Mendez Genesis

by Edward Hancock II

  Splintered Souls was, I believe, a story before its time. Too, I think I was, at the time, an author whose time had not yet come. I was brash. I was impatient. I was prideful and far too confident than was deserved of my talent circa 1997 to 2000. I pitched the story to every publisher in the business. Some twice. They all said the same thing. They loved the idea, but the writing wasn’t strong enough.

  What did they know?

  Well, it turns out, they knew a lot more than I did. I had talent. I’ve always had talent, dating back to when I wrote my first short story at age 9. But the talent that wrote Splintered Souls back then wasn’t what it should have been for a man in his early to mid-twenties.

  Youth and pride being what they are, I didn’t want to hear that my book was anything other than the brilliant masterpiece I thought it to be. So, I self-published Splintered Souls in 2000. Following the advice of industry professionals of the day, instead of my own instinct, the book was laden with profanity, sexual innuendo and, well, it just wasn’t appropriate for the audience it was always meant to entertain. It just wasn’t.

  So, I released the book. Not surprisingly, it tanked. It didn’t tank because the idea sucked. (I believe in the idea, otherwise I wouldn’t have re-released it as part of this collection.) No, it was the writing that sucked. And it was the fact that I listened to a lot of people whose vision for my book and my career was different than the one in my head and the one God had for me. I was not meant to be a Christian Writer. I was meant to be a Christian who writes. I was not meant to write devotionals and the like. I was meant to entertain a Christian audience with fictional tales. You can’t fulfil that purpose with an “F” word on every other page.

  So, I’m happy to say it was an honor to revisit this book. It was a privilege to see how much I’d grown as an author and as a man. It was nice to know I long ago stopped listening to people who didn’t share my sense of morality or my idea for the future of the Mendez Series. While I love my fans, I no longer write to please you. That said, I also no longer write to please me. I pray. I ask God to lead me before each writing session. And, as is my plan now, I have faith that what I have written makes God smile. There are those that will question whether or not the story is blasphemy. If you’re uncomfortable reading a story that does not present itself as fact, but is based on biblical fact, I do understand. I hold no ill will toward you. I only ask you understand I am not here to insult God. I am simply stretching the muscles of my imagination and allowing them to ask “what if…”

  The fact is, most Christians of my generation were raised on the King James Version of the Bible. Most of the versions we read in churches today are based off that King James Version. (My favorite is actually the New King James Version, but I also like the NASB version.) This means many Christians are not familiar with texts considered apocryphal by today’s Christian Church. Neither are many of you familiar with such writings as the Book of Jasher, though it is referenced at least once, in 2 Samuel. (Seriously. Look it up!)

  Another such “hidden” or “forgotten” book is the “Conflict of Adam and Eve with Satan.” It was during a reading of this book that the original “plot twist” of Splintered Souls morphed into the Bible-based fiction you have just read (and will shortly continue).

  I admit I was reluctant to “go there” at first. I prayed about it for several days, without touching my computer to write the story. I stressed over it. I actually cried over it one day. But, it was amid the tears that I really felt a peace come over me. I won’t say I heard God’s voice, but I truly do believe I felt God’s presence essentially granting me permission to tell the story this way. I am certain God knew it would tank in its original form. I’m also certain, as my Granny said on the day of my birth, God had a plan for this boy. And that plan was to revisit this story, some 15 years after its original creation. When I released it in 2000, the story was mine. It was my doing. It was my plan, soiled by the worldly contributions of countless others. It was a result of my pride and youthful arrogance, combined with a little reassurance from God that all would be okay. As I sit here writing this, I find I am once again filled with pride, but it’s a different pride this time. This time, I’m proud that God has endured my stubbornness. I’m proud that God has proven to me, time and time and time again, that His love doesn’t fail. I’m proud to know that God can take my mess from 15 years ago and turn it into His message now. Moreover, I’m proud to bring you Splintered Souls and her follow-up, Breath of God, as they were always intended to be.

  I remind the reader that, at no point in the series, do I claim to be a theologian. For theology, I recommend starting with The Bible. These books, the entire series, are for entertainment purposes only. They’re just imagination. They’re not blasphemy. They’re just acknowledging God’s truth and daring to ask, “What if that wasn’t how it went? What shape would our world be in then?”

  Maybe it’s just me, but I like to remind myself of God’s Mercy. And I often find myself in awe that God doesn’t just nuke the place and start over from the ground up.

  Edward Hancock II

  2015

  Prologue

  It was a crisp, clear night in the community of Gladewater, Texas. A slight breeze chilled the granite markers lining the ground of Rock Springs Cemetery. Paul Caffey and his girlfriend, Rachel Garrison, held fast to each other’s hand anxiously creeping deeper into the graveyard. Two streetlamps provided a dim lavender welcome – the only semblance of light nearby – to the entrance of the decades-old cemetery, but did little to assist Rachel and Paul as they edged deeper into the concrete jungle. A chill slithered up Rachel’s neck, as much from Paul’s gentle, reassuring touch as from the tense silence that filled the night.

  Gladewater – “The antique capital of East Texas” – exists as an honorable, cozy community, serving between four and six thousand people, depending on whom you ask. As with most East Texas towns, it was difficult to tell where the city limits of Gladewater ended and the surrounding towns began. There are no old men playing checkers on the front steps of the courthouse in Gladewater and no women in flowered hats being cat called by onlookers hanging out in front of the corner store. Gladewater, like most towns in East Texas, is a small town where everyone could know your business if anyone took the time to meddle in things that were of no concern to them. In the 1930’s Texas oil boom, Gladewater flourished, one of the few towns its size to thrive during The Great Depression that gobbled up the finances of much of the rest of the country. Fifty years later, during the huge oil slump of the 1980’s, Gladewater found itself nearly bankrupt. The once mineral-rich land now lay in waste, spilling out useless products that nobody wanted, though everybody in the world needed it more than ever. Once king of the Texas oil boom era – its praises once sung the world over – now Gladewater existed between towns of far greater renown than the majesty once enjoyed by the community of thriving flea markets and antique dealers. Known more as a landmark denoting distance from larger cities such as Gilmer, Kilgore, Longview, Tyler and Dallas. Today, the only certainty was Gladewater lived in a world unlike any other. A pit stop between the world of the famous Kilgore College Rangerettes and the world of fantasy and folklore surrounding the real life mystery of missing Gilmer teen Kelly Wilson and the Kentucky Fried Chicken murders of decades past. A world without true lasting definition, caught somewhere between a metropolitan complex and a small country town. A world that felt like home, because of all the familiarity, but lay hidden under a veil of unspoken respect for privacy uncommon to small towns elsewhere in America.

  The usual crickets and night birds were eerily quiet tonight, swallowed up by the darkest night seemingly ever to befall the town of Gladewater. Reassurance did not come easily, even in Paul’s grasp. But Rachel long ago realized that one can never truly find solace in anything. Solace must find you. It must simply be grasped during one of the few instances when it rears its timid head. Paul was tall – a shade under six feet – with sandy brown hair and a slig
htly cinnamon tan, the result of East Texas ranch labor, as opposed to vain trips to the tanning bed or beach. Paul’s father owned a small horse farm, where Paul spent much of his free time, feeding, watering and exercising the tenants of the stable area. His 165 lb frame was slightly gaunt but textured and ripped. At 5’3, Rachel always felt safe in the presence of her beau. Very few things felt as nice as his huge hands running through her jet-black mane. Nothing sent chills through her spine more intensely than a simple gaze from hazel-eyed Paul. If anything made her ivory skin blush it was the thought of Paul’s lips pressed against hers. Rachel was a church girl – raised in a strict Southern Baptist home in a small subdivision of Gilmer – a good girl and God-fearing, but not entirely prudish. Moments of rebellion against her Baptist upbringing were rare but, like any other small-town teenage girl in love, they were nonetheless real. Whatever Paul wanted out of life, Paul usually got. This adventure was no exception. Rachel was not one to go wandering around graveyards at night. Even though she was confident that vandalism was not on the mind of anyone in the group, Rachel still felt uneasy knowing that death surrounded her every step. Death, in all its power, suddenly consumed her every thought, action, word and deed. As they inched closer to the granite tomb she and Paul had come to know so well – in the past 3 months, they’d visited the tomb no fewer than four times – Rachel felt an uneasiness unlike any she’d felt since the first time Paul suggested wandering around a graveyard in the dead of night as a cure for small-town boredom. Ouija board tucked under his arm, Paul intended on taking their adventure to what he hoped would be the next level. It was not a tomb of anyone’s ancestry with which she was acquainted. Still, the story of its inhabitant had come to intrigue both Paul and her to the point of near obsession. Old newspaper clippings had lent a smidgeon of clues to the case of the Rock Springs Tomb Resident, but little in the way of substance was known about the tomb’s inhabitant. All that was known for sure was that she had been the wife of a carpenter. She’d been unfaithful and had been murdered, allegedly by an angry husband catching her in the act. Rumor had it he’d been executed wearing the same plaid flannel shirt he was wearing the night of the murder. Whether true or not, Paul had set his mind on contacting the person interred within death’s stone prison. If they were lucky, Paul asserted, maybe they’d even contact her alleged killer and find out the truth. Naturally, Rachel’s better judgment gave way to Paul’s sense of adventure. The very thought of a Ouija board went against every religious fiber of Rachel’s upbringing, but her sense of devotion and love for Paul overshadowed even her devotion to her faith.

  While she wasn’t 100 percent convinced that one touch of a Ouija board would doom her to an eternity with Satan, she was still reasonably certain that wherever God was, he was not smiling at the actions she and her friends were about to undertake.

  As usual, Rachel was wearing her purple contacts. Purple was, after all, Paul’s favorite color. It was well known, Rachel’s purple contacts were the first thing to successfully draw Paul in. It’s been said the eyes are the windows to the soul. One of Rachel’s biggest fears was a look from Paul’s eyes into her soul without the purple curtains, which adorned her soul’s transom. Rachel could only hope that her trepidation remained silently hidden behind her eyes’ lavender cloak.

  * * *

  Walking a couple of steps behind his friends, Scott Bryan held fast to his date’s hand, trembling with an uncontrollably irrational fear. Scott was Rachel’s cousin but the family resemblance was less than dramatic. Scott’s hair was blond; his eyes light brown, perhaps hazel. No one really knew, as his eyes seemed to change colors with the right lighting. He considered them his mood ring. He often said his eyes darkened when he grew angry. Since few had ever seen Scott truly angry, there was no one available to testify to Scott’s claim. It was through her cousin that Rachel had met Paul, some eight months before, during a party to celebrate Scott’s seventeenth birthday. Paul and Scott went to school together and very good friends for a number of years prior. Being from such a small community as Liberty City, they ran with pretty much the same crowd, so it was quite common to find Paul and Scott together. At the end of the night, instead of taking her cousin up on a lift home, Rachel had opted to let Paul take her. Though he was only 15, he had only obtained a driving permit two weeks prior to this first meeting. All he needed was a licensed driver to accompany him, and Rachel provided that distinction. A year his senior, Rachel’s affection for the younger Paul seemed to grow with every moment they spent together. Whereas most high school girls were fiercely intent on dating older men, football players and men of some sort of social status, Rachel’s designs were far more mature. She genuinely seemed to enjoy the company of Paul who was, on most levels, mature for his age. Ironically, Rachel found herself somewhat childlike in many of the areas in which Paul might be accused of lacking maturity.

  Rachel’s eyes were firmly focused on future goals. Scott had always admired that about her. While most girls her age were content to live in the moment and date whatever jock felt good on her arm, Rachel was more focused on finding a mate – a partner. In every guy she had ever dated, not that there were that many, Rachel considered what type of father he might be some day, what sort of provider he would be to the family dynamic. Even at fifteen, something about Paul stood out. A gentleness in his spirit, combined with a hunger for life made her believe he would succeed in everything he tried and he would do it honorably and with good character. Rachel had seen this in Paul long before Scott ever pointed out his friend’s great qualities. Scott knew Rachel had fallen for Paul long before she ever said anything. Sometimes, Scott thought, he knew before Rachel knew. Though he was two years older, Scott was smaller than Paul, barely 5’8 with his shoes on, weighing not quite 145 lbs, but Scott’s hands were no doubt those of his father – huge, powerful, but gangly with long, thick fingers. His feet were small – well, okay, average – like the Garrisons from which Scott’s mother had come. His brownish eyes stood in contrast to Rachel’s green – though currently lavender encased – eyes. In contrast, too, were Scott’s metal forearm crutches and plastic leg braces with which he walked, due to the disabling effects of Spina Bifida. The calluses on his hands were the results of years of crutch walking rather than a life at hard labor. His wobbly knees bent slightly inward when he walked, his ankles remained forever motionless under the molded plastic leg braces. Though he never said it to anyone, he often felt like Frankenstein. As if each step would fumble him into a blushing heap of unbalanced circus freak. His wasn’t a severe case by any means. Were it not for the weak leg muscles sporting those bulky leg braces, and the resulting waddle-walking assisted by metal forearm crutches, any signs of disability or difficulty might go unnoticed behind one of the most seemingly confident attitudes anyone ever displayed.

  Over the years, Scott had overcome many hurdles that would otherwise break the typical teen, including those not suffering a similar disability. Even the rather insignificant hurdle of how to hold his date’s hand while using his metal crutches to assist in his walking. It took patience on his part, and the willingness of the date in question to get close enough to him, emotionally speaking, not to be turned off by her grabbing part of the crutch. It also took a date with strong toes or quick reflexes – and usually a good humor – who was able to move out of the way in case of an accidental flailing of an out of control crutch. Falls, though rare, usually brought down the house.

  “You sure we should be here?” Scott whispered, crutching alongside his companion, Julie.

  “Shhh!” Paul chastised, “You can be such a scaredy cat sometimes. You know that?”

  That was all it took. Scott hated having his manhood called into question. Had it not been such a dark night, his red face would have been easily detectable. He did his best to hide the insecurities that bound him to his disability, but there were a few buttons which anyone with any familiarity knew all too well. One push of the “you can’t do this” button or the “better to
be safe…” button and Scott would be in the middle of trouble most often before the challenge had been levied in its entirety. Oftentimes, even a simple good-natured ribbing would find Scott impetuously bolting into chaos with mental and emotional guns blazing.

  “Come on, Scott,” Rachel assured him, “There’s nothing to—”

  “Shhh!” Paul said, suddenly kneeling to the ground. “Scott, quick, you gotta see this!”

  Paul let go of Rachel’s hand and touched the ground, his fingers fumbling in an attempt to make sense of whatever had drawn his attention. He put the Ouija board on the ground beside him and, with his free hand, blindly opened the box, still focusing on the ground at his feet.

  “See what?” Scott’s voice was shaky.

  Nervously, Scott made is way closer to Paul, if only to get a better view.

  “Just come here!” Paul’s fingers seemed to be drawing with intent. Patterns, or something that would be patterned. Whatever Paul was doing on the ground, Scott thought, it wasn’t random. As Paul attempted to stand again, he reached back toward Rachel’s hand. He let out a gasp and fell back to the ground, cradling his stomach, hugging himself in the fetal position, as if seized in an unflinching, horrific stomach pain. Rachel grabbed his shoulders and immediately fell to the ground beside Paul, her hand locked to his shoulder in an unbreakable communication heretofore shared only between them. Letting go of his date’s hand, Scott hurried to Paul’s left side hoping to get a look at whatever it was Paul had been drawing on the ground. A faint glowing outline seemed visible in the near moonless night. Scott blinked a couple of times, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. Still there. Fading, but still there. Scott reached toward his friend but was hit from the side and pushed to the ground by an unseen force.