded more human.

"h.e.l.lo? Hey, is somebody in there?"

There was no answer. Gillian stared into the dense stand of oak and hickory, trying to see between the gnarled bare trees. It looked uninviting. Scary.

Then she looked up and down the road. n.o.body. Hardly surprising-not many cars pa.s.sed by here.

I am not going in there alone, Gillian thought. She was exactly the opposite of the "Oh, it's such a nice day; let's go tramping through the woods" type.

Not to mention exactly the opposite of the brave type.

But who else was there? And what else was there to do?

Somebody was in trouble.

She slipped her left arm through her backpack strap, settling it on the cent er of her back and leaving her hands free. Then she cautiously began to clim b the snow-covered ridge that fell away on the other side to the woods.

"h.e.l.lo?" She felt stupid shouting and not getting any answer. "Hi! h.e.l.lo!"

Only the crying sound, faint but continuous, somewhere in front of her.

Gillian began to flounder down the ridge. She didn't weigh much, but the cr ust on the snow was very thin and every step took her ankle deep.

Great, and I'm wearing sneakers. She could feel cold seeping into her feet.The snow wasn't so deep once she got into the woods. It was white and unbrok en beneath the trees-and it gave her an eerie sense of isolation. As if she were in the wilderness.

And it was so quiet. The farther Gillian went in, the deeper the silence beca me. She had to stop and not breathe to hear the crying.

Bear left, she told herself. Keep walking. There's nothing to be scared of!

But she couldn't make herself yell again.

There is something weird about this place. . . .

Deeper and deeper into the woods. The road was far behind her now. She cro ssed fox tracks and bird scratches in the snow-no sign of any-l thing huma n.

But the crying was right ahead now, and louder. She could hear it clearly.

Okay, up this big ridge. Yes, you can do it. Up, up. Never mind if your feet are cold.

As she struggled over the uneven ground, she tried to think comforting thou ghts.

Maybe I can write an article about it for the Viking News and everyone will admire me. . . . Wait. Is it cool or uncool to rescue somebody? Is saving pe ople too nice to be cool?

It was an important question, since Gillian currently had only two ambitions : 1) David Blackburn, and, 2) To be invited to the parties the popular kids were invited to. And both of these depended, in a large part, on being cool.

If she were only popular, if she only felt good about herself, then everythi ng else would follow. It would be so much easier to be a really wonderful pe rson and do something for the world and make something important of her life if she just felt loved and accepted. If she weren't shy and short and immat ure looking . . .

She reached the top of the ridge and grabbed at a branch to keep her balance . Then, still hanging on, she let out her breath and looked around.

Nothing to see. Quiet woods leading down to a creek just below.

And nothing to hear, either. The crying had stopped.

Oh, don't do this to me!

Frustration warmed Gillian up and chased away her fear. She yelled, "Hey-h ey, are you still out there? Can you hear me? I'm coming to help you!"

Silence. And then, very faintly, a sound.

Directly ahead.

Oh, my G.o.d, Gillian thought. The creek.

The kid was in the creek, hanging on to something, getting weaker and weaker . . . .

Gillian was scrambling down the other side of the ridge, slithering, the wet snow adhering to her like lumpy frosting.

Heart pounding, out of breath, she stood on the bank of the creek. Below her, at the edge, she could see fragile ice ledges reaching out like petals ove r the rushing water. Spray had frozen like diamond drops on overhanging gras ses.

But nothing living. Gillian frantically scanned the surface of the dark water.

"Are you there?" she shouted. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Rocks in the water. Branches caught against the rocks. The sound o f the rushing creek.

"Where are you?"

She couldn't hear the crying anymore. The water was too loud.

Maybe the kid had gone under.

Gillian leaned out, looking for a wet head, a shape beneath the surface. She leaned out farther.

And then-a mistake. Some subtle change of balance. Ice under her feet. Her a rms were wind-milling, but she couldn't get her balance back. . . .

She was flying. Nothing solid anywhere. Too surprised to be frightened.

She hit the water with an icy shock.

CHAPTER 2.

Everything was freezing confusion. Her head was under water and she was be ing tumbled over and over. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe, and she was completely disoriented.

Then her head popped up. She automatically sucked in a huge gasp of air.

Her arms were flailing but they seemed tangled in her backpack. The creek was wide here and the current was very strong. She was being swept downstr eam, and every other second her mouth seemed to be full of water. Reality was just one desperate, choking attempt to get enough air for the next bre ath.

And everything was so cold. A cold that was pain, not just temperature.

I'm going to die.

Her mind realized this with a sort of numb certainty, but her body was stubbo rn. It fought almost as if it had a separate brain of its own. It struggled o ut of her backpack, so that the natural buoyancy of her ski jacket helped kee p her head above water. It made her legs kick, trying to stand firm on the bo ttom.

No good. The creek was only five feet deep in the center, but that was stil l an inch higher than Gillian's head. She was too small, too weak, and she couldn't get any kind of control over where she was going. And the cold was sapping her strength frighteningly fast. With every second her chances of surviving dropped.

It was as if the creek were a monster that hated her and would never let he r go. It slammed her into rocks and swept her on before her hands could get hold of the cold, smooth surfaces. And in a few minutes she was going to b e too weak to keep her face above water.

I have to grab something.

Her body was telling her that. It was her only chance.

There. Up ahead, on the left bank, a projecting spit with tree roots. She had t o get to it. Kick. Kick.

She hit and was almost spun past it. But somehow, she was holding on. The ro ots were thicker than her arms, a huge tangle like slick, icy snakes.

Gillian thrust an arm through a natural loop of the roots, anchoring herself . Oh-yes; she could breathe now. But her body was still in the creek, being sucked away by the water.

She had to get out-but that was impossible. She just barely had the strengt h to hold on; her weakened, numb muscles could never pull her up the bank.

At that moment, she was filled with hatred- not for the creek, but for hersel f. Because she was little and weak and childish and it was going to kill her.

She was going to die, and it was all happening right now, and it was real.

She could never really remember what happened next. Her mind let go and th ere was nothing but anger and the burning need to get higher. Her legs kic ked and scrambled and some dim part of her knew that each impact against t he rocks and roots should have hurt. But all that mattered was the despera tion that was somehow, inch by inch, getting her numb, waterlogged body ou t of the creek.

And then she was out. She was lying on roots and snow. Her vision was dim; she was gasping, open-mouthed, for breath, but she was alive.

Gillian lay there for a long time, not really aware of the cold, her entire bod y echoing with relief.

I made it! I'll be okay now.

It was only when she tried to get up that she realized how wrong she was.

When she tried to stand, her legs almost folded under her. Her muscles felt li ke jelly.

And ... it was cold. She was already exhausted and nearly frozen, and her soaking clothes felt as heavy as medieval armor.

Her gloves were gone, lost in the creek. Her cap was gone. With every brea th, she seemed to get colder, and suddenly she was racked with waves of vio lent shivers.

Find the road ... I have to get to the road. But which way is it?

She'd landed somewhere downstream-but where? How far away was the ro ad now?

Doesn't matter . . . just walk away from the creek, Gillian thought slowly. It w as difficult to think at all.

She felt stiff and clumsy and the shivering made it hard to climb over fallen trees and branches. Her red, swollen fingers couldn't close to get handholds.

I'm so cold-why can't I stop shivering?

Dimly, she knew that she was in serious trouble. If she didn't get to the ro ad-soon-she wasn't going to survive. But it was more and more difficult to c all up a sense of alarm. A strange sort of apathy was coming over her. The g narled forest seemed like something from a fairy tale.

Stumbling . . . staggering. She had no idea where she was going. Just straig ht ahead. That was all she could see anyway, the next dark rock protruding f rom the snow, the next fallen branch to get over or around.

And then suddenly she was on her face. She'd fallen. It seemed to take immen se effort to get up again.

It's these clothes . . . they're too heavy. I should take them off.

Again, dimly, she knew that this was wrong. Her brain was being affected; she was dazed with hypothermia. But the part of her that knew this was far away, separate from her. She fought to make her numbed ringers unzip her ski jacket.

Okay . . . it's off. I can walk better now. . . .