by Travis Smith
THE
STRANGER
Book 1: Adrift
Travis Smith
The Stranger: Adrift
Copyright 2014 Travis Smith. Self-published.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
“A compelling story of a father trying to save his son, filled with rich language, a complex fantasy world, and a unique mixture of the paranormal, pirates, zombies, and the forces of good versus evil. The best of when Lost, Six Degrees of Separation, and classical fantasy collide!”
-Terry Hill, author of In The Days Of Humans: Third Exodus
Acknowledgements
The production of this book involved more kindness and generosity than I may begin to capture on this sole page, but I will do my best!
I would first like to thank my brilliant friend Todd Barselow for his exceptional assistance. You truly went above and beyond the duties of merely an editor.
A special thanks is also in order for Ryan Doan for cover design. You took my ideas and made them your own, made them better. That is the sign of a true artist, and I’m grateful that we were able to collaborate on this work, rather than my simply hiring you for your services.
To Raymond Wong—thank you for your generous contributions and your help with design of the cover concept.
Countless others helped through various stages of the production, and I want you all to know that I could never have completed this work without you! Thank you Kathy Wetzel, Liz Cutler, Kara Johnson, Travis Skelton, Constance Roberts, Ray Keller, Patsy Howell, Lucy Arsenault, Colleen Ahern, Bonnie and Coleman Smith, Alisha Morrison, Brandon Dare, Josh Ball, Katie Yanagisawa, David Peltier, Jess Partlow, Hunter Windle, Emily Herrera, Philippe Vallotti, Matthew Buskell, Colleen Wilde, Elaine Wilde, Matt Emanouil, Courtney Najera, Joshua Mallory, Kambria Kiplinger, Halie Merchant, Ryan Gallagher, Ian Meng, Mel and Peggy Dainty, Laura Pulliam, Paul Osterdahl, Jodie Britt, Matthew Driggers, John Tompkins, Sam Cushing, Leah McGrath, C. Scott Fleming, Erica Boehm, Ellie Creitz, Jacqueline Osterdahl, Vinal Lang, Himanshu Malhotra, Evan Giamundo, Renee Giorgetti, Stephen Barton, Nathan Hayes, Melissa Trujillo, Jonathan Dupuis, and Daniel Baker.
CONTENTS
The Cave: Part 1
Chapter 1: The Island
Chapter 2: Protector Souls
Chapter 3: The Boy
The Cave: Part 2
Chapter 4: Calm Before the Storm
Chapter 5: Rebirth
Chapter 6: Stora
The Cave: Part 3
Chapter 7: Eugene’s Elixir
Chapter 8: The Desert of Dask
Chapter 9: From Cell to Shackles
The Cave: Part 4
Chapter 10: The Throne Room
Chapter 11: Liberation Palaver
Chapter 12: Onton Onward
The Cave: Part 5
Chapter 13: From Shackles to Sea
Chapter 14: The Final Memory
Chapter 15: The Final Straw
The Cave: Final
Epilogue
About The Author
The Cave:
Part 1
The Stranger awoke to blinding darkness coupled with crippling silence. He glanced around frantically, his eyes absorbing no signals while his pupils struggled to enlarge.
Despite the lack of stimulation, his brain was flooded with deafening sounds and startling images; his exhausted neurons fired ceaselessly as though a shaking fit were about to seize him. Incoherent images of his travels assaulted his fragile mind like an onslaught of panicked, swarming birds against a nest-threatening predator. Most prominent among them, as had been the case for the last chapter of The Stranger’s life, were images of his son—not the boy his aching, lonely heart had taken in as a son only to love and burn in an act of unspeakable betrayal, but his biological son. The son he still couldn’t believe he may never see again. As usual, through the flicker-show of woe in his brain, the one solitary organic thought pushed through and overshadowed all else: I have to find my son.
Even after all that had happened, that thought was still at the forefront of The Stranger’s weakening brain.
Every fragmented flash of miserable memory opened a door for three more to fight their way through. His soul was sold long before things went bad, and the boy he’d loved―not the first and certainly not the last person to whom he’d owed a debt he’d never be able to repay―was far from the only undeserving individual who’d been burned and spurned in this unholy pursuit. And now, every second of anguish, every feeling of self-pity and self-loathing, every scent and sound and image at once flooded his brain discordantly.
His mind was ripping itself apart. If this turn of events couldn’t do it alone, surely the screams in his head would finish the job: the screams of all he’d turned his back on, all the victims―both innocent and otherwise―of his violent, virulent rampage, the screams of agony of those who’d died on his behalf or at his very hand, the screams of outrage at his turned, uncaring back, the screams of misery as those he’d loved came to realize the true nature of his soul, the black, decaying, long-since dying product of his quest. With no visual or auditory stimulation in this sightless abyss, the screams all came at once, and with them came the feelings of shame and misery and damnation and desire and lust and fury, the feelings he had subconsciously associated ever so intricately with every encountered sight and sound and scent.
All this filled his aching mind in a mere instant, less time than it took his limbs to relay to his brain the fact that his figure wasn’t floating in nothingness, that his body had touched a hard and stony surface below. If he had been capable of rational thought, all these sensations would have reentered The Stranger’s conscious mind before he could have taken the time to step back and feel the cold, damp walls of his current tomb, to sit in silence and allow his over taxed eyes and ears to equilibrate to this sudden stark darkness and silence, the absolute antithesis of the cacophonous hell from whence he’d come a mere instant before.
The scrapes and contusions on his body from the cold, dead, uncaring hands which had pulled him violently underground were still fresh; the pains and utter revulsion arising from these sites on his skin that had just been in contact with the fingers of the undead were fresher still. The ringing in his ears, even in this new silence, could not out-shriek the deafening caws of death and pain from those all around him where he had stood moments before. The explosions and cries of mortal agony seemed to have gone nowhere, and how could they? It had taken an instant to leave that scene where some unfathomable dark magic was at work tearing apart not just his world, but what seemed to be all worlds, all existences from the sky outward in all directions. A mere instant, and death and holocaust and torment and all things most evil in all existence had been replaced by what The Stranger still couldn’t quite perceive as silence, serenity, and solitude.
What flashed before his eyes in that instant, what still, unflinchingly, was flashing through his mind, was not his life. Not the life he’d lived until the birth of his son, at least. But his quest. The only thing of relevance since his world ended. And now the world really was ending. Not just his, but everyone’s. An apocalypse so absolute that no rebirth could occur. No new quests could be birthed from this womb.
All these memories flashed vividly as The Stranger stumbled to his hands and knees on the foreign rocky floor in a dark, silent, previously unfound
cave and reflexively stood, shakily and slowly, back to his feet. The man on the island; the screams of the unfortunate souls with whom his fate was intertwined; the boy he’d sold as quickly as he’d sold his own soul; the horrors he’d encountered and won over; the lives he’d claimed; and the loves he’d lost …
His last coherent memory was of his own death.
Chapter 1:
The Island
1
The Stranger awoke to a brain-scorching, blinding brightness and crippling heat. He glanced around frantically, his eyes absorbing no signals while his pupils struggled to constrict against the brilliant sunlight.
While he could see nothing but white light and wavering heat that could be only the amalgamation of the Christian Heaven and Hell, his chest was searing with nearly unbearable pain, and his bruised and battered head was stinging in waves that waxed and waned with his wavering consciousness. It was this stinging, though, the stinging of razor-edged sand in fresh wounds that opened his eyes and ears to his whereabouts and to waves that weren’t solely the ebb and flow of his consciousness.
A beach. But how had he come to be so damaged and in this vulnerable position on his hands and knees in the sand?
The waves crashed seemingly all around him, and despite still being blinded by the sudden sunlight, the source of which felt to be mere body-lengths away, he was inclined to believe he’d been shipwrecked and thrown all this way in the midst of a violent maelstrom. And was that screaming he heard in the distance? If this situation were life-threatening, he’d likely be slain from the rear before his eyes allowed him to see his blood-soaked hands that swam before his face. And who would protect his family then?
Then he remembered. He thought, not for the first time, I have to find my son.
His brain was again flooded with deafening sounds and startling images of his past flight: the narrow escapes and risky defeats of evil and mythical creatures set against their getaway by the souls of the evil dead; the feel of his wife’s embrace during times of woe and elation; the cries of his infant son as he was unfairly brought time and again into and out of harm’s way; the kind and loving support of his mother along the way; the invaluable assistance of his father’s warrior instincts; the wails of anguish from his mother as her husband’s last breath was stopped mid-exhale …
His last coherent memory was of his own death.
2
The Stranger blinked, first rapidly and then slowly and determinedly. As the solar shock to his pupils subsided, he was able to raise his head and glance around carefully at his surroundings. Sand, everywhere, filled his peripheral vision, and straight ahead were white frothy waves crashing out of brilliantly blue seawater. The world swam as his blood pressure plummeted dangerously below the point where his elevated head could receive sufficient nourishment, so he stilled and breathed calmly.
A slow glance to his left returned a dismal sight: their stolen slave ship washed ashore and badly burned, some parts still smoldering and sending thick billows of gray smoke into the bright, cloudless sky. How many of his family members were dead on board right now? How many corpses of his loved ones lay charred and reduced to ash in the wreckage? Was his wife still on board? His son?
Then he remembered the promise he’d received before he died: “The boy will grow to know me as his father. Laura will fulfill my needs and wishes until she makes herself too bothersome.”
The subtext of that statement was sickening. Dear, innocent Laura, fulfilling the fantasies of a sick, deluded madman who had become blinded by his greed, ambition, and evil associates. And poor, helpless William, a prisoner his entire life, doomed to grow brainwashed into the arms of a vile Baron of a corrupting nation. Would he ever know the extent of his captivity? Or would he embrace it unquestioningly like the ewe which ages knowing only imprisonment?
But these questions should hold no more importance at this point than a single blade of grass on a well-traveled path.
Am I a spirit? The Stranger thought. Is this the afterlife? Merely eternal pain and concern for the loved ones left behind?
When the musket fired and the metal ball entered his chest and stopped his breath, The Stranger felt nothing, thought nothing after one last dismal internal plea for something miraculous to occur, if only to rescue his wife and son from the life of certain despair that had just befallen them… But now he felt immense pain and discomfort coming from his wounds. Hadn’t he always been taught that suffering ended after death? That the Good had suffered their woes and paid their dues and moved on to peace at last and the Bad were the ones who roamed the earth, desolate and morose, searching for ways to create an impact on the world again? To abjure these teachings at this stage would be to admit defeat and lie here in agony until something changed …
Yes, if there were an afterlife, this couldn’t be it. This felt too real. He felt alive. Blood still oozed from his severed veins and arteries. He wasn’t immediately grateful to think it, but it felt true. If he had truly died, after all, wouldn’t his soul still be on the boat far out in the black, stormy seas, watching Baron Bernard set flame to the sails and depart with those he held most dear?
The Stranger slowly turned his torso and aching head to look to his left. A tree line, beginning about ten body-lengths away from the crashing waves, extended as far as he could currently see. If things went favorably in the next few moments, it could be his savior.
He looked back at the wreckage that had been his vessel for the first leg of his journey. Could Laura and William still possibly be on board? Unlikely. The Baron’s own luxurious vessels were nowhere in sight, and when The Stranger had been shot the sky was black as death. Now it was bright and clear. Of course they weren’t on board; he had been shot in the middle of the night, and now he’d miraculously regained consciousness some time in the future after his ship had run aground.
However, the miniscule possibility that they were still here, that he could see their beautiful faces one last time, was enough to leave him hesitant, unmoving in the sand for a moment. He wondered if fleeing now could cost them their final hope at salvation. He wondered if, were Bernard’s henchmen still about, he would be able to bargain and trade his life for their freedom, but he doubted it. These men had come from far, far away in the dead of night and had, in a matter of moments, done what they’d come to do and taken what they’d come to claim. They’d likely been in pursuit since the day he and his family had fled Reprise. These weren’t bargaining men. These were men who took what they wanted. Bullies who pillaged with force.
By the time The Stranger’s blurry eyes observed a lone, vague, male figure hobbling out of the wreckage, his mind had been made up. Could it be his father emerging from the ship’s fiery hull? Of course not. He’d seen his father’s neck cut cleanly to the spinal cord. If this were his father, it was no version he’d want to encounter in this condition.
He closed his eyes, steeled his aching core, and willed his failing heart to keep up with what needed to be done now. As he stood halfway upright and began scrambling almost blindly toward the protection of the trees, a haggard voice called from behind, “Oy! Stay yer scurryin’, ye’ great imp!” No, that wasn’t his father’s accent to be sure. Even his freshly modified larynx couldn’t produce that raspy sound with such clarity.
The man called after him a bit more, but The Stranger’s head was throbbing, his vision blurring, and his ears buzzing such that he could make out only some gruff, incomprehensible babble and words pertaining to “death” and “dying.” Enough, in other words, to ensure him that clambering into these unfamiliar woodlands was his best and only option for survival at present.
3
The dense canopy of trees provided a shade that cooled the air remarkably. This abrupt temperature difference was more than The Stranger could have hoped to have gained from entering the trees. With multiple lacerations on his face and hands and a musket ball still burning in his bleeding chest, the departure from such fatiguing heat was more than embraced.
Though his chest was searing and his lungs were allowing in only half as much air as he needed, he felt a small bit of rejuvenation amongst the trees, and his pace quickened as much as his spirits heightened. Of course there was still his wife and son to consider and his dear mother and father to mourn, but at the moment all was happening far too quickly for him to contemplate anything but the present situation and his bid for a safe escape.
He ran as rapidly as his battered body would allow him, and, after a short time, he chanced a glance over his shoulder to find that he had no immediate pursuers. But still he ran. Deeper and deeper into the increasingly dense thicket of trees and brush he ran, barely noticing the sticks and vines and ferns slapping his arms, legs, and bloody face. His only desires were to get a large enough cushion of space between himself and that beach to be able to better assess the situation and hopefully nurse his wounds.
But with every step his legs got weaker. Every breath drew in a smaller quantity of air while causing more pain in his chest. Every movement in his neck rendered his vision less clear and his head more light. At a certain point, he could no longer differentiate the stinging of the sand in his chest wound from the burning of the metal ball inside and the strain on what could very likely be his sole functioning lung.
Now that the second wind from the cool shade had worn off, what The Stranger really needed was a drink of fresh water, but he had no idea how large this island was. Even if it were large enough to hold fresh-water reserves, he had no idea how to find one in his current state. So he fought through the throbs and exhaustion and continued to travel, slower now, deeper into the forest.
Traveling equally slowly and in the oncoming direction was a small schooner with as many as ten armed men on board.
As the vessel and The Stranger unwittingly approached the same point on the island’s lateral rocky coast, he stumbled out of the copse of trees and nearly lost consciousness yet again on his hands and knees in the sudden sunlight.