The Word: A Tubal Cain Novel

By Timothy Shaw

What happens after the world ends? How do you feel about it, if you were the cause? What would you do, if you found out that was just the beginning of discovering a world unlike anything you imagined and reality not what you thought it to be? ~ The follow up sequel to An Unwitting Antichrist, this Tubal Cain novel will shed light on a world unknown to the average reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy Shaw
• Release date: Jul 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301660117

Timothy Shaw

Timothy Shaw has lead a not so ordinary life. Growing up in his family's travel business, he soon had a passport full of exotic foreign stamps. Having started working at age nine, it was not a great leap that he displayed the same hard work ethic when he joined the Springfield High School theater program, where to this day there is an award bearing his name. Following graduation he had two major choices; a full scholarship to the Ringling Brothers/Barnum Bailey Clown College or join the military in order to pay for college. He opted for the clown job and joined the Army. During his stint in the US Army, Timothy served as a German linguist stationed in what was once known as West Berlin. As it happens, likely due almost entirely to his fine work, peace broke out, the Wall fell and the two Germanies re-united. This effectively put him out of a job but he thought it lucky, as most soldiers these days don't seem to have that kind of luxury. In the years following, between Berlin and his present home of Tacoma, WA he has held a number of different jobs in an equal different number of fields. Although he published a number of poems in national publications over the years, even a play or two; it was not until 2011 while working his current position as a Visual Interpreter for the blind for a community college that he thought to take up the challenge of actually writing a novel. His first novel, written for the National Novel Writing Month in November 2011, was approximately fifty thousand words. The following year saw a second novel in the series coming in at about double that. As The third novel in what has turned into a series has just been completed but has not yet been published.

Book preview

THE WORD - A TUBAL CAIN NOVEL

by Timothy Shaw

Published by Timothy Shaw at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Timothy Shaw

There was a long, silent pause on the other end of the telephone line. Then, Mr. Meijer spoke, Ambassador Cain, the Iranians have detonated the device. The entire Middle East is reportedly mobilizing and preparing for war. Oh my god, Ambassador Cain... I think this is the end.

Before Tubal was able to say anything in reply, the line went dead. Tubal looked through the phone booth door's window and saw the waitress, the cook and the other three customers were at the front of the coffee shop, pressed against the windows, looking outside.

Rising from his seat, he opened the phone booth door and walked out toward the front where everyone was gathered. The faces of the people before him were awash with pain and anguish.

Looking out the window he saw why. There was a mushroom cloud in what looked to be the not too distant horizon. Ash was falling out in the street and the sky was darkening ominously.

What happened? he asked, almost as if to no one in particular.

Where have you been, man? replied a young woman standing next to him, It's December 21, 2012. It's the end of the world.

Tubal sank down into a chair at a nearby table.

The end. he repeated to himself.

After the world ends...

It had been six days since Tubal Cain had brought about the end of the world. Yet, to his utter amazement, the world didn't seem to notice. And so, as he did most every day, this day being a Tuesday, he rode the People Mover through Detroit on his morning trip to work. Tubal Cain was a stock associate in the Shoes Department of a department store in Detroit, Michigan. He had only last Thursday completed his first novel, An Unwitting Antichrist and was now convinced that it was the culmination of yet another dream to collapse and disappoint.

Yes, these were the thoughts and despondent feelings coursing through Tubal's mind as he made his way to work as though on autopilot. Numbly he pushed his way through and was pushed back against the tide of humanity as they fought to go to and fro through the mean streets of Detroit.

Detroit isn't quite as bad as most people in the country made it out to be, he thought to himself as he walked down the sidewalk from the People Mover station. Idly, he reached into his pocket and took the last of his change to give to Alfred, a kindly old homeless man he had met three weeks earlier on another Tuesday on his way to work. Tubal would see him in the same spot, most days, both going to and coming home from work. For reasons Tubal hadn't quite thought through, he'd struck up a conversation with him one evening and the two had formed a sort of acquaintanceship. They weren't friends, he didn't think but they were friendly. Whenever Tubal had a spare dollar or two he would pass it along to Alfred and the older man accepted it with a kind of dignity Tubal found remarkably refreshing for the times in which he lived.

Morning Alfred, didn't see you yesterday. You keeping warm at night? Tubal inquired as he dropped the change into Alfred's old felt hat he had sitting on the ground next to him.

Oh I'm doing just fine Tubal. Don't you worry. Got myself a spot over at the Rescue Mission. replied Alfred. They have some fine people working there, you know.

That's good, Alfred. Tubal smiled. I'm glad you're staying warm.

As Tubal was about to continue his walk to work, Alfred reached out and tugged at his sleeve. Say, how's the writing coming? he asked, an honest expression of curiosity on his face.

Oh, right! I haven't seen you since last week. I've finished it. said Tubal.

Alright! I knew you could do it. beamed Alfred.

Hey, I hope you don't mind but I put you in my novel. Tubal told him. The sudden look of concern on Alfred's face made Tubal cringe inwardly. Hastily he added, I have you as the Night Concierge at the Waldorf=Astoria in New York city.

Alfred sat back and thought about that for a moment, then let out a chuckle. Well I'll be. I reckon if I could swing me a job like that I wouldn't have to worry about whether there's room at the mission when it gets chilly out, would I?

Tubal smiled and said, That's kind of what I was thinking too. Reaching down and shaking Alfred's hand he added, I'll see you later, Alfred. I'm gonna be late for work.

Walking on down the block, Tubal realized that even if nobody ever read his novel and his life didn't change from its routine, the effort he had put into writing had been worth it, if only for that brief moment of joy Alfred seemed to get from knowing he had been included in a literary work. Even if the work wasn't all that good.

Walking up to the employee entrance on the alley side of the department store, Tubal made sure to carefully step over the broken paving slab. Looking down at it, he sighed and pushed through the door and entered the building.

After clocking in and putting his jacket and lunch box in his locker, he donned his stock room smock and started up the back stairs to the third floor where he worked.

Already in the stock room, holding a clipboard and looking like he was taking inventory was his manager, Gene.

Ah, good morning Tubal. Said Gene without noticeably looking over at him.

Tubal walked over to the bulletin board and perused the various printouts pinned there. Morning Gene. He replied. What's on the agenda today?

Slipping his pencil neatly into the breast pocket of his smock, he held the clipboard out for Tubal to take. Oh, you know, Tuesday inventory so that we are ready for Wednesday's new shipment.

Nodding but not replying, Tubal accepted the clipboard from him and started reading.

Okay, I'll pick up where you left off. Tubal said with a half hearted smile.

Gene clapped him on the shoulder and started to walk to the door saying, That's my boy!

Tubal scanned the page, then looked up at the shelves filled with shoe boxes and sighed.

What am I gonna do with you countless boxes? He asked the rows of shelves.

Silence was his only response. He chuckled to himself, I guess I should get started counting the countless then.

Tubal was standing in line at the time clock having completed his shift. Idle thoughts wandered in and out of Tubal's mind as he waited. The inventory, the various customers he had served that day and even the nondescript lunch he had eaten alone only occupied minimal attention from him. The recurring theme of his daydreaming seemed to revolve around his novel.

It had taken him only a month, albeit quite a busy and hectic month. Now that it was over though, he felt somewhat let down and deflated. So much emphasis and effort was put into writing that he had failed to think of what he would or should do afterward.

So he had written a novel, so had most of the other contestants. Truth be told, he wasn't even sure that it was all that good. He knew it would require a great deal of editing and rewriting before he could actually say that it was finished. He wasn't expecting to get a book contract from a big publisher. He wasn't sure what he had expected. But he admitted much to his chagrin that it must have been more than what happened.

Or rather, did not happen. His life carried on just as it ever had. Nearly no one knew what he had done and those that did, didn't seem to be all that impressed.

A not so subtle cough and nudge from the man standing behind him roused Tubal back to he present and the fact that he was now standing in front of the time clock. Reaching over, he retrieved his time card and inserted it into the clock. After a loud clunk, he returned his card and made his way to the door.

The crisp Winter air hit Tubal in the face. Pulling his coat tightly around him he made his way home.

Days past into weeks and Tubal Cain's life seemed to trudge on in a seemingly endless series or repeated series of cycles. One day, week, month looked nearly identical to those which came before. He felt as if he were on a sort of automated course one might program into an airplane autopilot computer. The routine of even his routine seemed to nag at him. He lacked what the French termed, joie de vivre.

Within a few months, an eye blink of time really, he had almost completely forgotten the accomplishment labored over so diligently back in November. Most of his waking time was consumed by the daily dreck and dross that tends to fill all of our routines. Rarely did he consider that he could or even should be writing again, still.

Everything in his life soon returned to normal and settled down to the slow paced funk he had known before. That is, until the day he received an email in his Inbox. It was a Tuesday and while sorting through the various bits of spam adverts and obvious scam messages one caught his eye.

To: [e-mail]

Subject: Inquiry from The Last Word Publishing House, LLC - Boston.

Tubal stared at the screen for a good minute. He looked down when he heard a rattling and saw that it was his hand which was now shaking so much that his cursor was nearly jumping across his screen. A cold sweat broke on his brow while he found, much to his surprise, his mouth had gone completely dry. It was with an audible gulp that he clicked to open the email message.

My dear mister Cain, the message read. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Willem Adderley, a senior editor at The Last Word In, Publishing House. I am delighted to congratulate you for having successfully completed your novel during the 2011 National Novel Writing Month and wish to extend to you an invitation to come out to Boston for a visit to our offices here.

Tubal blinked several times, scrunched up his face and read that part several more times to ensure he had seen each word correctly and in its proper order. He then continued reading.

While this is not a guarantee of publication and is in no way an endorsement or contract to publish, my office does keep tabs on up and coming talent in the literary field. And as it is not common, we do occasionally entertain the chance to meet with new writers such as yourself.

Tubal was actually relieved that this fellow had not come right out and promised him the moon but rather couched his offer of an interview with such a disclaimer. To him, it seemed more likely that this was actually a legitimate inquiry rather than some spam type scam. Although he wasn't too sure what there might be for someone to gain from such a scheme should this turn out to be such. Perhaps this Last Word publisher was some sort of boutique self-publisher where you had to pay an arm and a leg to get your book printed in limited number. Tubal wasn't up for that. Not only did he not have the money for such an endeavor but he didn't have anyone in his life to impress.

This seemed rather unlikely though. Why would they ask him to travel all the way to Boston if all they were looking to do was to get him to pay to get his book published. Sitting back in his chair, Tubal began to allow just the tiniest sliver of hope to take root. What if this was that once in a lifetime chance he'd always talked about? He read and read again the email message, attempting to glean whatever tidbit he could. After several minutes he sighed and shook his head. Reaching for his mouse, he had just clicked to close the email when his phone started to ring.

Startled slightly, Tubal reached over and picked up the receiver while still staring at the computer screen.

Hello? He said.

Hello. May I speak with Tubal Cain, please? Inquired a British voice on the other end of the line.

Speaking. Replied Tubal, How may I help you?

Ah, excellent my dear sir! The voice exclaimed. Mister Cain, this is Willem Adderley with The Last Word In, Publishing.

Tubal nearly dropped the phone, shocked that the name he'd only just read was now an actual real live voice speaking to him through the phone.

It is? Tubal nearly squeaked. Clearing his voice, he continued, Well I um, yes I see. Er, I was just reading your email. He finished rather lamely, hoping that this new found entity on the phone would come to his rescue and shed some actual light on this seemingly too good to be true premise.

A warm gentle laughter greeted Tubal's unease and calmed him considerably. Yes, I am sure this must come as something as a surprise to you, seemingly out of the blue as it is. replied Mr. Adderley. I assure you though, the process began quite some time ago and has been rolling along leading up to just this moment.

Tubal sat forward in his chair and held the telephone receiver as if it were made of glass. Carefully he considered what had just been said. Really? he half whispered aloud.

Oh yes, indeed. came the reply, which surprised Tubal as he had not been aware that he had actually voiced the comment. In fact, he went on, You are among the top five authors of interest to our Editor-in-Chief, Mister Ezra J. Granville. He is very much looking forward to meeting you. He said as much to me at our last editorial meeting.

Tubal was overwhelmed. Apparently he was of interest to some very powerful people, very high up in the publishing world. He was at a loss for what to say until something that had been nagging at him in the back of his mind came to the fore. Excuse me mister...

Adderley the voice interjected.

Yes Mr. Adderley, Tubal continued. I don't mean to sound disingenuous but I don't really have any idea who you or Mr. Granville are. Come to think of it, I've never heard of The Last Word In Publishing House. Yes, that was what had been nagging at him since he first read the email. He wasn't completely up on the publishing industry and all of the players both out front and behind the public view but he thought that he should have at least heard of them.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Tubal thought he may have gone too far and perhaps insulted the man in some way. Just as he was scrambling mentally to come up with some sort of apology the voice on the other end broke in.

Ah yes, came the almost bashful response. Well, you are not likely to see our books at your local Barnes & Noble as such. We have a, well, a somewhat behind the scenes demographic in the industry. explained Mr. Adderley.

So, you actually produce books but not for the general public? asked a confused Tubal. His thoughts began to race around in a spiraling circle. Just when he thought his big break might be at hand and he would finally get published. Not that he had any illusions of being the next New York Times best selling author. But to be hand picked by a publisher that he had never even heard of was, rather distressing.

You know, what we actually do is a great deal more complicated than just that but I would prefer to wait on a more detailed explanation until it might be given in person. responded Mr. Adderley.

Oh, well okay. said Tubal suddenly at a loss for what to say next.

If you have the availability in your schedule, I have been instructed to arrange transportation as well as hosting your visit to Boston. All expenses will be taken care of by the publishing house, the only thing requested of you is, of course, your time. he explained.

Well, I do have some vacation time saved up. Tubal thought out loud.

Excellent! exclaimed Mr. Adderley. So if you would permit me, I can have an airline ticket sent by messenger to you, say... tomorrow?

Well, that sounds great. said Tubal. I'll talk to my boss tomorrow. Just how long do you think I would be away?

Oh, I don't believe that it would take longer than two weeks. stated Mr. Adderley.

Tubal considered what had just been said. Two weeks all expenses paid visit to Boston and the opportunity to discuss writing with an actual publisher? It was all very surreal to him.

I'm sorry, are you still there?

Tubal started out of his reverie realizing he'd gone quiet while lost in thought. Oh yes, I'm sorry. Yes I'm still here. He said hastily. Adding, That sounds like a splendid offer. I am looking forward to meeting with you mister Adderley.

After they had said goodbye and hung up the phone, Tubal leaned back in his chair and stared out the window lost in thought.

You're going to miss the company Christmas party you know said Gene.

Tubal only nodded silently. What he did not tell his boss was that missing the Christmas party would not actually be a loss for him. For even though Gene made every effort to include Tubal in company social events, attempted to help him to fit in and feel like he belonged, Tubal never really got the feeling that anyone other than Gene wanted him around let alone noticed his existence. Sure, they'd think of Tubal any time they needed to have someone cover their shift if they had something better to do. But otherwise Tubal might just well have been invisible. At last year's Christmas party, for example, Tubal had been the only person left without a gift in the Inter-departmental Secret Santa program. And that was even with mandatory participation and gift givers being assigned.

Well, you know Gene. Tubal tried again to explain. I don't really get into the whole party atmosphere. And besides, this is a great opportunity. I've always wanted to be an author.

Tubal had talked Gene's ear off on many occasions on this very subject. Gene always listened politely but would invariably try and coax his colleague back to the path of reality citing probabilities and likelihoods. Sighing, Gene said, Is this about that thing you wrote last year?

Tubal hung his head slightly. Gene always referred to his book as, That thing which usually ended up hurting Tubal's feelings somewhat even though he didn't for a moment believe it was due to any malicious intent on his friend's part.

Yes. Said Tubal sullenly.

Oh, well that's a bit unusual isn't it? I mean, all this time has gone by and they're just now getting around to contacting you? If they thought it was that great then wouldn't they have been knocking your door down ages ago? As Gene finished, he realized he had gone too far and misspoken. The downcast look on Tubal's face said volumes at how unknowingly insensitive Gene could be at times.

Oh hey! Tubal I'm sorry. I didn't mean... It was a good story. He blurted out trying to mend the offense he had just caused. I especially liked he part you wrote about me. That was really great.

Tubal gave a half smile and did what he normally did, which was try to change the subject. So it won't be too much hassle getting the time off?

Even if it would have been, Gene felt like such a heel now that he would have said anything to heal the hurt he'd caused. No problem at all. You go ahead and follow that dream.

Thanks Gene. Tubal said simply.

Gene watched him walk away and sighed. Good luck kid, hope you find something good. He whispered to himself.

It was nowhere to be found. Tubal looked everywhere! Opening the desk drawer for what must have been the dozenth time. After nearly emptying the drawer completely he finally slumped back in his desk chair. Where could it be? he wondered aloud.

Looking around the room from his seated vantage point Tubal could not see his manuscript anywhere. He had gone to the trouble of having it printed and bound after completing it last year. He hadn't really known why at the time. Perhaps it was from a desperate sense of wanting to feel his accomplishment tangibly.

Whatever the reason, he was dumbfounded as to where it could be now. He had wanted to take it with him on his trip to Boston to show the editors there. If they asked. But now he would have to just show up empty handed.

Sighing his eyes landed on the clock on the wall and lingered there for a moment before he leaped to his feet. Panicked he exclaimed to no one in particular, Oh my, look at the time! I'm going to be late!

He ran through his apartment to his bedroom, scooped up his suitcase and coat then dashed for the door.

He had opted for a taxi to the airport rather than waiting for the People Mover. This bit of extra expense made it feel more like a vacation to him somehow. It was something different anyhow.

And if his taxi driver had been a little less reckless and irate with fellow drivers he might have even felt better about his choice. As it was, he was quite relieved when the cab screeched to a halt in the white zone at the airport terminal. Still somewhat stunned by his ride, he wandered into the building through the automated doors.

A warm blast of air hit him as he walked through the terminal toward the ticketing desk. Standing in line, he looked up at the departures board and looked for his flight number. When he saw it, it suddenly hit him that this was really happening.

He only realized how big his smile was when he got to the front of the line and the ticketing agent gave him a quizzical look.

And where are we going today, sir? the woman asked, a slight smirk appearing on her face.

Boston. replied Tubal, Er, Massachusetts. he added quickly.

The women just nodded, smirk firmly in place. Right, she said with a hint of humor in her voice. As opposed to the one in Iowa. She accepted his ticket and started tapping away at her computer, staring rather intently at the screen.

Tubal was left feeling a fool after the exchange but was too excited to let it get him down. He stood there eagerly waiting for the woman to get finished with what was starting to seem like her endless typing and screen viewing.

After what seemed to him to be an age or so, the woman leaned down and picked a slip of carbon paper, scribbled down a few lines and then fitted it neatly into an envelope sleeve. Handing it to Tubal she raised her right arm and pointed to the far end of the terminal saying, Your flight is on schedule and departs on a private concourse at the end.

Accepting his boarding pass, he nodded and looked in the direction she was pointing. Thank you very much. Hefting his suitcase he turned in the direction she had pointed and added, Have a wonderful holiday.

Somewhat surprised, she smiled briefly and nodded her thanks before motioning the next customer in line forward. As she accepted the ticket from her next client she took one more glance at Tubal's retreating back, unsure as to why her mood had suddenly lightened.

Walking in the direction the woman had pointed Tubal came to the TSA Security Check Point. Having never flown before, Tubal was somewhat bewildered by the entire process but was aware enough of items in the news that he quickly followed suit to what all of the passengers in front of him were doing.

Having taken off his shoes and belt, he emptied the contents of his pockets out into a tray and set his bag on a conveyor belt. With only a hint of trepidation he stepped through the large door frame looking obstacle next to the conveyor belt. He had never really had to go through a metal detector before and was uncertain what he should expect. As it happened, nothing happened and he looked back at it with a look of disappointment and confusion. Turning around he came face to face with a TSA agent who looked him over and simply waved him past.

Tubal collected his bag, emptied the contents of the plastic tray into his hand and shuffled off to the side of the aisle along with a number of other people. Struggling to get himself dressed again he picked up his bag and resumed his walk down the concourse.

Tubal walked along the concourse watching the various people thronging about along the way. He noticed that most appeared caught up in their own little world while making their way through the crowd toward their final destination. Most seemed to have little to none of the holiday festive spirit often sung about in songs on the radio. There was so many grumpy, angry and frustrated expressions on the faces he surveyed he wondered if this was the same type of experience a salmon might have during spawning season.

Half way down the concourse he found himself laughing lightly as he imagined the faces around him superimposed on fish. With a sigh and a grin, he hefted his suitcase and continued his trek toward his gate.

The crowd thinned dramatically as he arrived at the end of the concourse; so much so that he thought he might have missed a sign that said this area was closed or off limits to the public. By the time he was about ready to turn around because he thought he might have missed his gate he saw a lone attendant standing at the podium next to a door. The sign above read, LWIP Flight 001 to Boston 11:00 AM Now boarding

Tubal tentatively walked up and stood in front of the podium, looking to the agent for some sign of recognition or a clue that he was in the right place.

The agent was a young blond woman, smartly dressed in a crisp creme colored blouse with a matching forest green vest and knee length skirt. She wore a bronze name badge that read, Eva.

Good morning sir. She said, smiling warmly.

Returning her smile with one of his own, Tubal replied, Hello. Am I on time for the flight to Boston?

Oh yes sir, we were waiting for you. Se said as she took his boarding pass from him.

Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hold everyone up. I hope the other passengers aren't too inconvenienced by me.

Oh, you misunderstand. You are the only passenger for this flight. She told him.

Tubal blinked in surprise and said, Oh my, well um. Gosh.

Smiling Eva said, If you are ready we can get you settled in on the jet and should be ready to take off shortly. She gestured that he should follow her as she opened the door behind her.

The corridor led down at a gentle slope until the arrived at the doorway to the plane. As she had said, it was indeed a jet, or small private jet to be exact.

Tubal was impressed and more than a little intimidated at the extent of preparations and costs involved just for him for this little trip. He began to wonder if maybe some sort of mistake had been made and the publishers thought he was actually someone more important than he was.

This nagging thought was present in the back of his head during the pre-flight check and take off procedure. He did happen to overhear the pilot talking to the control tower when the co-pilot entered the cockpit before the door closed. What he heard only served to deepen his confusion and add weight to a growing sinking feeling that he was in a situation far over his head.

Tower this is Lima-Whiskey-India-Papa flight 001 requesting clearance for take off. the pilot spoke into the headset mic.

Lima-Whiskey-India-Papa, this is the tower. I'm afraid we have several jumbo jets in line in front of you. We're looking at about a forty five minute wait time before we can get you in queue. came the reply over the radio.

The pilot smiled and said something off mic to his co-pilot. The other man laughed. Suddenly the radio burst to life and a voice said, Lima-Whiskey-India-Papa, this is the Chief of Operations, you are cleared immediately for take off on runway four.

Nodding to his companion, the pilot responded, Thank you very much. Have a wonderful day. and the door closed. As the jet engines started to whine, the jet moved away from the gate. Tubal looked around but there was nobody else within sight.

Sitting back in his seat he checked again his seat belt to ensure it was secured, all the while wondering to himself just what he had gotten himself into.

Tubal felt a gentle touch to his shoulder