by A. A. Volts
THE GUARDIAN OF THRESHOLD
A NOVEL BY A.A. Volts
Wave Publishing Company
Kissimmee, FL, 34759
Contents
CHAPTER ONE: Flight Test
CHAPTER TWO: From Bad to Worse
CHAPTER THREE: High School
CHAPTER FOUR: Memories
CHAPTER FIVE: Astral Secret
CHAPTER SIX: The Sky is the Limit
CHAPTER SEVEN: The Plan
CHAPTER EIGHT: Beyond Physicality
CHAPTER NINE: A World In Trouble
CHAPTER TEN: Friends in Weird Places
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Watertown
CHAPTER TWELVE: City of Lights
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Dawn of Fear
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The Dawn of a New Day
Excerpt from: I Am Goblin
Excerpt from I Am Goblin
“I Am Goblin” is the first book of my new middle-grade “I Am Series”
The streets of Boston are full of secrets. Monstrous creatures thrive among us. Clash Goldblood, is one such secret. If you were to pass by him, you would never guess what lies within.
In his quest to take what’s rightfully his… “The Prudential Building,” Clash is determined to shatter the veil of secrecy that had held the city together for centuries.
Embark on an adventure of a lifetime with Clash and his friends as they attempt to take over Mr. Moneybags’ empire.
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2012 by A.A. Volts. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Ranilo Cabo, www.rcabo.co.nr
Editing by Jon ZanVile, www.EditingforAuthors.com
Proofread by Louise Darvid, www.quality-proofreading.com
eBook Formatting by MrLasers, www.mrlasers.com
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual places and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by
Wave Publishing Company
For Information, contact: [email protected]
Author Blog: www.TheGuardianOfThreshold.com
Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/TheGuardianOfThreshold
Twitter: www.Twitter.com/ThresholdSeries
DEDICATION
I want to dedicate this book to my beautiful family: without their support, this book wouldn’t exist. Special thanks to my wife Rachael—her love, care, and support were instrumental in bringing this work to life. Honey, I love you with all my heart and soul. I’m looking forward to growing old by your side.
I also want to dedicate this book to the woman who dedicated her life to me: my mother. She’s the best mother and role model I could ever wish for. Mom, thanks for being so wonderful and for always supporting me.
And to my son, Gabriel, I hope this book inspires you and keeps your love for reading alive. I’m extremely proud of you and always will be. I know you’re capable of great feats, and the world expects no less from you. The sky is not the limit—there’s no limit, and the possibilities are infinite and unimaginable.
I also want to dedicate this book to all those who may feel hopeless and discouraged, just know that there’s more to life than meets the eye.
“The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren and to do good is my religion.”—Thomas Paine
CHAPTER ONE
FLIGHT TEST
“This is four-three-four-zero-seven requesting permission to taxi, straight-out departure,” I said into the headset.
“Roger, four-zero-seven, hold short,” replied the ground operator with a thick Boston accent.
It had taken me hours of flying and several written exams just to get this far. Now all I needed to earn my private pilot’s license was a solo flight and my upcoming seventeenth birthday. For my final test, I would have to take off from Hanscom Field in Bedford, Massachusetts, which was the closest airport to Stoneham, my hometown, and then fly over downtown Boston, return to Hanscom Field, and hopefully finish with a perfect landing.
I rubbed my eyes to keep them open. They were normally big, bright, and brown, but I doubted they still looked like that. I hadn’t slept well for the past three nights, thanks to those damn nightmares again.
Maybe I shouldn’t fly, but I decided to get it over and done with. That way, I wouldn’t have to hear my father complain that I never finished anything. Sure, I quit piano, but who could stand Ms. Toepkey’s ruler smackings every time they messed up? Karate could’ve been fun, but my teacher was no Mr. Miyagi. Football was the worst—being around those obnoxious jocks just made me sick, especially since I wasn’t what anyone would call popular material. Besides, those things always felt more like chores than a decent pastime.
A faint thunderclap in the distance called my attention back to reality. If I wanted to complete my test today, I didn’t have time to waste… a storm was on the way. I really should have postponed my test, but a little excitement wouldn’t hurt—or so I thought.
While I waited for a reply from the ground operator, I had the strange sensation that someone was watching me. Then I heard someone whisper my name. I tried to ignore the tricks my mind was playing and concentrate on the task at hand, but I couldn’t shake the dreadful atmosphere that crept into the cockpit. Besides, it had grown so cold inside that my hands trembled and my cracked lips burned. Thankfully, the headset kept my ears somewhat warm.
“Four-zero-seven,” the ground operator said, “yah cleared to taxi, runway eleven.”
Relieved, I acknowledged my clearance and applied 10 percent throttle. I took comfort knowing that soon the engine would be warm enough to turn on the heater.
As the airplane rolled across the cold taxiway, I struggled with the rudder controls. The Cessna zigged, then zagged because I was unable to keep the centerline, well… centered. No biggie though, the rudder controls always took some getting used to.
Although, my hands were extremely cold, they started to sweat. I still had time to back out, but I wasn’t going to give up that easily.
“Four-zero-seven,” I said as I arrived at the end of the taxiway, “holding short on runway eleven.”
“Four-zero-seven, contact Hanscom Tower at one-one-eight-point-five.”
I fumbled with the controls on the radio and entered the new frequency. Switching radio frequencies brought me some reassurance because Gilles, my instructor, was sitting somewhere up in the tower, ready, willing, and able to help if needed.
“Hanscom Tower,” I said, “four-three-four-zero-seven, holding short on runway eleven, straight-out departure, VFR.”
“Four-zero-seven, visual flight rules departure approved,” the traffic controller said, thankfully without an accent. “Hold short, runway eleven.”
“Roger,” I quickly said as I tried to sound confident.
“Mark,” Gilles said, “are you ready?”
“Yes, I am,” I lied.
“Then just relax and have a great flight. I’ll see you when you land,” Gilles said, sounding almost… dare I say it? Proud.
“Four-zero-seven, you’re clear for takeoff, runway eleven. Straight-out departure approved, good flight.”
“Roger… cleared for takeoff,” I repeated as required. I thrust the throttle forward, and the Cessna slid effortlessly into position at the center of the runway.
“Here goes nothing,” I said before taking my foot off the brakes and opening the throttle all the way.
&nbs
p; No matter how many times I take off, the symptoms are always the same. Right after applying full throttle, my body slams against the seat, and butterflies do a number in my stomach.
When I reached 65 knots, I slowly pulled the yoke toward me, and the Cessna gently lifted off the ground. As the airplane climbed toward my assigned altitude, it bounced when I encountered minor turbulence. Flying in a small airplane is much different than flying on a commercial jetliner. On the commercial planes, there are gentle ups and downs, but on a small craft such as the Cessna, they feel like the sudden drops of a roller coaster. The falling sensation took a bit of getting used to.
Outside, a few trees stubbornly still displayed their fall colors even though it was already winter. That’s when I remembered what my instructor used to tell me: “Pay attention to traffic, not the wonders of nature while you’re piloting.” It was hard for me to ignore such wonders, because that was when I felt closest to my mom. Often when I was flying, I wondered how a person could cease to exist after death. My dad’s insistence that after death there was nothing didn’t make mourning my mother’s death any easier. How could I believe that and cope? Contrary to my atheist upbringing, I tried to convince myself there had to be something after death… surely anything had to be better than nothing at all.
Time passed quickly, as it usually did when I flew. By the time I reached Boston, I was halfway through my test. Boston was gorgeous as usual. As I flew over the Charles River, I saw dozens of people exercising by the bank, despite the cold. Harvard looked too small for a school of such status. I wondered if I would ever be that good.
“Four-zero-seven, do you read?” asked the tower controller.
“Roger,” I said.
“Four-zero-seven,” said the radio controller after a pause, “it seems that the storm got here much sooner than anticipated. Visibility and weather conditions are deteriorating fast. Turn around immediately and head back. Expect heavy turbulence.”
“Roger, turning back now,” I said, thinking there would finally be some excitement. Heavy turbulence? I failed to see how it was possible. The sky was still blue as far as I could see, and the sun was shining strong. It wasn’t until I finished executing the steep twenty-degree turn that I realized what he meant.
I stared perplexed as the sky turned from a baby blue color to a bruised purple. Even before my compass pointed toward the correct heading, the heavy turbulence started. I tightened my seatbelt. Seconds later, I was thrown violently around.
The day seemed to turn to night, but the clouds weren’t the worst part. I was more concerned with the mysterious haze that accompanied the storm. With such limited visibility, it was hard not to lose my sense of direction.
As I flew into the storm, the faint hint of sun slowly disappeared behind me as if being swallowed by the thick clouds and dense haze. I no longer knew which way was up or down.
I stopped looking outside the windshield and focused all my attention on the altimeter. I used the horizon indicator and the compass as my guides. Although, I didn’t have any lessons on instrument flying, I knew just enough so I wouldn’t completely lose my bearings, thanks to some flight simulator practice on the computer.
I must have been about five miles from the airport when I heard Gilles’s voice on the radio. “Mark, pay close attention,” he said, “this isn’t going to be an easy landing, and you don’t have enough fuel to go elsewhere. You’ll have to execute a crosswind landing. Remember? We talked about them.”
“Yes, I remember,” I lied. I vaguely remembered making a few attempts at it in the simulator—none of which ended well—but I decided to keep that to myself—there was no need to worry Gilles even further.
“It’s not hard,” said Gilles, probably just to reassure me. “All you have to do is maintain a higher RPM than usual and apply full rudder just before you touchdown.”
Crosswind landings were challenging in any circumstance. Add poor visibility on top of my inexperience, and it was a recipe for disaster.
I did my best to align the Cessna with the runway. At first I thought I had it. I was wrong; as I got closer I could see that the airplane was off target by about two hundred feet. Visibility was so poor that it was hard to know for sure.
I was so shocked that I almost forgot to apply full throttle, retract the flaps, and pull back on the elevator controls in order to avoid hitting a parked plane at the end of the runway. Once back in the air, I came around for another try. Unfortunately, the visibility just kept getting worse. It seemed the longer I circled the airport, the worse my situation became.
I decided that once I had located the runway, I would give myself some extra time and space to properly align the Cessna. After a few minutes and a few precisely timed sharp turns at the command of the tower operator, I was finally able to find the runway. So I flew about six miles past the airport, fighting rain, haze, and violent winds as I climbed to fifteen hundred feet. I didn’t know if it was going to make a difference, but it was worth a shot.
My second approach was even worse than the first. The winds were stronger. The haze was blinding, and my fuel was getting very low. I should have landed in Boston while the winds were calm. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?
I was beginning to lose hope. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to land. I wish I could say that I thought about my father and friends when I stumbled upon the realization that I might die. But I didn’t: all I could think about was my mother. If I died, would I see her? Or would I sink into a world of nothingness?
Again, I suddenly felt an evil presence sitting next to me, mocking me, savoring my fate. But I told myself it was the stress getting the best of me.
I made two more approach attempts, but neither was even close. I started to doubt there was any chance I’d get out of this unscathed.
As I circled the airport for my fifth and probably last try, I heard the brief crackling of the radio and then Gilles’s voice through the tight headset. “Mark, you’re running on fumes. You need to put that bird down…” He said something else too, but I couldn’t hear it over the deafening thunder that cut the transmission short. Flashes of light bathed the Cessna; one came to close to hitting it. I hate lightning—I always have and probably always will.
“Roger,” I said while I checked the fuel gauge.
In the heat of the moment, I missed what probably was my last chance to land. The weather still gave no sign of improving. I climbed to a safe altitude and turned around quickly. Maybe if I’m really lucky, I’ll get another shot, I thought.
I was about to take a left turn toward Hanscom Field when the engine started to skip and rattle. A jolt of desperation shot through me. I felt the blood drain from my legs, making me suddenly lightheaded. Strangely enough, I found comfort knowing it would be a quick death. I wouldn’t have to wait much longer to find out what lingered beyond death.
“Mayday, my engine is out! Mayday, mayday!” I said over the radio, losing the last bit of self-control I still had. Immediately, the airplane started to lose speed. I was forced to tip the elevator control forward in an effort to retain some speed. In an aircraft, speed equals lift, and lift was what I desperately needed.
The sudden silence in the cockpit was disconcerting and surreal. All I could hear were raindrops smashing against the windshield. Then even that stopped. I stared at the motionless propeller and felt powerless, much like the airplane. I kept picturing it crashing into trees, tearing itself and myself apart bit by bit. I pictured my limbs being ripped from my body, my bones breaking as the plane slammed into the ground. Maybe I wouldn’t feel any pain. Maybe there was a limit to how much pain a person could suffer before the brain shut down. I hoped.
“Mayday! Mayday!” I said as I passed the one-thousand-foot mark, heading toward zero on the altimeter needles.
“Remember to pull up just before you hit the ground, try to find a clearing or something,” said Gilles.
Hit the ground? It took a while for those words to sink in. If there wa
s a clearing, I couldn’t see it. At five-hundred feet altitude, the alarms in the cockpit began driving me insane. I quickly looked for the reset button to shut them off. That’s when I noticed a clear path through the fog, seemingly made for the sole purpose of guiding me. Out of options and with the ground quickly approaching, I followed the clear air and, amazingly, saw the next best thing to a runway: I-95, right below me, looking smooth as a rug.
“I-95! I can see I-95!” I said, almost crying.
I lowered the flaps all the way, double-checked and retightened my seatbelt until my ribs hurt, and just like that I was ready for a bumpy emergency landing on the interstate.
“I’m landing on I-95,” I said. At least Gilles would know where to send the rescue crew. At that very moment, I imagined dedicated men and women getting the call. I could picture them hurrying to my aid, expecting the worst.
Time seemed to completely stop as I glided toward the interstate. It was as though everything had come to a halt… the wind, the lightning, the rain; even the fog seemed to dissipate. The airplane silently glided as though guided by an invisible hand. Then, in a matter of milliseconds, I lived through all my sixteen years. I relived every argument, every joy, even every tear and smile, as if my memories were the only luggage I would take with me into whatever came next.
My training finally kicked in. I had to avoid landing anywhere near people or buildings. In the back of my mind, I could almost hear Gilles’s voice saying, “Not near the Burlington Mall.”
As long as I stayed on the interstate, the mall would be safe.
As I lined up with the interstate—which was fairly empty for two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon—I did my best to keep the airplane centered over the pavement. Luckily, this particular stretch of the interstate was fairly straight.
Somewhere below me there was the Burlington Mall, where hundreds if not thousands of people shopped unsuspectingly, getting ready for Christmas. The poor weather conditions prevented me from pinpointing the mall’s exact location. Unfortunately, the interstate was my only viable option. Landing in the woods was out of the question—that tended to be rather fatal. Not that crashing into solid asphalt was any prettier, but at least I’d have a chance.
