Free Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller by David C. Cassidy

plunked it down in front of his plate. “I’ll just shut up then.”
    “It’s fine,” Kain said. “It’s fine.”
    Another lie, a small white one, but what choice had he now? He only prayed he could seal this can of worms before it spilled over, and they slithered in every direction.
    “Well … you heard him,” Big Al said. “Go ahead, get it outta your system. Ask him what it’s like on Mars.”
    Georgia cast him a look that said, Keep it up, if he wanted to spend a week on the sofa. Big Al spread some jam on his toast, took a bite, and chewed quietly.
    “Ask away,” Kain said. “I’m pretty well an open book.”
    The woman set her cup down as she turned to him, her color brightening. “You’re sure? I know sometimes I can come off as … well, I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that I’ve never—”
    “Just ask.”
    She nodded, then placed a weathered hand over his. It was warm, surprisingly soft. She had the same baby blues as his mother, and they glistened just as brightly.
    “Is it as nice as they say in Florida?”
    ~
    A bullet dodged, he finished breakfast and worked well into the evening, thanking Big Al twice for letting him borrow the flatbed. He hadn’t asked to borrow it, and letting was definitely the wrong word; Big Al had insisted after Kain had insisted he couldn’t impose another night. It was a complete sign of trust, something he wasn’t used to, and he promised to be in the next morning with the other hands. The farmer had joked that he’d darn well better, because how hard could it be to find a drifter with long hair and birthmarks like that.
    He came to a crossroad and waited for a car to pass. As the dust began to settle, he gripped the wheel a little tighter. He’d been anxious all day.
    He shouldn’t be so troubled; the road had hardened him. But the truth was, he liked it here. The air and the fields. The work and the Hembruff’s.
    But now—like the life that Brikker had taken from him—he could feel this slipping away.
    And— no.
    NO.
    He shut his eyes in a panic. His muscles compressed into hard wire; his skin went hot.
    He tried to fight it, tried to stop himself from slipping. But will was not with him. Not on this day.
    He was there again, in that dark and hellish hole, swallowed by shadows. Strapped in the chair like the animal he’d become.
    And there, beyond his screams, beyond the rapid fffft-fffft fffft-fffft of the machine, that mind-killing machine, he could hear it, that black and shapeless voice, and it scared the hell out of him.

~ 7
    Kain swallowed a real scream. His breathing came hard and aching. He couldn’t get his window down fast enough, in lust of a breeze that never came. The horn came again, rude and insane, and when he looked up in the rear-view, saw a dusty red pickup. Two had the cab, one the back, and it took a moment for him to recognize who they were. Part of the Tribe. The driver, Pete Ferguson, sat next to Nate Russell, but he couldn’t tell who was riding in back. It was either Keith Miller or Mike Bedard.
    He struggled to gather himself. Now they were hollering in laughter, one of them asking if the old geezer knew his way home. He crossed slowly, and as they raced past him, he saw it was Mike Bedard in back after all. The kid had his hands cupped in a makeshift bullhorn, shouting at him to get a horse. They left him in their dust.
    He had to pull over. His hands trembled. He slipped forward, pressing up against the wheel.
    Kain shut his eyes again.
    And prayed.
    ~
    He drove to the hotel without further incident. Famished as he was, sleep was a deeper hunger, and he had planned to skip dinner and slip right into dream. But his plans had gone awry. Henry Roberts had rented his flat. There were no vacancies at all, Henry told him, not until next week at the earliest, and he wasn’t renting out Five until he rode up to Milton’s Hardware for a new door. Henry thought he might have gotten away with a replacement lock, but he’d