Instance Ch. 01

This science fiction story was started in November 2016. It's written from multiple points of view, primarily as the characters are introduced. This chapter, for those who care, doesn't contain any sex. However, the full book will contain sex scenes of the kind you may have come to expect [from me], as and where appropriate to the story.

The story:

After a series of strange events, Jackson and Brooke begin to suspect that the world they live in is not as it seems. With the help of their addiction support group, they start to piece together what may be happening, and then must decide if they want to tell the rest of the world...

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Jackson

On a still night in June, travelling at sixty down a rural road, Jackson Inglewood's car collided withi something solid and slid across the gravel, slamming into a power pole.

As the headlights cut tracks into a swirl of dust, Jackson pushed his car door open and stumbled out.

For a moment he was absorbed with simply being alive, but as the adrenaline drained, he looked for the cause of his accident. The ambient light from the headlights didn't penetrate far, but he could make out movement in the road ahead. Some kind of livestock milling in the middle of the road. The things he'd swerved to avoid.

He put a hand to his head and felt a wet gash there. When he lowered his hand, he found it dark with blood.

Scalp wound, he reassured himself. They always look worse than they are.

The creatures in the road kept moving, circling each other like patterns in a kaleidoscope.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, pressed a key to turn it into a torch, then turned the light towards the movement.

There were nine Dobermans in the middle of the road. Eight of the prick-eared beasts milled around the body of the ninth, flanks heaving, tongues lolling. They watched him warily as they paced restlessly inside an invisible boundary.

Jackson lifted his phone to take a photo, fumbling to switch the camera from front to rear-facing. He pressed the button.

A moment later, a rumble started in the ground. A breeze blew up, tugging at his clothes. The Dobermans stopped moving and turned to face into the wind.

With the sense of dread a drunk man feels discovering a truck bearing down on him, Jackson turned to look behind him.

Whatever the dogs saw, all Jackson could see was darkness.

The rumble grew louder, shaking the earth under his feet. Suction tugged at his stomach, and the wind grew into a roar, pushing him back towards the dogs. Then, with a sensation like all the air being sucked out of the world, the wind and the roaring stopped.

Silence. Silence so deep, Jackson wondered if he'd gone deaf. Slowly, he turned back to face the dogs.

They were gone.

He swept his light from left to right, looking for them along the sides of the road, but the only sign they'd been there was the dead animal in the middle of the road.

With shaking hands, he pulled a packet of cigarettes from his coat and tugged one out. He looked at it for a moment, then put it to his lips and lit it.

For a time he stood in the dark, the car's headlights cutting across an empty paddock, blood trickling down the side of his face, soaking the collar of his shirt.

His mind stayed silent, stunned, his thoughts a long way away.

Holding the smoke in his mouth, he turned in a circle, searching the darkness. A leaf tumbled past his feet, and his eyes followed it in a trance, his focus on the end-over-end-and-slide movement of it as it travelled across the gravel.

His eyes still caught on the leaf skittering into the darkness, he jolted as his mind came back online.

What the fuck just happened?

He shook himself out of his reverie and held up his phone, navigating back to the picture he'd taken earlier. It showed darkness, with eight sets of reflected eyes melted into light trails by movement, with an effect something like fireworks.

His vision dimmed and his head grew hot, spots floating in front of his eyes. He placed a hand on the car's roof to steady himself and took deep breaths to clear it.

When the dizziness passed, he Googled for a towing service and dialled a number.

"Hi. I've had an accident. Can you send a truck out? Hurt? Yeah, just me. I need a lift to A&E. Thanks." He checked his location on his phone and told the operator.

That done, he dropped into the front seat of the car, dragging hard on what was left of his cigarette. He finished it and flicked the butt onto the verge, a flare of orange in the darkness, an arc of light. A tiny firework.

His mind stayed caught on the Dobermans.

What the fuck just happened?

He pulled up the photo on his phone. Tried to enhance it, then realised it hurt his eyes to focus.

He gave up and leaned back against the car seat and closed his eyes, the phone resting in his lap. A moment later, the screen winked out.

Slowly, the car headlights dimmed, the only movement moth wings beating in those wedges of light, the only sound the tink of metal as it contracted in the cool night air.

Brooke

Brooklyn Davies turned right, and the white station wagon on her arse crawled around the corner after her. Bad, bad, bad. Unless you lived down here, there was no reason to turn into this street. It didn't go anywhere.

She drove slowly down to the end of the cul-de-sac and turned around. As she drew level with the station wagon, the man driving it stared at her as they passed each other. His round face was covered with stubble, and he was wearing a stained singlet. Probably a local. Had to be. Why else would he be here?

But as she reached the end of the street, he rounded the cul-de-sac and parked behind her at the intersection.

Get off my arse, you fucking weirdo!

She turned right and accelerated away, spinning the car into the first side street she saw, hoping to lose him in the rabbit warren of side streets and dead ends that made up her neighbourhood.

She sped to the end of the street, taking turns at random, doing her best to stay out of sight. Glanced in the rear view mirror. No sign of the white car. Glanced back.

Fuck!

She hauled on her brakes as she came up behind a blue hatchback slowing to a crawl to make a right turn.

Move your arse!

She glanced in the rear-view mirror again. Nothing. Yet.

As the car made its painfully slow turn, she turned with it, her car only a foot off its rear bumper. This was a ring road, the long way to her house. She wanted to make sure if the man following her did catch up, she'd have time to lead him away from the house again.

But as she and the hatchback both entered the side street, the car in front of her vanished.

Brooke slammed on her brakes, stopping in the middle of the road. There was no sign of the blue car. It just wasn't there anymore.

She put a hand to her forehead. Was she sick? Drunk? A glass of red shouldn't have made her drunk, but you never knew...

She glanced up as she caught sight of the white station wagon in her side mirror. It cruised past the end of the road and slowed as the driver spotted her.

Fuck! Stop fucking around, Brooke!

She jammed her foot on the accelerator as the white car braked and started to back up.

The ring road looped around in an arc, and she reached her house before the white car had her in view. She hauled her car into the driveway and drove down to the end, parking out of sight from the road.

She sat in silence, listening to the hush of her own breath.

For a tense few minutes, she waited to see if the white car would pull into her driveway. If it did, she figured she was safer in a metal box than outside of it. She unlocked her phone and held her finger above the keypad, ready to call emergency services.

Ten minutes later, there was still no sign of the car. She got out and let herself into the house, the blue car already forgotten.

Facing Addiction Together

Ana Jacobson unlocked the hall and flicked on the lights. The fluoros fluttered to life as her footsteps echoed across the wooden floor.

She took a couple of chairs from a stack against the wall and carried them to the middle of the room.

"Hey." A young guy put a hand around the door and stepped into the hall. She could tell he'd tried to dress up—had his best shirt on, although it looked as though he'd picked it up off the floor after last week's meeting.

"Give me a hand, will you Jax?" she said.

"Sure." He started moving chairs with her.

Over the next ten minutes, five more people arrived; four Ana knew, and one new face.

They sat in a circle and Ana smiled around at their pensive faces.

Jackson, her lost puppy. How he got through his day, she had no idea. She had the report from his referring psychiatrist, and knew what'd triggered his habit, but he'd never spoken about it in group.

Always cheerful, always enthusiastic, too often stoned. While most of her addicts managed to stay sober at least one day a week, Jackson struggled to be sober for hours at a time. Still, he was never cruel, always entertaining, and always attended group, regardless of the state of his health . She'd asked him to stay home if he was ill, but to date he'd given them all the flu twice.

She moved her attention to Ian. Ian was in his late forties, six foot two and muscular. His thinning hair was tied back in a ponytail, no facial hair except for a long goatee. Tattoos climbed out from under the tight sleeves of his muscle shirt and twined down his arms.

He didn't have much of a sense of humour, but he was a genuinely nice guy. He owned a kink club in town, and his addiction was to sex as much as coke. Right now, his focus was on Jackson, the younger man's eyes cast down as he toyed with a brass Zippo lighter. Today Jackson seemed disinclined to play, but Ana had seen him tease Ian when his sexuality swung that way; as it seemed to periodically. Though as far as she knew, that was as far as it went. Flirtation. Jackson enjoying the attention, Ian ever hopeful.

Ana smiled at Callie, a woman in her late twenties. She was busy checking her phone, answering a text. She was five foot five, each of her nails painted a different colour; fluoro yellow, pink, orange, green, and blue. Her manicure provided a splash of colour against her otherwise black active-wear. A mountain biking injury two years previous during a film shoot for GoPro had shattered two vertebrae, and now Callie's back was fused. Ana knew she still worked out as much as she could, but the woman had confided in her that every moment was agony.

Ana felt for Callie. The accident had stolen the woman's future at the height of her career. Now she ran an upmarket B&B, and killed her frustration with codeine and benzos. However she'd seen enough to know that Callie herself lacked empathy of any kind. Ana suspected the woman was a sociopath, but it was hard to tell. Addiction, she found, made everyone a sociopath.

Next to Callie sat Heavenly. Honestly, truly named that by her parents, Hev was a fifty-five year old woman who believed in alien abduction and conspiracy theories. She took any and every hallucinogenic she could lay her hands on to 'open her mind', and disagreed vehemently (with the court) that she had a drug problem.

In this instance, Ana sided with her. Hev wasn't addicted, she was just irresponsible. She'd come to the programme after being found driving on acid, raving about 'following a rainbow to the place past purple'.

And then there was Blake. Only Ana knew Blake's secret; that he was gay, and HIV positive. That he wasn't an addict at all, but couldn't bear to attend the HIV support group, he was so ashamed. The son of a friend, he came to her group to be around others where there was no judgement. Still in his early twenties, Blake was a shy boy who rarely made eye contact, except to steal glances at Jackson, who, again, seemed oblivious.

Ana wished she could hug the boy and make the shame go away. After all, it was only shame. With medication, there was no reason for HIV to affect his life. Well. Not in the way it had affected its victims when Ana was growing up. But she was glad he had this much.

Missing was Derek, a mid-twenties meth addict who Ana knew desperately needed the group's help. But of all her addicts, Derek struggled the most to keep his life together. She decided to give him a call after group to check on him. If he missed one more session, he'd be in breach of his parole, and she knew his access to his young daughter was on the line.

Her gaze moved to the new girl, wondering what her story would be.

"Welcome to Facing Addiction Together, the non-religious addiction support group with the hilarious acronym."

She gave them all a moment to smile, which they dutifully did. After all, the joke, such as it was, was intended for their latest member.

"It's really great to see you all here. I'm so proud of you all for making it through another week. And welcome to Brooke, who's joining us for the first time today."

Ana nodded towards Brooke, who looked to be in her early thirties. She was dressed in designer jeans and an oversized t-shirt; urban punk chic.

Her hair was short, dark, and sculpted to fall across her pretty face. The look in her eyes was quick and calculating. Ana suspected she was a lesbian, and noted with amusement that, judging by his obvious fascination with the woman, Jackson hadn't come to the same conclusion.

"Okay, we'll kick off. Does anyone want to start?"

Jackson put up his hand. "I ah... I fell off this week."

There was no surprise at this from his group-mates. It'd been weeks since he'd said anything else.

He shook his head. "Something really... really fucking strange happened, and I guess I lost it." He gave a self-deprecating laugh, raising a sad ghost of a smile from Ian.

The older man really did care for him, Ana could see it. But she was glad Jackson held back. A relationship between the two of them would be a disaster, given what she knew of Ian's sexual depravity—and Jackson's good-natured naivety.

The group waited patiently for Jackson to carry on. No one asked what had happened. He would tell as much or as little as he wanted to, and the others knew to wait. Only Ana would prompt him, and she would only do so if he used his time to socialise, instead of dealing with the reason he was there.

"So, I was driving back down the coast last Friday night, and I hit something."

Brooke winced. "An animal?"

Jackson froze, seeing her expression, and seemed to reconsider finishing his story. But Ana knew he'd keep going. After all, he had Brooke's attention.

"There was a dog. Dogs."

The group waited. But Brooke was new. "Was it okay?"

"Brooke, love, we don't ask questions when someone's speaking," said Ana.

Brooke nodded. "Okay. Okay. Got it."

Jackson balanced the Zippo against his thigh as he spoke.

"I didn't hit any of the dogs, but I think someone else must have. But that wasn't the weird part. The weird part was that there were nine of them."

"Nine?" asked Brooke, then remembered the rule. "Sorry. Go on."

Ana smiled at her.

"Yeah, nine Dobermans, if you can believe it. They were all just milling around in the middle of the road—like they were stuck there."

He had a full audience now, but he was telling his story to Brooke.

"They looked as if they were trapped by an invisible fence," he said. His pupils dilated as he entered storytelling mode and the group became his campfire. He started telling the story with his hands.

"So, I hit a power pole, and when I get out, there's all these dogs in the middle of the road—and then this—" He held his hands parallel to the ground, his thumb holding the Zippo against his palm as he mimed pushing down an invisible force, his eyes locked to Brooke's. "—this rumble comes up, and they all spook into the wind, like they can see something coming. And then—," he makes a 'ffft' sound with his mouth and spreads his hands. "I turn back and they've disappeared. Just gone."

Brooke looked as if staying silent was causing her physical pain.

Jackson's eyes had a crazy joy in them as he said, "I got a photo though. If anyone wants to see."

He sat back in his chair, triumphant, automatically reaching for his cigarettes, despite being unable to smoke inside the hall. Realising this, he glanced down at the packet and pushed it back into his pocket.

He gave Brooke a grin, and Ana could see that if the other woman gave him any encouragement at all, he would hold the floor all night.

It was time to bring him back to the reason he was there.

"So, Jackson, you mentioned that you fell off the wagon this week—was it just drink?"

The light left his eyes. He was less fond of this part than he was of telling them all the tales of his life.

"And pot."

At least he's honest, thought Ana. It would be helpful to him in the long run. Most addicts lied, or at least bent the truth. But Jackson just admitted his failure, week after week, almost as if it were inevitable. That was the problem.

Ian gave the younger man an encouraging smile. "You'll do better this week." He reached across and squeezed Jackson's thigh.

"Yeah," said Jackson brightly. But Ana knew it was unlikely. The excuse could be a funeral or a particularly distressing episode of his favourite show. Either way, Jackson would get wasted. And as long as he continued to get wasted, he wouldn't deal with what had brought him to the group in the first place.

Ana suspected this was his haven, as much as it was for Blake. Jackson had no intention of getting clean, but he needed a place he could be without judgement. A reason to put on that wrinkled shirt and leave the house. A reason to keep going.

"What's your goal for this coming week, Jackson?" Ana asked. She always used his full name when she wanted him to apply some introspection.

Jackson looked down sheepishly at the lighter in his hands, and slumped down further in his chair. In truth, Ana believed his body language mirrored his subconscious internal struggle—but Ana knew the man was only aware of acting contrite. Whatever it took to get through this part of the meeting.

"Don't throw myself under a bus."

Trapped like this, his 'th' came out as an 'f', a remnant of a childhood spent in London.

Around the circle, the others laughed quietly, as he intended them to. But Ana didn't intend to let him joke his way out of the work they were there to do.

"You've been struggling now for a while, haven't you?" she asked gently. "Five weeks without spending more than a few days sober. What do you think will help you stick to your goals this week?"

Jackson swallowed. Ana could see him balk at even considering the things that were holding him back.

"Have you found another job?" she asked. Group wouldn't do anything for him unless he genuinely started to care about getting well.

He shook his head.

"Have you been looking?"

She could see from his expression of intense frustration that this was most likely the trigger for his relapses. He'd been out of work for months now, and every month he stayed unemployed put him lower on a prospective employer's list.

"Yeah. Yeah, I have," he said. He scratched his neck distractedly, finding stubble there, and rubbed his palm across it. "No luck."

"You can always come work up at the club," offered Ian, and Ana shot him a glance with a small shake of her head. Serving alcohol? No.

"That's okay, mate, there's work out there. I just have to find it, don't I?" Jackson glanced up. "Someone else can go now."

Ana considered pushing him, but decided others deserved their turn. She leaned forward and Jackson's eyes met hers.

"We'll talk about your SMART goals after group, yes?"