Note: some of these passages contain explicit depictions of violence and sex. You're probably even more likely to read them now, but I felt compelled to include a warning.
S.J.Ford.
Buy it now at Barnes & Noble
Buy Silo Nine now on Amazon
Buy Silo Nine now on Smashwords

Kristin Seduced by Vampire

    Okay this was one of the most explicit sex scenes I'd ever written. So be aware before proceeding. A vampire seduces a victim; what do you expect. So why cut it? It was part of the original prolog - which was waay too long; 3 Chapters, all backstory and just the wrong way to open the book.
    In revision I took the old backstory and broke it down into short flashbacks that I now introduce throughout the plot. It works much better as a subplot, a story within. The other problem with this scene is; it's told from Kristin's POV and she's not the protagonist. I didn't want to be taking readers out of Leslie Tatum's head so early in the story, and for such a long passage. No, It may be steamy, but it had to go. But now you can read it here. Man, I love the internet.
    (WARNING: Shameless sales pitch) The scenes below may not all make sense; I guess that's the nature of deleted scenes. You could always buy the book to see where they fit in.

        Kristin finished her half-hour in the clean room. She shared with Rachel Morrisey then it was the guys' turn. Back in her protective suit she headed along the corridor towards the infirmary. She thought she could help with the unidentified corpses.
        Drawing near to the room with the coffin she saw wisps of white mist seep under its closed door: steam. She opened the door and found the room thick with mist. It looked like a shower. God, she wanted a shower.
It was twenty-six hours since she last bathed. The clean room had a built-in bathing cubicle but none of the women used it. Even the guys weren't that fond of it.
        Housed inside their own personal environments, no one was too anxious about body odor. They could make do with just brushing their teeth. Back at McMurdo they could shower as much as they liked. Thoughts of hot water led her to another favorite erotic fantasy; she and Bo Greaves in a shower together. She fantasized about how troubled he was over some inscrutable problem; how she was the only person he could confide in, how she desperately wanted him to share his secrets with her. She wanted to be his rock; the person he felt safest with.
        But she had to get her mind back to the job at hand. The coffin was still open. She could make out its shape but the steam was so thick the contents were hidden. Then she remembered the ash; Oh shit, the ash. Would condensation turn it to slush?
        She had to turn off the water and find the leak. She lifted a plywood panel inside the door. At the junction with the incoming water pipe sat a valve. She turned it until it wouldn't turn any more. The sound of rushing water ceased. Steam began to clear and she could see a loose plywood panel at the far side of the room; a fizzling jet of steam betrayed the leak. She looked for something to seal it off. But then thought; Did the water even need to be turned back on?
        Kristin didn't see bony hands rise from within the coffin to clutch its sides; didn't see its occupant sit up and stare at her. Yet, she felt she was being watched. She didn't know why, but something made her turn around. When she looked at the coffin her jaw dropped in utter surprise.

                                        #

        Leslie was methodical; cross-checking sample after sample and attendant research notes. Doctor Khullar's practices were rigorous. Leslie admired her work. It may have been reprehensible; her moral compass clearly out of whack. But she was meticulous.
        Leslie pulled up notes on Subject Three and found matching tissue and blood samples. She switched on the microscope; slid a sample under the lens and re-read the research. Like staring at a train wreck; she knew she wouldn't rest until she'd gone through every one of Herbst's dark secrets.

                                        #

        Kristin thought she must be hallucinating or worse; suffering from cabin-fever. But that took months; she'd only been in the Antarctic for two days and out in the boonies for less than twenty-four hours.
        She saw Bo Greaves standing next to the coffin. She told herself it was a mirage. He couldn't have arrived without her knowing, "Lieutenant Greaves, is it really you?
        He nodded and she thought he looked even more handsome than usual; he positively glowed. Where was his biohazard suit? He wore only regulation fatigues.
        "Don't worry Kristin. It's all fine."
        She heard his words but they were in her head. She was certain his lips didn't move. Her attraction to him felt so strong she swayed; feeling a little dizzy.
        He stepped closer, "I know it's totally out of order. But I want you, right now."
        Kristin couldn't believe he used the exact words from her fantasy. Arousal washed over her. Her nipples became erect and she felt a delightful throbbing sensation, down below, God, can this be real?
        His voice was every bit as gentle as she imagined, "Kristin, there's a problem here and I really need your help. I don't think I can trust anyone else."
        He said exactly what she always wanted to hear; what she was thinking. Her feelings of attachment and affection made her heart beat faster. Kristin knew she must be experiencing a waking dream but this was tangible; it was happening.
        He reached out and his hands were suddenly inside her suit. His face pressed against her mask, then it was inside. He kissed her; their tongues slid around each other. Kristin knew he couldn't be real but she was past caring. His hand slid over her ribs tickling the skin as it drifted to her nipple. His palm pressed hard against her breast. His breath and tongue licked hot down the side of her neck. His other hand stroked the soft flesh at the tops of her thighs; fingers crawled under the elastic of her underpants, then teased the sides of her lips. The anticipation was exquisite.
        She lay prostrate on the floor in the doorway. Man, I hope nobody sees me like this.
        His soothing voice drizzled over her like honey, "Don't worry about anything."
        God, can you read my mind? His face and tongue flowed down her front between her breasts, licking her naval and finally resting near the magic spot. She moaned involuntarily. Everything down there dripped with his saliva and her moisture. His tongue slid rhythmically; not directly on her erotic center, but just to the side. She closed her eyes and felt positively wanton, charged with sexual energy.
        She wanted him inside her; yelled it with abandon, "Fuck me. Please just FUCK ME. Oh Christ, did I just say that?" She couldn't believe herself. She was embarrassed that she'd even thought it and yet; she wanted to be completely open and vulnerable to him, not hold anything back.
        She remembered something she heard once; Should sex feel dirty? Only if you're doing it right.
        Kristin felt more carnal, at that moment, than any time she could remember. Then he slid into her; the sensation went beyond ecstacy.
        She hadn't had many sexual partners; especially not recently. She knew she'd be sore afterwards but didn't care. She was building towards climax; couldn't believe how fast it was approaching. Kristin prayed she didn't pussyfart; Girl, don't you ruin this moment.
        Bo kissed her neck as he penetrated her; he also flicked her most intimate spot with his tongue; Hang on! How could he be doing THAT; is he a contortionist? Even though Kristin's approaching orgasm was on the verge of eruption she couldn't help opening her eyes.
        But the face glaring at her wasn't Bo; wasn't even male. She was eyeball to eyeball with a wizened old woman; so old she had no hair. The withered crone glared at her with a hideous grimace; yellowed teeth, like a piranha's, protruded from cracked, parchment lips, shrivelled breasts flapped like spaniel's ears.
        The awful hag latched her dribbling mouth onto Kristin's throat and her sensational orgasm made way for a stab of pain and fear. Her neck burned like searing hot iron was plunged into her flesh. Kristin struggled but could do nothing against immense, unnatural strength. Bo's soft tones gave way to evil, exultant, female giggling; old, so very old. The hand; that moments before tickled her pudenda, now thrust pointy fingers inside her, gripping her pubic bone. Kristin could barely comprehend the terror. She tried to scream but had no breath in her lungs.

 

The Assassin's Backstory

    I initially wrote this because I thought it was a cool story - an African-American, single mother, from an abusive marriage - who had reconstructed her life by turning into a Mob hitman.
    It eventually had to go from the final release draft because of its length, and the fact the character gets killed. It was too many words spent on a very minor character who makes one appearance only.
    I still like the concept and may develop it as another story in its own right. What follows is the original draft with very little editing.


        Narusha Rohine felt she was a good mother. Her boy, Will, was going to be a fine man; thanks to the guidance Narusha and her mother provided. He was raised to have respect for the Law, for God, for his country, and women. That last category was especially prickly for Narusha. She wouldn't see him treat any woman the way his father, Clay, treated her.
        Being a single mother was tough at any time but things could have been much worse; and Narusha knew it. At least she could leave him with a loving grandmother when she was away on work. Despite the misery of their marriage she did have Clay to thank for their affluent lifestyle. She and her mother raised Will in great comfort, in a substantial home on Long Island that Narusha owned outright. It was a far cry from struggling to pay the bills in South-Central LA. She finally had the life she'd always wanted and would never go back to her former existence.
        Narusha's work was highly specialized and lucrative. She was a consultant with a single client; they required her services a few times a year, for only a week or two at a stretch. This was one of those times.
        Her evening dress was laid out on the bed. Not wanting to ruin its sheer line she didn't bother with underwear. In the dark bedroom she only wore dancing pumps that matched the gown. Even her cell-phone and handgun lay on the bed. She'd strap the gun to her inside leg later.
        She set up the sniper's-rifle away from the window so the long silencer didn't protrude beyond the blinds. The window would only be opened a few inches; wide enough for the muzzle. Narusha thought it a little perverse to be murdering a complete stranger while nude. But when it came down to getting a bead on the target; pulling the trigger, she didn't see the victim. It was always Clay in the cross-hairs. He liked her naked, even when he was brutalizing her. Was it so strange to be naked when she ritually killed him?
        She saw herself in the full-length wardrobe mirror. She was still an attractive woman; lean and fit as her work demanded. But she hated the scars Clay left on her body; never let anyone see her undressed. She went to great lengths to hide her breasts and belly. She was self conscious about them; cigarette burns were distinctive. Those on her abdomen looked the same as the small round blemishes ringing her nipples, but emotionally, they went far deeper. Clay made them when she was seven months pregnant with Will. She could still hear his drunken hate-speak about how he'd burn the baby if he could. Only her belly was stopping him. She wanted to fight but he'd tied her hands and feet. He liked taunting her; called her his nigger fuck toy.
        Narusha killed Clay after he threatened their unborn child; the final straw that jolted her out of the stupor that was her life. In planning his murder she was meticulous; was never a suspect, not by the Police at any rate.
        But others did work out what happened and approached her. She demonstrated real ability and a fantastic cover; an African American, single-parent living with her sainted mother. Who would suspect her? They made an offer Narusha couldn't refuse; work for them or go directly to jail, do not pass 'Go'. It turned out to be Kismet. They had the services of a true prodigy: she was the Mozart of assassins; earning more, per hit, than several lifetimes on minimum-wage in LA.
        Narusha peered out the window, at a rather ordinary Eighties vintage apartment block; the home of her intended victim. This particular hit would be silent; the street likely deserted at the time. In any event, she knew a person falling over didn't always elicit an immediate response. She would have time to pack up the rifle and slip on her dress. The secret of a clean exit was to look unremarkable, to go unnoticed.
        By the time the injury was identified as a gunshot Narusha would be on her way to Phoenix. After a job she never traveled directly to New York. It was better to spend a day in a secondary destination, then go home via Manhattan. She liked to pick up something special for Will on the return trip.

                                        #

        Rebecca packed up the folio and called Vladek Kral over from the bar.
        She was not happy, "Where the hell is Dale? I expected you both to be here."
        "Sorry Miss Huston, but Mister Lutz called him away. When he says jump..."
        "...Yeah, yeah, you say how high? I get it." She pulled out her cell phone; had Lutz on speed-dial. His face appeared in the tiny screen. "Where do you get off pulling Bleeker without giving me a heads up?"
        He frowned, annoyed by her superior tone, "Is that Tatum woman still with you?"

                                        #

        Narusha adjusted the telescopic sight. It was precisely zeroed and she was confident of its accuracy. Her rifle was a precision, single-shot bolt action weapon; old technology, but she preferred it to more indiscriminate semi-automatics. She'd done extensive time tests over the previous days. The target always walked through the aiming zone for about six seconds. Conventional wisdom said she'd only have time for a single shot; that didn't bother her. Narusha only needed one shot.
        Her cell phone rang. She put it to her ear; didn't say anything, just waited for the voice on the other end. It was the final proximity warning. The target would arrive within twenty minutes. Narusha took the ammunition clip; five rounds only; inserted them into the magazine. She'd wait until she had a visual confirmation before slamming a round into the breech.
        She'd already begun the process of regulating her breathing. A marksman knows to be accurate you can't hold your breath while aiming. If you do, after a few seconds your vision degrades, blurs slightly. The trick is knowing how to breathe without throwing off your aim. She already pictured Clay walking from the kerb to the front of Leslie Tatum's apartment building.
        But Narusha's plans went off their precision rails when the bedroom door flew in with a crack that shattered the calm. Torchlight hit her eyes, startling her for a critical microsecond. Dale Bleeker came through the doorway not knowing what to expect, but it sure wasn't a naked woman; Fuck, is this the wrong room? But then his torchlight found the sniper's rifle on its tripod. From that point he ran on reflexes.
        The naked silhouette reached for the bed. He fired two rounds; double tap, into the upper torso. A third round hit her skull just above the ear. The sound was muted by the silencer on his pistol. She flopped backwards onto the bed and lay still; looking like she was asleep.
        He employed his own controlled-breathing technique. His pulse raced but he could feel the rush of adrenalin already subsiding.
        He was calm when he used his cell-phone, "This is Bleeker, send in the clean-up team."

                                        #

        When the taxi pulled away from Leslie's building her head was still spinning from everything Rebecca raised. She almost overlooked the grey moving van parked across the street. Two men in overalls pushed a queen sized mattress into the back. Dark stains on the mattress were visible from across the street. Leslie checked the time; twenty-two-twenty at night. It seemed unusual for someone to be moving at that hour. Leslie went inside without giving the van, the men or the mattress any further thought. She didn't see the black plastic bag loaded a minute later. Had she done so, she might have paid closer attention. It was a body bag and Leslie knew what they looked like. The clean-up team stripped Narusha's room down to its bare floor. Everything was taken for forensic assessment.

 

Leslie's First Nightmare

    I really liked writing this, but decided to cut it from the final draft because it occurred too early in the plot and slowed the pace of the narrative. There was also another dream, much later, and far more important. I thought the novel could really only accommodate one dream sequence so this one had to go. Here it is for those who are interested.


    Leslie opened her eyes as wide as she could; straining in a way only panic can induce. Blinding lights above her, too bright to look at directly, gave her pale skin a luminous appearance. Their heat sent beads of stinging sweat into her eyes. She squinted; wanted to wipe her brow but couldn't. Her arms and feet were bound.
    She tilted her head forward and saw tight straps restraining her wrists and ankles. She was naked and felt vulnerable, embarrassed; wanted someone to pull a sheet over her. The hard steel of the table hurt her shoulders; How the fuck did I end up here?
    Muffled voices came from somewhere beyond her view; their words unintelligible. A silhouetted head flashed over her face. Its features obscured within a glaring aura of light. She looked down and more figures joined the first. She discerned surgical gowns and masks, but no faces.
    A flash from a glinting blade caught her eye. Leslie recognized it; had used one like it many times herself; a number seventy postmortem blade. The silhouetted  figure placed it over her sternum, just below her clavicle. She tried to scream but no sound issued from her throat. The blade slipped through her epidermis, dermis and underlying tissue. The skin parted in the wake of the blade; over her diaphragm, right through the naval then the upper and lower abdomen. Finally she felt the chink as it bumped against her pubic bone.
    More people gathered around the table. Rough hands pulled her slit skin apart. Other arms reached deep into her trunk; pulled out great handfuls of viscera. Mute screams choked in her gullet. She recognized a face bent over her, Sergeant Ernesto Ortega; with the same hideous grimace he had when last she saw him. He leaned across her torso and opened his mouth, dribbling a vile mixture of phlegm, bile and spittle onto the remains of her innards. Wherever this odious secretion dropped her flesh changed into a putrefying carrion. The effect spread from her gut to every part of her body.