Free Red Widow (Vivian Xu, Book 1) by Nathan Wilson

a glimpse at the secrets
of former tenants. Behind a rickety door, she found an abandoned
painter’s studio. Jagged designs of black and red veined the
central canvas. Other paintings were stained with crosses or
shadowy faces with indistinguishable features. Paintbrushes lay in
a tar-like puddle on the floor.
    The same oceanic glow in the lobby
tainted the third floor, pulsing to Vivian’s footsteps.
    An orgy of cockroaches seethed on the
windows, their scaled backs gleaming behind opaque curtains. A few
would scatter to admit a sliver of sunlight, but the rustling of
barbed legs would snuff out that light as quickly as it slipped
through.
    The sound of their greedy claws grew
louder until it filled the crevices in her brain. Vivian clapped
her hands over her ears. She had to escape this deranged labyrinth
and its concert of horrors. She plodded down the hall and
immediately thrust the door open.
    The shriek of exploding metal greeted
Vivian. She screamed as three blades swung toward her
belly.
    Not a sound echoed throughout
Grigorshire.
    Vivian sprawled on the floor,
quivering in her sweat. The blades floated just above her,
extending from the room like probing fingers. Dizzy with
adrenaline, she climbed back to her feet. A body lay directly
inside the room, splayed on the moldering carpet. She wanted to
turn and run, but something compelled her to approach. This was the
first time she had ever been this close to death.
    Vivian glanced at the serrated blades
rigged to the door and again at the cadaver steeped in blood.
During the riots, militant tenants would sometimes hole up in their
apartments and lie in wait for the police. They rigged booby traps
to doors in hopes of killing those who tore apart their
families.
    This tenant had obviously succumbed to
his own device. A rifle was positioned at the window within perfect
view of the city square. During those weeks of racial tension,
sniping proved the most common tactic for repelling the
police.
    The sight of that rifle evoked a
memory she simply could not suppress.
    She was transported to that moment
twelve years ago when she landed in the back of the van. Vivian
closed her eyes as she buried her face against her mother’s bosom.
The engine rumbled as her home faded into the backdrop of torched
cars and tendrils of smoke. Where were these faceless strangers
transporting her family? To an internment camp?
    A rancid stench hit the back of her
throat, making her tongue fold against the roof her mouth. It
invaded her sinuses, a smell nearly as sweet and acrid as charcoal.
Burning flesh.
    Through the saturating darkness,
Vivian slowly reared up.
    “ Get down, Vivian!” Her
mother lunged for her. Vivian gazed star-struck out the window as
the devastation reeled by in a theatrical montage of slaughter and
despair. “ Vivian! ”
    Something black caught her attention
out of the corner of her eye, and she turned. A dark vehicle was
barreling down the rustic alley.
    Vivian’s body flew through the air as
a monstrous force slammed into the passenger’s
compartment.
    Sniper fire rained down on the van,
tearing through the driver’s unarmored throat. Vivian cried out as
the van veered onto the curb, bouncing violently before plowing
into the front window of a shop.
    “ Down! ” her father yelled, throwing himself on top of her like a
live grenade.
    Screaming glass showered the dead
driver, drowning out the sound of their cries. Several minutes
dragged on as Vivian huddled with her parents in the wreckage. The
back of the van flung open to reveal five masked men toting assault
rifles. Vivian shrank with a scream as they reached inside to haul
her mother into the streets.
    “ Into the sewers!” one of
the refugees barked.
    She scratched at their fingers until
her mother cupped her tear-stained face in her hands.
    “ Come with us now, Vivian!”
she pleaded, staring into her daughter’s eyes. “The police will be
back for us soon.”
    Vivian pulled away,
wondering what her