Teenager by the name of Peter Simmons thinks he is an ordinary boy, before he is abducted by a man with certain special abilities, learns of his inescapable destiny, befriends immortals and becomes famous worldwide. Why? Because Peter Simmons is mankind’s last hope for survival.
Follow him on his hair-raising adventures as he endeavors to save Earth, in accompaniment with Jessica, a strong female character, a top-model and one of the main protagonists in the book; Alex, an unusual teenage mixed martial arts practitioner who happens to be madly in love with Jessica; Dominias and Sebastian, who are incredibly strong and stunningly handsome immortals; Daniel, who has the ability to read minds, and Michael, who brings the whole group together in hopes of staving off the alien invasion that threatens to destroy the world. In order to stop the nigilian race, the fellowship needs to find an object knows as the Sovereign. Will they find it, and if yes – at what cost?
Targeted Age Group:: 15-70
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I got inspired by Christopher Nolan’s ‘Inception’ film, the Lord of the Rings books and the Harry Potter Series.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Boy was that a long process! I kept adding different traits and whatnot until each character felt just right. The name picking was also a very long and tiring procedure.
CHAPTER 9 – JESSICA
I slipped out of bed in the morning feeling a tad nauseated, not to mention driven up the wall by nothing in particular. My last night’s dream had been a disturbing one. Not a nightmare, but notably unpleasant nonetheless. The fact that I only had a disappointingly vague recollection of it really miffed me beyond measure. The reason for this being that, whatever it was I had dreamed of , it was almost certainly bound to happen in the immediate future, and now that it escaped me, it made my blood run cold. I felt utterly helpless, almost as if I was both cuffed and blindfolded at the same time.
At the age of six, I started seeing strange dreams. At times they were of confusing nature and incredibly difficult to decipher, but the cryptic messages they carried were perpetually the same, without exception. The so called clairvoyant dreams, which I referred to as visions, almost always accurately foretold short episodes from my imminent future, three to four days in advance.
I had always been ultra-careful to keep this paranormal phenomenon a secret, and not a single living soul was aware of my precognitive abilities.
Think about it for just one second, who would want to get locked up in a psychiatric ward? That’s what I thought…
I had seriously considered mentioning my extrasensory perception to my older sister, Nathalie, on several occasions, and on every instance had thought better of it.
We had always been close and got along famously. And, although she was domiciled all the way across the Atlantic Ocean in the United States, we still managed to keep in touch and have our weekly Skype sessions to catch up on lost time. That being said, I knew perfectly well what her reaction would be, if I was to confide in her my most private of secrets. Being a dyed-in-the-wool rationalist where the supernatural was concerned, she would try to cajole me into seeing a professional and then talk until she was blue in the face in order to try and persuade me to share the issue with our father, Richard, whose wife–our beloved mother, Carmen–of four decades had suffered a cardiac arrest and passed away a little over two years ago. I had no desire for my only surviving parent to follow suit. Richard had a long history of working himself into a lather. Considering his current state of severe and incurable heartache–he was never quite the same spry man ever since the loss; pining away, dulling the daily pain and sudden fits of anger by drinking himself into oblivion–he would doubtlessly subject himself to such great mental torture that he would probably end up having a stroke. His mental state was cause for alarm. Therefore, it was best no to open that can of worms.
Besides, I didn’t want to burden Nat with my problems, as she already had enough on her plate, as it was. Last I heard from her, she, as always, had perennial financial problems in the form of a sizable mountain of unpaid bills, and a young daughter to raise to boot. It was quite a challenge given that she was a young divorcee. Her little sunshine’s name was Emily. God was she adorable, just about the sweetest, most wonderful thing walking the face of the earth. She called me Aunt Jess, in spite of the fact that I was only seventeen years of age.
As for Nat, she was in her late twenties. She was five years younger when she had married that maggot of a person, Mike. He took everyone by surprise when he filed for divorce out of left field, never bothering to give an appropriate reason why. He then had the audacity to vanish without ever seeing the split-up to its proper end. Nobody knew where he’d gone after that. Not that anyone cared…Least of all me…The whole thing simply left me wondering, what kind of a coldhearted and inconsiderate bastard did you have to be to abandon and deprive your only child of a father figure in their life.
But getting back to the original topic…
I went through the whole day, with dread and great anxiety weighing heavy on my heart, anticipating some sort of horrible chain of events. My intuition kept suggesting that I was up to my ears in hot water. I couldn’t, for the life of me, summon up the contents of the vision, but had a strong hunch that they could be unscrambled into an extremely frightening portent for the future. This resulted in a splitting headache that I interpreted as a further harbinger of woeful things to come. The crux of the problem was that I didn’t have the faintest notion of what to expect. For the past eleven years of my life I lived at peace with myself, always having a clear picture of what was in the cards for me. And now, I was as blind as a bat.
I kept breaking my head over the reason why I hadn’t been able to memorize my vision. That had never happened before…Was my cryptesthetic ability slipping away after all these years? Had it always had an expiration date, been nothing more than a temporary spark of brilliance? Was it not able to stand the test of time, simply leaving me forever empty-handed and vanishing as suddenly as it had breezed into my life on that distant wintery day, when I was merely a little girl?
These distressing thoughts made me shudder. I ensconced myself in the depths of my windproof togs, as I stood restlessly breathing the rheumy autumn air, awaiting the train. I watched the crimson, fulvous, yellow leaves scrape across the glittering platform, noting that the train was atypically running two minutes late behind the schedule.
Moments later, I was aboard the rail transport, headed for my two bedroom apartment in Versoix. The car I was in seemed completely devoid of people, and I leaned back in my seat to get a bit of rest. There followed something of a fallow period. It had been one hell of a long day, after all. I worked part-time as a model, and my agent, Yanick, had me sweating around the clock. Running between photo-shoots and interviews at full throttle was a hard and grueling experience. In addition to that, a decrease in academic performance was one of the many concomitants of taking constant leaves of absence from school. In the event of having to travel abroad, which was happening all too often the last couple of months, I was bound to go missing for several consecutive days. It was all just too stressful, but I still managed to relax a little. The premonition of impending doom started to transmute into a state of listlessness, and had all but exhausted itself, when Vivaldi’s famous Four Seasons Winter concerto coruscated through the coach.
My eyes, which had been tightly shut, fluttered wide open. I felt a cold shiver run down the back of my neck, and ascribed it to the overwhelming shock of the moment. My solar plexus burned with trepidation as the last night’s dream came crashing down on me. I instantly sat up, all of a sudden rigid with fear, mortally afraid of the upcoming minutes. I could now remember the vision perfectly well, in razor-sharp definition and all its details…in all its horrendous details.
To assure myself that I hadn’t inadvertently dozed off when availing myself of the Spartan amenities of public transport, I carefully peeked over rows and rows of seats, until my gaze wandered into what I was looking for.
The boy, who was evidently my age, sat all alone, listening to his portable media player. The classical tunes were blasting from his white neckband headphones. He was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the very same guy I had dreamed about the previous night; maybe that’s why his face seemed so familiar. His dark hair was short and ruffled at the tips. He had cauliflower ears, wore a beige corduroy jacket, and his sapphire-blue shirt matched the color of his deep, limpid blue eyes. On the whole, he was rather muscular and quite handsome. A bit too handsome, actually. But there were other, more urgent matters than his good looks that demanded my immediate attention. The semi-muted music conjured up memories of a disastrous event that was bound to transpire any minute now. Anxiety built up in my diaphragm like a stack of burning bricks.
Without any forewarning, the door to the passenger car slid open. A bald, able-bodied man stepped inside. His pitch black suit, shiny leather shoes, skintight leather gloves and erect carriage gave him a powerful appearance. A barely detectable wireworm was sprouting from his left ear, and his thick neck was festooned with a garish red tie, which complimented his neatly furled pocket square. His right hand was hidden behind his massive twilit silhouette, but hidden or not, I already knew that in it he held some sort of suppressed firearm.
Knowing all too well the sequence of events that was to take place, I refused to be perforated by a bullet and quickly delved into the inside pocket of my shoulder bag, while the gloved assassin concentrated his attention on the Vivaldi boy. He looked in my direction. I could feel the blood rush to my head as I pretended to be unaware of the cursory glance, and then he proceeded to his prey, gingerly raising his right hand. His actions coincided with the contents of my prognostic dream. Whether I liked it or not, it was all really happening.
The boy with the media player seemed to have noted some movement with his peripheral vision, for he turned away from the blurred window and started at the sight of a loaded gun pointed right at him. I appreciated the fact that once the boy was eliminated, I would be next in line. I was underfoot, and anyone with a scintilla of sound reasoning in them would realize that the gunman had no need for eyewitnesses who could potentially narc on him.
Understanding that there wasn’t any other alternative way out of the unfortunate predicament that I found myself entangled in, I was forced to resort to violence, and thus fetched out a red Swiss pocketknife, which had been given to me as a present/ means of self-defense, by none other but my father. I felt such strong heart palpitations that I thought my ribcage would burst open presently. I put a grip on myself, acknowledging that it was imperative to act without procrastination. I made a snap decision. With shaking hands and an encouraging nod, I sprang to my feet lickety-split and put paid to the assassin’s dark plot by reluctantly driving the knife’s blade into the man’s shoulder. It went in better than I had anticipated, lodging itself in the flesh right up to the handle.
A bloodcurdling cry arose from the assailant’s throat and he dropped the handgun. His arm became temporarily useless and dangly; apparently I had accomplished what had been intended: Serious damage. But that wasn’t near enough to put the damned bastard out of commission. Rage glittering in his eyes, he lifted me by the neck with his good hand and slammed me headlong against a window. Tears rushed to my eyes and shards of glass tore at my scalp, as I vacillated between pangs of pain and cold panic, meanwhile teetering on the edge of consciousness. At that instant, the Vivaldi boy tackled him headfirst, disarming him and immediately taking the fight down to the ground. He mounted the villain and unleashed a flurry of well-practiced, crushing blows to his exposed jaw. The man did not allow himself to lose control of the situation. He simply seemed to have too much discipline and training in him to be dealt with in such a quick and easy manner.
After having escaped at least half a dozen hammer fists, he managed to outmaneuver the Vivaldi boy and pin him down flat on his back, thus gaining side control. In the meantime, I kept trying to regain full lucidity. But I’d hit my forehead pretty hard against the thick glass, and thus found that I wasn’t yet able to stabilize my sense of core balance in order to get to my feet. So I concentrated on the brawl instead.
To my horror, the bald aggressor managed to land a few exacting punches with his gigantic paws, and Vivaldi boy appeared to be on the verge of getting knocked out cold, when he suddenly caught the giant by one of his brawny arms, and clasped his legs around his bull-thick, ropy neck to utilize the triangle choke. Constricting the vitally important cerebral blood flow, the Vivaldi boy all but asphyxiated the gun-less gunman in a matter of seconds.
From my observations, I could safely conclude that not only was he good-looking and wanted dead for some unknown reason, but he also happened to be a very good and impressive mixed martial arts practitioner. Under current circumstances, that was good news.
Panting excessively, he kneeled by my side and gave me a few nudges. ‘Hey there! Jessica! Jessica! Can you hear me?’
I could hear him all right and wanted to ask him how in the world he knew my name, but found that articulate speech was impossible at that precise moment. I was dazed and my vision was shrouded in thick fog. But I reckoned it wouldn’t take too long to see incremental improvement over a short period of time. I would eventually snap out of it. I felt confident about that.
Without further ado, he thrust me onto his shoulder and made for the exit.
‘Bag!’ I managed to croak out. ‘Bag!’
He seemed to have grasped the meaning of what sounded more like ‘bah’ for he grabbed my shoulder bag, en passant, and picked his way down the cabin, carefully stepping over the virtually comatose stranger. I heard the screech of metal as the train ground to a stop. A pleasant zephyr struck my face and I instantly realized we were outside. I glanced across the railway tracks, at the little supermarket stationed on the first floor of a familiar looking building. I tried to ask Vivaldi boy where he was taking me, but my lousy mouth blatantly disobeyed my orders and I was forced to stay perfectly still, finding myself in too frail a state to move…I was on the verge of fainting, and I couldn’t help but feel frustrated, on a large scale, at the sense of growing inertia seeping through my body! I had never liked being weak and vulnerable, and had always exhibited deep repugnance for all things forceless.
‘Hold on, sugar-pie,’ the personable boy told me in an assuring tone of voice, which instantly poured a crock of honey over my soul and thus soothed my nerves. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll take care of you. I promise.’
And I was inclined to believe him. After all, he owed me big time. I had just saved his life, as stupid and hackneyed as it sounded…
About the Author:
My name is Ramz Artso, I’m twenty-three years old and I grew up in Switzerland. I think that Red Bull and Capri Suns are the world’s best drinks, Inferno chips are to die for and Chinese cuisine is yummy. Speaking of my hobbies, I like jogging to keep fit, playing video-games to relax and camping as well as cross-country skiing. I really don’t like working out, but one’s got to keep their belly check.
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