An Unlikely Warrior

By H.G. Lewis

While a doctor urges Sarah's mother to pull her off life support, the 15-year-old accident victim is recruited as a psychic warrior for an organization battling a group planning to kill billions of people. All Sarah has to do is learn how to split her attention and e

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Elevate
• Release date: May 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781685126025

Book preview

Chapter One

I’m thinking I’m dead. It’s the only explanation. Not that my heart’s stopped. There’s a machine beeping and drawing squiggly lines, proving it’s still okay. I figure I’m dead because I’m watching my mother weep over my own limp body. That’s right. I’m looking at my own body. I have to be dead, right?

In life, I avoided mirrors. I’ve seen myself, and there’s nothing impressive there. I even went goth to hide myself. But if I say so myself, I don’t look that bad dead. Maybe it’s because there’s a gigantic bandage wrapped around my head, which is a huge improvement over my hair. I’ve always hated my hair. Dyed it raven black in an attempt to like it. Didn’t work. If I weren’t dead, I’d shave my head or maybe wear a turban, or I could just keep the bandage. Kind of digging the bandage.

My body’s okay. White, white, white. No tan at all. Flat belly with runner’s legs, and my new tattoo pulls a person’s eyes away from my lack of boobs. Crap. My new dragon tattoo. Mom doesn’t know about Elliott, my dragon.

Talk about a momma’s girl. I’m dead and still worried about Mom finding out I got a tattoo. I mean, what’s she gonna do?

* * *

Three bright lights converge in a part of reality where people rarely go.

Markus: Jonathon, we found one. Her name’s Sarah.

Jonathon: Sarah? What do we know about her?

Markus: She’s seventeen, and her reality hasn’t fully congealed.

Jonathon: Isn’t that a little old.

Markus: She’s a runner. Almost obsessive about it, so the hormones were slow to kick in. There’s no boyfriend. And Jonathon, she’s pure. You won’t believe it. She’s perfect.

Jonathon: Perfect? Seventeen? Have you ever met a seventeen-year-old girl?

Markus: Trust me, she’s good, but even if she wasn’t, we don’t have enough time to find someone else. Simon’s coming out of jail soon, and we’re not even close to ready. If you don’t want to work with her, I’m sure Edith will.

Jonathon: No. I’ll train her. What’s the girl’s status?

Markus: You don’t trust Edith?

Jonathon: Of course I trust Edith. I just want to handle her myself. Now, what’s the girl’s status?

Markus: A drunk driver hit her last night. She’s on life support, brain dead, in Greenville, South Carolina.

Jonathon: How long before they cut off the machines?

Markus: "She’s an only child, and her mother’s a single parent. Unless they have an immediate need for her organs, they’ll give Mom some time to get used to the idea of losing her. Even then, I wouldn’t think they’d wait too long.

Jonathon: Watch over her body, and as much as you can, bathe the mother with hope. We need her to keep the girl alive as long as possible. I’m going to meet Sarah.

* * *

Sarah’s mother, Emma, concentrated her whole being on the heart monitor. Her complete attention was the only thing keeping her little girl alive. If she glanced away, even for a second, she could lose Sarah. Her baby.

Just yesterday, her daughter had begged for a new phone. Emma told her to stop thinking about toys and concentrate on school. There’d be plenty of time for foolishness later.

Plenty of time? That phone had been the most important thing in Sarah’s life, and Emma called it foolishness. Not for the first time that morning, tears coursed down her cheeks. Sarah’s tiny face and flat body looked so small and helpless lying on the bed. Sobs overtook Emma, but she kept her eyes glued to the monitor. Sarah had wanted the phone so a boy could text her. The first boy she’d ever mentioned.

Mrs. Heart.

The doctor broke her concentration, and the monitor went quiet.

Emma held her breath, waiting for the beep.

Nothing. A flat line.

Then, a jag on the screen and a sharp, high-pitched tone announced that her daughter lived. Emma let go of a ragged breath. Ye… She wanted to sob. She wanted to give in and collapse to her knees. Yes?

He laid a hand on her arm. I’m so sorry. But… Well, we aren’t seeing any brain activity.

She understood the words but couldn’t relate them to her daughter.

He cleared his throat. Have you considered…

When he stopped talking, she searched his face.

He held her eyes for a moment, then looked at Sarah. I hate to ask, but is your daughter an organ donor?

An organ donor? Sarah’s just a baby. Why would she be a donor? Oh my God. He wants Sarah’s organs. You can’t have her organs. Why would you want her organs? She’s still alive.

No. She’s not. Her brain’s not working. Her body’s only alive because of these machines. Mrs. Heart, your daughter’s gone.

Chapter Two

Regardless of the time of day, Mom dressed like she’d just gotten out of bed. Or an ancient hippy commune. Lounging pants, a faded Indian print blouse, and sandals. When we’d had breakfast, Mom’s hair was piled on her head. Now, most of it hung around her face. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I’d never seen her look so sad.

Sarah.

The voice appeared like a welcome island in the silence. It seemed to come from a floating, bright, yellowish-gold light. Hello, Sarah. The light had a man’s British accent.

Pretty. Men weren’t supposed to be pretty. But this one was.

Who are you? What are you? Are you God?

No. I’m not God.

If I’d had a body, I’d say I panicked. Instead, my mind spun in circles without going anywhere. Wait. Do I have a mind? Dead people don’t have working brains. If I have no brain, how can I have a mind? If I have no mind, what spun? Crap. I’m spinning about spinning.

Sarah.

Are you the devil?

No. I’m not the devil.

I’m not going with you. Reverend John warned us about you. Said that if we sinned, we’d meet the devil, and the devil was a liar. I didn’t sin. Jeanine and I talked about sex, but all we did was look it up on the internet. I couldn’t believe it. That was not how Mrs. Jenson described it in health class. I don’t want anybody to do that to me. Why would anybody want that? Even the people having it done to them didn’t look like they wanted it. We just looked at the video. Please, I shouldn’t have to go to Hell for looking.

Sarah, I’m not the devil. I’m a man. My name is Jonathon, and I won’t take you to Hell. I’m an instructor and a mentor. If you decide to work with me, I’ll become your teacher.

I didn’t actually believe he was the devil. I mean, the British accent and all. But a man? He glowed and had no body. He’s something, but a man? Am I dead?

No. But you’re close.

My body definitely looked dead. If not, why not?

The machines are keeping you alive. If you decide to work with me, we’ll leave, but your body will remain here. Someone will stay to watch over it and tell us if anything changes.

My mother sobbed while the doctor stood with his hands folded and watched. He looked like that guy in the funeral home commercials Mom and I used to make fun of. The funeral home dude looked deader than the people he buried.

What are you expecting me to learn? I asked.

A whole new way to look at the world.

A whole new way to look at the world? That sounded like a group sitting around an incense burner, waiting for a rocket ship to take them to the promised land. Are you recruiting for a cult?

The light snickered.

I’m speaking to him as serious as I’ve ever been, and he snickered.

It’s not funny.

I’m sorry. I’ve just never been accused of recruiting for a cult. No, I’m not involved in a cult.

I tried to stare him down, but not having eyes or a body, I’m not even sure he knew I was staring so I abandoned the effort. If I say yes, can you keep me alive?

With your help, I believe we can.

What you want, will it hurt?

No. But it’s hard.

My mother was holding my hand and didn’t even seem to notice the doctor leaving.

No English, social studies, or chemistry?

No. Maybe a little philosophy, but there will be no tests.

I hadn’t decided if I liked him, but even with the cult snicker, he seemed nice. So far, in a non-pervert way. Every public service announcement warns that I shouldn’t talk to strangers, stranger danger as the chipmunk says, but who else could I talk to? Plus, what could he do to me? I was already dead, and I didn’t have a body. Can I quit later on?

Anytime you want.

I would agree to almost anything if it meant not having to watch my mother being so sad. Can we leave right now?

What’s your favorite place?

My mind immediately leapt to my grandmother’s farm, and with the farm, Brutus. A big, warm, fluffy Bernese Mountain dog. What a great guy. When I was young, he was already old and got older. As long as I could remember he was part of my life until about two years ago. Grandmother found him lying on the kitchen floor dead. Probably a heart attack or stroke. I cried for days.

Without leaving the hospital, without so much as a flash, I found myself rocking on my grandmother’s long front porch. The sun created patterns of light and dark in the grass of the lawn and grandma’s garden. I closed my eyes and sucked in the clean, fresh air.

A creaking on my right snapped me back to reality. Well, as much reality as a corpse could have. An old gray-haired dude rocked beside me. We’re talking older than my mother. Must have been at least forty and wore a dark blue suit and tie, with shiny, black dress shoes. Seriously gussied up, but I refused to feel bad about how I was dressed.

Dressed? Wait. Was I dressed? I immediately looked down and released a breath when I saw my customary black jeans with silver studs that matched the silver dragon on my black t-shirt. I felt my scalp. No bandage just my new spiked hair. I relaxed back into the rocking chair and wondered if Jonathon had a turban I could borrow.

The old guy gazed out at the green fields, ignoring me.

Jonathon?

Yes. This is beautiful. Your grandmother lived here?

She did. I mean, she does. This is her house. At least this looks like her house. Where are we?

Your grandmother’s house. You picked it.

Am I dreaming? I guess it’s possible that dead people dream. But there are more important questions, Where’s my grandmother, and if I’m dreaming, why are you in my dream?

For a moment, it seemed the man wasn’t going to answer. This isn’t exactly a dream. We’re at your grandmother’s house or at least your version of your grandmother’s house. He paused again. To use your language, the dream is yours, but you’re in my reality.

His reality? What does that mean?

Jonathon faced the fields and rocked slowly. His voice took on a teacher quality. We all come into this world as part of our parents’ lives. We’re born a part of their reality. As we grow, we share and blend with the realities of others while we learn to create our own. Our personal reality doesn’t fully solidify until after puberty. You’re on the cusp.

Is that why I’m here?

Yes. We’ve been looking for someone about your age who’s pure and strong.

That’s not me. I have a tattoo. I don’t know why I said that or why it came out as prideful as it did. I’m not pure, and I’m definitely not strong.

But you are.

I started to protest, but he held up a hand to stop me.

The tattoo doesn’t matter. And I know you looked at, let’s say, adult material, and you’ve had, well, impure thoughts about boys.

My mind immediately pictured Phillip running around the track, tanned legs pumping, mussed hair flowing, sweat-stained shirt sticking to the flexing muscles in his chest. My body tingled, my face flamed, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

The way I know you did that is that all teenagers do. These things don’t make you impure.

Crap. Jonathon was still talking. I blew out a breath and tried to focus on the old man.

These things make you human. I don’t believe you’ve ever considered hurting another person. You worry about your mother and your friends more than yourself. Most importantly, you watch the worlds of those around you without letting them affect your view of yourself or your reality. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve met.

That still didn’t sound like me. I’m anything but strong.

He seemed lost in thought on something far away. Then, in a soft, dreamy voice, When you looked at me in the hospital, Sarah, what color was I?

Gold. You were pretty.

He smiled. So were you. You were violet. Pure, clean violet. A color that consistent, that vibrant, takes strength of character. It shows you’re strong enough to be in touch with yourself and to assemble your world on your own terms.

Assembling my world? Shouldn’t I remember assembling a whole world? The porch around us began dissolving.

No.

His staccato demand pierced the air causing my butt to jump clear off the chair. The porch solidified.

Your mind needs to stay clear to maintain this reality. Tell me your favorite thing about this porch.

My grandma.

You’re not ready for that, and it wouldn’t be good for her. What else did you love about being here?

Brutus.

Padded steps made me turn. With an old man’s sway, Brutus trotted down the porch. Tears slid out of my eyes as I slipped to the rough floorboards and hugged my beloved friend. I buried my face in his neck and breathed old-dog smell—pine sawdust from his doghouse and red dirt from digging. A giggle started low in my belly and shook my whole body. I can’t believe you brought Brutus here. He’s been dead for years.

It wasn’t me, Jonathon said. Again, borrowing your words, it’s your dream. Like all dreams, if you believe it’s true, it is. For an instant, when you said his name, you expected to see him, so here he is.

Chapter Three

Markus: What do you think?

Edith: I like her. Even though she’s dressed dark, she carries a light inside. Do you think Jonathon can deal with a teenaged girl?

Markus: Sure. But the question is: can he deal with this teenaged girl? He triggered a memory, and Brutus appeared. This is an incredibly powerful girl.

Edith: She’s going to have to be. Right now, she’s our best bet at stopping the Derelicts and another world war.

Markus: That’s a lot of pressure for anyone, much less a teenaged girl.

Edith: The positive news is that it’s not going to happen tomorrow. Nothing is expected of her today. We’ll load her up slowly.

Markus: She acts tough, but I think it’s a façade.

Edith: You’re wrong. Inside that girl is an iron core. We just need to uncover it.

* * *

I rubbed my buddy’s head. The old guy had my attention now. So, I can have anything I want?

Jonathon shook his head. No. It’s not enough to want it. You must believe it. And there are rules. But we’ll get into those later. For now, enjoy the porch. Enjoy the dog. And know it’s all true.

As I settled back into the chair with my fingers scratching my buddy, thoughts danced around all the things I couldn’t experience as a dead person. Getting done up with Jeanine, my best friend in all the world, and struttin’ the mall. Watching TV with Mom, who looked so sad in the hospital. I’d never get to make love. Not that I wanted anybody doing to me what they did to those girls in that video. But Billy and I had a major make-out session, which was great. Lots of over-the-clothing stuff. He wanted to move on to naked stuff, but I stopped him. Now I wish I hadn’t. The thought excited me, freaked me out, and made me sad all at the same time.

Sarah, even if you decide not to work with us, we’ll try to keep you alive. If that’s what you want.

They’ll try? If I want? Why would I not want? The words sent another traffic jam of thoughts.

Breathe deeply. Concentrate on your breath. Nothing but your breath.

Momma taught me to deep breathe. Out with the nasty, used air. In with the cool, clean air. My thoughts slowed as I replaced them with the sensation of breathing. Breathing? How could I breathe without a body? My body lay back in the hospital with a machine helping it breathe. Is that what I felt? The machine?

Stop it. Sharp and penetrating, Jonathon’s voice startled me. Open your eyes.

The fields shimmered as if I were looking across asphalt on a hot summer day.

Focus. He reached over and pinched the skin on the inside of my arm.

Pain arced through my body and exploded in my mind. Hey.

He gestured around. The fields were solid, and Brutus bumped my hand with his nose.

You can think about other things, but some of your attention has to stay here.

I rubbed my arm where he’d pinched me. That hurt.

I know, and I’m sorry. Concentrate on enjoying the here and now.

How could I concentrate on enjoying something? Either I enjoyed it or not. There was no concentration involved.

Stop.

Jonathon’s voice stopped all thought. I gave him my eat-crap-and-die stare. He never glanced my way, so I scootched down in the chair, crossed my arms, and put on my best pouty face. Back when I was alive, this face always got me increased phone time, a trip to the mall, or even a new outfit. After what felt like hours, I realized pouting must not work for dead girls. Anything fun to do here?

We’re doing it.

Well, this blows. I settled back into my pout, and after what felt like another hour, I gave up and straightened in my chair. Brutus bumped my hand. I couldn’t be mad at him, so I scratched behind his ear. I swear we’d sat there so long that my dead dog had gotten older.

Who’s we? I asked.

Excuse me.

A while ago, you said we’ve been looking. Who’s we?

I belong to a group that watches over the psychic health of humans.

Psychic health?

In the past, some individuals and groups have used powerful psychic gifts to affect history in negative ways.

Whoa. "You’re saying these people used