Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1

by William Campbell

  Out from under the tree, I bring a hand over my brow and search the sunny sky, pink and white with clouds in so many shapes. One of the clouds looks like a truck. One is shaped like an airplane. Another looks like an angry old man with a long beard. Maybe that one is God. Another could be a flower, a white rose. I draw in a deep breath, searching for the fragrance. I can smell it, delightful! My imagination is new and ingenious, bringing the scent on command.

  An unusual noise is getting louder. A machine, a truck or train, spoiling my perfect day. Go away! I hear the children again, but this time they’re not laughing. This makes me sad at first, then afraid. The children are screaming. They’re not having fun anymore.

  I climb a small hill and search for the source of the noise. Growling machines are creeping across the grassy land, surrounded by men wearing black coats and holding sticks. They’re chasing after the children. The bad men are hurting my friends. Stop that! The children stop screaming. They make no sound at all, only the growling machines, tearing up the grass. I hate those bad men. They’re taking away our fun, and taking away my friends. Their noisy machines are getting louder. They’re coming to hurt me with their sticks.

  I need somewhere to hide. I hurry back to the tree, my wonderful tree, my best friend in the whole world. The tree will help me, I know it will. Where will I hide?

  Standing under the tree, I’m surprised to hear a girl’s voice.

  “In the tree,” she says.

  A young girl is clinging to branches high up in the tree. She must have escaped the bad men. But how did she get all the way up there? She reaches a hand toward me. That’s silly, I can’t stretch that far. But she has the right idea. We’ll hide together.

  I climb after her and she goes higher, then she stops. She looks down on me and smiles. What a great smile, and her blue eyes look magical. I want to catch her. She swings around, flinging her rusty ponytail, and climbs faster than I can keep up with. She’s really good at climbing trees, even better than me.

  A roaring machine passes under the tree. Men are down below, searching the meadow. We have succeeded. When I look up to smile at my friend, I can’t find her. I’m afraid to climb any higher, I might fall. She isn’t scared. She has climbed farther than I ever would have.

  One of the bad men looks up and points. Oh no, he can see me. I’ll pretend to be invisible. That’s what my friend did, and so will I. No one can see me if I keep my body perfectly still. Works every time when I play hide and seek.

  He looks. He looks again. Maybe my invisibility isn’t working today. Please! Work today! I need to be invisible! He walks away and looks somewhere else. See, I am invisible. I knew I could do it.

  The roaring machine rams into the tree and all the branches shake. Oh no, my friend, are you hurt? The tree has no mouth to scream, but I know it hurts. My friend, I am so sorry.

  My invisibility must have worn off. The bad men are pointing at me and shouting words I don’t understand. The growling machine strikes again and the tree shakes too much. My foot slips off the branch and my fingers scrape past bark.

  I shouldn’t have climbed so far, it’s a long way to the ground. I go tumbling down, faster and faster, so scared, then crash onto the cool grass below the tree. It doesn’t hurt, but I think it should, or maybe it did and I missed it.

  On my back, I’m right where I started. But this time I am tired, very tired, and the grass doesn’t tickle. I can’t feel anything, and I can’t move. All I can see is the sky, and that same cloud, the one that looks like an angry old man. Is that you, God? Why don’t you like me? Why do you let the bad men hurt me? Please, God, tell me why.

  * * *

  “Adam, we’re done.”

  A moist cloth cools my forehead. I know that voice—Madison.

  “How are you doing?” she asks.

  When I try sitting up, it doesn’t go so well. Feels like someone jackhammered the back of my skull. I reach around and discover ooze seeping out. “Done doing what? Playing doctor?” To hell with the pain, I’m sitting up.

  Matt wears a pair of bloody surgical gloves and holds a tiny object between his thumb and forefinger. “All better now,” he says, pleased with himself. “We took it out, like I almost told you, but you know, the risk of side effects and all. It’s safe to talk now.”

  “Yeah, and what did you remove it with, a hacksaw? You got a license for this kind of thing?” I can’t believe this. Had I known they were going to chop a hole in my head, I would’ve told them both to screw off. Then I realize, the pain of having my skull invaded is minor compared to what is missing—that slow, low, neverending pulsation of my brain trying to bust out. That excruciating pain is gone.

  “What did you remove?” I ask.

  Matt steps closer and holds out the tiny object.

  I’m instantly tortured by a high-pitched chorus wielding hammers. I slap both hands to my skull.

  “Oh, sorry,” Matt says. “I didn’t realize it was still working.” He steps away and the pain turns off like someone threw a switch. He goes to a workbench and digs through a small toolbox. After fiddling with the object, he turns back. “That should do. Here, have a look.”

  As he comes near, I cringe, but no, the pain is absent. The object is a slim capsule constructed of smooth metal, about the size of a painkiller. But the resemblance ends there.

  “That was in my head?”

  “Yep,” he says. “That’s what makes your head hurt. I mean, made it hurt. Not anymore, I disabled it. Well, besides taking it out of your head, of course.”

  “What in the world? Are you serious?”

  Madison sits down beside me. “Adam, I’ll explain. But first, let me finish up.” She leans closer, angled behind me, and swabs the back of my head with a moist towelette. An icy sting hits my scalp a second later.

  “Let’s start with the name,” I say. “Why are you calling me Adam? My name is Carl.”

  She pulls around to face me. “Oh, Adam, why did they give you such a silly name? Carl? Just look at yourself. Do you look like a Carl?”

  She may have a point. I never cared much for that name.

  I reach around to check her work and discover a tidy bandage. No more goo, and whatever she did, the pain of cranial invasion is fading. And my hand, wrapped in gauze and taped, no longer radiates that burning tingle.

  Could these be the people the old bum was talking about? Those I should trust? They haven’t actually tricked me, at least, not beyond what is necessary, or so they say. And each result has not equaled pain, rather its removal. More importantly, they have saved me from the ultimate pain—death. Perhaps even a fiery trip to Hell. The last group detaining me was clearly otherwise. And that’s another thing—no one is detaining me, are they? These two haven’t said anything about me having to stay.

  I ask Madison, “What if I want to go now?”

  Her mood darkens. “If you want to, but please, I wish you wouldn’t. I miss you.” She gets up and enters the corridor leading to the cockpit. I can hear her talking but can’t make out the words. The mellow whine that has filled the background changes to a low roar, the aircraft slows to a hover, then drops. There is a whirring sound, metal slapping, and we touchdown. She told the pilot to land?

  She emerges from the corridor and goes to the exterior hatch. The door swings open to reveal a cool evening outside.

  “If you don’t trust us,” she says, “you can leave.”

  I get up and peer out. We’re in a clearing surrounded by forest. Below the hatchway, small steps fold out and reach to the ground. I venture down and farther into the grassy clearing. The night is perfectly clear, not a single cloud, a sheet of solid black dotted with starlight. A marvelous sight, with moonlight glancing the treetops. No concrete in any direction, I like that. Fresh air fills my lungs, a cool sensation that is calming. It reminds me of a better place, a better time, somewhere I’ve been before.

  “You see?” Madison says. “You’re not our prisoner.”

  I s
wing around to see her in the hatchway.

  She looks sad. “Adam, please. We’re here to help you.”

  I wouldn’t know where to go anyway. I’d probably end up lost in the woods. They passed the test. She has offered freedom.

  “Okay, you can call me Adam, for now.”

  That should make her feel better, but I’m still keeping my guard up. I’ve been tricked enough lately. I’ll be the Adam she wants, and we’ll see how it goes.

  Actually, the name Adam does sound better, and imagining it as my own has a strange effect. I feel stronger, calmer, and oddly confident. Realizing this, a tingling surge of energy flows throughout my body, as if it’s pleased with the name as well, and happy to have me back.

  Yeah, I like you too, settle down.

  * * *

  Madison is back to smiling, as she stands waiting in the hatchway, but I’m distracted by all that surrounds her—the aircraft that brought us here, which resembles no aircraft I’ve ever seen before. A sleek oblong shape, shiny black with angular projections, but all so minor none could possibly serve as wings. How does the thing fly? And where is the exhaust? I see no ports astern, or openings along the hull, other than the hatch and small windows at the nose. There are no rotor blades, it couldn’t be a helicopter. But then, it is night, the moonlight faint. The details are masked by darkness. Besides, the wings could be retractable, and the exhaust muffled by screens to provide stealth. Yes, that explains it. Not to worry. Obviously, the craft is capable of flight, or we wouldn’t be here.

  I climb the steps. “Okay, I’ll stay. But it’s time for some answers. No more screwing around.”

  Madison lights up with a glowing smile and reaches out to pull me in through the hatchway.

  From the corridor leading to the cockpit, another odd character emerges, though not quite the fashion nightmare Matt portrays. This new fellow dresses similarly casual, but at least he understands something about color coordination. He wears khaki shorts that are not excessively large, though comfortably loose, black sneakers and a solid black tee-shirt, free of any silly advertising or undecipherable artwork. His hair is blond, well, more like yellow, above dark roots. He’s bleached out the color, producing a mess of plastic yellow doll hair that pokes out all directions, but loaded with gel, a mess styled to appear random on purpose.

  “Adam!” He flies at me with arms outstretched.

  “Dave?”

  He captures me in a big bear hug.

  I know this guy, he’s my friend. But where did we meet?

  Dave leans back and rattles my shoulders. “I wasn’t going to leave my best friend behind. Good to see you, man.”

  His enormous smile gleams white. He’s very happy to see me, but his stare is distracting. What is it? Something about his eyes, they look . . . sober? That’s good, he’s doing the driving, he had better be sober. But I’ve seen those eyes before, plugged into a face where they didn’t belong. That stinky old bum. And Madison was the girl in pigtails.

  “You two were under the bridge.”

  “Not really,” Dave says.

  “What do you mean? Was it you or not?”

  “That was a couple of holograms.”

  “Holograms? What the hell for? And why a bum?”

  “Our transmission was being monitored, so we projected something that fit the scene. They probably didn’t understand all that, but they would have for sure if I showed up like this.” He points in at himself. Indeed, the goon squad would be quick to stamp out that sort of fashion, especially the spiky yellow hair.

  “What about Madison?” I ask. “She looked pretty much like she does now.”

  She smiles. All I have to do is say her name and she smiles.

  Dave explains, “I wanted you to see Maddie the way you know her, thought it might spark your memory, maybe. But we couldn’t get her sound to work, probably a good thing, you know, all that sappy babble of hers.”

  She glares at Dave. “Hey!”

  “Not now, Maddie, later.”

  “Now hold on,” I say. “What about the stink? You smelled like the sewer, mixed with a truckload of alcohol. Holograms don’t have scent.”

  “Mine do,” Matt says.

  I swing around to meet his proud grin.

  Dave asks, “Do you think we overdid it? You know, the smell.”

  “It was disgusting. Was that much odor really necessary?”

  “No,” Matt says, “but it was kinda cool, a neat trick, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, neat. So how about you, Matt? What costume did you wear? The garbage lying next to me?”

  Apparently not, judging by his frown.

  “Matt was running the gear,” Madison says, and pats him on the back.

  His goofy smile returns and he launches into an animated explanation. “Yeah, I networked the system through a spectral randomizer, riding a hundred-sixty-two gigahertz, then two-ninety-eight, back down to sixteen, that kind of thing. A couple nanoseconds here, a couple there, no way they could triangulate that action.”

  This guy is one hell of a nerd, and proud of it.

  I ask, “And what were you hoping to accomplish?”

  Dave slaps me on the back and points that big white grin my direction. “Like I said, we thought it might spark your memory. Figured it was worth a try.”

  A bunch of goofballs. Where do they come up with this nonsense? I shouldn’t ask—I have a strange feeling I know the answer. Reminds me of the sort of goofy thing I would do.

  “Let’s say you did spark my memory. Then what?”

  Dave fumbles for an explanation. “We didn’t really finish the whole plan, exactly. We probably thought maybe talk you into going somewhere safe, then figure out how to pick you up, I think.”

  Confidence like that makes me wonder—who’s in charge here? No, don’t tell me.

  “But that didn’t happen,” I point out. “No, you sparked my memory all right, then I said the magic word, whatever that was, and the goon patrol showed up.”

  “It might have worked,” Dave says, “if not for that thunderstorm.”

  “Yeah,” Matt says. “It’s tricky guiding that kind of photon energy through a lightning disturbance, really, it’s tough. All the ionization fouls things up. I tried though, really, I did.”

  Madison says, “Don’t worry about it, Matt, you did fine. Adam, none of that matters, everything worked out okay. We got you back, all that counts. Actually, things worked out pretty good. Snatching you out of the body reduction flue was a great idea. As far as they know, you didn’t escape.”

  “Worked out good?” Arms out, I turn and turn, calling attention to the soot covering me, then tap the base of my skull and wave my bandaged hand. “You call any of this good?”

  Dave’s gleaming smile melts. “It could have been worse.”

  Madison gazes at me with sad eyes, and Matt stares blankly, stringy hair crossing his brow. I know these people, but not like this. They really miss me, and dread what might have happened.

  “Okay, so you have a point. I’d be dead right now.”

  Dave and Matt exchange puzzled glances.

  Madison studies me curiously. “Adam, you realize—”

  “Not yet,” Matt says. “He doesn’t remember.”

  “Remember what?” I ask.

  Dave brings an arm around my shoulder. “Take it slow, Adam, one step at a time. Let’s sit down and I’ll explain everything, at least, all we know.”

  * * *

  For the first time in my short memory, I may have found others I can trust. That I actually have friends, or might ever trust anyone, are both difficult to believe. More odd is what creeps in from the void. No clear memory confirms the notion, but there is no denying it. Our small group earned each other’s trust long ago.

  To one side of the compartment is a makeshift kitchen, little more than a narrow table opposite a counter below three metal cabinets. This craft is no luxury liner. On the opposite side are workbenches and bolted-down toolboxes, wh
ich have plastic drawers with translucent faces, giving hints to the contents, a variety of tools and other gadgets, perhaps spare parts. Mounted to the wall are large clear tubes that store yellow pressure suits, some with helmets. This aircraft must fly high, where the air is thin.

  Dave suggests that we gather at the table. Madison carries a metal carafe from which she pours a cup of dark liquid, then hands it to me. The cup is warm, the aroma inviting.

  Madison watches as I sip the beverage. “Better?” she asks.

  “Yes, thank you. I haven’t had a good cup of coffee since—”

  That’s not right. I’ve never had coffee before. I don’t even know what coffee is. What? Of course I do. I’ve had coffee many times. But when? Doorways are drifting open, and clues to my identity are pouring out. Memories emerge, and one is the last time I had coffee.

  “Since when?” Madison asks with a clever grin.

  Strange—for every new question, there is more to remember. Within the mind, a dormant function awakens, that of an obedient servant prepared to fetch any answer, until this moment left lonely, waiting only for the questions. The question becomes the key that unlocks the door, and the servant ventures past the veil of certain knowledge, to retrieve answers hidden deep within my darkened memory.

  “When I left,” I realize. “We said our good-byes over coffee. You tricked me into remembering that.”

  “Very good,” she says. “But it’s not a trick. I was hoping, but I didn’t trick you.”

  The coffee is warm and flavorful, a delight I have sorely missed. “Thanks. I’ve been tricked enough lately.”

  “Right,” she says. “Tricked by the Association.”

  “The conformists,” Dave says. “Out to make everything the same, their same.”

  “Yeah, I heard all about it, up close and personal. But why?”

  “I guess they believe it’s the answer to social problems. Maybe it is, but damn, who wants to live like that?”