by C. F. Waller
“She would hate that idea,” I say under my breath. “Sacrilege.”
I have to crank the engine several times before it roars to life. Sitting there letting her warm up, I watch Rahnee’s necklace with the Star of David pendant rock back and forth from the rear view mirror. Father Michael waves from the front steps and I give him a nod, before pulling out.
It’s a short drive to where K35 crosses the A31, otherwise known as the Autobahn. I crank her up to ninety-five and ride along, the wipers on delay to clear the mist. I don’t get far before a sleek blue Tesla slips up next to me. It must be their father’s car as two young men taunt me with hand gestures. They pull up and rev there electric engine, making a vile high pitched humming sound. This situation happens often as this is the only internal combustion car most have ever seen.
“Or ever will,” I sigh, stomping on the gas and briefly downshifting until the speedo reads one-twenty.
The Tesla keeps up without much effort, the guys inside pumping their fists at me. I nod and take them right up to one thirty-five, which is about as fast as a Tesla will go. We ride along side by side for several miles. I could go a wee bit faster, but I don’t have to. They are having the time of their lives and I am about to teach them a lesson about internal combustion engines. Having watched roughly five minutes click off the analog clock in the cracked dash, I slow a bit, letting them move in front of me. This lasts only a moment as the lights on their car begin to flash. A red light fills the inside, reflecting off the glass.
“Automatic shutdown to conserve power,” I chuckle, flying past them as they coast back to a reasonable speed.
The exit at K235 comes up quickly and I slow down on the winding curve of the ramp. It’s another fifteen minutes to my home, a glass cube on the end of a cul-de-sac. Every one of them looks the same to me, although there are several trim colors. The driveway is empty, my only other vehicle a motorcycle.
“Dorian must roll over in his grave when he looks down on this,” I sigh, thinking he didn’t like riding in cars, let alone get on a motorcycle.
Turning into the drive, I wait for the garage door to open, but it doesn’t. I try a manual override on my phone, but this also fails. I turn off the ignition, the engine chugging three more times before growing quiet.
“I need to get more gas delivered,” I mumble. “The stuff on the bottom has water in it again.”
On the wall next to the door in an override slot. I remove my card and swipe it. The door groans and slowly opens. I am walking back to the car, when I see two huge metal boxes, one on top of the other, taking up nearly my entire small garage. I push the car door closed, never taking my eyes off them. Moving closer I smell a burnt odor, more than likely from whatever torch they used to cut the doors open.
“Plasma cutter,” I mutter.
The boxes are old, nearly as old as me. Carefully, I get on the side of the top box and get a grip on the lid. I’m hoping they are empty, but checking is prudent. The lid is heavy and the hinges stiff, but I manage to pull it open. I lay the lid down slowly so I don’t unbalance the top box and send it sliding into the driveway. Stepping back I almost laugh.
“I should have known,” I say aloud, rubbing my forehead.
In the box is a green apple and a note. The note is pinned to the apple with a sharp knife. Taking them both, I shut the door and head up the stairs into my home. There are three small sets of wooden steps that lead to the main dining area. Setting the apple down on the glass table, I remove my hat and coat, hanging them up.
Switching on the luminous light over the table, I read the envelope and see it’s addressed to me, or to who I once was. I long ago changed my last name to Faust, but this letter is addressed to Arron Wessker. Admittedly curious, I draw out the paper inside. It appears to be an invitation. The letters, in calligraphy, swirl dancing about the page. I lean in close to make them out.
You are hereby invited to a party held in your honor
We will be celebrating the auspicious occasion of your one hundredth birthday
Born in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and sixty-five
Fifteen, September
Your party will be held at the Estate.
Transportation will be provided.
Make sure to save the date.
A car will collect you promptly at seven o’clock.
Your attendance is absolutely mandatory.
“Thank God you’re not alive to see this,” I say, crossing my heart and thinking of Rahnee. “This is bad.”
The grey skies outside darken the back courtyard. The rear wall of the dining area is glass, giving an amazing view of the grounds from above. Feeling slightly ill, I peer down, but see odd shadows in the garden. Stepping to my right, I flip the light switch illuminating the area.
“And this is worse,” I groan.
In the garden are six more boxes. The bright lights on the back of the house illuminate them. Even at this distance I can see the coral or shells stuck on the rusted boxes. All the lids have been cut open, but I don’t need to look inside.
“Empty,” I mouth silently, wiping the back of my arm across my forehead.
My phone rings, vibrating my leg as it rests in my pants pocket. Pulling it out, I see my daughter’s picture flashing on the screen. Dark hair and caramel skin like her mother, piercing green eyes that she gets from elsewhere. Forever twenty-one, Jennifer lives in the states now, changing cities as she outlives her friends and neighbors.
“Jen, how are you?” I inquire before she has a chance to speak.
“I’m fine,” her soft voice comes over the scratchy connection. “Someone left an invitation to your birthday party on my doorstep. Do you know about this?”
“I was just made aware of it,” I reply, feeling sick.
“It says my attendance is mandatory,” she complains in a confused tone. “And where is The Estate?”
THE CONDUIT
A Tale of Resurrection
A novel by
C. F. Waller
THE CONDUIT
Copyright © 2016 by C. F. Waller
The right of, Charles F. Waller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with The copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988
ISBN: 978-1-5323-2061-3
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. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at cfwaller.com for links and book information
Acknowledgement
Thanks to God for all things
Thanks to my wife for humoring my writing
A special thanks the beta readers:
Marcie Erbes
Joanne Kay Waller
Leah Resko Aylward
James Glassford
Prologue
Theater of the Obscene, Hades
A single torch burns over a towering cage, throwing a patch of amber light on the rough cut stone floor. Shallow grooves and scratches mar the surface as if a battle had previously taken place, but could also be drag marks. Corroded iron bars as thick as your wrist rise up three stories before arching into a spider web dome, reminiscent of an aviary. The entire monstrosity is circular, presumably to allow viewing from all sides. Bolted to the floor, a pipe that’s at least a foot in diameter curves along the iron bars. Tiny holes drilled on the top side glow hot blue in the near dark. If the occupant were to charge the bars, gas in the pipe can be ignited, releasing a wall of flames as an additional barrier. A tattered crimson curtain, taller than the structure by far, wraps all the way around the enclosure. The thrum of a large crowd can be
felt in the floor, although only whispers reach the man’s ears.
He wears a purple jacket with narrow golden pinstripes that glint when the light catches them. A burgundy bowler hat and long pointed shoes give him an oddly cartoonish appearance. He paces along the outside of the bars puffing on a pipe, reddish smoke trailing behind him. Pausing mid-step, he removes a pocket watch on a thin chain from his vest. The golden top flips up; then he studies the face.
“It’s nearly Showtime,” he announces to the unseen prisoner in the cage.
No reply comes from the shadows within, although ragged breathing is audible.
“Your debut is a sold out affair,” he remarks, closing the watch with a snap and replacing it in his vest. “The likes of you has never been seen in these parts.”
“You are referring to Hell are you not?” a scratchy voice growls from the shadows, then coughs. “I think you can say it out loud.”
“Yes indeed,” he nods vigorously. “I dare say, a greater triumph, he has never celebrated.”
“Don’t celebrate too quickly,” the voice warns. “This contest has not reached it’s inevitable conclusion.”
“Really,” the man smirks, pretending to glance around. “What did I miss?”
The feminine creature is unimaginably fast. A swooshing in the air precedes the sound of cold steel hitting the bars. The thick iron bends out as the chain holding her wrist shackles together slam into it. With one hand reaching past either side of a bar, it bends out from the impact. Blood trickles down the woman’s forearms as she strains against the cuffs. The man jerks back reflexively as her grimy fingertips miss him by only inches. His initial shock is quickly replaced by an amused smirk.
“This is an abomination,” she declares.
“That’s the spirit my Queen, but do save some of that fight for the audience. They have paid a heavy price for the honor of attending opening night.”
“You shall mock me no further.” she barks indignantly. “I’ll have your head errand boy.”
“Very, very, unlikely,” he shrugs dismissively,” but maybe you’d care to bet on it. Word down here is you’re always keen on a wager.”
“Insolent swine,” she howls, reaching past the bars in vain. “Come a little closer.”
The woman is tallish, maybe six feet and slim. She wears only a dirty white tunic top that hangs to mid-thigh. Thick metal bracelets adore each wrist, a ponderous chain hanging between them. The hair is a wild afro, her caramel skin covered in filth. White teeth peek past curled lips as she fights the bars to reach the man’s throat. Most interesting are what appears to be the stumps of wings rising over each shoulder. Bent over at a right angle the stumps are scarred as if burnt. The stems twitch from side to side as she struggles.
“You and your master will pay a heavy price,” she threatens, the iron bar bending to the breaking point. “Your punishment will be legendary.”
“Now, now,” he sighs, waving his pipe to one side. “Mind the bars.”
A wall of flames is expelled from the pipe, reaching the very top of the cage. Reds and yellows rage for half a minute, then subside, revealing the occupant in the center under the light. Her forearms are charred to the bone, her gaze locked on the man. She flexes boney hands baring only burnt tendons to bind them. Slowly over a minute’s time a swarm of glitter encircles the bone. The sparkling cloud mends her wounds. The flesh returns and she rubs them as if cold. Before either can speak a bell sounds, then dongs again. The ringing brings a satisfied expression to the man’s face. The prisoner turns in a slow circle, eyes scanning the curtain.
“I must leave you now,” he sighs, slipping halfway out of a slit in the fabric. “Do try to smile a bit.”
“This will not stand,” she growls, still rubbing her forearms. “He cannot hope to keep me here.”
“Lucifer,” the man mocks her. “I think you can say it out loud.”
“Mind my words errand boy, I’ll have my hands around your neck soon enough.”
The tolling bell grows quiet and the curtain begins to rise very slowly, ratcheting up an inch or so at a time. Having paused in the crease, the man leans his head back in. His mouth opens as if to start speaking, but nothing comes out. He does this several times as his mind searches for the right words.
“Speak demon,” she shouts. “What foul excuse do you make on his behalf?”
“None, none at all. From this moment forward, you will be on display around the clock. Or at least until he grows weary of you,” he states solemnly, then pauses. “Were our situations reversed, I would pray he doesn’t.”
“What can your kind know of prayer?” she scoffs.
“Not much,” he pauses, putting a finger on the tip of his nose. “Only that your prayers have landed you here.”
With that, he disappears and the curtain continues to rise. The torch overhead is suddenly extinguished by a scalding gust of air. The prisoner waits impatiently in total darkness as rows and rows of onlookers are revealed by the rising curtain. A never ending wall of souls is revealed all around her, as if she stood in the Roman Coliseum. Lights brighter than the sun suddenly flash all around, blinding her. With a hand over her eyes, she hears the first hoots and taunts. Threats and profanity rain down in every language known to her and some that are foreign.
“What cruel joke is this?” she shouts, waving angrily at the 360-degree crowd. “Why do the souls of the dammed see fit to mock one such as I?”
A rotten piece of fruit or maybe a vegetable strikes her in the face, then another. Before she can wipe off the juice, a glass bottle explodes against the iron bars causing shards of glass to rain down on her. Covering her head with both hands, she slumps to the stone floor, curling up with her hands shielding her face.
“Why have you allowed this?” she demands, her gaze to the heavens. “Redemption was within my grasp.”
Glass and rubbish rain down, partially burying the prisoner. Above the cage, in a faraway seat, two figures sit calmly in the wild crowd. While most verbally rail against the woman on display, these two simply whisper back and forth. The woman in a high collared, long sleeve dress, her dark hair in an impossibly tall beehive. The man in a rumpled suit, holding a glass full of amber liquid.
“It’s glorious don’t you think?” the woman exclaims. “A more divine spectacle, I cannot recall.”
“I don’t know,” the man groans, his mouth slipping into a crooked frown. “While I am on the record as detesting her—.”
“With relish,” the woman adds. “With absolute relish.”
“Yes, yes, but this hardly seems a suitable end for a personage of her station.”
“I really don’t understand you Dorian,” she huffs, holding out her upturned hands. “It’s not like they are boiling her in oil for all eternity.”
“Oh, now, that’s a thought. A good boiling would suit her,” he croons, his mood improving. “I haven’t seen one in ages. Do you think they would consider that?”
“I believe they consider all things in this place,” she chuckles, then, bumps his shoulder with hers and points to the bottle of scotch in his hand. “Please tell me you’re going to throw that?”
He starts to raise it, then, clutches it to his chest. She pretends to understand, lowering his guard before snatching it roughly. Quick as a cat, she heaves it down on the cage. She stands for a better view and witnesses it fall two hundred feet then explode on an iron bar. Whatever liquid was contained in the bottle hits the hot pipe at the foot of the cage and sends flames shooting in all directions. A smile blooms across her face, but a stern eye roll from her counterpart wipes it away.
“Oh lord, what’s wrong now,” she complains, hands on her ample hips.
“If you must know my dear Bee,” he grumbles. “I wasn’t done drinking it yet.”
“Plenty of Scotch in Hell my friend,” she assures him.
“I suppose your right,” he chuckles. “It’s not like I am asking for ice water.”
Chapter One
Riverside, California
17 days earlier…
Candle light flickers over bare walls. A tattered shred of yellowed wallpaper hangs down, moving slightly from my breath. Arching my back, I put my hands over my head. How long have I been sitting here? Plucking a chipped cup off the edge of the roll top desk, I sip it and find the tea cold. Clearly, the answer to my query is too long.
A long picture window faces the street. It’s a very old dwelling and the glass, original. One minor imperfection leaves a line when you gaze out. A symptom of a simpler time. I peel back the edge of the curtain. The sun is just setting, the streetlights blinking to life. A boy of maybe seven or eight rides a bike down the sidewalk, blue and white streamers trailing the hand grips. Directly across the street at 317 Maple, the windows are dark. She won’t be home for an hour or so. Pulling a tiny notebook from a pocket inside my vest, I flip pages to check myself.
“Thursday, Thursday,” I mutter, licking my fingers as I riffle the pages. “Yes, tonight is Pilates.”
Replacing the book, I repeat my stretching and gaze down on a thick leather bound journal open on the desktop. An ink well is positioned next to a wooden stand holding the stylus. The scent of the ink would fill the room were it not for the musty mold smell hanging in the air. The letters are Cyrillic, the language Russian, although by appearances, I may have slipped into French at some point. Car headlights pass over the front window, drawing my attention. A careful scan of the street reveals a red sedan several houses down. Relax Edward; she doesn’t even own an automobile.
