Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1

by William Campbell

  Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1

  William Campbell

  ISBN 978-0-9717960-3-4

  Copyright 2010 William Campbell

  All rights reserved

  Published by Glyd-Evans Press

  The Dead Forever trilogy:

  Awakening

  Apotheosis

  Resonance

  Print editions of this e-book are available

  Visit www.deadforever.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  WE REMIND: Events depicted in this record occurred during the use of language systems other than English. In consideration of the reader, all representations of character thought and speech have been translated to the nearest English equivalent in use at the time of transcription.

  Chapter 1

  Blackness, crashing, every touch is a searing impact. Extreme motion without purpose or destination—chaos. Up and down have become mere concepts in this nightmare of heat and confusion.

  A flickering glow bleeds from the void—flames.

  “Put it out,” a woman shouts.

  My skin is burning. Snapped alert by a blistering surface, I spring up only to tumble over and smack the floor. Or was it the ceiling? The two have traded places, and again, flipping end over end.

  From thick smoke, flames snap out like whips, steel panels glisten white-hot, creak and moan, melting conduits dangle and sway. The upending eases but the compartment is spiraling—we’re falling. A warm flow trickles down my forehead, into my eyes. I reach for my scalp and the wet mess leaves my fingertips bloody. Something hard and I became far more intimate than we should have.

  Someone darts through the smoke. Then back again, and she stops to look at me.

  “Put it out.”

  She is strangely familiar. Rusty hair in a high ponytail, determined stare, her cheeks are heated rosy. A woman of such beauty she may be a goddess, casting a disapproving glare as if provoked and contemplating wrath if I don’t get up and . . . do what?

  Dread strikes. Something bad is going to happen, and worse—it happens to her.

  “Hurry!” she cries.

  The fire. I came here to put out a fire. An extinguisher is here somewhere. In a cabinet, but the door won’t budge. The hinges are melted, the handle is hot, now my palms are charred.

  Failure obscures all fear. I don’t know which is worse—the fear, the failure, the dread—or knowing that I’m completely useless.

  Towering flames rise at her back. She rushes to reach me, her arms outstretched. The goddess is drained of wrath, stricken with sorrow, streaming tears and hollow. Her hopeless stare won’t let go, yearning for a last embrace, and testament to our fate—there is no tomorrow.

  “We won’t survive,” she says. “Don’t get lost. Remember, I’ll find you. I’ll find you!”

  Rapt by her mesmerizing gaze, I am spellbound, the threat of incineration a distant concern. Her eyes—so clear, so light, so blue.

  Tender blue eyes, that may never forgive me.

  * * *

  “Hey.” A male voice. “Come on, wake up.”

  The inferno fades. Damp, chilly clothing clings to my skin, a dreadful reminder of this aching body, cold, wet and unfed. I lie crumpled atop a soggy patch of cardboard, gazing up at massive concrete slabs, enormous iron girders, hanging in the shadows of night. There is no fire, no woman, and no blue eyes. I’m where I was all along, sleeping under this bridge.

  The recurring dream visits again this night, a dream so real, it must be. I can feel the flames, hear her voice, and sense the dread every time. Then I wake in this miserable place, where the sun never shines.

  A figure hovers overhead. “Hey, buddy,” he says. “You got some change? I need a drink. Come on, help a poor guy out.”

  Why does he bother me? I just want to sleep. Forever would be good.

  The rude awakener is a repulsive sight, his clothes a patchwork of grimy fibers stained by splotches of sweat, beer, or other foul substance. More wretched is his nasty beard, having reached a matting so thorough it could be carpet, splattered with remnants of his last few meals. I shouldn’t be one to judge, seeing how I’ve been caught napping under a bridge, but at least I’ve enough sense to wipe my face after dinner, and comb my beard once in a while.

  Then the smell hits. Hard to say which is worse, the stench of his last drink, or that unmistakable odor seeping from clothes unwashed in weeks, hanging from a body unwashed in months. Some people just don’t understand. Bathing has value, at least to the rest of us.

  He grins, revealing teeth rotten where they’re not missing. “Don’t forget what you’re looking for.”

  Huh? I was looking for something. But what? And when? I hate that—sure of something, but at the same time, clueless. Because I can’t remember. Nonsense. He’s messing with my head and it’s working. A migraine erupts, like getting smacked in the skull by a ten-pound sledgehammer.

  I try rubbing out the ache. Useless. “I’m not looking for anything, not from you.”

  “Sure you are,” he says. “And I have some right here.”

  “You do?” I struggle upright. “What?”

  His stare is creepy. His eyes, what is it? Something is wrong with his eyes.

  He leans close and says, “Vital information.”

  I expected him to whip out some smelly little trinket, buried in his filthy coat, soaking up that wretched stench. Maybe even a few tabs of pain relief. But no, my prize is the intangible wisdom of a drunken lunatic.

  “Get away from me.”

  “People are looking for you,” he says.

  Life is bad enough, but listening to this nonsense, I just realized—worse has no limit.

  “Listen, you old fart, I bet people are looking for you, too, at least they should be. You stink, you’re annoying, not to mention completely insane.”

  He doesn’t even flinch. He just stares at me, and I can’t get over it—something is wrong with his eyes. Not the eyes of a drunk. He has a sober gaze, clear and intent, as though eyes of another have been plugged into his dirty, drunken head.

  “People are looking for you,” he says. “Some you’ll want finding you, the others, I don’t think so. Remember, stay alert and pay attention. You have a choice to make, of who to trust.”

  I don’t trust him, I know that much. No surprise really, since I don’t trust anyone, ever. Then the blind spots start dancing. The migraine mutates—now someone has thumbs behind my eyes, pushing the mushy orbs out of my skull.

  “Why don’t you buzz off? You’re giving me a headache, freak.”

  He chuckles, then points over my shoulder. “Maybe, but she’s not a freak.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone you know.”

  Could it be? The urge is overwhelming, I must know, and spin around hoping to see the woman who haunts my nightmares. Nothing, absolutely nothing, other than the usual rain-slicked avenue, lined with the same monotonous string of ugly concrete buildings. Duped by a drunk, great. Next he’ll steal my stuff while I’m not looking, I know how it goes. What stuff? My precious cardboard?

  But there is something, maybe half a block away. A person materializes out of thin air, standing on the sidewalk. A woman. That’s not right, people don’t come out of nowhere. She fades in and out, flicker
ing some, a translucent, dreamlike vision, leading me to wonder—am I still dreaming? Or I’ve started dreaming again. No, to wonder if you’re dreaming isn’t dreaming. A dream is only a dream when you don’t know it’s a dream, right?

  I don’t want to lose sight of this apparition, but at the same time, that shifty derelict lurking out of view makes me nervous. I spin around to find him right where I left him, perfectly still, sober eyes gazing, patiently waiting. Good, he knows how to behave. I’ll trust him this one time. Back to the girl. Her mouth moves, she might be talking, but she makes no sound, maybe some static. She looks familiar, dark hair in pigtails. I’ve seen that before somewhere, but I don’t think it was a dream. Or maybe it was. Another dream?

  Stabbing pain strikes, like burning needles hammered into my brain, an instant torture that sends me to my knees and both hands to my skull. This can’t be a dream. Dreams don’t hurt this much.

  The dark sky crackles the familiar sound of an approaching thunderstorm. The overcast swirls like a churning cauldron and a blinding flash ignites. Now the bum fades in and out, just like the girl, and he seems to speak, but he makes no sound. More lightning brightens the street, then a bang of thunder. The woman is gone. I twist around, and the bum has vanished as well. All that remains is lightning, thunder, and a roaring downpour.

  I don’t understand, he was right here. I looked away for only a moment. There wasn’t enough time for him to be gone.

  Okay, now I’m awake.

  * * *

  Under this bridge is a good place to sleep, considering the weather, but it doesn’t do much good. The rain finds its way into my clothes anyway. The concrete underbelly is so dark it might as well be painted black. Everything here takes on a similar hue, since there’s so little light, and so little life. The lack of color only reinforces my grave depression, confirming that life is trivial, and its end a meaningless eventuality.

  Every night I walk below this very bridge, toward the river, where I find the same thing, time and again. Past the tall chain-link fence that blocks any further travel, across the river is a dazzling city, what one might call downtown, or the center of things. Bright lights, tall buildings, reaching into a dismal gray overcast. Just one more place I’ll never go. Not that I care to, but somehow it calls to me. I don’t even know how to get there. Over this bridge you’d think, but there’s no way to cross. Every onramp is blocked by ten-foot high concrete slabs.

  The coat I traded for a while back is better than my last. Still with holes in every pocket, but at least this one has fewer stains, and the seam along the back isn’t unraveling. I’ve had these shoes so long, I can’t remember where they came from. But then, I can’t remember much of anything. The past seems like a dream, so unreal. What was I doing last year? Even a month ago. To recall might illuminate some purpose in life, other than wandering aimlessly one day to the next.

  Dreams are better than real life. I get to be someone important, not just another loser. I’m the hero who saves the world and gets the girl. Except when I fail and we burn. I hate that dream.

  Even the accident is like a dream. I can’t remember exactly what happened, but whatever it was, the trauma formed a barrier, a veil between certain knowledge and the darkened past that I have yet to penetrate. Without a past, my days are like riding a boxcar in the fog. Ahead, the train slips from view, no sign of the engine pulling life along, and behind, a long string of freight fades into the mist. No future, no picture of the past, just a dreary now.

  Perhaps I could recall a past if not tortured by chronic migraines, my splendid reward for surviving the accident. I often wish that I hadn’t. The painless slumber of death might be pleasant. Instead, my sentence is a life of misery, trapped in a body burdened with pain, foremost this throbbing skull, though a growling stomach adds its own version of anguish. Time for some food. And something for this aching head. Any end to this agony, now that would be a dream come true. My goal in life—escape the pain.

  Wrapped in my inadequate coat, I emerge from under the bridge and start along the sidewalk. The relentless shower is like watery bullets, hammering my skull as I push through the weather. In minutes my socks are soaked, and my toes are chilled to the bone. I am here to suffer.

  Tiny waves gush across the smooth pavement, a glimmering sheet that spills off into the gutter and empties into the many drains. A pulsating vision of lively ripples moving past. Life has become so hollow, even the simplest things are fascinating, as simple as water flowing across a sidewalk.

  * * *

  A few blocks up the street is Sandy’s diner, a greasy dive named for its proprietor. She’s nice enough, though a fake sort of gal who likes to talk a lot, usually for no reason besides hearing the sound of her own voice. You might imagine she was once beautiful, but the ravages of time have changed that. Deep lines crossing her face, and weathered skin clinging to her boney frame, I often wonder if she spent the last decade touring the desert.

  A gust of toasty air rolls out when I pull the door open. Ah, that’s better. Too bad I can’t hang out in here forever. But then, I wouldn’t call that a particularly exciting life, either.

  The flickering fluorescent lights don’t bring much color to anything, it all has the same dull sheen. Enough to illuminate the food anyway. Or what you might call food, which here, amounts to little more than basic fuel a body requires.

  I might consider an open booth near the window, but one lowly customer hogging an entire booth would be the ultimate act of selfishness. A seat at the counter should do just fine, leaving the booths for people with friends joining them. Not me.

  Others are present, no one important, just more losers like me. This part of town doesn’t cater to many well-to-do folks. A few people glance over as I slip into a seat at the counter, then realize it’s just me, and get back to their meals.

  Even though I’ve seen it all before, every visit I have to gawk at the odd knick-knacks mounted to the walls. A car’s grille, banged up road signs, on the other wall an antique something, looks like an eggbeater, next to a transistor radio. Splattered across every wall are ancient photos behind cracked glass in broken frames, of people from another century. Dusty junk hangs from the ceiling, worn tools with splintery handles, a pogo-stick, rusty saber and more, all sorts of crap. An irritating buzz comes from a flickering neon sign that reads “Good Ol’ Home Cooking.” Not any home of mine. Some lunatic decorated this joint.

  Sandy approaches with pad in hand, ready for my order, and as always, wearing her warm, forced smile. “Carl, what are you doing up so late? Staying out of trouble, I hope.”

  “I’d still be sleeping if that damn bum would’ve left me alone.”

  “Another run-in?” she asks. “Don’t tell me you got in another fight.”

  “Might as well have. Feels like my head’s been kicked in.”

  “Carl, you say that every time I see you.” She leans on one hip, smacks her gum, and taps her pad with the pen.

  “Well, it’s how I feel every time you see me.”

  Her smile tightens to a teasing sort of wrinkled grin. “You just need a warm meal. What’ll you have?”

  “How about some egg-fried toast.”

  “No such thing, hon. Same as last time.”

  I’ve been asking for that dish every visit, but I’m never in luck. The funny thing is, I don’t remember ever having it before. Heck, I’m not even sure what it is.

  “You mean scrambled eggs,” she says, already scribbling the undesired order. “That your favorite?”

  If eating the same thing forever is the definition of favorite, she could be right. But the number of times I’ve consumed the disgusting meal has me wondering—did scrambled eggs ever taste good?

  “What I really need is something for this headache. My skull’s in a vise.”

  Sandy has more than just food, thank goodness. She has a stock of medicine, cures for a variety of ailments, one of which I seek daily—relief from the chronic migraines. Life might be tol
erable, though cold, wet and dark, if only this endless ache would lighten up once in a while. At times the sensation nears that of a truck driving through my skull. The torture is without end, but it does vary. If I think, my head hurts. Lie about like a vegetable, it subsides a bit. A great incentive to be a vegetable.

  Sandy reaches into her apron and pulls out a small container. “I have some Duprixol, that’ll make it better.”

  Ah, the good stuff. Duprixol almost kills the pain, at least, better than the imitation crap peddled on the street. Most of the riffraff don’t care for the drugs, they only want the liquor and will gladly trade. Not me, I’ll take Duprixol any day. Liquor can’t begin to dull this kind of ache.

  I reach across the counter and Sandy drops two tablets in my palm. I pop the pills then reach out again, ready for more.

  She loses her smile. “I think two is enough.”

  “Tonight it’s bad, Sandy. Real bad, worse than ever.”

  She eyes me with concern, then drops another tablet in my palm. “What made it so bad? What happened?”

  “A bum woke me up, asking for change. I don’t know what was worse, that damn nightmare, or his breath.”

  “Just like last night?” she teases.

  “No, it was different this time. The guy was babbling about some people looking for me, and a girl I know, maybe, I’m not sure. I guess she showed up, I mean, another girl I know, but it was strange. She came out of nowhere, and she looked misty, almost like a ghost.”

  “A girl?” Sandy steps back. “What did she tell you?”

  Her heightened concern lacks the usual fakeness.

  I proceed carefully. “She didn’t really tell me anything. She looked like she was talking, but she made no sound, maybe some static. I was probably hallucinating, maybe still dreaming. But my head exploded with pain, I mean, more than ever before. How can a dream do that?”

  Sandy freezes like a deactivated robot. What did I say?