Gitch: Unillustrated Edition

By Brent Ander

Have you ever had one of those days where everything and everyone seems out to get you? You know: killer plants, hungry giants, cannibal fuzzies, Dad with a shotgun, aerial assault mosquito squadrons . . . .
Leopards, lizards and roaches, oh my!

Retired research engineer Gitchel Oliver Dunnen wakes on an alien world and gradually discovers he has god-like powers where his slightest wish comes true, often putting Gitch and those around him in grave danger, as errant thoughts bounce him through space-time.

A rejuvenated body is just the beginning for Gitch as he realizes he is not living a dream, especially not when he meets himself as a child and clearly remembers the encounter. While seeking answers and fighting for survival on this strange odyssey, Gitch soon finds he has inadvertently attracted the attention of the insect Empire responsible for enslaving a large portion of our galaxy––marking Earth as a target for invasion. With the aid of Fauxx the giant stoned panther, sorority queen Cindy Lu Barnsworth of the Savannah Barnsworths and Trilli an incredibly ancient foul-mouthed fairy, along with others, Gitch forms a motley fellowship to depose the gigantic Bug Queen––Koronatha.

Gitch , the first in B.L. Ander's epic adventure series Cycle, introduces a multiverse teaming with immortals and chaos, where a stranger might be older than our universe and powerful beyond imagining.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brent Ander
• Release date: Oct 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465832382

Brent Ander

Artist, Photographer and Aerospace computer engineer. What a combination! I spent three decades as a computer guru then returned to my love of art in the mid 1990s and moved to the Maine coast to pursue the muse.

Book preview

Gitch

Written by

B. L. Ander

This novel is dedicated to my illustrious brother, Dr. Mark for his undying faith in my ability, his editorial prowess and providing a scientific sounding board for some unconventional theories.

Table of Contents

Gitch

Written by

B.L. Ander

Copyright 2011 B.L. Ander.

Smashwords Edition

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this ebook (not just the sample) and did not purchase it, please purchase your own legal copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted without the express permission in writing from the author.

For more creative works by B.L. Ander visit http://www.anderexpressions.com

There are no beginnings nor are there endings, there are simply moments among the many. Everything exists in infinitely repeating cycles, from the sub-atomic level to the cosmic scale, the orbit of an electron, the spin of the galaxies, waves of light and sound, even space-time itself, but most importantly to anyone capable of reading these words, life is infinite.

––Zepod Almarus Sondeck,

The Complete Unabridged History of Time

Prologue

Perilaan the jewel of the Sagmallian star system became enslaved in less than a day; overwhelmed by trillions of deadly invaders bent on conquest and retribution. Pandemonium dominated the great gleaming urban centers around the blue-green globe as the population of Perilaan began to die horribly in extreme numbers. Most cities were decimated within minutes of the first swarms touching ground.

The swarm armies were everywhere; on the land and in the air, some tiny with deadly bites while others were enormous and ferocious, armored and armed, they spread death like a virulent plague. No refuge provided safe haven from these insidious invaders who could penetrate any barrier with highly trained and experienced fighters.

Battle hardened by countless campaigns on innumerable worlds, General Meligar was infamous for his indomitable combat skills and unparalleled strategic expertise, however in this instance his courage faltered, for he did not enjoy his rare encounters with the Queen. Seldom did she summon a line officer of his standing during an on-going conquest. On such occasions the officer beckoned was rarely seen again––the Queen dealt harshly with those in disfavor, usually by devouring them.

He bowed low before the Queen, placing his antennae close to the blood soaked ground bordering the remains of the once proud regional government house and waited for her to acknowledge his presence as she fed on some local dignitaries. He pulled his long narrow bright green wings tight against his body and kissed the ground. Screams of fear filled the air as the royal bodyguards offered up fresh meat to their sovereign.

Ah, Meligar, how the campaign goes? Her soft raspy voice gave no hint of her intention towards him. She took a moment to remove the head of the local Mayor, as his wife, grasped in the Queen’s other claw, howled in horror. Presently, her fear ended in a loud crunch of bone. Enjoying yourself you are, presume I?

Oh yes, my Queen. It is a great pleasure to feed upon those of this benighted planet. We have successfully collected the young of the populace and have initiated the public feasting as their progenitors are forced to watch. As per your order my Queen, only the strongest shall be retained as slaves to refashion this world as a birthing colony. He waited, expecting her to crush him at any moment, for what offense he surely did not know.

The Queen lowered her body to place her face, still dripping gore from her mouthparts, close to him; close enough to snatch him in her huge claws. Her four eyes studied him for a long moment. General Meligar stood his ground, determined not to show his rising fear. Her immense size instilled a sense of awe, but it was her dark powers that truly terrified him to the core.

A new task I have for you. In a blinding flash, she reached past him with her massive forefoot to spear another delicacy being restrained by one of her attending bodyguards. This time the soft meat hardly had time to react with loud complaints––she stuffed it into her mouth and chewed. A new threat to the Empire I sense, one formidable and exceedingly ancient. Captured one I have, but more there may be. You must keep alert for others not of this world and report them immediately to me.

Meligar felt her mental probe and saw within his mind an image of the new prisoner, a disgusting biped indistinguishable from those of this foul species. He did not wish to point out the obvious flaw in her thinking: how was he to tell the difference from one squishy biped to another? To him, they all looked much the same––food to be consumed.

It shall be as you say, my Queen.

And General, this be a secret not to share. Now, return to the feasting with a watchful eye you should. Remember, anything out of the ordinary, report you will. The Queen reached a claw to one of the vanquished and snapped its legs off. She returned her attention to the buffet, the interview obviously terminated.

General Meligar took to the air with a grunt of relief––his death would not come on this day. But, what of the Queen? Was it fear he had sensed in her words? Whatever could alarm her must be formidable indeed and should be feared by him as well. But what could it really be?

What could frighten a goddess?

Dreams

Gitch awoke screaming: I’ll save you!

The intense nightmare had sapped his strength as if he had been running a great distance in sheer panic. Sweat dripped from his nose and chin, his meager nightclothes drenched and clinging to his skin much like an athlete’s after a particularly tough overtime game during a summer heat wave. The cool night air made his skin pucker, sending shivers quaking through his flabby body. From long habit, Gitch ran a hand through his mostly white hair, though the top was more desert than forest, he succeeded in dislodging what little remained. He then rubbed his eyes, for what he saw convinced Gitch he was still dreaming. Like a canvas painted by a demented minimalist surrealist, the paled landscape revealed a parched barren flatland of fine white sand with the occasional gray rock randomly scattered about. The meager light revealed barely discernible distant mountains resembling ghostly broken teeth biting the night sky.

A stale sickly stench of things unwholesome reached his nose on the slight breeze, surpassing the foulness of the old outhouse in his back yard––over two hundred years of use and potently deadly. He felt a retch coming on and then swallowed deeply hoping to stem the queasiness. Gitch thought for a moment with a deep furrow emphasizing his wrinkled brow, he had no recollection of ever smelling anything in dreams, especially something so vividly offensive. Yuck! I’ve discovered a ripe world of caustic farts.

Above him, the sky grew ever so slightly brighter, looking like sunrise would soon chase the blanket of stars away. Gitch took bleary note of those stars and gradually realized something was seriously amiss there as well––the sky looked totally wrong with far too many stars cluttering the heavens. Finally he looked behind to see a moon setting on the horizon. Though he only had a glimpse for just an instant, he knew it was not Earth’s moon. Not with a blue-green surface and a thin white atmosphere glowing like an aura, and it was twice the size of the old gray moon he knew so well.

It didn’t feel like he was asleep, not with a bruise forming from the small rock poking his spine and the cold sand sapping the heat from his body through his flimsy nightshirt and shorts. Sitting up in annoyance, he saw the first rays of the sun peeking over the edge of the world. To his dismay, it was orange and seemed much larger than it ought to be. Confusion turned to alarm as a second sun burst fourth, very close to the first. This star was smaller and white tinged with blue. He slowly stood up to stare at the glaring anomalies, wondering when he might awaken––the shiver running through his body was now more than chill related. This time his hand trembled as he ran it through the sparse patch of hair. I shouldn’t have had that second helping of chili last night, I knew it would bite me later, but this is a bit much.

Gitch, figuring this dream to be only the latest chapter, took the time to relieve himself in the white sand. Where his water fell to dye the sand yellow, the ground began to boil as if acid were interacting with the urine. While scanning the horizon, Gitch replaced the long slight whiff of hair he used in a vain attempt to disguise a bald top––totally oblivious to the reaction at his feet. About the time he adjusted his six-inch ponytail, another attempted grasp at lost youth, green sprouts burst fourth from the defiled ground, growing at an incredible rate. Stepping back hastily, he watched in amazement as dozens of lance-shaped sharp-pointed fingers reached a foot in length in mere seconds. Each stalk possessed a ridge of hook-like spines along four edges running its length. He stepped further back when they surpassed his own six foot three height and began to grope in his direction as if alive and seeking sustenance.

Another spear growing where only soft sand had been a moment before suddenly punctured his bare foot. As the tip poked through the top of his foot, Gitch was forced to jerk it from the rapidly expanding plant while screaming in agony. He hopped about in pain trying to stem the flow of blood from the puncture wounds with his hands. Blood dripped around his fingers to stain the sand red. Presently he saw that wherever his blood hit the ground, spiked plants burst fourth like a punker-chia-pet on steroids.

Resembling a sea bird perched on one foot while holding the other off the ground, Gitch watched in horror as the ground explode with spiked plants, all reaching for him as if craving his flesh. He lurched back a few hops then fell to the ground, stumbling in his haste. Where his bloody hand touched the sand, more spikes burst forth, stabbing his palm and two fingers. Gitch rolled over, pulling his hand free while leaping to his feet. He froze in place awkwardly balanced on one foot, trying to focus his tired brown eyes.

That’s when he noticed the wall moving his way. A green tidal wave of spiked plants rushing across the plain to engulf everything in its path, from horizon to horizon and moving rapidly, very rapidly. Instinct told him to run––now. Mustering all his available strength, Gitch ran in the opposite direction as fast as he could manage, each step of his damaged foot shooting sharp bursts of pain up his leg.

Catching a brief glimpse behind as he ran, he could see the advancing chlorophyll growing to gigantic proportions––forty to fifty feet high with the leading edge racing across the bleak landscape being only inches tall. It seemed to be reacting to the two suns climbing the sky, giving a whole new meaning to the concept of photosynthesis. He also noticed plant spikes appearing in a line following his slow progress across the sand. Wherever he left a spot of blood, plants exploded from the soil. He ran on, though his strength was fading fast.

Okay, time to wake up now! he shouted to the sky. Damn, I’ll never eat chili late at night again, I swear.

The distant mountains bathed in early morning sunlight were beautiful in their orange magnificence, but too far away for Gitch to reach in half a day on foot. No other refuge seemed within limping distance. It was painfully obvious that he would soon be overtaken by the green spikes and impaled like a moth on display. Trying to ignore the agonizing torment of his wounds, he added a burst of speed.

It had been over thirty years at least since he last ran any distance of note. His late wife used to force him to go power walking with her and he enjoyed the occasional hike through the woods, but this marathon was beyond his endurance. He was overweight and out of shape from too many decades of sitting at a computer terminal and the frequent late night snacks. I’m far too old for this, crap he thought to himself, not admitting the years of slackness had taken their toll more than age, I’ll never make it in time. I’m gonna look like an old-fashioned pincushion pretty soon.

Constantly scanning his surroundings, looking for anything he could call safe ground, he ran for close to fifteen minutes without break while cradling his left hand––it hurt like hell. His foot was beyond hurting, it was excruciating, but he dare not stop because the lethal terminator of green was gaining on him. The stale air rippling with heat caused him to breathe laboriously and making distant objects shimmer mirage-like. There appeared to be a double horizon, one slightly slanted from the other, possibly a road, so he veered in that direction. Unfortunately, he was now running at an angle to the advancing line of death, thus shortening his meager lead ever so much.

That’d better be a paved road or I’m going to be truly stuck.

At least ten more grueling minutes later, he realized the line was what he had hoped, a road cutting across the flats, but still it was a goodly distance off. Hope spurred him on, providing a renewed burst of energy. He was running as if the hole in his foot didn’t exist, no longer hobbling him, he was amazed that it seemed so much less painful, along with his hand. Trying to focus on the palm of his hand, then the back while at a full out run was difficult, it certainly looked as if the wound had stopped bleeding and already formed a coagulated spot. Glancing over his shoulder Gitch saw the green wall definitely getting closer, maybe a quarter of a mile or so. Tons of displaced sand created a dull roar on the edge of his hearing. He no longer saw a trail of sprouts marking a loss of blood: his foot must have stopped bleeding as well.

The road seemed closer but still too far away for his flagging strength. Gitch kept stumbling often and losing ground each time. He was amazed to have made it this far. Maybe adrenaline pumped by fear drove him on, he just didn’t know. All he cared about was waking from this overly vivid nightmare.

I wish I was in better condition, like back in college, he mumbled between ragged breaths. To think I used to be a track star––ha. So long ago and far too many pizzas.

In high school and later in his early college days, back in Florida and Georgia, Gitch had run on the track team and won many a race, especially the high hurdles––his long legs giving him a distinct advantage. He had stayed in great shape for many years afterward, which proved beneficial in the war ravaged jungles of Viet Nam. Too often he found himself dodging bullets while running through rough terrain. He was pretty good at leaping over obstacles at a dead run––in those days.

The dull roar had become a loud overwhelming crashing boom, like one continuous giant wave pounding a beach. Gitch looked over his shoulder one last time; the advancing spears were no more than a few yards away. Panic spurred him on as the ground at his heals began to erupt with green spears. Gitch leapt the last yard to the paving stones of the road and did a tuck and roll which carried him several dozen feet into its center where he ended lying on his back panting, Gitch watched as solid walls of plants rose to a height of at least fifty feet on each side of the road. It felt like he was in a horizontal tunnel of sharp-edged spiky grass.

For a long time, Gitch laid still trying to catch his breath and rest. He really wanted to wake up, but every time he closed his eyes for a while, they would open to see the same predicament. This must be a dream, he said aloud. What else could it be? I never did hard drugs in my life, but this is the sort of delusion I might expect from a hit of L.S.D.

By this time the suns must be higher, though he couldn’t see them through the dense forest of spikes, it was getting much hotter. The red-checkered flannel nightshirt his wife had given him just before she died was soaked through and soiled. His boxer shorts, polka-dotted with bright yellow smiley faces, clung to him uncomfortably.

Another oddity gradually occurred to him. Do you have cravings in a dream? I sure could use a cigarette right about now. Maybe a splash of Scotch would be nice too. He gave a mirthless chuckle. Gitch had given up both old habits over a year ago, though the cravings still lingered at times of stress. His present situation could easily qualify as stressful.

Then it hit him. It had been many years since he was able to see his toes while lying down, his ample belly always blocking the view. Now, his stomach had shrunk to the point of being negligible––almost trim. What the hell? Now I know I’ve lost it all together. A really long psychotic episode, that’s what it is.

He carefully pulled up his nightshirt and ran a shaking hand over the area he called his spare Volkswagen. It was more like a spare bicycle tire now. He could hardly pinch the skin and he actually felt some muscle there, much like he could before reaching his forties.

Could he have been asleep like Rip Van Winkle for a hundred years without food? With a trembling hand, he reached up to his chin expecting to feel a long white beard, but no more than a day’s growth met his touch. The thing he didn’t feel that had been there every day for the past fifteen years or so was his extra chins. In place of the anticipated three, he found one strong firm chin. Even the dimple he hadn’t felt for a long time was evident once more.

Gitch did a bit more tactile exploration of his body. He discovered his sparse scalp was now covered with thick waves of hair, his ponytail more like ten inches rather than six, flabby arms had become muscular and wiry, the recent growth of age spots on his hands were gone, varicose veins around his ankles had miraculously vanished, the ever-present swelling in his hands had diminished, and most amazingly, he could see the hairs on the back of his hands without the use of reading glasses––something he had not been able to do for a very long time.

He shook his head in wonder. Well I’ll be a horny-toad hopped up on mescaline, if this isn’t a wild drug hallucination, I don’t know what is. He flexed his fingers and then his back, Ahhh.

Another revelation gradually snuck into his awareness––his joints and lower back no longer ached as they had every morning for the past two decades or so. The lack of his day-to-day pains seemed to be the greatest blessing of all. He placed his hands behind his head as a pillow and thought about these transformations for quite a while. If it weren’t for his present predicament, he would rejoice in his newfound physical condition. What a dream, he said lazily.

After slowing his heart rate and regulating his breathing, he regained his feet in order to study the road, a well worn cobblestone track fabricated with massive rocks, each easily five feet across and sunken to unknown depths. The causeway was extremely wide, much like a six lane highway though hardly what Gitch would call smooth. Each of the paving stones seemed placed haphazardly into the sandy soil, yet there were no gaps for an errant weed to gain purchase. Obviously whoever built the road made certain no green spikes could grow between any of the stones, though little effort was made to maintain an even surface. Some pavers stood as much as eight inches higher than their neighbors, which would make it difficult for vehicles on wheels. As it was, it made for awkward walking, even for Gitch’s lengthy stride. He knew he was in for some bruised toes if he wasn’t cautious.

For an elongated moment, Gitch stood scanning the road in both directions. It looked as if some energetic surveyors had drawn the path with a very large ruler marking the road-edges running to a perspective point in either direction from mountain range to mountain range and lined with opposing prickly green walls fifty feet high. To Gitch it felt like a scene created by a disturbed mental patient. After some reflection, he began to trot in what he presumed was a westerly direction.

For several hours he jogged along the road, all the time maintaining a running debate with himself over his current circumstances. Was this a dream or reality? How was he to survive if it truly was a real situation? Where should he go? What could he do when he got there? Did he inadvertently add peyote mushrooms to the chili? On and on such questions rambled through his brain––no answers were forthcoming. How could there be any answers, when the questions hardly made any sense and he had so little data to go by? What data he did have made even less sense.

Gitch kept up a good steady stride, remembering his days back in basic training about keeping a cadence to his step, often supported by a song to help keep one’s pace over the long miles. Yeah, long miles driven on by some over-lean and mean screaming sergeant with bevies of stripes on his sleeves. Gitch started out with: Sound-off––1-2––Sound-off––3-4––1-2-3-4––1-2––3-4, then led into: Momma, momma, can't you see? Look what the Army's done to me; they took away my faded jeans, now I'm wearing Army green. They took away my gin and rum, now I'm up before the sun . . ..

As he marched on, all the time fighting the nagging thought of who had built such a road. He simply refused to face the facts presented to his disbelieving mind. He was afraid he would find the answers all too soon for his liking. There’s always the possibility they could be friendly to poor starving alien dream folks like me.

After many more hours of hiking with only a few brief rest periods, he was extremely parched and feeling like his bones would blow away in the slightest breeze. Gitch could see he was coming much closer to the mountains. Lower foothills were becoming distinct to his vision and the ground he now walked seemed more rolling in nature, the road following the up and down waves of land. He figured there were only five or ten more miles to go yet before reaching the rocky ground.

The stone paving beneath his tired and sore feet was extremely hot, especially wherever the suns beat down directly on their surface. Gitch kept to the shady spots as often as possible, his feet becoming very painful from the hard paced miles. It brought back memories of his youth in Florida, running barefoot for hours on the beach during the height of the tourist season, checking out the babes, many of whom were competing for the title of best overall tan displaying minimal tan lines. Those sands where usually hot, smelling of salt air and tanning oil––you just had to keep moving or boil from the hot sand. With two suns beating down on his head, however, he was beginning to empathize with the slice of bacon he last had in his disorderly kitchen, though no longer certain how long ago that had been. If he could believe his own reckoning, this was his first day without eggs, bacon, English muffins, orange juice . . .. No I can’t focus on what was! I must stay intent on survival, now, in this situation! He shouted inside his own head. Once I get away from these bloodthirsty thorns, maybe I can find water and a food source. Who knows, maybe I can figure out what the hell is happening to me. Though . . . I seriously doubt that last bit.

Something caught his attention, and brought him to a halt; he felt more than heard, Boom, boom, boom, boom . . .. reverberating through the rocky causeway. It was a sensation uncomfortably like standing on a rail with a freight train rapidly closing on him. Soon Gitch heard the accompaniment of voices singing a strange verse in tempo with the booming sound, much like the cadence of a marching song:

"Aruumme kakka zzilama mala moo

Semala horengu te kinu faga boo

Ummpa, ummpa, ummpa, fa!

Ummpa, ummpa, ummpa, da!

Kafala weepalee mala kakkajee

Lala fe tu mala tilamma petaljee

Ummpa, ummpa, ummpa, fa!

Ummpa, ummpa, ummpa, da!"

The road in front of him vibrated as nearby deadly stalks waved in unison to each thundering boom, those deep voices sounded as if right on top of him. Gitch stalled in his tracks, sweat pasting the nightclothes to his skin. Bending over, hands braced on knees, he gasped for breath from being overheated and slightly dizzy. He was standing in a shaded bend of the road, uncertain if he should run the other way back toward the valley or stand his ground where he would ultimately meet the chili induced chorus line. He certainly couldn’t leave the roadbed. Though, after a time he decided it might be advisable to move to his right as close to the green wall as prudence allowed.

The first giant rounded the bend in the road. The golden-furred behemoth was carrying a club in his outstretched hand, much like a king wielding a scepter. Gitch guessed he had to be eighty feet tall if he was an inch, with a girth that would require a stretch of turnpike for a belt––he was fat in comparison to the rest of his hairy body. Two redwood tree-sized legs with equally massive arms and a head with no perceptible neck attached to the bulbous body suggested something from an old forgotten fairy tale. The creature had only one small eye centered on the head with an impossibly wide mouth singing out the ummpas in a bellow capable of breaking concrete. Its egg shaped head was topped with an elephantine-like ear, waving back and forth marking every step. With his eye fixed forward, intent in his march, the creature passed Gitch in an instant taking strides of ten yards of more. He never looked down at the tiny human on the side of the path.

Next came two more giants, both much like the first, but smaller by a yard or two, both carrying slender tree trunks fashioned into crude spears. These they carried over their right shoulders like Roman Legions. They were marching in step and singing their cadence sound: . . .. ummpa, ummpa fa!

Gitch dropped flat to the ground and played opossum, trying hard to blend in with the rocks, as pair after pair of marching giants passed him without looking down. Each was slightly different in fur style and color––some had curly red locks dangling in long strands, others wore their black hair in knots, while still others had sections shaved in odd patterns showing a pale-bluish skin beneath.

Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom . . .. vibrated through Gitch’s bones as their hairy feet pounded the road in unison. Their song kept repeating as they marched: . . .. ummpa, ummpa da! He held his hands tightly over his ears for fear of permanent hearing impairment. Though none of the marcher’s feet came near him, Gitch found his body bouncing on the rock pavers where he lay––adding new bruises to his mounting collection.

He counted twenty-six of them, as the last of the troop marched by. Waiting a moment or two, to see if others