by Castle, Jack
Peyton was the first to speak. “Is that a plane?”
As if the earthquakes, sinkholes, and floods weren’t enough, it appeared as though a 747 fell from the sky and put down right on top of one of the larger retail warehouses leaving a swathe of destruction in its wake.
(Talk about a bad day for Rapid City)
Still staring at the downed commercial airliner, Peyton asked, “Do you think the whole world’s like this?”
“We don’t know that,” Wally said reflexively. “The question is, do we push on or turn back?”
That’s Wally for you. Right down to business. Someone puts up a barricade and he doesn’t waste time wondering why it’s there, just how do you get around it. He was right, of course. They had to go on. She scanned the road ahead and supposed if they took their time she could navigate the broken patches of pavement and get through the fragmented town to the other side. But then what? Keep going? The ambulance would run out of fuel eventually. She supposed they could siphon some gas out some of the cars down there or maybe even hit up one of the gas stations. But if they ran into one of those things? Busted up as they were, weaponless, could they really offer up much of a fight? And for what, only to travel another hundred miles to a town that looked exactly the same as this one?
(I hate to say it, but they should at least consider ending it right here. Don’t ya think?)
It was Peyton who first noticed it. A thin sliver of light--one barely visible on the horizon to the west. At first, Becca thought it was her imagination. They had only been in darkness for three days (had all this happened in only three days?) but the nightfall had made it feel more like an eternity.
It wasn’t much to go on, but in the end the three of them had decided to navigate their way through the mess that used to be Rapid City and press onward.
From there, the plan was a simple one.
Head toward the fading light… always toward the fading sliver of light… Oh, and find the boy.
(Sooooo… did you finally figure it out? If you go back and look again I’m sure you will find the answer. )
(Did you find the answer?)
(Did you check the front left tire?)
(I’m not going to tell you the answer. You have to find the real answer in the book, but here’s half of it… )
I AM THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD
(Pleasant Dreams)
AFTERWORD
This particular novel began in the middle of a 3,000 mile trek from Orlando, Florida to Northern Idaho. After driving another fourteen hour day, I found myself smack dab in the middle of the Badlands of South Dakota. I knew I’d best get some rest before pushing on so I pulled into this creeeeeepy motel to stay for the night. Even as I sat in my rig, idling on the road just shy of the parking lot, I kept staring at the eerie blood-red MOTEL sign. For some reason this scene popped in my head (as though someone else had put it there) and I saw this broken K-9 instructor waking upside down in her vintage-looking Land Rover on the frozen desolate highway. As much as I tried to push the scene aside, I kept wondering about this person. How was she going to get out? Why was she there in the first place? Where was she going, and how did she end up upside down in a Land Rover in the middle of the Dakota Badlands in the middle of winter?
As I lay down to sleep I tried to force the story completely out of my head because I was already behind on another book. Then I remembered something my mentor, J.P. Waller, (the former editor to the Vice President) once told me. He said that Mark Twain was often faced with this same dilemma of having a new story barge in while you are right in the middle of writing another one. Rather than throw out these intrusive little gems, Mr. Twain would flesh out the new story while it was still hot on his noggin’ and then park his notes, outline, rough draft, and whatever else he deemed necessary to the story, in his “Shipyard” for later retrieval.
Now my other story was easily one of the most fun stories I had the pleasure of writing. (Available for pre-order on Dec 1st). This was probably mostly due to the fact that my nine-year old daughter kept pestering me for the latest chapter every day, and we would read finished pages before tucking her into for bed for the night. But try as I might, that pesky military K-9 instructor, the one trapped upside down in her Land Rover, wouldn’t stop shouting, no screaming, for me to do something about her current dilemma. And I mean, she was never happy. I’d get her out of the upside down Land Rover and she would be like, “So you’re just going to leave me here out in the middle of nowhere, all by myself?” So I’d get her on down the road, even picked up a few stragglers along the way; heck, I even checked the whole lot of them into a motel. And you guessed it, still not happy and then she says, “You’re going to leave me here, in this dump?!” So I began clumping ideas, scenes and characters for the novel. Along the way it became less about writing a scary story and more about these gritty, broken survivors and the end result was a psychological thriller punctuated with moments of sheer terror.
I knew a scary book would never sell; -unless you’re King or Koontz. So in the end I wrote the story for myself, my wife, and a handful of beta readers, namely one Ryan Chidester, (seriously that guy and I would talk about fresh pages like we had just watched our favorite television show), and for a freelance editor by the name of Ansley Blackstock who is worth her editorial weight in gold. Anyway, this small band of readers (myself included) became fans of this creeeeeepy little story about a broken K-9 instructor trapped in a bizarre and horrific motel. We were all excited to see what happens next--me included! So against all odds, busy schedules, and doubts, I finished it. And you know what? I thought maybe, just maybe, there are a few more people out there who just might like it, too.
Until our paths cross again dear reader,
-Jack Castle
Here’s a sneak peek for the next new novel by real life adventurer Jack Castle.
Revenants Child
Chapter 1
Flight #192
“Your attention please, your attention, this is Captain Elizabeth Whitmore…”
Lizzie began the in-flight announcements doing her utmost best to Americanize her crisp British accent. “We’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty-six thousand feet. You will note that I’ve turned off the Fasten Seatbelt sign and you are now free to move about the cabin. Please feel free to use any approved electronic devices, but when seated please do so with your seatbelt on. Thank you for attention and we shall be arriving in New York within the estimated flight time of eight hours and forty-two minutes.”
Flight Captain Elizabeth Whitmore (Witch-More as many of her fellow pilots called her behind her back due to the fact that she was as by the book as she was British) lowered the mic into its receiver and let out a modest, yet pleasurable sigh. This was her bird. After three years of flight school, fifteen-hundred hours of flight time (at the cost of seventy-grand), several more years as a co-pilot and an additional two-thousand hours of flight time (at the cost of one marriage, an amazing cat, and no small trifle of aging) she was now a full-fledged Captain. This very day marked her one month anniversary of being in command and Lizzie was loving every minute of it.
Despite the extremely strong headwinds rolling in from the east, Olympic Airlines Flight #192 departed on time out of SEATAC (Seattle Airport for any non-aviation enthusiasts) and was safely cruising at an altitude of thirty-six thousand feet on a heading of due east. And presently, they were right on time. The weather forecast called for a flight path thick with clouds but thus far the night sky was so crystal clear it was practically pristine, and the gigantic moon rising up over the mountains was so spectacular it might as well have been a sunrise.
“You forgot to mention the local arrival time.”
That would be her co-pilot, one Ron Sturgeon, – one part bully, one part coward and all part full of himself. He fancied himself a Captain, which he was not. Despite this, he asked everyone to call him “Captain Ron”, which Lizzie had no intention of doing until he had earned his bars like everyone
else. Normally Ron preferred to do the announcements and try out his latest comedy routine. And even she had to admit, a few of the passengers found his anecdotes a trifle amusing, some even offering a snicker or two, but Lizzie chalked these singular wits as to being a captive audience combined with the fact that they felt as though that if they didn’t laugh “Captain Ron”. Damn, now he’s got me saying it, just might fly the plane into the ground like a lawn dart.
Non-Captain Ron pushed a hand through his thinning comb-over and nodded sheepishly over to her, “Hey, uh, I’m gonna go in the back and, uh, check on the crew.” Which when translated Lizzie took his meaning as, ‘Even though I’m married, I’m gonna go flirt with the new flight attendant who is half my age.’ Without even waiting for an answer Ron began unfastening his seatbelt. “You got this, right?” he asked, squeezing by her. In the tight compartment no amount of cologne could mask the odor of the cannabis sweating from his pores. Smoking Marijuana may have become legal in the state of Washington but it was still quite illegal in the friendly skies, especially when one is responsible for the safety of one-hundred-and-fifty souls on board.
“Yeah, sure,” she responded with a practiced neutral tone and American accent. As a member of the female minority amongst pilots she had learned long ago to blend in and not make any waves but at the same time her integrity refused to condone his inappropriate behavior.
Non-Captain Ron departed the cockpit through the tiny cabin door with his normal oafish grace. Lizzie counted to ten before dialing in the flight ahead of them. She moved the mouthpiece of her headset closer to her mouth, and speaking in somewhat hushed tones, she said, “This is Flight #192 actual to Flight #124.”
She didn’t have to wait very long.
“Hey Lizzie. Right on schedule. Sir Smokes-a-Lot must’ve tucked himself in early this evening.”
A smiled creased her lips. Good ole’ Bob, always quick with a joke. And unlike “Captain Ron”, Bob was actually funny. Bob also happened to be Colonel Robert Barker, a (retired) highly-decorated combat veteran, plus a seasoned commercial pilot for nearly thirty years. Despite his impressive experience, he always insisted everyone call him Bob, or as the other pilots called him, ‘Old Bob’. Lizzie knew she would’ve been washed out by the “boys club” were it not for the senior pilot taking her under his protective wing. Co-piloting with him had been her most pleasurable hours with Olympic Airlines, and maybe even in her life. Bob was like the Father she never had but always wanted. It was he who had pushed her towards her Captain’s bars but now in six more days Old Bob was being forced to retire. Soon she’d be soaring the friendly skies all by her lonesome.
Lizzie thought about all of this in about a nanosecond and quickly replied with, “Flirting with the new stewardess is more likely.” She knew Bob didn’t care for Ron. He’d offered to file a complaint but she knew Ron would only get a slap on the wrist and he and his hoard of cronies would only have it out for her once Bob had left. Which begs the question, Why is it Twits always traveled in packs?
“That poor girl has my deepest sympathies,” Bob’s good-natured voice came back.
Lizzie stifled a giggle as she glanced casually down at the VCON.
“Well, that’s not quite right,” she said to herself. Several airport beacons on the east coast were no longer visible on the monitor. Even as she was studying the display monitor another beacon, this time Newark Airport, dropped off her screen. She was steadily becoming more certain of it now. Where did they all go?
She clicked her mic, “Hey Bob, can you check your VCON gear for me?” She waited a few seconds and then asked, “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Elizabeth figured Bob was most likely triple-checking his own instruments before responding.
“You able to raise New York?” was the only thing Bob radioed back.
Elizabeth took a calming breath before clicking her mic again. “Negative. According to my gear it appears as though the entire Eastern seaboard is out.”
“Hang on; let me see if I can raise Kennedy.”
“Copy that,” she responded briskly. Then picking up the handheld microphone she paged, “First Officer Sturgon to the flight deck please.” As she replaced the mic to its holder she observed another beacon vanish, this time as far inland as Lexington, Kentucky. She shuddered as an enormous feeling of trepidation washed over her.
With a great deal of effort she dismissed any thoughts of supernatural dread. Behind her, Ron opened the compartment door and forced his girth inside the cockpit. Instead of returning to his seat, he hovered over her and asked irritably, “Why’d you have me paged?”
Ron should have seen it himself, but he missed it, just like he missed the mustard stain on his tie. So she nodded towards the VCON display.
He studied the monitor for a moment and then said condescendingly, “Will you relax? It’s probably just a malfunction. Happens all the time.”
Which it did not.
“With the GPS out, too?” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Now I can’t see Indianapolis call sign. It’s like the blackouts are moving west in a wave.”
As Ron sluggishly lowered himself into his seat the cockpit’s speakers crackled and Bob’s voice finally came back over the airwaves. “Lizzie, hang on a sec. I want to see if I can raise Flight #138,” which she knew, according to the flight roster, to be ahead of Bob.
Long seconds dragged into longer minutes. While she waited the continuing drone of the engines seemed louder than before. Lizzie chalked it up to her growing sense of unease. To occupy her mind she conned the controls for the umpteenth time: Altimeter, Airspeed indicator, Compass, D.I. (Directional Indicator); -everything was in the green and as should be; everything that is except for the VCON. More airport beacons flickered out and still nothing back from Bob. It was unnerving. Lizzie sighed and wiped the sweat off her brow onto her sleeve.
“What the hell?” Ron said.
Lizzie detected a shrill of panic in his voice. Now he was seeing it too.
About time.
“Lizzie.” Bob’s tone was serious now. “I wasn’t able to raise the flight ahead of me or anybody east of the Mississippi. If you and I lose contact too, I want you to turn your bird around and high-tail it for the nearest airport. If this is some kind of terrorist attack or some kind of weird natural phenomenon I don’t want you dropping out of the sky right behind me. Understand?”
She clicked her mic but didn’t have the words.
“Lizzie. Did you copy my last transmission?”
She swallowed the bile growing in her stomach. “I copy, Bob,” she heard herself say.
“Okay, I’m crossing the blackout threshold in approximately thirty seconds. I’ll keep an open channel while I do.”
Inspiration struck and to alleviate the tension she quickly told him, “Hey Bob, if you see Rod Serling on the other side be sure to and tell him hello for me.”
“I’ll do it. Crossing blackout boundary in seven… six… five…” Both she and Ron heard garbled noises, tearing of meat, “four… three…”
A man screaming…
An explosion…
Static…
“Flight #124, this is Flight #192, do you copy, over?”
Lizzie double-checked the frequency on the transponder. She strained her ears listening but heard nothing. “I say again, Flight #124, this is Flight #192 actual, please respond.”
Ron shook his stupid ogre head.
Even as Lizzie was changing the frequency and dialing in the nearest Airport to Bob’s last known location, Ron said, “Sioux Falls is the closest airport to where Bob…” he had trouble saying it “…disappeared.”
“This is Flight #192 actual calling Sioux Falls.” Nothing. Na-da. “Sioux Falls Airport, Sioux Falls Airport, this is Olympic Airlines Flight #192, actual, do you copy, over?”
Both she and Ron held their breath as they waited for an answer to their hails.
They were alone.
“Flight #192, we copy you. You are Lim
a-Charlie, what can we do for you this fine brightly moonlit evening?”
Both she and Ron exhaled simultaneously. They shared a look of relief and Lizzie sucked in another deep breath before answering, “Sioux Falls, boy are we glad to hear from you. We seem to be having some sort of malfunction with our transponder and are unable to locate anything east of your position, including Flight #124. Please advise over.”
“Come back, Flight #192, you are extremely garbled.”
The growing unease in her stomach returned in an instant. She shivered as the static became so loud she had to turn the volume down. “I say again, Sioux Falls…” she began but the feedback became so bad she instinctively ripped the headset from her head.
Ron asked, “Have you tried Non-Commercial frequencies?”
“No. But that’s a good idea. Try that… and if that doesn’t work, try your cell phone.”
More beacons vanished. The blackout wave was getting closer by the second. Ron’s face was noticeably pale. In a small and trembling voice he asked, “Lizzie, what’s going on?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know; an electromagnetic pulse, some sort of new weapon maybe?”
When Ron spoke there were no comedic undertones, no subtle hints of insubordination in his voice. “If that’s true, why hasn’t it hit us?”
Lizzie considered Ron’s mounting fears before answering. “It hasn’t hit us… yet. This thing, it’s like a wave, and it’s moving west, right for us.”
As she let that sink in, it occurred to her that this was all part of some elaborate dream, brought on by the stress of her promotion and her mentor retiring. That was the only thing that made even the slightest bit of sense. She had ‘work nightmares’ all the time; especially during her initial training. Sure, that’s it. Any second now I’ll wake up in some crappy hotel room and realize this has all been some stupid anxiety dream.
