The Lodestone Files
The Things in the Shadows
Among Us: Contact, Assimilation, Control, Extermination Series
Book One
Robert J. S. T. McCartney
Copyright © 2010 — 2016 by A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group, Robert J. T. McCartney
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
A.B.Normal Publishing and Media Group
PO Box 31311
Knoxville, TN 37930
www.abnormalpublishing.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living, or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America.
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
The Lodestone Files / Robert J. S. T. McCartney — First Print, 2016
DEDICATION
To my wife, Karyn, and my kids, Zelda, and Aeris.
Do what you want to do with your life. Go ahead, dream big, make plans, but get off your hands and make them happen. — Robert J. S. T. McCartney
“Be anything but normal.”
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Acknowledgements
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
THE SUN HAD already begun its descent upon the horizon. The stars ignited across the fading daylight and exploded into the template of the nightly majesty, which was no stranger. The moon high, full, and brilliant, even amidst the presently elegant summer evening. The skyline articulated with precise brushstrokes of pink, peach, and azure. The white caps of the clouds radiated a magnificence about them. If anything, it reminded him of his mother’s valued peaches and cream milkshake, with the sun as the almighty cherry. While deep on the horizon’s depths, there laid a siege of dark, foreboding, and ever persistent storm clouds—tainted, with something evil that weaved its magic in the neighboring county.
“Tonight’s forecast calls for a high chance of rain. A severe thunderstorm watch is in effect for the following counties—” The newscaster’s voice cut short as the signal gave way to the classical static snow.
Idris sighed as he readjusted his blue jean jacket, and fixed his black t-shirt. His hands dug around in the pockets of his dark blue jeans; running the loose change through his fingertips, while continuing to look at the morbid onslaught that seemed to creep closer with every passing moment. He was in awe at the traditional “night and day” that was transpiring before him. He roamed a bit further, standing under the covered fuel pump of the gas station, and took note of the swirling maelstrom of clouds that slowly wandered by on high. It had been some years since he last saw something of this magnitude, and he then remembered—death.
He glanced over at the old crimson rich fuel pump that stood proudly, garnished by a circle of different types of rocks, and various flowers in the small little acreage. At the base was a white cross with a white-flowered wreath that hung on it. Along the side of the fuel pump in beautiful white calligraphy read:
In Loving Memory Lawrence Calloway James Sinclair III
Beloved Son, Husband, Father, and Grandfather
May 21, 1912 – March 18, 2004
His eyes turned to the ground before him. Grandpa...
Memories flashed before his eyes of an old man. White hair combed back, thin black wire-rimmed glasses that sat low on his small nose. He had a long slender face with sparse wrinkles—the wrinkles that were always present with his vibrant and warm smile. This memory, or rather recurrent recollection, he dressed in his usual brown silk vest over his silk grey-blue dress shirt, and black slacks and charcoal suede shoes. To Idris, he was more than the marveled superhero of their small haven. He vaguely recalled how their great-great grandfather helped found soda fountains. Then his memory recalled the last root beer float they shared together days before...
Tears began to surge, when… Ding! Ding!
He snapped out of his moment of remembrance upon hearing the gas station bell chime. Another customer had come, and he knew it was unprofessional being emotional around patrons. The black 94’ Ford Explorer came to a halt at one of the fuel pumps. Idris walked over, peered into the vehicle as the drivers’ window slowly lowered, revealing a middle-aged man, and his weary family.
“What will it be, sir?” Idris kindly inquired.
The man smiled in reply, “Fill it up please.”
Idris turned and reached for the gas nozzle. “Do you want any particular grade, sir?”
“Regular, please,” the man replied before turning to his wife.
The man’s family had gotten out, stretched their legs, and walked off to the station’s diner. Idris unscrewed the fuel tank cap and put the nozzle in it. He went about doing the standard customary service: wiping the headlights, tail lights, and all windows clean. He walked over and grabbed the air compressor hose, and set off to check the air pressure in each tire—topping off all four.
Idris came around to the driver’s side once more. “Sir, if you’d like to join your family inside, I can move your vehicle for you.”
“O—oh, why thank you, young man.” The man smiled as he slowly got out of the vehicle, apparently stiffened from the long hours of road travel.
Idris smiled in reply. “No problem, sir. I can bring your bill inside. So if you’re purchasing a meal, you can take care of all of it at once.”
The man chuckled. “Well, I wish we had more of these back home.”
Idris gave a smile at the man. The customer turned to head inside the diner. He seemed to have accepted his balding situation. He had shaved his head completely, except the light blonde mustache that was growing. The loud rustling of his black leather jacket as he swayed each step. Idris noticed he walked with a limp on his right leg, the imperfection of his light-brown slacks and uneven length suggested a possible amputee. Idris noted the Persian Gulf Veteran sticker on the rear window. He was familiar with all the ‘benefits’ veterans received. His uncle having served in a few wars himself.
Idris sighed, shaking his head.
After a moment’s passing, Idris put the fuel cap back on and returned the nozzle to its holster. He read the amount on the pump and pushed a button on the pump.
A deep voice spoke from the small speaker. “Yes?”
Idris leaned towards the speaker. “Can you please pair the fuel receipt with a customer’s dinner—party of five.”
There was a slight pause, and then the voice crackled in response. “Alright, kiddo, thanks.”
Idris rolled his eyes, grumbling aloud. He hated being called kiddo. “What was that?” The voice sternly inquired.
“I said, ‘no problem, dad.’”
I said I am not a kid anymore you, half-wit, that’s what.
“Oh, OK,” he heard his dad chuckle. “Sorry, it’s getting busy in here. Mind giving me a hand?”
“Sure just give me a few minutes.” Idris then sighed to himself.
He opened the driver’s door and hopped in the Explorer. He glanced briefly at the rear-view mirror. He resembled his grandfather more than his father. Dark green eyes tired from the long day, and even longer coming night. He was tall, like most of the men in his family. Combed back short black hair which spoke of his professional mannerism, contrary to his usual wild look. As he
turned the key, the engine turned over, and the beast growled with its unfamiliar driver. He changed the gear and set off to park in the front of the restaurant.
As he exited out of the parked vehicle, he heard a child’s voice call out, “Idris!”
He looked up as he escaped the belly of the beast, keys in hand, at his kid brother. “Hey, Cal, how’s it going, little man?”
Cal beamed in his brother’s presence—proud and prideful. He was seven years younger than Idris, and already was beginning to shoot up like a weed. Cal resembled their father with his sandy brown hair and bright green eyes. His person dirty (apparently he was helping Dad a lot today), food stains covered his white t-shirt and blue jeans, and sneakers. Cal held a brown paper bag in his right hand, smiling.
“Whatcha got there?” Idris smiled as he spun the keys in loops on his right index finger (visionary gunslinger with his kid brother as his faithful sidekick).
“I got you something, since tomorrow’s your birthday. I saved up some money and—”
“Cal, that’s your money, you didn’t have to get me anything.” Idris sighed. “You know that right? I rather you spend it on yourself than me.”
Cal puckered his lower lip. “Yeah, I know. It’s my money, and I can decide what I want to do with it. I did earn it on my own after all.”
Idris caught the small grin in the corner of Cal’s face. Shaking his head—he was clearly wising up and catching on to his brother’s wisecracks.
Idris sighed. “Alright, you got me.” he walked over to his brother. “So, what did ya get me?”
Cal frowned, his tone sarcastic, “Really? That would kinda ruin the surprise of it all you know.”
Idris laughed. “Ah c’mon, Cal, I’m just messing with you.” he ruffled his brother’s hair. Cal giggled as he wrestled his brother’s arm away. “Come on; I’ll make you a root beer float. What do you say? Then I will open the gift you got for me.”
Cal gave a big smile and a nod. The two brothers set off for the diner.
Upon entry into the restaurant, there laid a massive rug that proclaimed ‘Welcome!’ It wasn’t a typical welcoming mat. Oh no, this was a throwback, just like the way their father loved it. In the massive white circle was a gigantic chocolate milkshake, topped with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Above it, denoted the red letters that made up the welcome, as well as the bottom’s ‘to Calloway’s and Family.’ The outline of the circle resembled a bright-red neon sign, just all it needed now was to light up.
Stretched from beyond the doorways, was a black-and-white checkered tile that sprawled everywhere. Directly in front was a small bar with chrome and red bar stools, where a few patrons sipped on handcrafted malts and shakes. Behind it were four shelves of assorted drinking cups, shake and malt necessities, and their famous soda fountain. In the left corner was a classical jukebox that contained both vinyl records and digital recordings of songs, a project their father was proud to accomplish. It glowed in an array of chrome, red, blue and green lights. The arch glowed a steady light-yellow in contrast to its light-brown base hue.
Above them, spun fans, lightly circulating the delicious smell that continued to permeate everywhere. Along each side were booths adjoined to the walls (white tabletops and black vinyl seating). A few tables spaced evenly across the floor, offering their black and white contrast of chairs and tables respectively. All around on the white walls hung memorabilia over the years from customers, Idris’ family and of course, his father. Neon signs were aplenty, traditional neon clocks, Coca-Cola, and a Calloway’s and Family customized sign. The colors of the rainbow tamed and populated this little piece of heaven.
Inside, the diner was hopping, like it usually was. The smell of fresh cooked to order food slammed across your face like a sack of potatoes. Idris sniffed the air, immediately salivating. He could tell his dad was making his famous Six Shooter Slider Combo. The other servers and cooks were all busy, after all, it was Friday, and their dad’s special gut busters were always a hit. Idris stood there with Cal, and both just looked at their very own wonder of the world, as it all played out before them. It was like their own Willy Wonka factory, except with no Oompa Loompas and the place itself, definitely wasn’t edible. Still, they admired their wonder world and loved eating it. Their eyes wandered from side to side, taking in the spectacle of happy customers and memories in the making, and of course, the cash.
Their mother carried trays of food over to the middle-aged man’s table. His two kids were sipping on cola while picking at the fresh French fries that steamed with wholesome goodness, big smiles on their faces. The man gave a nod and a smile to the two brothers.
Their mother came around and stopped in front of the boys. She wore a classic waitress outfit, but then again, their dad did have a thing for 50’s diners. A white skirt fanned out from her waist and slung down to her knees, high enough from her black pumps that waltzed across the well-traveled tiled floor. A dark cloth belt sat above her waist, tucking in the light-blue short-sleeved shirt. There was no doubt; their mother did not belong in a restaurant, let alone the kitchen. Often Idris wondered if she was their mother with her classic supermodel glam. She had bright blue eyes that radiated with happiness, as well as a broad beaming smile. She had her hair up in a tight ponytail that bounced and shifted side to side. She was their mom, but to customers, she was Mary.
“Hey Mom,” Idris smiled at his mother, “guess we’re busy now, huh?”
“Hi honey,” she smiled in reply. “Oh, it’s not too bad. Your father could probably use a hand in the kitchen. Blaine had to leave early. Apparently, Stella just went into labor.” Mary sighed. “But that’s why we have you, boys! Free labor!”
The family trio giggled among themselves.
“Yeah, I think we can help dad out.” Idris nodded. “Afterward, I want to make Cal a root beer float. Y’know how Grandpa showed me.”
Mary smiled. “I think that would be lovely, dear.” She glanced at the busy dining room. “Well, I am going to get back. Money won’t make itself! You boys be good now. You hear?”
To which both brothers replied, “Yes ma’am.”
Soon enough, their mother was off on her waitress missions, leaving Cal and Idris alone at the entrance. Idris looked down at his little brother. “Ready to help dad some more?”
Cal nodded. “Maybe we can make something up for next week’s special.”
Idris smiled and chuckled. “Who knows, maybe we’ll make something as good as what dad can make.”
Soon enough, they set off themselves, for the kitchen where orders were being fired left and right, and pans clanged, banged. Deep fryers bubbled as fresh potatoes sank to their oil baths, final destination: golden-brown and to a plate near you. Other pots and pans sizzled, while the grill was the prime spot, with their father at the reins.
“Hey, now there are my two favorite helpers!” Their father smiled, glancing at them briefly as he flipped a series of six square beef patties, and dressed them with sautéed onions.
Idris and Cal became enticed by the sweet aroma of pure perfection that sizzled before them. Their father then laid out buttered buns for each patty and began dressing them with a slice of American cheese.
He wore a white hat, like the diner hats of old, hiding or at least obstructing his sandy brown hair. On the side was ‘James’ in a bold black print, while the other side read ‘Calloway’s and Family.’ He was tall, fit, and certainly agile for the kitchen war front. The man could dance all over the kitchen and nearly run it solo. He was as Idris proclaimed, a beast. He was well-kept—clean, shaven. Contrary to his white uniform which was a bit dirty, but that was to be expected. Grease stains, ketchup and more. It was collateral damage, but delicious. He ran his hands on his black slacks and wandered over to the sink. The sink billowed with steam as the water ran from the faucet.
James grabbed a towel and dried his hands. “So, you boys here to help?”
The brothers nodded in unison.
James smi
led, “Great! Let me finish this order and I’ll set you two up.” Their dad walked past them towards the grill, throwing the towel over his shoulder. “I’d like you both to make me something for next week’s specials.” He glanced at the boys giving them another vibrant smile.
Cal tugged on Idris’ sleeve, smiling with glee. Idris gave Cal a smile, taking off his jacket and setting off for getting dressed before grabbing the essentials for grilling.
Everything was going great. Life was good. The food was astounding, and it seemed like nothing could go wrong, not here, not for Idris and his family.
Until…