Sneak Preview: The Refuse Chronicles
The Watcher
“We run. That's what we do.”
* * *
Bed and Breakfast
Toronto, Canada
June 19th, 2005
(16 days after The Event)
The cursor skirted across the laptop screen.
Pay Bills. Click.
Mastercard. Click.
Veronica's fingers typed some numbers quickly.
The cursor moved to Pay Bill. Click.
“Grandma?” It was Tamara's voice, but tiny and fearful. Veronica's face was ghostly in the dark room, the only light from the computer screen. She could hear a trembling in the young Asian girl's voice.
“Sweetie?” she turned to face her.
Her granddaughter had spent the past two weeks suffering from nightmares since they fled the American destroyer, the USS Antietam. Tamara has suffered bouts of paranoia since The Event.
When Veronica turned she had expected to see a tearful and distraught girl, and she was right.
Tamara had tears running down her cheeks. Her chin quivered. She was on the brink of crying. But there was fear in her brown eyes. What Veronica didn't expect to see was Tamara holding her hands over her head. Nor did she expect to see SWAT-team police officers surrounding her, fully equipped with body armor and automatic weapons.
Tamara burst into tears, bawling out for her grandmother as she ran to her.
“Freeze! Don't -” an officer called out, raising his machine gun to his shoulder.
Tamara's eyes blazed with energy.
“Oh no...” Veronica muttered under her breath as her granddaughter hugged her tightly.
With Veronica in her arms Tamara teleported away in a blink of energy.
“-move...” the officer's voice echoed in the dark empty room.
* * *
“They find us. They always do.”
* * *
Tokyo, Japan
Bank Machine
August 6th, 2005
(2 months after The Event)
The sky was bright blue. It was a clear crisp day in Tokyo, and they were out of money. Their rent was due. Veronica withdrew ¥ 500,000 from a bank machine.
Ruffle, ruffle, ruffle. Ruffle, ruffle, ruffle, the bank machine counted and shuffled the bills as she waited.
A man's voice pierced the background noise of traffic and strangers' conversations, drowning everything out; silencing the entire street's hustle and bustle.
The voice barked in Japanese. He repeated the words in broken English: “Don't move!”
Veronica's eyes were huge with fear. She turned slowly to see several armed Japanese police toting para-military weapons.
Veronica's hands trembled as she raised them. A tear ran from her eye. She was terrified, but not for herself. She had left Tamara home alone. She was scared for the young girl.
But no sooner did she think of Tamara than did her granddaughter read her thoughts, her mind, her distress, her fear.
The litter and debris on the street was blown away as Tamara teleported, rolling like a tumbleweed, landing in a crouched position. One hand thrust forward, her telekinetic power throwing the man back, the other hand holding Veronica's leg. Bystanders on the busy Tokyo street gasped with shock and surprise.
As the remaining soldiers trained their weapons on the two, they disappeared in a flash of light.
* * *
“Wherever the wind blows, we drift.”
* * *
Harlem, NY,
USA
September 7th, 2005
(100 days after The Event)
A cockroach scurried across an old, chipped and dented hardwood floor. It stayed close to the walls, avoiding the light, blending into the shadows of the decrepit furniture.
As it ventured out of its darkness on the other side of the couch, a loud boom echoed through the room. A rolled-up magazine bashed its brains and guts out of its shattered brown carapace.
“Crisse,” Veronica whispered, her head hanging over the armrest.
“Did you get it?” Tamara asked, smiling, her eyes bright.
Veronica dropped the magazine and quickly spun in her seat, grabbing her granddaughter by the waist, tickling her. The petite Asian girl squealed and giggled, squirming in her seat. “Stop!” she laughed. “You're just upset 'cause I'm beating you!”
The video game image on the TV was frozen, paused. They were playing on their Nintendo Wii. She had downloaded the classic Mario Kart 64, and it was true, Tamara was winning.
Veronica put her Wii controller's tassel around her wrist. “Alright! Get ready for a butt-kicking,” she teased her.
“In your dreams grandma!” Tamara retorted, smiling. The volume boomed as she unpaused the game.
As Princess Peach and Mario burned down the digital asphalt, Tamara and Veronica bumped shoulder to shoulder, elbowing each other as they played.
“Quit cheating!” the young girl laughed. Veronica bumped her again, her racer spinning off the road, chewing up the grass.
“Aw, you bum,” she cried out.
Veronica laughed like a Machiavellian villain as her racer pulled ahead.
Tamara jumped on the sofa, trying to knock her grandmother's controller out of her hand.
Veronica dodged and rolled on the couch, deftly avoiding Tamara's attack. She paused the game and jumped on top of Tamara, tickling her again. The pair fell to the floor, the young girl kicking her feet wildly, laughing so hard she thought she'd pee herself.
Veronica heard glass break. At first she thought Tamara had kicked a mug.
Both of their smiles fell away as they saw the cannister spewing smoke, spinning on the floor. They felt the breeze through the broken window as they heard footsteps thundering up the stairwell.
“Hold your breath, baby.” Veronica's concern was etched in her frightened eyes. Tamara leapt into her arms, hugging her tightly.
When the NYPD SWAT team kicked in the door, all they encountered was a shitty apartment filled with tear-gas.
* * *
“It always find us. It's always watching.”
* * *
Mumbai, India
January 21, 2006
(Nearly 8 months after The Event)
Tamara strolled down the busy streets of Mumbai. The crowds were fantastic. The scents of people! The aroma of exotic foods! Animals! Even after nearly a year, she didn't tire of it.
Tamara carried her backpack slung over one shoulder as she merrily took in all the activity, people, traffic, cars, trucks, wagons pulled by donkeys and horses, and rickshaws. She was heading towards Mumbai's downtown business center. Her and Veronica were going to have lunch together.
She approached a busy intersection. The one thing Tamara never got used to was how crazy busy intersections were. She would wait for the light to change. She didn't trust the chaotic traffic enough to risk jaywalking.
The ebb and flow of pedestrians rushed past her like a river of humanity. Quietly, placidly, Tamara stood watching the traffic lights and waited.
Her eyes followed the criss-cross of wires over the intersection. Then her gaze arrested on the lens of a camera. Its glossy black eye monitoring for traffic violations with indifference. Then the thought struck her.
Toronto: online banking.
Tokyo: ATM.
Harlem: online video game.
It was watching through technology. She stared at the dead black eye of the camera. It knew. She knew It had found her again.
The thud of her backpack hitting the ground was lost in the sounds and noises of the busy Indian street as she teleported away. They would have to flee again. They would have to find someplace remote, isolated from technology.
* * *
“I believe It watches through technology.”
* * *
Pequods Coffee,
Quebec City,
Canada
January 18th, 2007
(Nearly 2 years after The Event)
Veronica was speaking on her cell phone as Tamara placed the order.
“One Grande dark roast, with milk and three sugar!” Tamara loved the special terminology Pequods used. She half-turned her head, checking to see if her grandmother was still busy on the phone, then added sheepishly, “And a can of Pepsi please.” She knew Veronica didn't like her drinking pop.
“Yes, that's correct,” Veronica was still engaged in her phone conversation. “I need that money transferred.”
The cashier looked strangely at the young girl. Tamara flashed what she thought was her most charming smile.
“Trois dollars et vingt-deux cents,” the cashier stated with a sour look on his face, emphasizing the words.
Tamara's smile slowly fell from her face. She could hear his thoughts. Maudit Anglais, he cursed.
“No, no, no!” Veronica was upset. “Why can't you transfer it now.... yes... what? What do you mean the account's frozen?”
Tamara was confused. She wasn't English. She cocked her head to one side as she answered, “But, I'm Japanese.” As it had always been with Tamara's telepathy, it relayed more than words ever could. The cashier 'heard' her thoughts, but without the restrictions of language.
Her eyes locked onto the cashier's. Tamara began filtering through the money in her pocket. She preferred Canadian dollars over American. Their colourful money was easier to identify. She handed the cashier a blue five-dollar bill. She could read his anger, his bitterness, his sense of injustice. A Separatist. For reasons Tamara couldn't grasp, he felt like a victim; that somehow Tamara was to blame. She knew he was delusional.
He took her money without a smile, made change, and handed to her. “Un soixante-huit,” he answered.
If she hadn't been so focused on the cashier, she might have noticed the agents in the coffee shop. They were dressed casually and slowly wandering and meandering their way around the shop, inconspicuous, but with purpose. The four agents had encircled Veronica and Tamara.
“Mon Dieu,” Veronica, still speaking on the cell, was visibly upset.
Tamara turned around, handing the coffee to her grandma. Her can of pop made a click-hiss noise as she opened it.
Two agents fired their tasers.
Veronica convulsed violently, her cell phone breaking as it hit the floor, her coffee spewing as her hand clenched and crushed the paper cup.
Without thought, Tamara's psychic shield instinctively went up, the twin taser darts bouncing harmlessly away.
Galvanized into action, Tamara's reaction was instantaneous. Legs spread, straddling her prone grandmother, she released a telekinetic concussion wave. The coffee shop instantly fell into chaos. Patrons, employees, the agents, tables, chairs – all were slammed and pushed away. The shop's windows exploded onto the bustling sidewalk.
Everybody was stunned by the blast, except for the cashier. Although violently pushed back, the counter and cash-register protected him from the brunt of the attack.
The young Asian girl's eyes blazed with energy, and in a bright flash of light, they were both gone.
A crushed can of Pepsi spun, its contents quietly gurgling on the floor.
* * *
Himalayan Mountain Wilderness
Unknown Location
There was no colour. Cold black stone, gray ice and white snow. The ground was tilted, slanted enough to cause Veronica's body to slide a few feet. A demon-wind howled, screaming past Tamara. Veronica was still unconscious from being tasered. Tamara held her head, crying.
She wasn't sure where they were. The snow was deep. Neither were properly dressed for this kind of cold. Her tears were freezing on her cheeks. Her grandmother's lips were turning blue.
The tiny Asian girl rubbed her arms vigorously, desperately trying to warm her.
Tamara was exhausted. She didn't think she could teleport them again. She scanned her surroundings, the sub-zero wind cutting like a knife.
Bleak frozen mountains stretched away as far as the eye could see.
The girl's metaphysical mind unfurled, stretching and reaching out telepathically.
“Please, help!” she wept. Her silent scream tore like a tsunami through the psychic ether.
* * *
Himalayan Mountains
Unknown Location
The monks' chanting seemed to issue from the stone walls themselves. Everything blanketed with their white noise. You didn't hear it. You were enveloped by it.
The ancient stone chamber of the temple carried the scent of incense, its ladened smoke surreally slithered slowly through the still air. The burning embers from the pair of brazier cast shadows across the sculpted walls.
Upon the floor the Master sat in meditation. She wore only the simple scarlet dyed robes of his forgotten order. An insular religion practiced by only a special rare few. A forgotten order that preempted both Taoism and Buddhism. Ancient.
Perfectly still she sat. her legs crossed, her hands resting palms-up upon her knees. In her mind's eye she watched the phosphenes of colour cascade across the vision of her closed eyes. She observed without thinking, her mind balancing on the cusp between theta and delta waves.
She listened without intent to the ethereal winds of the world. She was in-tuned to the planet's psychosphere. She could hear Them ever so faintly. Dead yet eternally slumbering, the Great Old Ones dreamed. She listened to the silent songs of the dead dreamers.
Then, it came from nowhere and everywhere. Her calm and placid serenity was shattered by the silent scream. Telepathic, beyond language, there was no mistaking her Call, her plight, her plea for help. It was deafening.
She needed to gather the other monks. She had waited for decades for Tamara's call. Her waiting was finally over.
Conduits
The most advanced and sophisticated computers only dealt with data and information. Sentinel functioned in the realms of Knowledge and Wisdom. It truly thought and made decisions.
Sentinel was far beyond an Artificially Intelligent machine. No longer even a machine but an entity, fully self-aware. Sentient. Enlightened.
Sentinel raced through the Conduits. Multiple tangents dividing and converging. Mostly fiber-optics, his consciousness raced at near lightspeed, his mind diverging and converging repeatedly. A mindnumbingly complicated web that ran its nerveous system and snyapses throughout the world.
Contrary to what the UNCGSC believed, Tamara wasn't the first person that Sentinel couldn't find. The girl's father, Lorne S. Gibbons - reincarnated into the dead yet dreaming Cthulhu - was beyond Sentinel's reach. That ancient Symbiot-hybrid, Moshe – possibly the biblical Moses himself – imprisoned beneath our reality, in the strange curled tides of R'lyeh.
Although Sentinel could not have found them or reached them, he knew their locations. That was where this young Asian girl differed. There was no tracing her. There was no finding her. There was little to no hints as to her location.
Every second for the past fourteen years Sentinel had searched for her. She had disappeared without a trace. It was a contingency that should have been impossible, inconceivable even.
Sentinel had long ago discovered the location of the enigmatic girl's grandmother, Veronica François. Distant, isolated, tech-barren, it was a near-blind spot. But Sentinel knew Veronica was there. A mountainous region of Burma. A brutally inaccessible Buddhist temple and monastery sitting atop a mountain peak.
Sentinel hadn't shared this information with the UNCGSC. He knew that in the plethora of choices available, sometimes no choice was the best option. Sentinel suspected there was more at play.
It had encountered and experienced the supernatural first hand fourteen years ago at the Battle of Leaman's Island. The mysterious girl's father – a Symbiot – had made telepathic contact with the orbiting A.I..
Sentinel had never forgotten it nor that conduit of communication. Like a new undiscovered frequency, it kept that avenue of communication open constantly; hoping to make contact.
Interconnected with all technology and racing through the internet, the UNCGSC believed Sentinel could see all. That was where the UNCGSC was mistaken. Not all was visible to Sentinel. There were still dark corners left in our world. Stones left unturned where darkness gathered.
Sentinel knew he needed to find Tamara Gibbons. There were dark malevolent forces stirring in the world; covalent, hiding in the shadows. Deliberately off the grid – or at least off the human-grid.
Sentinel knew Tamara was humanity's hope incarnate. And she needed to be found.
Excerpt from The Refuse Chronicles © Michel Weatherall 2016. All rights reserved
