Palindrome 656: DIRECTORS CUT, page 1
Palindrome 656
A novel by C. F. Waller
Palindrome 656
Copyright © 2013 by Charles Francis Waller
The right of, Charles F. Waller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with The copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988
All rights reserved.
First Publication: May 2013
ISBN-978-1-4675-7210-1
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by: Rue Volley / https://www.facebook.com/rue.volley
Original Cover Art by: Florin Gradinaru / http://floringradinaru.blogspot.ro/
Visit my author page at https://www.facebook.com/wallercf
Email at cfwaller24@gmail.com
Contents
Acknowledgement
A Note to Readers
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Acknowledgement
First I would like to thank my God, Jesus Christ, for everything he has done in my life.
I would also like to thank my wife Tina, for making it possible for me to complete this work, and for being my ‘Person’.
A special thanks to all the Beta readers.
Joanne Waller
Marcie Erbes
Valerie Thomas
Tina Mays
Alisha Dorow
Palindrome 656
By C. F. Waller
A Note to Readers
If a man or woman from the late twentieth century woke up in the year 2552 they would likely be very surprised. They might expect to see any number of technological advances or even social enlightenment. Some might expect the human race or even man-made cybernetic life forms to have evolved into a higher state of being. If this was what they expect to find they will be sadly disappointed.
There are no flying cars or floating cities in the sky. No amount of solar panels or wind turbines has given us unlimited electricity. Laser weapons and force fields are still relegated to the realm of science fiction. To their surprise, robots that look like human beings, are not wandering our streets. Our lifespan has not been extended. We cannot put ourselves into a cryogenic sleep, putting our lives on hold until a later date. The nations of the world have not united under one peace loving flag. We do not travel the universe by folding the fabric of space time. Moreover our finite life spans still tether us to Earth and the surrounding planets. No aliens from far away galaxies have dropped by with good or evil intent. No time machines have come to pass allowing us to rewrite history. We haven’t, through overpopulation or scientific achievement, damaged mother Earth. She keeps on spinning indifferent to our plight on her surface.
What they would find are many insignificant technological advances that drive no actual progress. Two diametrically opposed superpowers, the Empire and the Union, controlling most of the world as has often been the case. They would find impressive sources of alternative energy necessitated by the depletion of the world’s oil reserve. They might be surprised to find the history of the twenty first century not as they recall. Over the centuries much of recorded history has been lost or muddied. Just as was true in the past, the lines between reality and fiction have blurred over generations. Some truth remains, equal parts fiction and fact.
They might feel very much at home in this time and place. Our lot in the universe has changed little in the past half a millennium. With all our promise, we’re still plagued by flaws present from our humble beginnings. One thing that rings true over human history is that man is his own worst enemy. The more things change, the more they stay the same. A close friend of mine told me that the winners write the history books. This said, he suggested I should always carry a pen.
Chapter One
All at once I am a little girl again. My index finger touches the glass and a chill runs up my finger. I push on the smooth surface with a fingertip and see its reflection. It’s but a mirror, nothing more. The image reflected back at me is confusing. I am certain that it’s me, but the face looking back at me is that of a child. When I glance down to look at myself, my tiny foot catches in the thick carpet. Shiny black patent leather shoes with miniature silver buckles adorn my feet. Returning my gaze to the mirror, I scrutinize my reflection and a sharp breath escapes my tiny mouth. My hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail and a large red bow sits atop my head. The ribbon is bright crimson and overwhelms the rest of the reflection. It’s then I notice everything seems to be in gray scale. The only color is the crimson bow. Even with this lack of color the dress is familiar to me. I have not seen this outfit in decades. The dress is finely made of pink taffeta and white lace ending at my knees. This was one of my mother’s favorites, used to dress me up for parties. I only know its color from memory as everything I see is a shade of gray.
In the edge of the reflection I see a flash of movement and try to spin around, but can only turn my head halfway as my feet seem to be frozen in the carpet. I see my mother walking towards me, but her head is cut off at her nose as if in a photograph where the shooter misaligned the shot. Her lips are the same crimson red as the bow, but when they move no sound comes out. Craning my head from side to side I find no sound of any kind. I turn back to the mirror just as she rips the bow out of my hair. A scream escapes my lips, but the room remains silent. In the reflection I can see the bow in her hand with long strands of my hair dangling from the clip under it. Her hand waves the bow back and forth and I see her blood red lips moving, but her eyes are still cropped out of the frame.
I utter yet another unheard cry in the reflection. I see tears running down my gray cheeks, but I cannot feel them. A shudder rolls over me as I see my reflection slowly morph before my eyes. The eyes shift to an unnatural shade of light blue, glowing like individual coals in a fire. On my head in the mass of tangled hair are small bright red flecks from where the hair was ripped from my scalp. My reflection is smiling or maybe it’s not quite a smile. There is something oddly serious about the expression. I fixate on this and almost miss the dull steel of the gun rise up from my doppelgangers hand. The gun is impossibly big for her tiny hands and yet my reflection wields it easily. I stare down the barrel for a moment and then drop to my knees in self defense. When the gun goes off it is the first sound I have heard. The loud concussion stings my ears and I cover them with my hands. A second blast seems to draw all the air out of the room and a wind swirls up blowing my hair about. With this second blast I fall on my side and look back with one ear resting on the carpet. I pull my hand from my ear and in the palm is a splash of crimson.
The floor shakes as my mother falls, although with my head lying on the soft carpet it seems as if she is falling to an upright position in slow motion. She lands with the top of her face still eerily out of frame. As I lie there I see the red of her lips slowly drain out. Over a few seconds time they turn to the same grays that define the rest of this room. As if falling in half speed her hand falls to the carpet and bounces. In it she holds the red bow, which escapes her grasp and tumbles across the floor in my direction before halting barely two feet from my face. I can still see the strands of my blonde hair dabbed in bright red clinging to it.
I worry my reflection will take aim at me next, but before I can turn back the bow bursts into flames. The red color bleeds out of the ribbons and seems to flow into the flickers of fire before escaping into the air as gray smoke. I roll over and peer back to the mirror only to find my reflection absent. The mirrors face is empty, but a thin trail of smoke floats up from the floor in front of it. My eyes pan down and I smell the smoke mixed with the powerful aroma of bacon. The scent invades my nostrils. On the floor in front of the mirror is the gun lying near two spent shell casings. Thin wisps of white smoke float out of the end of the barrel. I lay on the carpet and turn to follow the trail as it floats upward. As I do, the head of a black cat looms over me causing me to jerk back in fright. The cat is wearing a suit jacket or maybe a tuxedo. It looks me over and I try to scoot away, but find no traction in the carpet. The cat sniffs at me and I turn away putting my hands up to shield my face. I want to cry, but the tears will not come. A soft voice that I can not hear clearly floats into my mind. I turn to see if it is the cat who is speaking. When I drop my hands from my face the cat is gone and has been replaced by a lion that is several paces away. The lion tilts his head to one side and stares at me. His eyes are deep blue and seem a bit to large for his head. His eye lashes flutter over them in a slow sweeping motion. I drag my hand across the rug in front of me and come across the gun. It’s far too big for me to control and I struggle to lift it. The lion watches me without moving. I manage to get the barrel aimed in the lion’s general direction using both hands. The gun trembles before me as I fight to hold it steady. The lion seems to smile and then he speaks before I can pull the trigger.
“Relax Hannah, you’re dreaming again.”
***
Face down in bed, my eyes open to crisp white sheets. Flashing red lights and buzzers assault me. Try as I may, my eyes refuse to focus leaving the world a swirling blur. I roll over fumbling for a pillow to put under my head and take a quick peek around the room. Once my eyes gain a foothold they begin to focus. I glance around the room until I have made sure there are no lions. I take a deep breath and shut my eyes tight.
“I am an oversize hat and a cup of tea short of a bad children’s book here.” I croak to the empty room from behind my closed eyelids.
The words echo in the room and I lay, eyes closed, trying to remember where I am. When no answer comes, I give my head a shake and slowly open my eyes. I peer down the length of my body and see scuffed, white leather shoes peeking out from the bottom of the sheet. Unsure why am I wearing tennis shoes in bed I struggle to get my foot free. Kicking the sheet away, I stare down at the skin-tight spandex suit I’m wearing. The outfit stops mid-calf and my leg is bare to a pair of short white socks. The skin on my calf is a pasty shade of yellow. Stretching my body to give me a better view of my backside, my gaze travels over the visible part of my leg. I stare at the few open sores on the back of one calf. The suit has two pieces; the bottoms stop high on my waist and my long-sleeved top should overlap it, but is pushed up just below my breasts. I make a note of the yellow skin around my mid-section. Turning my right arm over I see my right sleeve has been cut in a jagged line above my elbow and then a tight, white compression stocking runs to my wrist. I pull up the remaining part of the sleeve and stare as if this can’t be part of my body. Purple lines that remind me of spider webs seem to grow out of my elbow, snaking up to my shoulder. Moreover two metallic pins poke through holes in the stocking covering my forearm. A yellow fluid, flecked with blood, stains the stocking around them. I sniff at the stocking and the aroma is unsettling. It’s a cross between antiseptic cream and rotting fruit. Brushing my fingertips over the tops of the pins, an ache rolls up my arm like a wave, conducting threw my bones. I pull my hand back, but the pain remains. Further inspection reveals my ribs clearly visible, a sight I find disturbing. Am I supposed to look like this? Is anyone supposed to look like this? If I didn’t feel the pain in my arm, I would think I was dead.
“Probably not that lucky,” I mumble.
I sit up, the alarms still ringing in the back of my mind. The lights flash across the walls painting them pink. They could be real, but I’m not sure if any of this is actually happening. Am I just in a new dream? I feel a nudge and notice a cat rubbing it’s head on my arm. I wave at it with my good arm, but miss. The furry tail disappears off the end of the bed making a clean getaway.
“Keep running,” I mumble. “You’re not so scary without the bloody lion backing you up.”
Pulling my top down with both hands, I try to line it up with the bottoms. My tummy is poking out making this impossible. My insides twist, sending bile up my throat. It takes all my strength not to vomit. The taste of stomach acid burns the back of my throat and I swallow hard.
“I could use a drink,” I say putting a hand on my burning throat.
After a few tries, I manage to get my legs over the side of the bed. I gather myself with deep breaths, squeezing my fists together to focus. I have to use the toe of my right shoe to get my left foot in place on the floor. What is wrong with my left foot? I stumble the first time, falling the second, winding up on the floor. Once there, I pinch my left thigh and can’t feel a thing. I repeat the process feeling the pressure only slightly. Since the leg still moves I decide to look into it more thoroughly later. The third time turns out to be the charm and I pull myself up using the night stand to rise to my feet.
Teetering there on unsteady legs, I try to focus my eyes again. I peer around the room and find my reflection in a large mirror. The disturbing image glares back at me. I turn my head quickly and then peek back to the mirror, but the image remains. I lean forward to get a better look. My clothes hang off me in all the wrong places. My hair is long and unkempt. What’s left of a long pony tail hangs over one shoulder. The elastic that once held it in place now dangles from the messy strands. The hair a dirty-blonde streaked with wide patches of gray that might be closer to white. I don’t see any red bow and I turn back and scan the bed to make sure I did not leave it lay there. I notice stray hairs on the side of the bed. I put my hand to my shoulder to grasp the loose hair.
“Pulled out of falling out?” I mutter.
With a hand on the bed to steady myself, I look back at the mirror. In the reflection my face is gaunt, cheek bones pushing out of my skin, eyes sunken and dark. My pupils appear as pin-sixed dots surrounded by a yellow sea that was once white. A chill comes over me and the hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. The reflection scares me and my body begins to tremble. “Just go away,” I say, voice cracking as I close my eyes.
The sound echo’s in my right ear. My left ear seems to have fallen silent and I tap at it, but hear nothing. I don’t panic because I’m not entirely sure this isn’t still a dream. I might be sleeping or worse, I’m not sure. Is it possible that death is one bad nightmare after another for all eternity? I open my eyes and peer into the mirror again. The sickly thing in the mirror stares back at me, her lips twisted in a sneer.
Bright red lights flashing from the hallway drag my attention back from the mirror. What’s the deal with all these flashing lights? I don’t remember what the alarms are for. I can only hear them in my right ear, and even then, the sound seems like it is passing through a wall before it gets to me. My head throbs. Where am I again? I scan the room for a reminder.
On the counter is a ripped open pack of cigarettes. These I pick up. Fumbling with my good hand I tuck them in the waistband of my pants for later. I may be confused about everything else in my world, but I’m sure I want these. This is evident by the tingling in my chest that came over me when I caught sight of the pack. I stagger to the nearest door holding myself up on the wall as I go. Moving out into the hallway, the lights seem more real. I stop and lean back on the wall. They are are stark white and the red lights give them a pink appearance. All the surfaces are smooth and shiny.
“Sophie, turn off these damn lights,” I say breathless from the effort.
I can’t hear myself talking and wonder if I’m making any noise at all. I wait with one hand still tapping my left ear, but nothing happens.
“Sophie, please turn off the lights,” I beg quieter this time.
Still nothing, I slide to the floor and cry. I sit there knees tucked under my chin sobbing for quite a while. My hands fall on the cold white floor and I can feel a fine layer of sand or dust covering it. My mouth is dry and I try to wet it with my tongue, but there doesn’t seem to be any moisture. After some time the flashing lights cease and hallway turns white again. The blare of the alarms goes away and the throbbing in my head lessens. Dragging myself once again to my feet, I continue down the hallway. This place is not altogether alien to me. It’s like I have seen it in a movie or on television. When I try, I can’t remember being anywhere else before I was here. At the end of the hallway is a lift. The door is open, so I step inside. The keypad is dark, but I can read the numbers in the soft glow of an emergency light in the upper right corner of the closet sized lift. I push the buttons, but nothing happens. The main lights inside are dark and I scan around waiting to see if they will come on. Sometimes the lights come on as you walk here. The lights it seems are always watching.
“Sophie, turn this thing on, will you please?”
I wait, but nothing happens. Where is Sophie anyway? I go back to the hallway and see it fans out into a common room down the passage. I manage to slide down the wall, using it to hold me upright until I reach the room. The center features a long table and I shuffle around between tipped over chairs and debris. On the other side sits a cooler with a glass door. I open the door and peek in. Water bottles are lying on their sides in the cooler. The air is warm and musty so it isn’t cooling anything. I get a hold of one, while two others slide out onto the floor. They roll aimlessly on the hard white surface, leaving a faint trail in the fine dust that seems to cover everything. I’m so thirsty that my throat feels like I swallowed a sandbox. Using the edge of the table to balance myself, I slide into a chair. It takes me a bit to open the bottle. The top seems impossible to turn, but I get it after some hard work. I take a drink and almost drop the bottle as I cough. The cough seems to radiate out from my lungs all the way to my fingertips. This reminds me of the pain in my arm. I set the bottle down and lean over the arm of the chair to clear my throat. Pulling my feet up onto the chair, I wrap my arms around my knees, draw them up to my face, and cry. I have no idea how long I cry. After some time my eyes go dry and all that is left are the un-heard sobs with no volume. My mind searches for the cause of the crying, but no answers come. For some reason I keep telling myself that I don’t express this type of emotion. This seems like some sort of rule. When I turn my head I suddenly hear myself crying in one ear and the sound of this scares me.
