Chronicles of M (Book 1)

By Nicholas Forristal

Samuel is a retired Hollywood Agent who is offered a unique opportunity - join an ex-governmental agency who's tasked with handling an unconventional and unpredictable maniac named "M" as he battles the paranormal.

Their first task is to investigate the strange murder in a small town where nothing is what it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas Forristal
• Release date: Aug 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476146973

Nicholas Forristal

Born in the 80s during the age of Oregon Trail, Nicholas remembers the days before the internet, when the world was young and herds of dial-up BBS roamed the digital landscape in peace. Nicholas went on to college at Kansas State University and studied psychology. It was here, at the pinnacle of his lowly existence, that he met his future wife. After that, life became dull and work-centric, as adulthood typically does. So now he writes to fight back the madness, while his son plays with his imaginary friends.

Book preview

Chronicles of M

by

Nicholas Forristal

Copyright

The Chronicles of M

Smashwords Edition

© 2014 Nicholas Forristal

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

More Books by The Author

Chronicles of M series:

CoM: Ammit (Book 2)

CoM: A'loc: (Book 3)

Hitori

CoM: Consequences (Book 4)

Five Man Midget Death Squad

CoM: The Lord War (Book 5)

Short Stories:

Catch and Release

Coming Soon:

Com: The Purge (Book 6)

Prologue

They stand apart from the masses. Invisible, silent. Cloaked in an invisibility spell that also silences their words to everyone, but themselves. Close enough to see, but distant enough to not be stumbled upon.

The boy, wiser and older than his body shows him to be. His life of mistakes, triumphs, fears and strengths meld together behind his calm, collected, all-seeing eyes. Not even a scratch mars his ageless body.

The woman is not so lucky. Years of torment and confusion riddle her mind and her body with unimaginable damage. Living in an almost perpetual paradox, held together only by the threads of magical healing the boy at her side could muster. She knows this place, this park. It is the end of her long, tortured ride. Her only comfort is in knowing that the boy has brought her back to her time and her universe.

This is where it started. The boy says, his grey eyes surveying the daytime scene.

For me anyways. She replies.

For both of us. Soon the first act will begin and my life will become mine again.

What about me? Where do I fit into this?

This time? This time you will share your knowledge with our friends and warn them of what is to come.

Should I go now, or wait?

The boy tilts his head and stares through the woman. Yes, it would be better if you waited. A week perhaps. Better yet, I will take you there. It is easier to jump accurately through days of time, rather than centuries.

Chapter 1:

A Bank Robbery to Remember

The end is near. The great purge is coming!

In worn out, and over sized and under washed clothes, shes belts this out from the Central Park Fountain. Everyday for the past month she's done this and, if she's lucky, a handful of people ever stop to listen. Yes, we know the Rapture is coming, thank you. Please go wash the grime out of your hair. It looks like you’ve been mopping up ash with your head. I’m fifty feet away from you, and I can still smell the filth.

I need to get it together. This is my first day of retirement and I'm letting a hobo wear on my nerves. After thirty years of being the agent for every snot nosed, pain-in-my-butt celeb out there, I'm finally free. No more telling a studio that my client won’t be in their latest and greatest movie unless she receives a gallon jug filled with red M&Ms, a bottle of scotch made in Scotland between the years 1950 and 1960, and some insane amount of money that is most likely the annual salary of a cameraman. Heaven forbid the little star gets a dressing room that doesn't have good cell reception for Twitter and texting.

I wasn't an agent as in I sit in an office all day and talk deals over the phone, while I watch my Newton's Cradle and drink brandy. I was more an old-school agent. I would get to know the client's needs by going on their tours, their parties and whatever else they wanted. Handling the work that way allowed for two perks: less clients to deal with, and a higher price for my services. The downside was having to basically live with them.

At first, it wasn't too terrible. Back in '82, I had a good run of clean, honest, humble clients that understood that I was there to help them make money and to help them with the business side of music. Sure, quite of few of them had drug problems, but they would keep me out of that loop and straighten up when they needed to do their job. It was only in the last few years, when the clients starting get far more egotistical, childish, and downright insane, that it became a nightmare. Think Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but on cocaine. I really hated my job after that. Kids destroying themselves and everyone around them, for the sake of staying in the lime light, when all they really had to do was their jobs.

So here it ends, the last bit of business. The only reason I come to this part of town, via the crowded, disgusting subway, is to walk across the park (with its ranting bag ladies) and to make a bank deposit. Generally self-employment doesn't allow for automatic deposits. In my case, sometimes it does, but I reserved that for only my most trusted clients. Too often clients, or their handlers to be more percise, would forget to pay. I like money in hand. It's quick, easy and makes it harder for people to squirm out of their responsibilities.

Today there is a short line at the bank, and I'm in front of it just as quickly as I walk up to the window. Pulling out my various deposit slips and checks, Trudy, my bank assistant, watches me with a smile. One of the main reasons I choose this bank is that they assign a teller or two to each customer. It makes for a much easier, personal and overall nicer experience. I prefer to do things in person, when I can. I always seem to have better luck that way. So far, the digital age hasn't been a huge benefit for me and doing things in person just seems easier. Maybe I'm just old fashioned.

Hello Mr. Horn. Is today the big day? Trudy asks, still smiling. She takes my deposit slip and various checks before pushing her glasses up her nose. Her dark brown hair is tied back with a pink bow that matches her blouse.

Actually, yesterday was, I smile back, today is the last of the deposits though.

Same as usual? Total the deposits and put three quarters in savings and the remaining into your checking?

Yes, ma’am.

What's the plan now? Are you taking a vacation? She types some things into the computer, her fingernails clicking against the keys.

I was thinking about it, but I need to get everything in order before I make any real plans.

The deposit slip spits out of the printer and she hands it to me. Here you are, sir. I hope whatever you do is delightful, and I hope to see you soon.

Thanks, have a... my words disappear in a loud BANG that echoes throughout the bank. Instinctively, I turn. My instincts don't always make best decisions.

The scorching hot metal of a recently used pistol burns against my forehead. A tall, broad shouldered, bald man screams in my face like a drill sergeant, Everyone on the ground now! We are here for the money, but we will kill you, if we have to!

Behind him are several men forcing everyone on to the ground. Each of them is dressed in black suits and white ties. My eyes dart between the gun pressed against me and the man holding it.

What don't you understand? Get on the damn ground, before I drop you! He yells at me before turning his focus towards Trudy. You! Take these bags and empty out the vault. If you aren't back in five minutes, I'm going to kill everyone in sight. Don't forget, I can see what you’re doing in there. He looks back to me, his skin turns several shades redder, and his brown eyes widen with rage. What the hell did I just say to you?

I'm a deer in headlights.

Get on the damn ground, before I decorate the floor with your brains.

All I can manage to stutter out is, I...I...I...

The man rolls his eyes. Fine, whatever, just shut up and stay put. He grabs my shoulder, spins me around, and shoves me up against the counter. With my face forcefully vised between a marble counter top and a handgun, my contact jerks out of place. The world becomes a mirrored blur. I'm too shocked to blink it back into place as I stare at nothing my mind registers.

The robber starts barking orders at his fellow thieves. Between fear, panic and the deafening, dead echo of the counter, I can't make out any of it. A few minutes pass and the gun against my temple is replaced with a swift jerk of my collar, almost choking all the air from me. As my view is forced straight ahead, Trudy is coming out of the vault dragging behind her two large potato sacks overfilled with money. Her brown eyes red from crying.

All of you into the vault! The man behind me bellows, shoving me towards an opening in the counter down by the far wall. I stumble, but manage to correct myself before falling over. It's in this moment of instinct that something clicks. Something internal takes over. The fear is still there, but I'm able to push it back and get a grip on myself. A calmness washes over me, and I feel less like a deer in headlights, and more aware and in control. Quickly shifting my contact into position, I look over the dozens of mothers and daughters, brothers and fathers as they are pushed, pulled and jerked my direction. I hear the police sirens blaring outside. How did I miss that before?

What happened?

Is the bank surrounded?

Should we make a run for it? Should we stay?

The robbers are losing their cool to the sirens and lights of the local police. The hostages scream for help. BANG! The leader fires another round into the air. Everyone shut the hell up! Get these people in the vault NOW! Everyone goes silent and we go in the vault.

Why the hell are we in the vault Terr…, one of the men starts to say, as the obvious leader interrupts him with a back hand across his face.

Don’t you dare say my name you fat tub of lard. We’re in the vault because there’s only one way in. Since you guys are turning into cowards I need a small space to watch everyone, and there’s no windows directly in view.

Windows? the man responds, looking extremely confused and scratching the underside of his large stomach.

Yes, stupid, windows. If they set up snipers out there, we are as good as dead in front of the windows. Who the hell set off the alarm anyways?

Silence. No one is going to own up to that responsibility. The leader looks us all over. His irate gaze eventually turns back to his partners, who are all sitting near the entrance to the vault. He points at one of them with his gun. A short, beer bellied man with small, dark and beady eyes. The leader glares at him. You. Didn’t you grab one of the bankers, and pull him to your face across the counter?

Yeah, so? The man's eyes shift back and forth.

So, did you watch his hands when you did that, or were you trying too hard to be a bad-ass and stare him down?

I uh, I don’t know. The beady-eyed man shrugs.

Did you grab his arms?

No.

You grabbed him by his tie didn’t you?

I uh... I don’t know.

Yeah, you did. While you were yanking that guy, Mr. Bad-ass, I bet he just so happened to press the button. The leader looks over his crew. How stupid are you guys, honestly? We plan and plan and plan for this and you idiots still can’t get it right. The leader lets out a heavy sigh and rubs his eyes with his fingers. Okay, what do we do…?

The phone rings, causing several of the thieves to jump and point their guns at the phone sitting on the counter outside the vault. It rings again. The leader, still rubbing his eyes walks over and answers the phone. A couple minutes go by and the leader comes back.

One of the other thieves, a thinner man with a goatee asks, Was it the cops?

Sure was.

They want us to give up?

Sure do.

And you said no?

Yup. The leader says, sighing and popping the p at the end.

So, now what?

We could trade hostages for our freedom. The beady eyed man offers.

The leader shakes his head, You honestly think that will work? You know as well as I do, the moment we hand the hostages over, they are going to arrest us.

How about we use the hostages as human shields and walk out of here?

Remember there are probably snipers out there. What are you going to do, hold one of these people above you?

The short, fat one jumps in, We could switch clothes with the hostages and let ourselves go?

The leader lets out a low growl. Did you even look around the room before you said that? We have several women, a handful of kids, and only a couple guys to pick from. I know I can’t fit into any of their clothes, and I’m positive your tubby ass can’t either. So, should we dress up as women and waltz out of here?

So far, there doesn’t seem to be a way out for them that doesn't include prison time or death. Everything the leader said is correct. Dressing up as women probably isn't going to work with all the five o'clock shadows and pot-bellied obesity. Human shields won't work, unless they figure out how to hold us above their heads like some sort of Roman turtle defense. Giving the hostages away isn't going to do them any good without some sort of contract. So, what do you do? Do you just give up and hope for the best? No, there’s got to be a better way.

Someone blurts out reduce the sentence.

Wait, did I say that?

What the hell did you just say? The leader snaps at me.

I uh, sorry. I look to the floor like a child in trouble.

Sorry nothing, what the fuck did you say? He raises his pistol to my face.

Um, I said, reduce the sentence?

Are you retarded? Do you normally just blurt random shit out? What the hell does that mean?

I, I was thinking about the situation and how I would get out of it.

AND?

And, I shrug, I would trade the hostages to the cops for a reduced sentence?

The leader lets out a very loud, hard laugh and lowers his gun to his side. So your master plan would be to give up?

Yes.

Trade the hostages for less prison time?

Yes.

You are out of your mind.

I straighten up and take a breath. A new wave of calm, cool and collected washes over me as I stand up. Well, let’s look at the facts here. You are hiding in a bank vault, your cohorts are half wits at best. The rest of the thieves start to grumble and whisper, You, yourself, have stated that getting out a free man is nearly impossible. Even IF you did manage to escape, not a single one of you is wearing a mask. You've been seen by the security cameras, which have probably been tapped into by the police.

The pot-bellied robber’s eyes go wide, Can they do that?

I shrug, I honestly don’t know, but would it be that hard to believe? So, with all that being said, your best bet is to give up and get it over with. Rather than just give up though, why not negotiate? That’s what the cops want anyways. If you turn us over without injury for a reduced sentence, making sure the media hears about it, the police will have to keep up their end of the bargain. You know every reporter will be looking into it, to make some money off it. If the cops don't keep their word, it'll be all over the news. Besides, do you have a better idea?

Chapter 2:

Prank Calls and Diners

Eight hours at the police station because they think I was part of the heist. Eight hours of sitting in a dimly lit, empty room being harassed and threatened by a bunch of donut eating morons scratching for promotions. It really makes no sense why they held me for that long, when every other hostage told them the exact same story. I wasn't in on the crime; I was trying to end it. What a way to finish my career.

Now I’m home.