The Last Defender: A Novel

By Travis Pearson

Soon after a population desperate for change elects a charismatic yet radical government leader, people begin vanishing without media coverage or bodies to recover. As the new socialist leader rules without compassion, steals the wealth of the country, and controls every aspect of the citizens’ lives, one man decides to take action.

Brent Stevens, a brilliant researcher intent on unlocking the power of the mind, lived a perfect middle-class existence before the new government robbed him of everything and attacked his only friend. Determined to help humankind, he launches a revolt against the all-powerful government. But when he is stonewalled by a powerful bureaucracy determined to institute their brutal agenda, Brent must become the country’s last defender. As he bravely challenges a dark destiny, the clock ticks away as he wonders if he can save his country—and its people—from a bleak future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Mar 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483465845

Travis Pearson

Travis Pearson is a retired bank chairman and chief executive officer, an accomplished marksman, pilot, sports car driver, martial artist, and sportsman who tells an interesting story. He currently resides in Lucas, Texas.

Book preview

The

Last Defender

A Novel

Travis Pearson

Copyright © 2017 Travis Pearson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6585-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6586-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6584-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902509

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.

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.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 02/27/2017

Contents

Acknowledgements

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

Epilogue

About the Author

Books by Travis Pearson

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to Audree Eleanore (Ellee) – she understood the power of the written word.

Inspiration and encouragement

My wife Linda - my beautiful proofreader, inside and out.

Tony – encouraged me to complete this project, even after reading early beta versions.

Mike – a real fan and his encouragement and input made this story possible.

Louise – a friend that liked all the Travis Pearson stories.

Special Thanks

Carolyn Neal Lockridge – an absolute gem in Fulfillment Services at Lulu Publishing, who furnished invaluable guidance and input, and she was instrumental in delivering this finished manuscript.

Amber Richards – my publishing advisor, encouraging me throughout the process, and guiding over the rough spots.

Prologue

On an overcast, dreary afternoon, the stillness of the air and humidity trapped the adrenaline-induced sweat of the dissenters while emitting a stale, pungent smell as the vehicles sped toward this area. The buzz of their conversations reflected their fear, concern, and frustration.

This group of ethnically diverse protestors demonstrated in the parking lot of the Prosper city mall. They demanded answers for a disturbing occurrence.

The growing dark, pillow-like clouds forecast an approaching storm and foreshadowed the mood of the country: hopelessness transitioning to despair. The black, anvil-shaped clouds, with occasional lightning still in the distance, were approaching the shopping center.

The agitators talked as they conveyed their personal stories about these grievances.

The invading vehicles approached the entrance to the mall.

The demonstrators compared their stories while hoping for an answer to their specific concerns.

What happened that you are here? James Rutherford inquired.

George Adler responded, My son, Stanton, disappeared. Something happened. I know it.

James Rutherford asked, Is it possible he just ran away? Some do.

I think that is highly improbable in his case. He wasn’t into drugs or gambling. I can’t think of any reason.

The authorities don’t seem interested. They are too busy, or we are not giving them proper leads. There is possibly an even worse scenario: they don’t care, James speculated.

Coleen Washington told Alondra Johnson, Jadyn is a good boy. Being young, he didn’t always show up on time, and his grades needed improving. But Jadyn was a caring son. He may have done too much stuff, and it messed him up. I know he would have outgrown it. She made sure Alondra was listening before continuing. Then one day, he never came home. I don’t understand it. I gave him weekly money to help him live. I can’t imagine he’d be gone this long without telling me. I know he wants the money.

Clayton, my oldest, always took care of Mama, said Alondra. We live on assistance, and he would find ways to acquire stuff from people who had too much. They had enough that they shouldn’t have noticed. He started getting high more than he should, so I told him, ‘Cut that shit out.’ I know he understood. Then one day, he didn’t come home. I was afraid someone killed him for taking a few things. Those people should know that not everyone has as much as they do. They have got to share.

They all told their stories about missing relatives, and then they decided to attract attention to these occurrences and get some action—to get their families returned. They wanted answers, and although public groups were expressly prohibited from airing grievances, the protestors demanded a response. And they believed someone knew the fate of their loved ones.

At the perimeter of the demonstration, several vehicles arrived, encircling these activities. Then the occupants disembarked from their transports.

The sun glistened off Kurt Stuben’s big shaved head as he unfolded from the rear-passenger seat of his chauffeur-driven limo. He was a massive man who moved with surprising agility. His driver opened the door and administered a sharp salute. Kurt Stuben was the head of the Department of Internal Security. He scanned his surroundings, noting the position of the security vehicles while he watched the sliding doors on the windowless white van open. The fresh paint covered and erased the once prominent Pure Research, Inc., wording and company logo. Five figures without expressions departed the vehicle then headed in the direction of the Prosper mall. Their faces appeared blank—devoid of humanity.

Prosper was a medium-size city experiencing a severe economic downturn. Most people in the nation referred to this urban area as lower-middle class. The once vibrant metropolis had deteriorated into a series of unkempt properties fueled by rampant unemployment. The Prosper mall was the best maintained of the three surviving shopping centers of the metropolis.

The group of protestors peacefully exhibited signs and banners outside the shopping center, as they wanted attention, to alert others to their plight.

The signs read,

Bring Them Back

Stop the Insanity

Someone, Protect Us

Give Us Jobs

Pay Higher Wages

More Jobs

The group marched slowly while presenting their messages, whereas the shoppers glanced at their writings as they rushed to the stores. They hurried because goods were becoming scarce as a result of the price controls, and they did not want to purchase these items on the black market.

Kurt observed the five silent men spread out while heading to encircle the protesters. They varied in size, but all of them had deep-set eyes with frozen features. They did not react to people or the environment. Instead, they focused on the demonstrators as a crowd formed, watching from a distance.

A studious-looking person wearing small round spectacles stood near Stuben while holding a metal clipboard and overseeing the events. The fragile figure dressed in a white lab coat scribbled furiously on the notepad. The Scientist had climbed out of the white van following the expressionless men, the beings whose faces reflected nothing. The Department of Internal Security monitored these activities, their assignment to protect the Scientist, with a secondary duty to control the events.

There were six SUVs parked near Kurt Stuben’s vehicle with several of the occupants leaning on their transportation while watching the Scientist and the silent men as they lumbered toward the dissidents. Kurt stood erect, with military posture, while observing the area.

The expressionless brutes attacked. They punched and savaged, and they wrested the signs and banners from the protestors. The smacking sound of fists connecting with skin drifted to the onlookers, with the accompanying yelps and screams of agony as bones broke. The protestors and observers were horrified and could not understand this response to a peaceful civil protest.

The violence increased as the beings rained rhythmic fists, pummeling the questioners and destroying their messages. They shredded their banners. The protestors, desperate and outraged, tried to resist these enforcers, and they fought back by hurling punches and signposts. But their defiance was ineffective, and the five silent assailants seemed unaware of any resistance. Also, they appeared impervious to pain.

A few demonstrators tried to escape the violence, but they were caught and beaten into submission. And then the confrontation ended.

The spectators observed quietly; they did not want to draw any attention to themselves because they did not wish to incur the ire of the emotionless creatures. Immediately after the demonstrators had been beaten, with their narration destroyed, the raiders headed for their van. The protestors lay, screaming, crying, moaning, and clutching their injured bodies covered in the debris of their signs, and they watched helplessly as their assaulters departed the area and then entered their vehicle. The person in the white lab jacket examined the area and then crisply closed the clipboard. With it clutched tightly to the body, the Scientist followed them inside the van.

As the door to the van slid shut, Stuben maneuvered his oversize frame into the sedan’s rear seat. Then his driver firmly closed the passenger door. After that, all vehicles departed.

A gentle drizzle fell from the darkening sky as the thunderclaps sounded louder and closer. The light rain erased the odor of fear-induced sweat from the dissidents but did not alleviate their pain. Lightning erupted from the invading black, anvil-shaped cumulus clouds, and the gusts of wind scattered debris, signaling the approaching storm.

Chapter 1

John McGuire watched the food demonstrators through the window of his grocery store and shook his head slowly in disgust. He sympathized with the several dozen people demanding help as they marched and demonstrated while seeking food and jobs. John felt the policy changes enacted by the new administration were not delivering the anticipated results. He turned from the depressing view and gazed at his store’s nearly bare shelves, now devoid of the typical specialty items and inventory that McGuire’s Meat and Groceries were known to carry. John reflected that since the Socialist came to power, government price controls and overwhelming regulations imposed on business were destroying their grocery store.

He glanced at the lightly clouded sky and, noting the sweaters on the dissidents, instinctively touched the glass. He felt the chill from the outside. The weather was turning colder as the holidays approached.

John stared out the window, reflecting on friends