The Survivors: Enigma

Author’s Foreword

The Survivors was the tale of a group of people who endured horrifying trauma and their struggle to find a life beyond that. As a survivor of traumatic abuse myself, it was—and still is—a tale very close to my heart. Though my trauma came from childhood abuse at the hands of a wicked stepfather rather than the horrors of watching the world crumble around me, I felt a great deal of kinship with this group of people, despite—or perhaps because of—the suffering I inflicted upon them as their creator. By the time I finished Book IV, they were as close to me as family.

As a survivor, I often find myself wondering what sort of person I would be if I hadn’t suffered the life-changing abuse I went through. Would I be a doctor or a lawyer? A scientist or an astronaut? Maybe someone’s wife? Maybe someone’s mother? While I was working on the books, I frequently found myself wondering the same thing about my fictional family. Who would they be if Ebola X hadn’t destroyed their world? Where would life have taken them? Would fate still have drawn them together?

Enigma evolved out of that thought. It is my chance to explore the lives of my characters without the burden of trauma, and also a chance to explore the paranormal aspects of the world I barely got to touch upon in the first quadrilogy.

The tale that follows is a ‘what if’ story, set in an alternate version of the Survivors universe where the plague never occurred. It is set during approximately the same period of time, and follows several of the main characters as their lives might have been, if not for a cruel fate at the hands of a wicked god—I mean, author.

I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One

You got a second, Detective?

Michael glanced up from his computer screen, the kind of scowl etched on his face that could only come from too many hours spent hard at work without enough coffee.

Not really, sir, he said gruffly.

Good. Detective-Sergeant Trevor Phillips gave him a mocking smile and sat down in the chair on opposite him. How's the case coming along?

Slowly. Michael heaved a long sigh and sat back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. If his boss was going to interrupt him, then that seemed like a fine excuse to take a momentary break and relax his eyes. His tension headache had grown so bad that it felt like there was a very small, very angry goblin trying to claw its way out of his cranium. I've got nothing new since the last time you asked, but I know there's is more to this than just a runaway kid, Trev. I know it.

You and your gut feelings, Trevor teased, his smile widening. I hope you're wrong, but on the off chance you're not, I'm humouring you.

Then get me the specialist I requested and I'll prove it, Michael answered dryly.

Why do you think I'm here? Trevor said. I just came to tell you that your expert is on her way. She's on the road from Auckland and should be here in about an hour. You're welcome.

Not a second too soon, Detective Chan grumbled. He paused for a moment, then shot his boss a curious look. Wait – she? The egg-head's a lady?

"She is, indeed. Trevor's grin faded and was replaced by a frown. Is that going to be a problem?"

Not in the least, he replied. Tired as he was, somehow he managed to summon a smile. I just haven't seen many women in the field of digital forensics.

You'd be surprised. Trevor chuckled and slapped one big hand down on the desk. There is one problem, though. You're not going to like it.

Oh, great. Michael sighed and rubbed his hand across his face. What is it?

She's from the... unexplained phenomena division.

Michael paused, staring at Trevor in disbelief. Are you telling me you got me a kook spook?

No, I got you an egg-head, Trevor replied. She just happens to work for the kook spooks. Trevor shrugged and shoved himself back up to his feet. Honestly, kid, you’re lucky I could even get you that. Look at what you’ve got. No evidence of foul play, just a few closed cases that show some similarities. You're telling me to reopen them because your gut instinct says there’s more to it? Fine. Prove it..

Michael grunted inarticulately, stuck somewhere between annoyance and curiosity. An expert was an expert, and if she just happened to specialise in the unexplained then that might actually help his case. So far, all of the normal, reasonable, sane methods of investigation had turned up squat.

Right, Trevor said with the kind of finality that told him the conversation was nearing an end. I've emailed you her file, so I expect you to be up to scratch by the time she gets here. She's only on loan, so don't go denting her or we won't be able to get our security deposit back.

You talk a load of rubbish sometimes, boss. Michael smiled and made a shooing motion. Go away. Some of us are trying to get some work done.

Trevor just laughed and left; they knew each other far too well for him to take offence over a little friendly ribbing. Once he was gone, Michael turned back to his computer screen to read about his new partner.

***

An hour later, Michael stood by the front desk, waiting for his expert to arrive. Although his face was a mask of silent patience, his gut churned with anxiety. This expert, whoever she was, was his means to finally break the case open. She would either prove his theory correct, or she would make the last few weeks a complete waste of time.

Not that it mattered, really. He'd be happy just knowing for sure that the kid was safe. In cases like this one, he didn't really want to be right.

A sleek blue hybrid pulled into the parking lot and slid into a visitor's space. The driver's door opened and a tall blonde woman in a tailored suit stepped out. She opened the back door to grab a briefcase and a purse, then locked up and walked towards the entrance. Michael went out to meet her.

Good afternoon, he greeted her. Am I correct to presume that you're Ms McDermott?

That would be me, yes. The woman accepted his offered hand and shook it; her grip was firm and confident, and her expression was one of intense intelligence. Sandrine McDermott, Environmental Science and Research. You're Detective Chan, then?

I am, he replied. He released her hand and gestured toward the lobby. This way, please. We'll have to get you signed in with reception, then we can get started.

Of course. Lead on, Detective.

***

Sandrine McDermott looked around with interest as they passed through the entrance into the lobby of the police station. It had been a while since she’d visited, and it had clearly been renovated since the last time.

As they approached the front desk, the officer on duty looked up expectantly. She produced her official identification card, along with her driver's license for good measure. It was always better to have too much identification than not enough.

A few minutes later, she'd been registered as an official visitor, and received a name badge in exchange for her signature in their log book. The detective beckoned for her to follow him. They boarded the elevator and made the trip up to the third floor in silence. It was only when they stepped out that she finally glanced at him again.

Would you mind if I freshened up before we begin, Detective? she asked, adjusting the strap of her purse over her shoulder. It's been a long drive.

Michael shot her a glance, his brows raised in what looked like surprise. After a moment, his expression softened and a genuinely amused smile touched his lips.

Of course, he said apologetically, gesturing towards a nearby door. The ladies room is just through there. When you're done, keep heading this way until you see an office with my name on the door. I'll go make us a cuppa in the meantime. Would you like a tea or coffee?

A cup of tea would be just lovely, thank you, Sandy replied. Milk and one sugar, please.

Roger that. The detective said with a friendly smile and a mock salute, then he vanished down the hall.

Sandy followed the simple, universal symbols into a small ladies room. She ducked into a stall to relieve herself, washed her hands, and took a moment to touch up her makeup and tidy her hair.

Just as she was tucking the last unruly strand back into the neat bun she sported to keep it out of the way, a soft chime from her purse warned her of an incoming text message. She pulled her phone out and checked it; sure enough, a message from her sister was waiting for her.

SKYLAR: r u there yet?

Rather than reply, she hit dial and called her sister's number. It took all of half a ring before Skye answered, and her familiar voice came through the line clear as a bell.

Hey! Skylar greeted her cheerfully. I take it that's a yes, then?

Yup, Sandy answered, nodding even though her sister couldn't see it through the phone. She put her purse on her shoulder, picked up her briefcase, and left the bathroom. I made it, safe and sound. You really don't have to worry about me, you know.

I know. Skye sighed heavily on the other end of the line. But I just do. After what happened to Dad, how can we not worry? Mum asked me to keep an eye on you...

You both worry too much, Sandy chided her, chuckling. I'm a grown woman, I can take care of myself – and it's only Hamilton. Her expression sobered after a moment of levity. How are they?

The doctor says Dad can go home tomorrow, Skylar replied. "He'll be off his feet for a while,