Free Splintered Energy (The Colors Book 1) by Arlene Webb Page A

Mom lurked, he had to find her. He didn’t feel right, leaving Kevin and Tim to die. Filtered through the chaos of sound, he could still hear as they waited to “hitch” a ride, worried they couldn’t tell anyone about the demon-red-man.
    It seemed all these fragile creatures needed protection, but were so afraid of him,  he wanted to be the one killing them, instead of this Mom angry about a dead window.
    Maybe the psych unit could teach him how to control the commotion assaulting his ears, and he could track Mom easier. For now, he’d stop thinking. Close out the racket within a tolerable radius before his head blew up.
    A bottle rested in the cup holder. Careful, gentle—the stupid holder broke, and the water bottle crushed. No opening? Not like he had forever to figure this out. He bit. Plastic tasted wrong. He sniffed—good water. He choked the water free from the vessel and into his mouth. Was that how he should escape? Leak out with his head off? He’d be taken, like he took the water. The answer was velocity.
    Why couldn’t he make the car cooperate?
    A pretty light faced him, and he pressed the brake pedal. The crumble that resulted felt as familiar as the rush of rage. When the light turned ugly-green, he coaxed the wheels to turn as fast as they would. He maneuvered around vehicles, aware the Mom-car would no longer stop.
    He spun under the I-10 EAST image, not even close to the momentum he wanted, but he didn’t know what else to do. Some instinct bothered him. It seemed important to head this direction. The further he got, the stronger the feeling grew.
    Occasional pretty lights made him happy, but he’d come to understand everything beautiful had a flaw. Flashing, loud sirens always tried to follow.
    To his joy, as he finally closed in on the next cluster of over a million lights, he discovered the knob that raised the music level before it crumbled. Then, to his screaming frustration, the Mom-car slowed without him telling it to, and he rolled to a stop. Even with the gas pedal smashed through the metal, it refused to move, and he abandoned the dead vehicle.
    He ran, feeling some measure of release from the swirling irritation. He loped around or jumped over obstacles. Many ugly shelters were everywhere. An open pretty car pulled out from an area contaminated with color. It contained only one creature. Harmonic music spilled from the vehicle.
    Damon needed answers, and the alien place, maybe named TUCSON 12 KM, hid something. Fragile or not, this creature would talk.
     
    * * *
     
    The driver slammed on his brakes. “Whoa. Be careful. I almost hit you.” The man had long, bright red hair, and his skin color suggested he’d escaped from a circus for Crayola.
    Without a shirt, wearing shades at 2 AM, the aggressive redhead strode closer. “Damon needs help. Take to psych unit.”
    “I don’t think so, buddy. I have to get home.”
    With an effortless leap, the man sailed over the hood of the open convertible and poured into the passenger seat. “Damon won’t kill. Damon will break arm, if don’t move to psych unit.”
    Images of his pregnant wife flashed through the driver’s mind. He flinched at the man sprawled beside him. Red skin looked like it flowed over pure muscle. No help in sight, except the teen stocking shelves with his back to the parking lot. “Okay, man. Chill. Psych unit?”
    “Kevin said they help.”
    For the first time in his life, he wished he had a weapon. He threw the car in gear and headed out onto the four-lane. He couldn’t help gaping at the stranger. The man stared at the iPod. His tabs vibrated the dash in tune with Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons.
    “Music good. Thank you. Damon wants Mom. Psych unit teach?”
    “Ahh, sure. The hospital handles mom issues. Good luck with that. Damon, I’ve never seen an Amer-um, Indian with skin, I mean…why are you so red?”
    “Don’t know. Don’t know what Damon is.”
    He swallowed hard. “Weird. You know, this