Gabriel’s Watch - Book One: The Scrapman Trilogy Read online

  GABRIEL’S WATCH

  BOOK ONE:

  THE SCRAPMAN TRILOGY

  Noah Fregger

  GABRIEL’S WATCH

  BOOK ONE: THE SCRAPMAN TRILOGY

  By Noah Fregger

  © 2013 Noah Fregger

  Groundbreaking Press

  8305 Arboles Circle

  Austin, TX 78737

  512-657-8780

  www.groundbreaking.com

  PRINT ISBN: 978-0-9831030-8-0

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-0-9850651-6-4

  First Edition

  Senior Editor

  Barbara Foley

  Editors

  Jon Fregger

  Brad Fregger

  Cover Graphics

  Noah Fregger

  Benjamin Vincent

  Book Design & Production

  M. Kevin Ford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. This is a fictional work, which takes place among imaginary people. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  To a life that’s ended, and one that’s just begun—

  May the world forever remember them both.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1: ZOLARIS

  CHAPTER 2: JUNKYARD

  CHAPTER 3: PARTING GIFT

  CHAPTER 4: MOHAMMAD

  CHAPTER 5: WHERE AM I?

  CHAPTER 6: TIMID TIMOTHY

  CHAPTER 7: DARKNESS

  CHAPTER 8: RADICAL WHIMSY

  CHAPTER 9: DINGY PETE’S

  CHAPTER 10: TERRIBLY DARK

  CHAPTER 11: SAINT JOHN

  CHAPTER 12: THE DEMON

  CHAPTER 13: THE APPLE

  CHAPTER 14: BIRTHDAY PRESENT

  CHAPTER 15: RESURRECTED LIONESS

  CHAPTER 16: INTO THE CITY

  CHAPTER 17: THE TOMAHAWK

  CHAPTER 18: TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER

  CHAPTER 19: BLOODY SUNDIAL

  CHAPTER 20: LADY HYBRID

  CHAPTER 21: BELIEVE IT

  CHAPTER 22: THE TRAVELERS

  CHAPTER 23: GYGES

  CHAPTER 24: CHERRYBROOK RAPTURE

  CHAPTER 25: THEORIES ON LUCK

  CHAPTER 26: I SAVED YOU

  CHAPTER 27: UNTIL THEN

  CHAPTER 28: HOPE

  CHAPTER 29: A TASTE OF EDEN

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I must keep this short, for the extent of my thank-you list could surely become a novel in itself. I gathered inspiration for this story from so many different sources. And there were specifically two individuals who helped me focus these new ideas as I tried to work each one into the plot. One of those people is my grandfather (and editor), Brad Fregger, who happens to be the man responsible for the challenge of writing this story. Your excitement throughout the process proved to be the fuel I’d been missing in my previous attempts. Without you, this story would have remained a lonely document in one of many wayward word folders.

  The second is my mother, Mary-Ann Fregger, who humored me for hours as we talked at length about the ideas flooding my mind. If ever those conversations grew tiresome, you never portrayed it, matching my enthusiasm with several ideas of your own. Without you, I surely would have talked Granddad straight into his grave. Luckily I didn’t, and he lives to help me through the sequel.

  Due to the fact I’m teetering on complete computer illiteracy, a majority of this story was first written on paper. Thank you to my wife Kristina; you were a monumental asset during those “technological debacles.” It’s this humbling relationship we share that has brought inspiration, however subconscious, to this tale as well.

  I must also thank the rest at Groundbreaking Press, who challenged my writing and started to thicken my skin for an industry known for its criticism. Thank you to the editors, Jon Fregger and Barbara Foley, whose input will only better my ability to turn psychological chaos into something someone might enjoy. Your views, opinions, and hard work have proved to be priceless.

  Thank you to Michael Stevens and Dennis Fregger (my off-the-record editors) for all your support and encouragement; and thank you to everyone who so much as slowed your lives, just to make room for something you knew was immensely important to me. This project has revealed a strength in my family, a strength for which I am eternally grateful.

  1

  ZOLARIS

  “The time was fast approaching when Earth, like all mothers, must say farewell to her children.”

  Arthur C. Clarke

  2001: A Space Odyssey

  It was shortly before nightfall, and no one was ever out past sunset—far too dangerous for the weak and unsuspecting.

  I am neither.

  The remains of our badly beaten city had just begun to shroud itself in a glorious, dusk-drawn twilight. It was a setting that could have easily enticed a feeling of tranquility into any onlooker. But I knew it was a false calm, similar to what a strolling insect might feel just before being dragged to its death by a trapdoor spider.

  This is why I treaded lightly, cautiously, as I entered the inner city. I found the double doors leading into the building’s downstairs lobby chained shut as I searched for a new way into Zolaris Enterprise.

  Zolaris had once been at the peak of industry, but its windows no longer illuminated the alleys beyond, there was no hustle and bustle of busy workers going from one important meeting to the next, and no aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the open hallways.

  The place was a ghost town. Its darkened interior emitted a sense of dread and foreboding, while the building itself stood like an ill-omened garrison at the center of the all-but-deserted city.

  Looking up and off into the horizon, one would notice the reddish wisps of war-scarred sky, marbled with the deep blues and vivid purples of the past apocalypse; it was undoubtedly beautiful to look at, but far from worth the agony it represented.

  I eyed a shattered window on the fifth story, impossible to get to—without the right equipment. Engaging a compressor with a flick of my index finger, a slight hum resonated over my shoulders and down my arms. The hiss of compressed air filled the immediate area as I watched the shifting and shuddering effects of the gear around me. I attached a set of soft discs to the quick-disconnect at my wrists and the toes of my boots; they were fed through a series of tubes which allowed this little project to be a possible success.

  Gripping the handle tightly and touching my right hand and left boot to the building’s wall, I felt the discs adhere with a solid “thwap, thwap.” Tugging on the device, I began to contemplate the additional weight of my body and the bulk of the equipment. “Thwap, thawp,” as my second hand and boot touched the wall. Tugging with significant effort, I was unable to pull it free.

  Awesome.

  Content with the progress thus far, I began to ascend, pressing a small button at the end of the handle to kill pressure to that set of discs and steadily climb.

  It was about fifty feet before I reached the broken window, and the journey went relatively well. I noticed a slight looseness to the grip of my boots—possible air leaks—but nothing that couldn’t be patched up back at the shop.

  Slipping through the window, I holstered the attachments, lowered my night vision, and switched it on. Instantly, the building seemed drenched in a gleaming glow-in-the-dark paint. Finding the nearest ladder-well, I continued my ascension, all the while keeping a sharp eye on my surroundings.

  I
’d been to this building just once recently—rushing in and out of offices, rummaging through desk drawers and filing cabinets, in search of a yet-to-be-found treasure. But the scavenging was cut short the moment I heard someone in the building with me.

  I had worked for this company before the war. As part of the maintenance team, I was able to brush elbows with some of the higher-ups. Through these encounters I had heard whispers, and on occasion saw proof, of something called the ZEKE Project. Given the present circumstances of the world, the dispirited state of those within it, and thinking some truth may be held in the rumors from the past, it seemed well beyond optimal time for a test run of the ZEKE.

  Reaching the seventh floor, I scouted the hallway beyond the ladder-well door—everything appeared clear. I tried the knob of an office door a short way up the hall to the right.

  Locked.

  I snapped the lock-breaking mechanism to the pneumatic device on my forearm. Retracting the slide-bar, I pressed it against the locked knob. Once released, I heard the locking cylinder skip across the ground within the office, along with an unsuspecting yelp from a startled occupant.

  Still harnessing that priceless element of surprise, I kicked in the door with one swift, wood-shattering motion, only to find an inferno blazing a hole through my night vision. Cursing, I tore off the goggles and dropped them to the floor, discovering a sickly, old man, clenching a blanket in his weathered hands.

  “Take anything you want!” he cried. “Please don’t hurt me again!”

  There was a candle flickering just beside him, the cause of the former inferno. I seemed to have interrupted his reading.

  It was truly a pitiful sight, and I couldn’t help but feel the empathy building within my gut.

  “I’m not gonna hurt ya,” I said. “I’m just looking for something in here, okay? Calm down, Ol’ Timer.”

  The man nodded drastically, his straggly white hair whipping back and forth, but the force with which he clung to the blanket belied his fear.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I repeated.

  We were inside the vice president’s former office. Once a symbol of organization and cleanliness, he would surely be turning in his grave if he could see it now—serving as a dingy refuge for this nomadic survivor. I pointed toward the back of the room, to a painting at the far wall. There had been a safe beyond that painting; but now the picture was ajar, the door opened, all the contents removed. This looked bad.

  “Did you take anything out of that safe?” I asked him. “Anything that might be of value to me?”

  The man turned to view the wall-box, but jerked quickly back to keep a cautious eye on me.

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Like a small black disc ... about yay big.” I offered him an approximate size with my thumb and forefinger as he took it into consideration.

  “What is it?” he continued.

  “You ask a lot of questions for someone so fidgety,” I said sternly. “If you know something, it’s best you spit it out.”

  The man retreated within his blanket again, scooping up something and holding it out to me, his hand shaking uncontrollably. He presented me with a folder bearing the words: “Confidential” and “ZEKE.” I’d found one just like this on my previous mission.

  “Where’s the disc?” I asked, snatching the folder from him.

  The man picked up a worn Western novel beside him, letting the pages flop open naturally as something dropped to the floor by his feet.

  “I was using it as a bookmark,” he admitted with a bit of embarrassment.

  I picked it up and inspected it. The disc was still in good shape and I could only hope the contents within were still intact.

  On the desk behind the old man I noticed a large metallic object along with various pieces of hardware—possibly parts of the ZEKE. I took everything I thought would be of use—jackpot.

  “Thanks, Old Man,” I nodded.

  “You’re the most polite thief that’s ever had the honor of breaking into my home,” he announced in a way that was meant for flattery, completely missing the delivery in the process.

  I stared at him, bewildered. It’s amazing how a daily dose of real human contact can be an anchor for one’s personal sanity. This lonesome fellow looked as though he’d been taken to rough seas a while back, leaving a few loose bolts rattling around that scraggly skull. I was suddenly very thankful for having Alice in my life; she was nothing short of a godsend.

  “Thank you?” I said, not exactly sure how else to respond.

  The man’s face fell from a pleasant smile to an awkward kind of focus or concentration. He stared at me for a moment before speaking.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked.

  I stopped to listen. I couldn’t hear anything, but another sense of mine did detect an abundance of vomit and urine, giving me the intense urge to bid him farewell and vacate the room.

  “I don’t hear anything, Mister,” I said honestly.

  The man shook his head and pulled the blanket closer.

  “They’re here,” he whispered.

  “Who’s here?” I asked, half expecting him to introduce a set of imaginary friends to this already bizarre conversation.

  “The government,” he revealed.

  Taken out of context this may sound crazy, but it was actually quite sane. His senses had been heightened during this time alone; I’d only just begun to hear them as well, shuffling up the stairs, banging something metallic on the rails as they ascended in our direction. There were two of them—no— three of them, shouting and taunting all the way up. They must have broken in through the lobby, or maybe they’d been the ones keeping it locked up.

  “Dammit,” I muttered, trying to pull out whatever I could use as a weapon. “Are they armed?”

  The old man nodded and opened his mouth, revealing a scattered array of missing teeth as he punched one fist into the palm of the other.

  “They did that to you?”

  The man nodded again.

  The government was a local gang, hell-bent on keeping their version of death and taxes alive and well, even after humanity had driven itself to near extinction. It seemed they’d been visiting this poor guy regularly, using him as their own personal punching bag.

  “Where are you, Old Man?!” one of them shouted as they entered the hallway.

  I took the man by the arm and tossed him into the closet beside the desk, closing the door after instructing him to be silent.

  God, I should carry a gun.

  A few close-combat techniques had served me well in the past, but I couldn’t continue to rely on them.

  Someday, some lucky punk’ll get the better of me.

  Blowing out the old man’s candle, I removed my shoulder bag and set it down quietly. Pressing my back to the wall behind the door, I clung to my lock-breaking mechanism ... and waited.

  I could hear them clunking loudly and obnoxiously through the hollowed structure. They were clearly under the impression they ran this building. The government believed it owned the entire city—fancying themselves the lions of this concrete and steel Serengeti—all because no one told them anything different.

  Their voices grew louder by the instant, and soon they were right on us. One of the men, slicing the darkness with the beam of a flashlight, entered the room. I seized him quickly by the wrist, yanked him forward, and twisted hard. The flashlight was released with the sound of his snapping bone, free to chase away the shadows as it skipped across the floor. I gripped the lock-breaking mechanism, lowering myself to the ground, as the second man entered directly behind the first.

  This one was carrying a pry-bar, which had probably been the instrument he’d been clanking up the stairway. Taking his weapon in one hand and pressing the cylinder to his leg, I blew out his kneecap and sent him flailing. With the confiscated pry-bar in one hand and blood on the other, I emerged from the doorway, swung it upward, and connected with the third man’s jaw. His head wrenched violently as he colla
psed in a grungy heap of unconsciousness.

  Letting the pry-bar slip from my fingers, I scooped up my bag and stepped over the last man, leaving the other two clutching their wounds and howling like animals.

  “You’re safe to leave,” I shouted back at the old man in the closet, “or you can do what you want with them!”

  I added that last part with complete sincerity. If the old man came out with the sole intention of carving them into gruesome trophies, I couldn’t have cared less. As far as I was concerned, they weren’t worth the scum scraped off my boot at the end of the day. I got what I’d come for and was able to help out a fellow human being in the process—a goddamned Good Samaritan.

  The double doors of the lobby were no longer bound by chains and other members of the government remained blissfully absent. Once free of the building, I took an immediate right and disappeared into the nearby alley where I’d stashed my ride.

  Vehicles used to be made purposefully loud, as though one’s manhood was proven by the roar of his engine, but no more. Being an older Kawasaki, my ride wasn’t incredibly earsplitting to begin with, but I still made some serious modifications to keep it as quiet as possible. In this place, and in these times, the less attention the better.

  Pulling my bike from within deep shadows, I hopped on, engaged the whisper-quiet engine, and took off toward the outskirts of the city. Beyond the urban chaos was where I’d made my home, where I’d set up shop and where I’d surely spend the remainder of my days, just me and Alice.

  And I looked forward to the wry smile that was sure to curl her lips when she saw what I was bringing home.

  2

  JUNKYARD

  The junkyard wasn’t much to look at—a seemingly random stack and assembly of motor vehicle parts and products towering up at the center to complete its unsettling arrangement of ugliness—but it was my home and I loved it dearly.

  Unlocking the barbed-wire fence and killing the bike, I made my way into the junkyard. I used to think of this place as an iceberg, how it’s said that only ten percent of it is above water, or something like that. Well, the same could be said about this old junkyard.