Welcome to Zell
Page 1
Contents
TITLE PAGE
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
Welcome to Zell
K. D. Fryslan
Copyright © 2018
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER ONE
The war was started by a son embittered by being abandoned by his mother, although it would not be until years later his existence would be discovered, or that it was his actions that had set everything into motion would be known. He lived in a stately mansion in New England. The rolling hills of the grounds were impeccably kept and well guarded from even errant forest wildlife, Mother Nature’s chaos was not welcome in his domain. The gardens were manicured, the hedges trained and shaped. The home itself was white columns, out-scaled doors and windows, and shining brass fixtures. The interior was marble and brocade, cold and thick like a museum, so quiet that every sound was offensive to the ear and echoed through the halls. Staff shuffled quietly and invisibly behind the scenes. The air was mild and stale.
Abner Knapp absentmindedly smoothed the crease in the side of his bespoke tailored suit pants with one hand while holding a phone with the other. He dialed a long-distance number and waited for it to connect. His hands were slim and pale, the nails manicured, the fingers free of calluses. The light from his desk lamp glinting off of the face of his gold watch and signet ring.
“Bureau of Indian Affairs, my name is Linda, how may I direct your call?” said an annoyingly high-pitched female voice.
“Special Agent in Charge Grimsley,” said Knapp in a the posh sort of New England accent that suggested his family was not far removed from upper-crust society in the old England.
“I’m sorry but we don’t have any employees with that title or name, perhaps I can direct your call elsewhere, Ms.?” Linda inquired, her voice trailing off expectantly.
“Mr.,” replied Knapp in a clipped tone. “I do not need assistance directing my call. Despite your script, Linda,” he said derisively, barely able to restrain himself from saying “if that is your real name.” “I know I am calling the Bureau of Preternatural Affairs and Malachi Grimsley is the Special Agent in Charge at your facility.”
“Hold, please,” she said, her tone much cooler. There was a brief wait during which he was serenaded by poorly rendered easy listening music from the 1990s. Knapp imagined a frumpy middle-aged woman with a sour expression on her face and took a small bit of pleasure in that she may be experiencing workplace distress on his behalf. Then he heard the call reconnect.
“Special Agent in Charge Grimsley will speak to you now. Who may I say is calling?” inquired Linda formally.
“Mr. Abner Knapp,” said Knapp.
There was another wait, less brief than the first, with more terrible music for suburbanites who had given up on life.
“How do you know about this agency,” a deep voice, so unlike Knapp’s came on the line, asking without preamble.
“Simply a well-informed and concerned citizen,” said Knapp smoothly.
“Right,” said Grimsley, sardonically. “What do you want?”
“To give you information on a dangerous woman not far from you, agent,” said Knapp. “Are you aware of the women who call themselves Stewards?” asked Knapp.
“Assume I am not, Mr. Knapp,” said Grimsley.
“Then I have quite the sinister story for you, agent, yes I do,” said Knapp. “And one of these so-called women is in your area harboring an entire community of therianthropes.” He could hear Grimsley opening a drawer, presumably to get a pen because he soon heard the tell-tale scratch of pen to paper.
“How close are they to humans, are they mixing with them?” Grimsley questioned quickly.
“No, this particular steward prefers to be queen of a rural kingdom rather than mix among humans,” said Knapp, with a huff.
“Tell me more,” said Grimsley, deciding to not look a gift horse in the mouth. Grimsley would make contingency plans if the strangely effeminate-sounding man knew too much because he was lying and setting a trap. If he was on the up and up, then the bureau would experience a jump in research material against the monsters that lurked in the shadows. His secretary began a trace on the call as soon as Knapp mentioned Grimsley and the agent was confident the man would be thoroughly investigated and put on the BPA watch list without him needing to direct his subordinates to put him there.
“My pleasure,” said Knapp, practically purring as he told Special Agent Grimsley all about the race of superhuman women who called themselves Stewards. Women possessed of unnaturally long lives and unnatural health and fitness who saw themselves as the arbiters and benevolent overseers of lesser supernatural races to protect them from natural humans. Women who thus chose hiding in the shadows preferable to the safety of human beings and used bribes, legal maneuvering and lies to keep evil base creatures “safe.” He then told him about one woman in particular who so loved her creatures that she had decided to live among them like a zoo keeper surrounded by lions and wolves and serpents. Luckily, this town was very small and very remote and full of a false sense of security.
CHAPTER TWO
Prior to organization into continental councils, the Stewards had no formal name, they were merely a sub-group of otherwise human families in which the women discovered they lived several lifetimes and that their daughters and granddaughters would do the same if they were careful. Of course, being passionate women, some were not content to watch history pass and restart a new public life when their time to age came due time and again. These women often fancied themselves as paladins, protectors of the marginalized and many died for it. The 15th century saw the beginnings of organizing but the women disagreed over the levels of active participation in current events. Some wanted to fight injustice as they saw it, others wanted to take a longer social-engineering role, although not fully understood at that time. The formal council, trustee, and steward structure was adopted in the 16th century under different names.
By the 19th century the terminology and policies of the modern era were entrenched. Every continent was overseen by a Council of Stewards made up of seven Trustees. These councils and trustees provide guidance and training for Stewards and designate official regions and lines of succession, preferably retained within families for continuity. The Steward of today is a barrier between supernatural races and humanity in order to preserve the existence of these races as mankind continues to explode in population and interconnectedness making the conservation of these beings an increasingly difficult task.
CHAPTER THREE
On the town’s so-called main street, although it did not even warrant a traffic light, only a blinking yellow light installed to deter speeders, were a handful of old brick buildings, the only ones to survive a major fire not long after the area was first settled. There were two bars, one that sold only beer on tap creatively named Bud’s Hops, and one that doubled as a special-occasion restaurant for receptions and b
anquets - mainly because it had a big room and patio at the back that could be scrubbed down and used come graduation time - called Jose Chow’s Fusion Restaurant. There was a diner that was only open for breakfast and didn’t really have a name, just a neon sign that said Diner. There was an empty storefront filled with folding chairs that a traveling evangelical preacher used when he came to town once a month. There was also a storefront used as the town offices but really just consisted of a desk for the mayor and a circle of chairs for visitors.
Gertrude Bohm put her hands on her hips and waited for the men around her to settle down. A woman learns patience after a couple of hundred of years dealing with men that can change into creatures or pull their soul from their body. Having spent most of her years of stewardship as the Steward of the Southwestern territories, she favored well-worn denim and cotton and boots. Despite recently celebrating her 200th year, her brown hair had only one streak of white at the temple and her skin did not look as if she had yet celebrated 60 years. She banged one of her fists on the table when it became apparent that the men wouldn’t settle down any time soon.
“I know this fracking business has everyone riled up,” she said, holding up a hand to ward off the interruptions she knew were on the lips of those assembled. “But we can’t just attack the company, others will simply step into their place. I’m working with the Railroad Commission to propose a ban on gas drilling in the region. You need to be patient, no wells have been built yet. We have time.”
“What the hell does the Railroad Commission have to do with gas wells?” came a snarl from by the door. John Dixon looked as if he had escaped an episode of Grizzly Adams. His hair, encompassing his body from the crown of his head to his toes, including an impressive beard, was salt and pepper but had long ago been mostly white with specks of black. What skin could be seen was tan and weathered as a leather saddle that had been left to the elements and grease was permanently embedded under his fingernails. His mechanic’s coverall was worn nearly bare in spots and featured the name Earl prominently stitched over the heart.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Dixon,” said another man who was not only younger but nearly his opposite. Cody Miller wore tidy slacks and a fine-weave golf shirt. The shirt almost allowed the gloves he wore to blend in as if part of his ensemble. His deep-bronze skin unmarred by the experience that haunted his eyes. “The local humans used their brilliance to make the railroad commission responsible for regional mineral rights.”
“Thank you, Cody,” said Gertrude. “Don’t forget, John, I dealt with these sorts back in the first oil boom and we’ve been left alone for over a century because of that groundwork while other communities sold out. I know what I’m doing.”
“Sorry, Gertrude,” grumbled Dixon, absentmindedly scratching the back of his neck. “I know we have you to thank for keeping our territories safe these generations. Waiting too long shows us as weak though,” he continued. “It is a difficult thing to maintain loyalty and control.”
“John,” said Gertrude, walking over to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. “I am responsible for interceding on the behalf of all non-humans in my stewardship. Most just need legal assistance on occasion but this town is my home and the residents are my extended family. I will always do more than just the paperwork for our community.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze and turned back to return to the desk she used as mayor of the tiny town of Zell, Texas and owner of extensive unincorporated property surrounding it.
The wall of windows on the street-facing side of the office shattered without warning. Gertrude’s and Dixon’s heightened reflexes had them ducking and dodging the spray of glass while Cody only managed to throw up an arm to protect his eyes. Dixon opened his mouth to call out but Gertrude saw him go slack before he could make an audible sound. Gertrude felt the sting of what was undoubtedly a tranquilizer and dimly thought that must be what took Dixon down. As she was losing consciousness, she thought she made out Cody’s form being shoved into a body bag by figures in HazMat suits. She hoped he was alive.
CHAPTER FOUR
Liesel sprinted across the rooftop ahead of the trio of men and leapt from the edge. She landed on the next one with a roll, then jumped to her feet for a quick dash to a Kong vault over a large utility box. Her unruly chin-length wavy hair flying wildly about her as she moved. She jumped to a railing, swinging down a series of terraces until she hit the ground only to wall run to avoid a dumpster and exit the alley into the lot of the currently unused warehouse site. She threw her arms up in the air in victory as the three panting young men caught up to her.
“Woohoo!” she crowed loudly. “Beat by a girl again.” Sweat stuck her shirt to her back and she was breathing rapidly but by no means could she be described as drenched in sweat or labored in her breathing.
The lankiest of them shrugged. “Do you never misstep?” he asked, reaching up to smooth some loose hair back into his pony tail.
“Cat-like reflexes, Wyatt, cat-like reflexes,” she said, smiling and bending down to pick up her messenger bag and bottle of water.
Wyatt raised his right eyebrow at her comment, “uh huh,” he said.
“A girl has to have some secrets of her own,” she said. Then she turned to the other two guys from the parkour and free-running meet-up group she frequented. “See you boys next week?” she asked.
The other two made vague statements about defending their man cards and assured her they would text her with the next race location. Wyatt swung a sweaty arm over her shoulders just as her cell phone began to vibrate from within her bag. The device displayed one of the numbers used by her grandmother. She ducked away from Wyatt’s arm with a semi-apologetic smile and mouthed the words “I have to take this” as she slid her finger across the screen to accept.
“Hey Grams, what’s up in the multicentarian scene these days?” she asked when the call connected.
It was not her grandmother’s voice that answered but a childhood friend’s instead.
“Liesel?” came the Texas twang of Patricia Dixon.
“Trish? What’s wrong? Why are you calling from Gram’s office?” Liesel asked, her voice in a rush while her feet suddenly glued themselves to the pavement.
“Trudie, my PawPaw, and one of the Miller boys were taken. We need you to come back to Zell,” said Trish in a quavering voice, sniffling back tears.
“What do you mean taken, Trish?” asked Liesel.
“The windows of the city office were blown out and a bunch of us smelled and heard trucks. None of those three could be found come morning. There wasn’t any blood or gun powder so they must have been kidnapped,” Trish continued. “MeMaw is out for blood but there is no prey, the rest of the town is going on lockdown and we are getting crazed. It’s not good Liesel,” she said.
Liesel’s feet began working again and she strode swiftly to her parked car, unlocking it and throwing her bag inside. She started the car and was weaving through traffic with the skill of a Formula One driver. “I’m calling the Trustees and packing. I’ll be in Texas as soon as I can,” said Liesel before she hung up. She used the voice activated feature in her car to pull up a contact in her phone and dial without every using the touch screen.
“Hello?” said a cultured feminine voice.
“This call is to notify the Council that Liesel Bohm is taking temporary Stewardship over the Southwestern American Region after the disappearance of Gertrude Bohm and others under suspicious circumstances,” said Liesel quickly but calmly as she maneuvered her vehicle.
“One moment,” replied the voice.
Liesel made it through two traffic signals and a section of expressway and more varying renditions of Kenny G songs than she cared to hear in a lifetime before the line was once again picked up by the nameless woman.
“Notice has been posted. Be advised the interim Steward is underage for the position and would not be approved under normal circumstances. However, due to the rejection of duties by Ingrid Bohm, and the current la
ck of sanctioned staff in the North American Council, this appointment will be an exception. The trustees hope their sister in Stewardship, Gertrude, is found alive but will recognize and acknowledge permanent Stewardship of the region under Liesel Bohm in the event she is not alive or is unable to continue to her duties,” the woman said before unceremoniously disconnecting the call.
Liesel was throwing clothes into luggage when her cell phone rang again, this time displaying Wyatt’s name and number. She unlocked the screen to answer and wedged it against her shoulder as she continued. After she finished packing a bag for immediate travel, she began clearing her important things out of the small apartment and packing them into a couple of cardboard boxes.
“I completely ditched you this morning, sorry,” she said in lieu of hello.
“Uh yeah, everything okay babe?” asked Wyatt. “You sped out of there fast.”
Liesel rolled her eyes at hearing “babe.” “Not really, my Grandma is in the hospital and she’s the only family I keep in touch with so I’m flying out of state tonight,” said Liesel.
“That sucks, what happened?” he asked.
“Not sure, she was really old and living alone. No one really knows just that it happened last night,” said Liesel. “But I really have to go, I’m packing now.” The loud screech and groan of packing tape punctuating her words as she sealed the boxes.
“Sure, sure. I’m really sorry,” said Wyatt. “Call me when you get there, let me know you are safe. I’m here any time if you need to talk.”
Liesel rolled her eyes and scrunched up her nose. “Of course, I’ll catch you later, Wyatt.” She said and hung up before he could respond, Attaching shipping labels with her grandmother’s address to the boxes.
If she rushed, she could secure her apartment in Florida, get on the next flight out, and be in Dallas by dinner before making the drive out to no man’s land and the town that used to be her summer home away from home, or at least home away from mother. Liesel wondered if it would look much different from when she had last visited it some 10 years ago as a teen. She didn’t suspect it changed much, the folks who lived there weren’t inclined to follow the march of civilization and progress. Hell, even the humans in the area hung on to old world dialects from the pre-American statehood days.