The Flooding Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  You didn’t come...

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Rosa Clark was just another eighteen-year-old with self-esteem issues. Then she had her Flooding—a supernatural ordeal that reminded her of who she really is: an ancient soul who has lived countless lives over thousands of years. Rosa has sworn enemies. Flooders who hunt her across the ages. They claim she has broken sacred laws and have sentenced her to annihilation, from which there is no coming back. That’s why she can’t let them find her. That’s why she has to run.

  You didn’t come into this world.

  You came out of it like a wave in the ocean.

  You are not a stranger here.

  —Alan Watts

  For Simone and the family I know we’ll have.

  ONE

  I’m about to open the front door of the Clark family home and walk into the night, to disappear, to start running, when something inside me asks, What about them? A crippling sadness and guilt accompanies the question, stopping me dead.

  The less they know the better, I reply silently, reminding myself to keep focused. It’s been only three days since the harrowing ordeal that was my Flooding, so it’s no surprise I’m feeling so vulnerable and exposed. It will get easier, and I will grow stronger, but I have to be patient. I know because I have run this gauntlet many times before. I also know there is a great deal more pain and suffering to come, but that is a price I am willing to pay for the truth. The side effects of “Awakening” include paralyzing headaches and strength-sapping seizures, but it’s the emotional instability I fear the most. After all, there is a hormonal teenage girl fighting for survival inside of me. Until she accepts the inevitable, my behavior and mood swings will be erratic and unpredictable.

  While there is so much I remember, I don’t have the complete picture yet. Indeed, I recall nothing of my life before this one—how I died, where I lived, who I was—it’s just a huge black hole, and it’s not the only one. I’m not overly concerned, though, as memory gaps are common during the early stages of transitioning, a phase notable for the intensity and frequency of side effects. Thankfully, it lasts only a few weeks, and eventually, answers will come in my dreams. But I can’t sit around waiting for that to happen. And I am nothing if not resourceful. For millennia, I have been burying survival kits all over the world, each filled with valuables (precious metals where possible) and information. First and foremost, I try to list the people I have been (those I can recall), the men and women I have loved, and the enemies I have made, including those who hunt me now.

  Toward the end of the nineteenth century, three cycles ago (if my calculations are correct) I lived in London. Again, it’s patchy, but there’s one thing I remember clearly: being outside at night during a powerful storm, on my knees, sobbing, digging . . . thrusting a small container into the ground, covering it with earth. Then being startled by a fork of lightning, seeing a gravestone in the sudden glare, reading the familiar name.

  Getting my hands on whatever’s inside that box should be all that matters. So why is the voice in my head saying, But it will crush them. You know how much they love you.

  They love Rosa, and Rosa is a fantasy.

  Rosa lives inside of you, I think. They all do . . .

  “Not if they catch me,” I whisper, but instead of leaving the house I grew up in—that Rosa grew up in, I mean—I put my backpack on the floor, turn to the hallway table, and grab the pen beside the notepad, pausing for a moment, thinking what a stupid idea this is, how it won’t make a tiny bit of difference anyway, before writing:

  Mum, Dad, Joe—when you read this I will be gone, and you will never see me again. I can’t explain why but wanted you to know I’m alive and okay and there’s nothing you did wrong. I realize you will never understand, and that this will cause you pain, but there really was no other way. I love you, and I am deeply sorry. Rosa xxx

  They will think this has something to do with the fact they adopted me as a one-year-old. Rosa’s birth mother, who was second-generation Chinese, was a drug addict and a prostitute. It’s a miracle the Clarks were willing to take me on, but I guess they were desperate, having failed to conceive a child of their own. But a few years later, they did exactly that. The result was my little brother, Joe.

  At least they’ve got him. Their flesh and blood.

  I put the pen down and glance up, catching myself in the hallway mirror, annoyed, but not surprised to see tears streaming down my latest face. My heart is pounding, my chest tightening. I remind myself that this is normal, that I’ve been here many times before. This isn’t the me who has lived so many lives. This is just eighteen-year-old Rosa Clark from Exeter, desperately trying to work out what the hell is going on.

  Half-Asian, half-white, Rosa has long, black hair and a small birthmark on her left cheek (a physical blemish that follows me from life to life). She’s pretty, with hazel eyes, showing an epicanthic fold and a light dusting of freckles.

  Right now, Rosa is having a panic attack. And who could blame her? She’s slowly realizing she’ll never see her mum, dad, or little brother ever again. More terrifying than that, she’s wrestling with the idea that she doesn’t really exist, that her whole life was just someone else’s dream.

  I want to tell her everything will be okay, that things will get better, but that would be a lie, and she’d know it. The truth is, it’s all downhill from here for Rosa Clark. As with her family, she’ll never see any friends again, including her ex-boyfriend Mike, whom she was thinking about taking back.

  I have already thrown away her precious mobile, and soon I will shave her hair off. Clothes, makeup, the food she eats, all of it is going to change. Even her weak, skinny body will be pushed to its limits and transformed so that it can match and handle the skills of my consciousness, skills it has taken four thousand years to amass and hone.

  My soul is female, and as such, I have always reincarnated as a woman. For the first part of each new life, I am ignorant of the truth. Then one day, without warning, the Flooding comes, and I remember so much. Like how deeply I love Ashkai, my master and soul mate of four thousand years. With each new cycle of life, we endeavor to find each other.
Sometimes we succeed, but not always.

  We have sworn enemies. Flooders who hunt us across the ages. They claim we have broken sacred laws and have sentenced us to annihilation, from which there is no coming back. That’s why I can’t let them find me. That’s why I have to run.

  Wherever you are, Ashkai, be safe and know that I am coming.

  Across my many lives, I have witnessed civilizations rise and fall, fought in wars, and explored every inch of this majestic blue planet. I have been poor and rich, ugly and beautiful, weak and strong. I have died of old age, disease, and tragic accidents. I have been physically and sexually abused and even murdered. All of that is but a tiny fraction of what I have seen and experienced, and yet what have I amounted to? A scared, pathetic little girl who can’t stop crying.

  The ridiculousness of that makes me laugh, and almost instantly, I feel stronger and more focused. Seizing the moment, I grab my backpack, pull my hood up, and reach for the door. This time, no voice halts me, so I step outside, the cool October breeze sharp against my wet face. After using the sleeves of my jacket to wipe the tears away, I check my watch and immediately break into a jog.

  The night bus to London leaves soon.

  I need to be on it.

  Ten minutes later, at 1:02 a.m., with just three minutes to spare, I arrive at Exeter’s outdoor coach station with my hood down, huffing and puffing because I ran all the way, reflecting on how I need to get this body into shape as quickly as possible. There are some local red buses parked for the night and a few guys wearing fluorescent vests milling around. One of them is telling a group of alcoholics to move on, but only gets a “go fuck yourself” as a response.

  There are a handful of people at the other end of the depot with bags at their feet. I figure they must be waiting for the bus to London, so I head that way. As well as being out of breath, I can feel a dull ache in my head, which could be a seizure brewing, and I am considering what I’ll do if that’s the case when I hear, “Oi, you . . . you over there . . . hey, lassie, I wanna ask you somethin’, lassie, just a quick question, won’t take a second . . .”

  I glance left and see it’s one of the alcoholics, special brew in hand, trying to get my attention. He’s a disheveled, dark-haired Scot with a shaggy beard and hunched shoulders, fortyish. I ignore him and keep going. I even veer right, detouring behind the parked buses, to avoid getting too close. It’s not that I’m scared; I just want to stay out of trouble and blend in as much as possible. That’s easier said than done as a pretty eighteen-year-old girl walking the streets late at night, but I do what I can.

  “Hey, missy!” he shouts, even though there are vehicles between us now. There’s venom creeping into his tone. “Hey . . . oi . . . you deaf or what . . . rude bitch, think yer better than me, do yer? All I wanted was ta ask ye a question . . .”

  He gives up after that, and a few seconds later, I reach the small group waiting to leave town, and my breathing is pretty much back to normal. Closest to me is a guy about Rosa’s age with messy, dark hair, which he’s running his fingers through, revealing a shaved undercut. His eyes are blue and piercing, and he’s wearing jeans and an old, black jumper that has seen better days. The next thing I notice is the birthmark on his neck. It’s about three inches long and a centimeter thick. Blemishes of this kind are often the physical echoes of a violent death that concluded a previous incarnation. The one on my left cheek, which looks like a dark-red flame, has been with me since the first life I remember, and I have no idea why.

  “Do you know what’s happening with the bus?” I ask.

  We make eye contact, and for a split second, I feel like we’ve met before. I wonder if he goes to my college as he gestures toward a raised screen, saying, “Running ten minutes late, according to that.” He sounds like he went to private school.

  “Oh yeah,” I reply, glancing at the monitor that I’d missed. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says with a smile that makes me feel good. “Ten quid a ticket means they don’t care what we think.”

  “We haven’t met, have we?” I ask.

  After a pause, he says, “I don’t think so.”

  “You from Exeter?”

  “No, London. Been visiting family.”

  “My mistake,” I say, letting go of the notion.

  “Guess I have one of those faces.” He says it with that smile I like.

  The ache in my skull is intensifying, so I decide to head for the station toilets, which are down the stairs over to my left. I don’t want anyone to see me freaking out if it comes to that.

  “Just gonna use the bathroom,” I say, smiling back, noticing he’s wearing a touch of eyeliner, wondering if that means he’s being himself or still trying to find himself, and guessing it’s probably a bit of both. “Will you let me know if the bus arrives?”

  He turns to his right as if he heard or saw something unnerving, then looks back at me. “Sure, yeah, no problem.”

  I glance to where he’d been looking to see what distracted him, but there’s nothing.

  Still carrying my backpack, I hurry to the toilet, which is all white tiles, bright lights, and bad smells. After making sure there’s nobody else in here, I position myself over the middle of three chrome sinks and place my bag on the floor. I run the cold tap and splash water on my face. I also close my eyes and breathe deeply. If things go bad, I’ll lock myself in one of the cubicles, bite down on the wooden spoon I packed before leaving the house, and pray the seizure runs its course before the bus leaves.

  After another minute or so of meditative breathing, eyes still closed, I start feeling a little better. Relieved, I lean forward for one last splash of water and then straighten, opening my eyes at the same time, facing the mirror. I nearly jump out of my skin when I see a bearded man standing directly behind me, his back to the cubicles. I go to spin, but he’s on me in a flash, his left arm across the top part of my chest and shoulders, pulling me in; his right is holding a knife to my throat. The guy is a few inches taller than me, and he says in a gravelly Scottish accent, “Scream, ‘n I’ll slit your throat.”

  His breath stinks of halitosis mixed with alcohol and cigarettes. His dirty black beard, thick, matted, and coarse, feels like a Brillo Pad against my left cheek.

  “I was only gonna ask if ye fancied a drink, but ye were too good for that, walkin’ round me like I was a dog shite or somethin’. Well now I’ve got another question for ye: which hole do ye want my cock in first?”

  While this situation is not without jeopardy, now that the initial shock has passed, I’m relatively calm and focused; after all, in terms of remembered life experience, I’m dealing with a child. This is not the first time I’ve had a knife to my throat or had someone try to rape me. I think about pretending to be scared to give him a false sense of security, but then I decide on another tactic that will achieve the same effect with a little more cruelty. I get a sexy look going as I say, “You don’t have to be so mean; I was counting on you following me in here . . .” Slowly reaching for his penis with my right hand, I continue with, “And in answer to your question”—I pause to lick my lips—“definitely mouth.”

  He looks at me in the mirror as if I’ve just turned into a mermaid. My eyes are conveying the false message that I want nothing more than to be screwed senseless, giving him what I know deep down he yearns for, to be wanted. Desperate to believe I’m for real—that after years of rejection and self-loathing, he might not be totally repellent—his body softens just slightly, the knife edging away from my throat by an inch.

  That’s when I explode into action, bringing both hands up to grab his knife arm, jerking it away from my throat as I simultaneously roll my upper body left and downward, my head squeezing under his shoulder, taking his arm with me, twisting it around until he drops the blade. I keep the move going, as I manipulate his wrist, until I hear a satisfying snapping sound, his hand going floppy as I release my grip. The maneuver has put me behind my attacker, so I kick the b
ack of his right knee out, stepping forward as he falls, using the momentum to smash his head into one of the chrome sinks with an encouraging swing of my left hand. This knocks him out cold before he has a chance to make any noise.

  This new body I’m wearing may be weak and untested, but combat is principally technique, and I’ve had a lot of practice. I also despise souls who seek to impose themselves on others, whatever their story.

  I step over the unconscious Scot and grab my bag. Before leaving, I check the mirror to make sure I don’t look like I’ve been in a fight. Unsurprisingly, my face is flushed and sweaty, and my hair is a mess. While sorting it all out, I notice my heart is pounding like crazy, and I realize I must have been more scared than I thought. Then I realize it was more likely Rosa Clark having another of her moments, and I wonder if that’s the reason my headache is back in a big way.

  I dry off with some paper towels and hurry out, bumping into Eyeliner at the bottom of the stairs. He’s smiling at me. “Hard as it is to believe, our chariot awaits.”

  I try my best to look relaxed. “Great,” I say, feeling a sudden and excruciating shooting pain in my right temple as I lead the way back, aware that no amount of breathing is going to help this time. I need to get on the bus quickly.

  Rudely distancing myself from Eyeliner so he doesn’t think he’s got a travel buddy, I show the driver my ticket, which I bought yesterday, and head straight to the back, huddling in the far left corner, relieved there’s nobody within a few rows and that it’s dark. As calmly as possible—my head throbbing, flecks of white light moving in—I unzip my bag and pull out the wooden spoon. Dizzy now, hands trembling, I get on the floor and wedge my knees against the back of the chair in front. Knowing I’ve only got seconds, I place the handle between my teeth, and in that moment as I bite down, the world goes a searing, blinding white.

  TWO

  I’m lying on my side, leaning on an elbow, totally naked, skin glistening with a mixture of oil, sweat, and sex. I’m smiling and happy, wondering how many other slaves are as blessed as I am, knowing the answer is none. The hard stone floor beneath me has been made soft and comfortable by thick layers of animal skins and aromatic rushes. The distant ceiling is so far away I can barely make it out in the flickering candlelight.