Black Tide

Chapter One: A Year in Hell

The Maze family home in Natchitoches, Louisiana, was a sprawling, two-story piece of suburban perfection nestled in a quiet neighborhood of manicured lawns and old oaks. It used to be filled with laughter, Sunday barbecues, and late-night movie marathons. Now it was a hollow shell. Kaine lived there alone, his only company the occasional nurse sent by Bayou Care Services, a local nursing agency that specialized in high-maintenance cases.

Kaine was far from high-maintenance. He didn’t want their help, didn’t ask for it, and sure as hell didn’t need it—not in his mind, at least. At 17, he is still a minor and part of the deal for him to remain emancipated is for him to receive this care. Thanks to the life insurance, blood money, from all four of his slain family members and the small fortune his father left him, he could afford it easily. The nurses came and went like clockwork, rotating in twelve-hour shifts to check his prosthetics, manage his scars, and bring him meals he rarely touched. He wasn’t rude, exactly. He was polite enough to avoid being called an asshole, but his cold detachment left little room for warmth or connection.

The nurses all had their quirks. Nurse Judy, a loud-mouthed woman in her 50s, made a point of criticizing Kaine’s “attitude problem” every chance she got. Zeke, the twenty-something guy with a beard that looked like it needed a comb’s mercy, always tried too hard to relate to Kaine, asking about video games and basketball with a forced cheerfulness that made Kaine want to throw him out the window. Then there was Maria, the no-nonsense Latina who ignored Kaine’s sulking and blasted Tejano music on her phone while she worked. She was the only one Kaine didn’t entirely hate.

“Your problem is you’re a stubborn little s**t,” Maria had said during one of her shifts, folding his laundry like she lived there.

“Thanks, Maria,” Kaine deadpanned, not looking up from the book in his lap.

“Anytime, kid. Don’t think I won’t yank your ass out of that chair if you start wallowing.”

Kaine’s lips twitched, but the ghost of a smile disappeared as quickly as it came.

A year of solitude and obsession had transformed Kaine. His once-muscular frame had thinned but was still sharp and wiry, hardened by grueling workout sessions in the home gym he’d outfitted with the best equipment money could buy. His scars—raw, jagged things crisscrossing his chest and shoulders—were permanent reminders of the explosion that had stolen his family. His legs, now sleek black prosthetics with a dull metallic sheen, were a marvel of modern technology. He had learned to use them with precision, though he refused to go out in public, unwilling to face the pitying stares of strangers.

The house itself became a reflection of Kaine’s mental state. His father’s old office, once filled with stock reports and framed diplomas, was now a war room. Blueprints, maps, and articles about the Crimson Dawn papered the walls. A cork board displayed photos of their operatives, along with notes scrawled in Kaine’s neat handwriting. His mother’s kitchen, the heart of the home, now felt sterile, its counters unused.

Kaine spent his days immersed in research. The Crimson Dawn wasn’t just a terrorist group; they were a decentralized network of extremists with cells around the globe. They had no central ideology, no singular demand. They thrived on chaos, hitting targets indiscriminately to destabilize governments. Kaine memorized their names, their faces, their methods. Every detail became a weapon in his mind.

The night terrors were relentless. He woke most nights drenched in sweat, his chest tight and his ears ringing with the phantom sound of explosions. Sometimes he saw Jordan’s wide, innocent eyes staring back at him, lifeless. Other times it was Renee’s broken body or his mother’s scream cut short.

He coped the only way he knew how: with brutal discipline. His workouts were punishing, designed to push him to the brink of collapse. The prosthetics didn’t slow him down. If anything, they made him faster, more precise. He installed a punching bag in the garage and beat it until his knuckles bled, imagining every blow landing on the faceless cowards who’d taken his family.

Music blared during these sessions—anything loud, angry, and raw. Lil Wayne’s verses seared through his veins. Nine Inch Nails echoed his rage. Even Beethoven found its way into the mix, the haunting crescendos feeding his drive.

Kaine’s extended family had tried to reach out at first. His aunt Lorraine called every week, leaving voicemails filled with concern and thinly veiled guilt trips. His cousin Malcolm, a tech nerd in Silicon Valley, sent care packages filled with gadgets and snacks Kaine didn’t need or want. Kaine ignored all of it. The calls, the texts, the emails—they all went unanswered. He couldn’t stomach their pity or their attempts to fix him.

His old friends from school didn’t fare any better. Jared, his best friend and teammate, who had moved last year, had driven all the way from Baton Rouge to visit him. Kaine hadn’t even answered the door. The message was clear: the old Kaine was dead, buried with his family.

One afternoon, Kaine’s solitude was interrupted by Nurse Judy, who barged into his war room uninvited.

“This isn’t healthy, Kaine,” she snapped, gesturing at the chaos on the walls. “You need to talk to someone.”

“Thanks for the input, Dr. Phil,” Kaine muttered without looking up from his laptop.

“I’m serious. You’re just sitting here stewing in your own misery, plotting God knows what.”

Kaine’s eyes flicked up, cold and sharp. “I’m not plotting. I’m preparing.”

Judy flinched under his gaze, muttering something about “lost causes” as she left the room.