Sam Finch and the Zombie Hybrid (Sam Finch Series Book 1)

by Bouchard, J. W.

  SAM FINCH

  AND THE ZOMBIE HYBRID

  J.W. Bouchard

  Copyright © 2012 by J.W. Bouchard

  Cover artwork by Jasper Sandner

  All rights reserved. Published by JWB Publishing. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To learn more about the Sam Finch series, visit Sam’s website:

  http://www.samfinchwarrior.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Finch Gets In

  Chapter Two: Motherly Advice

  Chapter Three: The Only Home He Ever Knew

  Chapter Four: Secondhand Sword

  Chapter Five: Training Day

  Chapter Six: Girl Allowed

  Chapter Seven: Let There Be Magic

  Chapter Eight: Curtis’s Special Talent

  Chapter Nine: Sarah’s Invitation

  Chapter Ten: The Natural

  Chapter Eleven: Only The Holy

  Chapter Twelve: The Higher Ground

  Chapter Thirteen: Taming The Lizard

  Chapter Fourteen: Malavant Resurrected

  Chapter Fifteen: Making Amends

  Chapter Sixteen: Fortune Smiles

  Chapter Seventeen: The King’s Warning

  Chapter Eighteen: The Final Lesson

  Chapter Nineteen: The Darkest Hour

  Chapter Twenty: Cure And Consequences

  Chapter Twenty-One: The End Of First Year

  Author’s Afterword

  For Isabella

  Proof of miracles

  CHAPTER ONE

  FINCH GETS IN

  Growing up, Sam Finch had only ever required two things: a roof over his head and his vivid imagination. And it was a good thing, too, because the village was a dull place, where anything even remotely exciting rarely happened.

  He had lived in the same village since birth. Although it was a small and lackluster community, the people were friendly, and Sam had been fortunate enough to be raised by kind and loving parents who had provided a comfortable middle-class upbringing.

  Sam was a frail boy of below average height and slender frame, but made up for his physical shortcomings by being exceedingly intelligent for a fifteen-year-old. He had suffered from various ailments as a child, many of which had kept him confined to his bed for weeks or even months at a time. Sam had spent the majority of that time reading books on a variety of different subjects. His mother, Mary, had started to home school him at the age of five, giving him a head start over other children his age. She was a supportive and nurturing woman, but often times, Sam suspected (even before he was old enough to fully understand such things) that she was overprotective; he thought she would have been perfectly happy to confine him to the house for the rest of his natural life. Perhaps due to his childhood illnesses, she seemed unwilling to let him venture out into the world on his own.

  Edric, Sam’s father, seemed less concerned for his welfare. He was a hardworking and unimaginative man, who poured himself into his work with the same passion Sam had devoted to books. He was a man of few words, who spoke most often when Sam was helping him in the shop next to the house, which normally consisted of him barking orders at Sam or telling him he was doing something wrong. He respected his father, but Sam’s aspirations were far more grandiose than the humble niche his father had carved out for himself.

  Even now, Sam’s mind drifted like the smoke billowing from the giant forge in his father’s shop. His father was hunched over an anvil, banging a mallet against a narrow strip of metal which he toiled to bend into a distinct U shape. Sam gazed up at the bright blue sky, imagining the clouds were dragons, drifting lazily on their backs, and that at any moment one of them might swoop down low and breathe out a mouthful of flames.

  Sam slid off his stool. “Well, Dad, if you don’t need me…”

  “Where ya off to?”

  “Training.”

  “Training? Fer what?”

  Sam hesitated. This was a sore subject between them, and now Sam wished he hadn’t brought it up at all. Reluctantly, Sam replied with a whisper, “Warrior training.”

  “What’s that? Speak up.”

  His father continued to pound on the metal. Sam tried to time his words between the staccato beat of the mallet. “Warrior training,” he said more loudly. “You know, push-ups, sit-ups, that kind of stuff. I’ve got to make myself stronger.”

  “Still wastin’ yer time with that?”

  This was a reply which Sam had grown accustomed to. His father had always claimed that there were only two things required to become a warrior: a shiny sword and a dullard’s brain. Edric was far too pragmatic to play along with his son’s fantasies. If Sam refused to put his brain to good use by furthering his academics, than he should at least be learning the family trade.

  “It isn’t a waste of time,” Sam said, but the words didn’t come out as defiant as they had sounded in his head.

  “Ya ne’er hear stories of a bookworm slaying a dragon now do ya?”

  Sam was about to issue a retort, when he was cut off by the sound of his mother shrieking. She had come outside to greet the mailman as he rode up on his mule, and now she was running toward Sam and Edric, waving something over her head.

  “It’s come!” she shouted, stopping in front of them, taking a moment to catch her breath. “Your scores, Sam! They’ve finally arrived!”

  She handed Sam the folded parchment, smiling broadly.

  “What’s this ruckus about?” Edric asked.

  “Sam’s scores from the placement test! They’re here!”

  Sam’s hands trembled as he pried apart the wax seal, unrolled the parchment, and studied what was written on it. His mother peered anxiously over his shoulder. Even his father surrendered to curiosity, putting down his mallet and walking over to stand next to Mary. “Well, boy, what’s it say then?”

  But Sam wasn’t listening. The rest of the world had fallen away as he read through his scores.

  “Well? Are ya goin’ to tell us?” Edric said impatiently.

  Mary’s eyes widened as she cupped a hand over her mouth. She was able to read the test scores for herself. What she saw brought tears to her eyes. “They’re wonderful!”

  Sam began to read the scores out loud. “Twenty-three in Alchemy. Twenty-five in Holy Arts.”

  His mother bubbled over with giddiness. “Edric, that’s a perfect score!”

  Sam ignored his mother’s interruption and kept reading. “Mage Skills…twenty-four.” Sam’s eyes settled on the final subject, and his heart sank. “Warrior Warfare. Twenty.”

  “That’s still very good,” Mary said. “Above average.”

  “For an overall score of ninety-two out of one hundred,” Sam said. Some of his excitement waned as he silently read his score in Warrior Warfare over again.

  “Did you hear that, Ed? Our son scored a ninety-two! It must be a record!”

  Sam folded the parchment. “Not quite, Mom. I think ninety-seven is the highest.”

  “But it’s up there!” Mary wrapped her arms around him, hugging him so hard that Sam thought he might burst. “We’re so proud of you! Aren’t we, Ed? Edric?”

  Sam’s father grunted; a sound that seemed to indicate neither approval nor disapproval. He walked back to his anvil and picked up his mallet.<
br />
  Mary stared at her husband, raising her voice an octave as she said, “Aren’t we, Ed?”

  “Aye. Fine scores, boy.”

  “Let’s go inside and I’ll fix you something to eat,” his mother said, ushering Sam toward the cottage. Sam made no effort to resist, allowing her to lead him to the house while his mind was stuck on auto-pilot. He knew that realistically he had little to be disappointed about; he had attained nearly top marks in every subject, but he couldn’t help being a little depressed by the twenty he had received in Warrior Warfare. It was a passable score. In fact, it was above average. However, it was also the lowest score he had received in any of the four subjects. He had hoped it would be his highest.

  Ever since he could remember, his greatest ambition had been to enter the Dashelmore Warrior Training Academy, be trained as a warrior, and eventually join the ranks of King Leodan’s army. Sam had been waxing on about it for years, but his mother had never seemed keen on the idea, and for the last year or two, as the time had crept closer and closer for him to take his placement tests, his mother had become more vocal in her disapproval. “With a mind like yours,” she was always saying, “why would you waste your talent on something like that?” And after receiving that same reaction enough times, Sam had stopped mentioning it completely. Despite her frequent protests, if Sam had the scores and was accepted, there was very little his mother could do to stop him from going. Compared to some of the other training programs, Warrior Warfare was fairly cheap. Sam had always been frugal with his allowance money (what little there was of it); he wouldn’t have to rely on his parents to cover tuition.

  It was with these things in mind that Sam took a seat at the kitchen table. His mother fixed him a bowl of cinnamon oatmeal, sprinkling a handful of blueberries on top for good measure. Sam shoveled heaping spoonfuls into his mouth, staring out the kitchen window as he envisioned the things to come.

  Later that night, Sam exercised in his room. He started with a series of warm-up stretches, and then moved on to sit-ups, push-ups, and squats; he did each set without taking a break between different exercises. By the time he finished, the moon was shining into his room, and he was sweating profusely.

  He stepped in front of his mirror to look at himself. The image reflected back at him was the same as it had always been: a frail-looking boy with fair hair and a pale complexion that looked nothing like the warriors that occasionally passed through the village. All the warriors Sam had ever seen were tall and tanned and muscular; they always appeared to be chiseled out of stone. But no matter how many push-ups he did, no matter how much he ate to gain weight, the image in the mirror forever remained the same. Maybe his mother was right: maybe he was destined for something more academic. The Holy Arts or Mage Skills. Even his test scores attested to the fact that he would be more proficient at either of those disciplines compared to Warrior Warfare.

  Based on his scores, he knew they would have to accept him. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t wash out quickly. He wondered how he could possibly hope to stand up to the boys and young men who would be training alongside him. It was a well known fact that over a third of those who enrolled in the Dashelmore Warrior Training Academy either washed out or quit within the first month. Would he be one of them? Another outcast who returned home with his head hung low and a track record of utter failure.

  Sam cast the thought aside. He could scarcely imagine facing his mother if it turned out that she had been right all along. And what about his father? A man, who through hard work and integrity had earned the respect of his fellow villagers, only to be shadowed by shame due to his son’s inadequacies.

  But hadn’t his mother always taught him to chase his dreams? It was true. She had always said that, but as Sam grew older (and wiser), he realized that what she actually meant was that he should chase his dreams as long as they matched up with her own.

  His father had never said anything of the sort. Edric would choose reality over fantasy any day. Fantasy doesn’t put food on the table, was how his father so often put it.

  Sam was still gazing at himself in the mirror, when there was a knock at his door. A moment later, the door creaked open and his father stepped into the room. “Yer ma asked me to talk to ya,” he said, as if that explained everything. It served as more of a warning, really. His father’s way of saying, Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to be sayin’ it, but you know your mother…

  Edric sat down on the edge of the bed, motioning for Sam to sit down next to him. “Yer ma reckons ya’ve still got goin’ to that warrior school in yer head.”

  “It’s my choice.”

  “Aye. That it is. And I s’pose if yer mind’s made up, it won’t do any good to try talkin’ ya out of it. But consider yer options. At least for yer ma’s sake.”

  “I have. I’m enrolling in the Dashelmore Warrior Training Academy. It’s what I want. She’s the one always telling me to follow my dreams,” Sam said. “So that’s what I’m doing.”

  Edric nodded as if he had expected as much. “Just remember what I told ya. Weigh yer options.”

  “Okay.”

  With that, his father stood up without another word and left the room. Sam had half-expected his father to argue more aggressively, but maybe his father had known it wouldn’t do any good.

  Sam glanced at himself in the mirror a final time, and then plopped down onto his bed. He took a book from the pile next to his bed, opened it, and read until the flickering candlelight died out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MOTHERLY ADVICE

  Over the next few weeks, everything moved along as it should. Sam was nagged by his own constant impatience, keeping track of the days on his calendar, and crossing them off one-by-one until there were only two days left.

  For all that time his mother had diligently tried to talk him out of his decision, but Sam had remained steadfast, and for the last few days she seemed to have come to a gradual acceptance of it. He knew it couldn’t be easy for her. He had made an effort to do extra chores around the house, while still managing to find the time to pack his belongings.

  Sam had decided to take only the essentials; no need to weigh himself down with things he wouldn’t use. He was well aware that he would be sharing living quarters with the other boys, so personal space would be limited anyway. He packed hygiene items, a few books, and clothes.

  The day before he was scheduled to make the journey to Dashelmore, his mother had awakened him early and said, “I thought the two of us might go into the village today. Find you a few things you might need for school.”

  Sam eyed her suspiciously, searching for signs of an ulterior motive in his mother’s offer. Was she still holding onto the hope that she could change his mind? Perhaps this signaled a change in his mother’s tactic; maybe she thought she could kill him with kindness? He couldn’t think of anything else she might be playing at.

  “Umm…that would be fine,” he said, wondering if he was walking into a trap.

  “That settles it then. Let me fix myself up and we’ll be off.”

  While his mother prepped herself for the trip into the village, Sam went to his bedroom, removing a loose stone from the wall to reveal a secret compartment behind it. He dug in the compartment until his fingers touched the familiar leather pouch hiding there. He dumped the pouch’s contents onto the bed. A handful of coins tumbled onto his blanket. He separated the coins into three piles: copper, silver, and gold. He counted eight silver coins and fifteen copper ones. There were only three gold coins. Considering this measly pile constituted his entire life savings after he had mailed off the majority of it to cover his tuition, Sam thought it was a tad underwhelming. He scooped up the coins, deposited them back into the pouch, and cinched the leather drawstrings closed.

  When Sam reached the kitchen, swinging his coin pouch back and forth, Mary was already waiting for him.

  “You won’t be needing that,” his mother said.

  “What?”
He stopped swinging the pouch.

  “Your money. You can put it away. My treat.”

  “But I thought…”

  “Don’t argue. Leave it on the table.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Sam placed the leather coin pouch on the table.

  “Shall we go then?”

  Sam nodded, following her out the door. To his embarrassment, his mother was dressed in a billowy turquoise dress, giving her the appearance of someone who was off to a formal banquet rather than a shopping trip into the tiny village of Lesser Spriggleford.

  You should be thanking your lucky stars, he thought. At least she hasn’t tried to make you hold her hand.

  It was a half mile walk into the village. During the winter, even from a great distance, he remembered being able to see columns of smoke rising up into the air from peoples’ chimneys. Several carriages passed them headed in the opposite direction, and his mother smiled and waved as they went by. Sam wondered if she knew all of them.

  Five minutes later, they reached the village. Shops lined either side of the road. Beyond them, large white tents had been erected, and Sam could see children scurrying around, weaving in and out of them. The smell of food wafted to his nose, making him realize how hungry he was.

  “Should we stop for a bite to eat?” his mother asked. Sam nodded, his eyes darting to the various food stands. With it being summer, the village was a hub of activity, which was in stark contrast to the winter months, when it was usually little more than a ghost town. Several of the food stands had wooden signs hanging above them, advertising various foreign delicacies; mysterious samplings from faraway lands. If he had had his way, Sam would have stopped to try them all.

  Mary led the way, navigating the throng of shoppers. “A lot of tourists this time of year,” Mary said. “Come to see the glowing butterflies. They sing, too. People make the journey from hundreds of miles away. It’s in a few days, you know. But you won’t be here.”