Free Mutiny by Artist Arthur

Chapter One
    You are here…
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    I’m looking down at the ground, which isn’t really the ground at all. It’s some sort of shiny black surface that feels squishy under my sneakers. At first I thought it was quicksand, but since I’m still standing and not sinking into some gooey substance I guess that assumption was wrong.
    Anyway, this is a different place than the cold dark den where I was before. A reaper grabbed me without saying a word, and dropped me off here just as casually as he did when he’d snatched me. Of course his people skills sucked!
    I’m not going to move from this spot, because I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing here. Logic says this is not earth, but my fear and heart palpitations say maybe I shouldn’t be standing still but running instead. But running where? I’m not sure.
    You are here
    Those three words, like the red arrow on the shopping mall directory that tells you where you are in the maze of department stores and food courts, keep resonating in my head. Well, I don’t see a red arrow anywhere, but I feel like I am here .
    But where is here? That’s the million-dollar question I’m waiting for an answer to.
    â€œYou are not dead, if that is what you mean,” says a deep voice from out of nowhere.
    I turn around slowly, but I’m not prepared for what I see. If I thought the reaper was freakin’ weird, this thing is totally off the charts. It’s just a huge black cloak that hovers above the ground. No hands, no feet, no face, just the cloak. Behind the cloak is a big plume of black smoke that makes my bladder weak. The cloak moves and floats kind of like it has a body, a physical form, but it has no features, like ears, eyes, a nose or a mouth, that would make me think it’s a living, breathing thing.
    What did I do to end up in this nightmare?
    â€œWhere am I?” I ask, since that seems like the most reasonable question.
    â€œYou are in Trance,” says the voice.
    â€œI’m guessing that’s not in Connecticut, huh.”
    â€œIt is the realm where you await your final fate,” he continues. “Some are sent to Hades—the land of the dead.”
    â€œWhoa, did you say Hades?
    â€œHades is for the dead,” the disembodied voice says. “Trance is where you wait until your destiny is decided.”
    I nod. “I get it,” I say, trying to mask my fear. “I’m, like, in between worlds.” Of course I don’t get it. What the hell? Why am I here? I think to myself.
    â€œSo why am I here in Trance?”
    â€œYou have been chosen to help me in my quest to fulfill my destiny,” is the ominous reply from the cloaked specter.
    Is this thing…serious? No, none of this is serious. It’s gotta be a dream, and my alarm clock is going to ring and wake me up in a few seconds—hopefully.
    â€œLet me get this straight, you chose me to come here,” I ask, using my arms to indicate the large expanse of nothing that surrounds me, “to help you find your destiny?”
    Do I sound incredulous? Probably, since I cannot believe this is really happening to me.
    The cloaked figure, bounded by smoke, moves and reaches out, I guess, to avoid enveloping me in its darkness? Is this for real?
    â€œI chose you because you can help and you are connected.”
    â€œConnected to what? And just who are you?”
    â€œI am Charon,” he says, just before extending his arm as if he’s reaching for me. His gesture makes the cloak billow like a sheet, as the ground below shifts from the shiny blackness to an image—a mirage of some sort.
    There’s sunlight and asphalt, cars parked on a street and a school. It’s Settleman’s High. Kids are streaming from the doors like insects let loose on an ant farm. One tiny spec grabs my attention. It’s Krystal Bentley.
    She’s wearing a white skirt that floats around her thighs like