by Bill Myers
Leviathan
Bill Myers
Amaris Media International
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Untitled
Other Books By Bill Myers
Untitled
Published by Amaris Media International.
Copyright © 2015 Bill Myers
Cover Design: Angela Hunt
Photo ©Alexei Novikov
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission from the publisher.
For more information, visit us on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Harbingers/705107309586877
or www.harbingersseries.com.
HARBINGERS
A novella series by
Bill Myers, Frank Peretti, Angela Hunt, and Alton Gansky
In this fast-paced world with all its demands, the four of us wanted to try something new. Instead of the longer novel format, we wanted to write something equally as engaging but that could be read in one or two sittings—on the plane, waiting to pick up the kids from soccer, or as an evening’s read.
We also wanted to play. As friends and seasoned novelists, we thought it would be fun to create a game we could participate in together. The rules were simple:
Rule #1
Each of us would write as if we were one of the characters in the series:
Bill Myers would write as Brenda, the street-hustling tattoo artist who sees images of the future.
Frank Peretti would write as the professor, the atheist ex-priest ruled by logic.
Angela Hunt would write as Andi, the professor’s brilliant-but-geeky assistant who sees inexplicable patterns.
Alton Gansky would write as Tank, the naïve, big-hearted jock with a surprising connection to a healing power.
Rule #2
Instead of the four of us writing one novella together (we’re friends but not crazy), we would write it like a TV series. There would be an overarching story line into which we’d plug our individual novellas, with each story written from our character’s point of view.
If you’re keeping track, this is the order:
Harbingers #1—The Call—Bill Myers
Harbingers #2—The Haunted—Frank Peretti
Harbingers #3—The Sentinels—Angela Hunt
Harbingers #4—The Girl—Alton Gansky
Volumes #1-4 omnibus: Cycle One: Invitation
Harbingers #5—The Revealing—Bill Myers
Harbingers #6—Infestation—Frank Peretti
Harbingers #7—Infiltration—Angela Hunt
Harbingers #8—The Fog—Alton Gansky
Volumes #5-8 omnibus: Cycle Two: Mosaic
Harbingers #9—Leviathan—Bill Myers
There you have it—at least for now. We hope you’ll find these as entertaining in the reading as we are in the writing.
Bill, Frank, Angie, and Al
Chapter One
“You okay?”
Daniel said nothing. No surprise there. Just kept starin’ out the window of the plane. But the workout he was givin’ the napkin in his hand said somethin’ was up.
I motion to the hills across the city. “Check it out. That’s the Hollywood sign over there.”
Nothing. Vintage Daniel.
We were a minute or so from landing so I capped my pen and closed the sketch pad. I’d been drawing some sort of octopus thing. In the old days it would have been for somebody’s tattoo. Not now. Now the stuff I see in my head has nothing to do with tatting somebody’s future . . . and everything to do with our group’s assignments.
The plane shuttered and jerked. Not a big deal. ‘Cept I’d be more comfortable if Daniel hadn’t muttered something.
“What’s that?” I said.
He stayed glued to the window and repeated it. Something like Leviathan, whatever that means.
The plane bucked harder. I sucked in my breath. Me and flying aren’t the best of friends. Though you wouldn’t know it by the free miles I’ve been racking up.
None of us knows who’s footing the bill for these flights, or paying the expenses when we get there. But we got ideas. For starters, they’re the good guys. Least that’s what we hope. And they’re fighting off what we think are the bad guys—something called The Gate—a group that’s got lots of nasty ideas and nasty dudes . . . some that aren’t so human.
Course we got some unearthly types on our side, too. Seems more than just our world is interested in what’s going on down here.
The plane leaped again and dropped—this time a couple seconds. Enough for people to shout and scream. ‘Cept Daniel. He just kept lookin’ out the window. Only now his lips were movin’ a mile a minute. I can’t hear words, but I know he’s praying. Or talkin’ to his imaginary friends (who we’re findin’ out aren’t always so imaginary).
Another drop.
“Daniel!”
He reached out and took my hand. A nice, sweet gesture . . . before we die.
More bucking and falling. The screams became non-stop.
Out the window I saw a freeway with cars—so close we could touch ‘em. The plane’s engines revved hard, throwing me back into the seat. The pilot was gunning it, trying to reach the runway.
The whole plane banged like we hit something. But we were still picking up speed, folks screamin’, some cryin’ out to sweet Jesus for mercy. A second later and we slammed into the ground. I got thrown forward, seat belt digging into my gut. The engines shrieked, reversing thrust. The plane shook and shimmered like a car with bad brakes.
But we were down. And in pretty good shape—‘cept for the weeping and swearing . . . and the smell of vomit across the aisle.
Daniel leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes.
I took a swallow and turned to him. “We good?”
He nodded. Took a deep breath and blew it out.
I did, too.
The pilot came on, all apologies. Something about wind sheers that may or may not be true. Who knows? Who cares. I stole another look to Daniel, his face all wet and shiny, but he seemed relaxed.
I let go of his hand, wiped my palms, and took another breath. Long and slow.
Just another day at the office.
Chapter Two
“Brenda!”
I braced myself as Cowboy, aka Tank, threw his grizzly-bear arms around me. (I’m as fond of hugging as I am flying). We’d had plenty of talks about boundaries, but the big fellow could never quite seem to get it. And to be honest, with our last few assignments, I felt less and less inclined to remind him. I was changin’. Guess we all were.
“You’re late, Barnick,” the professor barked. He’s also part of the team. But if he’s changin’, he’s doing a lot better job at keeping it hidden.
“Professor, you can’t blame them for the airline being late.” That’s Andi Goldstein. If the professor was the team’s Eeyore, Andi, his bubbly, red-headed assistant, was our Tigger. But a whole lot smarter—‘specially when it comes to computers and in seeing patterns just about everywhere.
The man grunted and headed for the doors. “Limo is waiting.”
I turned to Andi. “Bad day?”
She shrugged. “With him, who can tell?”
We headed out of the
terminal. After Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride on the plane, what I wouldn’t give for a smoke. But we were late and there was no way the professor was going to wait.
Outside it was typical LA—noise, busses, taxies. And people. Way too many for my tastes. It’s not that I’m anti-social it’s, well, let’s just say the sun ain’t the only reason I like livin’ in the desert.
We followed the professor to a stretch limo waiting at the curb and climbed inside. Memories of our last gig, the one with the fog creepies in San Diego, came to mind. Needless to say, I hoped this mission would be a lot safer.
“So what’s up?” I slipped off my backpack as the driver shut the door. “And why all the urgency? They gave us less than twenty-four hours this time.”
No one had an answer, which was pretty typical. ‘Course we could refuse and decline any time we wanted, but they (whoever ‘they’ were) knew we wouldn’t. The mystery and excitement was just too much for us. Like it or not, we’d become adventure junkies.
We always complained. But we never declined.
I glanced to Daniel. He’d already settled in, making himself comfortable playing one of his blow-‘em-up app games.
“You know that will rot his brain,” the professor said.
I ignored the man. A good tactic when I could pull it off.
Andi read from her tablet. “This came in just before you landed: ‘Today, 2:00 PM, Everbright Studios invites you and your party to be our guest for a VIP viewing of the final rehearsal and taping of the new reality TV show, Live or Die, the Ultimate Reality.”
“A television show?” I said. “We’ve come all this way for a television show?”
Andi kept reading. “After a brief break, followed by a gourmet dinner with cast and crew, you will be escorted to front row seats for the 7:00 PM taping.”
I frowned. “And our purpose?”
She shook her head. “This is all we have.”
I threw a glance to the professor. I now saw why the resident control freak was a bit cranky.
“And this limo?” I asked.
“The show’s executive producer—” Andi glanced back to her tablet— “a Mr. Norman Anderson, ordered it for us.”
“But why?”
Always the optimist, Cowboy chimed in. “Guess we’ll just have to wait ‘til we get there. But a TV show, that’ll be kinda fun, right?”
Fun wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind. Like it or not, I was already catching the professor’s negativity—something I wasn’t thrilled about.
“Hey, check it out.” Cowboy scooted to the closest window. “Look at them cool pillars.”
Outside there were a bunch of big plastic pillars along the roadway. All different sizes. Even in the afternoon sun, you could see they were lit inside by colored lights that were changing . . . from purple . . . to green . . . to red.
“The LAX Pylons,” Andi said. She went back to her tablet and looked up something.
Cowboy pulled out his cell phone, made a quick pan across our faces, and began videotaping the pillars out the window.
Andi found a link and began to read: “Originally constructed in the year 2000, the pillars range from twenty-five to sixty feet tall. They were designed to give the feeling of taking off in an airplane. They culminate in a circle of fifteen, 100-foot columns which represent the fifteen city council districts, while simultaneously bringing to mind ancient sights such as Stonehenge.” She paused and looked out the window. “Pretty neat art, huh?
I didn’t know what to say.
The professor did. “How much?”
“What’s that?”
“The price tag? What was the expenditure for this “neat art?”
She glanced at her tablet. “Fifteen million dollars.”
He looked back out the window and muttered, “Welcome to Los Angeles.”
A moment later the TV monitor in the back blasted on. It was a scene from the first Superman movie. It only lasted a couple seconds, then went off. I glanced to Daniel. Then to Cowboy. Nobody had touched the controls.
“Well,” the professor said, “that was certainly—”
The TV came on again. This time it was one of those old Rocky movies.
“Andi?” The professor said.
It went off.
“I’m on it.” She scooted to the control console and examined the glowing buttons.
The monitor came back on again. Longer. It was that weird Leonardo DeCaprio movie with the spinning top.
Then off.
“Andrea!” The professor repeated.
“I don’t—”
Then back on. Some British sci-fi thing with a flying telephone booth.
And off.
Cowboy and Daniel moved over to help her.
Then on. I recognized this one immediately. It was a scene from the first Hunger Games.
Then off.
The professor grabbed the limo phone and spoke into it. “Driver, will you please—”
Back on again, drowning out his voice. It was some cartoon with talking ants.
And off.
“—but surely, you have a master control up there that—”
And on. Another Rocky movie. Newer.
Andi scooted from the console and rummaged through what looked like a silverware drawer.
The Rocky movie went off.
The professor kept speaking to the driver. “I find your ignorance comparable only to your—”
And on. Back to the Superman movie.
A moment later the professor slammed down the phone. The TV switched back to the first Rocky movie.
Andi pulled a steak knife from the drawer and slid back to the console. She began attacking its tiny screws with the tip of the knife.
The spinning top movie came back on.
“Andrea!”
“Patience, Professor. Patien—”
Then we were back to the British sci-fi thing.
She kept working on the screws until she was able to pull out the control panel, guts and all. But the TV still kept playing.
The Hunger Games was back on.
She stared dubiously at the attached wires.
The ant cartoon came on.
Then the newer Rocky movie.
She sighed, then gave the control panel a good yank, ripping out all the wires. The television went off. This time for good.
We sat in silence. Blessed silence. Except for Cowboy, who was never able to endure any silence for too long. “Well, that was weird, huh?”
None of us disagreed.
Chapter Three
“Hold positions, please. Camera Three, that’s your hero shot. Two and Four, stay wide.”
“Got it.”
“Staying wide.”
We stood way in the back of some state-of-the-art TV control room. A dozen people in headsets with faces lit by twice that many monitors and a long board of glowing lights and flashing buttons. Techno-geek heaven.
Andi loved it.
The fact that we got headsets to listen in made it all the better.
A couple hours earlier, our limo had pulled onto the studio lot. We were greeted by a perky blonde, complete with Barbie figure and brilliantly white, glow-in-the-dark teeth.
“Hi there,” she said as we climbed out and stretched our legs. “My name is Ashlee. I’m so glad you could make it. So how was your flight? Terrific, I hope.”
“Howdy, I’m Tank,” Cowboy said, giving her his good ol’ boy grin. “Me, Andi and the professor here, ours was great. But Brenda and the little guy, I guess theirs wasn’t so hot.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Ashlee said.
I reached back inside to grab my backpack.
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” She blinded us with another one of her smiles. “We’ll have that delivered to your hotel.”
“Right.” I lugged the pack out and onto my shoulder. “I’ll just hang onto it.” Old street habits die hard.
“Rehearsal has already started,” Ashlee said, “b
ut I’m sure we can slip you into—oh, here’s Skylar now.” She motioned to an approaching clone of herself. Different hair, same teeth, and anatomically impossible figure. “She’ll escort you through the studio and up to the control room. ”
“Hi there.” The clone smiled. “My name is Skylar. I’m so glad you could make it. So how was your flight? Terrific, I hope.”
I traded looks with Andi. Can anybody say, Stepford Wives?
Cowboy didn’t notice. “Hi, I’m Tank. Ours was great. But Miss Brenda’s and Daniel’s, here, theirs wasn’t so good.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it.”
“So, Skylar,” Ashlee said. “We’re running a bit late. Would you mind escorting our guests to the control room?”
“Why, I’d love to, Ashlee. If you’ll join me and walk this way, please.” She turned and we started toward what looked like a giant airplane hanger.
The professor sped up and joined her. “Excuse me, Miss?”
She turned her perma-smile on him. “Yes?”
“What exactly is our purpose here?”
“Oh, that’s easy. You’re here because our executive producer, Norman Anderson, invited you. Didn’t you receive his E-vite?”
“Yes, we did, but he failed to mention why.”
“Oh. Because we’re taping his new reality show, Live or Die, the Ultimate Reality.
“I appreciate that, but the question still remains— why?”
“Because you’re his invited guests.”
He took a measured breath and tried again. “I understand the name of the show and I understand we are his invited guests, but you have yet to address the question of why?”
She looked at him blankly. Then apparently guessing he was hard of hearing, she raised her voice. “Because we’re taping his new reality show, Live or Die, the Ultimate Reality!”
The professor opened his mouth, then closed it. It was obvious he didn’t know how to communicate with her species.