The Spectrum Force, Heather Ray [best free ebook reader for android .txt] 📗

"Is this the place?" the driver asked, craning his head back to his passenger.

"Yeah, this is it," the passenger responded, fishing through his leather wallet, "Thanks a lot."

"Nice house," the driver added, counting the money the young man left in his hand, "Ain't this where that guy from M.E.C. lives?"

The passenger cracked a small smile as he slid along the torn seat. "Yeah, this is the place. Keep the change, Sir."

The driver tipped his hat in response. "Ya need help with your stuff?"

"No, thank you."

The young man stepped out of the yellow cab and made his way to the trunk. He unlatched the trunk, and pulled out the backpack and a single dufflebag that it contained. He then stepped to the sidewalk, and watched as the cab drove into the distance.

The arid Texas winds wove through his honey-blonde hair as he made his way to the gate of the large ranch. Covering several acres, the bountiful and luxurious property was certainly quick to catch the eye of any visitor to the area. It was well known with the local community for being the home of Stephen Maloy III, the founder and chief executive officer of M.E.C., the Maloy Engineering Corporation. The sound of horses racing through soft turf and lawnmowers grinding the healthy yard greeted the young man, who had been absent from the estate for several months. The scent of fresh-cut grass and fragrant flowers filled the air, and the hot sun beat upon the Earth from its hovering station.

"There's no place like home," Keith whispered to himself, sliding his sunglasses off his eyes once he reached the gate on the driveway. He stopped at the intercom, and quickly pushed in the access code. A loud buzz signaled his permission to enter as the heavy metal grid slid open, revealing the long asphalt driveway leading to the large mansion. Keith balanced his backpack more comfortably on his shoulders, and began his long trek to the front door.

Everything looked the same, despite his long absence. Not even the frigid cold that blanketed the city during the infamous Nightfall seemed to have any lasting effects upon the property. In the distance, past the lush green yard, were the stables, where several healthy horses were kept. The sound of hooves crushing the dust and grass beneath them brought the memory of his eighth birthday to mind, when he first got a pony all his own. Learning to ride was extremely taxing for him, and the fact that his younger sister mastered the art of controlling the beast long before him only made matters worse.

He was never patient enough for horseback riding. He couldn't create a bond with Blaze, his pony during his youth, or any of the other horses on the property. Not long after he had first begun to learn how to ride Blaze, the pony became extremely aggressive towards him, refusing to let him mount.

Why was it that every time he came home, it was the bad memories that always struck him? Perhaps that contributed to his long absence.

Things were different now, though. Even though the place called "home" harbored some bad experiences, compared to his most recent nightmare it was a sacred haven.

At least no one died here.

"Keith?" called a heavily accented voice, "Is that you?"

Keith's attention turned to the source of the voice, and habitually smiled as a tall, full-figured middle-aged woman raced to him. She was quick to embrace him tightly, her long chestnut hair pouring over his shoulders.

"Mari," he greeted, as the woman released him, "How are you?"

Keith locked eyes with Marisol Vera for a moment, realizing quickly that her rich dark eyes were moist with tears. She had worked in the Maloy household for as long as Keith could remember, taking care of the horses as well as the children on occasion. Marisol was like a second mother to him, and as he gazed at her for the first time in over six months, he realized how much he had missed her.

"You never call, you never write," she chided, sniffling slightly, "Dios mio

, I think you've gotten taller!"

Keith chuckled weakly. "I doubt it."

"So, chiquito

, how are you?" she asked earnestly, quickly taking Keith's larger bag from his grip and taking his hand, "How is your father?"

"Better," he said, as they stepped into the large ranch, "He's been in the hospital three days now, and when I left L.A., they said he'd made incredible progress. In fact, they're thinking of releasing him soon."

"It's a miracle," she whispered, dropping Keith's bag at the entrance to the kitchen. She motioned the young man to take a seat at the counter, and she quickly sifted through the refrigerator. "How about some peanut butter and bananas on lightly toasted wheat bread, and pink lemonade on ice?" she offered.

Keith grinned, freeing his shoulders from the weight of his backpack and leaning his elbows on the spotless countertop. "How could I turn down my favorite snack, Mari?"

Marisol busily prepared the food as she hurriedly informed the young man about what had been going on. "It was so horrifying when the sun went black," she recapped, lying her hand on her chest, "I thought the Final Judgement Day had come!"

"God had nothing to do with that nightmare," Keith said in a low voice, "Did you see the news reports?"

"Si!

I was so worried when I learned that aliens invaded Langstrum Alps! And when your madre called, and told me what happened to Stephen, I was so stunned! One would never think such a horror could happen."

Keith swallowed, staring at the condensation on his glass of lemonade. He brushed his thumb along the glass, moistening his hand with the water and then rubbing his fingers together. "Well, I certainly wasn't ready for it."

Marisol sat the sandwich in front of Keith, and laid her hand on his shoulder. "And Monica told me about Tamara, also."

Keith stopped breathing for a moment.

"Don't give up hope, chiquito

. I understand she is missing, but she may very well still be alive. Have a little bit of faith."

Keith closed his cerulean eyes tightly, shaking his head slightly. "It... it's not like that," Keith explained weakly, "She's dead

. Gone. She's not coming back to me."

Marisol kissed the young man's forehead. "Have a little bit of faith," she repeated, stepping away from the counter. "Here, let me take your bags upstairs. Monica wanted us to call her at the hotel once you arrived, to make sure you got back safely."

Keith instinctively reached into his pocket and pulled out his small cellular phone. Yet, before he could press a button, Marisol tossed a balled-up paper towel at him, instantly getting his fleeting attention.

"You realize the cellular phone costs three times as much as the house phone, don't you?" she scolded, shaking her head in disbelief, "I hope you're more responsible than that."

Responsible. It's funny how that word could have such different connotations.

"Believe me, Mari," Keith said in a low voice, lying his phone on the countertop, "I'm definitely responsible. For a lot of things."

Marisol gazed at Keith for a moment, clearly confused by his cryptic reply. She shook her head in dismay, leaning against the wall and folding her arms. "I'll call your mother," she assured him, "Finish your snack, and get some rest. You need it."

Keith watched Marisol leave the kitchen, and then cast his blank gaze to the sandwich and glass seated before him. Any appetite he may have had previously was washed away as a very familiar feeling seeped into his gut, leaving room for nothing else.

It was the guilt. It was always the guilt.

Guilt for specific errors. Guilt for much more diffuse, general shortcomings.

Guilt for not being an obedient son. For not being a reliable friend. For not being an adequate super-hero. For not being a compassionate boyfriend.

Basically, for not being anything

worth mentioning.

He wanted to escape the guilt. The emptiness. He wanted to turn his back on his friends... to shirk his responsibilities as the Red Enforcer. But he realized almost immediately after he purchased the tickets that it didn't help. In fact, it only made the guilt worse.

Not only was he disobedient, unreliable, inadequate, and egocentric. Now, he was a coward too.

"I've got to sort things out," he convinced himself, "I needed the break. I have a lot to deal with now. I lost Tammy... and I almost lost my father. I have a responsibility to my family, and that can't be fulfilled by anyone other than me. But anyone can wear that ring."

Was that really true? Was it really that easy to release himself from the burden?

No, it wasn't. And he couldn't let that go, as his right index finger felt so naked without the silver band and red crystal he had grown accustomed to wearing.

With a heavy sigh, Keith rose from the stool upon which he was planted, and walked out of the kitchen. Wearily, he made his way up the large carpeted staircase to the second floor.

He pushed open the door, and stood at the threshold of his bedroom.

A numb smile crossed his lips as he absorbed the overall simplicity of the room. His bed was perfectly made, and the room was in infallible order. Of course, no one has lived in this room for quite some time. A comfortable blue plaid bedspread hung over the full sized bed, which was placed between two nightstands, each beneath a window. The shades were closed, but still the powerful afternoon sun crushed the darkness through the narrow space between the shade and the edge of the window. Atop the nightstands sat a lamp, a digital clock, and a box filled with CDs. The majority of his music collection was in his apartment, but the ones that he had gotten tired of remained at home, here in a cardboard box. On his dresser sat various trophies and awards for karate tournaments, sitting proudly in a row with the tallest ones furthest from the center.

Keith relaxed the urge to knock those trophies from his sight. He knew he didn't deserve them.

He laid upon his bed, staring at the white walls of his room. He still had some posters decorating the planes, of sports heroes as well as action stars. They were his heroes throughout his youth, but the thought of them offered no comfort. They were all successes. He was a failure.

"There's no peace anywhere," he moaned, pulling himself into a sitting position. He lowered his head, and thrust his balled fists into the soft mattress. "I've gotta clear my mind."

After the decision was made, Keith rose from his bed, and began rummaging through his cardboard box of CDs. Although the majority of his collection was in his L.A. apartment, he was sure he'd find something suitable.

After a few moments, he blindly pulled out a CD. His breath caught in his throat as he examined the jacket.

"Holy..." he whispered, staring at the soundtrack. He blinked in absolute astonishment at the rare find, which instantly sparked a cherished memory.

The irony of the situation struck him like