The Precedence

By S. Bryan Gonzales

Chance or Fate-
Our human hope rests upon one star.
One sunny and rather warm spring morning, in a more than well-respected neighborhood of Louisville, high school senior and star-athlete, Lance Buchannan, awakens to discover strange bruises and scars across his body; but theyre not from wrestling or football practice. Nor did they come from a wild night on the town.
Where did they come from? And whats gonna happen to me? he can only wonder. And to his dismay, these questions reveal that this is only the tip of a much larger matter, which not only his family and community struggle with, but the nation and world as well.
Lances unexpected journey forces him to reconsider himselfwho he is, and what hes all about. It also reshapes his value systemwhats most important to himas well as the way he see things, and carries out accomplishments. And lastly, it reveals to him who and what IS the precedence.
Without a doubt, The Precedence will draw you in, stretch your mind, and perhaps forever change the way you think of life and see existence. It may also challenge your entire paradigm, and make you rethink God, the universe, and mankinds civilization as we know it today; as well as strip away the most traditional of mores. But, on the other hand, it may actually clarify and strengthen personal beliefs, which many of us often question rather blindly.
The Precedence is a story like no other. It will take you to places never dreamed of. It will also bring you feelings never felt before.
Just remember, keep an open mindand ask yourself, Could this actually happen? Then, place yourself into the characters shoes, and see if ANY of this fits.
Perhaps YOU will determine what the precedence actually is
in YOUR life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524657666

S. Bryan Gonzales

Diane Cardenas has achieved several writing credits such as a journalism award from Bonaventure University.  She has also been noted for assisting in the writing of several medical textbooks such as the Handbook of Symptom Oriented Neurology and Ferri’s Clinical Advisor 2002.    Diane is currently an assistant researcher at the University of Louisville in the School of Medicine.    Where Free Men Pray is her first novel.                Steven Bryan Gonzales assisted Diane in writing Where Free Men Pray.  In 2006, Steven completed the first novel of the Cash and Travis series named Under the Big Sky.       Born and raised in Montana, he grew up with a strong sense of commitment.  Just as he’s determined to do his best in working and studying, he strives to give 100% toward the relationships in his life.  He believes we should be open to all possibilites within the realm of human experience.    Steven’s mission, with this series, is to tell the reader the worth of people.  Bar-none, we need each other—through thick and thin.  In a day and age where people are treated as a cheap commodity, it’s his desire to challenge that attitude and encourage us to respect each other and never take them for granted. 

Book preview

THE

PRECEDENCE

S. BRYAN GONZALES

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2017 S. Bryan Gonzales. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/22/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5767-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5766-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016921503

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

"Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible® (NASB),

Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. www.Lockman.org"

Contents

Prologue

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

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All characters appearing or being depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dedicated to my mother and father, and everything we experienced.

PROLOGUE

Ona - mertvyj. (She’s gone.) The doctor yanked his mask off—resigned sadness settling over his face. My poterjali ee. (We’ve lost her.)

The words spoken were heavy with Russian. They pronounced conclusion…the sign of finality. And with that, he released a sigh and left the room—its door slamming behind him with a wham. There was nothing else anyone could do for the woman who had been found alone in the country, just outside the city. Kinfolk would be notified. Her body would be tagged, reviewed, then cremated.

It was the way of the land. It was the way of their government.

Thus, the twenty-nine years of Svetlana Kirilenko’s life was closed…at least here on Earth. She would now only be a memory, with nothing else remaining except her car, found sixty kilometers away, burned and destroyed from a fierce tumble off the road into a deep ravine near the isolated headwaters of the Bystraya River. Her tiny flat, nestled neatly within the heart of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, would be vacated as well.

The question was…how had she been separated from the accident scene…so far away? It seemed completely unexplained.

She was probably kidnapped, or hijacked, one of the local investigators surmised, while documenting his report to the State. The perpetrator more than likely forced her to the reservoir—raping her, then ditching the vehicle down the cliff, and finally hauling her near-lifeless, bloody body to a field at the outskirts of town.

That would have been good, all said and done, however a much different story travelled from the forensics office. They appeared to prove there was no foul play…no stray fingerprints, no signs of struggle upon her body, and even more incredible, no evidence that there was anyone else accompanying her.

It left her loved ones speechless…and the entire region wondering.

And yet, later that day, one more wrench landed into the twisted works…an announcement of highest peculiarity. The state death examiner seemed to stumble across an extremely gruesome discovery.

Her reproductive organs have been removed. The appearance across his face was one of bewilderment…shock.

Now, how the physician and forensics had overlooked this was beyond reasoning, since it had not been difficult for him to notice the slight disturbance in and around her lower cavity. And upon probing further—deeper inside—he had found everything missing. All her sex organs were perfectly cut away with the most meticulous precision…from the vagina to the ovary sacs.

What I don’t understand, he whispered to the magistrate, there was no blood…not a single drop in and around the affected area.

Now, it was this report that failed to surface—to make it to the family…especially, the media. No one would ever hear of this mystery…not now, not ever. And memories of it would be stuffed away, inside her urn, along with her ashes, never to be discussed again.

CHAPTER 1

Hard winds continued even though the rain had stopped.

God, it’s freezing out there, eh?! commented Kip breathlessly—slamming the security door with a resounding thud, while shedding his raincoat.

Yes, tell me about it, replied Gavin, the relief controller scheduled in the tower that night. He was usually a man of few words, and this evening was no exception. The truth was, it seemed that Ol’ Man Winter refused to yield his grip upon the region, as it was the nineteenth day of continual storms. Vancouver’s reported another system moving in later this week.

Can’t always trust EC, Kip contradicted—still settling himself within the dry confines, You know how many times we’ve been burned by them. However, considering the rate we’ve been going lately, I wouldn’t be surprised. Then, out of the corner of his eye, his attention was fully struck. What’s that? He pointed toward a blip moving quickly, forty-five degrees from the northwest quadrant, across the radar console. And before either of them could blink, the object stopped mid-screen…instantly reversing course, pausing once again, then heading directly south.

Beats me, Gavin slid forward within his chair—eyes fully focused.

Blessed Mother! Kip gasped, as he leaned across his partner and adjusted the radar positioning. That thing is really moving…and look at those directional changes! You know that’d break any pilot’s neck, eh?!

I’m calling YVR, the curly, sandy-haired man declared—excitedly pounding the phone’s buttons, …and find out if they see anything heading their way.

Kip continued to stare, nonplussed.

Yes, this is Prince George, and we’ve detected flash traffic, unidentified, approaching your sector at twelve-o’-clock. Has it tripped your fence? A brief stall followed. You see it? It appeared to come from the Gulf of Alaska. Negative, we have nothing registered within either area.

What’s the triangulation? Kip found it impossible to keep his fingers from the console.

We still have it stationary—location fifty degrees, forty minutes, and thirty-four seconds north…crossing at one-hundred twenty degrees, twenty minutes, and twenty-seven seconds west. That’s confirmed, right over Kamloops.

Gavin covered the mouthpiece with his hand. They have it on their screen.

Quickly working out calculations, Kip let out a low whistle. It’s hovering at nineteen thousand meters.

Suddenly, the object moved—continuing south, and off their range.

It’s heading toward the States, Gavin relayed to his fellow controller, …past Yakima and into Oregon. Then, in response to the soft, muffled sounds of a speaker from the other end of the connection, he replied, That’s affirmative. Keep monitoring and let us know what you find out. Finally, he concluded, Thanks.

Resting the hand piece back into its cradle, Gavin sat quietly—not moving a muscle as Kip pulled up a chair and joined into the stillness.

Neither spoke…neither moved, until Gavin said, It appears the object is heading toward California. Then, once again, as if preparing for Holy Communion, silence engulfed them.

It was stuff like this that kept them glued to their jobs.

*****

Holy Shit!!

It felt as if a freight train had barreled right over him.

Outside, cardinals and jays began their morning welcome, while lingering shadows of night surrendered to a promising sun. And pollen-sweet breezes drifted softly through his bedroom window, heralding the advent of another warm spring day…as well as lots of sneezing.

Frozen momentarily, Lance Buchannan lay quietly, as still as he could muster, surmising this unbelievable situation—spasms wrenched his stomach, sending unrelenting anguish throughout his abdomen. And in an effort to get out of bed, he quickly flopped back onto the mattress—groping for air. He couldn’t turn, stretch, or even levitate to get out of bed.

Oh, my God…—he cried. Should I pray to die? The thought was so inviting.

Bling-bling-bling!—the question was miraculously laid to rest, at the sheer jingle of his cell’s ringtone. Instinctively, he knew it was Parker Davis, fellow teammate and good friend. And in spite of the wary debate swirling around within his mind—whether or not to endure excruciating pain by twisting over to retrieve the phone from the nightstand—he allowed his curiosity to get the best of him. So, with gritting teeth and ringing ears, he allowed unimaginable hurt to sweep his belly, while reaching over with a wince. Good God Almighty!

Accepting the call, Lance wheezed, What?

Whassup?! As usual, the deep-toned, southern-rich voice droned through the micro-speaker like a twanging guitar.

Call ya back? Lance croaked, making his reply more of a plea than a question.

Hesitating, Parker continued, You alright? You sound like shit.

Feel like shit.

Pausing some more, his buddy eventually continued, What’s goin’ on?

I’ll tell ya later. Oooooh! The urge to throw up was quickly replaced with drenching waves of cold sweat that beaded across his neck, chest, and forehead. Think I’m givin’ birth to an alien.

Glad it’s you ’n not me, Parker chortled, Hey, see ya at the assembly?

Yeah.

Later.—and his buddy clicked off.

What the fuck?! Lance cursed—returning to his privately-unexpected malaise. I can’t be sick! It’s Senior Day ’n I have to receive my award!

Outstanding Senior Athlete was way more than any average honor. Why, it’s the top-of-the-top, cream-of-the-crop type of decoration…and the covet of every jock in school.

Throwing back his head, he shouted with a weak, raspy voice. I have to be there!!

Then, once again his cell blew off.

Christ’s sake! He rocked in agony. Yeah?

Hey, Monkey! It was Kyrsten.

What? He could scarcely grunt.

Instantly, silence set in. I just wanted to see if you were awake. Her leading tone cautiously trailed.

I’m awake. The reply was dry.

Do you know what you’re gonna wear today?

Doubling over, he bit his lip. God, is that all that matters?! Clothes, he snipped—unable to resist sarcasm for all the anguish.

Do what? Her Kentucky warmth quickly chilled.

I dunno, he replied—fashioning a stab at saving face. Maybe my white pullover and some cargos.

Your tight one? Her tone willfully lifted. I love that one.

Now, how can a man say he’s done with this conversation? Lance held his breath as an unsettled spell plunked in between them. He knew she was assimilating.

Then, shoving forward, she pointedly asked, What’s up?

And knowing where this was going to head, Lance braced. Nothing. Now, there was no damned way he was going to explain. Another surge swept his belly. "Oooh!"

Are you alright? shifting gears, her tone birthed concern.

Huh? Am I gonna throw up? He could feel another roll come on.

Lance, what’s going on?

I’m fine, he pushed out words with clenched teeth. Just a bit sore, that’s all.

From what?

It’s nuthin’! Lance yelped—feeling as if his belly was going to burst open. I’ll meet you at the Commons!

With that, he slapped the phone shut.

Balls ‘o fire! he cried—pushing himself up with clouded eyes. He felt like retching. I don’t deserve this!

Slowly, carefully, he staked trek toward the bathroom—one wobbly foot in front of the other. Within the darkened room, he immediately reached for his glass—filling it with water. And while taking several swallows—allowing cool liquid to slide down a parched throat, and into an empty stomach, the oddest thing happened…the pain disappeared…simply vanished. But, flicking on the light switch, he suddenly jumped back—gasping, "Jesus in Heaven!" To his horror, he sincerely could not believe what his eyes saw in the mirror.

Flush in the face, but gaunt otherwise, his body looked as if it had been to hell and back. Dark circles around red eyes gave him the resemblance nothing short of a zombie, while random bruises patched across his chest, arms, and neck like a Dalmatian. However, that wasn’t the thing that cast him into the throes of a panic. What took the cake was when he shed his shorts…

Yanking off his briefs, he noticed black blotches throughout the fabric. It was dry and crusted. But the thing that really got him, upon a closer inspection—clenching him with cold fear—was the fact that it wasn’t a little amount. In fact, it literally covered the entire crotch area, including portions of his private flesh. On top of that, a sickeningly-weird odor, resembling blended moldy cinnamon and rotting flesh, emanated forth—somewhat burning the membranes within his nostrils.

What the hell? At this point, he simply could not make out any logical reasoning.

Then, to his further horror, he discovered what appeared to be a cut…a perfectly-linear incision just above the pubic hair line. But there were no stitches or scab. And trailing up the center, it then stopped midway, within his belly button. Running fingers along this line, he sensed sharp stinging shoot from the skin’s surface toward his intestines; and once again, nausea set in.

He didn’t know what to do. I can’t miss today; but I can’t go to school looking like this, either! I really need to see a doctor; but Mom ’n Dad’ll flip!

Feeling sick, he extended over the toilet—forcing several dry heaves. It was then, he could taste it—metallic…almost like iron rust. It was very bitter. And managing several spits into the bowl, he thankfully noted everything was fine in that department. No blood.

He flushed the toilet.

And returning to the vanity counter where his underwear had been tossed, he re-inspected—this time determining it was blood…his own blood! Now, who the hell’s done this to me?!! Frantically falling to his knees, he bent down—doing himself a critical once-over. Well, praise God, he thought gratefully. His crotch seemed okay—outside of crusted blood clinging to disheveled pubic hairs—except for two small box-like bruises at the base of both legs—right next to his groin.

Cuts, smells, tastes, blood, and bruises…and none of it can be accounted for? So, where’s all this shit coming from? Well now, that certainly appeared to be the question of the day.

Thus, on bended knee, Lance eventually regained senses—connecting back to his main circuit, and now feeling almost normal. Of course, he knew something had happened—evidence seemed to surround him with that. But, unfortunately, there was no memory.

And along with that, no reasonably good explanation.

So, rising to his feet, he mechanically pulled the blue and red polka-dotted shower curtain back with a forceful jerk. And turning on the water full-blast, he stepped into the tub to wash any, and most importantly, ALL remaining evidence off his body—sending it down a willing drain…forever.

…and never to be seen again.

*****

The Sexiest Man Alive…

Tossing the magazine onto the coffee table, he reached for his pack of Reds—fumbling for the last of his cigarettes. Firing it up, he took a long, hard drag—allowing the heavy smoke to fill his lungs, and the nicotine to stir tingles throughout his body.

Shane Kaiser—America’s Hottest Stud.

Those words splashed across the shiny cover—fashionably bordering a ruddy-cheeked face, which possessed a pair of thick, sun-bleached brows, tightly shingling over deep-set eyes. In addition, his adorably near-pug nose seemed to create an impish ensemble—including a cheek-to-cheek dimpled smile, with rounded-cherry lips, and a top row of near-perfect pearly whites.

No doubt about it…each of those innocently childlike features seemed to create a universal heartthrob—thanks to the union of his fine German-Irish genetics.

Wow! He thought to himself smugly. Who would guess? Truth be told, a sense of pride covered him; but he voraciously vowed to keep it to himself, lest he tease the fates of fortune, and find himself hurled down a chute like so many after a pinnacle rise. He certainly didn’t want that to happen…to let his vanity sneak outside and infect the air.

Out in the kitchen, he listened to shuffling and scurrying —fridge opening, then the clanking of several pans from the cabinet.

Nothing ever rattles her cage, he mused. She’s tough…and certainly not one to be taken by surprise. Why, not even the new swarm of reporters and paparazzi, camped at their doorstep, seemed to thwart her inner control. In short, he admired her beyond anything else in his life. And no one would ever take that away from him.

He allowed his gaze to search outside the bay windows—beyond the surrounding deck and garden. Low Pacific tide was starting to roll out, along with clouds building off in the distant horizon. The beach was unusually quiet.

Yes sir, he continued to think, …who’d envisioned the movie would take off like it did? Oh, he had a hunch it would make a mark within the market, but to have it become the top grossing film of the year? Unbelievable.

Simply astounding.

So, satisfied, he plunked down into a chair, and settled back against the cushion. And with sprawled legs, he rested his boots upon the table, right by that heralding weekly. Methodically, his hand flicked off a stray ash from his jeans as he grabbed the remote—turning on the television.

Honey, the voice from the dining room floated softly into his ears. …how about fish? I can broil it, and we can have pilaf on the side?

Confessing to hunger, which he hadn’t noticed earlier, he nodded and replied, Yeah, that sounds good. Then, he added, You don’t mind?

What? she re-poked her head with a quizzical stare from the kitchen entry.

We can order in or sneak out once it gets dark.

With a chuckle, she flicked several stray bangs from her brow, and said, Don’t be silly. You know I love to cook.

I know, he began to throw out a lame excuse, I just thought that—

Don’t worry about it, she calmly reassured. It’ll be ready in just a few minutes.

Already, the sweet smell of curry and rice wafted into his nostrils, so he decided to crush out his cigarette in the ashtray—admitting he should quit. He knew smoking was dangerous, and would eventually take its toll upon his life. And even though Ashley never complained about it, he knew full-well it concerned her, nonetheless.

Flipping through the channels, he suddenly stopped. What the…? By rule of thumb, the Sports Channel was not one of his favorites, and he usually bypassed it with a click. Today, however, his attention was piqued. Several high school athletes were being interviewed—football players to be exact—the best candidates for the South-East Conference. He elevated from the cushions and turned up the volume. I know him…I know that boy! It was amazing that he even spotted him. After all, they begin to look alike—groupies that is. And why in the hell am I even reacting?

That, in itself, was mystifying.

As the kid yammered and yowled about career goals and past achievements, Shane dug through his mental card-file.

Yeah, it’s been a really good year. Overall, I’m satisfied.

I should say, the interviewer replied. Let’s see, you’ve had sixty-two receptions, summing over twenty-one hundred yards. That’s pretty impressive…not to mention your thirty-one touchdowns.

The youth grinned with beaming satisfaction. Thank you.

Have you had any offers?

So far, I’ve heard from Oklahoma, Indiana, and Florida State.

How about anything from your backyard?

The University of Louisville’s extended a good hand; and I’ve been communicating with them this week.

Saturated with a strong southern accent, the dark-haired youth occasionally shifted eye contact from the interviewer to the camera.

He’s direct…good for a celeb. And, while finding himself completely familiar with the boy’s mannerisms, he could not recall any specific encounter to bear out this knowledge. Yeah, I’m sure we met. I specifically remember talking to him! Yet, on the other hand, he wasn’t sure.

Well, that’s great, the announcer concluded. Lance, we look forward to seeing more impressive accomplishments coming from your direction this season. I wish you the best.

Thanks.

You’re watching Sports One Fielder, and I’m Rick Gardner, your host. Coming up after the break, we’ll talk with Dale Johnson, quarterback for the Eagles of Eden Prairie, Minnesota.

Quickly, the broadcast switched to a commercial, leaving a clueless Shane on the edge of his seat.

He turned off the TV.

Where have I seen him? Lance…I’m sure we’ve conversed. Memories of countless sets, interviews, and clandestine encounters swept through his brain, yet nothing could be recalled, regarding this individual.

Probably a fan, he finally concluded.

Unexpectedly, warm arms surrounded him as he sensed a gentle kiss land upon his forehead. Go wash up, his wife commanded. Dinner’s ready.

*****

Absolutely unreal!

Lance’s pencil flew across the room—landing behind the worn-out wicker chair with a thunk. I’ve never been like this!—he hopelessly groused. Everyone knows I’m always in control. And that was a fact. He always seemed to know what to do in any given situation; but, lately, he had to admit he felt like a total mess—largely because he couldn’t rope-in one single emotion to save his soul.

Bzzzzz… His cell bleeped out. Another text from Parker: meet u at robinson? Several of his buddies decided to get together and kick a few balls around at Robinson Park. It was their mid-week tradition.

not 2nite …he sadly replied.

? …came the reply.

Thinking for a minute, he finally moaned, then keyed: study

What a lie! I can’t even make sense of a single paragraph, let alone study trigonometry. Then, rolling his eyes in utter dismay, he pondered, Jesus, nothin’ like this has ever happened to me, so what in the hell’s goin’ on?! I tell you what, nothin’ makes sense, he told himself for the millionth time, …’cuz it’s as if I’ve been placed smack-dab into a freakin’ sci-fi movie. Or else I’ve been put under a damned spell.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anyone who would do something like that.

Slamming the textbook, he thought ‘hypocrite’. But, reluctantly, he went with his decision, because the last thing he wanted to do was trig.

So, from his desk—staring blankly toward the newest athletic award perched upon the dresser—he mentally went back to that morning where it all began…waking to unbelievable pain, running trembling fingers across mysterious cuts, and inhaling disgusting, yet tantalizing smells. One thing’s for sure, Lance told himself—resigning to the fact he couldn’t concentrate worth a shit, …these past several days have been nothing short of indescribable.

Then, shoving back the chair, he reached down and grabbed his old football. He always kept it close by…just for moments like this. Tossing it from hand to hand, he continued with his thoughts—disjointed as they were.

So, what actually happened to all the scars, bruises, and pain? He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that all of it had been real. Besides, every one of his waking senses could testify to that. The fact was, however, everything had faded away by the time he had gotten to school. How then, did it happen? Had it been a miracle? He highly doubted that. Truly then, it must have been the water that had made it all disappear, because no other explanation seemed to come close, logically.

And what about the flash that had gone through his head while driving to school? It had been as if he’d been struck by lightening. For a second, he could have sworn he’d seen a vision…something different…very odd, to say the least. For sure, it had been a sight he’d never seen before…like a large church or cathedral. It had ornate towers…like those in Eastern Europe or Russia. The structure itself had been red…or maroon; and the architecture had appeared magnificent. And then, right before him, was the face of a young guy…slender, heavy-browed with straight blond hair and high cheek bones—smiling directly into his face. Even stranger, he had looked really familiar…as if he’d been a buddy forever. Truth was, however, Lance had never seen the guy…ever. The entire ordeal had been so weird…somewhat creepy, in fact.

Then, there had been his encounter with Kyrsten before first period…

Lance, what’s up with you? She had amiably met him at the Commons. But lines scrawled upon her face, nonetheless, spoke volumes of a different story.

Whatdaya mean? Somehow, his guts had forewarned him of the impending storm.

I dunno, you were really weird on the phone, she spoke accusingly—falling into step with him as they headed toward class. And why did you hang up on me?

I didn’t hang up, he quickly retorted—bee-lining to his locker. There’s no way I’m gonna have a confrontation with her right before the awards ceremony.

Casting him an incredulous stare, she then thoughtfully replied, Yes, you did.

With a brisk fling, he tossed his book bag into the locker and reached for a notebook. Look, I’m sorry if I was brusque earlier. Then closing the locker with a clink, he turned and faced her—feeling genuinely apologetic. I didn’t mean to.

Earnestly, she followed—locking her gaze with emerald green eyes. Well, I wasn’t meaning to be a pest.

Quickly, Lance had come back, You weren’t a pest. Then, looking down to the nicely polished floor tile, he found himself continuing, You never are.

Silence, at that point, had enveloped them as Kyrsten assimilated his words—her stare continuing to focus onto his face. Finally, with a sigh, she broke their pause. Are you prepared for what you’re going to say at the assembly?

And with the hall bell sounding, he allowed a tiny huff to escape. We’re late. Working on an acceptance speech had been honestly the last thing traveling within his mind. There were much larger fish to fry…or, so it seemed.

As they scurried down the hallway, he remembered replying to her question with—I’ll work on something in class.

I hope so, she’d carefully warned—struggling to keep up with him, …because this is not the time for you to flake out.

She was right. She’s always right, he had to admit. He knew full well that everything he was trying to achieve, at this point, was built solely upon achievement and image, and any small deviation from that could mean a total fatality to his most coveted goals.

I won’t, he concluded—entering breathlessly into the classroom…

So, quietly pushing away from his desk, and rising to uncertain feet, he allowed a sigh to escape pensive lungs, while staring blankly though a bedroom window that seemed to be holding back secrets…dark ones, in fact.

Now, if only I can believe that.

*****

Four A.M…

Shane fell back against the mattress…utterly beside himself, while the clock’s screen quietly added another minute.

Damn it…I never get this way! Staring into the usual shadows shedding across the ceiling, his thoughts remained amiss, even though he vividly remembered the dream…clear as a bell. Why, I can still see that kid…lying on the table, fully naked…completely out. And there I am, lying on a separate table as well. Or, is it a puff of air? God, I don’t even know, because everything seems so unnatural…but yet, it seems so real.

And what are the odds that I recognize that guy? I see him in this dream…repeatedly. Then, I pick him out, right off the bat, on the television!

He could feel a headache set in. And, in spite of his desire to lie still—completely swallowed up within memories—the onslaught forced him out of the covers, into the bathroom—nervously scrambling for a pain reliever.

Taking two pills with one hefty gulp of water, Shane stood silently at the counter, gazing into blackness.

So, where is this place? Is it a room, or somewhere else, like a non-space…like clouds, or a bubble? He thought harder. Let’s see, it’d been dark; yet, there was light…from somewhere. Not the ceiling, however. And hadn’t it been just moments after I had been hauled in, that the boy had been brought to the area as well? Then, something struck him. And how were we ‘hauled’ in? That, in and of itself, was a complete blank. He couldn’t recall how he’d even gotten there—even if it was a place. Instantly, Shane remembered that they both had noticed each other—balancing against their own private horror, yet, totally speechless to the bewilderment.

And who was it that had ushered us both in? Now, it was there, his mind remembered something. But, yet, it wasn’t clear. I know that someone…or something had helped us undress, then place us on our tables. But, beyond that, I can’t remember.

Allowing a long sigh to escape, he turned and left the bathroom.

Before him, lying so reposed upon their bed, Ashley’s deep breaths resonated the still air.

She has so much peace.

Then, he spotted it…just before crawling back into bed—catching his attention from the corner of his vision. Quickly, instantly, it moved from the doorway toward the closet.

What is it? Shane squinted—trying his darnedest to focus into the hidden shrouds of the room. And, even though there was nothing visible to his eyes, a cold chill shot up his spine, then out to his arms, followed by a surging wave of shivers. Instinctively, he knew he’d seen something.

He stood still several minutes—feet firmly planted into the carpet’s fabric. And, with his thoughts, Shane diligently worked at reconsidering what he had just seen. It looked like a vapor—or steam, but it also had the definite shape of a person. So, is it a ghost? He continued to scan the room—waiting, searching for another glimpse of whatever it was he saw.

But nothing appeared.

It could be the medicine, he tried to rationalize, as he tip-toed from the bedroom to further investigate. Going down the hallway, he peeked innocuously into every room…just to ensure that no one had snuck in past the security gate; or that it wasn’t one of the guards simply making nighttime rounds.

Eventually, he gave up the vigil and went back to the bedroom. And sliding back into bed, Shane began to re-absorb the predominate stillness surrounding him; but he simply wasn’t satisfied. For some odd reason, he knew there was something, someone…standing by the bed, silently watching and studying his each and every move.

Now, it was that conclusion which brought everything to his mind…except sleep.

And in spite of everything seemingly being pricked with restlessness, he simply rolled over and let out another sigh.

CHAPTER 2

Maybe this will be a normal day.

Lance could only hope. It’s Sunday, for God’s sake. Vigorously, he strove to keep his thoughts light and breezy…like the gentle winds sailing effortlessly into his room from the open window beside his desk. Certainly, there was no way he was going to break the enchantment.

Pushing himself out of bed with a yawn, he produced a big, hard stretch. Well now, that felt good, he heartily surmised. And I’m actually looking forward to church. Incredibly, he had gotten a good sleep…no dreams, no nightmares, no peculiar interruptions, and it felt great to be fully rested.

Yes, sir, he told himself, today will be a good day.

Yesterday had been a fairly good one as well—except for one moment when he got sick to his stomach, while wrestling with his kid brother, Bruce.

Kyrsten had called that morning saying she was going to a baby shower with several of her friends, and highly doubted he would enjoy himself with a bunch of girls playing silly games and talking about nursery decorating and baby clothes, so that had set him free for the afternoon.

The nausea itself had been unusual, because right up to that moment, he had felt absolutely great. Eventually, he blamed it on what he had eaten earlier. He and Bruce had unwittingly staked out to a fast food joint—right after roaming the mall. Then, afterwards, they had headed back home to play a little ball and romp.

You boys need to let your stomachs settle before gettin’ active, his mother had chided—hauling groceries into the house from the van. She had arrived back home just in time to find her sons cleaning up the mess.

But we never get sick, Lance had found himself quick to respond—assisting with countless plastic bags to the kitchen. It was the truth, because they were always rough-housin’…regardless of meals, temperatures, or sore throats.

Making his way to the bathroom, he glanced in the mirror. One more day, and everything’s fine…no mystery spots, nor shooting pain. Maybe I’m out of the woods. His good spirits lifted higher. So, running his fingers through a classic case of ‘brown-haired bed-head’, he pivoted on a heel and turned on the water in the shower.

From downstairs, his mother called out, Y’all better get a move on, ’cuz we’ll be leavin’ here in twenty minutes!

All right, Mama! Lance shouted back. He wondered if he should check on his brother, because that kid could sleep through a cyclone. Bruce, you up yet? he hollered—jumping into the rain box. Above the sound of the water, he heard a muffled groan from the room down the hallway.

Yeah, I’m up. Y’all don’t need to scream, ya know. A few seconds later, the younger Buchannan stumbled into the bathroom and let out a long fart.

Aw jeez, Boo Boo, you have to go ’n stink the place up? Lance protested, while lathering his head.

I saved it just fer you! His brother let out a hoot while pissing.

Three-minute shower, skipped shave, and the toss-on of his usual garb, Lance was ready to go. His somewhat lanky, fiery red-headed brother, however, was another story. As he sprayed a dash of cologne around a willing neck, and performed one last check-over his hair, Lance found it impossible not to be amazed. In spite of their mother’s warning, Bruce remained at the bathroom sink—half naked, in search of zits over countless freckles. To Lance, in all honesty, he sometimes wondered if Bruce was socially retarded—being that he seemed to literally have no concept of propriety or time.

Heading downstairs, he sailed past the kitchen table where his mother diligently fussed with a decorative bow to a flower arrangement.

This is for Grammie…you know today’s her birthday. Mrs. Buchannan completed her final touches to the bouquet.

Yes, Mama, Lance replied—bee-lining to the fridge…but not before checking out the skillet of scrambled eggs and ham. Then, with a wrinkled nose, he placed the lid back onto the fry pan.

Did you boys get her a card? From where she sat, the little woman quietly studied her son with astute interest.

We got her a real nice one. Lance tossed her a winking grin before sticking his head into the refrigerator for a serious search. I know you’ll like the poem.

We’re headin’ over to their place after dinner; and Kyrsten’s invited to come along.

I know, he said—head still wedged between shelves—shuffling jar after jar in search of something. She said she’d let me know after church, because her uncle’s in a big ceremony this evening with the Colonels.

By this time, Mrs. Buchannan was completely distracted away from what her son was saying. What on Earth are you doin’? I tell ya what, you look like a half-starved squirrel fixin’ to find some buried nuts.

Coming out for a breath, Lance finally asked, We got any yogurt ’n carrots?

Lance’s father then came bolting into the room—making final adjustments to his tie. Y’all ready? Lance, where’s your brother?

Dismissing her husband’s interruption, she continued with what was on her mind. Any what?

Yogurt ’n carrots. Frustrated, Lance shut the door and went to the pantry. Do we have any honey grahams?

Bruce! Mr. Buchannan went to the stairwell and hollered. You better git a move on! We’re leavin’!

By now, his mother bore eyes roughly the shape of quarters.

As Lance busily rummaged through the cabinets, he piped, You know, I’m really cravin’ yogurt. I could eat a gallon of it right now.

His mother remained motionless in her chair—riveted to Lance’s every movement.

By now, red-faced and completely frustrated, Mr. Buchannan returned to the kitchen. That kid’s just gonna have to stay behind, or we’ll be late for church!

John, it’s not the end of the world, she sighed—pulling attention away from her boy. So, what if we’re a few minutes late. The sanctuary ain’t gonna fall apart.

Tossing his keys on the counter, he turned to his wife, then charged back to the stairs, while Lance and his mother listened to his footsteps stomp up toward the bathroom.

With an effort to refocus back to the subject at hand, the stunned lady eventually blinked and cleared her throat. I bought a quart of cottage cheese yesterday.

That sounds great, Lance reckoned—retreating back to the fridge.

Then, unable to resist comment to her observation, You never eat cottage cheese…and you don’t like yogurt.

Already, with a mouthful of spongy curds, he mumbled, Huh? Voraciously, he tackled the rest of the container with a large soup spoon, as if it was last rations.

Honey, are you all right? Concern now overtook her tone.

Looking up—taking in enough air to continue, he asked, Yeah, why? His cheeks were stuffed-full with creamy curds.

And with a shrug, she finally looked away—allowing her fingers to aimlessly fiddle with the bow on the bouquet. I dunno, you just seem a bit strange today. You haven’t even had a bite of the eggs ’n ham I made for you and your brother.

Between chomps, Lance quickly responded. I’m sorry…guess they’re not really appealin’ to me this morning.

Mrs. Buchannan’s face then furled into a scowl…as if trying to assimilate it all. I’ve never known you to stick your nose up at anythin’ I make for breakfast. Her words drifted off to a near whisper.

*****

Miraculously, the Buchannans made it to Mass just before the processional—joining the quiet trickle of stragglers scrambling for the last remaining pew spaces.

"You know how I hate gettin’ here last minute!" John softly griped into his wife’s ear—all the while, genuflecting toward the tabernacle, and tossing in a hasty sign-of-the-cross. And as the remainder of the family busied themselves—situating elbow-to-elbow, and kneeling for the appearance of a hasty, meditative prayer, he leaned back from the kneeler and whispered an apology to the others within the pew who were forced to shuffle in closer.

Please stand.

The priest’s voice finally sailed commandingly throughout the sanctuary…but, none too soon, as far as Lance was concerned. To him, he understood completely where his dad was coming from, because, at times, Bruce could be just plain selfish. And as the service methodically progressed, he found his mind drifting in and out—thinking about how inconsiderate his brother’s actions were toward family functions.

I dunno why you make such a big deal outta it, the younger sibling had once quipped during a conversation, while working out with the weight equipment with Lance in the basement. My God, it’s like you expect me to hype-out, the way you ’n Dad do all the time.

That’s not true, Lance then quickly came back—resting the barbell back on the bench rack with a clank.

And wiping a towel over his sweaty face, Bruce had hotly retorted with a sarcastic chuckle, Yes, it is. Look, the bottom line is…I’m not you. I never will be.

I didn’t say you’ve gotta be like me. Grabbing a pair of dumbbells, Lance had carefully positioned himself next to the wall mirror—ensuring a perfect flex with each curl. It’s just that I think you should be a little more considerate of where Mom ’n Dad are comin’ from.

Yeah, his partner had finally concluded—hoisting up onto the chin-up bar, …well, I’ll keep that in mind, Big Brother.

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you… the congregation’s response suddenly brought him back to the present; thus, he obediently finished the worship recitation along with everyone else.

For some reason, an uncomfortable feeling seemed to pervade throughout the service; but unfortunately, Lance found himself unable to identify what it was. And while the liturgy seemed okay, and the congregation certainly seemed focused, there was something undeniably askew. Moreover, from time to time, he secretly caught his mother stealing glimpses toward his direction. And oddly, he could not help but notice it was the same quizzical countenance she bore at the house earlier that morning…that weird look of wonderment saddled firmly within her eyes—heralding to the world that something’s up.

Eventually, it was time for their row to go for communion. So, everyone filed into the aisle with bowed heads and folded hands—Bruce leading the way, followed by himself, then finally their parents—dutifully trailing behind.

While waiting as others were being served, Bruce carefully studied some rather robust curves of a plump, busty woman who also carried with her a large-round butt. And leaning back toward Lance, he cupped his mouth, and loudly whispered, Now I know where they keep all the basketballs!

At that, Lance honestly believed he was either going to blackout at the inability to either burst out laughing, or else die of embarrassment from smacking Bruce up-side the head. What’s wrong with that boy?! Leaning forward, he softly growled into a more-than-eager ear, Shut your fat trap; or, I’ll shut it up for ya, you dumb-assed ape!

He just hoped and prayed the lady hadn’t heard what his brother had said.

Arriving at the front, where Father and the Eucharistic ministers quietly served, Lance patiently waited for his turn to take the Host and wine. Today, they were in the Priest’s line.

The Body of Christ, the robed clergyman reverently whispered as Bruce bowed, then headed toward the lady who held the wine goblet.

Apparently, fortunately, no one else seemed to hear Bruce’s stray comment.

Lance stepped forward—ready to receive his wafer. But, while cupping his hands, the queerest thing happened. Raising his head and looking up, the priest wasn’t there! Instead, a different man, ensconced within a similar robe—but much older—stood before him. And with words he’d never heard before, the man reached out and placed the Eucharist directly upon his tongue.

Telo Hrista.

For a moment, Lance froze—lost in shock, yet struck with awe. Then, instantly, as the man had mysteriously appeared, he vanished—leaving a questioning priest standing before him, ready to serve his next parishioner.

Stumbling, he hurried to the lady. And taking his wine, he headed back to their pew—genuinely dazed at what had just happened.

After the service, Lance discovered he couldn’t get out of the church fast enough. But equally surprising was having his mother hot on his heels every step of the way.

Lance, would you mind tellin’ me what exactly happened up there at communion? Breathless from trying to keep up with him, she found it difficult to speak.

And shaking a confused head, while continuing his determined stride toward their van, he replied, I dunno.

Getting to the vehicle, just short of light speed, Lance dove for the