The Awakening Read online

  The Awakening

  Rain Oxford

  Copyright © 2015 Rain Oxford

  All Rights Reserved

  For my father, for everything.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  “My Lord?” The young soldier’s eyes were filled with pain and concern, not for his own wounds, but for those of his master. There was little doubt that his lord’s wounds were mortal, for the enemy’s sword had bitten through the leather and iron tunic and deep into his vitals. The heavy chest was swathed in makeshift bandages and grew bloodier with each labored breath. The lord raised his shaggy head, a grim smile twisting the corners of his mouth.

  “It is a battle won at great cost.” The warlord’s eyes wandered over the jagged, barren hills where many of his men lay dead or dying, and felt a pain in his chest much greater than any weapon could inflict. For his men, his friends, to die here! Here, in this hostile land so far from home. His grey eyes were hard and grim as he turned back to the young soldier. “Does their bastard leader still live?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Bring him here to me. I will speak to this beast before he dies.”

  The soldier hurried away, leaving him to find meager comfort sitting on the sun baked rocks. He resisted the temptation to lay down, knowing that he would never rise. Nevertheless, he must have slept for a moment, because he awoke to the voice and gentle touch of the same young soldier.

  “My Lord, we have brought him as you ordered.”

  The warlord cleared his vision and looked into the face of his enemy. It was a cruel, sneering face, riddled with the embodiment of evil, so malignant and twisted that nothing human remained. Slowly, under the contemptuous eyes of his conquerors, the expression of defiance dissolved into one of fear and hatred.

  “I will not list your crimes,” the warlord began. “You know them better than I, and neither of us will live long enough to do that list justice. We have pursued you across the surface of the Earth to destroy you and those who follow you, to rid the land of its foul and rotted flesh, the disease you offer.” A spasm of coughing struck his body. When he raised his head once more, a trickle of blood glistened at the corner of his mouth.

  “Humanity cannot exist with those of your kind in their midst. You have chosen to worship the Ancient Evil in your greed and lusts, to keep the ancient rituals, to drink the blood and eat the flesh of men. You walk the night and have suckled in darkness. You have been known by many names, all of them damned!

  “As you have watched over your followers in evil, so shall you in their death. You will stand in the tomb of your dead and there you will remain to await your own death, in the darkness, your warped soul will be prisoner of the seals and spells of Light for all time. You are a sickness and a spreading disease, and we must be rid of you forever.” Wearily, he gestured at the guards for the prisoner’s removal.

  But the prisoner was not ready to be removed. He was huge, almost as tall as the lord himself; every line of his misshapen body betrayed his constrained hatred. He glared at the man that had condemned him. “You and your weak, stupid people!” The voice was obscene, a guttural, hissing sound. “You win now, but now only! Do what you will, it matters not; you will suffer and I shall laugh. You do not know of my power. You will learn. I will be back to teach it to you!”

  The lord watched as the guards led the prisoner away. He turned as he felt the pressure of the young soldier’s hand on his shoulder, and read the anxiety on the boyish face. “You are troubled?”

  “Yes, about many things, my Lord. He is powerful and dangerous.”

  “Yes, and that must not be forgotten.” He sighed and closed his eyes.

  The young man took the older man’s hand in his and knelt at his side, hearing each breath weaken and grow shallower. He saw the grey eyes open and felt the pain in them as they met his.

  “It has been my charge to bring this evil to an end. At the cost of much pain and death I have done so, and though my grief is heavy I cannot regret it. Even my own death would not stop me from doing it again.” He shook his head gently, sighing. His voice became a whisper, aimed at no one. “I hope I shall find peace, now.” The eyes closed and the lips were silent; it was as if the effort of his words had taken the last seconds of his life.

  Rage and despair mingled in the breast of the soldier and he squeezed his eyes tight against the hot tears. He gently laid his master’s hand across the now still chest. The great war axe that had fit so well in the hand of the lord lay beside him; he lifted it slowly, watching the sun glint dully on its sides.

  A shout from below drew his attention, so he made his way carefully down the hillside, through the boulders, until he reached the small group of men working at the dark mouth of a tunnel. The tunnel cut deep into the base of the hill, ending in a chamber carved in the rock. The iron door at its entrance was closed. A tall red haired soldier, one of those in charge of the prisoners, saluted at his approach.

  “It is done, sir.” He was nervous, and anxious to be finished and away.

  “Good.” He felt a weight in his hand, and he realized that he still carried the axe; now he raised it and read the inscription engraved in the metal. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then tossed it into the tunnel. “Seal it! And may it never be opened!”

  Long after the men had sealed the iron door and closed the tunnel, the young soldier still stood in front of it. He let the bitterness seep out slowly. It was done, at least for now, but he could still see the words that had been engraved in the metal blade: Let Evil Fall Before Me.

  The young soldier felt a chill. He turned away and hurried to join the others.

  * * *

  For eons the tomb lay undisturbed, embalmed in magic, oblivious to the changes of time that reshaped the land. The outline of the mountains changed and softened. Rivers and lakes formed and dried up, only to form again. Slowly they carved new wonders in the breast of the earth.

  And men came to the new land and found it good; the only evil was that which they brought with them. But their sins were small, those of men.

  Chapter 1

  The tires of the old Plymouth convertible plowed furrows in the inch deep dusts, casting thick clouds and occasional small stones into the hot July afternoon. The road was unpaved and scarred with pits and chuck holes ranging from minor irritations to major hazards.

  Derek Hanen gripped the steering wheel in his left hand, trying to read from the wrinkled road map in his right. The car bounced every time he found the right area on the map, demanding his full attention and making him lose his place. After several attempts, he tossed the map onto the seat in disgust.

  “Turn left on route 8-A,” the attendant at the gas station had said. “It’ll take you straight over to 395.”

  Derek fumed. The fellow had been right, sure, but he had neglected to mention that the shortcut was hardly more than a dirt path.

  The green body of the Plymouth showed signs of long, hard use. What the dents lacked in size, they made up for in numbers, and the rear bumper was splattered with the miscellaneous souvenir stickers Derek had collected for a month or so before losing interest. To that, an unrecorded year and a half of traveling and wandering could be added.

  Not that Derek was too worried about it. He still had a few hundred dollars from his last job, which had been laying pipe for a fat little contractor that liked to point, yell, and smoke cigars. The little crook had also liked to pay his part time help under the table at half union wages. But even half
union wages was good money and Derek had been satisfied. When the money from that job began to run low, he would stop somewhere and find another. Some were better than others, but it really didn’t matter; as soon as he had enough money to last for a while, he would quit and be back on the road again.

  There were times when he looked upon his life as a pointless hit and miss existence, and thought, just maybe, that he could pull himself together and start over. Perhaps even avoid the same old mistakes. Then self-doubt would settle on him, making him afraid to try, and he would pass his chances up in favor of the safety he found in travel. It was a time for healing.

  A suicidal jack rabbit bounded across the road in front of him, and he jerked the steering wheel to avoid it. He missed it, felt relief, and glanced into the rear view mirror. There was nothing to see but yellowed, scratched plastic and dust. He relaxed in the seat, sighed, and turned his attention to the landscape drifting past.

  Trees, mostly spruce and pine, stood in scrubby clumps dotting the low hills like soldiers awaiting battle; old fences laid boundaries across their domains. The few farm houses Derek saw seemed oddly out of place, as if they had fallen unnoticed from the pocket of a passing wind.

  A dusty, weather beaten sign crept up along the side of the road to do its duty of informing (or accusing) the traveler of his whereabouts:

  Welcome To

  Cider Springs

  Pop. 724

  Derek slowed the Plymouth to minimum speed, wary of breaking any un-posted limits, entering the town at barely more than a crawl. An ancient, red pickup truck rattled past, pursued by its own dust cloud and groaning with ill health.

  Cider Springs wasn’t much different than a hundred other small country towns he had passed through. The highway cut through the center and served as the main street, with what few stores and shops there were clustered around it in the hopes of attracting whatever business they could. The first to draw Derek’s attention was a false front building with a hand painted sign saying “Parker’s General Store.” The words “Cold Beer” were painted below it, and he found the promise irresistible. He turned into the small parking lot beside the store.

  A few aisles of cans and dry goods greeted him in the cool interior of the store. In a far corner stood a glass cabinet cherishing its selection of beer and soft drinks, its refrigerating unit humming an uninspired mechanical love song to the cash register. Derek fished a can of beer from the cabinet, then crossed over to the counter and leaned on the register. As far as he could tell he was alone in the store.

  “Hey, anybody here?” Derek shifted his weight and popped open the can. The beer cut through the dust in his throat, leaving a trail of aching cold. “You’ve got a customer out here,” he called in a louder voice. A door behind the counter swung open a few inches, revealing a pair of watery eyes set in a thin grizzled face. One of the eyes winked at Derek and the door closed for a few moments, then opened again as the body matching the face came out. Derek got the impression that the old man consisted of an odd mixture of bones, leather, and whiskers.

  “Had to find my teeth,” the old man apologized. “Can’t talk without ‘em.” He gave Derek a wide grin as if to show them off. “Whatcha need, son?”

  “Got what I need.” Derek held up the half-finished beer, dug a dollar bill out of his jeans, and gave it to the old man. “Are you Mr. Parker?”

  “Yup, that’s me, Jeff Parker. No ‘mister’, though. Everybody around here just calls me Parker.” He handed Derek his change, then slipped out from behind the counter and got a beer for himself.

  Derek watched him open the can and drink. A small amount of the beer missed its intended destination, finding its way instead to Parker’s T-shirt to join ranks with a number of other older stains. Parker’s hand rubbed the new resident into anonymity.

  “Nice little town you folks have here.”

  “Bull,” Parker belched. “It’s a crumby little place you’ve got to choke to death to get in or out of. Most of the folks around here don’t leave because they can’t afford to, and the rest are crazy and like the place, like me.” He took another swig from his can and cocked an eyebrow.

  “You visiting or passing through?”

  “Just passing through,” Derek sighed. That’s the trouble; I’m always just passing through. He drained his can and crumpled it, then tossed it into a trash basket beside the counter. “Is there a gas station around?”

  “Yeah, there’s Ernie’s Texaco down at the other end of town. It’s the only station we’ve got, and the next one’s about seventy miles down the road.”

  “Ernie’s Texaco it is then. Thanks.”

  Derek left the store and stepped into the dust, pausing to take a deep breath of the afternoon air. It was a beautiful day and the sky was deep blue, clear except for a few puffy white clouds playing tag in the east. He lit a cigarette and glanced at his watch, surprised to find that it was almost four o'clock. He sighed again, got into the Plymouth, and twisted the key in the ignition. The motor coughed to life, then backfired and died. He tried again, and it turned over sluggishly for a moment before stopping with a metallic squeal. It wouldn’t turn over again.

  Well, shit. He got out and lifted the hood, then slammed it back down. There wasn’t much reason to locate the problem; he didn’t have many tools and his car obviously was in need of major surgery. He gave the Plymouth a wry look and headed back toward the store.

  The front door burst open just as he reached it and a small blond boy in faded jeans flew out. Derek grinned after the running figure. The boy dashed across the street and around a building that apparently served as the town church, yelling back an apology. A moment later, there was nothing but a trail of swirling dust to show where he had been.

  Something cold seemed to touch Derek between the shoulders, an uncomfortable feeling; it was like an unspoken warning. He didn’t like it. It wasn’t the first time he had felt the sensation, and it usually spelled trouble of some sort.

  Like the time Janet left. Why couldn’t she understand…?

  Derek pushed the unwanted memories from his mind, doing his best to shake off depression. He usually could, and he did again. He found Parker leaning on the counter thumbing through a magazine and sipping on his beer. The old man looked up and regarded him with a grin.

  “You get run over?”

  “Are you talking about that boy?” Derek shook his head. “No, he missed me by a good inch, give or take a little.”

  “That’s Tony. I don’t know what’s got into him. He’s sure fired up about something.”

  “Kids his age usually are. By the way, does Ernie make house calls? I’ve got a sick car sitting in your parking lot.”

  “You need a jump or something? I got cables.”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s the engine. Sounded like hell.”

  “I’ll give him a call and see what he says. What’s your name?”

  “Derek Hanen. Sure you don’t mind?”

  “Nah, glad to. Don’t worry about it.”

  While Parker busied himself on the telephone, Derek looked over the store’s small supply of sporting equipment. Of special interest to him was the fishing gear. Most of the fishing he had done had been in streams and lakes, but once he had gone deep sea fishing with friends. He remembered the incident with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment, because he hadn’t known the first thing about what he’d been doing. He had ended up almost drowning.

  Parker came over and interrupted his thoughts. “Ernie said he’ll tow it over to the station and check it out first thing in the morning, if that’s okay. He always quits early on Friday so he can make a night of it at Sam’s.”

  “Doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice. What’s Sam’s?”

  “That’s our local beer joint. They get a country music band in there on the weekends, and sometimes a fight or two. It’s the only entertainment in town, and the boys raise hell ‘till the sheriff busts it up. You should get down there if you get the chance.”r />
  “I might. Is there a motel or something here in town? I’m going to need a place to stay.”

  “Sure, about a block down on your right, place called the Hillrock. Kate Jameson runs it. She’ll take good care of you. You want me to have Ernie get ahold of you there?”

  “That would be great. Thanks a lot.”

  “Glad to help. See you in the morning, maybe?”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  Kate Jameson was a small woman in her late fifties, given to overweight and a cheery disposition. She had run the Hillrock Hotel since her husband’s death almost ten years before. Around harvest season, business usually picked up, but during the off seasons as it was now, things slowed to a standstill. An insurance settlement on her husband helped her to maintain the place in careful comfort. It was a large place for one person to run as she did, but she derived a great deal of satisfaction from her work. Busy hands doing good work was something she believed in. When the young man walked into the lobby with the worn suitcase in his hands she was working in the lobby,

  “Hello, can I help you?” She smiled, stuffing a much used polish cloth into its corner under the counter. The brass lamp base she had been working on gleamed proudly,

  “I hope so. I could use a room, and Mr. Parker down at the store suggested your place.”

  “Jeff? You’re lucky he didn’t wear your ear off. He’s a dear man, but he does go on.”

  “Maybe a little, but he was a lot of help.”

  “Well, I’ll be glad to have you. I’ve got a nice room on the second floor with a bath.”

  After telling him the price, she led him upstairs and showed him the room, summing him up in her mind. He was tall and lean, with a rugged, friendly face. She decided that she liked what she saw.

  * * *

  The hotel didn’t supply meals or kitchen facilities, so Derek ate at the only restaurant in town. It was a little on the shabby sides but homey, and the food was good. Derek wolfed down two hamburgers as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, instead of merely one day.