Offspring: the Call

NOTE: Several people have asked via e-mail why I haven't plugged my new book, OFFSPRING in the Fallout Shelter or some other Plug Your Work forum. I have plugged the book via my website, but not on this site, and certainly not in the Shelter.

When I created the Shelter a couple of years ago, I stated then it was designed to be a source of mutual support for both working and aspiring writers. I encouraged forum participants to plug their ports or items, but I refrained from plugging my book. Why? I wanted to make it clear that the Fallout Shelter isn't a promotion forum for my writing. Call me weird, but that's that.

Now that Offspring has been in book stores for nearly a month, I think it's time to post a small excerpt from the story. The following is an unedited portion from an early draft. I'm fully aware that Offspring isn't for everyone. Some love it, some hate it, but few are ambivalent. The story isn't meant for everyone. It's written as a dark urban fantasy, but various reviewers have called it a horror story, supernatural thriller, dark fantasy, paranormal fiction, etc...perhaps it's representative of all those genres. In the end, I think readers will just have to decide for themselves.

The following excerpt is of medium length: About 4,200 words. If it's too much for one sitting, please feel free to come back again. And do come join us in the Fallout Shelter. There are some amazing writer resources and idea exchanges floating around in that port.

I'll leave the item up through Halloween.I hope you enjoy the opening.

Thanks!



OFFPRING: The Call (Part one of the Offspring Trilogy)

Prologue

"There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men, which were of old, men of renown."
Genesis 6:4, Old Testament

"...and there was war in Heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the Dragon; and the Dragon fought and his angels fought.
And prevailed not and neither was their place found anymore in Heaven.
And the great Dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil and called Satan, which deceiveth the whole world; he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him."
Revelations 12:7-9 New Testament.

"...they said, "This fellow doth not cast out devils, but by Beelzebub, the Prince of the devils."
St. Matthew 12:24

"The Great Mysteries are nae' as mysterious as we imagine or pretend. If ye subtract the deliberate man-made subterfuge and the malicious manipulation of Truth, everything becomes quite clear... and may Heaven save us from the Truth. Nar' laga Dia do lamh-May God not weaken your hand."
Brother Anglin McCarthy, Holy Order of Watchers, circa 1521, Glasgow, Scotland

"And the angels, terrible and without pity, carry savage weapons, and their torture is unmerciful.
Witnessed by Enoch upon the Third Level of Heaven, as recorded in "The Legend of the Jews"

"... for the things that are seen are temporal; but the things that are not seen are eternal."
2 Cor 4:12


Introduction: Amarillo, TX

Sam Conner ran through the busy intersection like the Devil, himself, was hot on his ass. He paid no attention to the harsh sounds of rush-hour traffic, ignoring the curses of angry drivers, blaring horns, and the whine of tread on wet asphalt. The consequences of being run down by a half-ton pickup truck were insignificant when compared to that of being caught by the Enemy.

As Sam leapt across a rain-filled pothole, his knees buckled from fatigue. He staggered drunkenly, then caught his balance and continued along the sidewalk, head down, arms and legs pumping. His throat and lungs burned fiercely from the cold, damp air, but it never occurred to Sam that he should rest for a moment. Not yet. Repeatedly, he replayed the Voice's blunt message, "...you stop, you die." For the past half hour, Sam hadn't considered resting an option.

Several blocks later, and teetering on the precipice of exhaustion, Sam ducked into a litter-strewn alley and crouched behind a large, overflowing dumpster. He dropped his duffle bag to the pavement and massaged his calf muscles with both hands. He could feel the knots forming, the tale-tell signs of an impending leg cramp. Sam bit his lip and cursed his luck and the relentless pursuit. If the Enemy caught up with him now, he'd be done.

"Not now, damn it," he pleaded, vigorously kneading his leg. "Oh, man! Please, not now!" He was more than a little surprised, and grateful, as the knots relaxed, then disappeared completely.

Sam worked the strained muscles for a few minutes more until he was sure the cramp had passed. Then, cautiously, he peeked around the side of the dumpster. Traffic was still heavy, but he could see a full block of downtown Amarillo in either direction. There was no sign of the Enemy.

Sam desperately needed information. He mopped perspiration from his forehead with a grimy coat sleeve while considered his limited options. After only a few seconds, he made his decision. He would reach.

Sam closed his eyes and began drawing a detailed mental image of the white Lincoln Continental that hounded him. He knew that he was courting disaster, but he had to know. The mystery car had an irritating habit of appearing out of thin air, chasing him until he was ready to drop, then disappearing again for long stretches of time. The game of cat-and-mouse was taking a serious toll on Sam's psyche.
Old beater ...'77 or '78 model? Tinted windows all the way around. No, not tinted. Black as ink, like looking into space on a cloudy night. White sidewall tires, curb feelers... long and silver, one on each rim. Bullet-nosed TV aerial on the trunk deck. The stink of something dead...Yeah...just like that...

The mental image formed quickly, filling out with minute detail until it had dimension, depth, and texture. "Okay, asshole. I gotcha' now. Where are you? Where the hell are you?"

With the image locked into his mind, Sam unleashed mental tendrils, probing the surrounding area for that tell-tale sign, that flicker of recognition. At first, he sensed nothing, a vast, empty void, and his anxiety increased tenfold. He knew from experience that sensing "nothing" was always worse than sensing "something". As long as he could feel the Enemy, he had a chance of staying one-step ahead.

I know he's out there, so why can't I feel him? Maybe my radar is on the blink. Or... Maybe he's found a way to hide from me. Shit! He could be anywhere. Anywhere! What now? Immediately, an urgent ringing of wind chimes sounded in his a head. "What kind of answer is that?" he demanded. The Voice didn't reply.

And then, it was there, a tiny, yet unmistakable blip on the far edge of Sam's mental radar screen. He pushed all other thoughts from his mind and focused tightly on his pursuer. The Lincoln was moving to the south, away from him. Wait... he's slowing down. Damn! He knows I'm looking for him. I'm busted! Sam broke the connection and sagged to the pavement, and leaned back against the dumpster.

"Any ideas?" asked Sam. He expected a reply, but his invisible companion remained silent. "You picked a hell of time to go quiet on me." Sam sighed and rested his head on his knees. "I'm so friggin' tired."

A stiff, bitter wind swept through the alley, and Sam glanced up. The afternoon sky was a cold, threatening shade of gray, and the temperature was plummeting. It never snows in Texas...does it? Sam huddled down inside the over-sized coat, arms folded tightly across his thin chest. He was tired, cold, hungry, and afraid. Sam figured it was a toss-up as to which of those issues took precedence. Then, he recalled the paralyzing sense of dread that came over him whenever the Lincoln appeared, or worse, when it dropped completely off his mental radar. "Afraid. Yep, 'afraid' definitely has the lead over 'tired, cold, and hungry'."

The wind chimes again fluttered in his head, but this time, louder and more agitated. Clearly, the Voice was warning him. Sam paused for moment to clear his senses, then sent out a tentative mental probe. Contact was immediate, and he knew: Oh, crap! The bastard doubled back. He's headed straight for me. Five minutes. Maybe less.

Sam struggled to his feet and gingerly tested the muscles in his leg. He was relieved when everything appeared to be in working order. Shouldering the duffle bag, Sam jogged the length of the alley, and emerged onto a busy one-way avenue.

Over the past several hundred miles, Sam had learned to use street layouts to avoid or lose the Enemy. Traffic-heavy intersections and one-way avenues were ideal for giving the Lincoln the slip, and Sam now considered himself a pro at using these devices to his fullest advantage.

Sam turned to his left upon reaching the end of the alley, and followed the cracked and dirty sidewalk past a row of small shops. He walked along at what he hoped would pass for an inconspicuous pace, but his eyes moved side to side, in perpetual motion. The Enemy was a slick sonofabitch, and had nearly cornered him on a couple of occasions. Sam knew he couldn't' afford to relax, not for an instant, or the Enemy would have him for dinner.

Then, there was the matter of the police. He was certain his parents had filed a "missing persons" report by now, and the last thing he needed was some well-intentioned cop hauling him in as a runaway. While many details of his journey still remained a mystery, Sam trusted the Voice. His companion had been with him since...forever, and had never steered him wrong. If the Voice said it was imperative that Sam go to Tennessee, well then, he had to try. No, he would do more than try. He would reach Tennessee and find the Eye of God.

Head down and eyes darting, Sam continued along the sidewalk for several blocks. A sense of dread wrapped around his large intestines and squeezed, the pressure increasing with every step. Sam fully expected the Lincoln to appear at his back at any moment. The Enemy had fooled him before. It was about to do so, again.

Sam glanced left, then right, before stepping off the sidewalk and into the mouth of another alley. He was half way across when squealing tires and the throaty rumble of dual exhausts sent him tumbling across the asphalt. The Lincoln seemed to materialize from air less than a dozen feet away. With engine roaring and tires smoking, the car bore down on him with murderous intent.

Sam flung the duffle bag ahead, then dove headlong toward the corner storefront. In a single, fluid motion, he rolled to his feet, snatched up the canvas duffle and promptly ran into an elderly woman carrying a Waldenbooks shopping bag. Only the quicksilver reflexes of youth averted another potential disaster. Sam bounced lightly off the startled woman without disturbing so much as a stand of her smoke-blue hair and muttered a quick "Sorry, lady." He then slung the duffle bag over his shoulder and made for the other side of the street, praying to God that the Lincoln wouldn't be able to cross the multiple lanes in time to run him down.

Sam reached the other side of the street just ahead of a jacked-up Chevy crew cab, and a thoroughly pissed off Stetson-wearing cowboy at the wheel. This time, Sam ran along the sidewalk, back in the direction he'd come, against the traffic. For a second, he was afraid that the driver would leave the truck in the middle of the street and chase him on foot. Sam winced at the mental image. The notion of coming this far only to be beaten to a pulp by "Cowboy Bob" was almost comical. Almost.

Another twenty minutes passed before Sam stopped again to rest. The pain in his leg was back with a vengeance and he couldn't afford to ignore it any longer. Coming up lame would be tantamount to coming up dead.

Sam found himself standing in front of an old two-story, built entirely of burnished brick and missing all but a few windows. The front door hung slack from rusted hinges, and from the top of the crumbling concrete steps, Sam could see a steel and vinyl graveyard of broken office furniture scattered throughout the expansive first floor. Sam ducked inside and immediately checked for exits. If he intended to rest here, he would first have to mark the escape routes.

A winding path through the debris led Sam to a backdoor that opened out onto a weed-infested parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, a narrow side street ran north and south.

"Good enough," he muttered under his breath.
Good enough, echoed the Voice.

Sam opened his duffle bag, rummaged around for a moment, then pulled out a thick, olive-green woolen blanket, the kind found at any military surplus store. For long seconds, Sam stood staring at the blanket, absently fingering the coarse material. It had been a parting gift from Kat, though he couldn't imagine where she'd found it. Typical twelve-year old girls seldom shopped at Army-Navy stores. Of course, Kat wasn't typical.

Sam smiled, folded the blanket neatly in half, and laid it on the floor. Finally, he unzipped his coat, sat down on the blanket, and lay back on the half-filled duffle bag. A quick check beneath the desks revealed a clear view of the front and back exits.

Cozy spot. Might even risk a fire, and catch a nap before hitching a ride out of town later tonight. Of course, I could always backtrack to the bus station and leave outta' here on a Trailways.

Sam heard the angry clang of chimes and clearly understood their meaning.
"Easy! Just kidding."

From the start, the Voice had been adamantly opposed to Sam taking either a bus or plane to Tennessee. Once before, when he had pressed for a reason, the Voice whispered a single word in answer. Trap. That was the end of any serious notions Sam may have had about buses or planes.

Sam leaned back against a three-legged desk and closed his eyes. He was asleep within minutes, dozing fitfully for an hour or so, until the temperature inside the building dropped to an uncomfortable level and he awoke shivering. Yawning widely, he dragged the duffle bag into his lap and unfastened the simple clasp. After rummaging inside the bag for a moment, he pulled out an empty one-pound coffee can, a roll of toilet tissue and an unopened bottle of isopropyl alcohol. He grinned as he prepared his "heater." Amazing what a guy can learn from watching the Discovery Channel.

Sam stuffed the roll of tissue into the can and slowly added the alcohol, allowing ample time for the tissue to absorb every drop of the liquid. Next, Sam pulled a disposable lighter from his pocket and touched a tiny flame to the top of the tissue. The result was a clean burning fire that consumed the alcohol, but left the tissue untouched. Sam knew the paper wouldn't burn until all of the alcohol had been consumed. Best of all, it was cheap.

He hovered close over the flame, enjoying the warmth. Within minutes, the worst of the shivering stopped, and he again dug into the duffle bag and pulled out the dog-eared Road Atlas. He looked at the cover for a moment, thinking back to the night, six months earlier, when he had discovered the Atlas lying on his bed. With the tip of his finger, he traced the route from Amarillo to Abbotsville, Tennessee.

"Three more days, four, tops," he mumbled. In Abbotsville, he would find his answers, or so the Voice said. There, he would find the Eye of God. Provided of course, he could stay ahead of that goddamned Lincoln. Maybe he should have taken a bus.

Without warning, a ribbon of brilliant, multicolored emotion fluttered through Sam's mind. "Whoa! Ease up. I can't follow all of that." Immediately, the colors dimmed to a rainbow of soft pastels. Sam tried to understand, but the meaning still eluded him. The jumbled mixture of emotions began to coalesce, gradually forming a structured thought.

...Eye of God. Close the Veil.

The familiar words echoed throughout Sam's tired mind.
"Yeah, yeah. I know. You've been telling me that for months, now. But you still haven't told me what a ‘veil' is or how I'm supposed to close it.

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda,... Jee-zus, I'm tired. Just need a short nap... a couple of hours, maybe. Then we'll be... yawn... up and on our way." Sam snuggled deeper into the folds of his over-sized coat. With the Voice keeping silent vigil, Sam drifted off into a troubled sleep.
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Chapter One: The Bronx, NYC
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Little Stevie Berlain desperately needed some gas, the kind that came from a syringe filled with liquid fire. He hurried across the deserted parking lot, one trembling hand holding a Kool ‘short' to his cracked and bleeding lips, the other in his jacket pocket, holding the hypodermic.

To most, it seemed another typical January night in South Bronx, bitterly cold with a bone-chilling wind. All the "talking heads" said that, coast to coast, it was the coldest winter in modern history. However, Stevie was oblivious to the cold. In his clouded mind, it was springtime and all the birds were singing. He had just scored and the party was on. His only bitch was with his dealer and the ever-increasing cost of "product."

"Sixty dollars!" he grumbled. "Sixty goddamned dollars! Fuckin' rip off!"

Still, he knew he would have paid ten times that amount for the 10CCs of dirty brown dishwater in the syringe. Or, he would have cut the guy's head off, and stole his dope. If he couldn't buy it, he'd take it; simple as that. Little Stevie had a reputation as a heavyweight cranker, a mad tweaker, and no price was ever too high to pay in either cash or violence. For eleven years, the drug had been both his savior and his demon.

Now, he only needed to make it to back to his apartment, where he could do himself some serious good. Little Stevie figured he had too much class to shoot up on the street corner like some common addict. But his apartment was on the other side of the borough, an hour walk in this crappy weather.

Connie! He thought of his former girlfriend and spat out a wad of phlegm. Uppity crank whore! But Connie was still good for something. Her brownstone was only a few blocks away and he still had a key. Maybe he would invite himself in, and after pleasantries, maybe a quick head job, he would partake of the demon in the syringe.
Stepping over the broken curb and out into the street, he saw headlights slowly emerge from an alley to his left.

Fuck me! Cops or preds!

Little Stevie grew up in the streets of South Bronx. He knew that it was unlikely that anyone else was out in this weather past midnight unless they were looking to score, haul you to jail, or roll your ass. He knew all the dealers and most of the preds on sight. No, the car was moving too slowly, stalking him.
Yep, gotta be the cops.

Little Stevie hurried across the street, flicking the stub of the Kool out into the freezing mist. Connie's apartment was only three blocks away and he didn't need any problems. Not that he really gave a damn who was in the car, either. Nothing or nobody was going to interfere with him getting ripped out of his skull, tonight.
As he reached the sidewalk, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed that the car continued to pace him. The glare from the dual high beams prevented him from making out the model but Little Stevie thought it looked like a long, older model Lincoln. He knew that no narc worth his salt would be caught dead in an old Lincoln. He was only a little relieved.

Little Stevie fought back the instinctive urge to run the remaining couple of blocks. You never, ever ran through this neighborhood unless bullets were flying. Running always resulted in one of two things and both were bad. Either some cop would see you and snatch your ass up just to ask you some idiotic question like, "Hey buddy, where's the fire?" or, the neighborhood predators would smell you and go into a feeding frenzy. Even if you couldn't see them, the predators could always see you. Always. Running through this neighborhood was like hanging a bloody steak around your neck in a pool full of sharks.

It never occurred to Little Stevie that he might simply be experiencing the legendary paranoia associated with his personal ‘demon.' Slowly, the car picked up speed, passed him by, and disappeared from sight. The windows were heavily tinted, too dark to make out the occupants, but Stevie knew they weren't bangers or preds. No bullets or nail-studded baseball bats came flying at him as the car drew even. Now, more than a little relieved, Little Stevie reached the next intersection and hurried across the slick pavement. Anticipation wore on him. God, I need to hit that point!

"Two more blocks," he muttered. "Just two..." The words froze on his lips.
Up ahead, beneath the dingy yellow glow of a street lamp, stood a solitary figure wearing a wrinkled trench coat; one of those James-fucking-Bond numbers that comes down to your knees and belts at the waist. Predators, most of whom were gang-bangers, loved those coats, a perfect length to hide a sawed-off shotgun or a piece of lumber. The collar of the coat was pulled high against the face and Little Stevie wondered if it was some whacked out hooker working the ‘shit-shift'.

Where in the hell did he come from? Little Stevie was certain that the sidewalk had been empty only seconds earlier. He cursed again and spat out another wad of brown phlegm. Screw it. Too close now to worry about it. In another 10 minutes, Little Stevie would be sitting in a cozy apartment, with a needle in his arm and joining the ranks of the demigods.

As he approached the street corner, some of Little Stevie's concern melted away. The person beneath the street lamp looked a little anemic, kind of light in the ass-pockets. The top of his... or her head wouldn't reach the middle button on Little Stevie's shirt.

In reality there was nothing "little" about Little Stevie. He carried the nickname by virtue of being the youngest of five thuggish brothers. Little Stevie was the baby but at six feet-five inches, and two hundred and forty pounds, he was by no stretch the smallest. And in another 10 minutes, he would be a foot taller thanks to the demon in the syringe.

Lowering his head against the cold, Little Stevie walked on. The person up ahead stood quietly waiting... watching. Little Stevie quickened his pace. Within seconds he drew abreast, and then passed the figure in the trench coat, averting his eyes the way addicts often do in public, as if the act somehow made them smaller or invisible. As he moved past the trench coat, Little Stevie felt the light caress of icy fingers on the back of his neck.

Startled, he let out a loud guttural "Whaaa...!" and whirled about. Still standing beneath the street lamp, the frail, emaciated figure looked anything but threatening.

"What the hell is your problem, dude?" Stevie yelled. The person said nothing, but took a slow step, shuffle forward. Stepping back in surprise, Stevie raised his scarred fists. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of a hideously disfigured face buried inside the high collars but dismissed it as a trick of the poor lighting.
"You got two seconds to move your ugly ass down the street before something really bad happens to you." Suddenly, rolling this guy seemed like a great idea.
Who knows? Maybe Mr. Dude has a couple of bucks on him.

Mr. Dude said nothing. Instead, he took another slow, shuffling step forward and for a moment Stevie thought the air seemed to waver, like he looking at heat waves coming off of dry asphalt on a 110-degree day. As his muddled mind struggled to puzzle out the odd visage, an ungodly pain announced itself just above his belt buckle.

Looking down, he saw that Mr. Dude had somehow closed the eight-foot gap that had separated them, and buried his arm in Stevie's stomach up to a not-so-scrawny elbow. Icy fingers closed around his spinal column and all feeling drained from Little Stevie's legs. With a pitiful moan, the addict collapsed onto the sidewalk.
"Ugh! F--fuck me! This ain't... ain't happening."

Mr. Dude bent over the wounded man, and the high collar of the overcoat fell away. For the first time, Little Stevie had a clear look at Mr. Dude's face. Little Stevie screamed.

Grasping the mortally injured man by a mop of dirty blonde hair, Mr. Dude dragged Stevie into the deep shadows of a nearby ally.
"Hold, Drammach!"

Stevie slumped back onto the wet pavement as the grip on his hair disappeared. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mr. Dude backing away, coming to a stop at the edge of his peripheral vision. Over the pounding of his own heart, he heard the sharp click of hard-soled wingtips on asphalt, and a man suddenly appeared over him, peering down, smiling. In stark contrast to the hideous, malformed Mr. Dude, the man was pure perfection.

"It would seem that you're having an extremely bad day," the man said pleasantly.

"F--fuck me, I'm dying! Keep him off me, man! For God's sake, j-just help me!"

"You really shouldn't use that name, you know. After all, He doesn't know you, anymore than you know Him. As for my associate, consider how fortunate you are to have seen his face. For him to reveal his true nature, he must favor you a great deal! Perhaps...perhaps he senses a kindred nature, yes?

"Yes, I'll help you. And in return, you're going to help me. You're going to find someone for me. A boy. And when you find him, you'll kill him. Do you understand?"
Little Stevie only understood that he was dying. But if this man could somehow help him... if he could keep Mr. Dude away...

"Y-yeah, anything, any..." Little Stevie coughed and bloody froth spilled from his lips.

"Splendid! Now, I'm going to give you something... a gift. And you'll thank me. Oh, how you will thank me." The dark haired man with the beautiful face leaned forward until his mouth hovered above Stevie's own. He paused for a moment, then said, "Then again, perhaps not."

The man's mouth descended and covered Little Stevie's and for the first time, the addict considered that perhaps not all demons came from a syringe.
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