Table of Contents
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Introduction
OVERTURE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
PRELUDE TO A DRIVE
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PRELUDE TO A DECISION
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
PRELUDE TO THE NIGHTMARE
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
REQUIEM
Chapter 34
REPRISE FOR A DRIVE
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
GLISSANDO II
Chapter 41
TIME WALKER
Episode 2 of the Walker Saga
Shannan Sinclair
TIME WALKER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Real places are used in the scope of fiction.
Copyright © 2017 Shannan Sinclair
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-9994101-3-x (Ebook version)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9994101-3-4 (Ebook version)
ISBN: 0-9994101-4-1 (Print version)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9994101-4-1 (Print version)
To Time Walkers everywhere…
“Sometimes nature guards her secrets with the unbreakable grip of physical law. Sometimes the true nature of reality beckons from just beyond the horizon.”
Brian Greene
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
OVERTURE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
PRELUDE TO A DRIVE
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PRELUDE TO A DECISION
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
PRELUDE TO THE NIGHTMARE
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
REQUIEM
Chapter 34
REPRISE FOR A DRIVE
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
GLISSANDO II
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
CRESCENDO
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
CLOSING CREDITS
DEAR TIME WALKER,
SIGNAL LINES
EPISODE 3
About the Author
Acknowledgments
To all the Dream Walkers who patiently waited to become Time Walkers; the time is now.
To my first listener, Dan Zampa. For all those nights on the back porch, your rapt attention, and our long discussions about the nature of reality and how men (boys?) talk with each other. I’ll hold on to those when reality shifts.
First readers, Kelsea Overstreet, Rick Posey, Kim Anderson, Phyllis Hoffman, Renea Dawes, your notes, questions, insights, and support help shape these novels and are priceless to me.
My editor Kerri Miller, whose keen eye and patience with my needless commas helps me look professional.
And my daughters Kelsea and Mattéa Overstreet. I keep pursuing my dreams so you will keep pursuing yours.
Introduction
Dear Dream Walker,
In Episode 1 we talked about music being a basic tool for activating the brain centers, especially the lobes that house memory and recognition.
We can use music as a gateway, not only into our memories and history, but also to tap into our creativity and other dimensions. I provided links at the end of Dream Walker to music that helped me tap into the Signature Frequencies of the characters and relationships.
Because reading is already a portal into new worlds and experiences, I wanted to enhance that experience with music in Time Walker.
So throughout Episode 2, I have inserted links to music that sets tone and provides a signal line into and out of scenes. As a reader, you can chose skip these if it helps you stay in the story. If you’d like to take this story to a different level, the musical interludes provide a great place to pause from the words (one part of your brain), and into imagination (another part).
All links connect to Spotify. It is easiest to connect through Google Chrome while you read. Click the link and let the music take you into the story a little deeper.
I am not an affiliate of Spotify. I do not get compensated in any way, but the artists do!
If you take that musical journey, I would love to hear your thoughts and feelings about it! Drop me a line at [email protected].
Catch you on the Astral~
Shannan Sinclair
E=mc2
Albert Einstein
4 cps + 44 cps = ∞
Shannan Sinclair
OVERTURE
Ghosts ‘n’ Stuff ~ Deadmaus
One
The black void suffocated her. Whether her eyes were open or closed, she couldn’t tell. A persistent hush buzzed in her ears, and velocity pressed her hard against an unforgiving surface. Time and again, a hitch or a swerve heaved her to and fro. Total blindness coupled with the erratic motion gave her vertigo.
A cold sweat broke out first, then the bitter burn of bile filled her mouth. She swallowed it back down, her stomach lurching. Blood-red streaks of light strobed through her brain. Fiery explosions of orange and white flashed behind her eyeballs. An excruciating pain pierced her temporal lobes, and an irritating scratching attacked her skull. The kaleidoscope intensified, pulsating in furious counterpoint to the mad scratching attacking her skull.
Come here, Poppet. I have some things to show you.
Aislen resisted the pull of the raspy voice in her head, terrified where it would lead her, but a vise grabbed hold of her brain and began to squeeze. She tried to cling to the fading lucidity, but she was in a tug of war with something, someone, more powerful.
Come on, Poppet. It’s very important.
The tenuous thread of consciousness snapped, and Aislen succumbed to the black.
Two
Sigmund smelled of skunk and sex
. A sticky concoction of cheap eau de toilette, marijuana, sweat, vaginal secretions and seminal fluids that had marinated for days on unwashed sheets violated his nostrils.
An occupational hazard—one can easily sniff out certain ways of making a living. Blood and raw meat clung to the butcher. Antiseptic, feces, and urine enveloped the doctor. Oil and metal coated the mechanic.
No matter how vigorously Sigmund scrubbed himself during his bath, the musky effluvia of the whorehouse ever wafted about him. Soap and water erased the Mary Jane, but nothing relieved the tang of Misty’s over-worked pussy. Sigmund attempted to anyway, exfoliating his flesh with a rough bristle brush. Even after draining and filling the tub three times he could still catch a whiff of Misty in the steam of the bath water. He gagged.
The exhaust of human fornication always dredged up a powerful nostalgia in him. He was disgusted, yet at the same time his scientific mind marveled at how the slightest scent passing through two small nasal orifices could sweep him off into distant memories.
The aroma of baking bread took him right back into his mother’s arms, his face buried in her bosom. He could remember nothing else about her, neither face nor voice, just the scent of yeast and milk that burped from the deep crevice of her tits as she nursed him.
The savor of wet cement after a fresh fall of rain could transport him back to the Lebensborn and its plump Fräuleins in crisp, white dresses. Sigmund remembered them better than he did his mother. They had pampered and doted on him, bathed, fed and dressed him, tucked him into bed and told him lullaby stories. His favorite was the one about how his mother left him at the Lebensborn as a gift to the cause. Little Siggy, the tow-headed, blue-eyed boy, was the noble prince anointed by Heinrich Himmler himself into the membership of the Führer’s elect.
“How lucky you are,” they would say. “She left you here so that you may help fulfill our destiny.”
Their words, “ideal,” “superior,” and “Aryan,” danced in his dreams at night.
Sigmund lathered himself with more soap. Its zest of orange and lemon conjured up beautiful women draped in the fragrance.
Spying from the nursery, Siggy would watch them, their eyes and lips painted bright, as they laughed and flirted with important-looking men. They weren’t unlike the whores he worked with, except those women were eugenically valuable: flaxen-haired, blue-eyed jewels—perfect breeding vessels.
The men arrived every night during the season, dressed head to toe in rich sable, from their caps and belted jackets down to their shining, knee-high boots. The silver oak leaves on their lapels, their spread-eagle medals and skull and bone pins glimmered in the party lights. Each of them wore a deep red armband adorned with a satin circle of pure white. Inside the immaculate orb were broken black lines that reminded Siggy of a creeping spider. At six years old, he didn’t know what the symbol meant, but he could tell it was something they were proud of.
Later in the evenings, the pretty women would pair up with soldiers and slink off into private rooms. Siggy would sneak from the nursery, hide between the legs of upholstered armchairs and listen as soft giggles turned into muffled moans, rutting grunts became lusty cries, and the scent of sex filled the hallways.
It always comes back around to sex, doesn’t it? Sigmund thought, draining the claw tooth tub of its malodorous filth for the fourth time.
Sex and death.
He refilled the bath with fresh, scalding water and repeated the scrubbing process.
The women lingered at the Lebensborn long after the men were gone. Their essence shifted from orange blossoms to butter as their bellies grew full and distended. Over time, their bellies popped and flattened, and then the pretty ladies were gone too, leaving behind a nursery crowded with newborns and the oppressive stench of sour milk and shit.
The squalling was endless. The Fräuleins, their hands full now, could no longer lull Siggy to sleep with their bedtime stories, and he suffered many sleepless nights.
But the suffering was short lived. Infants born with snarled lips or crossed eyes or hair that was too dark were left to cry, eventually silenced by starvation. Sometimes the doctor would put Siggy out of his misery sooner. “Not good enough,” the Doktor would mumble before he clamped a fat hand down over their tiny mouths and noses.
Siggy would smile at their agonal sucking noises, happy when they were finally quiet. Not only could he sleep peacefully, but the nurses could also invest more time in him—feeding him, bathing him, tucking him in and reminding him of his destiny.
Sigmund rinsed the last of the soapy lather off his pale skin, pulled the rubber plug, and watched as the water gathered into a vortex and slipped down the small dark hole. He sat back in the warm porcelain basin, letting his skin drip-dry.
A hard tap at the window jolted him from his reverie. Even though he knew it was only the glass readjusting from the balmy heat of the room back to the chill of the morning air outside, he still glanced over his shoulder. A wisp of fog slipped through the open gap between the pane and the sill. He watched as it floated toward him, then encircled the tub, deliberate, like it had a will of its own.
Sigmund shrugged off the ridiculous notion and inhaled the cool filaments. He could make out the scent of the bay, a briny mixture of fish and iodine that reminded him of snot and tears.
Oh, how they would bawl, those children! Taken from their Nordic homes by Hitler’s conquering army and brought to the Lebensborn to be Germanized, they may have looked ideal, with their fair heads and blue eyes, but crying was not a superior trait. They should have been grateful—willing to embrace their new lives—but they would just not stop crying. And when they wouldn’t, they were marched into the forests.
Siggy knew something bad happened to those children. He knew that the soldiers were not hunting pheasant when the gunshots echoed back across the fields. And yet, Siggy felt consoled by this. It proved he was a good boy. He was better than them.
The air stirred again, agitated by an unseen force. It tickled his bare arms. Still lost in his daydream, he glanced around the room. He half expected to find his favorite Fräulein to be standing by, waiting to embrace him with her rough white towel—waiting to scratch his head, his back, his arms and legs dry—waiting to tell him to spread his legs so she could pull the towel back and forth between them.
This memory aroused him; a rush of blood engorged his manhood. He closed his eyes and reached for it, recalling her moon face, its ruddy complexion and masculine features, and her thick, sausage arms dimpled with fat. She was not viable for anything. She knew it. And even at five, Siggy knew it too.
Sigmund pleasured himself, stroking both memory and member. He smiled as he remembered her initial shock at his fledgling erection, and then her embarrassment when he thrust it toward her forcefully.
“Berühren sie es.”
He remembered the flush that spread across her face and chest when he leveled his eyes with hers and demanded what she was bound by servitude to do. One squall from him and she’d be gone. “Off to the trains,” he’d heard the Fräuleins whisper to each other around the house whenever one of their comrades failed to remember their duty.
He remembered the first time she stroked him and began mimicking her touch; the perfect vacillations between fearful hesitance and angry firmness.
He was very close to orgasm when a door creaked from the floor below. A sharp flare of irritation disrupted his rhythm. She knew not to be seen or heard! Yet she never could manage the invisibility Sigmund demanded of her. He contemplated calling for her and having her complete his release for him, but the bath had softened the ire he needed to make her tremble just the way he liked. It was easier just to do it himself.
If you want something done right…
Astrid emerged from her basement storage, and her tiptoes tapped around the kitchen. Sigmund began rubbing his member again, hard, sharp strokes. He listened to the clinking of silverware as Astrid went about arranging his place at the table. She was trying to be oh,
so quiet, but she was such a clumsy bitch. This made him want to punish her, which aroused him further. He fantasized about denying her food until she whimpered or bestowing one of his humiliating whippings upon her. Just as he was ready to explode, the clatter of silverware against a plate shattered his second attempt at climax.
Silence followed. It was as though the house itself was holding its breath. Sigmund could feel Astrid stand below him through the floorboards. He could feel her listen for him. He could hear her heart race. A wave of her fear passed through the room, and all the hair on his body stood at attention. It was good that she was afraid; so very good. Excitement throbbed against his palm.
Falsely believing that he had not heard her falter, Astrid began moving around the kitchen again. Cupboards clicked open and shut. A pan was placed ever so gently on the stove. The burner ignited. Sigmund’s strokes fell into time with Astrid’s movements as she prepared his breakfast. He knew what was coming next, and it fueled his inner fire.
Time Walker: Episode 2 of The Walker Saga Page 1
