Okay, something is seriously screwy with my editor, so sorry if this comes out looking like there's nothing below this message.
Anyway, this is my very first Dark Tower fic--I'm about halfway through Wizard and Glass right now, so I apologize if it sounds just a bit choppy.
Disclaimer Dude: Stephen King owns The Dark Tower. Miriku owns this story. Don't sue.
The Key
Kiria Jacqueline, age fourteen, sat bolt upright in bed, sweating. She'd been having a dream; or, if you'd prefer, a nightmare. There was no sound in it—there was never any sound—but, like always, she knew basically what was happening. She'd had this dream before. There were four people in it—four she always dreamed about—and they were inside what looked like a bullet train. A man with dark hair was standing in the aisle, a gun in his hand. He was shooting at the electronic map, talking
(why did the dead baby cross the road?)
the whole time.
Blaine, she thought suddenly. The train's name is Blaine.
"Blaine is a pain," she murmured, and laughed to herself. That had been from one of her earlier dreams, and she found it extremely funny, although she didn't really know why. The boy with the strange pet had written a paper
(Blaine is a pain, and that is the truth)
that had said that for his school.
Kiria stared at her ceiling, thinking. These strange dreams and nightmares had been going on for months now, and she didn't know what they were from. All she knew was that they were more real than any dreams she'd ever had before—and she could remember every detail of them.
With a sigh, she stood up and looked in her mirror. Bright silver-blue eyes peered curiously back at her from beneath her bangs. Her vibrant black hair reached her waist when she let it down. Her skin was tanned to a fine bronze. Her features were aquiline and triangular, giving her the appearance of an elf. "You could probably pass for Legolas' little sister," her father had commented once.
Kiria gave her head a little shake—her appearance wasn't going to solve her problem. Why in the world was she having those dreams; the dreams that were more like visions than anything?
Because you're going insane, a tittery voice in the back of her mind laughed.
Kiria growled. That voice had appeared alongside the dreams, and it annoyed her to no end. It made her think of the way some gay guys talked.
Temper, temper!
"Shut up!" Kiria muttered under her breath. The voice laughed again, and disappeared.
Kiria rolled her eyes, and turned around to climb back into bed—but something on her desk caught her eye. It shimmered faintly silver in the dim light that filtered in through her bedroom window. Curiosity overcoming her sleepiness, she walked over and looked at it.
It was a key.
Feeling an odd sense of déjà vu, Kiria touched the key. She ran her finger along the edge, tracing the pattern; three inverted Vs, and a strange little s-shaped curve
(that little s-shape after the notch is the secret)
at the tip.
Without warning, a sense of contentment—of belonging—filled her. Something was going to happen; she felt it in her bones.
There is a lock, a strange voice said in the back of her head. It wasn't the tittery voice, nor was it her own conscience—it was a hard, strong voice that she felt she ought to know. There is a lock, and you must find it. The key will open the lock.
Well, of course—every key opened a lock!
But this is a different sort of lock.
Suddenly, Kiria was gripped by a sense of excitement and adventure. She had to leave. She had to find the lock that this key went to—she had to do it right now.
What about school—family—friends? Surely they'd all get worried about her!
But she felt a sense of extreme urgency. Wherever she was supposed to go, she had to get there—and as soon as she could.
Kiria slipped out of her night robe and into more comfortable clothes—a white T-shirt and jeans. She grabbed her blue backpack, dumped all her school supplies out of it, and shoved in the robe. She grabbed a bottle of moisturizer, a book or two, a pencil and paper, and the sterling silver necklace her mother had given her as a birthday present. The necklace went on; the rest of it was dumped unceremoniously into her backpack. She also grabbed her pocket knife, slipping it into the special pocket in her belt.
Before striding out of her room, Kiria paused. She picked up a pen and a spare sheet of paper, and began to write.
Dear Mom and Dad;
Don't ask where I'm going—I don't quite
know. All I know is that I might be gone for
a long time; I might never come back.
She paused for a moment, thinking.
I hope you guys know how much I love you—
I might not be able to tell you that again.
Goodbye; so long; I hope I'll be able to
see you again.
Love,
Kiria
Kiria nodded. She hoped that would do.
She slipped out of her room, crept down the stairs, and put her note next to the coffee machine. She then raided the pantry, shoving chips, granola bars, Trail Mix bags, beef jerky, and the like into her backpack. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed seven or eight bottles of water and packed them as well. She exited her house and slipped away into the silent darkness that was her hometown of Fairfield, Connecticut.
The sense of adventure filled her again. On an instinctive level, she knew where she was going—she just let her feet carry her, darting from shadow to shadow. Soon, she wasn't even sneaking—that sense of urgency and certainty drove her into a run.
Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her head slowly turned to the right.
'Finest Antiques', the battered sign read in fancy script. The shop looked old; dust was caked on the windows, and rust covered the window panes and door hinges. There was absolutely nothing in the windows—it appeared to have been closed for time on end.
Please let it be locked, she thought desperately, approaching the door. Please!
"Hey! What're you doing in there? That's trespassing!"
Kiria glanced over her shoulder. A cop was waving at her. "Get outta there!"
Kiria turned away from him, and continued to head into the lot towards the door.
"Don't make me go in there after you!" the cop shouted.
Kiria ignored him. She broke into a dead run for the door, jammed her key into the lock, opened the door—and froze.
Through the door, she saw cracked and gravelly asphalt—stuff that hadn't been maintained for years. On either side of the raised road was a flat strip of plain. The air had a strange, shimmering quality—as if it wasn't real, or was only half-real.
"That's right! Just wait right there, so I can take you into custody!"
The cop's voice snapped Kiria back to reality. She took a deep breath, and leapt through the door. She turned around and slammed it behind her. It folded in on itself, and disappeared.
Guess there's no getting back that way, she thought grimly, patting the pocket where she had slipped the key.
She began to study her surroundings. The problem is…where am I?
There was an ear-splitting crack, and the gravel/asphalt right next to her exploded upward. She jumped with a little scream, and whipped around.
"Don't move, kid—I wasn't aiming to hit that time, but I could do just that next time." The man who had spoken had long dark hair and hazel-brown eyes. He was holding a gun with a long, thin tube—a Ruger automatic gun, she saw.
That's the one from my dream, she realized suddenly. That's the one who shot the train!
Slowly, her eyes moved to the other three people. One was a black woman in a wheelchair—her legs had been severed just above the knee. She wore a gun, too—it was polished brightly, and the sun glimmered off of it. Its grips were some kind of wood. The man standing to her right had a matching gun in a holster strapped around his waist. It was on the left side—she assumed he was left-handed, until she saw that he was missing two fingers on his right hand. His face was worn and battle-scarred, and his blue eyes were hard and clear. He reminded her of a cowboy. There was also a boy—a boy with long-ish black hair and thoughtful blue eyes. He was carrying in his arms an animal that looked like a cross between a raccoon and a badger. Its tail was coiled tight against its body. Hypnotizing gold-rimmed eyes peered curiously at her.
"Who are you?" the boy asked.
"Oo!" the little creature repeated. "Oo-ar-oo!"
Kiria glanced uneasily at the man holding the gun. "K-Kiria Jacqueline," she stammered.
The man who looked like Clint Eastwood gestured at the other man. "Put the gun down," he said firmly.
Kiria started. That voice—it was the voice that had told her about the lock!
The younger man lowered the gun a few inches, suspicion written clearly across his face.
The black woman looked up at him. "Put it down, Eddie. She's just a kid."
Eddie glanced suspiciously at Kiria, but slipped the gun into the back of the wheelchair. Kiria assumed there was a pocket there.
The older man looked at the boy, who nodded and stepped forward. "My name's John Chambers—Jake. That's Eddie and Susannah Dean. And that's Roland. They're gunslingers," he finished proudly.
"'Lingers," the little creature in Jake's arms repeated gravely.
Jake grinned. "Oh—and this is Oy. He's a billy-bumbler."
Although Kiria had no idea what a billy-bumbler was, she nodded a little in greeting to them all. "Uh…hi. Do you guys know where I am?"
She knew it was a stupid question the moment it was out of her mouth. Ashamed of herself, she looked away, blushing furiously.
"'Don't ask us silly questions, we won't play silly games,'" Eddie replied. He sounded like he was quoting from something.
"But it's not a silly question!" Kiria protested. "I don't know where I am! All I know is that I was woken up by a nightmare, found a little key, ran away from my house, used the key on the lock of an old shop, and wound up here!"
Eddie, Susannah, and Jake looked at Roland, who had been silent the whole time. Roland looked at Kiria, then at Eddie.
Eddie nodded, and grinned wryly at Kiria. "You, my friend, are inside a thinny, smack-dab in the middle of a lovely place we like to call End-World."
Okay, okay, you don't have to tell me. It sucks. See? I said it myself. If that's what you were gonna say, then I have one word for you--adios. If not, please tell me what you think.