Raise The Dead

By J.S. Frankel

Raising the dead would be considered a miracle by anyone. In the case of a lone test subject, it’s anything but. The nameless carrier is, in fact, a walking plague that wreaks evil upon society. In a battle for survival, only Harmon Hapwell and Britt Besch, high school students, can stop him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: May 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781487441609

Book preview

Science always pushes the boundaries when it comes to advances in medicine. But sometimes, they push too far and they make mistakes... big ones.

Raising the dead would be considered a miracle by anyone. In the case of a lone test subject, it’s anything but. The nameless carrier is, in fact, a walking plague that wreaks evil upon society. In a battle for survival, only Harmon Hapwell and Britt Besch, high school students, can stop him.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Raise The Dead

Copyright © 2024 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-4160-9

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Raise The Dead

By

J.S. Frankel

Dedication

To my wife, Akiko, my children, Kai and Ray, and to Eva Pasco, Joanne Van Leerdam, Schuyler Thorpe, Sara Linnertz, Harlowe Rose, Gigi Sedlmayer, Michelle Holstein, Helen Dunn, Anna Casamento Arrigo, Richard Correa, Jennefer Rogers, Michelle Williams, Toni Kief, and so many more, thank you for your support. And to my late sister, Nancy Dana Frankel, this one’s for you, sis!

Chapter One: Evil Miracle

Newton Town, Lincoln County, Oregon, downtown area, June second, present day. Sunday, eight-forty-five AM. Ten days before summer vacation.

The crowd milled around Warbler’s Department Store, waiting for the doors to open. It was an Everything-Twenty-Percent-Off-Day, and those who lived to shop and who had the funds wanted to slake their buying thirst.

Everyone except me, that is. I had exactly seven dollars in my pocket, a recent acquisition from my mother, who’d obviously pitied my lack of funds. As a student, I had no part-time job to tide me over. Newton Town thrived on tourism, as it sat right next to a mountain range that offered camping, plus a spectacular scenic view of the mountains beyond. It also had numerous bike trails, and summer bike riders loved going there.

And, in a specially sealed-off-by-yellow-tape area located near Warbler’s, we had a hole dug out of the earth that would soon house a time capsule. Anyone and everyone could contribute to it. It was large enough to hold at least three people, but our mayor promised that only non-human items would be placed inside.

I’d pitched in with a few books. Other people had donated pictures, toys, DVDs, and various and sundry items. A single cable attached to a crane held it aloft, and it dangled over a six-foot wide hole that was fifty feet down. That depth was actually too deep. The workmen had made a mistake, but no one had bothered filling in the hole, so everyone left it alone.

Signs saying Keep Out—This Means You made people laugh, but no one was interested in stealing anything from the capsule. It would be buried next year, and all the neighboring counties plus the major newspapers would show up for the ceremony—or so they promised.

However, time capsules and touristy things notwithstanding, numbers were everything. Times were tough. No one was hiring, not even at the local ice cream shops, and wasn’t that just too bad? Rhetorical—it sucked, but everyone was in the same boat.

Not having a part-time job bothered me. Financially, my mother and I were hurting. She was single, widowed, and not looking to remarry, as she didn’t want to go through the heartbreak of losing another husband, or so she said.

We’d moved here from Chicago about a year ago. Prices were cheaper, and my mother had a decent office job. Still, we had to pay the mortgage on our house and buy food, and that left precious little money for luxuries.

Luxuries were things that many other kids took for granted. No smartphone for me. I had a used computer, a ton of old books that I’d scored from online library sales and paid for by my mother—I paid her back by doing all the cleaning and washing chores—and a number of computer software games. That was all I needed. My mother’s take-home pay wasn’t great. In fact, it was just enough for both of us, so I got used to having less.

If I had one wish, it was for a new name. Harmon didn’t sound tough, at least, to me. As for my family name—Hapwell—that also sounded sort of lame. Growing up, people either called me Harmless or Hapless or Hopeless.

Getting insulted on a daily basis could really scar anyone’s psyche, and on more than one occasion, as a little kid, I’d come home crying. Chicagoans weren’t noted for being sensitive. They were tough-minded people, and the kids there were no exception. A person could only ignore insults for so long.

However, my mother, short, slender, and just as tough-minded as everyone else, raised me to be self-reliant. Your father would’ve wanted it that way, she’d said. You have a name to be proud of, and you should never let anyone tear you down because of who you are or what your name is. Ever.

Call it a cliché, but it was easy for her to say that. She had a nice, normal name—Anna. She didn’t have to worry about people making fun of her. As for my father, I never knew him. He’d died when I was a baby.

All I knew was the picture of him on our mantelpiece at home. Short and stocky, he had a narrow face, blue eyes, and blond hair. Small ears, thin lips. I looked just like him and was built just like him—on the short side of five-eight—except that my hair was dark, as were my eyes.

In short, I looked very average, or, to be honest, slightly less so. The kids at school knew that, and growing up, I was on the pudgy side. I got teased a lot not only for my name but also for my physique—or lack of one—but after my mother had that heart-to-heart talk with me, something resonated. I had to rely on myself, so I went on a diet and learned how to fight. I didn’t pick fights, but if someone insulted me over my name or looks, then it was on.

Yes, it was childish, but kids my age never thought about the consequences until it was too late. And because they didn’t think ahead, they said and did things that they regretted later. During that time in my life, their stupidity and my willingness to mix it up taught me how to brawl.

My mother became an expert in applying bandages and iodine, and she got very creative with it. I copied her style, and while I looked like a mummy, eventually, I got the hang of it, healed up, and then got into another scrape where I had to tape myself up all over again.

It was only after thirty throwdowns inside school, plus a lot of after-school fights, plus a lot of detention time that I learned to back off. My teachers and my mother sat me down, and we talked things over. We also hashed things out with the other students.

Although I was somewhat slow on the uptake, I realized that fighting all the time wouldn’t get me anywhere. Sooner or later, someone bigger and stronger would kick my ass. Additionally, word of mouth could hurt me.

Chicago was a big city, but online posts traveled fast, and social humiliation over getting your butt kicked didn’t go away overnight. In my case, my rep as a brawler spread. It established me as someone not to mess with.

On the flipside, no one wanted to associate with me. From junior high onward, school was a tightrope, with me trying to balance making friends while getting an education.

I envied the other kids who made friends as easily as a bird that soared its first time out of the nest. I envied the kids who scored perfect or near-perfect on tests throughout their scholastic lives. I envied those who excelled at everything athletic without trying.

But after a while, I realized that some of those seemingly perfect kids weren’t all that perfect, that everyone had problems, and that I had to get over myself. It was a never-ending struggle, one that I’d had to deal with and was still dealing with at the age of seventeen, my first year in Newton, and my junior year at Newton High School. I figured that I’d eventually get the hang of things.

The doors will open in fifteen minutes, a uniformed guard intoned, hauling me back to reality. Please don’t rush inside. Enter in an orderly fashion.

As if, I thought. Here, if there was a sale on, it was every shopper for themselves, a proverbial fight to get to the top of the anthill. Already, around six hundred people were waiting near the doors, chatting with each other while nervously shifting their feet and tensing for the proverbial gun to go off and the race to the bargains to start.

Not that I could buy anything. This was strictly a get-inside-and-enjoy-the-air-conditioning expedition, along with looking for places that needed summertime help. School would soon let out for vacation, and while I’d sent out the obligatory resumes, nothing had surfaced. Keep trying, I mumbled. Keep at it.

I’d have to. I wanted to contribute something to my household. My mother worked hard, and the stress from her job showed in the lines around her eyes and mouth. She was only forty-four, but she looked fifteen years older. She was working herself to death for me, and I wanted to do something to alleviate our almost-dire financial situation.

"Mom, I want to help out," I’d told her that morning at the breakfast table.

"It’s okay, Harmon, she’d reply, taking a drag on her cigarette. She didn’t often smoke. It was her way of relieving stress, so she said, but there had to be a better way. I don’t mind working. The key thing is for you to finish school and think about what to do with your life. You have to make a plan."

Make a plan. The problem was, I didn’t have a plan. Getting through my junior year was one thing. Then my senior year would determine my fate. On the other hand, I had the summer to work things out, homework to do, and books to read. And, maybe, just maybe, today would be the day, and it was still early in the month. Time was on my side...

Hey, Harmon, what’s up?

I turned around at the sound of the voice. Mike Travinsky, captain of the football team, put out his ham hock of a fist for the proverbial fist bump. At six-two and around two-hundred-ten chiseled-from-granite pounds, he was the star running back, and a great all-around athlete. Oh, and he’d graduate with honors. That figured. If there was a Mr. Perfect, it was Mike.

Despite Newton’s small population, which numbered around fourteen thousand, Mike was so good that he’d been chosen as an All-American high school player, and he’d had no end of scholarship offers from universities in the Pacific Northwest area.

Topping that off, he was blond and movie idol handsome, had girls by the dozen swooning over him, and got top marks in every subject—in short, he was everything I wasn’t.

Yet, Mike never lorded his status over anyone. He was good, and he knew it, but he had a quiet kind of confidence along with something people in his position didn’t often display—humility. Not a whole lot, Mike, I said. Just getting ready to enjoy summer vacation.

Sure, that was a lie, but Mike didn’t have to know it. He nodded, looking around the area as if waiting for someone. I hear you. I have to gear up for university in the fall.

It was a given that he was going to a top-ranked college, but where? Asking him, he said that California was the place to go. USC is tops in pre-med, and I’ll be starting for their team. What more could you ask for, right?

I couldn’t disagree. At the same time, a tinge of jealousy flared, but keeping myself grounded, I knew that getting all envious was wrong. All the best, man, I replied in a vain attempt at bro-ship.

Maybe Mike knew that I wasn’t one of the gifted ones, and maybe he didn’t. He did, however, lean down and murmur that my time would come. No one’s perfect, Harmon. Not even me. Be good, man.

With that, he waved at a pretty brunette who was coming our way—Rebecca Crundle, another popular third-year student. That figured, too...

We’re open, the guard sang out, and the electronic doors slid aside to admit everyone.

The crowd surged around us, Rebecca nodded politely at me, kissed Mike on the cheek, and they disappeared inside. Already, I felt inadequate. My almost-vacation had gotten off to a rousing start. So, what else could go wrong?

A scream sounded to my left. Twenty feet away, a man in his thirties was in the process of slowly collapsing, his hands clutching his chest. Heart attack—it couldn’t be anything else.

Someone yelled, Call an ambulance!

Right, we only had two hospitals and a few clinics, so good luck getting a paramedic here in less than five minutes. Immediately, twenty smartphones came out, and fingers hastily pushed buttons, but no one was helping the victim... oh, wait, someone staggered out of an alley wearing a dark green uniform that had an orange badge on the front. I only caught an R as the name, but that didn’t matter.

What did matter was that the guy went over to the victim, kneeled, and started giving him mouth-to-mouth. No chest compressions, no pounding, only mouth-to-mouth. He looked up for a moment at the people around him, and I caught his gaze. Gray eyes, a gaunt, gray-complexioned face, a nose twisted off to the right as if it had been broken once and never healed correctly... he looked to be in his late thirties, although it was only a guess.

Uhhhh, he said, or rather, he grunted in my direction as if memorizing the details of my face, and then he bent over the man again. The victim’s chest wasn’t moving, and yet, that guy continued giving aid. Call that going the extra mile and then some.

As I watched, the heat caused me to sweat. It stung my eyes, but like a car crash, something horrific with broken body parts and blood and gore, it was one of those things that a person would continue to look at even while wishing to look away.

By now, a crowd had formed around the fallen man and the dude who was still in the lip-lock position with the aforementioned victim. Murmurs ran through the throng ranging from, Someone’s gotta call the police or an ambulance, to, Jesus Christ, he’s bitin’ the poor schmuck.

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but a moment later, the rescuer got up and moved unsteadily through the crowd to disappear down an alley. The crowd, much like Moses parting the Red Sea, parted and let him through.

They then turned their attention to the fallen man. He’d been lying still. Then he jerked around like a marionette on a string. A moment later, the spasms stopped, and he sat up and looked around with a bewildered expression. What happened? he finally asked.

No one spoke save an old woman who stared at the man curiously. You seemed to have a heart attack, young man. That nice man in that ratty uniform saved you.

Oh.

That was all he said as he got up and wiped a thin trickle of blood from his lips, staring at the red stain on his fingertips in wonder. With a huff, he pushed his way past everyone, and soon, things got back to normal.

It’s a miracle!

Wonderful, Rosey Cagle, the local religious kook, just had to put in an appearance. Tall, skinny, and middle-aged, with withered features and a prominent nose like a female Ichabod Crane, she had her hair tied back in an old-style schoolmarm’s bun. Always clad in a black dress, she liked to hang out in the downtown area, waving her bible and preaching the word of the Lord to anyone who’d listen.

Point of fact—no one ever wanted to listen to her, but that had never stopped Rose. Now, she thrust her bible toward the heavens and screamed that God had spoken. His will be done!

Whatever. The onlookers soon went their way, leaving her mumbling about miracles and whatnot. I made my way toward the store’s entrance and found Britt Besch, my homeroom classmate, waiting at the door.

Decision time. Part of me wanted to turn and walk the other way. Britt had always been sort of standoffish around everyone. Not interacting with anyone was part of her personality. She only did so when necessary, and even then, she had the attitude of someone-done-her-wrong.

Once I’d gotten to know her, I realized that it wasn’t anything personal. Her relationship with her parents was rotten, and that carried over to mentally screwing her up. While I wanted to help her, she had to make the first move in opening up. Long story short, she could do her. I’d do me.

In the microsecond between staying or going, I looked up and caught her gaze. Damn it, I can’t go now. She’ll think I’m rude. Nope, I was stuck.

Britt waved at me. Around five-ten with long and dirty blonde hair, a pinched face, witchy eyes, and a wide mouth, she waved her hand at me again for attention.

I considered her attractive in an unconventional way. Most of the other guys didn’t, and a few used to dump on her for her looks. They were totally wrong in my book. They weren’t anything special to look at, either, and in Britt’s case, I had the feeling that she simply didn’t care if she looked attractive or not. Besides, who was I to judge?

Fine, let’s do this.

When I got closer, she pointed at the entrance and asked, Hey, you down here to get your shopping on?

Shopping involves mass quantities of money. I do not possess such quantities, I replied, mimicking a famous android on television. Just looking, really. You?

Britt laughed at my so-called acting skills. Same. You see what happened, Harm?

Harm—she called me Harm instead of Harmon. While I disliked my first name, Harm sounded okay when she said it. In fact, she was the only one who ever used that nickname with me. Yeah, it was pretty freaky.

That guy... the guy who came out of nowhere... he bit that man.

Even though I’d heard other onlookers say so, it was hard to believe. For real?

Britt nodded. Yeah, for real. I was closer to the action than you were. I saw it. Mr. Biter gave the guy mouth-to-mouth, and when the dude came around, the guy on top took a little off the top lip and then did his disappearing act. Weird.

Weird was an understatement. Anyway... Well, since we’re both here and since we both saw a strange rescue, like you said, it’s window-shopping time.

God, that sounded so lame, and it wasn’t like I was trying to pick