A TOWN CALLED AMERICA
A NOVEL BY
MR. ANDREW ALEXANDER
Copyright © 2014 Andrew Alexander
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1500614378
ISBN 13: 9781500614379
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014917517
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
DEDICATE TO
My wife Lisa and our wonderful children, Paul,
Elizabeth and Catherine. Without your support, this book would not have happened.
My mother Ginny, my brother Paul and sister Rebecca. All three of you have given me the courage to meet any challenge.
Carol and Valery, for your inspiration and encouragement.
Zack, for all your support and help along this journey.
Tina, for always encouraging me to make my dream a reality.
Lastly, my dearest friend Ben and his lovely wife Amanda. You both have listened to me go on and on about this book for over two years, never discouraging me from pursuing my dream.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
PART TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
The horse-drawn wagon, with its aging white-and-brown stallion, slowly made its way down the mud-covered street, past buildings of wood and stone that were sparsely adorned with the few items the poor villagers possessed, such as wind chimes or an occasional faded doll or trinket that lay outside.
Road after road and village after village, the wagon made its way through the rugged countryside. After nearly three days of traveling through mud and rain, it eventually arrived at its destination, a cottage nestled deep in an overgrown forest. The home belonged to the wagon’s sole occupant, a short, out-of-shape, middle-aged man with unkempt hair.
Quite intelligent despite his appearance, he was one of only a few educated citizens in the surrounding countryside and was fluent in reading, writing, and mathematics. A recluse, he had no desire to educate or better the lives of anyone other than himself, much less the local villagers and certainly not the young servant who met him at the wagon to secure the horse’s reins.
The servant knew all too well not to meddle in her master’s business. She had made that mistake just once, and that was all it had taken for her to learn her lesson. She knew the man’s only ambition in life was to translate and understand a parchment he had discovered many years before. This parchment consumed nearly every aspect of his life.
For nearly a decade, he had worked diligently night after night in his study. Under the soft glow of candlelight, he had spent countless hours attempting to translate the ancient document. Local academics called him a fool for undertaking such a task, all of them believing the document was a forgery. They had made their feelings on the matter very clear during his recent visit to the university—a visit he now regretted making.
He, on the other hand, knew the document was genuine. Was there any proof? None whatsoever. It was just something he felt. He knew it to be true, and if he were correct, then perhaps the creature was still out there somewhere, possibly the last of his race.
But regardless of the opinions of others he questioned why it was so hard for those simpletons at the university to believe there once had been a civilization in history that was advanced, perhaps even more so than theirs.
Did he understand why the critics had their reservations? Of course. It still, however, didn’t change the fact that his peers had torn apart his findings before he had completed his study of the document, before he had fully translated it, and before he could even present his findings.
The moment these so-called scholars had read such an incredible tale about wars, vampires, and a great lost civilization with flying machines and horseless carriages, they had tossed away the entire story, along with his credibility, which eventually was completely diminished.
Regardless of his peers or his reputation, the following is what he believed to be true. This is the story as he translated it after finding the parchment buried under an enormous inscribed boulder.
PART ONE
ONE
My body had been lying on the shore for hours, facedown in the sand. I was without clothes, and my skin was sunken to nearly that of a skeleton. Wave after wave of salt water washed over my body from the great Atlantic. The moon was high that evening; there wasn’t a single cloud, and the sky was full of stars.
The storm had finally passed after three days of pounding the coast with hurricane-force winds. Once the massive winds finally subsided, my body had washed up on the beach. My name is Rick Nolan, and for all intents and purposes, I am dead and have been for a very long time.
I am different from humans. I am indeed a vampire…a vampire who is slowly beginning to heal.
As the cold salt water evaporated from my body, and the cool night air finally began to fill my lungs, I took my first breath in what may have been centuries, possibly longer. I was exhausted, coughing and gasping for air, weak and disorientated. Freezing cold and barely able to move, I knew only one thing: I needed to feed, or I wouldn’t survive for long. In unbearable pain I crawled up the beach on my hands and knees toward the blurry tree line in the distance.
With the sand clinging to my wet body, after what felt like a lifetime, I pushed myself to my knees. As time passed my mind slowly became clearer, and eventually my vision began to return.
There in the distance, possibly three hundred feet from the shore, I saw it. It was my ticket to expediting the healing process: a small white rabbit. I focused my eyes and thoughts; I was able to anticipate exactly where the rabbit was going.
Faster than any other living creature on earth could move, I was upon my prey. As I sank my sharp teeth into the animal, warm blood filled my mouth and began to restore life to my weakened body. I knew the rabbit wouldn’t satisfy my desire for human blood, but it would sustain me for a short time.
In the weeks after I washed up on the shore and was set free from my prison, I slowly grew stronger. As my strength returned, I finally was able to begin my search for human life.
Day after day I hunted to no avail. There wasn’t a single sign that indicated human life existed any longer. Eventually I expanded my search and explored deeper into the forest. I pushed my way into the dense woods toward a hilltop that protruded far above the tree line. On my hands and knees, I crawled through the thickets and mud, making my way to the top.
The slope was slippery from the dew-covered grass, but I was hungry for blood, which only gave me more determination. I wasn’t about to let wet grass stop me from reaching the top. It was slow going, but I did make it. Finally I reached the top only to find a rather large plateau that overlooked a valley far below.
After climbing atop a boulder, I stood looking out over the vast landscape. In that moment I knew without a doubt that I was alone. Although the view was majestic, I saw nothing that looked like anything I remembered. It was then that I knew I was blessed with the gift of immortality but cursed to spend eternity alone.
As far as I could see, there was a vast ocean of trees and vegetation that had long since swallowed up nearly every manmade structure that ever had existed. The only signs that humans ever had walked the earth were a few dots on the landscape—a handful of tall buildings poking up through the treetops and a collapsed bridge or two. Looking out over the trees, I decided that if I were going to keep my sanity in this foreign world, I’d have to find a way to occupy myself.
I sat on the boulder and pulled out a large roll of blank parchment I had acquired from the ruins of a collapsed building several days before and began to write the story of my life.
I wish I could say that everything was perfect before the fall of humanity, before I became what I’m forever cursed to be. I wish I could say the world was a wonderful place and civilization had no problems, but sometimes the truth is far more interesting.
Just like you, I started out in this world not as a vampire but as a human. I grew up just before the great global collapse, hearing stories about how society once had been. By the time I was in my early twenties, any hope that people could fix the world’s problems was a distant dream. The reality was that the world was shit, and I was stuck right in the middle of it.
Regardless of the economic issues, the lack of food, and the poverty that surrounded all of us, as I sit on this hilltop, I can only come to one conclusion: I had a good life.
As I look out over the world now and see nothing but ruins, I miss the people I was fortunate enough to have in my short life. They helped define who I was and who I am now.
After everything I’ve been through, all the lives I’ve taken and the loves I’ve gained and lost, I don’t feel like the same man who dove into the cold waters of the Atlantic so long ago, and it’s for that reason that I now write the story of my life as a spectator. The one question that keeps running through my mind is “Would I do it over again, given the chance?” You bet your ass I would.
TWO
That winter was cold, with at least an inch of ice on the ground. Rick’s driver’s-side window was down, and he saw his breath. Little puffs of smoke hovered between him and the windshield. They floated there in perfect peace until they vanished moments later. It reminded him of how fragile life was.
Trying to smoke a cigarette while weaving his vehicle around all the junked cars that littered the freeway in every direction was a hell of a task. Vehicles of every sort had been abandoned, and for a moment, Rick thought he might actually get be stuck. The fog and ice seemed to blur everything, but the one thing he had going for him was that nothing ever changed. The same cars were in the same places they had been for years, and he knew every twist and turn to get through this maze of twisted metal and debris.
He had two choices; he could try sitting out the weather or push through. It wasn’t much of a choice, but fortunately he had just stocked up on a couple days’ worth of food and water. More important, he had found a carton of cigarettes, and to him that was the equivalent of finding gold.
Several hours earlier, Rick had been at a truck stop a few miles up the road, scavenging for fuel, when he saw a fishing pole that was perfect for his son, Eric. Dark red, with a blue stripe down the side, it needed to be taped up because it had a small crack, but it was still a fantastic find. It was two days before Eric’s birthday, and Rick knew the fishing pole would be the perfect gift.
His car was empty except for rations he had found. It was getting harder and harder to find anything, and he had to travel farther every time he left the security of town. Rick was again going back with little to show for his efforts, as every store shelf within twenty miles had been stripped clean long ago. Except for the fishing pole and a measly two days’ rations, it had been a waste of time and precious gas.
The car Rick was driving was highly modified to say the least. It was a 1968 black Chevy El Camino with no hood or bumpers. Around the body one-inch-thick steel plating had been welded in place to protect him from unfriendly encounters with any fool who tried to shoot at him for the car or his supplies.
The car was a beast, with its 454 big block punched out with twin carburetors and a blower. It was nothing short of pure power! A few years back, Rick had to reinforce the frame just to keep it from twisting. He called the El Camino his “War Machine,” and he loved it. He didn’t even mind the mesh wire over the windows or the faded black paint job that was about a half century past its prime.
Soon he would meet up with his ex-wife, Jess, at the gas station in Brick Creek, and then he and Eric would drive to his cabin. Perhaps they’d finally get to go on that ice-fishing trip he’d been promising him forever. It was going to be just the two of them for an entire week. It had been close to two years since they’d last seen each other, which was partially Rick’s fault, but times were tough for everyone—well, almost everyone. Jess, with her lack of loyalty and deep pockets of family money, was living the good life in a wealthy gated community that could afford full-time security. Although Rick hadn’t been there, he knew they weren’t hurting for food, and all because she was now married to some snob senator or former congressional representative or something like that.
Just thinking about having to see Jess and listen to her go on and on about how fabulous her life was and how he was just a bum sent a chill up his spine. Few people in the world scared him, but if one person did, it was definitely her. She just made him so angry and losing his temper was the last thing he wanted. Unfortunately it was also what had happened the last time he saw his son, however in the end, he knew that seeing her would be worth the pain he was about to endure so he could see his Eric.
As he drove on, the closer to town he got, the more the excited he became. Rick knew the next week with Eric was going to be perfect in every way. Eric was about to turn twelve and was growing up way too fast; for Rick, just seeing him would be paradise.
He pulled the El Camino over to the side of the broken-concrete road. For a few moments, he sat there before stepping out. He needed to move some debris that was blocking his path. It was nothing he couldn’t handle, just an old car tire and an empty wooden create. Several minutes after he had stepped into the cold afternoon air, as he rubbed his fingers together in a poor attempt to stay warm, the radio in his car crackled to life. It sounded only like static at first, but it was enough to get his attention. The Emergency Broadcast Center was sounding an alert. After a series of repeated tones, Rick heard a message, but it wasn’t not clear enough for him to make out what exactly what was being said. He stood there, silently listening, until the words finally came through. They were words that would stay in his mind forever.
Rick knew he had only a short amount of time, and if he didn’t get off the freeway and to Eric, he wouldn’t be able to see his son, nor would he be able to ensure Eric was safe. After jumping back into his torn driver’s seat, he hit the gas and pushed the War Machine around the abandoned vehicles and debris that lay in his path.
Twisting and turning past the cars, he started to feel the impact of what was about to happen. Just up the highway,
he turned the wheel hard to the right, hitting the off-ramp at sixty-five miles an hour. By now his mind was racing with the possibilities of what may soon occur. Traveling on the ice this fast may not have been the best idea, but under the circumstances, he had no other option.
Heading off the freeway to a side road, Rick knew he could be meeting Eric in less than an hour, but if he really pushed it, he could cut that time in half. The War Machine screamed to life as soon as he hit the red button above his stick shift. Immediately, upon depression of the button, the thick black belt that connected to the turbo charger that protruded nine inches above his engine began to spin pushing Rick back in his seat hard.
Once off the freeway, he was hitting tree branches and fences and desperately trying to keep the vehicle under control at speeds well over a hundred miles an hour. Moving up the mountainside as fast as he could, he thought about how he wanted to teach his son to drive one day. One time he had told Eric that it was important to drive slowly because going fast just meant you wouldn’t get where you were going in one piece. Somehow this no longer applied to Rick because he was moving!
As Rick’s mind snapped back to reality, he realized he was coming around a pass that was only a mile or so from town. He didn’t remember passing the river or going through the underpass. His mind had been in another place altogether, and time had sped up. After what seemed like only a moment, he was in Brick Creek, Alabama.
In the town’s heyday, the population couldn’t have been more than two or three thousand; now it was fewer than six hundred. For Rick, however, it was the perfect place to escape the reality of his past.
The El Camino, finally slowing, moved down a road that was neither intended for the speed Rick had been going nor anything larger than a pickup. Once a two lane street, it was now over grown with plants and trees making it barley wide enough for a single vehicle, and it only became more narrow the closer he got to town.
A Town Called America Page 1
