Wake

By Andrew Charles

Life’s a bit complicated for Adam Turner, who’s been dating a drop-dead-gorgeous blonde while trying desperately to resist his deepening feelings for a lifelong friend. But just when it all begins to make perfect sense, Adam discovers that all is not what it seems. Somewhere in Wake County, a very real evil is lurking. And on Adam’s 18th birthday, he finds himself flirting with death to protect the one woman he truly loves.

Though not for the faint of heart, this coming-of-age thriller from Andrew Charles offers enough pulse-pounding action, breathtaking suspense, mystifying twists, and dark humor to captivate readers from age 15 to 105.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Charles
• Release date: Oct 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465851475

Andrew Charles

Andrew Charles is the pen name of someone whose work you’ve probably experienced many times. He’s spent his life writing stories, songs, films, articles and ad campaigns. He’s also contributed to a non-fiction book about the craft of written and visual communication. But “Wake” is his first novel. Andrew lives in Rockville, Maryland with his wife and two sons. If you’ve read and enjoyed “Wake”, please remember to recommend it to a friend, or write a thoughtful review online. And, if you have thoughts you’d like to share with Andrew directly, you can connect with him at [e-mail].

Book preview

Introduction

The worst thing imaginable happened to me exactly one day before I turned eighteen. But if you really want to understand why this thing is so terrible, I’ll have to take you back a couple days before that. Actually, I could take you back about twelve years before that, but I’ll bet neither of us has that much patience. Besides, there’s enough childishness in the story as it is.

I’ll also warn you now that this thing is not pretty. If you are elderly, pregnant, or have a history of heart problems, I strongly recommend that you stop reading immediately. Or, at the very least, make sure your pills or whatever are nearby. If I’ve learned anything from this experience, it’s that you can’t be too careful.

Oh, and just because my story’s a little heavy on childishness, that doesn’t mean it’s for kids. I’m not joking around about how bad this thing is. And I’m a real stickler for detail. So if you’re not old enough to at least sneak into an R-rated movie, do yourself a favor and bounce. You’re only given a precious few years of carefree innocence in this world before the world begins to turn against you. I’d enjoy it while you can.

But, if you’re still with me, and if you promise not to get too pissed off or choked up or wigged out, I’ll tell you exactly how this thing went down.

And how it damn near killed me.

Part 1:

The Thing

Chapter 1

Friday, April 7. Lunch. I was in our usual spot, lying in the grass, squinting up at the sky, and playing a little game with the fuzzy blobs that live in my eyeballs.

I learned in Science that they’re actually clumps of dead cells that break loose from the inside surface of your eye and float around in the liquid filling. If you’re lying on your back and you dart your eyes in any direction, the blobs get thrown in that direction, but then they lose momentum and gradually sink toward the back of your head.

The trick to the game is to throw the fuzzy blobs just hard enough that one drifts directly into your line of sight. Then you can stare right at it and follow it as it makes its descent. If you’re really good, you can even focus on the blob and see its individual cells like you’re looking at it through a microscope.

Anyway, it was just then, when I had a juicy blob right in my crosshairs, that Amy walked up.

She said, What are you doing? like she was annoyed. She wasn’t, though. Amy and I had been best friends since we were six. And trust me, when she’s really annoyed, you know it. You look possessed, she continued.

Just bored, I said.

What were you staring at?

The dead things that live in my eyeballs.

You’re a freak.

In real life, Amy was about 5 foot 6. But from down there she looked like the title character in Attack of the 50-Foot Woman. And I had a great view of her legs. She wore one of those loose-fitting skirts that swished when she walked, along with a snug, baby blue T-shirt that accentuated her rather shapely chest and tight, little tummy.

I waited for her to sit down before I sat up.

What’s gotten into you? she said. You’re acting like a crazy person.

Maybe it’s no act, I said.

Then she just rolled her eyes at me and whispered, Shocker.

From a seated position I could see most of the school’s front lawn. To our left, kids were clattering through the heavy, vomit-green cafeteria door and onto the warm grass like they were staging a prison break. It was eighty-five degrees and sunny, and nobody was going to spend the day inside a public high school if they could help it. To the right was the school’s fugly main entrance, and the entire area in between was quickly filling up with kids carrying lunch trays and paper bags.

Directly ahead was a picturesque view of the parking lot, which was always packed sardine-style with cheap cars. The slight hill we sat on made the view even more dramatic.

I turned to Amy. So, how was your day, Dear?

No response. She had just shoved a hunk of muffin into her mouth and was enjoying the moment completely.

Well mine has been simply delightful, I mused.

Through her mouthful of muffin, she managed, "Let me guess. You aced your English paper, you got into M.I.T., and you had a steamy make-out session with Jessica."

Every time Amy spoke the name Jessica she used an exaggerated, spoiled-girl accent, accompanied by a wide-eyed, slack-jawed head wobble. This, unfortunately, looked and sounded exactly like my girlfriend, Jessica.

One out of three, I said.

Well I hope you didn’t get another hickey, she mumbled.

Hmm. No. But Ms. Palmer did give me an A+ on my essay.

Wow, she said, finally looking back at me, smiling now, legitimately impressed. Palmer’s a ballbuster. That might be unprecedented.

As far as I know, I confirmed. Just in the nick of time, too, now that my transcript has been sent to all the schools I’m not getting into.

Don’t think that way. You’re totally gonna kick butt.

We’ll see, I said. You haven’t heard anything yet, have you?

Nope.

We observed a brief moment of silence. Then I picked up my lunch bag and began extracting the sandwiches I’d made out of two-day-old chicken leftovers.

So, I said again, attempting to resuscitate the conversation, what are we doing for my birthday?

I didn’t know you were going to squeeze me into your schedule.

I can move some things around.

Well, she said, what are your plans?

I thought I’d register for the draft. Then, I guess I’ll register to vote, so I can vote against getting drafted.

Good thinking.

You want me to come over this weekend?

Sure, she said, tucking a strand of light brown hair behind a perfect ear, but it would have to be on Sunday, and not before noon. I have a lesson.

With the Russian kid?

Yep.

How’s that going?

I don’t know, she sighed.

I thought you liked him.

I do. I just don’t like teaching lessons all the time. This summer’s gonna suck. Three months of sun and fun teaching eight-year-olds how to break glass with a violin. Then, who knows what. I’ll probably end up at ... Jimbob’s Music School of East Bunghole or something.

Not gonna happen, I said firmly.

You don’t know that.

You’re awesome. I’m not completely clueless about music, you know.

It’s a little different at the college level, Adam. Everyone’s awesome.

There was another moment of silence. Then I offered, You’re awesomer.

At last, a dimply grin. She snorted and made a Hrrr! sound, then punched me on the left shoulder. I felt like a complete tool, but at least I’d gotten her smiling again.

Amy’s face lit up when she smiled, as if it generated its own electromagnetic energy. Her blue-green eyes glistened in the sunlight the way ocean waves do, the apples of her porcelain-doll cheeks glowed a soft, pink color, and a little dimple formed at the corner of her mouth that was too cute to ignore.

Eesh, I groaned. Then I shifted my gaze back toward the parking-lot panorama and reminded myself that Amy was like a sister to me. A very respectable, intelligent, warm-hearted, naturally beautiful sister. Who happened to bear no genetic relation to me whatsoever.

In a fit of angst, I blurted, Hey, where’s The Shitman?

I don’t know, she said as if it were a stupid question, which it was.

Five seconds later, the cafeteria door was kicked open and through it emerged The Shitter himself. He balanced a full lunch tray in each of his outstretched hands and strutted up the hill toward Amy and me, flashing us half a smirk in the process.

What up, playah? I axed in my ultra-cool, late-2000s Ebonics.

What up, nizzle? he replied in kind.

Aside from Amy, Joshua Nathaniel Friedman was my closest friend. I’d known him almost as long, and unlike my quote-unquote friendship with Amy, our relationship was blissfully uncomplicated. He wore his usual baggy jeans, a white T-shirt, and despite the unseasonably hot weather, the blue and gold letterman’s jacket for which he was famous.

It’s actually a funny story.

The official name of our fine institute of secondary education was Walt Whitman High School. Or, somewhat less officially, Walt Shitman. In a stroke of brilliance that arrived near the beginning of our freshman year, Josh decided to special order the same old-school letterman’s jacket the jocks wore, but instead of featuring a big W on the front, his would brazenly sport an S.

But the real joke was that only the most gung-ho jocks ever wore the damn things anymore, and everyone knew Josh hated organized sports of any kind. He avoided them like cancer because they required such loathsome virtues as drive and self-sacrifice and stick-to-it-ive-ness.

Furthermore, it was clear that if anyone else had pulled a stunt like that, they’d have been pummeled to death long ago by the small-but-powerful group of football players and wrestlers who wore the Whitman W as a badge of honor. But, take one look at Josh and you’d understand why he’d been spared. Even back then he was a solid 260 pounds and stood at least 6 foot 5, not including the extra three inches of thick, curly hair that fully encircled his gargantuan head.

And so, within the span of a few days, our own Josh Friedman had become Josh Shitman, a.k.a. The Shitman, Shitty, Shitface, etc... A permanent reminder that he was one of the funniest dudes in school, and possibly the largest Jewish person alive.

It just worked on so many levels.

Who ordered the ratburger with extra fur? he asked, holding the trays several feet above us.

I thought I told you cockroach salad, I argued.

Damn, he said, lowering the trays onto the grass and slunking down into eating position. No tip for me, I guess.

Technically, Mr. Shitman was only half Jewish, but that didn’t stop him from being full-on rich. That’s an ugly stereotype, I know, but in his case it was absolutely true. His dad was a corporate litigator, whatever that is, and his mom had been a banker before they got bitterly divorced a few years ago. She apparently got half of her ex-husband’s money and all three of his children. Little Josh, being the youngest and hardest hit by the divorce, pretty much got whatever he wanted.

Hey, Coop’s getting three kegs tonight, Shitty said from inside his jet-black hair helmet.

Oh yeah, I know, Amy chimed in, Kevin’s band is playing, too. Isn’t that cool?

Yeah. If they’re as good as you say they are, I said.

They’re pretty good, she said, nodding.

What kind of stuff do they do? Shit asked.

A little of everything. Covers mostly, but they’ve been writing some stuff. I think it’ll be a really good show.

He plays guitar, right? Shit asked.

Bass, she said, and a little keyboard.

As I looked over at Amy, I caught a glimpse of a big, black ant crawling across her shirt, just south of where the wisps of her shiny hair lay against her back. Knowing how much she despised anything with more than four legs, I discreetly grabbed a napkin and brushed the critter onto the grass. Then I tried not to notice the way Amy’s body moved as she shifted position and crossed her legs, gracefully sliding her silky, toned calves together like pieces of the world’s most ... wonderful ... puzzle.

Last time I saw them it was mainly, you know, hard rock, she continued, but that was when they first got together. Kevin says they do a lot of different things now.

The Shitman then pointed his golfball-size eyes toward me. Is Jessie coming?

... Uh ... yep, I said, snapping out of my trance.

She bringing along her Hoover girls?

Maybe, I shrugged.

Jessica went to Hoover High, which was a private school over near Shitty’s house. Her group of friends consisted exclusively of high-maintenance hotties, and Shitty had been on the prowl ever since Jess and I started dating. I think he figured he was one of the few guys from our school who could afford to go out with any of them, and he was probably right. Why Jessie went out with me was anyone’s guess.

You still looking for a prom date? I asked.

Maybe, Shit said.

Better hurry up, dude. They’re going fast. And supplies are limited.

Yeah, yeah, he huffed, struggling to remove the heavy jacket which now adhered to his enormous body. Hey, anyone want some gravy? I just made a batch. How ’bout you, Ames?

Oh God, Josh. I’m eating, Amy complained, cringing.

Prom was coming up in a few weeks and everyone had a date except for Shitty. I was taking Jessie, of course, and Amy was planning on going Dutch with her friend Kevin, the guy in the band. I was beginning to become concerned about The Shitman not finding a date, though. He was a good guy, deep down, but he just wasn’t much of a ladies’ man.

Don’t worry, bro, he said, I got my eye on that redhead with the weird name.

Melina? I asked.

Yeah. I think she’s got the hots for me. Besides, you know what they say ...

I tried to cut him off, shaking my head and shooting him a look that said, Don’t say it, dude.

He said it anyway. Nothing sucks like a Hoover.

Okay, seriously. I’m gonna puke, Amy warned.

Well that’s what I heard, Shit added, seeing yet another opportunity to gross the poor girl out. Plus, I want to see if the carpet matches the curtains.

Amy nearly choked on her apple-cranberry Capri Sun.

I shook my head again. Dude. You’re about to get your ass kicked by a 110-pound girl.

Sh’ah. I wish, Amy scoffed.

It was probably more like 115.

Chapter 2

In addition to idyllic charm and solitude, our hilltop hideaway offered a perfect vantage point from which to study the herd of kids that gathered on the lawn beneath us.

Every day, the same kids would splinter off into the same groups, stake out the same patches of grass, eat the same mom-made lunches, and jabber on about the same crap. When the bell rang, they’d all hop to their feet in unison and move in one, sprawling biomass toward the cafeteria door. Then they’d corral themselves shoulder-to-shoulder, still chattering away, until they’d all funneled through the door and into the school.

The three of us would watch this odd phenomenon from the comfort of our hilltop until the chaos had subsided. Then, we’d simply walk inside and go to class.

That day was no different.

When the mooing died down, Shitty and I lazily stood and stretched. Then I reached down, grasped Amy’s delicate hand, and helped her to her feet. On her left hand, she had a tough callus at the tip of each finger, and I knew she preferred to keep them hidden. Even though I’d seen them a million times, she always offered me her right hand.

Amy was a cellist. She had already learned to play the violin by the time we were in third grade, and she’d switched to the cello sometime during middle school. She was unbelievably talented. I wasn’t a musician myself, but you didn’t have to be to recognize talent like hers. She didn’t just play the notes, she felt them. It was inspiring.

We went inside, sauntered through the empty cafeteria, then split up when we reached the hallway. Shitty had English next period, I had Economics, and Amy had Psychology.

Parking lot? Amy asked as she swished down the hall.

I’ll count the nanoseconds, I answered as my eyes followed her.

The rest of the school day went by quickly. Truth be told, it usually did go quickly. I was a good student, and one of the rare non-nerds who actually enjoyed learning. I read voraciously in my free time—at least enough to be able to use a dorky word like voraciously in a sentence—and I think that helped. I was particularly fond of science fiction, crime novels, or any book that should have been rated NC-17.

I discovered early in life that the adult world was strangely hypocritical about its art forms. They’d stick an ugly parental advisory label on the cover of a rock album because the lead singer used the phrase I don’t really give a fuck, but they didn’t seem to mind if some kid walked into a public library and picked up a book that vividly described a guy putting his schlong inside a woman he barely knew. I guess they were just happy the kid was reading.

Anyway, I got almost all A’s without having to put forth too much effort. So, for my senior year, my teachers moved me into several AP-level courses. AP stood for Advanced Placement, and if you did well in the courses you could earn college credit. The only drawback was that I hardly ever saw Amy anymore, except at Lunch.

My AP Econ teacher, Mrs. Barnabas, was a bony, old Indian woman who spoke in a thick accent. This was an endless source of comedy. She had a habit of drawing out these long, complex formulas, which nobody immediately understood, then she’d announce to the class, This is fucked. She said it just like that, several times a day: The price of a given commodity is not necessarily correlated to the individual entity’s propensity to buy it. This is fucked. Overall supply is also a factor. And as we know, as supply goes up, demand goes down, and vice versa. This is also fucked.

It took us two weeks to figure out that she was actually trying to say, This is fact, and that’s when it really got hilarious. We’d ask questions like, Is it true that the government doesn’t have enough gold to back up the dollar bills it prints?

Yes. This is fucked, she’d answer, seemingly oblivious to the muffled snickers that followed.

I did feel a little immature for participating in these shenanigans, but listening to a straight-laced teacher tell you her own instruction is fucked just never gets old.

Next period was AP Science with Mr. Holmes, who was by far my favorite teacher. He was one of those unconventional, renegade educators you sometimes see in movies, only he was the real deal. For starters, he wasn’t as old and decrepit as most other teachers, and he was cool enough to let everyone just call him Holmes. He had also been a real scientist before going into teaching. The rumor was that he’d had a successful career as a chemist, then gave it up because he loved kids so much. He also didn’t believe in textbooks, and he was constantly dreaming up these crazy experiments and demonstrations that he would act out in class.

On that day, we were in the middle of a unit on alternative energy sources. Holmes began the class by attaching two wires to a large battery and dunking the other ends of the wires into a glass bowl full of water. As he lectured about the effects of electrical current on various liquids, little bubbles