The Catalyst: Prologue

A towering oak tree swayed, reaching bare and gnarled branches to scrape along the tin rooftop of the ramshackle dwelling. Violent blasts of frigid wind battered the limbs, and there ensued a shrill screech that pierced the eerie silence. The raw obsidian sky loomed, and the full, yellow moon hung high and glorious with brightness, surrounded by a faint iridescent glow.

When the wind finally abated, a peaceful quietude embraced the forest, and Stella stepped cautiously out into the night to clear her frantic mind. She looked skyward, watching the falling snow as it cascaded to the frozen ground, drifting through the moon’s glow on its leisurely earthward spiral. When the flakes merged with the ground they did not disappear, but clung and united, fashioning a delicate, white shroud upon the landscape.

Stella hoped that the snow would hinder her pursuers but was astutely aware that it would impede her own group as well, and she didn't want to be stuck here waiting for death. She mouthed a soundless prayer to the universe that the snow would be a salvation and not a death sentence. She exhaled the final word of her prayer on a steamy breath.

Stella was sixteen years old and being the oldest made her the leader. All of the other girls looked to her for answers, but she didn’t have them.

She didn't want to worry the younger girls, but the truth was, she was terrified. She felt on the verge of a panic attack. She drew a long, unsteady breath in through her cold, red nose and then exhaled slowly through pursed lips to keep herself from hyperventilating. Her heart was pummeling the inside of her chest and she was overtly conscious of the blood rushing through her veins. A myriad of bottled-up emotions threatened to overtake her body. Her hands burned and ached from the persistent cold and her faded green pea coat did little to stop the chill from soaking to her bones. She had lost the feeling in her toes on the run from Pine Wood Holler, the little town that she and the other girls called home. She was becoming uneasy of the fact that the feeling had not yet returned to the big toe on her right foot, and the tip was beginning to look discolored. She would ask Shay to take a look at it in the morning.

She ran nervous fingers through her hair attempting to detach the twigs and damp, decomposing leaves that were entangled within the strands. Her hair had always been her pride, but it was really getting in the way. She made a practical decision in that moment to hack it all off. It would give her mind something to focus on other than her dead parents.

Stella reached her hand into the satin-lined pocket of her coat and clutched her father’s knife, running a thumb over the engraving of his initials, ‘RPH’, on the smooth bone handle.

Standing on the rotting porch, remembering the traumatic experiences that had led her to this run-down abode in the middle of the woods, a look of rage flashed across Stella's face, and she gritted her teeth until her jaw ached.

She started hacking strands of her hair off with her father’s knife, taking it off just above her ears. Clumps of black hair, saturated with debris from the forest, floated down to her feet. Her numb fingers fumbled the knife, and it slipped downward cutting into her cheekbone. The knife was sharp, and it was a deep cut, starting at her temple, curving around over her cheekbone and ending below her eye. Blood trickled freely down the right side of her face.

She stumbled down the steps and crumpled to the snow slick ground, feeling drained. This was an emotional pain that she felt, not physical pain. She didn't register the pain from the cut on her cheek. Crouched down on her haunches and hanging her head in despair and anger, she stared unseeing at the accumulating snow on the ground in front of her. The fresh fallen snow, the hot blood dripping from her cheek, and her salty tears commingled, causing a small vermilion blotch of slush and rising steam on the otherwise frozen tundra. She wondered if her rage could seep into the ground and linger there, cursing all who stepped foot on this tiny spot of Earth. A minuscule part of her broken soul wished that she could curse the entire world.

Stella rose up from the ground on trembling legs, her perspective altered. Her mother had always told her that you were allowed to feel sorry for yourself for five minutes, but when that time was up, you wiped your tears, straightened your crown, and handled the situation with courage. She had been forced into the role of leader, and that’s what she would do. She would see to it that the girls would grow up and she would help to shape them into the people they would need to be to survive this life that they were given. She would teach them to defy the tyrants and new enemies that had taken power of this country. She would teach them to show no mercy. They would grow to be warriors, and they would save as many other innocent people as they could along their journey to revenge.

Stella walked back up the molded and decaying wood of the front steps on her tiptoes. The porch consisted of loose plank boards that had turned black with moisture. There were large gaps where some of the boards were missing. The old house had appeared almost miraculously when the others had been about to give up. They had been running for almost seven hours, by that time and they were all exhausted, cold, dehydrated and starving; their clothes were soaked from the snow. The speed of their escape had slowed to almost a stop, and they had all commenced to stumbling and falling.

Stella hadn’t heard anyone chasing them since they had run into the woods at the county line, but she had kept running, nudged onward by fear and adrenaline. She didn’t think of her parents as much when she was in motion because she had to focus on where she stepped so she didn’t accidentally turn an ankle. So, she tried and tried to outrun her father’s dead eyes and her mother’s screams, until all of her energy was gone.

The house must have been cozy and inviting in the past, but now it was only a haunting hull of its old self. Faded yellow paint was chipped and peeling from the clapboard of the outside walls and every window was broken. The front door must have been a bright, cheery red long ago, but now it was a grimy pink. The roof was sunken in at the front left corner and the tin roof was corroded and rusted. At the side of the house an old wooden ladder lay rotting on the ground and gathering snow. Off to the side of the porch steps was a pile of dented and tarnished appliances that looked to have been thrown off the porch, not caring about damage. There were two washing machines, a microwave, and a stove with a film of grease and mold.

Stella wondered what had become of the former inhabitants. The cogs of her imagination started turning and she conjured up an imaginary family that she pictured had lived here. She imagined a mother chasing a toddler with bright pink bows in her hair around the front yard. Rosebushes bordered the porch with big fat bumble bees buzzing around them, collecting nectar on their tiny fuzzy legs. The sun shining down on the bright green grass of a well-cared for lawn and energetic birds chirping as they flitted from tree to tree. She imagined a tire swing hanging from the big oak tree in the front yard and squeals of laughter as a burly and bearded father pushed the little girl higher. The house bright and vibrant yellow with dark green ivy crawling up the sides. She could imagine the tin roof intact and the sound the falling rain would have made on it… a sound that had always relaxed her and lulled her to sleep. Warm blankets on the beds that smelled of fabric softener, sunshine and wind from drying on the line all day and a family wrapped up in them, asleep and carefree.

She shook and cleared her head as she opened the front door and crept into the house that was now dark and damp. Dark and damp, matching her mood. There would be no more cozy, warm beds or worry-free nights. That world was gone. Despite the house’s rough edges, Stella did, nevertheless, feel safe within its walls. She wanted to stay here; she was so tired of running. The two youngest of their group, Amber and Fury, were physically ill from exhaustion, and Stella refused to leave without them. She desperately wanted to keep moving, but she was sure that Amber and Fury weren’t capable of proceeding without adequate rest.

She looked around at her new family, sleeping on the leaf littered floor, and sighed.