The Forging

by Jeffrey Hancock

  The Forging

  The Odyssey of Nathan Embers

  By Jeffrey Hancock

  Copyright 2017

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this novel to my wife Barbara and my daughter. Their patience with my endless prattling on about this story and the future adventures of Nathan Embers has given me the strength to put fingers to keyboard. At last, the goblins in my head have hushed their voices.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Dear Moiraine,

  In life, choices are given to everyone. It is in the fire of these choices we forge ourselves. The measure of anyone is in the choices they make when they are alone and in the dark. I hope the decisions I have made have forged me into a man of whom you can be proud. In the diaries which accompany this letter, I have written the events as they happened to me. They are the truth. Let no one try to tell you otherwise. I hope by the reading of these events; you will gain some insight as to why I made the choices I did and how I became the man I am.

  I love both you and your mother. Sometimes I wish that love was enough to stop me from my crusades. It almost was. In my defense, Edmund Burke said, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men to do nothing.” I want you to remember, above all else, I was a decent man who tried to do what’s right, one of many decent men who did their best to hold back the rising tide.

  I go now to whatever end I cannot foretell, but I want you to promise me you will go on with life. Find a decent man. Find a better man than I. Love him and marry him. Raise strong children to inherit this world. You see those gifts of life which are worthwhile in this world must survive. It will be my ultimate victory to know that what is best will endure.

  Nathan Alexander Embers

  “To be willing to march into Hell for a Heavenly cause.”

  Chapter One

  A whimper then a low growl came from Blossom which woke me out of restful sleep. I threw off the covers and sat up in bed. As I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes, I told my wife, “Char, I think Blossom’s time has come. I want you to stay here. I will go be with her.”

  “Are you sure? … No, I should be there too,” Charlene answered. I sensed she was crying.

  “There is nothing you can do for the old girl. Try to go back to sleep,” I reached over and squeezed my wife’s hand. I stood and slowly made my way to the living room. Blossom started to growl louder. I heard someone trying to jimmy the lock on the front door. I yelled back to Char, “Call the police. Someone is trying to break into the house." I hoped to scare off the would-be burglar. My hopes were dashed. The sound of pounding, then wood splintering replaced the jimmying. It is a solid heavy door with a deadbolt lock. It should take the assailant a few moments to break through the door. I screamed at my wife, “Char, get to Moiraine, and you both get out of here!” I ran back to the bedroom and retrieved the gun safe. Whoever is breaking in wasn’t frightened by my call to Char to get the police. Maybe the sight of a model M1911A1 45 in my hands will grab his attention. I unlocked the safe and pulled out the pistol. It felt righteous in my hand. It felt like a part of me. An odd feeling came to me; it said, “Let’s get to work.” This gun saved John’s life back in the Korean War. If I am lucky, it will save my family’s lives tonight. I heard the door finally give way. I inserted the clip and pulled back the slide to chamber a round. I yelled out, “I have a gun!”

  “Did you finally grow a pair, Mr. Clerk Guy?”

  His voice sent a chill up my spine. Mark Galos decided finally to take his revenge on me. The Klingon proverb “Revenge is a dish best served cold” came to mind. I am going to send this man to the down below place where the only food they serve is searing hot and comes with a side of torment.

  “What are you waiting for, Mr. Clerk Guy? Come and get me.”

  I passed up an opportunity to kill this bastard once. I had been gutless. I knew in the back of my mind he would not let it go, yet, I could not bring myself to murder him. And it would have been a murder too. A merciless killing with both malice and forethought, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. Two parts of me battled for control. My morals hogtied my animalistic desire to end the insect’s life. Mercy failed me, so it is my animal half’s turn. I locked my moral self in a corner of my mind and told it to keep quiet. No one would begrudge me killing him here in my home. I cleared my mind and tried to slow my heart rate down. The last thing I needed is to be jumpy and unfocused. Did Char get Mo out of the house? I must trust she got our daughter out. I took a quick glance at Char’s nightstand. Her cell phone is gone. Smart girl. I know she will call for help as soon as both, she and Mo are safe.

  “You know your wife and child’s lives are both forfeit for what you did to me. You made me waste the better part of two years. Come on now. Don’t make me wait. Come to me now, and I won’t make them suffer. I will be quick and merciful in the manner of their deaths. Keep me waiting, and I will indulge my darker side. Let’s see, maybe I will cut off the little one’s eyelids. She’ll have no choice but to watch as I take her mother. I can imagine all kinds of pleasures your wife will bring me. Sweet pleasures, I haven’t experienced firsthand in a millennium. Oh yes, your daughter will get one Hell of an education before her end.”

  I know he is trying to goad me into rushing before I am ready. It is hard not to listen. I must remain cold about this. Through sheer force of will, I pushed his words out of my mind. “Stay frosty,” I told myself. I am ready. I started toward the living room.

  "Maybe I’ll take them both. Perhaps I’ll …”

  I didn’t let him finish as my blood boiled. I couldn’t think. I could only react. The anger exploded in me. Kill. Tear him apart. Eat his heart. I don’t think I have ever felt such rage. It felt oddly pleasant. I am alive for the first time in my life, and I liked it.

  I am outside of myself. Part of me watched from a cold distance as I moved into action. I am two people; one is a mad animal, and the other an icy intellect. With a blur of speed and grace I had never demonstrated before, I dashed into the living room. My whole existence came to this moment. I would fulfill the greatest moral a man could. I would answer the call of instinct. Kill the threat to my family. I’ll offer no quarter or mercy. There can only be one of three outcomes: my death, his death, or we travel down the path together.

  He is across the room holding a sledgehammer. I raised the 45 and aimed without conscious thought. My weapon and I are one. Three shots barked out. The sound is deafening in this death ground, which had once been my living room. In slow motion, I saw three holes in the center of my prey’s chest. His body made little jerks as each round hit its mark. I could see shockwaves ripple through his body. Victory screamed from my being. The thrill is like an orgasm of satisfaction to my soul.

  He looked down at his chest as black blood oozed from his wounds. The shock of the moment must have kept him from realizing he is already dead.

  “Damn,
this hurt. Tight group though. I’m impressed.” His voice bubbled as he spoke, and a black ichor drooled out of his mouth. “I thought you were lying about the gun. I guess you did grow some balls after all. However, I tell you this pisses me off. I’ll need a new body after this night is over. I can’t finish my plans in this one. It’s but a small payment against the ledger of our sacrifice,” he announced all this as he started walking toward me. As he approached, a foul odor hit my nose.

  I was stunned into inaction. All I did was look at my gun and say, “You have to be dead, I …,” as the hammer came around and slammed into my head. All around me is the cold blackness of oblivion.

  "Mr. Nathan Embers,” the bailiff called.

  I dozed off and started dreaming while I am waiting to testify. Mark Galos is a two-bit thug, be it a smart one, and now he is a monster in my dreams. I’ll be glad when this trial is over. I stood and walked into the courtroom.

  It looked like the typical courtroom scene on TV or in the movies, with deep rich wood paneling on the walls. The judge sat upon a dais directly across the room from where I entered. To the right of the dais is the witness box with a chair and a microphone. Against one wall, the jury is seated. On the other wall, is a bookcase made of the same wood as the paneling and held matching sets of law tomes in brown leather bindings. They have no creases on the spines. It is no surprise to me. I’m sure all the laws and case studies are somewhere in a computer database. It is more efficient to do research with the aid of an impersonal overgrown abacus than to crack open a book and read the law on real paper. I suppose the books function more as set dressing. Two galleries of seats bracketed me as I walked toward the witness stand. They are mostly empty except for a few onlookers. I passed Marcy shoulder to shoulder as she walked toward the exit. She is dabbing at the tears rolling out of her eyes. What did these dicks do to her?

  I sat down in the witness chair. The bailiff approached me. He raised his right hand. I stood and raised mine.

  “Do you swear that the testimony you're about to give before this court today is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” The bailiff recited the words in a droning monotone. He had said those words countless times before and appeared bored with the duty.

  “I do. So, help me God,” I stated as I started to sit back down.

  The judge commanded, “The witness will refrain from embellishing the oath. A simple I do will suffice.”

  “Sorry, your Honor,” I finished sitting down. The chair is a comfy padded leather one. When I lean back, it creaks a little, and the whole thing tilted a bit to the left. It is odd thinking of me tilting to the left.

  The prosecutor, a Mr. Darryl Wayne, stood up, “Mr. Embers, would you please state your full name, address, and occupation for the record.”

  “My name is Nathan Alexander Embers. I live at 349 Mar Vista Drive in San Diego, California. I work as a night manager at a drug store.”

  “Mr. Embers, could you please point out the man who robbed your store?”

  “Yes,” I stood from the witness stand. This action started a ruckus in the courtroom as I walked toward the defense table. I heard the judge banging his gavel. Everybody except Mark Galos rose from their tables on both sides of the aisle. I stood directly in front of the defendant and pointed at the man who had robbed the store and left me bound and humiliated. I felt a hand on my shoulder, ad it started to squeeze gently. “He is the one.” The bailiff started to pull me back to my seat at the witness stand. Mark looked at me with no expression on his face. Those eyes are cold, dark, and empty.

  “The witness will remain in his seat unless directed to move by the court. Do you understand, Mr. Embers?”

  “Yes, your Honor, My apologies to the court.”

  “Please have the record show Mr. Embers pointed to the defendant, Mark Galos. Mr. Embers, why did you approach Mr. Galos?"

  “I didn’t want anyone in the jury to doubt who I meant.”

  “Mr. Embers, how can you be sure he is the same man? It has been some time since the robbery.”

  “He has let his natural hair color return, and he styled it differently. He has a clean-cut look about him now but make no mistake; it is the man who robbed the store. I am positive it is him. I have a photographic memory. I remember everything perfectly, and those eyes I remember even more vividly.”

  “I see. Mr. Embers, would you please tell the jury the exact events on the night in question.”

  I closed my eyes for a short time to prepare myself. In my mind, images started to coalesce. Suddenly, I am in the third person watching my mental-self walking down a long corridor with filing cabinets against one wall. A floating clock with wildly spinning hands appeared above my avatar’s head. The cabinets represented my memories organized for easy access. Before I started arranging my memories like this, all my recollections were a jumbled mess in my head. When John Wheeler, an American theoretical physicist, was asked what is time? He answered, “Time is what prevents everything from happening at once.” My mental filing cabinets are my amateurish attempt to imitate his meaning. They prevent me from remembering everything all at once. I can’t even claim authorship to the idea. However, that is a story for another time. The cabinets begin with my first stored memories and continue almost to infinity. I have considered walking to the end of the corridor and seeing what lies beyond. Does it end with the date and time of my death or at the end of my memory? The walk scares me. Oh, not the lose control of your bowels and buy new undies kind of fright, but rather the dread we all experience when contemplating our death. I increased the pace at which my avatar walked. The hands of the floating clock are spinning so fast they could fly off at any moment.

  After a few more steps, I reached the time in question. The hands on the clock stopped at 7:50 pm. The mental me pulled open a drawer from one of the cabinets reached in and pulled out a file. As if by magic, a table and chair appeared. I willed the marionette of my thoughts to sit and open the file. It is no longer an avatar to my mind’s eye. It is me. I looked down at the pages of the file, and they were alive. I entered them. All this took place in my mind at the speed of thought. I opened my eyes and began.

  I got out of my car and walked into work. I went through the store to the break room, opened the door, and walked in. I placed my lunch in the refrigerator. It is a simple turkey sandwich on whole-wheat bread with real mayonnaise, none of that Miracle Whip crap, and with sweet pickles in it. I also had a sliced apple with the core cut out. Last in the brown paper bag is a small bag of iced Circus Animal cookies. I walked up to the keypad on the back wall and clocked in.

  Mr. Wayne spoke up suddenly, “Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Embers. Could you please skip to the time you allege Mark Galos, the defendant, came into the picture?”

  I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment then opened only my right eye and looked at him. “As you wish.” I closed my eye back up. In my mind, I returned to the table. Staring down at the living file of my memory, I flipped through the pages until I reached the point in time where I first encountered Mark Galos. I reopened my eyes and began again.

  "Next. Good evening, sir.” I said to the gentleman who was next in line at my register. He is young, his early twenties, I think. He stands five feet ten, maybe a hair more. He has bleached blond hair; I know it is bleached because you could see the beginnings of dark roots. It is arranged messy and in need of a cut. His eyes are dark and a little dull. He has a slightly nervous way about him. I noticed the gun he showed me as he lifted his shirt. It is a small-caliber revolver, 22 I think. I am in no way an expert on firearms, but it did not strike me as a “Saturday Night Special.” The only thing in my universe right now is the gun. It is all I saw.

  “No heroics or everybody dies.” My eyes are still on the gun when I hear a second voice.

  “Please, please, please, do what he says. Oh God, you have to do as he says.” It is strange. It is like he has two voices. One voice is deeper, cool, and has an odd accent I cannot pla
ce. The second voice is shaky and scared. I can’t tell where the second voice is coming from, but I can hear it as clear as my own thoughts.

  Well, I don’t want to argue with the robber or the disembodied voice. Another customer joined the line behind the guy with the gun. I snapped back from a universe of a gun and two voices. I grab the “Next Register” sign and put it on the conveyor belt. “I am so sor… sor… sorry,” I stuttered. “I am helping this gentleman here, and it will take quite some time.” I tried to sound sincere. I reached over and picked up the intercom. Mister man of two voices’ face became stormy, and I saw him starting to pull up his shirt to grab the gun. Quickly, I blurted. “I am going to call another clerk so you can be on your way sooner.”

  My eyes were on the second customer when I heard the scared voice say, “That sounds helpful. Doesn't that sound helpful?” The voice sounded like he is talking to the robber. I turned to look back at the robber. His hand started to hesitate, then slowly moved away from his waistband.

  “Sure, that sounds fine. Call another clerk,” the first voice is back, and he narrowed his eyes as he stared at me. I could see he is waiting for me to say the wrong thing.

  “Second checker, please. Madam, if you would move to register two, Raul will be with you shortly,” I slowly put the intercom back down. The customer is looking a little miffed at me, but she is moving to check-stand two.

  The first voice spoke, “Clever and polite I like you, Mr. Clerk Guy. Keep playing it cool and smart, and we will get along just fine. Escort me back to the pharmacy.”

  I moved from behind the register and started slowly to lead him back to the pharmacy. I heard the second voice once again talk, “You can’t do this to people. You are going to hurt someone. I won’t let you hurt anyone,” the disembodied voice said. This voice is starting to sound strained as it said, “This ends now.”