by Rob Horner
Waking Light
Book 1 of The Chosen Cycle
By: Rob Horner
Copyright © 2019 Robert Horner
All rights reserved.
Cover art by: Alan9187
For my girls, who love their superheroes.
Titles by Rob Horner
Darkness & Light: The Richards’ Saga
Brightness
Into Darkness (coming 2020)
The Chosen Cycle
Waking Light
Surrogacy (Fall 2019)
Ascendancy (Spring 2020)
The Bechtol Files
The Dungeon
The Fall of Icarus (coming 2020)
Project: Heritage
Night Zero
Contents
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part II
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Waking Light
Book 1 of The Chosen Cycle
By: Rob Horner
Prologue
Streaks of purplish light fired from strange, double-barred rifles caused chaos among the charging horde of demonic figures. Tall and short, they sported weirdly jointed arms and legs, skin which ranged in color from green to red, and extra features that could appear in any combination--from fins running along the scalp to horns jutting out from the forehead or the cheek. The only constant features they shared were the fangs and claws. They were creatures made for destruction, unleashed on an unwary population in order to dominate the world.
A blast of lightning arced out of the hands of a tall black guy. Not that you could see his skin, of course. Everyone but me wore the black and navy-blue uniforms of Mandatum, our heads and faces covered by futuristic-looking helmets which were part motorcycle-rider protection, and part Star Trek technology. Some of the face shields were tinted, but most were clear, allowing a glimpse of the fear on the faces of those wearing them.
These people throwing lightning, creating barriers of light, or flinging fireballs like a magician in a fantasy story weren't soldiers. Up until a few months before, they were regular people, average Joe Six-Packs. (Those who were old enough to drink, anyway.) The arrival of the demons changed them, changed all of us.
"Power me up!" a girl called, her voice coming loud and clear through my helmet's speakers though she was halfway across the carnival from me. A moment later her wall of light doubled in height, tripled in length, and began moving forward, visible despite the distance, a mobile, impenetrable bulwark scattering demons and humans who hadn't yet transformed. The gifted and their more normal counterparts, actual soldiers wielding rifles, followed behind the wall, pushing deeper into the carnival midway.
For all their firepower, they were a distraction, meant to pull as much resistance from our demonic foes as possible. We were the true threat, a tight, coordinated strike at the heart of the demon's home. Our goal was to destroy the resonator, an item that allowed these creatures to project their essence into a human host. It wouldn't help those who were already possessed--we had other ways of doing that--but it would prevent any further conversions. More importantly, it would disrupt the hive-mind communication of the beings, making them vulnerable to our hit-and-run tactics.
There were three of us in our group, three friends ready to change the world. We hurried past silent amusement park rides and shuttered games of chance, thankful to be operating in the early morning. The carnival wouldn't open until three in the afternoon, so there were no innocent bystanders to worry about. The demons' control of the carnival was absolute; everyone we saw not wearing one of our uniforms was to be treated as an enemy.
If they saw us, that is.
"I got two mixed operating in tandem over here."
That had to be Angie's voice. She was one of the two people in our unit who could literally see which people were possessed and which were gifted. Or, in the case of that report, who were both.
"Gah, he blinded me!" a man's voice reported.
"Got 'em stifled," someone else said. "Let's get them bagged for Johnny."
We were invisible and would remain so if we stayed close to Greg. That was his power. He could make someone invisible and they could wander off, but their invisibility faded if they did anything, kind of like those old Dungeons and Dragons rules. But he could also make a bubble of invisibility, and so long as we stayed inside it, we stayed hidden, no matter what we did.
The third member of our group was a young woman who possessed no offensive powers, but who would make it possible for us to locate our target. The resonator was hidden in a house trailer behind the carnival. Without her ability to see the evil within, we'd have to search every vehicle and still might not find what we're looking for. I'd seen the resonator twice now, and it wasn't much bigger than a Samsonite carry-on. Its physical form could be hidden, but its aura was unmistakable.
"Ah crap. We got the Alpha coming out!" That high-pitched male voice could only belong to Jason, our resident speedster.
"Okay. Chosen, disengage!" The loud, rough voice belonged to Iz, our military commander. He was a decorated veteran. "Soldiers, firing line! Bring that thing down!"
An Alpha. One of those almost killed me in New York. Ten feet tall, terrifying to behold, and resistant to just about every power we had, they were the guardians of the resonators. Though there was no way I could see the battle being waged on the other side of the carnival, my gaze wandered that direction. Would I be able to tell if this was the same Alpha from a few months before?
"Johnny," the girl moving next to me said, "look ahead."
I turned my attention back to the front, noting two massive red auras just ahead of us. One was obviously the resonator. Nothing else could make a boxy conveyance like a 1985 recreational vehicle glow like a second sun.
"Crap!" Greg swore softly. "Uh, Iz, we have a problem over here."
The second aura rose head and shoulders above the trailer, providing a glowing silhouette around the form of a second Alpha. Its cowled head was turned to the sounds of combat some two or three hundred yards to the east, but that wouldn't be good enough. We ducked into cover under the overhang of a Winnebago. Our invisibility wouldn't protect us. Those things had an ability like what the girl with me could do. They could see our auras, regardless of whether they could see us. Thankfully that didn’t extend to seeing through solid objects.
"What is it, Greg?"
"We've got a second Alpha standing guard over the resonator," he whispered.
Now came the loud ratcheting of machine guns, reaching over the distance as faint pops and transmitting through our helmets as electronic noise. There were incoherent shouts, soldiers calling out positions, Chosen trying to aid in the fight, despite the fact their powers could have no direct effect on an Alpha. She would be over there, I knew, doing everything she could to injure the thing which had brought so much pain to us.
"Stand by, Speartip. We'll push toward you once
we've dealt with our own problem."
We'd been fighting these things for four months, ever since they emerged in our world. I'd had a chance to destroy this resonator once before, but I'd failed. This was to be my redemption.
I haven't always believed in superheroes, or people with special abilities.
There was a time, back before all this began, when they were just colorful pictures on comic book pages to me. They wore armor or had fancy costumes and powers that defied the laws of...everything. Physics, gravity, physiology, psychology, you name it!
That was before a bunch of us got superpowers.
I never believed in demons, either. They were stories from the Bible, or horror movie bad guys who always lost to the one college kid who didn't drink, just said no to drugs, and turned down the topless hottie when she made a move on him.
I loved the idea of aliens from the movies, that we weren't alone in the universe. But it was just fiction to me. Of course, we know now all those cow farmers (I got butt-probed and so can you!), crop circles, Roswell, New Mexico, Area 51, mass livestock deaths, climate change---they're real!
All those things you've been taught in history class?
We lived it.
All the technology which we take for granted, smartphones and cat scanners, the Internet as we know it, well...you're welcome.
This doesn't begin as a modern story. It's a history lesson.
These were the first days of the war.
It started in 1991. For you football fans, that puts it a few months after the Buffalo Bills went to their first of four consecutive Super Bowls. Three years later, they would change the area code of Buffalo, New York, to 0-4-4. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)
Cell phones were extremely rare and about as big as a duffel bag. Boats had GPS, but no one else did. It was a poorer time, technologically speaking, but we couldn't miss what we didn't know about.
It began in sunlight.
Part 1
Awakenings
Chapter 1
Getting to know me
The events that changed my life began on a warm Sunday morning in April. Warm, at least, for that time of year, which made the day a wonderful blessing. After more than three months of cold temperatures and gray skies, the sunlight was welcome. With a little money in my pockets and no homework to worry about, I set out for the mall.
I had no way of knowing what the day held in store for me.
Every year about this time, a middling-sized carnival set up in the parking lot of the Pembroke Mall, a large shopping complex in the heart of Virginia Beach with four major chain stores at the anchor points. My plans consisted of getting to the carnival early, maybe riding a few rides, playing some of those games of chance, and just enjoying losing money like everyone else. And, of course, I intended to keep my eyes open for any pretty girls who might want to spend time with me.
You guys out there know what I'm talking about.
If history was any guide, that last thing was more a long shot than a guarantee.
Though almost every guy talked the talk even if they didn't walk the walk, I was one of those shy exceptions. It's hard to be a ladies' man when you can't muster up enough courage to talk to the ladies. I guess I looked okay, five-eight, lean, with short, brown hair, green eyes, and not too much acne (thankfully). Somehow, between school and my part time job, I found time to compete on the cross-country team and attend regular Tae Kwon Do classes. There was a slight angulation to my nose, the result of a fracture from a martial arts tournament a few years back, but I'd been told it gave me a sexy, edgy look.
Keep in mind this was told to me by a girl I wasn't dating, so take it how you will.
Oh, before I forget, my name is John Wilson, though just about everyone I'd ever met called me Johnny. It didn't matter if I introduced myself as John, five minutes later I'd be a Johnny. I was a January First baby, but not early enough in the morning to be worth anything. (Kind of the story of my life.)
So, sunny and warm April morning, most of a paycheck in my pocket, and a bright day ahead just chock full of possibilities.
What could go wrong?
Maybe if I'd checked the weather forecast and seen Today will be mostly sunny until dusk, when a low-pressure system will move in, bringing with it a high probability of a demonic invasion, I might have stayed home.
My house was less than a mile from the mall, so I walked, threading through the Aragona Village subdivision, and crossing Independence Boulevard to enter the mall ground near the Sears' Automotive Center. There was a portable trailer village set up on this side, where the more prosperous carnival workers lived, and it covered the end of the lot. I could have bypassed it, but honestly, with my head full of half-formed plans for the day, I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings and it just crept up on me. There weren't any signs or traffic cones, nothing saying I had to go around, so I walked through the lines of trailers.
Power lines and water hoses lay strewn over the ground, snaking under and around trailer wheels and leveling jacks, making my traversal cautious but not necessarily slow. The trailers were lined up in a haphazard fashion, forcing numerous right and left turns just to maintain a line to the carnival midway. Though they were close, there was more than enough room to walk between the boxy little portable homes.
It was a bright morning, and the sun lit even these enclosed spaces quite well. It would be much different tonight, when the darkness swallowed the trailing lines and jutting corners, making my terror-fueled run an obstacle course where a trip or fall would mean my death.
But for now, it was just me, the sunlight, and the breeze among the trailers; no one else was out and about. Most of the trailer-park residents were probably at work, manning the food carts and rides, getting ready for their last day at this location. If there were any family members, wives or children, they weren't in evidence.
The trailers didn't slow me nearly as much as detouring around them would have. After just a few minutes, I came onto the midway behind the pipe roller coaster, the Klystron. Even by modern standards it's rare to see an actual roller coaster at a traveling carnival. A massive construction of brightly colored blue and red metal tubes, the rails rose and fell across a quarter-acre, twisting over and under themselves like a coiled snake. It took a full day to assemble and safety-check, but it was the carnival's biggest draw, more than enough to justify the extra manpower expense.
Though it was early by carnival standards, barely eleven a.m., the midway wasn't silent. The rides were still, but carnival workers moved everywhere among the rides and attractions, cleaning, spot painting, repairing, every man or woman identifiable in a blue or red polo shirt with the carnival logo embroidered over the left breast. The smells of food cooking, fresh and new, reached my nose, making my mouth water despite the good breakfast I had earlier that morning.
Imagine those fresh smells: dough frying for funnel cakes, light blue and pink sugar spinning around a tube to make a mound of cotton candy bigger than the hair on Marge Simpson's head, hot pretzels, hot dogs slow cooking on a rotisserie. Those smells were there for me alone to enjoy, a few moments in scent heaven before hordes of sweaty people began to crowd around, before the smell of burnt and overused oil in the fryers began to overpower everything else.
Sporadic sounds began to ring out from different parts of the midway, microphone checks from the game barkers, high-powered stereo systems firing up around some of the rides, ready to render anyone who dared climb aboard temporarily deaf afterward. This was the best time for me to look around, before the hustle of the busy crowd turned the midway into a madhouse. I could check out the various attractions and decide what might be fun to ride later.
The carnival workers labored together, sometimes working on the same ride with an easy camaraderie, gossiping back and forth from one ride to another. Talk of the weather was everywhere. It had been consistently bad for the last week, not just in Virginia Beach, but in scattered pockets over dozens of major cities. The carnies marve
led at the bright sun above, thankful for the warmth and sunlight that would bring the crowds. They shared supplies and came running to help if someone needed it.
Flashes of novels which centered on the carnival, dealing with its functioning as a self-sufficient society, ran through my mind. Acceptance and a sense of family--that appealed to me.
I lived with my aunt and uncle, a ward of theirs rather than of the state, ever since my parents died nearly two years before. They didn't mistreat me, but they gave a powerful impression that I was an imposition, and the only reason they kept me around was to keep cashing the Social Security benefit check the government sent every month. In short, they didn't try to ignore me, and I don't believe they were being mean; it's just how they were. They had their own teenagers to raise in a tightly run household.
But imagine: a place where a guy could be accepted for who he was, for what he could offer, rather than for what he needed or required.
I'm sure a lot of you have had similar thoughts, maybe even the exact same thought. Man, I wish I could run away with the carnival. Whatever your reasons for feeling that way, I'm not here to tell you it's a bad idea. Rather, I'm going to provide you a little information on what living with the carnival might be like for a teen-aged runaway, and let you decide for yourself.
Because in that moment, just standing there, sensing this community bubble full of mutual respect and interdependence, remembering books like Twilight Eyes by Dean Koontz which celebrated this very thing, I recognized what my life was missing. (At sixteen, there was still a lot I didn't know, and even more that I didn't know I didn't know. And yes, that's what I meant to say). Perhaps this budding revelation was colored by romanticized interpretations built out of glossy paperbacks and bolstered by thirty seconds of watching two guys talk about the weather, but it made me want to find out.