Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1

by William Campbell

Madison says something but the music’s too loud, and she waves for me to follow. She’s smiling, that’s all she had to say. I stick to her tail as she pushes through the crowd, and we approach the stage.

  The song reaches a quiet segment, each slap of the bass guitar clear, the gentle tingle of a cymbal, and brisk raps on a tom drum. Then the song explodes, the vocalist screaming out above all the rest. A girl, damn pretty, who alone produces sound enough to match a small chorus. Her screams fade and the two guitars take over, bursting into a frenzy of rapid progressions the drums and bass uphold flawlessly.

  Near the stage, we’re surrounded by a throng of excited fans, packed in so tight we can barely move through. A delirium of activity with everyone jumping, dancing and screaming, as dazzling lights wash over the crowd and bathe the walls in brilliant colors.

  Madison sways to the beat, then reaches out and coaxes me to join her. Together we engage in a hypnotic exchange of gyrations. Her hips shimmy, she wiggles and squirms, her erotic motion an irresistible invitation. My body begins a rhythmic spasm, following every note as I move closer to her. She brings her arms over my shoulders, pulls me near, and eases toward a slower pace as her lips approach my ear.

  “Do you like it?” she asks.

  “I absolutely love it!”

  She leans back, directly before me, swaying in my arms.

  “I absolutely love you,” she says.

  She loves me? Or does she just want sex? I’m not sure. I might return the affectionate words, but I don’t know, not yet. I have to remember more first, more about her and all the rest, before I make that kind of commitment, even if only words.

  The room seems to vault away, like I’m getting sucked out. The walls spread out, the floor drifts down, way down, as though the room is becoming giant. What is happening? Then I see myself in the crowd, dancing with Madison, and the music is not so loud. I’m doing it again—out of body. It feels good this time, more comfortable than before, but I look completely silly, flopping around like a drunken fish out of water.

  Madison pulls my body near as I float above, watching. Eyes closed, she tilts her head, drifting closer, and we fall into a kiss. My body nor I do anything to resist the gesture, rather we indulge in it. Her moist lips slide across mine, the soft wiggle of her tongue, tickling—

  “You make me sick!”

  The alarming interruption sucks me back into my skull.

  “Quit messing with Adam,” Matt says, standing in the crowd—not dancing one bit—and glaring at us. “Come on, we got a table over here.” He turns away and pushes through the mob.

  One commitment is easy, words or otherwise, and soon to be expressed—my true feelings for the one person I absolutely love the least.

  * * *

  Dave and Jerry are waiting at a table loaded with frosty pints of beer, foamy heads spilling over. As I slide into a seat, Matt prepares to sit next to me. Madison lunges at him with a menacing scowl. Yeah, I wouldn’t sit there either, looks like a good way to get your eyes scratched out. Matt backs off and finds a spot on the other side next to Dave. Madison congratulates herself with a smug grin, lowers to her chair, and scoots it closer to mine.

  She caresses my cheek with the back of her hand. “Honey, you’re so hot.”

  No shit, I’m totally burning up. Chugging ice-cold beer will fix that. I drain the glass and reach for another. As I cool off and start the next beer, my attention wanders to the dancing crowd. Beer, music, and good friends. What more could you ask for? Except for one problem—the Association wants to take this away. You could ask them to leave us alone, that’s what I’d ask for. Tonight’s fun is a prime example of all they detest—our lifestyle, and its deviation from the normal, well-adjusted version they demand.

  The energetic crowd sways like tall grass blowing in a breeze, bathed in a scatter of colorful spinning lights, as resounding melodies saturate every corner of the auditorium. These people are happy, doing what they choose, and everyone is thrilled to be here. A dreamlike vision comes to me—the crowd is another crowd, but the same crowd, just . . . not here.

  Dave waves a hand across my distant gaze. “Hey, what’s with the serious look?”

  Snapped back to reality, I reply, “You know, the Association.” I down the rest of my beer and reach for another, which continue showing up right on cue.

  Dave says, “You mean how they don’t like this stuff, and plan to eliminate it.”

  My attention drifts back to the crowd, and the daydream resumes. “Yeah,” I say, feeling somewhat detached. “But it’s not going to happen. They’ll never take this away, even if they think they do.”

  Jerry asks, “What do you mean, dude? If they think they do?”

  The crowd weaves hypnotically, their motion begins to slow, and the blaring music seems to fade.

  “I don’t know, but I just know. I see us doing this in the future, no matter what happens, no matter where we go. It can’t be taken away, I just know it. I can see it.”

  “Enough serious talk,” Dave says. “There’s plenty of time for that tomorrow.”

  His words bleed into the vision. Tomorrow is . . . the future. The dancing crowd, they are . . . when? Not now, not really. And where? I must find them. An unfinished task, to locate . . . a diagram? Of what? The memory taunts but holds back, though its importance is clear—a vital clue exists that points the way to our missing friends.

  “Knock it off,” Dave says. “We’re supposed to be celebrating.”

  The daydream screeches to a halt. “Victory?”

  “Yeah, some anyway. Better than that, getting you back.” He unleashes that big white grin and rattles my shoulder. “So shut up and have some fun. We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.”

  Right, have fun tonight, then tomorrow they’ll drop a load on me, something about how we’re going to lose all this. Sure, I remember plenty.

  Madison has that wicked look again, like she’s hungry and I’m on the menu. “That’s right,” she says. “Tonight’s a chance for you and me to have some of our own, private fun.” She slides a hand across my thigh and gives it a squeeze.

  Dave says, “I really wish you’d stop that.”

  Now he becomes the target of her glare, but that lusty gaze I’ve been soaking in just gave birth to venomous snakes. “And I really wish you’d mind your own business.” Then she turns to me and might as well be an entirely different person. “Well, sweetie? Ready to go?”

  Jerry realizes the call to duty. “Go? Where to?”

  “Home,” Matt says.

  Madison scowls at him. “We’re not going home yet.”

  “I am. I’ve had enough of this grand idea.”

  “Me too,” Dave says. “Jerry, looks like the party’s over, at least for me and Matt.”

  Jerry asks, “How about you, Adam?”

  Another new beer shows up. The buzz phase is past, now approaching the threshold of full-blown falling down drunken foolishness.

  “Hell no!” I declare. “I’m not done, I’m with Madison. I’m doing whatever she’s doing.”

  Dave is not amused by my enthusiasm. He stands and pushes in his chair. “Fine, but don’t stay out too late.”

  “What are you, my mommy?”

  His brow tightens. Then he gives it up and starts for the exit. Matt and Jerry follow.

  Madison rises and lends me her hand. Oh, standing is difficult, I can’t seem to keep from swaying. Madison has a much better sense of herself, holding tight and keeping me pointed the right direction. My date, she’s taking care of her drunk. Delightful!

  Stumbling over my own toes as Madison hauls me across the parking lot, I’m yanked all over the place on the way to the taxi. The ordeal seems to last forever, but I know better, it was only minutes. Whatever was in that beer sure messed up my sense of time, and space, and balance, and . . .

  I climb into the backseat and snuggle up beside Madison, her thigh jammed tight against mine. She grins and fiddles with my knee. On her other side, Matt gl
ances at me, her wandering hand, then rolls his eyes. “Oh brother,” he says. “I’ve had enough of this crap. Get me out of here, quick!”

  Jerry starts the engine. “Okay, okay, keep your pants on, dude.”

  “Mine are on fine.”

  Matt and Dave seem irritated with Madison, like she’s misbehaving. Oh hell, let her misbehave, she’s good at it. My hand runs along her thigh and begins to wander.

  Once underway, the bright cityscape soon fades as we venture into an industrial area littered with factories and warehouses. Jerry turns in to a dark alley flanked by brick buildings. He punches the throttle and speeds through the narrow passage, batting away a few stray garbage cans along the way. What’s the damn hurry? A cross street is ahead and he’s not bothering to slow down. He’s a maniac. We soar through the intersection—he didn’t even look—and rocket into the next alley, the rear bumper scraping as the taxi bottoms out. Nearing the end—our end I fear, when a speeding truck barrels through the next blind intersection—he jams the brakes and skids around the corner, bringing the taxi to a neat stop along the curb.

  “Here you go,” he says.

  I claw at the door latch and scramble to escape this psycho before we all end up dead. The door pops open and I leap out, then stagger around the taxi to the sidewalk where it’s safe. Or maybe not—a dingy street, not so well lit, and not as upscale as the section of town we left behind.

  Madison gets out and joins me.

  Dave says, “Maddie, behave yourself.” He leans out the taxi window with a stern eye on her. “Don’t let Adam get too drunk. We have other things to deal with tomorrow.”

  She leaks a sneaky grin. “I assure you, I’ll be my very best.”

  Yeah, I bet we have other things to deal with tomorrow. A universe full of them.

  * * *

  The taxi fades into darkness, leaving me and Madison outside a small purple building. A tiny marquee displays a splash of flamboyant lettering that spells “Sammie’s,” under which further text reads “Exotic Dancers, Live Nude Girls,” and other lewd phrases suggesting we best not miss out on the wild, sex-starved women waiting—exclusively for us—just beyond the door. Good thing we showed up. Wouldn’t want them going hungry.

  Inside, we’re greeted by a blast of upbeat music. The live band is a simple three piece, drums, bass and guitar, belting out a powerful tune with a snappy tempo. The pace is frantic, so many notes crammed into so little time that it’s difficult to keep up. The intricate bass line could be a solo itself, and it’s a wonder the drums survive, pounded so hard the fragile skins may burst. The guitarist is a master. He plays rhythm, but within it manages a lead segment simultaneously. Truly phenomenal, these guys are incredibly talented. The energetic music urges me to dance, shuffling my feet and swinging my arms as my head bangs like a hammer.

  “Hey, disco-boy,” Madison says. “The girls do the dancing, and we watch.”

  “Oh, sorry.” My embarrassing performance comes to a sharp halt.

  She latches on and hauls me deeper into the club. While pushing through the rambunctious crowd, we pass the stage where the exotic girls perform. Wow! Look at that! The girl is gorgeous, and even better—completely naked. I’m going to like this place. Her breasts are very large, but something is wrong. They don’t seem to hang any, rather poke straight out, like someone took a mammoth cantaloupe, sliced the thing in two, and pasted each half to her chest.

  In a secluded corner, we settle into a cozy table. After a few moments, a waitress arrives.

  “What can I get you?” she asks.

  “Whiskey and soda for me,” Madison says. “And for him, a shot of the same.”

  A shot? I can’t say anything, not with the waitress staring at me. She won’t serve either of us after my tongue falls out and wiggles across the table looking for some words.

  “A shot of what?” the waitress asks. “Whiskey, or soda?”

  “Whiskey,” Madison says, and glances at me, then back to the waitress. “What? He’s okay, he’s a marshmallow. He won’t cause any trouble.”

  The waitress studies my face like something is wrong with it. “Well maybe, but . . .”

  “But what?” Madison asks.

  The waitress points to my mouth. “Look at him, he’s got permagrin. If he smiles any bigger, his head’s gonna crack open.”

  They both laugh. Ha-ha, very funny.

  “So what, I’m just happy. I’m having loads of fun, so I smile big.”

  That didn’t go so bad. Seems the beer cells—I mean, brain cells—that control speech, yeah, that’s it, they aren’t too far gone, not yet.

  “Okay, I’ll serve him,” the waitress says. “But keep an eye on Mister Happy and his load of fun.” She glares one last time—a warning shot—and wanders off.

  Madison gazes at me with her lovely inquisitive expression. “What are you so happy about?”

  Hmm, what’s a good answer?

  “Life?”

  One word replies are good. In this condition, forming complete sentences is a chore.

  She smiles. “Life, eh? So you’re liking it.”

  “Yes.”

  See, I can do it. One word at a time.

  “So tell me, Mister Happy, what are you liking about it? What’s making you smile so much?”

  How can I answer that in just one word?

  “You,” comes flying out of my mouth.

  Or I could have said beer, the real reason I can’t stop grinning. But my first choice was better, seeing how it gave Madison a glowing smile.

  “Oh, Adam, you’re so charming. I love you.” She forms an expression that may lead to crying, not of sorrow, but of joy. She is so beautiful, even when she tears up. She deserves more than one word at a time.

  “I love you too.”

  What did I say? I did, I said it, it’s true, but it’s okay. More drinks tearing down the barriers that hold our emotions hostage.

  A tear slips down her cheek, and her mouth scrunches into a tiny smile. The size does not reduce its significance, her smile is full of love, for me, for us, our being together.

  The waitress returns with our drinks. Madison wipes her tear and gets a new smile, not so tiny. She raises her glass high. “Cheers!” She extends her arm, casting the beverage away. Is something wrong with it? She hasn’t even tried it yet. And what is cheers? Next she says, “Drink up.” Oh, I get that, put it up. When I raise my small glass, she smacks hers into mine, then adds more nonsense. “Bottoms up, down the hatch.” She brings it to her lips and flings her head back, taking the load in one swallow. Maybe I’ll follow, but I don’t follow this lingo. What hatch? We’re nowhere near the ship.

  I tilt my tiny glass and down the contents in one swift gulp. Yow! It burns, almost. Not really, just that it might somehow. A cool liquid, but it warms my chest.

  Now hold on—I know what she was doing. A toast. A ceremonial embrace of glasses and the following consumption of the beverages contained therein. Huh? Good thing I didn’t try saying that, tough enough just thinking it. A toast, sure, and I’ve had whiskey before, but why didn’t I remember until after the fact? Familiar situations emerge, yet they appear foreign until past, then it’s all perfectly clear—similar events have occurred before. The drinks are having a strange effect. An occluded past knocks at the door, and forces its way in, but without regard for which memories are trivial, and which are of deadly importance.

  Madison says, “Let’s sit at the rack. I want a better look.”

  Huh? Oh, the rack, I know that one—the area around the stage where us sleazy men can sit close and see all the details. Sure, I know all about the rack, I’ve seen that before. Yeah, it’s all coming back, thanks to that head-whirling whiskey. Maybe I’ll have another.

  * * *

  We slip into seats at the rack. The other sleazy men gathered at the stage notice Madison, and they smile. Apparently any female, on stage or off, gets the attention of these perverts.

  A different girl now performs, q
uite delicious, though a contrast to the last—this one has titties. That’s the thing about breasts. When they’re really big they’re called boobs, knockers, maybe even jugs, while the smaller variety are typically referred to as titties, or simply—tits. The dancer’s breasts remind me of Madison, whose are similarly small, but that’s okay, since the real beauty of any breast is the nipple, where the mouth finds pleasure tickling the stiff candy with the tongue and teeth, sucking and nibbling, oh what a delightful treat.

  Much of the dancer’s physique is similar to Madison. The womanly hips, meaty thighs, and petite though adequate breasts, baring tight, erect nipples. But her skin is fair, a contrast to Madison’s luxurious bronze, and her shorter hair is dirty blonde.

  The dancer has moved along the stage, giving each customer a personal show, and now she approaches me and Madison. The dancer wiggles and squirms erotically, nearly touching herself in all the right places, which brings much delight to Madison, who displays a wide grin as she enjoys the dancer’s suggestive performance. The dancer draws extremely close, bringing her luscious breast nearly in contact with Madison’s cheek.

  Madison asks, “What’s your name?”

  “Emerald. And you?”

  “I’m Madison, and this is Adam.”

  Emerald smiles. “Hi, Adam. Nice to see you brought your woman along.” She looks at Madison with a sensual gaze nearly equal to one Madison might conjure herself. “She is beautiful,” Emerald says, then reaches out to stroke Madison’s hair. “You’re a lucky guy to have such a beautiful girlfriend.”

  Girlfriend? When did she become my girlfriend? Sure, she’s a girl, and my friend, but combined, the term is uncomfortable.

  Madison returns the caress, running the back of her hand across Emerald’s cheek. “When do you get off?”

  What does she mean? Matt is right, my mind’s in the gutter. I’ve got to stop being such a sleaze, I might get hurt. She means when she gets off work.

  Emerald says, “When you touch the right spot.” Her sweet lips curl toward a grin.

  Seems everybody’s in the gutter with me. Yep, we’re all gutter trash, doomed to a life of pure pleasure. Love it!