The Awakening (The Fempiror Chronicles Book 1)

by George Willson

  The Awakening

  The Fempiror Chronicles

  by

  George Willson

  Book number: 1

  Book date: 17750627

  Text copyright 2009 by George Willson

  Originally published as The Fempiror Chronicles: The Initiation of David

  Adapted from the original unproduced screenplay of the same name by George Willson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  Originally published August 2009

  The Awakening Edition, October 2017

  www.fempiror.com

  For Tasha and the girls,

  who inexplicably continue to tolerate my insanity

  and love me in spite of it.

  Special Thanks to Don, Bert,

  and the other readers and screenwriters at

  SimplyScripts.com, without whom

  this story would not be what it is.

  Join the mailing list

  Keep up with future releases at

  www.georgewillson.com

  Also by George Willson

  Coming soon in

  The Fempiror Chronicles Series:

  Mutation Genesis (November 2017)

  Razer Hunt (December 2017)

  The Elixir (January 2018)

  The Maze Series:

  City of Phase

  The Kursas

  The Off-Worlders

  False Invasion

  Ancient Visitors

  The Terraformers

  Others:

  Atari Speaks

  Vengeance

  FOREWORD

  When something is beyond our natural understanding, it becomes very easy to write it off as a fantasy, hallucination, or a figment of our imaginations. When we experience something that fits this description, we still attempt to chalk it up to a dream or some other deviation from reality. Friends and family typically support this idea and insist that nothing like that could have ever happened because it isn’t rational. The insistence of rationality grows so overpowering that writing off the irrational as a delusion is far easier than admitting the impossible exists.

  Such was my reaction to the stories that my Fempiror contact told me when I got to know him. As I listened to this man, who claimed to be far older than he appeared, talk about the life he had lived, and how he came to live it, it was far too fantastic to believe. When he described how he had influenced a race that I had never heard of, I was hoping my cell phone would ring to escape the ranting. And when he offered to show me, I very nearly refused since I did not want to end up in pieces on the evening news from this clearly deranged person.

  However, another part of me was incredibly curious. I’ll admit it. He spoke of inventions that stretched back before they seemed possible and of the secrecy under which he lived, and the part of me that loves spy stories wanted to eat it up. So I followed him to his rather unstylish car to see what he was talking about. He said it wouldn’t be possible to follow in mine, which again, made me want to bolt before I got into trouble, but I also knew that I would always wonder whether this lunatic was for real or not.

  You see, the most compelling part of his story was the passion with which he told it, and the absolute narrative consistency it possessed. The whole time I listened, I kept expecting one detail to derail his whole fantasy, but it never did. There were no inconsistencies, no missteps, nothing to give me an “ah-ha!” to fully disbelieve him (other than the obvious lack of probability). So I got in his car.

  That was several weeks ago. Now, after talking to enough others to not only confirm, but also strengthen those stories, I have more than just a narrative of one life, but of many. I have the history of a people who live beneath the surface of society. You could look into their faces and never know you saw one. They understand that humanity has issues accepting anyone who is different, and so they prefer to blend in as opposed to looking for any kind of equality. Anyone found out by the people of any era has come to a bad end, so they survive in secrecy.

  You may be wondering, “How do I know if I’ve seen one? How do I tell them apart?” Well, as a wise mentor once told his pupil, “why would you need to?”

  June 1775

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Stranger

  Rufus had been in Hauginstown several times over the past few weeks, and when it came to people at night, there were very, very few. Most of the population went inside after dark, and those that did venture out usually either traveled in a group or spent their evenings at the Whitt’s End Tavern carousing the overnight hours away. It made his mission of finding the new recruits his superiors were looking for that much more difficult as this trend was similar throughout all the towns he had visited. In addition, his habit of returning to the rakad fren for supplies with no recruits to justify their support was wearing on his superiors’ nerves.

  He looked around the little town and shook his head. It had been a long time since he had lived anywhere regularly enough to call home, and he marveled at the simplicity these people enjoyed, completely oblivious to the world changing around them. Even “quaint” was too complex a word for this town who had, to Rufus’ amusement, a statue in their town square dedicated to someone named Gerald Haugins who he understood to be the great-grandfather of the present mayor (though better referred to as the patriarch) of this little berg.

  As Rufus looked at this rather ostentatious and pointless tribute to someone that no one outside of Hauginstown ever had heard of or ever will hear of, voices floated over the air from the tavern. A man in his forties, whose face was weather beaten from years of field work and drinking, stumbled out of the tavern and hit the ground in a drunken heap. Rufus snickered. The man’s waistcoat hung limply open, every button unfastened, his woolen stockings rested around his ankles, and he didn’t even have his hat.

  Another man who Rufus immediately recognized as the tavern’s keeper stepped out of the tavern and looked at the drunken man on the ground. He was dressed properly, but with a worn, old face and an apron over his clothes.

  “Hey, Ben, you gonna be all right?” he asked.

  Ben climbed to his feet and turned to the keeper. “I’m fine, Whitt,” he said. He took a step before losing his balance again and tumbling back to the ground.

  The tavern keeper, Mr. Whitt, stepped over to him and helped him back up. “Maybe I should walk you home, Ben,” Whitt said. “You’re drunker than a toad.”

  Rufus sighed at the thought of selecting this older man, but also considered his desperation at this point. Ben might not appear to be the best addition to the order, but he seemed strong enough that once he got off the bottle, he might be useful. But if Whitt was going to walk him home…

  Rufus shook his head. He considered the possibility of taking them both, but dealing with two of them tomorrow would be out of the question.

  He looked back at the pair to see Ben shake Whitt’s grip.

  “I said I’m fine,” Ben insisted, “I been worse, you know. You just go on and leave me alone. So what if I sleep outside? It don’t matter none.”

  “You’d best get inside,” Whitt warned. “Some people tell of a stranger around here lately – roaming the town at night.”

  “Leave me alone,” Ben said again. It might have been an attempt to yell, but through the drunken slur, it barely came out at all, much less sound anything like anger.

  Rufus smiled broadly as Whitt shook his head and walked back inside. Ben walked unst
eadily away from the tavern across the little road that led into town from the south and wound around the town square. He eventually reached the statue and leaned on it, supporting his tired weight.

  Rufus knew this was his chance. The next time he returned to the rakad fren, he could bring a new recruit with him. Then they will know that they did not waste their time and resources on him. Ben took another step and hit the ground again.

  Rufus moved silently towards him. As he walked, he rolled up one of his sleeves and then opened an eleven-inch long cylindrical leather satchel attached to his belt. He reached into it and removed a tool that his order used to bring in new recruits: a nilrof.

  The first time he had seen the nilrof, the combination of its eye-striking beauty and deadly appearance had surprised him. It was about ten inches long and made of bright polished silver with two sharp points that resembled fangs at one end. These fanged ends connected to a cylindrical chamber with a glass side so one could observe the level of liquid it contained. A small piston pump that fit tightly into the chamber controlled the flow both in and out of it. The nilrof had a long history, but in these times, it served only one purpose.

  Rufus stabbed the fangs into his own arm and drew out a cylinder full of blood. The deep red stood in stark contrast to the clean polished surface of the device. He placed the nilrof back into its satchel, made to carry a fully loaded nilrof without pressing the pump or spilling any blood.

  Ben pulled himself up again. “Walk me home,” he muttered. “What does he think I am? Drunk?” He continued in an uneven line across the square.

  Rufus broke into a short run and stopped directly behind Ben. Ben continued his walk. He had heard nothing. Rufus frowned. He looked down, picked up a twig from debris on the ground and snapped it between his fingers behind Ben’s head.

  Ben stopped. He turned slowly to face Rufus. Rufus watched Ben’s face screw up as Ben squinted his eyes. Finally, Ben asked, “Are you the strangers?”

  Rufus grimaced. He wondered if this was really a good idea. This old man was an idiot – probably the village idiot, for all he knew. He would bring this imbecile back to his superiors, and they would hang him for his lack of judgment. At the same time, though, no other opportunities had presented themselves. Perhaps this first one would make others easier to acquire. He removed the nilrof from its satchel and held it ready in his hand.

  Ben looked down at the device and sobered quickly. He broke into a run away from Rufus. Rufus rolled his eyes and quickly placed the nilrof safely back in its satchel. He easily caught up with Ben and tackled him to the ground.

  Ben quickly rolled over out of Rufus’ grip and ran back towards the tavern. Ben was still recovering from the alcohol, and Rufus knew he could move literally a hundred times faster than Ben could hope to in his present state.

  Then Ben opened his mouth again. “Help,” he yelled, this time louder than when he had attempted to yell at Whitt.

  Rufus needed to end this as soon as possible. He had no fear of these people, but he also did not need a curious mob coming after him. He ran at top speed towards Ben, and before Ben had a chance to say anything else, Rufus grabbed him.

  Despite the old man’s weight, Rufus held him easily for a moment over his head and then tossed him to the base of the statue. Ben hit the marble base hard, knocking the wind out of him. Helpless, he gazed up to Rufus, slowly walking towards him. Rufus saw the fear in the old man’s eyes as he knelt beside him.

  Rufus spared a quick glance back to the tavern to see Whitt, staring directly at him through the tavern window. As their eyes met, Whitt quickly looked away. Rufus smiled. The keeper would do nothing. And if the town as a whole lived in the same state of fear, no one would dare interfere with him, no matter how loud Ben screamed. And he would scream.

  Rufus pulled the nilrof from its satchel again and held it in front of Ben’s face for Ben to get a good look at it. Ben breathed heavily, both winded from the fall and in fear of the stranger that had easily bested him.

  Rufus leaned close to him. “Welcome to the family,” he said, remembering the words that had been spoken to him on a similar occasion, years before.

  He stabbed the fanged ends of the nilrof into Ben’s neck and pressed the pump, emptying the full contents of the glass chamber. As Rufus removed the nilrof from Ben’s neck, Ben grabbed the place where it had entered, breathing even more heavily. Rufus stood and watched as the serum quickly moved through Ben’s veins and changed him from the inside out. Soon, the serum would reach his heart.

  Ben convulsed violently. He arched his back, drew in two lungs full of air and let out a scream that pierced the quiet of the night.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Zechariah sat atop the large mound that served as the roof of his home. He gazed to the west across the vast plains to the mountains beyond, almost invisible in the darkness of the night.

  Zechariah appeared to be in his sixties but was much older and extremely fit for his age. His gray hair and beard were long and unkempt from his years of living in isolation. He wore a black tunic tucked into black pants that disappeared into the tops of his dark boots.

  The quietness of the vicinity of Hauginstown, just visible to the east, had been a disappointment to him in the end. The mission that brought him here cost him everything, and he became an outcast from his people. He knew, though, that whatever they wished to believe about him, there was truth in what he had come here for so long ago.

  Or at least he thought there was truth in it back then. The fact that he had not carried his sword or donned his gauntlets or riding coat for several years made him consider that maybe they really were in a time of peace and that the threat he had made such a fuss over did not actually exist. Perhaps everything he had found was little more than isolated incidents that he had blown out of proportion.

  He lay back on the grassy turf beneath him and stared at the sky above. The lights twinkled above him and moved ever so slightly as he stared. There was nothing else for him to do. He occasionally went into Hauginstown to get food or conversation from the people at the Whitt’s End Tavern, which was the only establishment he could visit considering that he was unable to go into town during the day. It didn’t help that Summer nights persuaded Barliman Whitt to close his doors early on occasion leaving him with only a locked door to greet him when he arrived wanting something to eat other than his own homegrown stores of vegetables.

  He was careful, however, not to go into town too often. Whitt knew his face well enough, but few others ever spoke to him. Hauginstown was not known for its open arms towards strangers given how isolated they were from the rest of the world. It took many years for them to accept a newcomer, and as they would never understand him, he was not interested in allowing them to get too close to him.

  Therefore, he only went every few months to see if any news of the world had filtered into Hauginstown. Very little ever came in, but what little did seemed significant enough to take note of. On his more recent ventures into town, however, there was nothing notable.

  As he continued to gaze at the stars, he considered going in tomorrow evening, since he had more than enough food for himself, and Whitt was always happy to receive some of what he had grown. Whitt had never asked where Zechariah lived or came from, but took the vegetables in trade for a meal, which was fine by him.

  A distant scream broke the silence of the night. Zechariah sat bolt upright atop his mound. Concern etched across his face as he searched his memory for where he had heard such a scream before.

  Then it hit him: transmutation.

  He leaped from the mound and broke into a full run across the distance between his home and Hauginstown. Despite the miles between his mound and the town, he was able to cross the distance in a matter of minutes. It had been some time since he had run so fast, but he was only a little winded when he walked into the darkened town and looked around.

  The town square was empty and quiet. Only Whitt’s tavern had any candles burning. Ze
chariah stood against the row of shops on the eastern side of town where the tavern was and looked at the windows of the buildings and houses that opened into the central square. In more than a few, he observed pale faces buried in the darkness, peering out. He was certain that this was the source of the scream, and he hoped that Whitt had seen something. He quickly walked along the road to the tavern and went in.

  Something had assuredly happened. As soon as he entered, the half dozen men jumped from their seats away from him. Although they relaxed upon seeing Zechariah’s aged face, their initial fright did nothing to assuage his own fears.

  He held up his hands and smiled. “Forgive me, my friends,” he said calmly. “I was in the area and thought I heard someone scream.”

  “That you did, my friend,” Barliman Whitt said from behind his bar. Zechariah looked over to him, standing near the window behind the bar that looked out to the square. Zechariah walked across the room to him.

  Zechariah had known Barliman since before he had built his home in the mound west of town. He had come into the Whitts’ tavern when Barliman’s father, Fredegar, was still alive, and even then, young Barliman was unable to spin a tale past what he had seen, though his father was a masterful storyteller. That fact failed to stop Barliman from trying, however, when the opportunity arose.

  “What happened?” Zechariah asked. “It sounded serious.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I was sure to tell everyone here to stay in while it was going on,” Barliman said quickly. “Old Ben Thurman was leaving out of here about as drunk as a man can get, and sure as he had walked past old Haugins out there, something set upon him.”

  “Something like what?” Zechariah asked quickly.