Gabriel’s Watch - Book One: The Scrapman Trilogy
Read Gabriel’s Watch - Book One: The Scrapman Trilogy Online
Authors: Noah Fregger
ABRIEL’S
W
ATCH
B
OOK
O
NE:
T
HE
S
CRAPMAN
T
RILOGY
Noah Fregger
G
ABRIEL’S
W
ATCH
B
OOK
O
NE:
T
HE
S
CRAPMAN
T
RILOGY
By Noah Fregger
© 2013 Noah Fregger
Groundbreaking Press
8305 Arboles Circle
Austin, TX 78737
512-657-8780
PRINT ISBN: 978-0-9831030-8-0
EBOOK ISBN: 978-0-9850651-6-4
First Edition
Senior Editor
Barbara Foley
Editors
Jon Fregger
Brad Fregger
Cover Graphics
Noah Fregger
Benjamin Vincent
Book Design & Production
M. Kevin Ford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. This is a fictional work, which takes place among imaginary people. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
To a life that’s ended, and one that’s just begun—
May the world forever remember them both.
ONTENTS
C
HAPTER
18: T
AKE
M
E TO
Y
OUR
L
EADER
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
must keep this short, for the extent of my thank-you list could surely become a novel in itself. I gathered inspiration for this story from so many different sources. And there were specifically two individuals who helped me focus these new ideas as I tried to work each one into the plot. One of those people is my grandfather (and editor), Brad Fregger, who happens to be the man responsible for the challenge of writing this story. Your excitement throughout the process proved to be the fuel I’d been missing in my previous attempts. Without you, this story would have remained a lonely document in one of many wayward word folders.
The second is my mother, Mary-Ann Fregger, who humored me for hours as we talked at length about the ideas flooding my mind. If ever those conversations grew tiresome, you never portrayed it, matching my enthusiasm with several ideas of your own. Without you, I surely would have talked Granddad straight into his grave. Luckily I didn’t, and he lives to help me through the sequel.
Due to the fact I’m teetering on complete computer illiteracy, a majority of this story was first written on paper. Thank you to my wife Kristina; you were a monumental asset during those “technological debacles.” It’s this humbling relationship we share that has brought inspiration, however subconscious, to this tale as well.
I must also thank the rest at Groundbreaking Press, who challenged my writing and started to thicken my skin for an industry known for its criticism. Thank you to the editors, Jon Fregger and Barbara Foley, whose input will only better my ability to turn psychological chaos into something someone might enjoy. Your views, opinions, and hard work have proved to be priceless.
Thank you to Michael Stevens and Dennis Fregger (my off-the-record editors) for all your support and encouragement; and thank you to everyone who so much as slowed your lives, just to make room for something you knew was immensely important to me. This project has revealed a strength in my family, a strength for which I am eternally grateful.
Z
OLARIS
“The time was fast approaching when Earth, like all mothers, must say farewell to her children.”
Arthur C. Clarke
2001: A Space Odyssey
I
t was shortly before nightfall, and no one was ever out past sunset—far too dangerous for the weak and unsuspecting.
I am neither.
The remains of our badly beaten city had just begun to shroud itself in a glorious, dusk-drawn twilight. It was a setting that could have easily enticed a feeling of tranquility into any onlooker. But I knew it was a false calm, similar to what a strolling insect might feel just before being dragged to its death by a trapdoor spider.
This is why I treaded lightly, cautiously, as I entered the inner city. I found the double doors leading into the building’s downstairs lobby chained shut as I searched for a new way into Zolaris Enterprise.
Zolaris had once been at the peak of industry, but its windows no longer illuminated the alleys beyond, there was no hustle and bustle of busy workers going from one important meeting to the next, and no aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the open hallways.
The place was a ghost town. Its darkened interior emitted a sense of dread and foreboding, while the building itself stood like an ill-omened garrison at the center of the all-but-deserted city.
Looking up and off into the horizon, one would notice the reddish wisps of war-scarred sky, marbled with the deep blues and vivid purples of the past apocalypse; it was undoubtedly beautiful to look at, but far from worth the agony it represented.
I eyed a shattered window on the fifth story, impossible to get to—without the right equipment. Engaging a compressor with a flick of my index finger, a slight hum resonated over my shoulders and down my arms. The hiss of compressed air filled the immediate area as I watched the shifting and shuddering effects of the gear around me. I attached a set of soft discs to the quick-disconnect at my wrists and the toes of my boots; they were fed through a series of tubes which allowed this little project to be a possible success.
Gripping the handle tightly and touching my right hand and left boot to the building’s wall, I felt the discs adhere with a solid “thwap, thwap.” Tugging on the device, I began to contemplate the additional weight of my body and the bulk of the equipment. “Thwap, thawp,” as my second hand and boot touched the wall. Tugging with significant effort, I was unable to pull it free.
Awesome.
Content with the progress thus far, I began to ascend, pressing a small button at the end of the handle to kill pressure to that set of discs and steadily climb.
It was about fifty feet before I reached the broken window, and the journey went relatively well. I noticed a slight looseness to the grip of my boots—possible air leaks—but nothing that couldn’t be patched up back at the shop.
Slipping through the window, I holstered the attachments, lowered my night vision, and switched it on. Instantly, the building seemed drenched in a gleaming glow-in-the-dark paint. Finding the nearest ladder-well, I continued my ascension, all the while keeping a sharp eye on my surroundings.
I’d been to this building just once recently—rushing in and out of offices, rummaging through desk drawers and filing cabinets, in search of a yet-to-be-found treasure. But the scavenging was cut short the moment I heard someone in the building with me.
I had worked for this company before the war. As part of the maintenance team, I was able to brush elbows with some of the higher-ups. Through these encounters I had heard whispers, and on occasion saw proof, of something called the ZEKE Project. Given the present circumstances of the world, the dispirited state of those within it, and thinking some truth may be held in the rumors from the past, it seemed well beyond optimal time for a test run of the ZEKE.
Reaching the seventh floor, I scouted the hallway beyond the ladder-well door—everything appeared clear. I tried the knob of an office door a short way up the hall to the right.