THE SEVENTH DAY
The Seventh Day
Scott Shepherd
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 Scott Shepherd
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
eISBN: 9781477858745
For Holly
My Beautiful Reward
Table of Contents
EPISODE 1
1
2
3
4
5
EPISODE 2
6
7
8
9
10
11
EPISODE 3
12
13
14
15
16
17
EPISODE 4
18
19
20
21
22
23
EPISODE 5
24
25
26
27
SAYERS
28
EPISODE 6
29
30
31
LAURA
32
33
34
EPISODE 7
35
36
37
38
39
CLETUS
40
EPISODE 8
41
42
43
44
JOAD
45
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
A Note to Readers
Excerpt from The Descending Son
Kindle Serials
EPISODE 1
1
Joad couldn’t believe his eyes.
The pirate ship floated across the desert floor as if gliding over an ice-covered lake.
He hadn’t seen one since he went to Disneyland as a child and begged his father to take him on the ride. Of course, the ship hadn’t been genuine; it was just a façade built for the attraction. But it made him recall the movies it inspired, and for just a moment, Joad wondered if the boat moving across the stark white sand was a retrofitted refugee from the days when images flickered across silver screens.
As much as Joad wished he were back in those innocent times, before everything went topsy-turvy, he had to quickly discard the notion.
This ship was gargantuan and extremely real.
The blood-crimson sails, at least a hundred feet high, could wrap around half a dozen houses. The canvas flapped in the wind like thousands of blackbirds winging en masse for the Southern Hemisphere; the sound was deafening but strangely soothing. Billions of sand pebbles bounced off the ship’s varnished ebony wood and were ground to dust beneath dozens of gold-chromed wheels on the underside of the boat.
Joad dismounted from his horse and dropped behind a huge sand dune. He made a quick hand motion and grunted a command. The horse immediately lay down by his feet, and Joad was thankful he had spent so much time teaching and coercing his longtime companion to do his bidding.
Joad heard a clacking sound that increased in volume with the ship’s approach.
A man’s scream rose above the noise.
Joad’s horse whinnied. He gently patted the animal’s long jaw, encouraging him to remain still. As the horse quieted under his soothing touch, Joad eased himself up just enough to peer over the lip of the sand dune.
The pirate ships of his youth—be they from movies, comics, or picture books—all had two things in common: a flag identifying the vessel, and the figurehead affixed to the bow of the boat. Usually, the former was the family crest of a thieving scoundrel, or emblazoned with the requisite skull and crossbones. The figurehead was typically a carved mermaid or some other mystical creature from the deep dark sea.
But this gliding crimson and black behemoth had neither.
Instead of a flag, dozens of skulls were strung together on pieces of rope, unfurling from atop the highest mast. They bounced off each other, causing the cacophony of clacking.
There wasn’t a statue carved into the bow. Instead, a wiry man hung upside down off a grappling hook. Naked from the waist up, his back was bathed in blood. A black-bearded, longhaired man hovered over him, whipping a cat o’ nine tails. Despite the ship’s velocity and bumpiness, the whip landed on the hanging man’s back with a resounding crack. The hanging man moaned.
And the horse whinnied again.
Joad dropped down to calm him again. While stroking its massive chest, he could feel the animal’s heart racing.
Along with his own.
“Where did you find them?”
Fixer peered up at the dark bearded man through half-opened eyes. He thought the man’s name was Primo, but couldn’t be sure. Everything was a mishmash from the time they’d grabbed him out of the shed. Leave it to my luck, thought Fixer. Finally, a semi-decent roof over my head; I’m getting the first solid night’s sleep I’ve had in months, and the door busts open to reveal four bearded brothers—each more frightening than the last.
“I didn’t,” Fixer muttered.
His answer was rewarded with another lash of the whip.
Primo leaned over the ship’s bow and brought his seething face inches from the hanging man. “I’ll ask again. Where did you get the cells?”
Fixer hadn’t seen any in over six months. His upside-down brain was pretty scrambled, but he knew that answer wouldn’t hold much water with his tormentor. It didn’t help that these men were convinced he had cells in his possession—even though Fixer had denied this more times than Peter had done Christ. Left with options that would only further bloody his back or find him dumped off the ship and squished like a bug, Fixer offered the only possible response.
“What if I took you to them?”
A gratified smile spread across Primo’s face. Which only made him look scarier to Fixer than before. “That’s more like it.”
Yeah, thought Fixer. Until you realize I’m lying through my teeth and just stalling for time. At least the whipping would stop.
As if on cue, the cat o’ nine tails rose into the air and smacked the side of Fixer’s head. A cut split open on his temple; blood sprayed out and down his face.
“You better not be lying. If you are, the pain you’re feeling now will be just a prelude to what’s coming.”
This threat should have unnerved Fixer, but he was more disturbed by the gleam in Primo’s left eye.
Because the other one didn’t shift in the slightest.
It was only then that Fixer realized Primo’s right eye was made of fine glass, its green pupil a direct contrast to the sepia brown of the real deal. For the first time, Fixer got a good look at the skin on the right side of Primo’s face. It was mottled, like the underbelly of a turtle. It didn’t appear natural, so Fixer didn’t think it was a birth defect. He couldn’t imagine it was something a man would have by choice, but suspected he wouldn’t be around long enough to learn where it came from.
The one-eyed glare demanded an answer.
“Point taken,” Fixer feebly offered up.
“Where to?”
“Back where you found me. The shed.”
“We searched it high and low. There was nothing,” growled Pri
mo. He gripped the whip tightly, preparing to lash out yet again.
Fixer shook his head vigorously, causing the blood to drip down his face. “It’s near there.”
Primo cocked the cat o’ nine tails. “I warned you. . . .”
“No, no, no. Think about it. Having them handy—right where a man such as yourself might take them away from me—that would be foolish. Right?”
“Very foolish, indeed.”
Fixer nodded. Blood seeped into his eyes as he stammered away. “Yes, yes. The prelude thing you said. Don’t want that. Definitely don’t want that.”
Primo considered, and then pushed back onto the ship deck and called out to his brothers. “Turn it around! We’re going back!”
The hierarchy was clear. The three men began the Herculean task of rerouting: climbing masts, shifting sails, steering the ship. Primo leaned over the rail once again.
“You better not be wasting my time.”
Fixer tensed, awaiting one more strike of the whip. When nothing happened, he breathed a sigh of relief as Primo’s footsteps retreated on the deck. The reprieve was fleeting, however; his head was immediately besieged with thoughts of what would happen the moment Primo and his brothers realized that Fixer was leading them on a wild goose chase. It caused him to visibly shudder.
The boat lurched and swiveled. Wind blasted sand high into the air. It stung his face, particularly the open wound on his forehead. As the boat swung around, Fixer shook his head from side to side, trying to rid his eyes of the trickling blood.
That was when he saw the man on horseback.
Just beyond a sand dune, the stranger sat high in the saddle, watching the pirate ship turn around.
Fixer thought about yelling, but realized his scream would be swallowed up by the wind. And only catch his captor’s attention. Waving his arms was impossible; they were bound behind his back. He could only look imploringly at the horseman, but was certain the man was too far away to see the expression on his forlorn face.
More blood dripped into his burning eyes.
Fixer closed them tightly, then sprung them open, trying to clear the blood.
By the time he could see again, the stranger was gone.
Fixer had chosen the old bowling alley for a number of reasons.
It was on a deserted strip of two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere. Before The Seventh Day, it had served as a roadside diversion for families on long treks through endless fields of wheat and corn. Fixer remembered the first time he ever came across it on a trip to visit his grandparents with his mother. BIG AL’S BOWL-O-RAMA: the neon sign rose out of the cornfields like a dragon from the sea, wondrous and shocking. Fixer’s mother had propelled the ancient station wagon right past it, and he had repeatedly pounded on the headrest until she finally gave in and agreed to head back. His mother said they could only play one game, but she quickly got into the spirit of the whole thing: the hollow clack of scattered pins when she bowled a strike, the brain freeze that came with the quick gulping of a black and white malt, the licking of her lips after tasting the crinkle-cut French fries served up in their cardboard boat-shaped plates. By afternoon’s end they had bowled half a dozen games, eaten more junk food than even a ten-year-old could handle, and laughed continuously. Even now, decades later, as he was literally hanging on for his dear life, remembering that rarest of occasions when his mother seemed happy without a care in the world warmed Fixer’s heart.
He was glad the windows had been smashed. It would give him an excuse when Primo and his brothers came up with an empty haul. Fixer would try to convince the brothers that someone had gotten to the stash beforehand. He didn’t expect Primo to believe him—he just needed time to formulate a plan. To come up with something. Anything.
As long as he could escape.
Fixer had been working on his wrist bindings to no avail. He had tried to get the ropes to uncoil themselves, but they had no interest in obeying. That meant resorting to the old-fashioned way: wiggling and scraping. But all he gotten so far for his troubles were scratches and cuts from the twine burying deeper into his already way-too-sore flesh.
Trey, the smiliest member of the quartet, emerged from the building with a bowling ball that had so many colors it resembled a rainbow sno-cone. A big grin was plastered on his broad face. “Will you look at this? Who the hell would use something like this?”
His giant guffaw was quickly wiped away by Primo’s scowl. “Why in the world would I care? That’s not what we came here for.”
“I know, I know. But imagine what this looked like rolling down the lane? Like one of those thingamajigs you hold up to your eye and all the colors go spinning by. . . .”
“A kaleidoscope?”
Trey nodded vigorously. “Yes, that’s it! A kaleidoscope.”
Primo swatted the ball out of his brother’s hand. It landed with a resounding thunk, narrowly missing Trey’s foot by an inch. “What did we come here for, Trey?”
“Cells.” He pointed up at Fixer. “He said he saw cells.”
“Does this look like a cell?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Then get your ass back inside and find me some.”
Trey obediently scooted back inside the bowling alley. Primo crossed the parking lot, which was empty except for a couple of car frames stripped of everything worth taking, and even the parts that were useless. The pirate ship, parked in the middle of the asphalt, was as out of place as a rocket ship in a vineyard. Primo stopped at the foot of the boat and stared back up at Fixer. The wiry man bobbled on the grappling hook.
“Where exactly did you say you saw these cells?” Primo called.
“Under the counter. Where they kept the shoes.”
“First place we checked. It’s been cleared out.”
Fixer knew he was near the point of no return. All that remained was his flimsy lie. “It’s been at least a few weeks since I was here. Someone must’ve beat you to the punch.”
“Or the cells were never here to begin with.”
Fixer gave his best casual shrug. “That would mean you think I’m lying.”
“Imagine that.”
“Maybe you ought to let me down and help you look.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that.”
“You look fine just where you are. For now.” Primo headed back inside to help his brothers with the search.
For now.
Those two words echoed in Fixer’s ears.
Joad’s initial instinct had been to ride off in the opposite direction, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the pirate ship. With less than a week left after a seven-year trek, it was hard to believe anything could pull him off his chosen path. But distractions had been thrown his way more times than he could count on the journey home, and they usually took him hundreds of miles out of his way.
As he followed the pirate ship across The Flats, even though it was heading south and his destination lay to the northeast, Joad suspected this was a similar situation.
He just couldn’t help himself. His interest was piqued—not only by the ship, but the plight of The Hanging Man. The unfortunate guy was certainly outnumbered by the pirates (Joad knew they weren’t actual “pirates” but was content to refer to them as such); it would have been easy for them to put him out of his misery. But they clearly wanted something from The Hanging Man, (as Joad was beginning to think of him). Joad was curious enough to stick around and find out exactly what.
He was fairly certain the pirates were unaware of his presence. He knew The Hanging Man had spotted him; Joad had seen the pleading look on the man’s face. The last thing he needed was getting involved in another man’s troubles.
And yet, here he was, still following along.
Big Al’s Bowl-o-Rama. Joad suspected, from the building’s dilapidated state, that Big Al had left the premises a while ago. More than likely, he wasn’t anywhere really. Just ashes and dust. Like most every
one else.
Gone.
Angry screams snapped Joad out of his thoughts. The pirate leader, swarthy and black-bearded, had emerged from the bowling alley, totally infuriated. His three mates, cut from the same swarthy cloth (which led Joad to believe they were related) were right behind him. The sole fair-haired specimen displayed his displeasure by ripping the door off its hinges and hurling it at the ship. It bounced off the bow, not too far from The Hanging Man’s head.
The brute strength of the man was impressive. The door must have traveled at least seventy-five yards. The only thing saving The Hanging Man from being crushed was Blondie’s awful aim.
“Nothing!” screamed Black-Beard. He shook a fist at The Hanging Man, then turned to the marauding trio.
“Kill him!”
The order was so matter-of-fact, he might have been ordering a cup of coffee.
The Seventh Day Page 1
