by Corey Tate
ARMADRON
The Otherworld Series: Book 1
COREY TATE
ILLUMIFY MEDIA GLOBAL
Littleton, Colorado
ARMADRON
Copyright © 2019 by Corey Tate
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means—whether electronic, digital, mechanical, or otherwise—without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales are entirely coincidental.
The views and opinions expressed in this book are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Illumify Media Global.
Published by
Illumify Media Global
www.IllumifyMedia.com
“Write. Publish. Market. SELL!”
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018966318
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-949021-29-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-949021-30-1
Cover design by King’s Custom Covers: www.kingscustomcovers.com
Printed in the United States of America
To my grandmother, Joan Steenburn
Contents
Acknowledgments
1. The Beginning of Everything
2. Rick the Brick
3. Ascension
4. Having Too Much Fun Can Kill You
5. You Must Be Dreaming
6. Accelerating
7. Bermuda Delta
8. The Arcade
9. Caged
10. Breathtaking
11. The Cavern
12. The Help
13. Come On, Hit Me!
14. Seeing Is Believing
15. Knowledge Is Living
16. Cannibals
17. The Infinite Cave
18. Into the Hole
19. Problems, Solutions . . . and More Problems
20. There’s No Place Like Home
21. One Down, Four to Go!
22. Rejoined! Or . . . Maybe Not
23. It All Comes Together
24. Breaking Bonds
25. A Nightmare in a Nightmare
26. Potential
27. The Journey
28. The Final Battle
29. Recharging
Wait! There’s more!
About Corey Tate
Acknowledgments
I have many people to thank in the various facets of my life.
My military life. Gung Ho! Brandon Davis—the friend who’s been with me from the first day of basic training when I couldn’t stay awake, to our last day of being active duty military. Alma Stuldreher, Donny Saetan, Rachel and Phil Atkinson, who watched over my dog Scarlord and me during our awesome time at Airman Leadership School. Eric Matzek, Jeff Evans and Joseph McCoin, who mentored me as I grew up in the TACP career field and picked me up where I fell. Jay Decker, Patrick Miller, Carter, Ashley and Bryan Boyd, the best roommates and housemates that I could have ever asked for, each in their own way. Joel Mathews, for giving me this amazing, humbling opportunity to publish my first book. To my first airmen—Michael Christe, Colton Drye, Luke Grant, Harm Purewal, Joel Fierro and Matthew First—thank you for teaching me the hardships of being a supervisor, and how to overcome them together. Daniel Ritche, I can never thank you enough for giving me faith during my deployment, and for constantly reminding me that there are good people out there who are willing to go the extra mile. Almond, Rumor, Harley and Data, thank you all for being man’s best friends, and for filling my life with joy everywhere that I go.
My civilian life. Liam Roberts, Logan Weiss, Nick Goffredo, and Katie Mezzacappa. You all never stopped calling and texting me, even when I was too busy to answer. You always compromised with me, and you always made time to see me when I was home on leave. My jiu jitsu and MMA families at Twin Wolves MMA, Johns Gym and Brazilian Top Team, especially Wilkinson, Leny, Miller, Moore and Toledo: I can never thank you enough for motivating me to get out there and train, even when I want to stay in bed. Your instruction and motivation have been truly invaluable and have never been taken lightly.
My family life. Mom, Dad, Bobby, Leah, Breanna, Katie, Cameron and Dustin. Thank you for adopting me into this family at such a young age. I don’t know who I would have been without all of you, and I look forward to spending the rest of my life with this giant family that we have. Mary and Scarlord, you are both the start of my new family, and I couldn’t be more excited. I wouldn’t want anyone else in the world at my side, which makes me the luckiest, happiest man alive.
My future life. Illumify Media Global has given me the chance to be an author—something I’ve wanted to be from the moment I wrote the first six-page draft of Armadron in Mrs. Fields’ tenth grade English class. Karen Scalf Bouchard, Geoffrey Stone, Michael Klassen, Jen Clark, Deb Lewis, Darrin Geisinger and others at Illumify and beyond have given me unbelievable support in completing this book and preparing for the rest of the series as well.
Most of all, my grandmother, Joan Steenburn, who always challenged me to think outside the box, and who always looked at me over my French toast and chocolate milkshake like I was more than I knew.
The Beginning of Everything
Boom!
Whattheheck?
Instantly awake, Scott Faranger threw his hands up in front of his face to protect himself. After a moment he realized he’d been dreaming and gave a loud sigh.
“Every. Single. Freaking. Morning.” The frustration of his voice echoed off every wall in his bedroom.
He rolled to the right and stared at the small digital alarm clock on the nightstand, unable to ignore the fact that his heart was still trying to beat a hole through his chest from the inside out. After blinking and wiping his eyes a few times, he could see the numbers: 6:32 a.m.
“Crap.”
Throwing off his covers, he hurried to the corner of the bedroom, stumbling on clothes strewn across the floor. In that corner was the door that led to another world: his personal shower.
Scott opened the bathroom door and stepped onto the white tiled floor. Peeling off his pajamas, he flung them onto yet another pile of clothes.
He looked at himself in the mirror, checking for any signs of the change that had been happening recently. The face that greeted him was that of an average-looking fifteen-year-old boy with blue eyes and sandy-colored hair. He looked tired, with tiny bags under his eyes that gave away the fact that he had been tossing and turning all night. After a few more moments of inspection, Scott grunted, turned away, and started the shower.
The water came out ice cold.
Awesome.
He waited for the water to heat up, occasionally testing it with his finger. The water was so cold, each time he pulled his finger back out he half expected to see it encased in ice.
This was the third day in a row his younger brother had beat him to all the hot water, and it was beyond the point of annoying.
Jared! Scott thought angrily. He balled his hands into fists, already thinking of revenge.
A dull thud came from the water pipes inside the wall, and water stopped flowing out of the showerhead. He leaned over the tub and peered up at the nozzle.
Psssssssshhhhhttt!
A torrent of boiling-hot water erupted out of the showerhead. As the water hit the bottom of the tub, it instantly turned into steam.
Scott yelled and fell backward, shielding his face with his right arm as he hit the wall.
Suddenly the showerhead was ripped f
rom the pipe. The projectile slammed into the cabinet next to Scott’s left ear, then fell to the ground.
Tink.
Scott stayed where he was sitting on the floor for a minute or two, and then stood up once his heart slowed down a bit and his brain stopped telling him that he was about to have an aneurysm.
After he picked up the showerhead and tossed it into the trash by the toilet, he took a good look at the nozzle-less pipe. Scott adjusted the temperature, then stepped cautiously into the shower. Water—not boiling, just hot—was now spewing out of the pipe in one thick stream. He could still shower; it just looked like he lived in a third world country now.
Gooood morning, Vietnam, he thought to himself as he showered beneath the impromptu spigot.
When he was finished, he tried to turn off the water—there remained a slow drip coming out of the pipe—and threw on a pair of tan shorts, a white polo shirt, his watch, and a tan belt. He turned toward the mirror to comb his hair . . . and saw it.
Oh. There was a booger in his nose.
He flicked it out into the sink and looked at himself again, shaking.
His eyes were purple.
The change was still happening.
He did a double take. The irises were a deep purple. And the color was sort of . . . moving. Kind of like how water moves in a stream. Whatever was happening to him, it was getting worse. It was also freaky—like something out of a Stephen King novel.
He rubbed his palms against his eyes furiously. Then he slowly removed his hands and looked again.
His eyes were now their normal blue.
Scott continued to stare at his reflection and for the third time this month unsuccessfully attempted to convince himself that nothing was wrong. He remained motionless for several seconds, then eventually turned away from the mirror.
He walked out of the bathroom, past the wall-mounted TV where his gaming console was connected and reached next to his bed for his black book bag. Whatever was happening to him, it was still a school morning and he had thirteen minutes to catch the bus.
Before he could reach the bag, he felt a horrific wrenching sensation in his stomach. He dropped to the floor, gasping and holding back tears from the pain.
He tasted bile in the back of his throat, and his eyes rolled backward. The pain was so great that he went in and out of consciousness for at least a minute. He felt his arms and legs move on their own accord, and his neck felt like it was going to snap in half. His spine ached, and his feet were hyperextended way past where they should have been. This went on for what felt like forever, and he felt tears well up in his eyes.
Just when he thought it was over, it escalated. Suddenly his body turned so that he was on his stomach. It felt to Scott like a bull on steroids was bucking against his heart and ribcage, trying to break through the skin.
“Aaaaaarrrrgghhhh!” Scott screamed and rolled into one of the piles of discarded clothes.
He tried to spit part of a dirty shirt from his mouth, but he couldn’t control his jaw. He gasped for breath, but his nose felt scrunched up against his face. Thirty seconds went by. Then a minute.
Scott couldn’t breathe. He kept telling his body to move, but it wouldn’t listen to him.
The walls started closing in. His vision began shimmering at the edges, and his peripheral vision completely cut out. The blackness overtook his eyes, and even though his eyes were wide open, he couldn’t see anything.
Suddenly he felt himself gain control of his body again.
He rolled to the right and spat the shirt out with the last of his energy. He lay on the floor for several seconds, getting his breath back.
“What the hell was that?” Scott mumbled to himself, but his voice was hoarse now.
Eventually Scott was able to stand up. He was shaking as he bent again to grab his book bag. Nothing crazy happened this time.
He slung the bag over his right shoulder and glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand.
It was now 6:57 a.m. He didn’t have much time left to catch the bus to school.
He opened his bedroom door. A familiar shape scooted past and ran down the stairs in white shorts and a red shirt. It was his eleven-year-old brother, Jared.
“Hey, Jared!”
Jared stopped halfway down the staircase and looked up at Scott.
“Stop using up all the hot water.”
“I didn’t!” Jared cried unconvincingly.
“Sure you didn’t,” Scott said, then added spitefully, “just like I didn’t take your Game Boy.”
Jared’s eyes widened.
Scott swallowed a grin and kept a straight face. The Game Boy was Jared’s prized possession.
Jared ran back up to his room, screaming obnoxiously. He came out of his bedroom a few seconds later, holding his Game Boy.
“You didn’t take it!” Jared cheered. “You lied!”
“Remember what that felt like, Jared,” Scott warned darkly, savoring the moment.
Jared’s smile dropped.
“Because if you ever use up all the hot water again,” Scott threatened, “you’ll suddenly find that your favorite toy is missing.”
Jared cringed.
“Or broken,” Scott added.
Jared looked like he was going to cry. Scott relished every nanosecond of this torment.
“You got it?” Scott asked.
Jared saw the expression on his older brother’s face and decided to hurry down the steps.
“And towels exist, ya know!” Jared yelled once he was a safe enough distance away. “Use ’em!”
Scott looked down at himself and noticed that his shirt was soaked through with sweat.
You’ve gotta be kidding me, he thought.
He walked back into the room, pulled out another white shirt, and put it on. It was more or less the same as the first one, but he still went to the mirror to take a quick look.
“Scott,” a woman’s voice called from downstairs, “are you up?”
“Yeah, Mom!” Scott broke away from his thoughts and meandered out of his bedroom to the top of the stairs. “Coming!”
He descended the spiral oak staircase and made for the kitchen. Jared was already at the table, eating a bagel.
“Good morning,” Scott muttered as he passed the sink and the refrigerator.
“Good morning,” Christine Faranger replied without looking at him. Wearing a gray pantsuit and her fancy watch, her hair in a tight bun, she looked ready to take on the world. She pretty much looked like that every day, and Scott was getting tired of it. She never dressed like an actual mom anymore. She was always a businesswoman first.
Picking up her coffee, she wished her sons a good day, and promptly exited the kitchen—car keys, coffee, and portfolio in hand.
“Wait!” Scott called, “I think I just had a sei—”
“I have to go, Scott!” she interrupted without skipping a beat, shouldering her purse on the way out the front door. “I’m late and I have a 7:15.”
“Mom, seriously?! I’m trying to tell you that I—”
“After school!” she yelled over her shoulder.
“Mom!”
The front door slammed shut behind her.
Scott let loose such a stream of profanity aimed at the door that Jared wouldn’t have been surprised if it popped off the hinges.
Staring at his brother, Jared jumped up from the table and ran into a corner of the kitchen, trying to make himself a smaller target.
“And then the showerhead exploded,” Scott finished lamely and threw his arms to his sides.
“What? Something exploded?! Cool!” Jared suddenly exclaimed, forgetting about Scott’s angry outburst. He grinned from ear to ear as he watched his brother grab a box of cereal from the pantry.
“It didn’t explode, Jared,” Scott lied, trying to cut his brother off before he started asking a million questions.
“Yeah it did. You just said so.”
“Yeah, but it didn’t.”
�
�So does that mean you’re a liar?” Jared grinned.
Scott, standing at the counter pouring milk into his bowl, rolled his eyes.
“It kind of sounds like iiiiit,” Jared nagged in a sing-song voice.
Scott grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer and threw it at Jared’s arm.
“Ow!”
Jared pretended to be hurt, but then they both laughed. Jared sat down again and went back to eating his bagel.
Eventually Scott sat down on the opposite side of the table from his little brother, but not before he ruffled Jared’s hair a little bit and pulled his right ear.
He knew Jared hated that, but their dad used to do it to them, so Scott felt like that boundary had already been breached. Now it had become a thing.
“Stop, I’m not a kid,” Jared mumbled in between bites. “I’m eleven now.”
“Yeah,” Scott said, smiling, as he ate another spoonful, “as of last week.”
There was silence for a few seconds, and Scott’s thoughts returned to the seizure. This morning’s episode had been the worst, and it terrified him more than he could put into words. What if he had some genetic disorder thingy and Jared was going to get it too? What if the next one killed him? What if it was contagious?
“Scott?”
Jared was leaning forward in his chair, looking into Scott’s eyes.
“Hmm?” Scott put aside his dark thoughts.
“I heard you in your room,” Jared replied, looking incredibly concerned. “You were yelling. And you were rolling around and stuff. You okay?”
Scott took in a sharp breath. Jared was always catching him off guard. Most of the time, he was just a clueless, annoying kid. But sometimes he reminded Scott of their father. Sometimes Jared seemed a lot smarter than he let on, and it honestly creeped Scott out a little bit. Okay, a lot.
“I’m okay, Jared,” he replied unconvincingly, absentmindedly stirring his cereal around in his bowl.
Jared looked down at his bowl and back up. “Well, you’ve got me. I mean, Mom’s always busy, and . . . but you got me. And I got you. Right?”
“Right.”
“What’s goin’ on, then?” Jared pushed. “Is it about Dad?”
