Makeshift Justice, Part One

I'm working on three Spock-McCoy stories at present, but none of them are ready to post. (Maybe tomorrow?) Meanwhile, however, I present the first part of an original story. Yes, it was here before...but it desperately needed revising and improving! I think it's better now, lol.

As always, any feedback (even harsh constructive criticism) is more than welcome!

Makeshift Justice, Part One

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Fantasy; Short Story; Original Fiction

Rating: PG

Summary: In the ever-shifting world of the Dreaming, Rob finds himself trapped in the form of a six-year-old. Now he has to hope he can outwit the two men who want to make him pay for the crimes he committed as an adult…
~

I huddled in a dark corner of the room, nursing my wrist. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, but I was small enough now that they might overlook me. Eric and Jonah were searching for an adult—a thirty-something, like themselves. Not a six year old boy. Besides, I had a talent for keeping out of sight.

But I was damn near fainting from pain. They weren’t going to overlook me if I was sprawled on the floor.

I shut my eyes tight and reminded myself that this was all a dream. Nothing here was real. No one here could harm me. But I still felt the bile rising in my throat. And I could still hear the two men moving around downstairs, searching for me.

They knew me as an adult—they knew me before this God damned twisted dream slapped me back to my childhood. I ought to be able to fix that. I ought to be able to seize control of this dream. But that was beyond me. I still had the brains of an adult, but I was trapped in the body I’d had as a six year old. And that was the worst age I could remember…the time I’d been the most vulnerable.

I opened my eyes and furrowed my brow. I could hear them talking downstairs, their voices low. They must have searched all the rooms down there.

At least they didn’t realize that I was injured and unarmed. They would be over-cautious. That was something, I suppose.

I took a deep breath, wondering what other advantages I might have. I was here in this godforsaken, decrepit old house with two men who probably wanted me dead nosing around. My wrist was broken and useless. Worse, my ankle was throbbing and swelling up. I couldn’t walk; I could only hobble.

So much for advantages.

They’d be coming upstairs any moment. I had to decide what to do. I had no weapon at hand, nothing to attack them with. No way to defend myself. So my choices were either to stay hidden or…or make myself known. Well, why not? My appearance would shock them and keep them from doing anything rash. They wouldn’t kill someone who looked like a six-year-old.

They were on the stairs now—I could hear the steps creaking.

Damn it, which was the better choice? Even in this state, I could make sure they didn’t see me. As long as I didn’t faint. But then I’d be stuck here, injured and alone. How long could I fend for myself out in the middle of nowhere? This house had no electricity and no running water. Eventually the food and firewood would run out. And then what?

The creaking of the steps grew louder. Any second now.

I made my choice. I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the pain in my left ankle. I kept my hands in front of me, using my good hand to support my broken wrist. They would see right away that I was unarmed.

Eric reached the top step first. He was holding a semi-automatic pistol. His eyes widened as he saw me, but he checked around the room to make sure there was no one else before lowering the gun.

Jonah, meanwhile, stepped up beside him. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t armed. Well, why would he be? He didn’t need a weapon. He had other tricks up his sleeve.

Both men stared at me. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t find my voice. I ended up swallowing instead.

“Rob?” Eric asked at last.

I managed a nod.

“It is Rob,” Jonah said slowly, studying me. “I’d know those hazel eyes of his anywhere.”

“What the hell sort of trick is this?” Eric demanded.

I inhaled sharply. Eric’s not known for his patience under the best of circumstances. Right now he had his grey eyes trained on me, his muscles tensed up—and that black hair of his, coupled with his short black beard, was making him look satanic.

But Jonah was cocking his head at me, his eyes puzzled. “I don’t think this is a trick,” he said. “Rob’s not a shifter—I don’t think he’s done this on purpose.”

“Don’t count on it,” Eric said. “This is the Dreaming, remember? He might have learned how to change his appearance. This is a ploy for sympathy.”

“Well, ploy or not, something’s wrong with his wrist,” Jonah pointed out. “Let’s have a look.”

He crossed the room and crouched down in front of me, peering at me with what might have been genuine concern. I allowed myself a silent sigh of relief. Unlike Eric, Jonah doesn’t put me in mind of a crazed marine. He doesn’t radiate that ruthless, efficient determination.

I let him take my wrist in his hands and watched as he bent his head over it. I didn’t cry out as he examined the break—there was no way in hell I was going to let these two think I couldn’t stand the pain.

At length Jonah sighed. “It’s broken, all right. Rob, what happened to you?”

I had no intention of telling him the truth—I’d have to make up some story. But I still couldn’t find my voice. I clammed up instead.

Eric snorted. “Doesn’t look like he intends to talk. What a surprise.”

Jonah bit his lip at that, his dark eyes regarding me with that same puzzled look. “Can you set his wrist?” he asked.

Eric sighed as he put his gun back in its holster. “I suppose I can try. Come here, Rob.”

I obeyed him—there wasn’t much point in doing otherwise. I limped over to him, putting as little pressure as possible on my ankle. Eric frowned at that, but didn’t say anything. He just picked me up and set me down on an old, dusty table so that I’d be eye level with him. Meanwhile Jonah scrounged around for medical supplies.

This ramshackle house wasn’t well stocked, but Jonah came up with enough stuff to satisfy Eric, who got right to work on me. He doesn’t have a great bedside manner, but I’ll give him this much: he’s not a sadist. As far as I could tell, he didn’t go out of his way to hurt me.

To own the truth, I don’t remember much of it. I blacked out during the worst of the pain.

~

When I woke up, my wrist was set and bandaged as stiffly as possible. My ankle was bandaged up too. And I was bundled in blankets and settled into an old arm chair in front of one of the fireplaces on the first floor. There was a fire blazing there, warming up the room and providing a flickering, uneven light.

I bit my lip at this unexpected treatment. So Eric and Jonah didn’t mean me any immediate harm. They were probably waiting until they could figure out what had happened to me.

I sighed and sank further into the blankets. They had a reason to hunt me down. They held me responsible for the death of their friend, Maeve. I felt a stab of guilt as I conjured up a picture of her in my mind: carrot-top hair that was always in tangles, freckles and laughing eyes. Then I remembered her corpse, which I’d made sure to see for myself. Otherwise I would never have believed that she was gone.

I saw it a few hours before they buried her. I stood in the darkened room, staring down at her with a dim flashlight. I remember looking over my shoulder every other second. Eric would have strangled me if he’d found me there. But at length I calmed down. Her corpse, I noticed, was surprisingly in tact. It must have been the smoke that killed her, not the fire. Small comfort.

God damn it, I never even knew that she was in danger. It didn’t occur to me that she would meddle in my affairs.

I shivered suddenly, wondering what happened when you died in the Dreaming. Did you just open your eyes back in the waking world? Is that what happened to Maeve? I shook myself. There was no way to know the answer to that question—not without finding out personally. And I wanted to avoid that for as long as possible.

I forced my mind back to the present. Maeve was dead and buried. I was stuck here with my two worst enemies, with no way to know how long their sympathy would last.

I pushed myself up a bit and glanced around the room. I didn’t seen Jonah, but Eric was standing across from me, staring straight at me. He was leaning back against the wall with his arms folded over his chest.

“You ready to talk?” he asked.

I nodded, but I still couldn’t get any words out. I felt my stomach tighten as I remembered what it was like when I was six—what it was like to be trapped in silence, unable to speak to anyone but my closest family.

I would have to conquer this. Fast. Eric Guzmán wasn’t a guy to play games with. And he wouldn’t believe that I was trying to talk. And why the hell should he? He had no reason to trust me.

Eric cocked his head at me. “Jonah thinks you’ve gone through some kind of hell—something so traumatic that your dream form has reverted to childhood. Needless to say, I’m not buying it.”

I managed another nod. His skepticism wasn’t exactly unwarranted.

“But even if he’s right, that doesn’t change anything,” Eric continued. “It doesn’t change what you’ve done. It doesn’t change the fact that Maeve’s dead. So don’t expect my sympathy.”

I nodded yet again—there didn’t seem to be much else to do.

“We’re going to head out for the Inn tomorrow morning,” he went on, accepting my silence. “We’re bringing you along. If you try anything, you’re going to find yourself cuffed for the journey—broken wrist and all. Got that?”

I gave him one more nod. Nothing he’d said had come as a surprise.

The Inn was their home base. A number of dreamers inhabited it—all of whom had known Maeve. I’d guessed from the start that Eric and Jonah intended to bring me back there to face some sort of vigilante justice. Assuming they didn’t kill me outright, that is.

But it would take several days to reach the Inn. I had time to think up something.

Eric must have read my thoughts, because he was narrowing his eyes at me. “I mean it, Rob. Don’t try a damn thing.”

One more nod—this was getting tiresome.

He crossed over to me suddenly and crouched down in front of my chair. “Is there something physically wrong with you that’s preventing you from talking?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Are you too afraid of me to speak?”

I used my good hand to give him the finger as my eyes shot daggers at him. Bastard.

To my surprise, Eric grinned at my reaction. “I didn’t think so,” he owned. “I’ll say this much for you: I’ve never known you to be a coward.”

I didn’t respond to that. I just stared at him without bothering to disguise my hatred.

Eric nodded at that, making it clear that the feeling was mutual. “Good to see we understand each other,” he said, standing up. “Now get back to sleep,” he ordered. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”

Bastard, I thought again. He was deliberately ordering me around as if I were a child—and enjoying it too. I kept glaring at him, but there wasn’t much else I could do to him right now. So at length I closed my eyes and dreamed of revenge.