The Tower

By J.S. Frankel

A choice to be made, and a price to be paid. Sometimes, doing the right thing means paying the ultimate price. Linden Lampkin, fifteen, ignored by an uncaring father, bullied and harassed by his peers, almost meets his end one night in an alleyway. The victim of a random mugging, he enters a portal into a parallel universe, a universe very much like ours. Linden ends up at the Tower, a hangout where a group of very unusual people—the Ultras—live and work. With advanced technology and medicine, they heal his injuries. The procedure ages him to that of someone almost twenty years old, and he begins a new life working with his mentors, a group of enhanced individuals who help out those on Earth whenever help is needed. Fitting in is difficult at first, but through hard work, Linden copes, succeeds, finds a girlfriend, and thinks he's found happiness. However, a chance meeting with someone on Earth leads him to think that the Ultras aren't really who they say they are. His search also pits him against a super-villain who has no qualms about killing, and when Linden finally learns the truth about who he's been living with, he also has to make the choice between saving his life and doing the right thing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Oct 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781487426866

Book preview

Dedication

To my wife, Akiko, and to my children, Kai and Ray. They make every single day my greatest adventure.

And thank you as well to Joanne Van Leerdam, Eva Pasco, Sara Linnertz, Harlowe Rose, Mirren Hogan, Safa Shaqsy, Jennifer Rogers, and too many more people to name. Your unconditional support has been a blessing to my writing.

Part One

Chapter One: What’s Left of My Life

An alley in downtown Portland. Midnight or thereabouts. Summer.

What in the hell am I doing here, and why?

I coughed, felt the pain of my broken ribs cascade through me, and then reached up to my mouth to wipe the trickle of my life’s essence away.

Useless... it was useless to do so. The damage was too great. Forget about the why. I knew why. I also knew how it had happened, and I cursed myself for getting into this situation in the first place.

A few people passed by the alley—couples on a date, night shift workers on their way home, and the usual assortment of drunks and druggies. None of them bothered looking inside.

Even if they had, my voice didn’t work. Pretty soon, I’d choke to death on my own blood. Some way to go out...

Three hours earlier. My house, a residential area in Portland.

Where are you going?

That came from my father. He sat in his armchair in front of the television set, watching a baseball game. A bottle of Scotch, his favorite beverage, lay within arm’s reach on a small table.

Out for a bike ride, Dad.

At the age of fifteen, I thought I had the right to come and go as I pleased. It was summer vacation, I didn’t have to go to summer school, unlike some of the other dunces in my class, and I knew my curfew—eleven o’clock. It’s a nice night.

He grunted out a phatic response. Right, like he really cared? His girlfriend sat next to him, an amber-colored bottle. I used to wonder why he’d turned to the booze, but really, it wasn’t necessary. It was all due to my mother passing away three years back.

She’d died from leukemia. I’d watched as she’d taken her final, rattling breath. I cried, went to the funeral parlor with my father the next day, saw her casket get lowered into the earth, and that was that.

My father, never a warm person to begin with, gestured at his car that sat in the parking lot. Let’s go home, Linden.

Once there, he took off his jacket and tie, tossed them on the couch, and went to the bar we had in our living room. I’d seen him take a drink on occasion well before my mother had passed on. No big deal—many adults imbibed.

But after my mother died, he got more and more into it, and one day he yelled up to me while I was in my room, Linden, go get me a bottle!

From that point on, alcohol became his best friend. It didn’t lead to abuse, not exactly. My father never hit me. He did something worse—he ignored my existence, and that hurt worse than any name he could have called me or any punch he could have landed.

As for names, that was mine—Linden Marshall Lampkin. But no one at school ever called me that.

No, at school from the first grade onward, I got called Linie or Loser or Lumpy. Every rotten moniker imaginable in the world was tossed at me. Hi, Lumpy, what’s up?

How’s it going, Linette?

Loser!

And so it went. Everything you’d consider wrong with being a kid was wrong with me. I was small for my age and skinny, with a mess of brown hair, green eyes, and I showed zero skill at any sport. Every kid had something special about them. They were strong, or had interesting eyes, or they had big noses—something different.

On me, though, nothing stood out, which is why I got ignored or pounded on—never any in-between. Summing it all up, if someone had stuck a label on me, it would have been Classic Loser.

Sadly, I believed it. After reaching the third grade, I spent the next few years at Portland’s T.C. Luma Elementary-Junior High School either being pushed around by the local bullies or jocks, or both—usually both. Being slammed into lockers became a ritual with everyone. Today it’s your turn, Joey.

Joey Stiles, big, mean, and sort of stupid, which amounted to a very bad combination, grinned as he reached out to grab me. Loser wants to get slammed, don’t you, Loser?

Oh, God, not me again!

Yeah, me again. Joey was usually accompanied by his fellow minions, Greg Mathers and Tim Connery, both much taller than me, heavier, and without that special something called a conscience.

If Joey didn’t smack me around, then his buds did, and there was nothing I could do about it, either. I always wondered if the teachers themselves went through the same kind of hazing when they were young.

The one thing I had in my favor was that I could run fast. It came in handy when outrunning the bullies. As soon as three-thirty rolled around and the final bell rang, it was feet, do your stuff, and I tore down from wherever I was at the time to my locker on the first floor, got my stuff, and then ran out the door. Usually, I outran the punks.

Usually, and on the occasions that I couldn’t, I’d walk home from school with a shiner or bruises all over me. When my father viewed the damage, he merely shook his head, ashamed of the son who couldn’t fight and who was a social outcast.

To be fair, I was a bit of an outcast, certainly not in the elite class, for those people had it all. They were bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, nicer-looking, and just all-around better at everything than everyone else.

One rung down the ladder lay the tweeners. They straddled the twilight zone at school. They couldn’t really break into the elite category, but at the same time, they were desperate not to be stuck in the nether regions of social or academic life, and they often did anything to avoid being labeled as the butt-ends of school society.

My class was the Barrel Scrapers, capital B and S all the way. Those people sucked at sports, they weren’t very smart at any subject save English Literature or History, and they never did well at PE.

In addition, they had the social skills of a donut hole and couldn’t even make friends with the other Barrel Scrapers. Reason—see the social-skills-of-a-donut-hole analogy.

So, those were the ABCs about school life. Being the punching bag for the majority of the school populace wasn’t easy. In every school, there was someone who just had to be the target of all jokes. In my case, that someone was me.

Fight back, my father told me once when he tried to impart some useful advice. Empower yourself.

Right, I tried empowering myself and got my face beat in every time. The fights never happened over a girl. They happened because I was there, and mainly because I let it happen. It was open season on Lin-the-Loser, and it lasted all year.

Home life wasn’t much better. When my father wasn’t around—which was often, as he traveled a lot in his position as a salesman for a hotel chain—I learned how to be self-sufficient on my own. Things that kids learned at an older age, in lieu of a mother and a father who cared, I had to do them.

Making the basics—mainly eggs—cleaning, doing the laundry, basic online banking—they were all useful skills to learn.

In my quieter moments, when I wasn’t running from the beaters and haters, or listening to my father suck back his booze, I watched movies, mainly the superhero stuff. It provided a temporary escape from reality.

I thrilled at the flying, held my breath just before the showdown between the heroes and villains, and silently cheered when justice prevailed. That was my fantasy, too, to come out on top for a change. It was a wonderful dream.

Dreams didn’t last, though, as the agony of getting creamed in a fight the next day at school brought me back to reality, and the bitter reality was that no one cared...

Linden.

My mind came back to the present. Yeah, Dad?

He held up the empty Scotch bottle. I’m out.

My first thought was to tell him to get it himself. He was of age. I wasn’t. Then, for some unknown reason, a sense of pity hit me. While my father had never been the affectionate type, I realized that he had a problem, and telling him to stop drinking wouldn’t help, not now.

Dad, who’s going to sell to me? I’m fifteen, remember?

When he twisted around to face me, his expression was mean, and my pity leeched away. It was the booze talking, I told myself. At least, I hoped it was. You know Amlin’s on Canal Street?

Yes. My father often bought his liquor there. I’d seen the receipts on the breakfast table a number of times.

I’ll call them and tell them you’re coming. I’ve got a tab running there. Pick up two bottles.

Okay, I said reluctantly. While I didn’t want to be a party to his self-destruction, the man was still my father, and I couldn’t say no.

That was it. He turned away, back inside his own thoughts. At the door, I heard him say, Be back before eleven.

It was still early in the evening as I made my way downtown. The air was warm and cottony soft, the sky was clear, and the stars were bright. I pedaled along at a steady pace, watching the people. All shapes, all sizes, and everyone seemed to be paired off.

Not me, though. Never me.

And that sucked.

Thirty minutes later, I arrived at my destination. Although it was a small store, Amlin’s had a huge variety of domestic as well as international beverages. It also had a serious snack section with a lot of really good chocolates and various flavors of ice cream in the freezer.

I got my father’s order, carried it to the counter, and Mr. Amlin, the middle-aged, stocky and balding owner, nodded when I told him my name. That’s okay, Linden. Your father called a few minutes ago. His credit is good here.

Apparently, it was good enough for Mr. Amlin to reach into the small freezer behind him and toss in an ice cream bar. No charge, son.

Call that a decent gesture and then some. Thank you, sir.

Have a good night, Linden, he said. Be careful. Lots of punks around.

I will.

Outside, I placed the bottles in the basket, unwrapped my frozen treat, and shoved it in my mouth. Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

Poor judgment on my part, as after I’d eaten the last of my ice cream bar and pedaled off, I passed near an alley. A fat man, squat and bald and wearing a filthy t-shirt and a pair of rotting jeans, stepped out to block my way. What’s in the paper bag, kid?

Instantly, my heart rate jumped into the triple digits. Nothing.

Oh, really?

He looked around quickly, and then he grabbed my shoulder and tossed me inside.

I didn’t have time to cry out for help, as he propelled me to the end of the alley and behind a large dumpster that the city’s garbage department had left there. For good measure, he punched me in the gut. That doubled me over, and my ice cream treat came out of me in a rush.

What the hell?

My words after I got my breath back. Mr. Fat Man chuckled quietly, and another man—tall and slender and who wore the same getup—carried the now-leaking bag into the alley. Phil, you moron, be careful! One bottle, busted, fer Chrissake!

Sorry, Andy.

Yeah, fat guy Phil was sorry, and suddenly, shit got real. As I got to my feet, a movie trope popped up in my gray matter. When something bad was about to happen to the main character, the music got all dramatic, and then the camera zoomed up to catch the WTH expression on their face... that was me.

Hand over the wallet, punk.

That came from the taller man, Andy. For emphasis, he snapped his fingers.

No.

My answer caused them to stop. It surprised me, too. I’d never been tough. I’d always run from danger. But animals, once cornered, tended to fight back, even if they couldn’t win. Now, I knew how they felt and why.

No, Andy repeated and stuck his face close to mine. Whatcha gonna do about it?

I poked him in the eyes, a la Moe of the Three Stooges. That.

Andy screamed, clawed at his eyes, and staggered back. You little bastard!

At least, at the very least, I’d gotten my one good shot in. Phil moved past his friend and stood with his arms spread wide, as if daring me to do something.

Fear made me kick him in the nutsack. Time to go, but he recovered quickly, grabbed me around the waist, and threw me against the wall.

Oh, hell.

Then the ass-kicking started. Two on one, me being the one, and Phil and Andy didn’t stop. It didn’t matter that I was a kid. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t fight back and that I had no money. The only thing that mattered was that I was a convenient target. I’d been a target in school, and now I’d become a target because I was there.

Both men laid into me hard, their fists, knees, elbows, and feet working overtime. I felt a rib snap, and then another. Finally, after I could barely move, Andy backed off and said, Kid’s had enough. We got our booze. Let’s go.

I wasn’t finished, though. I got up, and as I did so, my hand came into contact with a stray rock. It wasn’t overly large, but it was large and heavy enough to knock Phil down. He fell with a gasp, and Andy turned around, murder in his eyes.

Bad move, kid. Really bad move.

With a grimy hand, he pulled something from behind him. It was a gun. Make and model didn’t matter. What mattered were the three shots he fired, and I felt them tear into my leg, my upper chest, and my right shoulder.

The impact flung me backward, and the pain was beyond belief. For good measure, Andy covered up my body with the garbage that lay strewn around the alley. All was quiet save for the sound of my assailants’ footsteps as they escaped.

I was alone.

After that, I passed out where they’d left me. Before the darkness fell, I wondered why I’d gotten whacked. No reason, really, only that my father had to have his booze, and I’d gone to get it for him...

Back to the present.

How long I’d been out—no idea. But as the moon was full and the sky was full of stars, it had to be around midnight.

I tried to yell for help, but my voice wouldn’t work, and then a sharp pain came from my entire torso and translated into a hoarse cough, accompanied by something wet.

It was blood—my blood. My leg and shoulder hurt and that was bad enough, but the chest shot, it had gone into my lung. My breath came out in ragged gasps, gasps which got shorter as the seconds ticked by.

As I turned painfully over onto my back, I took in the beauty of the night. The air was warm and cottony soft. The sky was clear, the stars were bright, and here I was, dying in an alleyway.

Cry world.

Get up, Lin. Get some help. No one else is going to do it for you.

With a last-ditch effort, I managed to get to my feet and leaned against the wall for support... and my arm went right through it. Shocked, I pulled my arm out. Out of the wall... what is happening?

Even weirder, its color changed suddenly from dirty brownish-red to green. It then took on the shape of a door, a glowing green door, roughly six feet high by three feet wide. It started to pulsate, almost as though it was beckoning me in.

Curiosity in the shadow of death got the better of me. I’d heard a line on a television show once. A choice to be made and a price to be paid.

While I didn’t exactly remember the situation or who’d said it, I made my decision and never looked back. In I went, straight to the other side. Everything looked the same—only somewhat cleaner.

Holy crap, this couldn’t be happening... but it was. As I tried to get my bearings, a voice said, Hey, kid, what’re you doing out here?

I looked up. A big, fat, and really drunk man stood unsteadily in front of me. He eyed me up and down. What the hell happened to you?

I got... got shot.

He squinted at me through myopic eyes, and pointed down the street with a fat, greasy finger. Hospital’s over there. Then he staggered off down the street.

Thanks for all your help—not.

I had to go back, but after reaching the door, it turned red, and when I tried to go through it, an electric shock hit me like a hammer. The charge threw me on my back, and I cracked my head against the cement.

Everything got hazy. Is this it? Is this all there is?

Someone’s hand reached out for me. Dark though it was, I made out a black guy wearing a black-on-black costume. As badly injured as I was, I thought that things couldn’t get any worse or get any weirder.

Wrong again.

Chapter Two: Welcome To The Tower

How do you feel?

A woman’s voice startled me into consciousness. I opened my eyes, found myself lying in bed wearing a white hospital gown, and then my eyes took in the tall, raven-haired woman standing off to my left, a half-smile on her face. She wore a nurse’s outfit. How do you feel? she repeated.

I wanted to say fine but didn’t. For a moment, I thought that I’d expired from my injuries and this was the afterlife, but then the smell of somewhat stale air came through and the softness of the sheets hit. No, this was as real as it got.

Okay, focus up! Get information! Another visitor, a short, bald, and skinny man in his fifties who wore a lab coat, stood off to my right.

Then there was the third man who stood next to the bald guy. He was clad in a black-on-black costume with belts slung crosswise around his torso. A utility belt sat snugly around his waist, and a mask covered most of his face, but his eyes shone a cold ice-blue.

As for the woman, she undid the buttons on her nurse’s uniform and took it off to reveal a form-fitting gold suit. A gold sword in a leather scabbard hung from her waist.

Okay, we’ve just entered Weirdsville. Uh... right. What’s going on here? Where am I?

This wasn’t a hospital room. It was a storage area. Crates and boxes lined the walls, and a six-foot-tall cigar-shaped chamber sat behind the two men. "Someone want to tell me what’s going