Fallon: Memoirs of the Reborn

By Laura Waide

"Stories are your anchor to this world of turmoil and strife; cling to them and they shall save you." Cat's words of advice to a new author were simple: write to live.

After fighting a battle that her late husband unknowingly started, Fallon James follows Cat's advice and writes her story. But is 'The End' really as final as it seems? Love transcends the boundaries of life and death in this story of secret societies, the quest to control reincarnation, and Fallon's struggle to save the only family she has left from The Order's deadly grasp.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543922974

Book preview

Fallon: Memoirs of the Reborn

Laura Waide

Print ISBN: 978-1-54392-296-7

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54392-297-4

© 2018. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Afterword

Part 2

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

We may dominate the earth, but we should not dabble in God’s work, Jackson James mumbled under his breath, after sweeping the parking lot with his dark eyes to ensure he and Smith were alone. The moon reflected off the rippling surface of the puddles left behind by the thunderstorm. Cracks in the crumbling pavement crawled drunkenly toward the weeds that had invaded the unkempt lot. The petrichor, stirred up by the thunderhead little more than an hour ago, still hung thick in the air, benign yet intoxicating to those, like Jackson, who craved the sweet smell of the rain.

Smith clearly wanted to be inside with the other members to hear the last of the scientist’s presentation. He glanced back at the door that he had propped open when he followed Jackson out to the parking lot. Furious, Jackson had stormed out of the presentation. Smith had reluctantly peeled himself out of his chair to follow Jackson, to catch him and shake some sense into his brain. Now, hearing the scientist’s voice creep through the cracked door, he wished he had just stayed out of it and let his friend hang himself with this low-class temper tantrum.

You see, the scientist said, trying to wrap up his findings into a simple conclusion, by further developing this process using the properties of lightning, we can actually control the phenomenon of reincarnation. The mind would retain its memories and be able to recall them, once it is born again into a new body. The new body would learn faster because a greater amount of knowledge would already be, let’s say, pre-loaded.

How difficult is this process to recreate? one of the members asked, slightly adjusting the mask over his eyes.

Only the people you select would be able to make this work, as long as you keep the process secret. If the information gets leaked, anyone with enough money and a thunderstorm would be able to copy it. The scientist shifted in his seat under the weight of the thirty pairs of eyes focused on him. Until now, he had only worked with a few members of the Order at a time. They always had at least their eyes hidden, but it seemed less intimidating when there were fewer of them. The scientist fidgeted with the microphone cord that lay coiled on the small table.

Do you have the blueprints? another member asked.

Yes, here they are. The scientist handed the rolled blueprints to a man that stepped over to his chair. The man’s movements reminded the scientist of a military march–quick, sharp movements accented by the clicks of well-polished shoes. The scientist felt that the man must have been an assistant to the members. His eyes were also covered, but his uniform and demeanor spoke volumes about his lower status. The marching man delivered the blueprints to the leaders, then snapped to attention.

The leader unrolled the blueprints, scanned them quickly, and rolled them back up. He handed them over to the marching man who then disappeared through a dark doorway. The scientist watched until the marching man disappeared. Finally, he turned his attention back to the leader.

I hope you’re pleased. I know we got a little behind schedule, but finally the plans are complete and we can move on to phase two. The scientist wiped the sweat from his brow as the leader stood and approached the stage. And of course, we need to discuss the final terms of payment.

I am certainly pleased, the leader replied. Before we move on, there is one more item of business we need to address. Please follow these gentlemen and they will let you know your next steps. The leader ushered the scientist toward two men, who were waiting near the same doorway that the marching man went through. Looking from one to the other, the scientist nervously allowed them to lead him across the threshold.

Out in the parking lot under the spindly shadow of a dying tree, Jackson paced in front of a stoic Smith.

Since when do you believe in God? Smith asked, though his tone didn’t sound surprised.

I don’t agree with killing him. He has a family, just like you and I. Jackson thought of his precious little girl. She was probably getting ready to take a bath as they spoke. She would demand her pink rubber ducky, the wash cloth with the bunny on it, and a cup of ice–just because she loved the curious feeling of ice-cold meeting luke-warm, as she plunged a fistful into the water.

And what about your life, Jackson? Are you willing to live this life in a tainted shell of a body that you will not be able to control anymore? It was Smith’s turn to pace in the shadow of Jackson’s still stance. I would also think about your daughter. No doubt she inherited the same mutant genes you did.

Jackson shuddered at the thought of his little girl going through the same pain, the same medical prodding that he was currently going through. Was it selfish to think only of his own family and not the family of the scientist?

You know how this goes, Jackson, Smith hissed between clenched teeth, afraid of being heard by passersby. The parking lot was in a remote location, but just one jogger could blow the project for good. If we leave him alive, our entire existence will be threatened. We have come hundreds of years to this point in time right now. We will dishonor the blood, sweat, and tears that our brothers before us have shed in this quest if we do not complete the process. You know he will talk for the right price. If you don’t do it for yourself or your daughter, then at least do it to preserve the Order.

Jackson could not deny the truth. If anyone ever found out about the Order or its activities, they would all lose their freedom and possibly their lives. Great pains had been endured to ensure their activities remained secret. Even Jackson took some pride in the fact that the world was oblivious to their business even when the world was at stake.

Think about it, Smith said, adjusting his tone. Imagine that you never have to fear death again. Imagine that you never have to start over again. When your body’s done, it’s done. There’s no point in trying to preserve flesh that rots over time, no matter what. But your mind–and your fortune, which I must remind you the Order has helped you obtain–can now live forever. Your wife can live forever. And your daughter can live forever. Forget about the Hollywood version of immortality. Our minds and our souls will truly be immortal. That’s our advantage if we do today what needs to be done.

As Jackson paced, Smith’s words floated around him, but stopped short of entering his thoughts. Instead, he allowed the memory of this morning’s phone call from the doctor’s office to replay in his mind. It is genetic... no cure... symptoms will gradually increase over time... it is fatal.... A muscle in his leg twitched, silently reminding him of why he had gone to the doctor in the first place. Muscle spasms weren’t uncommon for Jackson. He had them occasionally, for as long as he could remember. Over the last month though, they were getting stronger and more frequent. When the spasms nearly made him wreck his motorcycle, he decided he needed to do something.

As he sat in the waiting room, Jackson had remembered how his father had died of a mysterious disease when Jackson was a teenager. Doctors didn’t know what it was and had tried everything they could to treat him. At first, it was the spasms, but over the course of a few years, his father became immobile. He relied on Jackson and Jackson’s mother to help him get from one room to another. By the time, his father could no longer eat on his own and Jackson had hit full throttle on his teenage rebellion. He didn’t want to drown in the grief of watching his father suffer, so he left. He left his mother to become the full-time caregiver and he never looked back.

Years passed after his father’s death before he was able to speak to his mother again. He pretended to be sorry for not being there with her. He saw the shell of a person that his mother had become and he felt deep down that he would have been the same if he had stayed. His mother pretended to forgive him. Still, neither Jackson nor his mother could pretend enough to salvage their relationship.

Jackson went to great lengths to test himself and prove that he wasn’t going to die like his father, but the tests did just the opposite; they proved he shares his father’s fate. Damn the legacy of bad genetics.

His own symptoms weren’t severe yet, but he was fully aware that they would become debilitating. How could he tell his wife that she will eventually be a widow? How could he ask her to do what his mother did? How could he tell her that their daughter has a fifty-fifty chance of facing the same fate? He thought about the project. It could help him escape the prison that his disease will eventually cause his body to become. He could escape and come back in a new body that is not diseased. He could also give his daughter a better chance.

Jackson continued to pace. The thought of beginning a new life without his wife and daughter, no matter how alluring, felt like a punch to the gut. And even if he escaped the hands of his disease, he risked being born into another body with even worse disabilities. He would always remember this life. He wondered, would he ever look back on how good he had it before? Would he really want to remember?

It looks good on paper, Smith, but it’s not natural. Jackson leaned back against the tree with his arms folded across his chest. It’s natural to have new beginnings. Look at the phases of the moon, night and day, and every season. Immortality doesn’t exist, because life was never meant to last forever. We need new beginnings to maintain the order of the universe.

Smith showed no emotion at Jackson’s betrayal, but the redness crept up from his neck and washed over his cheeks.

We ARE the Order of the universe, Jackson. And it would serve you well to remember your oath. Smith turned and disappeared back into the building before Jackson could say anything else. He let the door slam shut behind him and Jackson watched the rock that had propped it open skitter to a stop on the concrete step.

Jackson knew he should rejoin the meeting, but did not. His eyes made one more sweep across the abandoned parking lot. Let them do their deeds, he thought. He put on his helmet, started his motorcycle, and drove away without looking back.

The moonlight bounced off the wet blacktop, as he leaned into the curves and his mind raced haphazardly through the evening’s discussions. His heart beat faster with every minute, the adrenaline pumping through his system. The red triangle pin fixed to the inner lining of his jacket felt like a lead weight. Red for strength, three points for the past, present, and future, and the tip pointing to the right for conscious power. He had lived up to the Order’s expectations and supported their activities, without question, for many years. He has grown within the Order and earned a high level of respect among his fellow members, but suddenly, he found his conscience aggressively protesting.

If this project works the way we think it will, we will control our destiny for eternity, the Speaker had said earlier in the day, reading notes off of a queue sheet. Jackson could hear the words, as clearly as if he had recorded them and played them back. We will raise the Order to same heights as God Almighty himself! The room had erupted in applause. The members had waited years, even decades for some of them, for this moment and now they finally had a plan to move forward.

We have a plan, but now we also need a project manager. Someone who will transform our destiny from the blueprints to reality. We need someone who has proven his dedication to the Order time and again. The Speaker had paused and let the members eagerly anticipate his next words. The room had rustled with the whispers of those venturing a guess. Finally, he spoke again.

Jackson James, you have been selected to be the dedicated manager for Project Rebirth.

As he buzzed past cars and eighteen wheelers on the interstate Jackson remembered the feeling of the heat rising up from under the collar of his pressed white shirt at the announcement of his new assignment. Many of the members had applauded, but there were some who clapped reluctantly. Jackson had stood and received his acknowledgement gracefully, even though inside he dreaded taking part. He couldn’t do it, but if he didn’t he would face dire consequences.

The miles melted away beneath the glow of the street lights. Jackson thought about the project and what it would mean for the future of the world. How could he believe in a higher power, a creator, and put all his faith into that creator, while at the same time trying to control creation? He believed in eternal life, in the rebirth and maturing process of the soul. He believed in heaven, as much as he believed in Karma. His beliefs did not follow one religious or one scientific theory of life, but instead they flowed between religions and science, picking up bits and pieces in their current and blending them into his personal philosophy of the universe. But even though he had a rather hybrid belief system, he still didn’t know if he could use manmade technology to control the destiny of the soul–whether his own or anyone else’s.

He was still absorbed in his thoughts about the meeting when he parked in his driveway and took off his helmet. His wife had already put Kayla to bed and the house was consumed with shadows when he entered the kitchen through the garage door. Breaking the silence, the dishwasher clicked over to the rinse cycle. He dropped his keys into the crystal bowl on the kitchen island and then walked slowly back to the master bedroom, gravitating to the light from the glass lamp on his wife’s bedside table.

He peeked into the room and found her sitting in bed, fully engrossed in a fantasy novel by some author he had never heard of. Her red wavy hair fell over her bare shoulders and he could just barely make out the shape of her legs under the thick comforter. Feeling the weight of his gaze, her eyes lifted off the page and connected with his.

I didn’t realize you’d be home so early, she said, as she marked her place with an old bookstore receipt and rested her attention completely on him. He loved how she made him feel like he was the sun in her sky. He walked over to her and leaned in for a kiss.

It was supposed to be longer but the discussion ended early, he fibbed. He stood and kicked his shoes off in front of the closet. Good thing, too. I’m exhausted. He fumbled with the frog that held the red triangle pin in place. Springing free, it flew out of his hand and bounced across the floor. He looked in the direction it went but elected not to chase after it. He placed the pin into a mahogany box on his dresser along with the change he had in his pocket, and then sat on the edge of his side of the bed to undress.

After a sixteen hour day, I’m surprised you’re not sleepwalking, Fallon said, as she rose up on her knees behind him and started massaging the knots his neck. Did you at least have a nice dinner? Jackson pulled his undershirt off and then let his arms fall to his side, relaxing into her hands as she rubbed away the stress of the day.

Not bad, but not great either. I would always rather eat here. He couldn’t tell her about the restaurant, because she might ask questions about the rest of the evening. He needed to be careful not to accidently lead her questions down the wrong path. There were some things that she didn’t need to know and there were many more things that she couldn’t know. He made it a practice to avoid talking about those things altogether. He also chose to avoid talking about his own health. Instead, he turned and faced her, pulling her closer, as he leaned in and pressed his full lips to hers.

Mr. James! she squealed, falling backward onto the bed and pulling him with her. His weight felt reassuring, proof that he really was there for her even though his long days occupied so much of his time. Together they tangled themselves in the moonlight and made up for missed daylight.

I would rather live and love where death is king than have eternal life where love is not.

~ Robert Green Ingersoll

How could I explain the deafening feeling of every door in my life slamming shut at once? My husband was dead. My daughter was dead too, along with the best–and only–friend I ever had. My parents had been dead for years, but somehow the loss of these others made their death seem fresh again. These realizations tumbled through my mind as I drove slowly up the dirt driveway of my new estate and parked near the garage. It felt like eons ago that Bob had put me on night shift and I had sought solace from my best friend, Catalina Rivers. I probably never should have come to Cat’s mountain from the Ellipsis Casino that day. If I had never involved her, then at least she would still be alive, even if Jackson and Kayla still wouldn’t have made it. Cat would’ve kept her mountain and she would’ve been there to hear my car come up the drive. She would’ve come around the corner of the shed to greet me, dirty from head to toe with garden soil, to fling herself into my arms. Holding the deed to her mountain in my hand, I stared at the corner of the shed for a moment, wishing for Cat to appear. When she didn’t, I took a deep breath of cold mountain air, gathered my things from the back seat, and went inside.

Inside the house, I inhaled the spicy sweet aroma that I hoped was permanently infused into the walls. Cat had left this home for the last time months ago and still it seemed as if she had never been gone.

I did nothing at all for the first few days. I sat alone on the front porch sipping coffee (not Cat’s coffee, though) and listening to the birds. I watched some television. Mostly I thought about my life and how much it had changed in one night. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream and shout at the God I wasn’t sure I believed in. I wanted to cry, hit something, or run. I wanted to bury myself in Cat’s bed and curl up into a ball and die with them. Instead, I just sat and listened.

I didn’t sleep much for the first week in the house. I would hover in that awkward state between asleep and awake and listen to lightning strikes in my dreams. When I was fully awake, I would just lay in the dark staring into the blackness, hoping to see something–some reason for it all. The events replayed in my head, over and over, and I saw them as if I were on the outside looking in. It was a movie written just for me, but I couldn’t stop it. The Fallon in the movie couldn’t hear my warnings, so she couldn’t change a thing.

After five days of sitting through rerun after rerun, I got up and went to the office. Looking for anything to occupy my mind, I started opening drawers and flipping through papers, and odds and ends. Minutes turned into hours, and when I next realized it, I was sitting on the floor surrounded by a pile, nearly shoulder height, of Cat’s old life.

I had gone through the last drawer in the filing cabinet and was just about to clean up when I noticed something underneath the drawer. I figured it was something that had gotten knocked out of a folder and fell to the bottom.

I tried to reach it with the drawer open, but the space was too narrow for my hand to fit. I stumbled up to my feet and then tried to take the drawer out of the cabinet to get a better look. The drawer was heavy even though it was empty, but with a little tugging and a lot of wiggling, the drawer finally popped loose. I set it aside and reached in to pick up the paper.

I opened the envelope and found a letter inside. After I shook out the dust, I flattened the yellow-edged paper in the light of the fringed lamp on the desk. There I saw a letter that Cat had written to herself.

Dear Cat, it started. If you are reading this, you have probably had a terrible time writing or getting published. You are likely frustrated and ready to give up and get a real job. I’m writing this now to encourage you to keep on writing; to remind you why you wanted to be a writer to begin with.

First, you love stories. Clothed in colorful jackets, the story books live a lonely life on the shelf until you come and give them purpose. Everyone–and everything–needs a purpose, even if it is to just warn someone on this road called life that a curve is up ahead.

The stories are your best friends. They never pick a fight, they never borrow your clothes without returning them, and they never disappoint you. Stories are your anchor in this world of turmoil and strife. Cling to them and they shall save you.

Now go and write something about yourself. Tell me about your dreams, your fears, and your love. We can turn them into stories that the world will want to open and, page by glorious page, want to live by.

I hadn’t realized that I was holding my breath until my eyes landed on the last word. I remember I gasped and took a deep breath. I pressed the letter to my chest, crushing it as close to my heart as possible. For the first time in months, I knew what I needed to do.

Death was part of me now, as if it was written in my DNA and a permanent part of my identity. I could let it fester and tear me away from reality, or I could take control of it. Jackson, Kayla, and Cat wouldn’t want me to drift aimlessly. I had to tell their story, because their story would be my anchor, just as Cat said. Their story would save me. So here it is, their story and the story of the Fallon I was back then, or as much of it as I can piece together.

Her orgasm ended too quickly, but with only a few minutes left until she would be off schedule, Fallon opted not to try for another and allowed the first to silently echo through her just a bit longer. She imagined Jackson was there–the heat of his body enveloping her, his masculine scent intoxicating. She imagined the softness of his lips as they brushed between her legs, threatening to bring her into spasms all over again. Her hand reached across the bed to where her late husband should have been, finding instead a cold empty sheet.

The distant music of her pre-teen daughter’s alarm clock–some new Five Seconds of Summer song–yanked her out of her trance and into the reality of Monday morning. What little presence of Jackson she had managed to conjure up, retreated into her subconscious and she was left alone again in her king size bed. Thank you very much, 5SOS, she thought sarcastically, as her feet hit the cool wood floor.

After her shower, Fallon made her way to the kitchen and found Kayla sitting at the small kitchen table, her head rested on one hand. Her strawberry blonde hair covered one side of her freckled face, hiding the birthmark that was centered below her left eye. Her other hand absently stirred her cereal, as she watched an unfamiliar news anchor on the 10-inch TV Fallon had gotten from some raffle at work.

Are you really watching the news? asked Fallon, as she pushed a loose strand of her wavy red hair out of her face