Oceans In Oniah
When Sierra wakes up naked in a stranger’s bedroom, with no memory of how she got there, she knows her life is spiraling out of control. Someone is causing her to have blackouts that make no sense. Someone is playing tricks on her mind. It’s time to admit the truth—she’s really scared.
And feeling like she wants to die.
Racing home on her Triumph motorcycle, Sierra finds her best friend Violet has planned a surprise party for Sierra’s eighteenth birthday bash. But when a gunshot rocks their world, it seems like getting ready for college is the last thing on Sierra’s mind.
Now, in a race against the evil machinations of The Order, Sierra must unravel the mystery of her blackouts and face the tangled horrors of modern mind control to reveal a destiny that will not be defeated.
Our Story Begins...
Friday, 7:32 p.m.
Sierra slept as darkness shadowed the San Francisco horizon.
Paper wrinkled under her flushed cheek. Her eyes flashed open, her vision blurred until she focused on the steel barrel of a handgun.
She jerked her head.
The glossy cover of the latest edition of Gunsmagazine ripped, half of a paper pistol stuck to her face.
A ceiling fan sliced the air in rhythmic sweeps and nothing else but Sierra’s eyes moved.
She lay naked on a fluffy white carpeted floor in her black panties; in an unfamiliar bedroom.
Little pinpricks of fear needled over the skin on her arms. She tried to think, but her mind ached and felt bruised, as if it were recoiling from thought.
Where was she?
She rolled up onto one elbow. Unstuck the torn magazine page from her cheek. Felt the shake of her hands. Her upper lip tasted like bad peppermint.
Her knee knocked over a stack of playing cards on the carpet beside her and they swept under the king sized bed with a hiss.
A digital clock blinked on the nightstand, red numeric eyes scolding her loss of time.
Was this another blackout?
She ground her teeth in frustration.
The last thing Sierra could remember was the electronic snap of the time clock when she had left work at the Rustling Page Bookstore earlier that afternoon. She had yanked open the squeaky backdoor, struck by the dappled quality of the sunlight filtering through the birch trees that lined the sidewalk.
She distinctly remembered the shadows dancing over the lazy windshields of cars parked along the street. The air had been warm. Soft and sweet as a fresh bagel.
She had been going home.
She hadn’t gone out to drink, not this time. She’d already promised herself she’d stop being so stupid—and she hadstopped partying.
Her dry swallow caught in her throat.
Muffled men’s voices carried through the wall, then a high-pitched giggle and a loud splash into a swimming pool outside.
Sierra gripped a handful of the silky red sheets hanging lopsided over the bed and pulled herself up. A body lay under the blanket.
No, a bunched pillow.
Just a stupid pillow.
The white carpet lurched beneath her and she stumbled, clutching the edge of a huge mahogany dresser. Two framed photographs teetered and one whopped on its face, echoing in the silence like the final smack of a judge’s gavel.
Sierra cautiously lifted the photo and stared at the charismatic smile of an athletic, hawk-nosed man next to a powerful race car on a speedway.
Her cheeks flushed red.
She shut her eyes, probing the stubborn abyss of her mind, begging for the missing events. Begging for an answer.
Who was this man, this stranger, and why was she in his bedroom in her panties?
No answer came. Not even the obvious one. No memory.
The frustration made her want to hurt herself to take the pain away.
Sierra discovered her clothes.
Her Air Force bomber’s jacket and knapsack were tossed over the arm of a leopard love seat.
She snatched her tight fitting black V-neck shirt. The fabric was cold and limp; and again, that gross peppermint smell. She pulled on her faded blue denim jeans and red-laced black combat boots.
Her fingers probed the back pocket of her jeans, felt the folded edge of the photo she kept there always. Relief. Keys and cash, too.
Another giggle from the woman outside.
A drop of blood fell onto the back of Sierra’s hand.
She threw her head back to catch the flow from her nose, looked around, and stumbled toward a blue mosaic tiled bathroom. She took a long, thirsty drink from the sink.
Her pale green eyes flashed the mirror and she looked away from her own hollow stare. She felt embarrassed, she felt dirty. She wanted to sneak out of this place, wherever it was.
The sudden nosebleed ceased.
Slipping the knapsack over her shoulder, she paused at the edge of the bathroom door. The silence of the strange house echoed. She bit her lip.
Get out of here.