Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1

by William Campbell

  * * *

  After an exhausting trek through a maze of corridors and stairwells, I’m completely lost. Each passage resembles every other, just like the strange people inhabiting this place. Perhaps that is the final process—confuse my sense of direction until I’m thoroughly disoriented. If so, it’s working. I can’t tell which way is which, except that we have been steadily descending. Every stairwell goes down.

  Venturing still lower, I begin to wonder—how far down are we to go? We must be underground by now. Hey, hang on, we’re not going to . . .

  Could it be? Could a doorway to the underworld exist below this building? Nah, that’s nonsense. We’re going to the basement. The parking garage. They’re going to give me a lift. But on second thought, a gateway to the underworld is more plausible.

  The stairwell ends at a massive steel door. Could it be the door to Hell? No, that’s idiotic. They pull the door open, an enormous slab a foot thick, like a vault. A door such as this could withstand some heavy abuse, like the fires of Hell.

  Stop that! It’s not the door to Hell.

  Beyond the opening is a black void. Hell’s not black, right? Hell glows, it’s on fire.

  The Bobs remove my restraint and shove me through the doorway, into darkness. The door booms shut and the echo fades, giving way to sharp ringing in my ears. That too fades, and I stand alone in a dead calm of silence.

  * * *

  What is that smell? Nasty. The stench is like burnt dog hair, though I couldn’t qualify that statement, can’t say I’ve ever barbecued a dog before. But still, the hideous odor is like singed hair mixed with the rotting flesh of an animal. It sure smells like hell.

  As my eyes adjust to the darkness, the room’s details slowly form. A strange place, not really a room, and it sure stinks bad with that foul odor staining the cool air. The space is round, like a giant tube standing on end, pointing to the sky. Suspended across the tube is a platform constructed of metal mesh, through which gases or liquids could flow easily. Past the grated decking, the view below is utter blackness. The bottom could be ten feet down, or a mile.

  Beyond the round opening high above, there is night sky, but something is different—the darkness is sprinkled with starlight. A wonderful sight, igniting fine memories of lazy evenings spent gazing into the heavens. I haven’t seen stars like that since—

  What? I’ve never seen a starry night. Not since the accident. Perhaps my previous life was not so dull after all. The sight of starlight has sparked a lost memory.

  Along the platform are guardrails, surely to keep us poor losers from accidentally falling to the bottom, however far down that may be. The metal railing is sticky and covered with soot, and it’s cold, like it’s been inside a freezer.

  I peer over the side and search for the bottom. From the eerie quiet, a faint noise begins, coming from below. A low roar, like a furnace igniting. Warm air rises from the depths, and a dim orange glow spreads out far below.

  It is Hell.

  The dream, the dread—I can’t die by fire. My heart pounds, the flow of adrenaline begins. I am in complete agreement with my body—we will not burn. I search for a hold along the walls, hoping to climb out, and find the surface coated with soot and the sticky remains of every victim who stood here before me. No! There must be a way out of this tube. This tube? This tube is a smokestack. I’ll be ash blowing in the wind, and that was their intent all along. I have to get out of here, then I’m going to kill every last one of them.

  A new sound comes from above, a sonorous humming and another low roar. But this sound is not fire. A strange machine is hovering over the smokestack. A flimsy rope ladder is thrown from an open hatch. Someone is leaning out. A woman.

  “Adam,” she calls. “Grab the ladder.”

  Who is Adam? It doesn’t matter. She’s offering a way out, and I’m taking it.

  “Bring it lower!” I shout.

  The ladder dangles from an aircraft straining to hover steady. I climb onto the metal railing, standing precariously on the thin edge, and reach for the ladder. It swings past, beyond my grasp, then the aircraft dips and the ladder plunges—I snatch hold of it. The aircraft is smacked by a sudden gust, shoots up fast, and I’m yanked airborne.

  “Hang on!” the woman calls.

  The jolt is too much—the rough cord slips through my fingers. I crash into the guardrail, except—the wrong side. I have missed the platform and now face a fiery death.

  “Adam!” she screams.

  My outstretched hand passes over the railing, my one chance. Fingers hook, too little I fear, but determination ignites. I seize hold of the railing, halting my descent, and nearly ripping my arm from the socket.

  The hot railing scalds my palm. Flames shoot up and brighten the round space. Black soot covers the featureless walls, platform, and guardrails.

  The rope ladder swings past, just out of reach. The woman is on her way down.

  “Hang on!” she calls. “I’m coming.”

  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 pl
atform 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 ha
ndle 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.