Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 (7 page)

Wow, look at
that!
She is totally hot. What am I thinking? I’m about to die, and what am I doing? I must be out of my mind. But I can’t help it, she looks that good. Tight black shorts, I mean
short,
baring muscular thighs all the way up, blending perfectly into shapely hips that sway with her marvelous backside as she hurries down the ladder. Gadgets surround her trim waist, hanging from a thick belt that matches her big, bad-ass black boots. As she reaches the ladder’s end, she twists halfway, flinging dark pigtails as she clings to the flimsy rungs, one arm intertwined while the other fiddles through her belt of goodies. Her tight sleeveless top reveals the rest of her feminine features, not particularly abundant, yet incredibly arousing, most notable the tantalizing treats the sheer garment fails to conceal.

Okay, enough of that. But I can’t help it. The sight of any female so gorgeous lets me forget the pain—the scorching heat burning my eyes, hand fried by the guardrail, and one arm nearly plucked from my torso. All gone for one brief moment. Then the pain comes alive as reality steals the moment away.

“Hold still, Adam, I’ll get you.”

There she goes again, calling me Adam. Perhaps this is a case of mistaken identity. I’m not going to say anything. No sense in spoiling my rescue just because I’m the wrong guy.

She pulls a device from her belt. It looks like a gun.

My shoes start smoldering. Kicking my feet, I strain to extinguish the fiery footwear.

“Stop squirming,” she says. “Sit still already.”

“
Sit?
Right, I’ll just whip out a chair.”

Couldn’t help it, sarcasm took over. Better to die laughing—even at a bad joke—than to never laugh at all.

“You are such a smart-ass.” She smiles, almost giggling. “Just hold still.”

The joke wasn’t too bad, she gets it. A nice change from the humor-impaired people I’ve had to deal with lately. Then she points her gun at me.

“What are you doing with that?”

“Just shut up and be still.” She squints one eye to improve her aim.

Eyes tight, hiding from my demise, I pray that life’s behavior scores well enough to put me in Heaven. Here comes my last moment alive.

A small pop and something slings around my waist, slapping hard like a whip.

“Ouch! Is that necessary?”

Around my waist is a thin wire that she is fastening to the ladder.

“Would you rather be toast?”

Her device wasn’t a gun after all. Or, a wire gun, I suppose.

“Well?” she says, focused on my hand clutching the guardrail. “Let’s go.”

A determined stare reveals her impatience. More convincing is her gorgeous smile, a great incentive to join her.

I let go of the hot railing, and snared by the wire, swing away as she clings to the ladder, both of us dangling like a disjointed puppet over the rising inferno. She waves at the hovering aircraft and we are hoisted skyward, though faster would be better. Hungry flames shoot up, chasing after us, and the platform below is engulfed by a roaring blaze. I would be toast now if not for this woman, she wasn’t kidding. She hurries up the ladder, reeled in one jerking yank after another, drawing us closer to the open hatch.

The flames cease instantly. Down below, panels snap open and hiss, breathing out an invisible barrier made of nothing more than air. Then opposing nozzles project and unleash streams of milky substance, concentrating on the torched platform. I would have drowned in that deluge. Or rather my remains, a swirling cloud of ash. The devices below would be containing those ashes. Why?

A shape is forming. The strange object grows larger as the streams crash into one another, and the process creates a giant ice cube. The guardrails now look frosty, which explains the initial coldness. Just before I arrived, another poor soul stood on that platform and was cremated.

A loud bang comes from above and the ladder flies sideways. I’m flung into a wall, bounce off, then crash into another. A mechanism has struck the aircraft, which strains to recover, engines whining as it repositions over the smokestack. The ladder is reeled in fast, yanking the wire tighter around my belly, and I go soaring upward. Walls of soot stream past as I rise toward better air, clearing heat and smoke from my lungs and burning eyes. My ascent eases and I hang weightless for a split-second, fearing a rapid descent comes next, back to the death trap. Arms reach out and haul me into the aircraft.

* * *

Three bodies tumble across the compartment and crash. The woman untangles herself from me and another guy, then jumps up and shouts into a corridor, “David! Get us out of here.”

“Wait!” I cry. “I want to see what happens to the ice.”

I don’t know what gave me the idea I could start barking orders, but I have to know what this program is all about, especially that ice.

The woman sighs, annoyed with me, and it’s familiar, like I’ve annoyed her before. “Okay, but be quick about it.” She turns away and relays instructions to the pilot. “David, hang on, Adam wants to see something. But keep away from that thing. I don’t want it smacking us again.”

The aircraft shoots up. I get untangled from the wire, then lean out the open hatch. The machinery that collided with the aircraft is a giant crane. It lowers into the smokestack, pulls out the cube, then swings to one side and extends its boom, transporting the ice to another area, out of view.

“Turn this thing around,” I say. “I want to see where the ice goes.”

The woman shouts into the corridor, “David, turn us around. He wants to see where it’s putting that thing.”

“Okay,” a voice replies. “Hang on.”

I assume that corridor leads to the cockpit, and further assume that voice belongs to David, the pilot. I once knew a David, I think, but can’t quite remember. But I’m sure I know a guy named Dave, and might even recall—yes, he was a pilot. Here comes another migraine.

The aircraft rotates and the crane comes into view. The ice with my name on it is lowered into a corrugated metal container, about the size of a train car, but without wheels. Spread across an enormous platform, countless containers are stacked one atop another, the highest with their lids open as blocks of ice are dropped in.

The crane returns to the smokestack and retrieves another cube just that fast, and there is not one crane, nor one smokestack. Dozens of the dark cylinders line the backside of the building, and half as many cranes shift between them. The tubes periodically spit flame followed by a puff of smoke, then a crane lifts out the frosty cargo.

Someone taps my shoulder. I swing around to find the lovely woman pointing to her wrist, at a nonexistent timepiece. “Time’s up. We have to get out of here.”

She’s right—I’m sightseeing when we should be gone, before more trouble shows up. The Bobs won’t be happy with my escape, and will likely arrive any minute to show us just how unhappy they can be.

“Okay, we can go now.”

How is it that I’m giving orders and approving actions? I just got here.

The woman pulls me in and secures the hatch, then hollers into the corridor, “Go, David,
go!
”

* * *

The aircraft shoots ahead so fast I’m knocked to the deck, flat on my back. The woman follows, toppling over to land on my chest, her lips just above mine. An instinctual urge to keep her safe, I curl an arm around her and hold tight. The contact is arousing, her chest to mine, and in my grasp, toned muscle flowing along her spine.

“Did you miss me?” she asks.

Do we know each other? I wouldn’t mind knowing her. She’s awesome.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I mean, not sure who you are.”

“Oh, right, I almost forgot. You don’t know a bunch of stuff.”

As if I need to be reminded. Reminded of all I can’t remind myself—of anything. What I know, who I know, hell, I’m not even sure who I am anymore. I feel like a science experiment, testing how the subject turns out if tortured by an endless dose of ignorance.

“You’re damn right I don’t know a bunch of stuff. Like who you are, and this other guy, and what the hell’s going on. I want answers!”

She sits up to straddle my waist. “Adam, it’s me, Madison. You know, your—”

“Maddie!” the other fellow shouts. “Knock it off. Don’t be talking like that before he’s ready. You know how it works.”

More people talking about me in the third person. Enough of this crap.

“And you!” I holler at her nerdy partner. “Who are you? Don’t talk to her about me. Talk to me if you have something to say about me.”

I shove Madison off. She gets up and casts a disbelieving stare. Too bad, girl, I have better things to do than lie under you.

The other fellow approaches, a scrawny runt with stringy hair crossing his brow, hair he keeps pushing to one side, an annoying nervous habit. He wears baggy shorts a few sizes too large, perhaps all he could find or afford. His chicken legs descend from the giant shorts, into black socks and red sneakers. What a goofball. An oversized tee-shirt hangs from his wiry frame, decorated by crazy artwork. I can’t make out what it’s supposed to be, maybe a logo, but really just a splash of color with orange fabric for a backdrop.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “I didn’t mean to upset you. We need to do a few things first, then we’ll help you understand everything, I promise. Oh, and I’m Matthew, by the way, but you can call me Matt.”

Sir? Did he just call me
sir?
He is a bit younger. Perhaps it’s that respect for your elders nonsense. But I’m not that much older than him.

“Okay, Matt. I’m Carl, but you can call—”

Wait—that didn’t work on the last guy. My corny joke went right over his head. I should refrain, though it seems to be working this time. Matt has already started chuckling.

“Call you Carl?” he asks. “I’d prefer Adam, and yeah, that lame joke of yours works with Adam, too.”

“Now hold on, you’re doing the same thing, talking about stuff before I’m ready. What makes you so special? And what the hell am I not ready for?”

“Sorry, sir, I’m just excited to see you again, the same way Maddie is. Please forgive me. We need to get out, I mean, fix you up, okay?”

“Quit apologizing! And quit calling me sir. You know I hate that.”

He does? How do I know he knows? Weird.

“We need to fix your wounds,” he says. “Then we’ll explain everything.” He points to my hand.

I had almost forgotten in all the commotion. Again the inescapable pain mechanism turns on. Upon inspecting my burnt palm, oh how the pain comes alive.

“We need to put you under, sir. Oops, I’m sor— I mean, put you—”

“Under what?”

“You know, right? Well I guess maybe not. Under . . . while we take out . . . I mean, while we fix you up, okay?”

“Take out what?” I ask, just as a migraine erupts. Here comes that truck driving through.

Madison shoves him out of the way. “Matt, just shut up. Let me handle this.” She draws near, holding a slender metallic vial. “I’m sorry, honey. Don’t be mad at me, this is necessary.”

She pokes me in the neck with her sinister device. It burns. Something flows from the tiny shaft, into my body, and I begin to feel fuzzy. Now what have I gotten myself into? I’m about to fall, Matt is moving behind me, and Madison helps him catch my limp body. I feel light and free, an enjoyable sensation, almost like floating through space, but at the same time, I’m scared.

I’m afraid I’ve been tricked again.

Chapter 3

Grass. I feel grass. It tickles my back and makes me itch. And moist, the ground is cool, but there is heat coming from above. I open my eyes to see a gorgeous pink sky, full of puffy white clouds, sunbeams slicing through it all.

A tree towers overhead, its leafy limbs shading the meadow as I lie here gazing into the sky. Sunlight burns past the clouds, the branches and leaves, and pours down to warm my skin. A perfect day.

Light wind rustles leaves high in the tree, one breaks loose and rides the breeze. I am fascinated by this simple action, a fallen leaf making its way down to the meadow. The journey seems to last forever, in long sweeping arcs, back and forth.

I hear children playing. Laughing. A wonderful sound of carefree life as kids play their imaginary games. I’d like to find them and play too, but it’s so nice here, spread out on the cool grass, soaking up the warm sunshine.

Something is different about my body. It’s little. I am a small boy. I spring up and test my legs, bursting with energy, sending me high each time I jump. I have shoes with little red lights that blink when I shake my feet. Cool! My arms are new and move easily. Nothing hurts. I dance round and round, and round again. This fresh body is a thrill.

The tree seems to stare down on me, telling me to stop playing and be serious. An imposing sight, its trunk is bigger around than ten of me. I like it. The tree can protect me, its mighty trunk, umbrella of leafy limbs, and most of all, its years of wisdom. It breathes, slowly in, then out. Roots wiggle beneath my feet, burrowing through the soil. The tree is alive, just like me, except it knows everything I don’t.

Out from under the tree, I bring a hand over my brow and search the sunny sky, pink and white with clouds in so many shapes. One of the clouds looks like a truck. One is shaped like an airplane. Another looks like an angry old man with a long beard. Maybe that one is God. Another could be a flower, a white rose. I draw in a deep breath, searching for the fragrance. I can smell it, delightful! My imagination is new and ingenious, bringing the scent on command.

An unusual noise is getting louder. A machine, a truck or train, spoiling my perfect day.
Go away!
I hear the children again, but this time they’re not laughing. This makes me sad at first, then afraid. The children are screaming. They’re not having fun anymore.

I climb a small hill and search for the source of the noise. Growling machines are creeping across the grassy land, surrounded by men wearing black coats and holding sticks. They’re chasing after the children. The bad men are hurting my friends.
Stop that!
The children stop screaming. They make no sound at all, only the growling machines, tearing up the grass. I hate those bad men. They’re taking away our fun, and taking away my friends. Their noisy machines are getting louder. They’re coming to hurt me with their sticks.

I need somewhere to hide. I hurry back to the tree, my wonderful tree, my best friend in the whole world. The tree will help me, I know it will. Where will I hide?

Standing under the tree, I’m surprised to hear a girl’s voice.

“In the tree,” she says.

A young girl is clinging to branches high up in the tree. She must have escaped the bad men. But how did she get all the way up there? She reaches a hand toward me. That’s silly, I can’t stretch that far. But she has the right idea. We’ll hide together.

I climb after her and she goes higher, then she stops. She looks down on me and smiles. What a great smile, and her blue eyes look magical. I want to catch her. She swings around, flinging her rusty ponytail, and climbs faster than I can keep up with. She’s really good at climbing trees, even better than me.

A roaring machine passes under the tree. Men are down below, searching the meadow. We have succeeded. When I look up to smile at my friend, I can’t find her. I’m afraid to climb any higher, I might fall. She isn’t scared. She has climbed farther than I ever would have.

One of the bad men looks up and points. Oh no, he can see me. I’ll pretend to be invisible. That’s what my friend did, and so will I. No one can see me if I keep my body perfectly still. Works every time when I play hide and seek.

He looks. He looks again. Maybe my invisibility isn’t working today.
Please!
Work today!
I need to be invisible!
He walks away and looks somewhere else. See, I
am
invisible. I knew I could do it.

The roaring machine rams into the tree and all the branches shake. Oh no, my friend, are you hurt? The tree has no mouth to scream, but I know it hurts. My friend, I am so sorry.

My invisibility must have worn off. The bad men are pointing at me and shouting words I don’t understand. The growling machine strikes again and the tree shakes too much. My foot slips off the branch and my fingers scrape past bark.

I shouldn’t have climbed so far, it’s a long way to the ground. I go tumbling down, faster and faster, so scared, then crash onto the cool grass below the tree. It doesn’t hurt, but I think it should, or maybe it did and I missed it.

On my back, I’m right where I started. But this time I am tired, very tired, and the grass doesn’t tickle. I can’t feel anything, and I can’t move. All I can see is the sky, and that same cloud, the one that looks like an angry old man. Is that you, God? Why don’t you like me? Why do you let the bad men hurt me? Please, God, tell me why.

* * *

“Adam, we’re done.”

A moist cloth cools my forehead. I know that voice—Madison.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

When I try sitting up, it doesn’t go so well. Feels like someone jackhammered the back of my skull. I reach around and discover ooze seeping out. “Done doing what? Playing doctor?” To hell with the pain, I’m sitting up.

Matt wears a pair of bloody surgical gloves and holds a tiny object between his thumb and forefinger. “All better now,” he says, pleased with himself. “We took it out, like I almost told you, but you know, the risk of side effects and all. It’s safe to talk now.”

“Yeah, and what did you remove it with, a hacksaw? You got a license for this kind of thing?” I can’t believe this. Had I known they were going to chop a hole in my head, I would’ve told them both to screw off. Then I realize, the pain of having my skull invaded is minor compared to what is missing—that slow, low, neverending pulsation of my brain trying to bust out. That excruciating pain is gone.

“What did you remove?” I ask.

Matt steps closer and holds out the tiny object.

I’m instantly tortured by a high-pitched chorus wielding hammers. I slap both hands to my skull.

“Oh, sorry,” Matt says. “I didn’t realize it was still working.” He steps away and the pain turns off like someone threw a switch. He goes to a workbench and digs through a small toolbox. After fiddling with the object, he turns back. “That should do. Here, have a look.”

As he comes near, I cringe, but no, the pain is absent. The object is a slim capsule constructed of smooth metal, about the size of a painkiller. But the resemblance ends there.

“That was in my head?”

“Yep,” he says. “That’s what makes your head hurt. I mean, made it hurt. Not anymore, I disabled it. Well, besides taking it out of your head, of course.”

“What in the world? Are you serious?”

Madison sits down beside me. “Adam, I’ll explain. But first, let me finish up.” She leans closer, angled behind me, and swabs the back of my head with a moist towelette. An icy sting hits my scalp a second later.

“Let’s start with the name,” I say. “Why are you calling me Adam? My name is Carl.”

She pulls around to face me. “Oh, Adam, why did they give you such a silly name? Carl? Just look at yourself. Do you look like a Carl?”

She may have a point. I never cared much for that name.

I reach around to check her work and discover a tidy bandage. No more goo, and whatever she did, the pain of cranial invasion is fading. And my hand, wrapped in gauze and taped, no longer radiates that burning tingle.

Could these be the people the old bum was talking about? Those I should trust? They haven’t actually tricked me, at least, not beyond what is necessary, or so they say. And each result has not equaled pain, rather its removal. More importantly, they have saved me from the ultimate pain—death. Perhaps even a fiery trip to Hell. The last group detaining me was clearly otherwise. And that’s another thing—no one is detaining me, are they? These two haven’t said anything about me having to stay.

I ask Madison, “What if I want to go now?”

Her mood darkens. “If you want to, but please, I wish you wouldn’t. I miss you.” She gets up and enters the corridor leading to the cockpit. I can hear her talking but can’t make out the words. The mellow whine that has filled the background changes to a low roar, the aircraft slows to a hover, then drops. There is a whirring sound, metal slapping, and we touchdown. She told the pilot to land?

She emerges from the corridor and goes to the exterior hatch. The door swings open to reveal a cool evening outside.

“If you don’t trust us,” she says, “you can leave.”

I get up and peer out. We’re in a clearing surrounded by forest. Below the hatchway, small steps fold out and reach to the ground. I venture down and farther into the grassy clearing. The night is perfectly clear, not a single cloud, a sheet of solid black dotted with starlight. A marvelous sight, with moonlight glancing the treetops. No concrete in any direction, I like that. Fresh air fills my lungs, a cool sensation that is calming. It reminds me of a better place, a better time, somewhere I’ve been before.

“You see?” Madison says. “You’re not our prisoner.”

I swing around to see her in the hatchway.

She looks sad. “Adam, please. We’re here to help you.”

I wouldn’t know where to go anyway. I’d probably end up lost in the woods. They passed the test. She has offered freedom.

“Okay, you can call me Adam, for now.”

That should make her feel better, but I’m still keeping my guard up. I’ve been tricked enough lately. I’ll be the Adam she wants, and we’ll see how it goes.

Actually, the name Adam does sound better, and imagining it as my own has a strange effect. I feel stronger, calmer, and oddly confident. Realizing this, a tingling surge of energy flows throughout my body, as if it’s pleased with the name as well, and happy to have me back.

Yeah, I like you too, settle down.

* * *

Madison is back to smiling, as she stands waiting in the hatchway, but I’m distracted by all that surrounds her—the aircraft that brought us here, which resembles no aircraft I’ve ever seen before. A sleek oblong shape, shiny black with angular projections, but all so minor none could possibly serve as wings. How does the thing fly? And where is the exhaust? I see no ports astern, or openings along the hull, other than the hatch and small windows at the nose. There are no rotor blades, it couldn’t be a helicopter. But then, it is night, the moonlight faint. The details are masked by darkness. Besides, the wings could be retractable, and the exhaust muffled by screens to provide stealth. Yes, that explains it. Not to worry. Obviously, the craft is capable of flight, or we wouldn’t be here.

I climb the steps. “Okay, I’ll stay. But it’s time for some answers. No more screwing around.”

Madison lights up with a glowing smile and reaches out to pull me in through the hatchway.

From the corridor leading to the cockpit, another odd character emerges, though not quite the fashion nightmare Matt portrays. This new fellow dresses similarly casual, but at least he understands something about color coordination. He wears khaki shorts that are not excessively large, though comfortably loose, black sneakers and a solid black tee-shirt, free of any silly advertising or undecipherable artwork. His hair is blond, well, more like
yellow,
above dark roots. He’s bleached out the color, producing a mess of plastic yellow doll hair that pokes out all directions, but loaded with gel, a mess styled to appear random on purpose.

“Adam!” He flies at me with arms outstretched.

“Dave?”

He captures me in a big bear hug.

I know this guy, he’s my friend. But where did we meet?

Dave leans back and rattles my shoulders. “I wasn’t going to leave my best friend behind. Good to see you, man.”

His enormous smile gleams white. He’s very happy to see me, but his stare is distracting. What is it? Something about his eyes, they look . . . sober? That’s good, he’s doing the driving, he had better be sober. But I’ve seen those eyes before, plugged into a face where they didn’t belong. That stinky old bum. And Madison was the girl in pigtails.

“You two were under the bridge.”

“Not really,” Dave says.

“What do you mean? Was it you or not?”

“That was a couple of holograms.”

“Holograms? What the hell for? And why a bum?”

“Our transmission was being monitored, so we projected something that fit the scene. They probably didn’t understand all that, but they would have for sure if I showed up like this.” He points in at himself. Indeed, the goon squad would be quick to stamp out that sort of fashion, especially the spiky yellow hair.

“What about Madison?” I ask. “She looked pretty much like she does now.”

She smiles. All I have to do is say her name and she smiles.

Dave explains, “I wanted you to see Maddie the way you know her, thought it might spark your memory, maybe. But we couldn’t get her sound to work, probably a good thing, you know, all that sappy babble of hers.”

She glares at Dave. “Hey!”

“Not now, Maddie, later.”

“Now hold on,” I say. “What about the stink? You smelled like the sewer, mixed with a truckload of alcohol. Holograms don’t have scent.”

“Mine do,” Matt says.

I swing around to meet his proud grin.

Dave asks, “Do you think we overdid it? You know, the smell.”

“It was disgusting. Was that much odor really necessary?”