Fractured Dreams Read online

  Fractured Dreams

  Fractured Lands Book 5

  By Greg Alldredge

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, 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.

  ISBN: 9781095856819

  Contact the author at

  [email protected]

  @G.Alldredge on Facebook

  @MrAlldredge on Twitter

  greg.alldredge on Instagram

  © 2019 Greg Alldredge

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art by Ryn Katryn Digital Art.

  Melinda Campbell, Copyeditor

  www.MCEdits.com

  To everyone that started reading this story, I hope it fills your dreams or nightmares.

  Chapter 1, Captain Dusty:

  Chapter 2, Rachel Morris:

  Chapter 3, Kanika:

  Chapter 4, The Spy:

  Chapter 5, Alegria Walks on Earth:

  Chapter 6, Della Villa:

  Chapter 7, Zorra Villa:

  Chapter 8, Saunders Coleson:

  Chapter 9, Captain Dusty:

  Chapter 10, Louie Hicks:

  Chapter 11, Della Villa:

  Chapter 12, Rachel Morris:

  Chapter 13, Zorra Villa:

  Chapter 14, Hope Shoemaker:

  Chapter 15, Angel James:

  Chapter 16, Kanika:

  Chapter 17, Father Cole:

  Chapter 18, The Spy:

  Chapter 19, Hope Shoemaker:

  Chapter 20, Chastity Shoemaker:

  Chapter 21: Six

  Gods of the Shards:

  Chapter 1, Captain Dusty:

  Dusty looked out over the natural bay the reef created next to his prison. When Zar ships caught him in the open, his desire to outrun them ran his ship aground, and his crew paid for his arrogance. Now he was a sailor without a ship stranded on a tiny uninhabited spit of land. Lucky to still be alive, he feared in no time he would follow his crew to a grim death.

  If he were a godly man, he would have blessed the twin of Harper for saving him from the Zar bastards and their killing squads. He wasn’t a religious man, why should he care for the gods when it was obvious they cared little for men like him.

  They never did a damn thing for him, so he would do little for them. The only one worth a shit in his eyes was the crazy bitch Sinead, the goddess of death. The only good he found in her was keeping his men in line by playing lip service to her, giving her a sacrifice from time to time.

  After the attack, he barely made it ashore alive, washed semi-conscious to the rocks with the bodies of his men who drowned in the surf or worse. Those few that survived their time in the water found themselves fired upon by the Zar ships. They were ruthless and relentless in their attack. After the bodies washed ashore, sailors were sent after them to spear them where they lay on the rocks. None were taken alive. If Dusty hadn’t found a small natural cave to hide in, he would have died on the rocks with his men. However, the gods displayed a sense of humor and kept him alive to starve to death.

  Zar even pulled the remains of his ship off the rocks, leaving little wood to build a makeshift raft with. The Rambler died, and the Zar bastards carted her bones away, broke her up, and hauled her carcass onto their decks. If she’d been left behind, Dusty might have built a small raft and tried to reach the shipping channels out in the deeper water. As it was, he didn’t even have wood to start a signal fire.

  With no food or water, he knew his time to survive on this slip of rock was going to be short. He could make do without the comforts of home, but the bare necessity of food and water would make life impossible.

  The wind shifted and now blew from the south. With the cold wind came the rains. That gave him hope. With some fresh water, he at least stood a chance. He found puddles large enough to drink from in the downpours. All sorts of crustaceans scrambled out of the cold fresh water and were gobbled up by Dusty. They tasted like shit, and Dusty grew certain they would feel like a pinecone coming out the other end, but they gave him some much-needed protein. Every little bit he needed to survive.

  The south wind kept blowing in, and eventually, flotsam washed up on the rocks near Dusty’s location. He stashed every bit of wood above the high tide line. Every scrap of fiber was hauled to a dry place under the boulders to let it rest until needed. Without tools, it would take all his know-how to build a raft large enough to take him off this barren shard.

  Dusty made a living on the cracks. He’d witnessed everything the water could throw his way, but this wind was different. Not only did it blow in a strange direction for so long, but the gale carried along a huge amount of debris with it.

  Out beyond his line of sight, massive battles must be taking place, and he stood on the sideline, like a wallflower waiting to be asked to the dance. He cursed the gods for taking him out of this fight.

  His only thought after death was the amount of booty his competitors were making by killing the Zar merchants and their mercenaries. If he ever caught Mayor Villa, he would skin the woman alive before he threw her remains to the dogs. That bitch and her bastards of a family must die.

  In Dusty’s eyes, his lifetime of bad choices was now her fault. Pity he didn’t know she was already dead.

  The day a bundle washed ashore, Dusty was certain his luck had changed for the better. It hadn’t. He popped open the bundle, careful to not damage the oilcloth covering, and was surprised to find a bundle of vine stored inside.

  Dusty had never been one to abuse the narcotic effects of the weed. He’d seen plenty of other men waste their lives deep down a pipe, their lives turned to smoke as they puffed themselves into a dream world.

  The oilcloth wrapping could be fashioned into a makeshift sail, where he could catch at least part of the southern wind and control his direction of travel, if not his destination.

  He threw the dry weed aside and started fashioning his escape craft’s hull. Lashing the boards to one another proved easy enough. On the other hand, his course to get off this shard would take great deliberation.

  Chasing treasure, Dusty took the Rambler deep into the waters controlled by Zar. He knew if he headed north, he was more likely to find the same fleet that sank him. His safest course would be south, but with the steady wind blowing into his face, it would be hard to tack a raft into the wind. Not just hard, near impossible. Perhaps the best course would be to let the southern wind drive him north and hope to be picked up by a crew that didn’t know him.

  He would need to think of a tale of shipwreck that didn’t involve him running his ship aground while being attacked by the forces of Zar.

  In the past, Dusty proved an accomplished liar. He was certain he could think up something. He would head north and take his chances with Harper, the god of fate.

  He refused to risk a fire even if the wind and rain made him miserable while he worked. The chances of being found by a passing Zar ship caused him an unhealthy deal of stress. He would sleep inside his small cave out of the rain. The ropes and vine he’d salvaged were stuffed in the rear giving him something soft to sleep on. He wasn’t sure if sleeping on the drug would be safe, but his body ached from the sharp rocks.

  His arms pulled a huge bundle of the dried drug up around his head for a pillow, and he drifted off to sleep. At some point in the middle of the night, he opened his eyes. The light from the twin moons remained obscured by the clouds, the rain never stopped. Instinctively, Dusty
knew he was not alone. There sat a darker shadow between him and the mouth of the cave. He reached for his sword as slowly as possible.

  A male voice called out from the dark. “That will do you no good.”

  A female voice followed with, “If we wanted you dead, you would not be here now.”

  The hair on the back of Dusty’s neck stood on end. He’d never heard these voices before, but they seemed somehow familiar.

  A spark of light flashed at the far end of the cave. The male figure held his burning finger over a pipe, lighting it with the tip. The female figure sat impossibly close to him, two heads sharing one body.

  “Harper?” Dusty asked.

  “For someone that—” the female started.

  The male picked up mid-sentence, “Doesn’t believe, you came to that—”

  “Conclusion quick enough.”

  Dusty shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He looked at the piles of vine drug he’d held close to his face while he slept. Maybe that wasn’t such an outstanding idea. “I never said I didn’t believe in you, I said you don’t care what happens to us.” With little choice in this dream state, he sat up wanting, to face the god of fate face to faces.

  The twin god of Harper spoke to Dusty together now. “An ill wind is coming from the north—”

  Dusty cut in, “I know all about Zar and what the bitch of a mayor is doing.”

  Harper’s voice grew rough when they spoke, “Don’t interrupt us. We are not talking about Zar, we speak about Perdition. The leader of that failed city is about to make a decision that will ruin this land for everyone. You must travel north and join the fight against Hope Shoemaker.”

  Dusty lowered his head into his hands. He suffered few dealings with Perdition. As far as he knew, the city supported the slavers and should be considered one of his largest customers… down the supply chain that is. He never sold directly to the end-users. He liked to keep his hands fairly clean. He looked back up and watched as the male head sucked in a mouthful of smoke and the female head exhaled it. “What could a city so far north do to inflame the gods of fate? I have no dealings with the city or its leadership.”

  Both heads shook and said as one, “Just as the gods are real, demons are as well. Normally they have little access to the people of the world unless they are invited into a host. Hope is about to invite a whole world of pain onto her people and, in effect, upset the balance of power in this world. If she isn’t stopped, the humans of this land will become shells for the demons to possess, and all will end badly.”

  “That does sound bad, but tell me, how do I know this is not a drug-fueled dream? How do I know this is not my conscience playing with my mind over the loss of my ship and crew?” His voice grew louder as he continued. “Maybe I feel bad about the people I have sold into slavery over the years, and this is my way of dealing with the fact I am an evil man. How do I know any of this is real?” Spit flew from his lips by the time he finished his tirade.

  The twins waited until Dusty’s rant ended. “Would you agree with the chances of you surviving a trip on that raft of yours high? Do you think you will live long enough to see a rescue?”

  Dusty knew this could be his mind playing tricks on him. He was certain he didn’t want to agree to anything while under the influence of the vine. “I am an accomplished sailor. I should stand a better-than-average chance of making it to safety.”

  A new voice came from outside the cave. “You’re fucking crazy.” It was hard to understand, like it came from the depths of the water, bubbles gurgling out with each word.

  The sound of the voice affected Dusty in a way he didn’t think possible. He lied to himself for so long he began to believe the shit he shoveled to others. He knew that voice. It came from the goddess of death, speaking to him from the water.

  Sinead taunted him. “You will never see dry land if you fail to agree with Harper.”

  “Fuck me, it seems I have little choice. If I make it safe off the cracks, I will do what I must to stop this ruler of Perdition. What was her name again?” Dusty wasn’t sure if it was wise to ask the gods for the name again, but he doubted his sanity at this point. He only wanted to wake from this drug-induced dream state.

  “You need to stop Hope Shoemaker. It isn’t that hard of a name to remember,” Harper spoke as one.

  Sinead gurgled out, “Hope Shoemaker.”

  “Hope Shoemaker,” Dusty parroted as he laid his head back on the pile of dried vine. His dream ended as abruptly as it started.

  In the morning, he opened his eyes and shook his head. “All a dream,” he mumbled. He pushed the weeds away from his face. He could tell it was still overcast, but the light of morning shined into his little cave.

  He crawled out. It was light enough to finish building his raft and take his ass off this haunted slab of rock. He froze as he neared the exit. Scratched on the low wall of his shelter were the words “Hope Shoemaker” in charcoal. It seemed the gods did not want him to forget their message.

  “Fuck me…” he grumbled. Life was about to become more complicated.

  Chapter 2, Rachel Morris:

  Rachel and the survivors of the dojo made it into the town of Cliffside. Darkness chased them into the streets. The few homes that sat on the outskirts of the cliff edge had been long abandoned before the group arrived. She could see little in the way of preparations for an attack.

  The magistrate started shouting orders before they reached the city proper. Rachel shook her head. There was no way this town would survive an attack. All the defenses built by the town faced toward the sea. Even with the war raging on the far side of the island, little had been done to defend against an attack from the mountains. Now the inhabitants were about to become victims of their hubris.

  With no walls, no towers, and not a single hardened position to defend, the flat of the cliff that overlooked the town was a loss. Rachel could see no way to save this part of town. The people that lived there must have felt the same way and deserted their homes and farmsteads at the first sign of trouble.

  “If we survive the night, can I borrow your horse? I want to check on your home…” What Rachel really wanted to check on was to see if Lane survived the night. She cared little for the home of the rich woman who owned their souls for the next few months. She wasn’t even sure she owed a check to the strange older priest she’d saved from himself too many times to count. Perhaps she was more curious if the monsters were stopped by the wall, by the men too far gone to travel. If they could keep the horrors at bay through the night, there remained a chance for the citizens of this town.

  The older woman looked down from her horse. “If we are still here in the morning, you can ride out and reconnoiter the area. We need to learn the size of the force that we face. We need to learn if they travel during the daylight. We need to learn what we face.” She slipped off her mount, her boots slopping in the puddles. She handed Rachel the reins. “Look after her tonight. I am going to get this city ready to defend…”

  Rachel was surprised she didn’t add, “If I can.” Perhaps the words were unspoken. Standing on the cliff, Rachel looked down at the bay below and the fishing vessels that sat anchored waiting for their crews. There were not nearly enough boats to evacuate the city. When the attack came, it would be fight or die. Rachel could see no way out from that fact.

  No help came from Zar. Rachel was in no position to even know if the word had been sent about the attack on the outlying settlements or if the town was going to face this new threat alone. She was more ignorant than the farmers that died in the first wave of attacks, and now she held the reins of a horse to watch over. As far as Rachel was concerned, it was going to be a long night.

  She was not far from the tavern where she and Lane first met the citizens of the local community. If she hadn’t been so eager to start a fight, Lane might still be alive.

  She shook her head. She would not hold herself responsible for his life choices. If she went down that path, her life
would devolve into a series of second guesses over her own life choices. Rachel was a fighter. She lived by a strange personal code of self-dependence. If Harper thought it was her time to die, there would be little she could do to stop the end from coming.

  At the tavern, she found the door closed and barred. Shutters on the windows made it hard to gain entry to the small single-room drinking establishment but not impossible. She broke open one of the shutters and wormed her way into the opening.

  She was surprised to find a keg behind the bar, but the real reason for her petty crime was a shelter for the night. The horse needed protection, and it would make her heart warm to use the place she was arrested in. A little horseshit would do the place good.

  A quick search and she found nothing to eat. The keg of beer beckoned to her. If tonight was going to be her last night on the earth, she might as well go out in style. However, she did force herself to wait until sunset. Better to be sober if anyone came to check on her rather than toes up drunk.

  The sun set. The smell of smoke drifted over the fields, mixing with the fog that hung at ground level. If this was the time the creatures attacked, the atmosphere was perfect for a horror story.

  It became difficult to ignore the grumble coming from her stomach. Better to go and test the vintage of the ale left behind rather than alert every creature in earshot where she and her horse waited the night away.

  One sniff and she understood why, of all the kegs once stored in this tavern, this one had been left behind. There was barely enough alcohol in the mix to catch a whiff of it. The mixture sat little more than mash. Rachel needed to drink it through her teeth to keep the grain out of her stomach, and even then, she failed. It was better suited as feed for animals than human consumption. It only took a moment to find a flat basin, into which she poured a healthy serving of the slop for the horse.

  Rachel watched the fields from a crack in one of the shutters. The fog and smoke made it hard to see, but she was able to pick out the unmistakable glow of farmsteads burning in the distance. From this distance, it was impossible to tell who had set the structures on fire.