This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2020 T.R. Ultra. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.
Edited by Griffin Smith
Cover by Marcus Pallas
For information contact: [email protected]
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Prologue
I see the tray sliding through the iron door into my room. The hand that pushes it across the opening is mangled. A scar in place of the pinky finger.
Looks like it was flat out plucked out of the hand, as it happens to sprouting potatoes when they’re plucked out of the soil. Was the pinky finger gnawed upon to satisfy the hunger of an animal? I don´t know. I never know what kind of wickedness those bastards outside are up to.
Actually. I know what they’re up to. They’re evil. They’re all devils.
I pick the tray up. Five steps back, three steps to the left. I turn it over and that vomit-like soup splashes on the ground. The hand that pushed it inside swears from outside, but I don’t give a damn. Even though I know what they mean.
What I can’t stand is the spilling, entirely breaking its usual pattern. It made today’s soup mix with yesterday’s, spoiling the memories I wrote on the ground, already dried.
“Get out of there, you beast! You damn little beast,” I say. A rat steals the bean grain that I placed as a period in last week’s last sentence. It was written with rotten soup over the ground, but now it is destroyed.
While running away, that rat tramples over my carefully planned letters. For every one of them you kill, three other spawn. You can never kill enough of them.
But something else catches my attention.
“Who is it?” I say. Nobody responds. “Who is it?” I repeat. Nobody comes.
I hunch down and start scrawling on the ground with today’s soup. I need to let the truth out. Writing is my only alternative for putting it out.
They never allowed me to have pen and paper. They don’t want to truth to be told.
But I´ll tell it. I´ll tell it anyway.
Chapter 1
I turned the phone on to catch up with the latest news.
People were already leaving their seats, huddling to form lines up and down both aisles on the airplane. I took the flight in Atlanta, but instead of flying nonstop to Rio, we changed planes in Panamá. The connection that should have taken two hours lasted for six and a half. According to the flight crew, some extra inspection was needed due to a “strange electrical issue” with the airplane taking us to Rio.
We landed in Rio late—but safely. When I turned my phone on, a system message flashed across the screen: “Sim card not allowed in this region”.
I had forgotten to pick up the Global Sim Card provided by my employer, Johnson & Brothers Co, from over my desk.
Before leaving, I had been told that Carlos, a local driver, would give me a ride to Praia Palace. A fancy hotel my boss, Joanne, had arranged before sending me to Brazil—and that was how she persuaded me to face Rio in February, when summer hits its peak. Because of the delay, I knew the chances of having someone waiting for me upon my arrival were slim at best. Especially with an aged man like Carlos who, according to Joanne, had bladder control issues.
“Don’t be startled if he eventually pulls over to take a whizz,” Joanne had said.
If I wanted to reach the hotel, I would have to rely on my Portuguese skills, which were more likely to leave me starving before ordering a sandwich, let alone articulating directions to a taxi driver. After becoming an avid Uber rider, I’d probably have issues explaining my destination to a taxi driver even in Atlanta.
After a muffled thud, the airplane doors opened and people started shuffling down the aisles. I stared at the moving line, craving for a spot in it.
I wiggled over the economy seat and reached for the overhead compartment, the line shut for seated strangers. As Joanne had said, “Johnson & Brothers is operating on a low budget.Whatever neck pain you happen to catch on the flight will disappear as soon as you reach Praia Palace Hotel. You better thank our partners for snatching a room there, free of cost for us.”
Johnson & Brothers Co. being on the verge of bankruptcy was not news to me. I felt such an argument was a ploy to guilt me into staying at the cheapest hotels around the world. The flight to Rio followed the same patterns of my previous international flights on behalf of the company: small seats on big routes. My job was to write reviews about new products and prospects regarding the gun industry—I hate everything about my job except writing. But Praia Palace Hotel was too great an opportunity to pass up.
When a Brazilian woman, full of gray hair and wrinkles, held the line behind her, I promptly hopped in. She must have sensed impending dispair coming out my face.
I gave her a slight
