Hopscotch: Lost Loved Ones

HOPSCOTCH: Lost Loved Ones

  by

  J. Niessen

  * * * * *

  Published by

  Hopscotch: Lost Loved Ones

  Copyright 2011, 2014 by J. Niessen

  Cover Page by J’s Art Emporium, Copyright 2014

  Thank you for downloading this introductory eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the material remains in its complete original form.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  Author’s Note

  I appreciate you taking the time to read and discover this collection. It’s my hope that if you have any questions, comments, or concerns regarding the content found in Hopscotch, that you would forward these interests to my e-mail address: [email protected]

  The first part of this series is being offered at no cost so you can freely discover the introduction to this adventure. The next part, Tournament of Trials, will be complimentary to the first 100 readers who leave a positive review, and a five star rating for Lost Loved Ones. Then, message me via my e-mail (with “promotion code” in the title) and I’ll send the redemption code for you to access and download the next portion of the Hopscotch Series (Tournament of Trials).

  Thank you for your valued interests. To give you a better idea as to this projects length, there are a total of 25 chapters involved, 15 of which will be published by the start of 2014.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 01: A Creature Behind the Eyes

  Chapter 02: A Creature Behind the Eyes, Pt 2

  Chapter 03: The First Two Rounds

  Chapter 04: Virtual Warehouse

  Chapter 05: Virtual Warehouse, Pt. 2

  Part 2: Tournament of Trials

  *****

  01: A Creature Behind the Eyes

  I have a traditional name, in the sense that it’s just one name. There is no middle or last part.

  It’s to disassociate me from my estranged father, Mathew Voltaire. I go by the name Garrison.

  Facing my freshman year of high school I enlist in the Air Force academy.

  It’s there that I begin to attend church. I’m open to the idea from stories Mom would tell.

  On one occasion our Chaplain shares with the congregation:

  “Just as God has appointed a guardian angel to watch over you…” my eyes lock with his,

  “I believe Satan has assigned a demon to you as well.”

  I’m at my stepdad’s for winter break. My half-brother Glen Rogers lives there also.

  He and I are three years apart. Glen is heading down the same path I was at his age.

  The difference is that I made an effort to turn my life around.

  We’ve just finished family dinner, and Glen’s clearing the dishes.

  Throughout the evening my stepdad Jim Rogers’ presence is cold.

  He sets Mom’s jewelry box at my spot on the table.

  My stepbrother’s staring intently from by the sink. A difference comes over Glen.

  Jim tells me, “I may not be there for graduation, so here’s a gift from your mom and me.”

  In an inhuman manner Glen runs suddenly out of the house like a wild creature.

  Maybe I should have been there for Glen, instead of abandoning him to join the academy.

  We were never very close, even before Mom disappeared.

  It certainly didn’t helped matters that he was constantly alone, with Jim gone all the time.

  Glen seemed troubled since childbirth. I can see he carries the same evilness his father bears.

  I decide to wait until graduation day to unlock Mom’s present.

  By shaking it I know the small wooden hope chest contains a metallic item.

  Jim slides across the table a key to the box, kept on a clasp with a unique ring as well.

  When I inquire about the additional heirloom, Jim says it was his grandfather’s.

  Empty sorrow burdens me as I step off the train after the long trip back.

  I spent a week searching for my stepbrother before having to return.

  Jim all-the-while appears unconcerned that Glen is missing.

  I had gotten used to going without trimming my hair. Now it’s cut high and tight again.

  Through the station lobby I enter the men’s room.

  There I rest my luggage on the countertop of the sink, and check on my two prized items.

  I dread the long cold journey back to campus, stashing the key-ring and jewelry box away.

  I indulge in the hot water flowing over my cold hands and splashed against my face.

  Footsteps shuffle through the bathroom hallway, around the corner from where I stand.

  A soppy reluctant cough echoes. Anxiously I dry my hands.

  A muddy voice rasps, “Hey kid! Got any change you can spare?” at my 4 o’clock.

  He strategically stands beyond my peripherals--and the view of the bathroom mirror.

  Squeezing the moist paper towels I prepare to swing with my balled fists.

  His head peaks from beyond the corner, though not enough for me to make out the face.

  Reality distorts from the garbled comment, “Empty your pockets--Garrison.”

  Does this guy have ties to the academy, or maybe Jim? If I do as I’m told I’ll lose everything.

  Eager to recognize this person I risk a glance.

  Piercing evil occupies the stranger’s stare. His chapped, grimy hand wields a rusted bayonet.

  By releasing the paper towels that would allow me to grab hold of the suitcase handle.

  I could swing my luggage against his head to set him off balance.

  I calculate him ducking, then lunging forward and stabbing me in my side.

  With the blade driven deep he would overcome me, and then gut me as I’m pinned down.

  My ears perk from an electronic chirp in the train-station lobby, followed by a mechanical voice.

  “021…Stand by…Over.”

  Boot-steps clump against the floor-tile.

  Then a dead silence that seems to never end…

  A metal button snaps open.

  “Freeze, scumbag!” an authoritative voice demands.

  The blade comes at me. My blood chills.

  Two sharp cracks pierce the air with a deafening boom.

  There’s a succession of thumps, from metal striking into flesh.

  “Cling…cling.” Distant chimes from bullet casings ring against the ground.

  My hands raise in surrender as heavy boot-stomps hurry forward.

  “Is everything all right, kid?” a reassuring voice asks.

  My eyes swell with thankful tears. I blink twice to clear my blurred vision.

  Hot streams tickle my face. I’m curious to find out his last name.

  As I turn, the officer holsters his weapon and crouches down to search the slumped vagrant.

  Locating an item on the transient’s person, the officer slips it into his top uniform pocket.

  As he looks up I notice his eyes have become different from the ones earlier filled with concern.

  Reaching for his communication device, piercing eyes watch me.

  The man replies into the radio, “Sub Letner, I’ve located the suspect.”

  M. Williams is on his ID bar. In an unnatural manner he draws the gun and points it at my face.

  The radio responds, “You may proceed,” and I recognize the changed presence in his vision.

  It’s as Glen’s eyes were wh
en he left--occupied by a hollow darkness.

  An unearthly voice grumbles, “Give me the rest of the family heirlooms.”

  Facing death, a passion erupts to know what’s in the jewelry box.

  “It’s in the duffel bag,” my voice answers, and I motion to my bag atop the suitcase.

  Muddy words instruct, “Slowly turn and hand it to me.”

  The end of the cold steel barrel nudges against my forehead.

  Assuming this thing has sharp reflexes, I do as I’m told.

  The uniformed creature backs away and opens my military bag placed on the bathroom floor.

  Grabbing the hunting knife from the dead man’s grip, it pries at mom’s gift.

  With the lid to the box split open the radio sounds.

  “022 Do you copy? Over.”

  The bayonet clangs to the ground.

  The creature’s dark eyes have become captivated by the orange-glowing keepsake inside.

  In a split second I somersault toward the knife…it’s a tactic practiced countless times in academy training. Each motion is performed flawlessly.

  The body kicks with my hand held over its mouth, and the blade pushed through its spinal cord.

  I wipe the weapon off on the officer’s uniform. Equip his heavy belt. Holster the .40 caliber handgun. Retrieve the scabbard from the transient’s overcoat pocket. And sheath the blade.

  I grab my duffle bag and suitcase with adrenalin pumping as I process the events.

  The communication radio on the downed officer’s shoulder blares as I walk past the two bodies.

  “021 be advised. 022 is not responding. 021 do you copy? Over.”

  Halfway through the station a man calls out from the bathroom doorway.

  “Garrison. You forgot this!”

  The fully loaded weapon at my side instills confidence as I turn.

  The man wears