THEFALLEN RACETRILOGY
BOOK ONE: THE DISAPPEARANCE
by COLIN PATRICK GARVEY
PaddyPiper Books, LLC
Copyright © 2011 Colin Garvey
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced or transmitted, in whole or in part, through any means electronic or mechanical including photo copying or electronic transmission without prior written permission from the author, except short excerpts considered normal for review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, establishments, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9847675-0-2
Book Cover/Website Design by Jacob Matthew
Book Design by GKS Creative
Original Cover Photograph by Colin Patrick Garvey
Printed in the United States of America
To My Wife Kate, who never doubted,To My Wee Loves, Declan and Shea-bird,And to Mom and Pops, who always encouraged.
ONE
Tamawaca Beach, Michigan
It is Fourth of July evening and Tamawaca Beach is covered with blankets, towels, coolers and cabanas. The fireworks show is set to begin as little kids scamper across the sand holding sparklers while the bigger kids launch bottle rockets down by the water. Scattered pockets of teenagers huddle together for the sole purpose of consuming as much alcohol as possible before their parents have a chance to notice. Despite their caution, the adults fail to pay them much mind anyway or even think to monitor their brood, as the majority of the former appear occupied themselves, drinking and talking with one another. The silver and gray-haired sit quietly on the benches lining the sidewalk, patiently waiting for the show to start. Most of them do not attempt to brave the unsteady terrain of the beach for fear they may break a hip or sprain a wrist.
The sidewalk runs practically the length of the beach, ending in a plethora of massive dunes that stretch for several miles to the north. As the dunes move west toward the lake, they diminish in stature before completely leveling off. Once they do, the sidewalk resumes, leading to a large pier that protrudes nearly three hundred feet into the waters of Lake Michigan. A rail inhabits each side of the pier to prevent people from trying their luck on the large, slippery rocks that encircle it. Standing watch at the head of the pier is an enormous, cherry-red lighthouse known as “Big Red.” The old sentry has seen much in its day, but continues to remain in pristine condition courtesy of an annual scrubbing and polish during Memorial Day weekend.
Directly over the dunes to the east sits the much smaller Lake Tamawaca, where most recreational skiers and wake boarders can be found on calm days. The current is more manageable and the water less choppy than what one typically encounters on Lake Michigan. Lake Tamawaca eventually empties into the Great Lake, but the channel connecting the two bodies of water is nearly five miles north of Tamawaca Beach.
On the east side of the sidewalk are a dozen cottages fortunate enough to be located directly on the beach. Behind these beachfront properties reside approximately twenty cottages and this, simply put, is the town of Tamawaca. To the south is a patch of woods and hills that run for miles in the other direction before arriving at the popular tourist town of Saugatuck. Thus, the woods and dunes are bookends to this sleepy cottage community, which may be what draws residents back to it every summer.
The kind of seclusion the town affords, without being too removed from civilization, is what everyone here appreciates and enjoys. People own or rent cottages from all over the United States, but the town's spirit and friendliness is pure, genuine Midwestern hospitality. Cottages are passed down from generation to generation, and the chance of an outsider attempting to purchase a little piece of this heaven is usually slim to none. During the summer months, the same families and their friends gather here for any weekend they can escape from the routine and monotony back home, wherever that may be. The reasons are obvious and plentiful: the outdoor barbeques, the endless stream of parties and cocktail hours, the volleyball games, the water, and the thin slice of beach God himself seemed to carve out for this cottage town.
Some people could even mistake this little niche for paradise.
Tonight, however, no one will make that mistake.
An old man is slowly being pushed in his wheelchair at the end of the sidewalk when he holds up a decrepit hand. The male nurse attending to him halts the wheelchair without a word. They remain in the shadows near the back of the beach, silently and impassively absorbing the view around them. The old man, his scraggly gray hair blowing in the wind, examines the scene before him. Most of the cottagers sit with their backs to him, failing to notice the old man who was once considered one of the most powerful men in the world. Several people might even argue that this still remains the case.
The old man's hard, glowering eyes survey the surroundings and he emits a small shudder, but it is not caused by the cool breeze blowing off Lake Michigan. For no one on this beach knows what this man knows. No one could possibly comprehend the sinister plans that are in store for all of them. And no one could possibly be aware of the terror that will strike this peaceful scene in only a few short minutes.
Geneva, Illinois – Evans Military Base
First Sergeant Jonathan Kaley has not seen anything like it before. Private Rushmore summoned Sergeant Kaley to his station to show his supervisor exactly what he had discovered. On the screen before them appears a very faint but noticeable signal coming from the depths of Lake Michigan, approximately 150 miles northeast of their location. It is not a mayday or call for help, but similar to the ping associated with sonar radar. They could hardly speculate what the signal is doing in the middle of a lake that comprises 22,178 square miles, holding the title as the largest freshwater lake within the United States.
“Rushmore, what am I looking at right now?” Sergeant Kaley asks.
“I don't know, sir, but if I can speak frankly, that signal is coming from out of nowhere,” Rushmore responds.
“A glitch?” Kaley wonders aloud.
“I don't think so, sir,” Rushmore answers.
“How did you even find it, Private?”
“Sir, one of our birds was doing a routine flyover,” Rushmore explains, “when it located the signal and zeroed in on it.”
Sergeant Kaley stares at the screen, trying to decipher what it could possibly mean. It takes him little more than a few seconds to decide this is something for the colonel.
“Rushmore, punch in those coordinates and send them to my station. I have to make a call to the man upstairs.”
“Right away, sir,” Rushmore complies.
Kaley makes like a bat out of hell for his station, picks up the phone, and taps a few numbers. After several seconds, he is connected with Colonel Malcolm Fizer.
Colonel Fizer is a man who does not care for small talk or chitchat. He wants any situation report as quickly and clearly as possible. He is a military man through and through, and this characteristic resonates in his stern, demanding voice.
“What is it, Sergeant Kaley?”
“Sir, I've got something very unusual down here,” Kaley responds.
Not sure of any forthright way to explain it, Kaley simply details what they have found.
“It appears that, um…well, sir,