Through the Eyes of Outcasts: The Outcasts Saga, #1

By Jeff Kalac

Violent, emotional, fast, and thought-provoking, Through the Eyes of Outcasts starts the Outcasts saga off with a bang.

 

Scott Ingram is not a normal man: at random and unpredictable times, he can see into the minds of others. He has no control over whether the experience will be trivial… or dark and foreboding. Outcast by his own family and tormented by his abilities, he lives a lonely existence of fear and anxiety. Ingram discovers there are others like him when he becomes aware of Sarah Bollinger, a beautiful clairvoyant who can teach him how to master his power. He has a chance to belong again, but first he must go to her.

 

Douglass Stevens is a man who earns his living by creating death. He wants to return to the warmth of his family home before his secret tears them away forever. Before he can retire, he must kill a man whom he considers to be a brother. Doug's assignment will make him cross paths with Ingram, and for the safety of all he fights for, there can be no loose ends. But how does he kill a man who can see him coming?

 

Both men desire lives of harmony and peace. Their only obstacle is each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penscribe Publishing
• Release date: May 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386128861

Jeff Kalac

Jeff Kalac is a North American author of horror and suspense thrillers. His love of film led to an interest in screenwriting, and evolved into writing fiction. He is the author of Through the Eyes of Outcasts (2017), the seminal novel which led to two other entries: On the Path of Outcasts (2018) and Rise of the Outcasts (2019). His writing style has been noted for its fast pace and focus on character development. Jeff lives in Idaho with his family.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The chill of late February greeted Dennis Bulman as he stepped out of his car.  It was at just another fuel pump at just another gas station in just another city—a city he had chosen at random on the map, just like so many other cities before it.  Also just like all the other cities, its best quality was that it failed to reveal a straight line to his true destination, which was the Canadian border.  By the time he had selected another city, he would have already forgotten this one’s name. 

Dennis proceeded to fill his gas tank using practiced movements done thousands of times over and rarely thought about, both in his old life as well as this one.  As he listened to the hollow hiss of the fuel which funneled into his tank, he pretended to be bored, just another man at just another pump getting gas for just another car—but what he did was watch:  The pattern of the traffic on the street, and whether any driver or passenger looked his way; the activities of the family in the van two pumps down from his, and whether anyone was paying attention to him; the girl at the register inside, visible through the glass of the door, and the behavior of the customers inside the station with her.  These, too, were practiced movements.

Practiced movements were best executed, not thought about.  It was in the thinking that questions began.  Once the questions began, the movements became awkward, mistakes were made, and mistakes had consequences—such as those which now caused him to choose random cities on a map.  Such as those which he now tried to outrun. 

Not that Dennis Bulman was in a very good position to do much thinking at all anymore.  He had not had a decent night’s sleep in some time, which had slowed his progress; he had been forced to pull into rest stops every now and again to allow himself an hour (or two, which as the days stretched on became more of a necessity) to nap in his car.  It wasn’t enough, of course, and the lack of quality sleep had fogged this thinking, muffled his ability to strategize.  Each day had grown progressively worse.  It was an unsustainable pattern, he knew, but each day brought him closer to where he wanted to be. 

Each day also brought him closer to the end of Rob’s reach, the hand of which could be one of two men. 

Knowing the way one of those hands operated, Dennis had taken extra precautions hoping they hadn’t simply cost him valuable time.  There were the zigzag patterns he used in his travels:  even if his pursuers concluded that Dennis was heading into Canada, they would not know which entrance he would choose (if any, considering that legal access would prove difficult to a United States citizen without a passport or other necessary documentation), and Rob simply did not have enough manpower to watch them all for his arrival; indeed, the frequent course changes of his travels suggested that Dennis was running blind.  The license plates on his vehicle (a vehicle which was a common make and model seen thousands of times on any freeway) were not his, and would be replaced with another automobile’s sometime during the night, just as they already had been several times over.  The winter jacket he was currently wearing was new, and would be replaced by another style in a few more days—along with accessories he wore interchangeably such as sunglasses and baseball caps.  In this way spotting him from the road was difficult, and identifying him in person would also prove challenging.

But it was a lot of constant work, and he was exhausted.  As a much younger man he had pushed himself harder—a great deal harder—and could remember how quickly he recovered.  Now pushing hard toward fifty, his gray hairs beginning to outshine the black, the fatigue was draining him.  Running his hand over the rough stubble of his face, he leaned on his car.  The echo of the fuel filling his tank had become hypnotic white noise, much like the sound of a fast-moving river.

There were mountains here, beautifully visible in the distance and peaked with snow.  He allowed his eyes to linger on them, reminded of his childhood in Montana, close to the Idaho border.  With a worn smile, he remembered the timid pace of deer, the screech of hawks, and the rushing streams which were broken here and there by spraying waterfalls.  Days when his father had still thought of him as his son and the fighting had not yet begun—nor had the drinking, which seemed to serve as a trigger for all the fighting.  He had taught Dennis how to build campfires, and had shown him which knot to tie in his fishing line as well as what purpose each knot served.  He had taught Dennis how to hike in the wilderness without getting lost, finding landmarks and keeping them within view.  Dennis would learn the use of a compass and map later, in the service, but it was his father who had laid the foundation.  It was a foundation which had proven solid, and one Dennis counted on to serve him once he finally dared his final approach on the Canadian border.

His father was a man who could not get lost in the woods if he tried to, but one who had certainly lost his way in life despite himself.

Dennis’ eyes returned to the sights and sounds of the street, the traffic forming its own sort of river.  Mud and slush which had been ice the night before spattered up in dirty fans from spinning tires.

The sounds from his gas tank changed abruptly, and the lever released with a heavy thunk!  As Dennis reached for the handle to remove it, he felt a stab not unlike a severe gas pain, high in his stomach.  It was at first intense, and then just as suddenly as it arrived, it was gone.  But he felt off-balance, and the ground at his feet no longer seemed level.  The cars on the street had lost their focus. 

Where the stabbing pain once was, there came new sensations:  Burning, itching. 

Cattail seeds drifted through the air around him and he stared at them, strangely fascinated.  As a boy he would often use his air rifle to punch BBs through the fat, brown seed heads of cattails, which would cause them to explode with large plums of cottony seeds, and this was just like that, just like how the wind would catch them and they’d swirl, they’d spin. 

But as his eyes regained their ability to focus, Dennis realized he was wrong:  While cattail seeds floated like cotton, what he was seeing really was cotton.  The burn in his stomach had risen in intensity, and the shirt beneath his thick winter jacket stuck to his flesh, wet.

He looked down and was surprised by the gaping hole he saw, bulging with white fluff, at his midsection.  He pressed against the area, and it was like squeezing a sponge full of blood—an amazing amount of it, an impossible amount, but there it was.

Doug.  God damn you.

He forced himself to move, knowing that shock would fully set in if he didn’t.  Knowing the next shot wouldn’t leave him with the option.  He threw open his door, his hand leaving thick red smears, and dropped into the driver’s seat.  He started his car, shifted into drive, and stomped the accelerator.  He heard the gas hose as it ripped free of the pump, trailing behind him like the streamer on a kite.

Narrowly missing a small Toyota pickup truck and the cursing man inside of it, he swung into traffic and drove.

––––––––

Scott Ingram listened to the gravel which crunched beneath his feet as he walked.  The sun was beginning to set, and the peaks of snow on the mountains ahead were glowing pink.  It was a well-traveled path for Scott, one taken several times weekly for the past five years.  Traffic was as light as usual during this time of day, and neither the drivers nor Ingram paid much attention to one another.  For Ingram, this made for a pleasant walk. 

It had snowed the night before, turning into rain earlier in the day before it stopped, and more rain was in the forecast for later in the night.  For the time being at least, the weather had cleared, and Ingram was thankful for the break.  Not that it would have mattered either way:  He’d walked in rain many times before, as well as in snow and in hail.  If the weatherman had been right about tonight, he would once again wind up wet on his way back home if the rain (or snow, given the time of year—it could go either way, roll your dice and take your chances) continued into the early hours of the morning.  None of this had ever made him regret not taking a bus, let alone ever consider buying a car.

He was on high ground, the road winding down into a valley which was carpeted by a stretch of the city.  A mile from the base of the slope sat the high school. 

Consisting of three large buildings which were bound together by covered walkways and surrounded by just over thirty acres of land, the school had served this part of the city for decades.  While the architecture was by no means modern in appearance, it had been well-kept.  The chief custodian, a weathered elder of a man by the name of Ray Wentsworth, came complete with a harsh attitude and a limited vocabulary of blunt words.  He was also armed with a small crew which he used to supplement his duties, and Ray was no sloucher when it to came to work:  Fresh paint had been applied every few years, the wiring had been upgraded, fresh bulbs were kept in each light fixture, and each desk had been maintained free of the occasional graffiti.  Stretches of long hallways were lined with freshly-painted lockers, the classroom doors shiny with lacquer.  The football field was well-groomed, and the running track which encircled that field was free of holes. 

Ingram was on the crew responsible for helping with this work, most of which took place during the summer months when classes were not in session, but each man (for Ray had never taken to hiring women, declaring them—with barely concealed contempt—unfit for manual labor, and better suited for other things) handled his own task while working more or less at his own pace.  This suited Ingram fine.  The crew itself rarely exceeded four people, which also suited him fine.  Now in February, the school year well underway, Ingram served as a janitor twice a week with one other man, and this work took place throughout the night.  Since the tasks were spread throughout the sprawling buildings, this meant that Scott rarely saw more than one human being at close quarters during the entirety of the school year.  Of course, this also meant that this job suited Scott fine, just fine, indeed. 

The pay was less during the school year due to having less hours of work, since Ray himself handled the school’s regular custodian duties and took care of the majority of tomato sauce spatters on cafeteria benches, hardened chewing gum in the carpeted tiles of the hallways, and occasional accusations of homosexuality which were so vividly scrawled across certain lockers (and nearly always in Sharpie marker, which was no small feat to remove).  The result was that Ingram’s own responsibilities didn’t extend much further beyond taking care of the floors (chewing gum still being a rare occasion despite Ray’s efforts during the day) and cleaning restrooms.  It was mindless work, which was another check mark on the list of things that made it fine with Scott.

Scott Ingram was a young man, twenty six years old, and had held several jobs since entering the workforce during his teenage years.  Being Ray’s assistant was the longest he had held any one job, and he tried not to think about what type of employment he would seek once Ray’s inevitable retirement—or lack of funding—arrived.  While most other men of Scott’s age were just past the books and lectures of college and were occupied with the many young women who so perfectly complimented them, Ingram placed little value in thinking about the future.  The here and now were what mattered, tomorrow always a day away.  His yesterdays were as far away as he could push them, which was a distance that never seemed far enough. 

Scott made his way up the stone and concrete steps leading to a side door.  On his way he had glanced into the parking lot, and wasn’t surprised to discover it was completely empty.  Scott was early, true—such was his usual pattern—but he also knew that being on time wouldn’t have made a difference.  Of his coworker there was no sign, and likely wouldn’t be for some time.  Shaking his head, Ingram produced a key ring which held his copies of the keys for every door to the school, and he let himself in.

He went straight to work, and would remain that way until the night became morning.  Taking breaks and having lunches were rare events for him, even if that meant an hour of his work would be done off the clock.  The only pause he allowed himself was the time it took to pull his lengthy blonde hair into a ponytail, keeping it clear of his face.  Still irritated by the empty parking lot (or more specifically, the lack of a beat-to-hell late model Ford which looked long overdue for the nearest scrap heap), Ingram prepared the mop bucket, intending to start his work on the cafeteria’s tiled floor.  Showing up to work on time had to count for something, and to Scott Ingram it counted toward not having to do the bathrooms.

The cafeteria was large, and he had to relocate long stretches of benches and tables in order to have room to work.  He would move a section, mop thoroughly, and when the floor had dried he would move everything back, creating a new space in which to continue working.  It made the work stretch on longer, but was the best anyone could do without finding an area to completely offload the tables—which did have to be done every four months when the time came to wax these floors.  Tonight it was straight mopping, and tonight was a night for moving tables a section at a time.

He had been slopping the mop around the cafeteria floor for nearly two hours when he sensed the presence which made him spin around.  Standing behind him, his meaty hand hovering in the air inches away from where Scott’s shoulder had been, stood Brian Reed.  Both men had been holding their breath, and when Scott released his he used it to say, Right on time as usual.

Brian’s mouth began working on the ever-present wad of gum.  He was a year younger than Ingram, his face almost a perfect oval.  His heavy frame was covered with a thick flannel shirt and a stained pair of jeans which had not known the inside of a clothes washer for at least several weeks.  "Why is it I can never sneak up on you?"

Ingram continued to mop.  Job starts at seven.  It’s nine now.

Brian’s laugh came out as a bark.  It’s a quarter till, and fuck ‘em.  Who knows?

No one.  I’m the only one here. 

"No, you were the only one here."

Scott paused, regarding Brian with a glare.  I don’t see you doing anything.

Brian spread his hands.  You know how I am now.  It all gets done when I’m good and ready.

Ingram stared at the glistening mop head, and the water pooling on the floor.  You’re still pissed at Ray?

Brian’s voice rose in frustration.  Of course I am.  The bastard still won’t budge.  I’ve been here two and a half years without so much as a raise.  It ain’t like I’m asking for much.

You’re going to make your fortune here, is that it?  Scott asked, and then resumed the steady sweep of the mop.  We’re janitors tonight, Brian.  In a few months, we’ll probably be pounding nails or slinging paint.

You’re in your usual good mood, I see.

Ingram allowed himself a small smile.  You want to hear about a good mood?  Maybe this will help.  You’re on bathroom duty.  Early bird—as in, the one who’s here on time—calls dibs, and it’s going to be that way from now on.  I’m sure Ray would love to hear your complaint otherwise.  See?  I’m happier than a pig in shit.

The fuck?  Brian shook his head.  I ain’t cleaning no bathrooms.  The boys piss up the walls like their dicks are out-of-control fire hoses.

Beat me to work.  Or at least get here on time.  Then we’ll talk.

You... Brian started, and then trailed off.  As he turned away, defeated, he said, You’re an asshole.

Scott’s smile remained, but any humor behind it had drained.  I’ve been called worse.

––––––––

Justin Woaton lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and inserted a quarter into his payphone.  He then punched a phone number into the keypad with a finger yellowed by years of nicotine.  Smoke curled from each nostril, catching briefly on the thick hair of his mustache, as he listened to the ring tone purring in his ear.  On the third ring, he heard a man answer.  Justin’s only message to this man was the phone number of his own payphone, after which he hung up.  Somewhere nearby, he knew, Douglass Stevens was pocketing his cell phone and using a payphone of his own to dial this number.  Cell phones weren’t secure, but they did provide a direct link for simple messages—and while landline phones were certainly also suspect, the fact that