The Watch Series: Book One

By Curtis Brown

In an inspired vision of the near future, the current of change in the world accelerates. The Watch Series: Book One mirrors the political conflicts and imminent environmental dangers of our time. Fracking is big business, but while we worry about the fault lines beneath our feet, powers in the East see them as an opportunity waiting to happen. With the fate of the American West Coast at stake, three brothers grow from boys to men, each with his unique expertise and with a shared power that draws them into a brush with fairies and a squad of commandos. The Watch Series promises to blast the genre of religious action-adventure onto the front lines of contemporary fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jan 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490867007

Book preview

Dangle man

Chapter One

T hey marked the joint with a pen, taking special care to make easy-to-follow dashes. The victim would have to be revived to retrieve an optimum sample. They already had one foot but would need the other. Endorphins are what’s needed. They’re available for a brief time as the victim tries to manage the reality of the moment. They weren’t available now. The poor sap was passed out from multiple blows to the head. The foot, the one still attached, was placed in between two steel guide wires that stretched behind a guardrail rimming the perimeter of a lookout area on a deserted, north of Superior highway. He hung upside down, like an animal carcass over the ledge of a gorge. He regained consciousness. A lead pipe and baseball bat on either side of the foot were used as opposing levers to fasten the foot firmly between the wires. Around and around the levers tightened until the wires bit into the flesh. The victim screamed. They hooked the levers under and above the guardrail to keep them in place. Executioner number one started the drill with a saw-blade attachment. He had to search for the dotted line indicating the ankle joint. It was hidden under wire and dirt. He started to bring the hardware closer to the leg. The victim screamed the bluest blue language. He yelled, cried, cursed and choked. They had trouble restraining him. The executioner with the drill stopped.

Is that a siren?

Everything stopped except the screaming. It was impossible to hear anything above the screaming. The drill started up again and came excruciatingly close to flesh and bone, sending another line of curses and screams up to the executioner’s ear and rattling his brain. The screaming never abated. Everyone was screaming. The two lever operators were losing their footing. Executioner number one stuck a finger in his ear.

Is that a siren?

He threw the drill into the gorge. The lead pipe was working free from the rail. It spun quickly 720 degrees, launched from its wire cradle and took out executioner number two. Executioner number three had just enough time for his lower jaw to drop as he watched his colleague slip down the gorge before he was clubbed on top of his head by his lever. He tried to grab something to save himself, but was only successful in tugging at the trousers of the victim. The last pieces of materials in his hands were pants, belt and the elastic strap from jockey shorts before giving way, sending the victim over the side to land on a ledge. Executioner number one was thoroughly convinced the buzzing in his ears meant his capture was imminent. He jumped into his car and was never seen again. The site was a mess and everything they had been contracted to retrieve was still in situ. Enough of this local talent. The Russians would have to be called in.

Chapter Two

T his story isn’t about me. It’s about my brother. It’s about my mother wanting him saved. My dad too, I guess. I was put in charge of the job.

He’s a really talkative guy, my brother. So watching him now grip and re-grip the steering wheel of Dad’s car without saying a word tells me all I need to know. I keep quiet. That’s not hard for me. I don’t talk much. Never did. I wanted to get his attention though, make him say something. He was driving too fast. I started to pick my nose. Before I knew it, I got slapped by the wet tips of his fingers on my forehead.

You disgusting little snot head.

I didn’t want to tell him that I’d won and made him come back to earth and reduce his speed.

You think you won, don’t yah? But whose head got slapped, squirt?

Freshly slapped forehead aside, at least I felt safer riding in the car as he slowed the vehicle considerably.

Where’re we headed?

West.

Not yet we weren’t. We were traveling up Yonge Street and that means north. I guess he meant out west as a destination. My sphincter tightened with the thought.

This is one heck of a time of year to be visiting the prairie provinces.

There are some things you can’t control, little brother.

I thought back to the lack of control I saw in our kitchen as my father and my older brother argued, going eyeball to eyeball, spit flying, arms waving. The only intelligible words were the threats. The rest were lost in foam around their mouths and in a gap in thinking that was as wide as my father’s shoulders and as firmly planted as my brother’s size thirteen Nikes. Control. There wasn’t any, really. Control happened when we were too tired, too lazy, too stuffed to stand up. That’s the way it was with Team Testosterone, anyway. My mother could come in and take control. The same way she did with my brother and my father in their last set-to-it. She got control of my brother’s eyes, his stare and ushered him out of the basement and up to the kitchen just as my father was promising him he would deliver my brother to the backyard through a rather small kitchen window. She got control of my father and changed him from thinking that he had to get rid of my brother à la Valhalla, to handing over his car keys. She had everything under control. She was five steps ahead of everyone. Within a matter of hours, two teens were out the door and in a car, loaded with camping equipment, boxes filled to the brim with every imaginable food that was ever put in a can, clothes, money, headed towards who knows where. Sent off by a teary-eyed, hanky-waving mother, losing some of her control.

I had trouble keeping the last image of my father. He shooed me away when I went to say good-bye. Sitting alone in a dark, damp basement. No control.

Well, when it comes to cars, I hope we have control, I said, as I gave my head a shake and tried to focus on what my brother was saying.

Go west, young man, Lenny blurted out. I never thought of any other place or any other direction. The west is where you’re supposed to go. It’s the land of opportunity, isn’t it?

I guess so.

Then get with the program, squirt.

I felt like picking my nose and flicking it at him.

Anyway, sometimes we’re just a part of something bigger. And if you take a close look, you’ll see how your life is pointing you in a certain direction, he said.

March. Manitoba. Mexico. When I say those three words, I think snow, minus five degrees Celsius, plus twenty-five degrees Celsius. Or, how’s this? Ice. Snowstorm. Beach. All you have to do, to choose the right one of those, is point the car in a certain direction.

The car is pointed. Shut up and ride. I never would have agreed to bring you along if I knew you talked so much. I never knew you talked so much.

I don’t.

Then shut up.

Chapter Three

L et’s keep our eyes open for a place to stay tonight, I said.

Lenny nodded his head in agreement. He was locked in. Automatic pilot. I must have just woken up. My neck was sore. My mouth was pasty. I had been fighting the nods for so long, maybe I just gave in and fell asleep. Asleep for how long, who knows. I didn’t feel refreshed.

Where are we? I asked.

South and east of where we want to be.

I shut up and listened to the engine growl instead. A low, satisfied purr over something already dead with stiff legs pointing up in the air. I closed my eyes. Wipers slapping now. Sun shower. When I opened them, pin-points of light with tails like comets flashed with a yawn and a stretch. Running down the road. The sound of rubber peeling off the wet pavement like tape off a box.

Where do you want to sleep tonight? Park, motel, where? I asked.

Humph, was the reply.

I’ll keep my eyes out for a sign.

I hardly got the words out of my mouth. Unmistakable. The sign said, Trust Your Neighbor. Bob Madrigal, Galaxy Realty, Everywhere You Are. It also said, get out of here, in my mind. There was a picture of Bob holding a horn of plenty, spilling out cars, boats, bicycles, appliances, computers, money and jewelry. Big Bob. The last time I saw big Bob, I was being held by him two inches away from his face. Two hands on my buttocks. Patches of gray whiskers on a wrinkled face delivering fruits and vegetables along the alleyways and side streets of Toronto. He would sell them over the fence to housewives hanging laundry on the clothesline or from a vacant lot to anyone passing by. The alleyways had a life of their own. Backyards and alleys offered a look at the most private of lives. A life revealed when you think no-one is looking. It’s where neighborhood life begins and on that day, two months beyond my seventh birthday, I thought life would end.

How ’bout you come with me in my truck? I remember him saying. Red and dark, dark eyes. Dark complexion. Dark and oily hair. I was never more frightened in my life. This fright was off the charts. Fright had been a what-if game of truth or dare and mother’s disappointment and father’s tired hand. I couldn’t break free of Bob’s hold. Bob must have thought that the little beggar was causing too much commotion so he let me down. Predators have to first immobilize their prey before tearing them apart. He failed. So I ran into my house and bolted the door. I ran up the stairs and looked out of my bedroom window and watched big Bob casually saunter back to his truck, perhaps thinking he had made a down payment on a future payoff. The truck continued down the alley and turned onto the next street. This street had a vacant lot between houses that led to railway tracks. I saw my brother playing there. I breathed. That was followed by choking sobs and questions. I kept asking "Why? Why did he do that to me? Why wasn’t my big brother with me at home, playing games? Big Bob must have seen me playing on my back porch, took a hankerin’, stopped the truck. Nothing unusual so far. Opens the gate. Walks up to the porch and skip de do da, cop a little feel. Maybe that’s all he wanted. Just a little something to take the edge off. Put the boy back down. Could have been a relative. Walk back to the truck and drive off. Bob’s your uncle.

I looked at Lenny. He looked at me. I looked away.

What’s the matter, Alex?

I was startled to hear my name. I felt my eyes well up.

Nothing.

Chapter Four

T he morning, heralded by song birds and pink clouds, arrived, prodding Lenny awake. I was already awake, but I couldn’t move. I had used the armrest on one of the doors as a pillow and it didn’t work so well. Lenny crawled out of the car with his shoes in hand and his jacket under his arm. The grass was wet and the ground yielded somewhat under foot as if there was a septic system just below the surface. The first thing I noticed after I was able to sit up was the frosty coating over the entire car. Candy coated Mercury. I stepped out of the car. This was the first time I had seen the campground. The entire campground was one large field bordered by trees. Around the perimeter were trailers. It seemed like hundreds; trailers everywhere. The center must have been reserved for tents because there weren’t any. Just one Mercury standing alone, frost on its haunches. There were streets radiating out from the track that went around the perimeter of the field. I had no recollection of finding this place. I must have passed out again. Lenny must have been dog tired. It’s a wonder he didn’t run off the road before stopping here.

We left this place, ate something from a can, slept and traveled some more. Eat, travel, sleep. We got into a synched rhythm of knowing when it was time to eat just before we got hungry, knowing when to rest just before nodding, knowing when to stop and stretch just before an attack of pins and needles in our toes. We covered a lot of territory. Somewhere around Lake Superior after driving all night, Lenny began to fidget a lot. This morning, early, the sun began to make an appearance with the strength of a flashlight beneath a blanket. Lenny blurted out, That’s what he actually said.

Who?

‘Be far from me!’ That’s what he actually said!

Dad?

Yes! ‘Be far from me!’ Then he turned his back to me!

I looked at him like, what? Where did this come from? He must have been muddling over ideas in his head all night. No wonder he wanted to drive. There wasn’t going to be the chance of much sleep when you’re in a one-way argument. It could have been a lot worse.

But, ‘Be far from me?’ It’s like he couldn’t look at me anymore. Where does he get a saying like that?

I know one thing, I said. It was hard for him to say.

I don’t think so.

I know so. You’re the eldest. That means a lot to him. And by the way, what he probably said was, ‘Be it far from me.

What are you talking about? You weren’t there.

I’ve heard him quote that line before. He likes it. He’s said it more than once.

What’s it mean?

It means being on the right side of things. The righteous side.

How do you know this stuff?

It’s what we talk about, Dad and I, among other things. That comes from one of the prophets. Just like you and Dad are with sports and carpentry and Dad and Dashell share a love for making money and midget wrestling. Dad and I have chess and the prophets. We all have our place with him. He calls them the reluctant heroes.

Why won’t he get off my back, though? I’ve got to live my own life, be my own man. I can’t do what he says forever. I’ve got to make my own way.

Dad doesn’t want to stop you from living your own life. He just doesn’t want to see you hurt. He loves you.

The day was well and truly started. I shaded my eyes from the sun and watched the clouds. The ones on the lower plane periodically stopped and spilled out at the edges like sour milk in dishwater. The ends of them curling like waves coming ashore. The higher level clouds, stains, backdrop, moved opposite the mixing clouds underneath. Sun, moon, currents, rising thermals all in evidence in this active sky. Cirrus fantails swept the periphery. Big, bulging clouds with gray bellies hid the sun and cooled the air.

I should have seen you coming around the bend a lot earlier than I have, said Lenny. Ashamed of myself, I am, for not seeing then what I see now. I never knew you had anything worthwhile to say before. Guess we were never this quiet together so I could listen. We were once though, but you were a baby. Mom used to put you in my bed if I couldn’t sleep. You used to calm me down. I used to talk to you then and you’d give me back this stupid-looking grin. Kind of like what’s on your face now.

I turned my face back to the clouds. Lenny turned off the highway. With every turn, the condition of the road deteriorated and our elevation rose until we stopped at a lookout over forests and water north of Superior.

Lenny got out of the car and strode over to the rail separating life from death and started attacking it with calisthenics and stretching routines. He looked like he was trying to do more than just purge his body of aches and pains.

I busied myself making breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I wasn’t sure which one. Anyway, it was a can from box number three and it was going to be heated which meant dinner.

By the time our fire-breathing chili was heated through, Lenny was sitting on a boulder on the other side of life. Still and quiet he sat. I put the can of chili beside him and left him alone.

Warm sun heating the thin layer of earth. The stone and concrete retaining wall and boulders heating up in the sun. Pine and cedar needles scenting the air. I rode that warm feeling and wonderful aroma back into my life. Back to when I was about five years old. Fists full of things from my two front pockets. Summer. Baggy jeans. Spreading my bounty over the porch steps and fingering and inspecting with the care and absorption of an adult eating alone. Hot sun. Mother in the house. Father with broad shoulders. Candies. Worms. Coins and elastic bands. I was conscious. And I was conscious of being conscious. For the first time I knew I was alive. The sun was warming my body and it was a good feeling. My mother was near and I liked that thought. My father could throw me in the air and I remembered the good feeling of it. There was no need to move off those porch steps, ever. But I did, and I had a chilling thought that I would never be more satisfied with anything in my life than I was with those insignificant things that day.

I looked towards Lenny. You’re thinking of Dad now, aren’t you? I yelled. Lenny had been sitting in the dad position. Everybody in our family knew it, what it looked like, what it meant. We had seen my father adopt that same posture a hundred times. It was a picture in our minds as well as a photograph on the wall. A man in contemplation is what I thought. A man minding his own business is how my father would reply. Lenny looked up at me with the same heaviness in his eyes. He returned his gaze back to his hands without saying a word. I don’t believe he even heard any words. I don’t know why I kept staring at him. I didn’t expect a reply. I guess I was fascinated with watching a man being