The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  Praise for Brett McBean’s books

  The Mother

  “Brett McBean is, as far as I'm concerned, one of the most exciting writers in the genre today.” – Horror Drive-In

  “The Mother is one helluva read. Sleek, dark, and impossible to put down. . . The Mother did what every great book should do — it made me think.” —Richard Chizmar, Cemetery Dance Magazine

  The Last Motel

  “The Last Motel is fun; a thrilling, white-knuckled suspense read. McBean's voice is one that should be heard - a hint of Laymon and Koontz, yet distinctly his own. Genuinely creepy stuff!” —Brian Keene, Author of The Rising and Terminal

  “Brett McBean is as brash and brutal as a young Jack Ketchum. He visits the dark rooms inside us all. The Last Motel is the first stop on his way to the top.” —Scott Nicholson author of The Manor and The Farm

  “A thrilling read about fate, coincidence and murder. McBean pumps up the tension to unbearable levels, and then lets rip.” —Tim Lebbon, author of Fears Unnamed and Desolation

  The Invasion

  “Brett McBean remains a certified genre stud despite flying under the radar recently.” – Matt Molgaard, Horror Novel Reviews

  “‘The Invasion’ is THE best horror book that I have read in 2016” – Ginger Nuts of Horror

  “McBean paints a terrifying and realistic picture of brutality with this book, and I cannot wait to see what he has in store for us next.” – Matthew Scott Baker, Shattered Ravings

  Also by Brett McBean

  Novels

  The Last Motel

  The Mother

  Wolf Creek: Desolation Game (w/ Greg McLean)

  The Invasion

  Novellas

  The Familiar Stranger

  Concrete Jungle

  Neighborhood Jungle

  Suburban Jungle

  Dead Tree Forest

  Buk and Jimmy Go West

  Collections

  Tales of Sin and Madness

  Copyright © 2012 by Brett McBean

  Bloodshot Books Edition © 2016

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the author’s written consent, except for the purposes of review

  Cover Design © 2016 by Elderlemon Design

  http://www.elderlemondesign.com/

  ISBN-13: 978-0692730980 (Bloodshot Books)

  ISBN-10: 0692730982

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  READ UNTIL YOU BLEED!

  The Awakening

  A Novel by Brett McBean

  CONTENTS

  Introduction by James Newman i

  Chapter One 1

  Chapter Two 23

  Chapter Three 46

  Chapter Four 64

  Chapter Five 84

  Chapter Six 116

  Chapter Seven 130

  - One Month Later –

  Chapter Eight 155

  Chapter Nine 168

  Chapter Ten 198

  Chapter Eleven 214

  Chapter Twelve 251

  Chapter Thirteen 281

  Chapter Fourteen 319

  Chapter Fifteen 335

  Chapter Sixteen 386

  Chapter Seventeen 398

  - One Month Later -

  Chapter Eighteen 404

  Chapter Nineteen 405

  Chapter Twenty 437

  INTRODUCTION

  The best coming-of-age tales are those that captured the uncertainty of youth.

  Oddly enough, I can remember the exact moment when I felt it — that soul-scarring certainty of what lies just around the corner.

  When I was in the fifth grade I participated in something called the Safety Patrol program. It was a team made up of volunteers who each wore an orange belt across the width of his or her body, a cheap plastic badge, and a big cheesy grin. In a nutshell, we were officially-sanctioned goody-two-shoes, kids who helped others get to their classrooms (as if a few of them might suddenly forget where to go) or warned them not to run in the hallways when perpetrators went racing past our post.

  I remember early one morning I was standing alone in the stairwell in my Safety Patrol gear, and I was overcome by an existential dread like nothing I had ever experienced before. I’ve felt it a few times since, but these days it’s the awareness of how fast the years fly by, the understanding that the people I love won’t be here forever and neither will I. An abrupt, almost smothering sadness descended upon me as I realized my childhood was nearly halfway over. It wouldn’t be long before the happiest days of my life were nothing more than really cool roadside attractions left in life’s rearview mirror. Keep in mind, this occurred when I was in the fifth grade—years before I had to worry about things like deciding what I wanted do for a living, moving out of my parents’ home, adulthood. And yet here I was at just ten years old, feeling sorry for myself as if I had already lost my parents, as if within just a few short days I was about to start some back-breaking nine-to-five job that I would despise until the day I dropped dead.

  I do have a point to this strange little anecdote (and I should mention that it was during Mrs. Burnette’s fifth-grade class when I decided I wanted to be a writer . . . just in case you were starting to think this little intro was all doom n’ gloom with no happy ending). As I said, I believe that the most effective coming-of-age tales are those that capture not only the glorious, carefree days of childhood—back when our only concerns were not being the very last kid to be picked for the softball teams during P.E., or trying to decide whether to spend your last few cents on the latest issue of Batman or The Uncanny X-Men— but those stories filled with an honest pathos as well. “The future’s so bright I gotta wear shades,” claimed one song that was popular during my seminal years. While there is truth to that statement, it didn’t tell the whole story. The future was bright, sure, insofar as anything was possible, but I remember thinking it was pretty damned scary as well. I saw my parents bust their butts day in and day out, struggling to pay the bills, and I didn’t look forward to following that same path. Adulthood, from the outside looking in, resembled some cruel punishment for past transgressions. I wanted those days of climbing the tallest trees, reading the best comic books, and sneaking peeks at Playboy to last forever . . . although I knew, even at the age of ten, that’s not the way life works.

  Throughout the novel you’re about to read, you’ll meet characters who know this too. Toby and his friends know about the darker side of childhood all too well. They see it in the fathers who have abandoned their families . . . in the mothers who smoke too much, hiding their pain with strained laughter . . . they see it in the bullies who don’t waste their time with wedgies and “KICK ME” signs slapped on the backs of their victims, because these guys prefer hurting the weaker kids in ways that leave scars, assuming their victims even make it out alive.

  In the end, when it comes to growing up, that’s what we all hope to do, isn’t it? We just hope we can make it out alive despite all the meanness around us.

  Brett McBean’s The Awakening gets that.

  The Awakening is the kind of coming-of-age tale I would have been unable to put down even if there was no horror element. Take out the voodoo, the zombis, and the surreal nightmare sequences, and Brett’s novel would have kept my attention nonetheless because it’s honest. It’s real. It’s a scary tale even without all the “spooky stuff.”

  Childhood is scary. No doubt about it, for most of us those really are the best years of our lives, but there also comes a time
when we realize it will all come to an end. I’m pretty sure it comes a lot later for most kids than it did for me, but it comes. Eventually we all have an “awakening” of our own. The good times are finite, we realize. And so we must appreciate them like the gift that they are.

  Brett knows about the uncertainty of childhood. He’s captured it here, the good and the bad and the everything-in-between.

  You’re in for a treat. Savor this one, because nothing lasts forever and stories this engaging don’t come along too often.

  James Newman

  June 26, 2016

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the small Midwestern town of Belford, an old man sat gazing out the window.

  Dawn had once again greeted the world with her presence, casting a glorious orange haze over the pretty two-story houses, freshly mowed lawns and imposing elms that lined the street.

  The man had witnessed this scene more times than any one person had a right to, and would no doubt see many more. But that was fine by him. He loved to watch the onset of dawn; it was the one joy left in his life. He had watched the sun rise every morning, ever since first stepping foot in this country over ninety years ago, and had continued to do so in every town and city he had lived in since. It was part of his morning ritual. With only a few cups of herbal tea to keep him company, he would sit by the bedroom window and watch the arrival of a new day, and then, later, watch as the kids made their way to school.

  There was nothing perverse or sinister about his window gazing. Nor was it simply the ritual of a lonely old man. The reason was deeper, more personal, and almost childlike in its simplicity.

  It represented freedom. For him, to be able to sit and watch the sun rise was a gift from the gods. He felt the same way about the children. They were freer now than they would be at any other time in their lives. The old man knew what the children thought of him, and though it saddened him, he forgave their mostly harmless pranks and tactless laughter—their cruelty wasn’t pure, not like those people who had robbed him of his life and driven him from the people he loved; no, their cruelty was born from fear: a fear of the unknown. He was, after all, a curious sight, what with his prominent facial scar which started on the left side of his forehead and cut a path all the way down to the tip of his chin, and his crooked neck which made him see the world sideways. Yet, for all their finger-pointing and snickering, the old man still thought of the children as the true miracles of this world. Their smiling faces and songs of laughter held only trust and purity and freedom.

  Freedom.

  Most people didn’t understand the true meaning of the word. They took it for granted, didn’t appreciate the little things in life, the simple pleasures—to simply be alive.

  He knew all too well what it was like to live without freedom. To be shackled both in body and mind. Visions of his past constantly filled his head, but they no longer evoked anger or hatred in him. Such venom had died years ago. Now, if he felt anything at all, he felt sorrow. What kept him going was the hope that one day he would be reacquainted with those he had left behind.

  Which could very well be soon.

  For the past week, he’d had a sense that an old friend was near. This gut feeling, a tingling, like two magnets being slowly drawn together, was faint at first, but had grown stronger as the week ticked by. He thought maybe he was imagining things, but over the last couple of days the sense that his friend was close had grown too strong to ignore. Now, as he sat by the window on the last day before the kids of Belford began their summer vacation, he was sure the man for whom he had been waiting for ninety years had finally arrived.

  Soon, he would be reacquainted with his past, soon he would be returning home.

  Soon, it will be over.

  The old man raised a gnarled finger to the ancient scar that served as a permanent reminder of a past filled with pain and loss. But the moment he touched the rough surface, he drew his hand back as if the scar was red hot.

  He picked up the cup of tea with one wrinkled hand. Wisps of steam curled from the drink. Taking a moment to savor the delicate peppermint fragrance, the man placed the cup to his lips and took a sip. The warmth soothed his tired old body.

  He never used to drink tea; always coffee. But ever since leaving Haiti a long time ago, he could no longer stand the taste of coffee—too many memories associated with the drink, he supposed.

  He took another sip of tea and, nestling back in his chair, he watched the sky turn from orange to pink, light purple and finally to pale blue.

  A new day had arrived.

  Soon the old man heard the familiar din of kids’ laughter.

  Gazing out the window, he watched.

  “Man you should’ve seen her. Tits out to here.” Cupping his hands, Frankie extended his arms to almost their full length.

  “I can’t believe you actually saw Debbie naked,” Toby said, munching on a frosted strawberry Pop Tart as they left Toby’s house.

  Frankie nodded, a proud grin blooming across his plump face.

  There was a strong possibility that Frankie was lying, but Toby didn’t care. He was more than happy to go along with Frankie’s story. It was more fun to believe that Frankie had in fact seen Debbie Mayfour’s breasts than it was to try and catch him in a lie—Debbie Mayfour was one of the hottest girls in town.

  Toby Fairchild and Frankie Wilmont were best friends, had been their whole lives—a full fourteen years. Being that their parents were longtime friends, it was only natural, then, that the two boys (who were born only two months apart—Toby was the older of the two) also became good friends.

  They had only walked a short distance up Pineview Road when Frankie tapped Toby on the arm.

  Toby, mouth full of sweet pastry, mumbled, “What?” He was still thinking about Debbie and her generous assets.

  Frankie nodded towards the old single-story house across the street. “He’s watching us again.”

  Toby glanced over at the old man sitting by the window. “Yeah, so what else is new?”

  Old Mr. Joseph had been sitting watching them every morning for as long as Toby could remember, so though he should be used to it by now, seeing him there never failed to give Toby the creeps. The weathered wood clapboard siding, dirty and flaking, cracked window panes, mossy roof tiles, garden hose lying on the brown and green patchwork grass like some giant sleeping worm, and shed out back that was always closed: it all reeked of normality. But what was living inside—a reclusive freak with a strange accent and even stranger features, who liked to watch the children go by every morning—was anything but normal.

  Jack Joseph’s neck was bowed to one side, like his head had been pulled as far as it could possibly go. And he had a jagged scar that ran down the left side of his face. Coupled with his blank, almost glassy eyes, he gave most kids in town the creeps, and there were more rumors floating around about Mr. Joseph than there were days in the year. Most concerned the origin of his neck and scar. One rumor had it that he got his bent neck from spying on all the kids—a sort of punishment from above. Another was that his crooked neck was due to a spell by an angry witch. The scar on his face generated just as much wild speculation, from a gunshot wound, to the mark of the devil. With each passing year, more rumors surfaced, while a whole new generation of kids elaborated on the old ones.

  It was also said that he could be seen walking around town late at night. Toby had never seen him, he had never been outside that late, but other people supposedly had, and Toby often wondered what the old man did on those walks. Did he go somewhere specific? Did he have some hiding place where he performed his devil worshiping? Some people thought he walked around peeping into windows while everyone was asleep. This rumor in particular unnerved Toby, and he was glad he slept on the second floor.

  “I don’t know how you sleep living so close to that weirdo,” Frankie said, and kicked at a pebble on the ground. The tiny stone skipped along the sidewalk before veering onto the road, where it rolled to a stop. “One of these days
I’m gonna throw a rock through his window,” Frankie said once they were safely past Mr. Joseph’s house. “Teach that old freak a lesson.”

  “You’re too much of a wimp to do that,” Toby said, eying Frankie with an impish grin.

  “Eat cow turds and die.”

  Toby punched Frankie on one doughy shoulder; not hard, but enough to make a point.

  “Owww!” Frankie cried.

  “See,” Toby said. “You are a wimp.”

  “I could beat you anytime of the week,” Frankie said, rubbing his shoulder.

  Toby laughed. The two had play-wrestled many times during their fourteen-year friendship; not once had Frankie won, despite his considerable size advantage.

  Despite being good at sports—he was a slugger in baseball, and was surprisingly good at basketball—when it came to fighting and wrestling, Frankie’s lack of ability was mystifying.

  “Well you’ll have plenty of chances to demonstrate your superior fighting skills this weekend,” Toby said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Frankie said, sounding none too confident.

  Today was the last day of school before summer vacation started—the best day one could possibly have at school. No homework, no assignments, and the teachers had nothing left to teach, most just as eager to leave school behind for a few months as the kids were. And in celebration of the start of summer vacation, Frankie was staying over at Toby’s place tomorrow night—they were camping out in his backyard. Toby had wanted to camp out tonight as well as tomorrow, but his parents said no, they thought two nights was one night too many of not sleeping and eating too much junk food. Still, it was going to be great, just him and Frankie lazing up in Toby’s tree house, gorging themselves on mountains of junk food; and afterwards, bunking down in the tent for the night—it would be almost like camping for real.