Aces to Kings

By A.D. Pollard

In Austin Pollard's debut novel, "Aces to Kings," readers are plunged into an immersive world rooted in realism, but with elements of fantasy, where an ordinary deck of playing cards offers extraordinary glimpses into the future. This captivating narrative, a masterful blend of suspense and intrigue, pushes the boundaries of fiction and creates a unique space where reality and magic coexist.

Terrence, a quiet, hardworking man, unwittingly becomes the custodian of destiny when he inherits an ancient deck of playing cards with prophetic abilities. As the stakes escalate from benign predictions to a chilling prophecy of a biological attack on Atlanta, Terrence, together with his resilient girlfriend, Charlotte, and loyal friend, Nick, engage in a perilous race against time.

Their adversaries are formidable – the ruthless CETGEN Corporation, under the cold command of Angela Priest, and her guard of ominous Horsemen, individuals wielding strange and unique powers. The book skillfully intertwines plot twists that strengthen the connection between Terrence's past and his present challenges, upping the tension and reader's engagement.

"Aces to Kings" is a perfect blend of magical realism and suspense, punctuated with explosive action sequences and nail-biting moments. With ease, Austin's writing style emphasizes natural dialogue and vivid descriptions, drawing readers into the world he creates, making them live and breathe alongside the characters.

At its core, "Aces to Kings" is a story of three friends battling impossible odds, exploring themes of fate, destiny, and the power of choice. It prompts the reader to ponder – if destiny lays down a path that seems to lead to one end, is it possible to alter its course? This moral question forms the heart of the narrative, endearing it to readers who love to delve deep into the philosophical dimensions of a tale.

Perfect for adult readers of all ages, "Aces to Kings" is especially appealing to fans of suspense, magical realism, and the zombie genre. Its unique blend of natural and supernatural elements, combined with a compelling storyline and relatable characters, makes it a must-read. Step into the world of "Aces to Kings" – where every card dealt could change the course of destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781977270047

A.D. Pollard

Austin Pollard is a creative storyteller from New Hampshire, known for his vivid descriptions and authentic dialogue. He paints a world in words that reflect the reality of everyday life, taking inspiration from acclaimed writers like Neil Gaiman. In his debut novel, 'Aces to Kings,' Austin shares his unique vision, providing a magical and compelling narrative that engages readers from the first page to the last. When he's not crafting tales, Austin enjoys life with his wife, Katie-Mae, their dog Letty, and cat Khleo.

Book preview

CHAPTER

1

He was unclear whether it was the brakes screaming to a halt or the weight of the fog pouring from the tailpipe that had caused it, but he was awake. Sitting at a bus stop, it was the same scene: the large, run-down gray box made of twisted steel—which was mostly rusted and barely staying together—was public transportation at its finest. Letting out a yawn that startled the woman next to him, he hopelessly tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. Another power nap before the commute to work, crudely interrupted by the choking grasp of reality. Fifteen minutes here, twenty minutes there. It wasn’t much, but it helped. Pulling the overtime that he was left almost no time for anything, and so he used what little he could for sleep.

His name was Terrence Washington. Standing just over six feet tall and weighing in around one hundred and eighty pounds he never really thought of himself as a big guy, though he did try to stay in shape. His job kept him busy for most of the day, but Terrence had joined a boxing gym at an early age and the training kept him lean and strong. Despite being one of the better fighters to come along in his hometown in some time, he declined most fights and usually kept to himself, only really applying himself when he helped the local kids by being the designated sparring partner. He wanted to teach them real boxing; how to apply it as a sort of discipline to their lives, how to use it to help others or defend themselves, but mostly he just wanted to keep them out of trouble. Terrence had spent most of the twenty-eight years of his life dealing with one kind of hardship or another, adversity was no stranger to him, and his face didn’t hide it. But underneath the hardened exterior of someone who had been ridiculed and bullied for being just another poor kid, and for having a father who worked at the machine shop and not in some office or sales room—the scar over his right eye still testament to the fact he had to learn to fight at an early age. Beneath all that were the eyes of a kinder individual, someone who did what he had to because it was the right thing to do.

The day his father was diagnosed with a cancer in his lungs he developed working around steel dust and exhaust and heavy machinery for more than a quarter century may as well have been the same day his father died. He had given up on everything and everyone and it killed Terrence to see the man whom he so deeply respected, quit. And although he had suffered most of his life, he knew his dad was now suffering more than he ever had. Not long after his father passed away, Terrence went down to that very same shop for a job. Staying true to his nature, Terrence knew it was his responsibility to take care of his family. After the death of his father, he stayed in the city to work while his mother and sister moved back to the farm where he had grown up.

Nearly a decade had passed since that day and Terrence found himself once again glancing around half asleep, cursing the early morning air. It was the sort of morning chill that went right through your jacket, and you felt no matter what you did, and everything was wet as though it had just rained, though it always seemed to have just rained this early. As his eyes fell on the bus the doors swung open, grinding and screeching as they did. They seemed to welcome him to some impending doom, like the medieval priest who would wait for a prisoner by the chopping block in the center of town. The steps were crooked and broken, with several screws missing and lathered in the mud of a late winter. These few steps lead up to the disgruntled man behind the wheel who was running on about an hour of sleep himself, waiting for passengers like the aforementioned executioner.

About that time, he said to the woman next to him. Reluctantly, Terrence pulled himself off the bench. Though made of linked metal hoops, it provided some small amount of comfort for his weary legs. About time I quit this damn job, he finished under his breath. He climbed the steps and headed to the back as he did every day for what seemed like forever. But something felt different about today. He glanced side to side as he passed the faces of the unknowns he’d seen all those times before, never really stopping to get to know any of them. He knew a name here or there, but none of them were very interesting, and the feeling was mutual. Collapsing on the seat in the back, he stared out the window as people carried on outside: walking to jobs or to school, an early morning jogger every now and then, the businessman who looked like a million dollars was talking on his cell phone while trying to wave down a taxi.

The bus doors repeated the horrific noise they made only a moment ago as they slam shut, once again confining all these souls within this dreadful machine. As they pull away from the stop his daily commute begins, and though he has another long day ahead of him and should be focused on work, his mind is miles away. It was all he could think about: ten numbers of no obvious significance, no apparent pattern or relation to one another. Just ten numbers scribbled on a single playing card, the Three of Clubs.

When Terrence was young, he would watch his father play Solitaire at the dinner table when he had trouble sleeping. His father had this deck of cards—his ‘special deck’ he called it—that was faded and worn and much older than him. He used to tell Terrence a story about the origin of the deck, though each time he told it some of the details would change. He said how it was used by a gambler many years ago in London who was believed to have had the deck enchanted by a gypsy, giving him great luck and fortune whenever he used it. The deck also, on rare and very special occasions, was rumored to provide the gambler with a glimpse at the future, allowing him to bet on horse races and the like, furthering his fortune and reputation. One day his reputation caught up with him and he cheated the wrong people. But before they had him killed, the gambler got rid of the cards, and they were soon forgotten.

While serving in the war his father had come across a woman who spoke of the cards and their whereabouts and, after some arguing and persuading, he had acquired the deck. He didn’t win any poker games with it, but he told Terrence there were many dangers overseas and he believed that if he hadn’t possessed the deck, he wouldn’t have come back alive. His father felt there was some truth in the story, though whether or not it was true, Terrence couldn’t be sure. He just knew he loved his father’s stories so he would always listen and enjoy them.

This deck of cards was the only thing he had left of his father’s; they had sold most of his personal belongings to help his mother pay for the trip back home. Terrence wasn’t sure why he kept the deck, but it was all he really had left, and it reminded him of those nights spent watching his father play and listening to his stories. Each year since that day, as a way to sort of pay his respects, he would sit down with a glass of whiskey and play a game of Solitaire. However, this year, while he sat in his kitchen playing and losing like he had so many times before, a strange feeling came over him. Terrence ignored it and shuffled the deck. Then, sipping his whiskey, he began to lay the cards out for one last game. This game started off just as unpromising as the last, and as he flipped each card, he remembered the story his father told.

"So, there I was, Terry, standing in the blazing hot sun in the middle of nowhere, and some old woman is telling me this fantastic tale of these magic playing cards. And for some strange reason, I can’t stop listening. She tells me it’s been over a hundred years since they were last seen, but she learned the location and had found them for herself," his father said. There had still been a slight look of disbelief on his face, even after all those years.

"She tells me that I have an honest man’s look in my eyes, and that she’d be willing to part with the deck, for a price of course."

Terrence laid a few cards down, flipped one over and scowled when it wasn’t the one he wanted.

"She says she’ll give me the cards if I simply make her a promise: I have to promise to only use them for good, to not let greed get the best of me, for fear I may end up like the old gambler. Magic cards for a promise? Seemed a little ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ to me, but what did I have to lose? His father placed the remaining cards on the table and reached for his whiskey. Lost another one," he sighed.

Terrence put the cards down for a moment to refill his glass. He walked into the kitchen to get some more ice, and as he did, he had that strange feeling again. He felt as though he had to do something, or that he was forgetting something. He tried to shrug it off as he made his way back to the living room and continued to play. A few more moves and his mind began to trail off again, back to his childhood, back to thoughts of his father and his talks. Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was the overtime and lack of sleep, either way he couldn’t help it.

"I’m not sure why but I had to have those cards, he had told his son. I had to see if they were real. All she wanted was some silly promise, I figured it couldn’t hurt. Terrence had looked at his dad with a smile, knowing full well how it ended but enjoying the story just the same. So, I agreed, I mean, she said I looked like an honest man and trusted me with the cards. His father rattled his glass to get the last of his whiskey out, trying but failing to keep the ice on the bottom. Never did win a damn game with them, though."

The strange feeling came back, and Terrence couldn’t shake it. He flipped another card and scowled much like his father used to. His father’s words once again crept into his head.

"Terry, he said, putting his glass down and leaning closer to Terrence. These cards are special. There’s no doubt in my mind they’re special. I don’t know why, but I can just feel it. His father had emphasized the word ‘feel’ by making a fist and placing it over his heart. I faced a lot of dangerous things back in the war, a lot of scary things and scary people. And I’m telling you, if I didn’t have that deck on me, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you. Hell, you wouldn’t even be here right now." His father’s eyes tear up a little as he rubs Terrence’s head, further messing up his hair. He stood up and stretched, and followed Terrence to his bed to tuck him back in.

Terrence finished his whiskey and flipped another card, staring at it as he remembered his father’s words that night.

"I haven’t yet figured out what the old woman meant when she said to use the cards for good, but that doesn’t mean they’re not special. Maybe someday, long after I’m gone, you’ll have that opportunity, and you’ll be able to figure out what I couldn’t. Perhaps one day, if you’re really lucky, you may even win a game with them. His father had pulled the covers up and kissed him on the head. Goodnight, Terry. I hope someday down the road you’re as lucky as I am right now." The next day his father would be diagnosed with cancer, and he’d never play another game again.

Still holding the card in his hand, the memory of Terrence’s father faded. A wave of uncertainty came over him as he sat staring at this card. It was the Three of Clubs, and it was the last card he needed to win. He was actually going to win a game, the first one ever, but that wasn’t what surprised him. There were numbers on this card, handwritten numbers, ten of them in black ink. He made the next few moves and stacked all the cards together, placing the strange card on top. It was an old deck, he thought, but the writing looked brand new, almost fresh, as though he had just written it while sitting here. He picked up his empty glass and tried to get the last of his whiskey in the same way his father had always tried, only to be greeted by ice. He gave the card one last look before heading to bed, laughing and trying to forget about it.

Growing up in a small town in Maine, Terrence wanted to be a police officer, then for a while, a fire fighter. Astronaut and doctor had also crossed his wish list of career choices. He never had the intention of working in a metal shop, bending rebar and cutting sheet metal. Though the pay was decent, the work was unforgiving; at times he and the others would sacrifice safety for the long hours needed to finish a job. His dad had worked in this same shop. He was a hard worker and was almost never home. But it was this that gave Terrence’s family that same home his father couldn’t enjoy. It was his father’s home away from home, a place that he had spent nearly 30 years. And in those 30 years, his only hope was that one day his son, Terrence, would be better. That he would grow up, though not forgetting where he came from, and strive to be the best he could, be it a cop or an astronaut, to be anything but a steel worker like his father.

Yet here he was: sparks flying, metal shards whipping past his head from time to time, covered in sweat, paint, rust, and dirt. Usually keeping to himself, he would come into work and do his job until they told him he could go, then do it all again the next day. Not exactly a life of luxury, but it paid the bills. He had a decent amount saved up already, and he would send whatever he could to his mom and sister if they ever needed it. His dad may have passed years ago, but the medical bills hadn’t. Thirty years around this hellhole really did a number on his lungs, and he had more respiratory problems than one anyone his age should have. Yet despite all that, Terrence knew he’d have a guaranteed job at the shop, and the pay would help a great deal with the bills. So, he had taken the job, throwing away his aspirations to be something more.

The metal shop had been in business for years and had been struggling to stay open in recent decades. There was always some problem with the economy so they couldn’t afford the manpower they needed to run properly, but the employees that were fortunate enough to hold their jobs were forced to work overtime almost every week, and it wasn’t usually appreciated. The shop was always hot; a sweltering heat that made work practically unbearable. There was the constant sound of turbines whirring and saws buzzing and slicing through metal. Hand-held grinders created magnificent curtains of sparks that aided in the already poor lighting of the shop. Hydraulic pumps would churn up and down, the rhythmic hum of the metallic arms almost soothing. Covering the cracked cement floor of the shop were faded oil and grease stains. On one wall a complex display of circuit breakers and power switches lead to a network of loose wires and piping that was strewn about the entire shop floor, adding an extra level of danger to the place. Crude piles of scrap metal were stacked by the rusted shelving that was filled with random parts and tools. Signs and posters preaching safety in the shop decorated the walls. The exhaust vents that stretched the length of the building were only visible with the flashing light of the arc welders and judging by the air quality of the shop floor, they may as well not have been there at all.

Terrence powered down his drill when he saw the boss walking toward him.

Hey, kiddo, It was Jerry, the shop manager and Terrence’s dad’s best friend. How you doing today? he asked, sincerely. It had been nine years since his father’s death and Jerry had asked Terrence how he was doing on the same day each year. Jerry was old, and he looked it. He had worked at the shop for as long as anyone could remember, leaving only for a few years to fight in the war. He was a small man, stocky and short, but very strong. He had what appeared to be permanent oil stains on most of his exposed skin, and never seemed to leave the shop. His face showed the troubles and stresses of past years, but his eyes gave him away. He was a good man. He had fought in the war alongside Terrence’s father and had remained close to the family ever since.

I’m good, Jerry. I’m just fine. Terrence took a break from drilling and pulled his goggles off to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

How’s your mom? I know it’s been rough for her being back on the farm with your sister. Jerry said as he looked down at his clipboard.

Yeah, there are a lot of memories there. But she’s doing well. Sarah helps as much as she can while going to school. Terrence replied, tossing his goggles onto the table.

That’s good to hear, kiddo. You just let me know if there’s ever a thing I can do for you or your mother. Jerry had been more a part of Terrence’s family than he had been of his own. He watched Terrence and his sister grow up and had been like an uncle to them. And because he had lost his wife some years ago and they never had any children, Jerry had done what he could to be involved with Terrence and his sister’s lives growing up.

I know, Jerry, we appreciate it. Terrence grabbed his bottle of water and pulled up a nearby stool, knowing that even though Jerry was the manager, he was here to chat. So, what’s up?

Well, I just wanted to come by, see how you were doing. I figured I’d butter you up before asking if you could cover Kyle’s shift tomorrow. Jerry smiled convincingly.

Terrence laughed. You know I would love to, but I’m already covering Mark’s shift tomorrow, remember? You asked me to yesterday. A puzzled look quickly came across Jerry’s face as he flipped through the pages on his clipboard. He cussed under his breath when he found the note he’d written himself on the schedule.

So, it would seem. Jerry sighed. So, it would seem. Well, kiddo, thanks for covering that shift. I know you pull a lot of overtime here, and you work hard like your father. That’s why I come to you first. He jotted something down on one of the pages on his clipboard.

Hey, Jerry, Terrence paused, trying to consider his words carefully. Can I ask you something?

Sure thing, kiddo. he answered and tilted his head to show he was paying attention, though he didn’t look up from his clipboard.

Do you remember that old deck of cards my dad used to play with? He sipped his water, wondering if he should even be asking about something so obscure.

Jerry stopped writing and looked up with a smile on his weathered face. Wow, that old thing? I remember the day he told me the story behind it, got a pretty good laugh outta me. He thought to himself for a moment and laughed again. Yeah, sure, I remember. What about it? He went back to his clipboard.

Terrence paused for a second. Well, I was playing a game of Solitaire a couple nights ago and I found this card, the Three of Clubs.

Jerry laughed again and looked up. Three of Clubs you say? You got yourself a real mystery there, kiddo. Jerry gave a wink like he thought he was the funniest man in the world. His wit was met with mocking laughter and a look of disapproval.

Seriously, though. I drew that card, and it had these numbers written on it. Ten numbers in black ink that didn’t look more than a day old, and I can’t for the life of me remember if I’ve ever seen them before. He sipped his water again, glancing around the shop at the other machines and employees. And that’s not even the weird part. After drawing that card, I moved a few more cards around and won. For the first time in nine years, I won. Terrence’s voice had a sense of triumph in it.

Wow, really? I don’t remember your dad ever winning a single game since, well, before you were born. Good job, kiddo. Jerry seemed sincere enough in his response, despite his gaze once again returning to his clipboard. So, what about those numbers, any ideas?

Not a one. Still trying to figure out where they came from. Terrence looked down at his watch. His workday was almost over.

Well, I wouldn’t think too hard about it, probably just a phone number or locker combination or something. You know how your dad was with writing stuff down on whatever he could get his hands on. Another employee came up to Jerry covered in oil and handed him what looked like a mangled pipe wrapped in torn wires.

Found the problem. It is gonna be a bitch to replace. He turned and nodded. Hey Terry. Terrence returned the nod and sipped his water once more.

Hey, kiddo, I gotta call and get a price on this part before they close. Say hi to your mom for me. He turned and headed straight for the office, stopping only to tell someone to clean up a spill. Terrence thought how ridiculous he must’ve just sounded, asking about some silly numbers and being nervous about it. Jerry was probably right, he thought. It was just a phone number or something. He picked up his dirty goggles and slipped them over his eyes. Though he was involved with his work he couldn’t shake that weird feeling, that something wasn’t right. He kept telling himself it was nothing, trying to concentrate. But he had never won a game before and neither had his father. It was one thing to not win all the time, but to not win a game of Solitaire once in over thirty years? Who had that kind of luck? How was that even possible? And what was the real significance of the numbers? These were just some of the questions going through his head, so he decided to take a break.

Standing outside in the cold seemed like a bad idea at first, but at least it gave him something else to think about. He sat on the ground, up against the building and tried to remember what his dad had told him that night.

"If I’m really lucky I may even win a game with them someday, he said to himself. Well, Dad, that day is here, and I don’t feel lucky. I feel weird, I feel… he paused. I feel confused. Not the emotions I expected after winning some stupid card game. Terrence blew into his hands and tried to rub the cold away. He remembered the words the old woman had said to his father: An honest man who will do the right thing with them? They’re playing cards, you play with them. He shook his head. I don’t get it." Terrence decided to give up thinking about it for now and head back to work. He decided he was going to play another game when he got home.

He returned to his workstation and began to think of other things. However, his thoughts were soon interrupted when the horn sounded. Although that technically signals the end of the day, no one moves. Tools are set down. Drills and saws slow to a stop. Yet no one moves. A moment goes by, and the boss hasn’t yelled out about any overtime. It’s then and only then that everyone begins to clear out. The workers move together as a stampede of exhausted, dirty zombies throwing down their hardhats and talking about the bar across the street.

So, it turns out it wasn’t my dog, Frankie paused, trying to build the dramatic tension. It was my wife. The punchline of his joke had succeeded, and the locker room roared with laughter. Frankie had always wanted to be a comedian, but simply being the funny man of the workplace was the furthest he had gotten with it. However, with two divorces under his belt and in the middle of a third, he had plenty to work with. This was the tradition of the shop employees. Each day after their shift they would all file into the locker room to get cleaned up and changed, listening to Frankie’s jokes and discussing their problems at home in their own humorous fashion. Then they would all file out and across the street to the bar that had been there as long as the shop.

Frankie took a break from his stand-up routine for a moment of sincerity. Hey, Terry, I know it’s your day and all, but why don’t you come out tonight and let me buy you a drink? We can toast to your old man. You know we all miss him. He opened his arms and looked around the locker room for acknowledgement from the others. Everyone agreed.

Terrence smiled. Thanks guys. Yeah, you know I’d love to, Frankie, I would. But I got something going on tonight and I gotta get back home. Thanks though, really. Terrence returned to folding his uniform up and placing it into the small yellow locker.

"You sure, man? I think that cute little bartender of yours is working. In