The Clockwork Tower

Chapter One 

It’s got to be here, Reagan thought as she knelt down and brushed away some dirt in the small clearing. It was a ridiculous notion, she realized. If there was a building here, brushing away the dirt where it’s foundation and walls should have been was not going to reveal it. She stood up and looked again at the map in the light of the full moon. To the west, the ocean; the coastline matched. To the north, the mountains. Here, the base of the forest and next to the umbrella shaped oak tree and the twin boulders, the tower. There were no other oaks nearby. Not for a dozen miles. The twin boulders were unmistakable. Was the map a fake? The breeze stopped and the rustling of the leaves abated. It was eerily silent.

“What now, madam?” Goliath said in his slow, deep voice. He scratched his massive head with a massive index finger and looked around. He stood right at seven feet tall, a foot and a half taller than Reagan and was three times her width. He could crush her without trying but she was in charge and so the thought never crossed his simple mind. Not that it would otherwise. He was fiercely loyal to her.

“We either wait, which could take who knows how long, or we figure out a way to make it come.” Figuring things out was not Goliaths strong point so he simply nodded and waited for Reagan to execute the plan.

She opened her canvas satchel and pulled out a large brass object with a hinge on one side and a clasp on the other. On the lid were intricate engravings that shimmered silver when they caught the light.  She flipped the clasp and it opened. Gently she set it on the ground. Slowly, delicately it unfolded itself. Tiny brass rods and gears worked together in a miniscule but complex dance with silver springs and golden pulleys in a growing maze work of machinery. It whirred and clicked as it grew and sourceless beams of lights emanated from the center. It grew no larger than a watermelon and tick-tocked patiently when its dance was finished. Goliath smiled in mute pleasure as the rhythmic metronome tones entranced him.

Reagan knelt before the device and adjusted the single dial. Very slowly the ticking increased: tick… tock… tick… tock… tick-tock tick-tock ticktock ticktock. Goliath smiled broader and bounced ever so slightly on his heels. The whirring noise grew higher in pitch and the gears and rods moved quicker. The small beams of light grew more intense and the colors were vibrant. Red, blue, green, orange. Goliath stopped bouncing and his eyes grew large. It was beautiful! Slowly the air around the brass chest vibrated and shimmied like heat off of desert sand. Reagan stepped back. At the base, the dirt scattered and the dead oak leaves regained their color and leapt off the ground only to disappear into nothing almost as soon as they were airborne. Tall, dead grass replaced the dirt and quickly turned green then shrunk and slithered down into the forest floor. The process repeated itself faster and faster as the tick-tocking became a solid tone and the whirring became a screech. In the small area surrounding the chest, time was spinning backwards! A wicked howling noise emanated from somewhere within the forest. Reagan tensed and peered after it.

“Goliath, they’re coming. We need to hurry.” Goliath moved protectively next to her and scanned the darkness, the hypnotic lightshow of the chest forgotten. Within the lights, the reanimated grass continued but then was suddenly replaced by crumbled brick.

“Here it comes,” Reagan whispered. With a sudden screech, an apparition burst from the darkness and shot towards Reagan. She had brought Goliath for a reason and Goliath was not going to disappoint. With lightning fast reflexes that belied his size, he placed himself between the apparition and Reagan and took the entire force of the assault. As they collided, he flew back towards her but leapt at the last moment so as to launch himself and the apparition over her head. They landed with a thud and the apparition spun to face Reagan. It was a ghostly figure, pale and ancient. Long wispy hair flowed like spider webs from beneath the tattered hood. The face was little more than wrinkled and blotched skin stretched over skull. When it sneered, its teeth were gnarled and decayed. It raised its spindly arms and tensed as if ready to attack. Fear overtook her and Reagan waited no longer, she turned and ran as the apparition screamed horribly and lurched towards her. Goliath had recovered and just as the apparition grasped at her shoulder, he leapt and tackled the specter. They tumbled to the ground and rolled into the light that emanated from the chest smashing it in the process. Both of them were gone.

Reagan finally stopped at the edge of the cliff watching the full moon reflect off the sea below. She had run out of land; there was nowhere else to run. She turned her back to the hundred foot drop and faced the pursuer who never came.

“Goliath?” She Shouted. There was no response. She waited a long time before making her way back to the clearing. When she got there, the brass chest was smashed and Goliath, the apparition, and the time portal were gone.

~~~

Goliath tumbled along the ground and came to rest at the base of a tall stone tower. With quick glances, he cast about for the apparition but his assailant was nowhere to be seen. This, he thought¸ isn’t like any ghost I’ve heard of. The ghosts he expected to encounter weren’t corporeal. This one was solid enough, however it did disappear very much like one.

“Reagan, where are you? Are you okay?” He searched around in the new light of morning. All he found was a tall, black tower made of large stones. He craned his neck up to see its pinnacle which contained a large clock face. Its hands were slowly spinning backwards. As he watched, they came to a complete stop and if he were to continue to watch, he would see that they began their normal forward movement, marking normal time.

“Where did this come from?” he whispered but no one was there to answer.

The Vampiric Soul (Working Title)

Chapter One 

In six hundred years Braddock had avoided fearing every one of his deaths. He basked in the exhilarating coldness of its anticipation and he savored the rush of adrenaline that coursed through his body. He didn’t particularly care to die, but when the time came, as it always did again and again, he thrived on the sickening thrill. This time however, there was a tinge of nervousness, almost panic that he was unfamiliar with. Maybe it was because this time he had time to contemplate its arrival. Maybe it was because he knew there would be an audience. Or perhaps it was that even though he was guilty of many crimes, the one he was being executed for was one he was not guilty of; and that was new to him. In fact, he had been the victim of the crime rather than the perpetrator… in a manner of speaking. He’d never been formally executed before by any justice system, corrupt as this one may be, and never with as much time to ponder its arrival.

He sat in the moist, dank cell on the mattressless metal cot and dragged his foot idly through the condensation that collected on the stone floor. The scratching noise it made echoed eerily out of the cell, down the hall and back at him as it too, could not escape. On the grey brick walls were etchings marking the days spent in this cell. They were not his etchings for he'd only occupied this cell for three days. Rather, they were the etchings of the previous prisoner who had counted down the twenty-six days to his execution; considerably longer than Braddock's time. So much the better, he thought. He had little patience when it came to waiting for death, or anything for that matter which was ironic considering how many centuries he had spent taunting death. He wished they would finally come for him. He wanted to be put in front of the firing squad and have done with it. Just execute me, already, he thought. And make it quick.

Braddock may have never feared death but he had always hated the pain of dying; that, he never got used to and resigned himself some time ago to the fact that he never would. It was almost an intolerable experience, but what choice did he have? Sometimes it was a blade through the chest that he could feel piercing his heart. He could feel the cool air rush into his chest cavity and sting the dying organ. The constriction of the muscles sent waves of pain to his head and, when he was still able, he gritted his teeth to get through it. Sometimes it was a high fall that did it. Those were more tolerable. They were usually quick, but he still had to endure the feeling of his skull caving in as it smashed against the rocks, the street or the dirt. He had been burned to death on four occasions and drowned three times. He wasn’t sure which of those he hated more, but they were two of his least favorite ways to die.

Being shot was probably his most preferred way to go. It was usually quick and the pain lasted only a few seconds. He smiled one last time as this thought crossed his mind. Better this way than any other.

A uniformed guard approached his cell with an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. He looked at Braddock and pointed his index finger at him with his thumb raised, mimicking a gun.

“Do it, puto.” Braddock grinned at the guard. But the guard just closed one eye, took aim and pulled the mock trigger a couple of times.

When his executioners finally came for him, the anticipation, familiar and naked, returned twofold. The cold sweat, the adrenaline making his hands shake, the short, ragged breaths, even the way he involuntarily shifted his eyes away from the eyes of others and never settled on a single thing for more than a few seconds were all the signs of a walking dead man, inside and out. The soul was not afraid but the body was so it was only deep down that Braddock smiled.

He was lead to an open yard lined on one side by a battered brick wall. Its face was pitted by hundreds of bullets. He could see the blood stains on it and in the dirt where they stood him, where they had stood countless other criminals. As he walked over it, he could smell the iron and salt of human blood tainted with a taste of gunpowder and mixed with the gritty mud and dirt. In front of him stood the firing squad, stoic and emotionless. Their immaculate uniforms were pressed and the brass affects were polished to a brilliant shine. The razor sharp uniforms seemed out of place on the sweaty, unshaven riflemen that stood in the jungle enclosed village. Not far behind them stood a small crowd of witnesses, none of whom he recognized.

Colonel Xavier Ramos was a tall lanky man with an almost handlebar mustache and he carried himself with an air of confidence. Though he too was unshaven and unwashed, he looked as if it were not necessary. Almost as if a bath would do more harm than good to his appearance. His eyes were dark and experienced and his face was lightly scarred from some past battle but it was only apparent upon close inspection as they were hidden among the scars of bad, youthful acne. He was in command of the firing squad and seemed to take a certain perverse pride in that. He offered Braddock neither cigarette nor blindfold but did ask if he had any final words.

Braddock gave Ramos a long once-over, smiled and said, “You’ll do.”

Ramos looked confused for a moment and then smiled himself. He backed up a few steps and turned to the firing squad with his sword raised.

Braddock never heard the gunshots when the order came. He felt only the blistering heat of half a dozen bullets tearing through his body, smelled the overwhelming odor of gunpowder and finally the taste of the blood soaked dirt as his face hit the ground with an audible thud that pointlessly fractured his jaw. Blackness slowly engulfed him.

A feeling like a thousand needles rolling over his body slowly came over him. The ambient noise sounded muffled as if it were being locked in a shrinking room. All sensation was slipping away and Braddock felt like a piece of tape being peeled from the inside of a balloon. There was numbness and then nothing. An eternity passed.

In the distance, there was a pinprick of light. It swayed slightly and then rushed forward growing larger. It coalesced into a blurred image as a presence rushed by in the opposite direction, the former soul on its way out. The next moment he was standing over the lifeless body of Roberto Durante, his former host. In his new right hand was the sword pointed at the ground. With his left, he scratched his almost handlebar moustache. He turned to the witnesses as the gunshot echoes faded away. They stood motionless save one. A single woman was making a hasty exit. Their eyes met knowingly as she turned one last time before disappearing. It was Darya.

~~~

Before Amanda Niles was taken by Darya, she was a talented photojournalist for a popular American magazine. Her specialty was the happenings in Third World countries. Her current assignment had taken her deep into Central America to cover a growing revolution. Two days into her assignment, she stumbled upon a battle of a smaller scale. A man and a woman were fighting on a dirty, narrow street behind an abandoned nightclub when they were approached by a man wielding a heavy blade. The third man demanded their money and waved the blade threateningly.

Amanda began snapping pictures. She was well trained and her presence went unnoticed. She watched the fight continue and the couple seemed unaware of their assailant and his demands. At least that’s what she told herself. It seemed to her that they just simply ignored the man. They were unconcerned by his threats.

Are they really just ignoring this guy? she thought to herself, amazed.

“I said ‘give me your money or I cut you both’,” he tried again. The fight continued uninterrupted. The woman swung a well aimed right hook and caught the first man across the chin. He reeled under the force of the blow but recovered expertly. He swung back and punched the woman with a solid kidney shot. Amanda was incensed and her instincts almost forced her into the fray. If the knife-wielder hadn’t been there, she would have leapt on the man. How dare he hit a woman like that!

“Aye, chingow! I cut you both,” said the knife-wielder and drove the blade into the man’s chest. The man grasped at his fresh wound, but the knife was already out and plunging into the woman. She dropped instantly. The knife-wielder grabbed her purse and turned to the man bleeding and gasping on the street.

Amanda had stood by too long. Her own safety didn’t matter to her anymore and she rushed to the woman.

“C’mon, puto. C’mon!” The thief knelt down and rifled through the bleeding man’s pockets as he died. A few people were coming out into the streets now and were rushing to help the fallen couple.

Amanda scooped up the dying woman in her arms and to her great surprise, just before her own soul was replaced, the woman looked up at Amanda and with her last breath, said “I’m so sorry” and died. Amanda Niles, too, was no more.

~~~

After the execution, Darya, acting as Amanda Niles, for that was who she was now, made her way back to the hotel room. She had changed the reservations of her American Airlines flight back to the States some time ago, but was now running late to the airport. Things seldom follow accurate schedules in Third World Central American countries, especially executions. Plane flights, however, do. Because of this, she had to rush to the airport. The quicker she could catch a flight back to the States, the more distance she could put between herself and Braddock-Ramos and she didn’t want to miss this flight. He was a mere criminal when he had become Durante and thus easily avoided, but her efforts to have his life spared had gone unrecognized. Even using the threat of press exposure in her American magazine failed to sway the court to spare Durante’s life. Three days after he was arrested, Braddock-Durante was killed. And once he was executed and Braddock became Colonel Xavier Ramos, he was now a formidable threat here. But if he followed her to the States he’d be easier to deal with.

On the plane, Darya used the time to study her new host. She read every document she carried, browsed her laptop for personal effects; photos, writings, emails. She went into a meditative state and waded through the foggy memories that the soul hadn’t taken with them on its way out. She had images of family members and committed as many of their names and relationships as she could to new memories. She had a boyfriend that she had broken up with for reasons that were missing but somehow he was still in Amanda’s life. They were trying to get back together or he was and she wasn’t… it wasn’t clear. She had glimpses of the office where Amanda had worked but the car she owned and had driven to that office was missing somehow. Rebuilding memories that the previous soul had partially taken was like trying to rebuild a fine spider’s web blown about by the wind. It was delicate and fleeting but with enough care and patience, she could reconstruct the better parts of it.

~~~

Braddock used a different approach. He took the basics and damn the rest. He took I.D. cards, bank accounts, weapons and useful personal effects. From the fractured memories, he extracted the names of the closest people around him that he could use to his advantage. For the names he couldn’t extract, he simply asked regardless of the odd stares he’d get in response:

“Her name is Miriam, Colonel. She is your mother.” He just grunted in response and dismissed the worried look he got.

He picked up languages and accents easily. For some reason, they always seemed to stay with the host body. He assumed such natural things learned over a lifetime and taken for granted stayed with the host while personally important things, like your mother’s name, were taken with the soul. They were closer to the previous host and thus more important. He preferred it that way. He had little use for personal relationships.

“Well, Miriam wants to know why you are packing up and leaving,” Lt. Juarez explained a second time.

“Tell her I cannot do this anymore,” Braddock-Ramos didn’t even look up from his fervent task. “Yes. Tell her I cannot execute anymore people. God says ‘thou shalt not kill’, yes? Tell her I cannot sin against God any longer.” He put his military ID in his breast pocket and celebrated with agradezca a Dios as he found Ramos’ passport. He kissed it and placed it in the same pocket.

“She is your mother, Xavier. YOU must tell her.”

Braddock-Ramos sighed incredulously and snatched the receiver from Lt. Juarez’s hand.

“Madre, I cannot talk now. I call you later, si?... No, mama. No… No. I must go. Adios.” He gracelessly placed the receiver on the phones base and waved dismissively at Juarez as if to say: You see. It’s not difficult. “Now go get my car. We are leaving.”

Lt. Juarez saluted and spun on his heel.

Braddock scanned Ramos’ mind and learned where the files to Roberto Durante’s case were stored. He quickly retrieved them, grabbed his duffle bag and headed outside to the waiting sedan.

The criminal file had some detailed information on the crime and thus the witness that pointed the finger at Durante. He would need that information. Witness: Amanda Niles, 26. Reporter, columnist. Born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico; still has family there. Moved to Los Angeles at eighteen to attend UCLA. Graduated blah blah blah. Works for International Explorer Monthly. Still resides in Los Angeles… Home address and telephone number. Perfect!