Madison says, “Adam, help me with this jack.” She goes to the sagging corner and sets the jack into position under the hull.
Sharp raps echo across the forest as Dave bangs on the strut with a sledgehammer, straightening its twisted form. He sees me watching and says, “I’ll take care of this. Go on and help Maddie.”
Her job looks impossible. It’s hard to imagine the craft upright, especially with a wimpy jack like that. “How’s this supposed to work?” I ask. “You actually expect that to lift this thing?”
She scowls. “Not with an attitude like that, you bonehead. Knock it off.”
True, I should be more helpful. Might have to kick my own ass, if only I could reach it.
The jack is a simple hydraulic lift with hoses running off into the ship. She has it all set up and ready to go, and seems to be doing fine on her own. What help is she talking about? She works a remote that activates a loud engine inside the ship, generating quite a racket. The jack groans, straining to lift the heavy craft.
“I need more help than that,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, I need you to see it.”
“See what?”
She stares at me, waiting for . . . what?
“Damn,” she says. “Why can’t you be smart all the time?”
The jack fights against the weight, but it’s going nowhere, and Madison is only getting more frustrated. Whatever she wants from me, I’m drawing a blank. But then, staring at the jack, I have another vision.
The craft is raised on the jack. Not in reality—in my mind. The image is perfectly clear. I’m standing beside Madison, dirt is sliding off the hull, and sunlight leaks through gaps between the craft and undergrowth.
“That’s better,” she says, and snaps me back to reality.
As I watch the jack, it takes on new life, thrusting the heavy load upward. It continues to strain and moan, but fights through its work nonetheless, and the sagging corner slowly rises. Dave stops banging on the broken strut and glances over at our progress. Matt flips up his mask and looks at the rising craft, then slaps it down and gets back to welding. A few moments pass, and the craft is fully elevated.
That strange thing hits me again—the vision from only moments before. Here it is, perfectly duplicated. But something is even stranger. There is the craft, now raised on the jack, and Madison standing there, but . . .
That’s me next to Madison.
But it can’t be. How can I see myself this way? I feel displaced, out of control, fumbling for a hold. Something’s not right, but the sensation is interesting, like floating free. But without weight, there is nothing to float, or float on. And my body, it looks blank, like I’m not there. I’m not—I’m over here.
“It’s okay,” Madison says. “Just relax.”
She speaks to my body, not me. Am I invisible?
Dave joins her and asks my body, “How are you doing?”
He deserves a reply, so I intend one and it seems to work.
“I’m not sure,” my body says. “What’s happening?”
Hearing myself speak while outside the body is strange. I don’t sound like me.
“It’s no big deal,” Madison says. “Just another way to look at things.”
Dave says, “Don’t be alarmed, Adam. It’s a choice. You can exist inside or out, whichever’s more comfortable.”
I wouldn’t call this exactly comfortable, more like I might step on my own toes, or bump into something since I can’t see straight. I might be able to kick my own ass now, except it feels like I’m going to fall over. There’s nothing to hang on to, or anything to hang on with. I would choose . . .
I’m whooshed back inside my head.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, the words reverberating inside my skull with the familiar tone I’ve always known.
“Out of body,” Madison says. “All better now?”
“I guess, but that was weird. Like falling from the sky, no control.”
“Yeah,” Dave says, “it can be disorienting when you haven’t done it for a while, especially if you’re not ready for it.”
Disorienting? Too much like being dead. My little adventure fades and the others show little concern, as though this out-of-body thing is an everyday experience. Perhaps for them, which raises another question—are they not in their bodies? I might ask, but they all get back to their chores and ignore me. Besides, exploring the topic could lead to another unexpected excursion, which is frightful. What happens if I can’t get back inside my head?
* * *
Dave drags the severed strut to the hull, and together we wrestle it into position. Matt arrives with his arc welder and sections of reinforcing steel. He flips his mask down and gets to work while the rest of us shun the bright sparks. After several welds, Matt switches off his equipment and steps back.
“Now,” Dave says, “the moment of truth. Will it hold?”
Matt slaps his mask up. “Hey, of course it will. That’s quality workmanship by an experienced professional.”
Dave ignores the cocky little twerp, and says to Madison. “Let it down, easy.”
She works her remote, and the craft settles until supported by the strut. A few creaks and groans, then quiet.
“Told you so,” Matt says, and beams a proud grin.
Madison pats him on the back. “Nice work, Matt.”
Dave takes hold of the strut and rattles it good. “This will do. All right, you did okay—this time.”
Matt goes sour, glaring at Dave.
Dave doesn’t even notice. He walks away, better things to do, and starts picking through the scattered mess of equipment that accumulated during repairs—wrenches and spare parts, the jack and Matt’s welding gear, her shovel and various electronic gadgets, the purpose of which I couldn’t begin to guess. Dave takes charge, calling out to the rest of us, what to take, where to put it, and together we begin hoisting items back into the craft.
While gathering another load, Dave says, “So, Matt, everything else good to go?”
Burdened by a pile of tools, Matt stops halfway up the steps. “Yep, I waved that magic wand like always. Good thing you got me around, Dave, or we’d be stuck here for sure.”
“Hey!” Madison cries. “I helped too, you know.”
Matt chuckles. “Yeah, not bad, for a girl.”
She ignites with scorn, drops the jack and shovel and more, flames may shoot from her eyes next. “Come back here, you little wiener. You’re getting your ass kicked.”
“Yeah, like if you could.” He springs up the steps into the craft, leaving behind a trail of laughter.
Dave and I follow after them, and halfway up the steps, a loud crash sounds like tools hitting the floor. When we reach the top, the scattered pile includes two bickering contestants tangled up wrestling. She wasn’t kidding about kicking his ass. Madison has him face down, one arm behind his back, and his neck pinned by her knee.
“Say you’re sorry!” she howls. “Say you didn’t mean it, or I’ll show you how not-bad-for-a-girl this girl can be.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he says, though not too hurt, he is still laughing. “I didn’t mean it, just teasing. Come on, lighten up.”
She releases his spindly arm and straightens up, hands at her hips. “That’s better, but you’re still a little wiener.”
“Enough fooling around!” Dave snaps. “Time to go, before more trouble shows up.”
Outside, dark clouds brew along the horizon. Night will fall soon and Dave is right—danger could be as near as the next breath. Everyone agrees, and quarrels among ourselves will have to wait. A few more trips down the steps, we work as a team and gather the remaining tools until everything is put away. Dave and Matt head for the cockpit while Madison secures the hatch, and once again I am alone with her. However, this time she ignores the opportunity and starts toward the cockpit.
I reach out to her. “Madison, tell me something.”
She paus
es to listen.
“You and Matt,” I say. “What’s all that about?”
“What do you mean?”
“You two fight an awful lot. How come?”
She smiles. “You don’t remember.”
On that note, she deems our conversation complete and moves along.
* * *
Back to the cockpit, I plop down in the copilot seat. I’d help fly this thing if I could remember how, but even so, I don’t expect to be doing much other than getting some rest. I’m wasted.
The engines start with a low roar and rise in pitch until nearly silent, all but for a faint whine. The craft lifts off and weaves through the woods, then hovers just above the treetops. Dave punches the throttle and we’re sucked into our seats—hard. Beyond the side viewport, the ground blasts away and scattered clouds whip past.
As we soar higher, my thoughts retrace all that happened, in reverse. Crashing into the forest, tumbling helplessly, back to the explosion where it all began. Everything happened so fast. I don’t understand where the idea came from, or why any of them even followed my crazy instructions. But they did, like it was business as usual.
Madison asks, “Care for something to drink?”
Apparently she doubles as a stewardess, though I’d best refrain from any comment, or else find myself pinned to the floor with her knee crushing my neck.
Dave says, “Tea for me.”
“And you, Adam?”
“Sure, I’ll have some too.”
She looks at Matt and awaits his choice.
“Tea?” he says. “What do I look like?”
Madison smirks. “Do you really want to know?”
He draws a swift breath, preparing for the joust, but reconsiders. “Nothing for me.” He swings around to face his console, and Madison exits to the rear compartment.
Once she is gone, Dave laughs. “You’re such a weenie, Matt. There’s nothing wrong with tea.”
“Oh? The big tough warriors drink tea?”
“Yeah, we do. So what do little wiener-heads drink?”
Dave and I laugh.
Matt spins around in his seat. “Real men drink beer!” He puts fists at his hips and tries to puff up his scrawny little chest.
I point out, “Must be why you ain’t drinking one.”
Dave roars with laughter.
Matt is not so amused. “Hey! I’m working here.”
“Yeah, Adam,” Dave says. “Beer’s not a good idea in our line of work. At least—while you’re working!” He howls like it’s hilarious, then acts out a drunken stupor, swerving the craft across the sky. Good thing we’re up so high. He laughs so hard he snorts and whoops, cracking himself up real good. Dork. Bad enough laughing at your own jokes, worse when they’re not even funny.
“And just what is our line of work?” I ask.
He sees that I’m not laughing and returns to level flight. “I hate to keep telling you how things are. It’s like I’m filling your head with my own ideas.”
“At least give me a hint.”
Arms outstretched, he says, “Just look around. Hints are everywhere.”
Following his advice, I scan the cockpit. Okay, so it’s a cockpit. This is an assault craft. We have weapons, tactical displays, shields.
“We are military,” I suggest.
“You’re on to it.”
But where are the uniforms? These characters dress like they’re on vacation. But of course—uniforms are part of the conformist ideal, with which we do not agree. We are not a mindless force of regimented drones, walking the same, talking the same, even dressing alike. We are individuals, each with personal ideas, though united toward a common goal—freedom from the Association. Even without a specific memory to confirm it, the passion is clear, a fierce notion deep down that drives me to preserve individuality for all. Apparently with such fervor that I am willing to fight. However, I would rather not, and more so, gladly forget that I ever had in any past. I hate war. In dreams, memory, or real life.
Madison returns and hands me a sealed container with built-in straw. “Here you go,” she says. “I added a little something extra to help you sleep.”
While sipping the tea, my attention roams, then I catch a glimpse out the side viewport. The sky has split into halves, darker above and glowing purple below, gently curving where they meet. We have reached a tremendous altitude. The tea is delicious and soon my eyelids grow heavy. Beyond the cockpit windows, all light fades. Night is coming, and with it, the call to sleep.
My thoughts wander, reviewing recent events. The abandoned warehouse, fighting the Bobs, escaping the furnace and taking down the scout craft. Deeds of a soldier, with combat skills born of experience. I’ve waged war before, against the Association. Was I? The bleary memories float across my mind, but soon they scatter, focus dissolving, thoughts fading. Reality slips from view and I begin to drift off, approaching a pleasant slumber.
* * *
Something smacks me in the face and I’m instantly awake. All I can see is smooth metal, point-blank, chilly against my nose. What is this, a steel coffin?
I thrash to one side and thrust against the panel, struggling to break free of this trap. My body careens away and spins like a top. What the hell is this? As the dizzy scene races past, I catch a glimpse of Dave and Matt above, looking down. I mean, below, looking up. What?
Matt hollers, “Hey, flyboy! You’re supposed to strap in.”
Dave and Matt are laughing. I can hear them clearly, but each time around they’re just a blur. A hand smacks into mine and stops my spinning. Madison holds tight and keeps me steady. Her pigtails are sticking straight out each side.
“Quit jerking around,” she says. “Be gentle.”
We’re floating free, surrounded by the cockpit, suspended high above where Dave and Matt are seated . . . on the wall? The forward view seems to be on the floor. I turn to look, and Madison counteracts my twisting motion with a shove of her hand against mine.
“Adam! What did I just tell you? Don’t push off like that. There’s nothing to stop your inertia.”
Out the viewport is utter blackness, a void lacking all detail other than a purple disk about the size of the moon. But that’s no moon. A planet?
We’re in space.
“What are we doing in outer space?”
With a mild tug, Madison draws me into her arms. She holds tight, smiling as we gently spin, face to face.
“We’re going home, Adam. Home.”
Chapter 4
The wind is strong. Gusts so violent, the slaps threaten to knock me from this perch. A brilliant sun hangs in the soft pink sky, bringing light and warmth to this marvelous day. Not a single cloud interferes.
I am standing atop a tall building, a good fifty floors or more. The view is spectacular, stretching from the mountains to the sea, and all the land in between, populated by a sprawling metropolis. Down below, people crowd the sidewalks, and vehicles fill a maze of congested avenues. They all look so small, like tiny insects.
Nearby, a woman is standing at the roof’s edge, enjoying the view as well. She turns to look at me. A crisp breeze tosses rusty strands around her face. She clears her scattered mane and smiles, staring at me from eyes the lightest blue, nearly clear, like sparkling crystal.
“In love,” she says, “one may fall.”
She turns on her heels, facing away from the precipice. Arms outstretched, she leans back.
“No!” I race to save her but it’s too late. Completely of her own will, she falls away and vanishes over the edge.
It’s never too late—I’m going after her. I leap off the building and sail down, the stream of air tearing at my face—frightening—but at the same time, refreshing. The woman, where did she go? City streets race up to greet me, and oddly, I welcome it. I have no fear. One quick twist and I gently touch down.
I’m lost in a bustling crowd moving along the sidewalk. Consumed with their busy existence, they are oblivious of my presence. Vehicle
s speed through the street, a cacophony of engines, horns, and people hollering obscenities as they jockey for position.
The woman has vanished in the crowd, yet I sense her voice in my thoughts. “Two may fall to become one, or fall further, to become fewer.”
In an instant, I’m atop the building again.
What happened? Perhaps I only dreamt that she was here. A strange intuition emerges from my confusion—I must go down to the street and find her. But not by falling, that was the wrong choice.
Behind me is a doorway which I enter, then down a few steps into a hallway. The plush carpeting squishes between my bare toes. Farther along the corridor is an elevator with polished steel doors. I press the down button and wait. A few moments pass, a bell sounds, and the doors slide open.
Inside the elevator is an old lady with white hair and a black fur coat, the short kind only down to the waist. She wears jewelry—earrings, bracelet and necklace, all bright diamonds. And she looks to have spent millions more on makeup.
Her face contorts with disgust.
I study myself. I have no clothes. Where did they go?
Aghast, the old lady rushes out of the elevator, mumbling words I can’t understand. Okay, be offended, your choice. I step in, the doors slide shut, and the elevator shoots down, but so fast that I become weightless. The floor and ceiling vault away, the walls contract, and the elevator becomes a long tube with me soaring through so fast that any sense of up or down vanish. The space closes in and the speed increases to the point of terror, to be restricted in all directions but one and propelled so swiftly, like a bullet hurling to the barrel’s end, destined to crash and splatter. No—this is just another experience. There is nothing to fear.
Next I’m standing on a sidewalk. No one is present, no busy people, no traffic in the street. The sidewalk borders the edge of a park, and a connecting sidewalk leads to an area with a few fiberglass lunch tables. I’m overly fascinated by papers circling the tables, carried aloft on a calm breeze. Pieces of trash, sections of newspaper, floating about and faintly slapping as they collide. Their swirling motion is absolutely captivating.
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 10
