A young man is caught up in an ancient feud.
Seth
By Itinerant
Edited by Amelia R.
"This is fan fiction for the Whateley Academy series. It may or may not match the timeline, characters, and continuity, but since it's fan fiction, who cares? To see the canon Whateley Stories, check out either Sapphire's Place (http://www.sapphireplace.com/stories/whateley.html) or the Big Closet (http://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/taxonomy/term/117)."
**********
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
2:25AM
~I hate flu season.~
Blaine Thompson, newly promoted to patrol sergeant, had yet another third shift with his team of officers depleted by the latest strain. He hated the hours, but he'd worked hard to pass the test, and the price of success was to take the place of the most junior man.
He had been posted to the fourth quadrant of the city, and it was an amazingly warm South Dakota winter night -- which was anything but good. The mix of rain and fog had begun to freeze onto every available surface, and the driving conditions were getting dicey. It had been nasty during the local rush hour with lots of fender-benders, but now the traffic had died away to nearly nothing. Only the occasional late second-shift, or early first shift worker passed by as he cruised to the scene of the latest hold-up.
He had thought carefully before accepting the promotion; he knew he'd work third shift again for a while, and with Seth beginning to mature physically, he wasn't sure Carol would be able to handle things.
Not that Seth was a bad kid; the boy *loved* hunting, and could hide on a golf green. The two had gone hunting for pheasant at times, and the kid was almost good enough at camouflage to have the birds walk up into his arm's reach.
The hormones were kicking up, though, and Blaine's son was starting to exhibit the typical signs of a testosterone-poisoned teen. He kept trying to remember how his own father had guided him through his own teen years, and prayed that he could come up with something that would work.
He shook his head and refocused on the task at hand. He needed to talk to Carol, his wife, and see if they couldn't come up with something to head off problems.
Someone had taken to living off the area's convenience stores by way of unauthorized withdrawals, and he was 'lucky' enough to have the thief hit a shop in his area. This time, though, they had a description of the car.
Blaine had just turned onto West Madison from North Elmwood when he caught sight of the suspect's car skidding onto Madison ahead of him.
"All units, this is Unit 4-01. I have the suspect vehicle in sight and am pursuing westbound on Madison west of Elmwood."
The suspect had slipped as they made the turn south onto Kiwanis, and Thompson made the turn smoothly and made up some of the gap. The perp almost lost it when they nearly spun out turning onto eastbound 10th.
Blaine didn't notice the patch of black ice until he tried to cut the corner to close the rest of the gap. The cruiser slid sideways until it hit the curb, and rolled.
The seatbelt had held him in the perfect position as the corner of the building cut through the roof of the car.
~Carol!~
*****
Friday, February 23, 2007
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
He'd finally done it.
Seth had been pushing the limits for the last year -- ever since his dad had been killed in a stupid accident trying to catch a crook who'd held up a convenience store. The guy had cut a corner wide, and his father had seen it and used the chance to catch up a little by turning inside him.
He'd hit a patch of black ice instead, the car had rolled, and slammed into a building that had caved in the roof of his cruiser.
The perp turned out to be one of those damned mutants.
People were oh-so-concerned -- until his mom, Carol, had needed a hand to find a job to eek out the survivor's pension. Then they were nowhere to be seen, as far as Seth could tell.
Just when the fifteen year-old needed a stable anchor, as his body swelled with new muscles and the hormones wreaked havoc on his emotions, Seth was deprived of the one person he'd turned to all his life.
His mother had finally snapped after his last bitchy, snarky tirade -- for the first time in his life, she'd snarled and smacked him across the face. The shock had shut him up long enough for her to rage at him; she'd given an ultimatum that he'd get his act together, or else end up at a relative's.
After she'd stormed out on her way to work, he'd recovered enough to do some snarling of his own. ~It's all the fault of those mutants. My dad would be alive if not for them.~
Not long after she'd left, he was packed and dressed for the fiercely cold nights he faced if he was forced to walk. His knowledge of police procedure, gleaned from years of devoted listening to his father's tales -- the memory never failed to bring renewed pain -- made him plan his route carefully, using topographic maps. The comforting thump of the pistol in his coat pocket was another reminder of the predators that lurked in the world he was heading for.
He left a note on his bed with the house key; no matter how angry he was, he wanted to at least let her know he hadn't been kidnapped. He had hours before she'd be home, and probably a couple of hours after that before she'd intrude into his bedroom. That would give him plenty of time to reach his first truck stop, and even a second if there was no ride at the first.
He pulled the locked front door closed, and checked to ensure it had locked. He fought down a twinge of fear and stalked off.
His first stop was the nearest ATM. The camera would capture his transaction, but he needed the funds tucked away in his savings account to eat as he traveled. He'd kept an eye out for pedestrians, and waited until the street seemed to be clear. Too many people knew him to just traipse around town with his gear hung on his back. Even if it was a teacher in-service day, he'd attract too much attention if he wasn't careful.
It was only a few miles south of town to the first truck stop on I-29, but it would still take a couple of hours. He needed to get and keep moving.
*****
Carol tapped gently at Seth's bedroom door.
She'd been furious with him this morning; he'd been getting more snide and uncooperative each month, it seemed, and she had finally reached her limit. With the pressure of trying to keep enough money coming in to pay the bills and the nagging pain of Blaine's death, her temper had snapped.
Even as she'd slapped him, she knew it was the wrong thing to do, but her anger overrode her good sense long enough for her to storm out of the house.
She'd tried to call from work, but he hadn't answered the phone. Now she *had* to apologize and try to help her son understand that she really did love him. It wouldn't be easy, but somehow they'd work it out.
"Seth?"
She gave him a moment to respond to her call before she intruded into his private space, but the lack of response probably meant he had his headphones on. Her heart thudded in fear as she opened the door onto a dark, empty room.
It seemed to stop at the sight of the page propped up on her son's pillow.
She managed to call 911 before she collapsed with the fresh agony of her loss.
*****
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Kansas City, Missouri
The boy shivered with fear and cold as the police cruiser slid slowly past his hiding place. He knew that a search was inevitable; he'd taken the precaution of telling the first truck driver to give him a ride that he was heading out toward Denver -- he actually had family in Aurora -- in the hope that it would misdirect them when he parted company in Omaha.
He hadn't counted on the persistence of the police when they were out to 'help' one of their own. Seth had to bail out at the first truck stop when he noticed the first poster with his picture on it. He knew that the Sioux Falls PD would do something -- there were still many officers and their wives that dropped by his mother's house -- but they'd gotten posters out to the out-of-state *truck stops* already. He'd expected to have at least a full day before they'd gotten to that point; he was going to have to be even more careful than he'd expected.
~Why couldn't they have cared this much before?~
Fear of being caught forced him to hike from Omaha to Kansas City, and it took ten days to make the long, cold walk. The ground wasn't as flat as he'd hoped, but the wide open spaces let him see traffic well before he could be spotted. The nights were cold, though, and he tried to find whatever shelter he could from the late winter winds that whistled across the bare farmland. He had a light, warm, sleeping bag, but he still needed to have some kind of protection from the weather.
Now he had a choice. I-70 went west toward Denver and east toward Saint Louis; he needed to find somewhere to disappear. The boy shrank back into his hiding place as a pair of raspy voices came into hearing.
"Where can we go? The cops are looking for us, and we'll never make it to LA without being spotted."
The second voice sounded contemptuous as it replied, "You're a fool! Saint Louis is where we need to go. It's colder than LA, but there's something happening there. People are stirring to strike at the mutant scum...."
The voices faded away, leaving Seth to consider the information.
~It'd be easier to lose myself in a large group, and if someone's going to do something about the mutants, I want to get in on it.~
He shouldered his pack, and picked up the bag he used to collect empty bottles and cans. A few days of collecting would help stretch his dwindling funds. He'd seen a few others who'd dumpster-dived for food behind restaurants to feed themselves -- that wasn't something he was quite ready to do.
When his money ran out, though....
He shuddered at the thought, and wondered briefly about giving up. The still fresh memory of the slap across his face flared again, and he shook off the temptation.
~Whatever it takes, I'll make it.~
He strode off toward his can-hunting grounds.
*****
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
East Saint Louis, Illinois
Seth was getting used to the noises, now.
The incessant hammering of heavy trucks as they roared through the concrete tangle of Interstate highway overhead continued whatever the time of day, or weather conditions. It was lousy shelter here under the big interchange across the Mississippi from the Gateway Arch. It wasn't overly rainy anymore, and the winds of March had given way to warmer, drier April weather; that meant he could spend his nights away from the niches where the bridges ramped down to ground level. The slamming of tractor-trailer rigs over the metal expansion joints had kept him from sleeping much during the previous month.
The gnawing hunger was familiar, too, as with each new refuge he had to learn where to forage for the scraps and leftovers he needed to survive. Two months ago he'd have never considered eating some of the stuff that he sought out now, but back then he'd been at home where there were other choices.
Now, if he wanted to stay free, he had to stay clear of the soup kitchens and shelters. Even here, in the odd, dirty corners of a dilapidated city, his face had been on more than one missing children poster; they'd spot him, and send him back -- he'd never get free again.
He'd never get his chance at revenge.
He'd gotten here within a couple of weeks of his escape, and it had been so warm here in comparison to South Dakota that it had seemed like paradise. The size of Saint Louis had afforded plenty of good places to hide, too.
It also seemed that the city hid something else. He'd gotten only fragments from the alcohol and drug soaked minds around him, but there were whispers of meetings where plans to strike back were underway. 'Humans First' was quietly organizing in the corners of the city, giving focus to the persistently unemployed and powerless.
They were careful about who was invited -- it was like being invited to a rave -- but he had time. The men around him were taking their time in deciding whether to trust him, but he was patient. Someone would slip and spill the time and place, or they'd decide to let him in; either way he'd eventually take the next step.
*****
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Saint Louis, Missouri
They filtered in by ones, and twos, always small groups from many directions. They had the quiet tolerance of the mayor, but couldn't afford to attract too much in the way of attention.
Seth had finally been approached by one of the others in his sleeping area. He was told the time and place of the next meeting and warned that it wouldn't be healthy to share the information. He'd taken more care than usual to ensure a stealthy crossing of the river from East Saint Louis to the meeting in the 'big city' across the Mississippi; all the lessons his father had taught him as they'd hunted in the broad plains around his former home were brought into play. After hunting skittish bucks, it was relatively easy to keep out of sight of mere humans.
The people who filled the theatre -- it had been boarded up for over a decade -- were mostly men who haunted the periphery of the business district. Their clothing tended to be the shabby remnants of better days, but now they scrambled on the precipice of destitution. Many had lost jobs when new equipment had been introduced into their factories, and the equipment had been the direct result of some gadgeteer's brain.
Others had been injured, or lost family, when mutants had clashed in the streets -- careless of those normal people around them.
Seth was hardly the only person to have a reason to want revenge.
Somehow, someone had jury-rigged power to the emergency lighting; it was just sufficient for the boy to find an obscure corner seat near the rear exit. He'd have to scramble if someone burst in through the back, but it meant he could focus his attention at the stage without worrying about someone sneaking up from behind him.
A spotlight, brilliant in the dim room, caused everyone in the room to squint and blink at its sudden appearance. By the time they had recovered, there was a tall figure on the stage.
Seth hadn't been able to completely suppress the snicker. The man looked like a refugee from an old horror movie. The man was dressed in black: pants, shoes, shirt, and long coat all of a uniform midnight color. There was nothing to give a sense of his height, but he was lean for his size. His hair looked to be thick, but was a silver gray. His complexion seemed too pale for any of the street people, but was too tanned for the night dwelling drug runners.
~He looks like that 'Magnet Master' mutant character from the comic books ~
The man's voice was a surprisingly light tenor, but he used it brilliantly. He was an artist, and the minds of his hearers were his canvas. Seth wasn't sure if there was an audio system running, but the voice started quietly -- almost too quietly to hear. Somehow, though, he managed to understand everything that was said by the dark-clad figure.
The boy never really remembered what had been said that night, but the room had risen in a screaming frenzy of hate before the man on stage was through.
*****
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Saint Louis, Missouri
~Why am I here?~ Seth wondered to himself.
The meeting had gone much as his first. The strange dark figure on the stage had appeared suddenly, in a flare of the stage lights, and again the audience had been in a killing mood by the end of the speech.
This time, though, Seth found himself standing in a small group at the foot of the stage. He was puzzled; try as he would, he had no clear memory of just when he'd come down or why he was here. It seemed important, though, and he was the recipient of several congratulatory slaps on the back as he stood waiting patiently for the man on stage.
~He looks even more like a country preacher from here,~ the boy thought. The man was nearly surrounded by a small cluster of men on the stage; they had gathered there as the rest of the mob had filed noisily out of the room, and the conversation was quiet, but very, very intense from the looks on their faces.
"You're wondering, no doubt, why you were called forward."
The sudden, quiet, soft voice of the Preacher -- Seth had no other name for him -- made the youngster startle like a frightened buck.
"You've all suffered from abuse caused by the mutants. Each of you has a loss from their arrogant abuse of their hell-spawned power." The man's eyes glittered as he looked at each man in the group. "The venal fools in government have listened to the smooth, seductive words of the apologists -- those who would bring down true humans into subjugation to these bizarre, sub-human, evil creatures.
"I have been quietly speaking with others like us, who have kept an eye on the plans of those who would lord it over us. You," he waved at the group that included Seth, "are one of several groups who will begin training to strike at them. You will work hard, but you will begin the task of taking back our land, our world, and take a measure of the people's justice against those who have wronged us all, and you in particular.
"Several cities are preparing their militia units to strike back; you have been chosen to take the lead for us in the first blow to restore our rights and freedoms. When you have returned from this first effort, you will help me train more of your fellows. You will be my lieutenants as we sweep the mutants and their lackeys from power! Tomorrow, my friends, your training will begin!"
It was stupid; it was all so clichéd that anyone should have laughed at the man in black. Something in his voice and eyes made you believe in spite of yourself.
A student of history who'd seen the grand spectacle of the Third Reich would have immediately recognized the techniques, though. Even seventy years later, you could still find those who wanted to be true believers.
*****
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Southwest of Saint Louis, Missouri
~Oh God!~
He'd been a typically confident teen when he'd arrived. He was just starting to grow again when he'd decided to leave home, and the lack of food since had slowed the process, but he was still as tall as most of the rest of the strike team.
He was just finding out the difference between a healthy body and one in good combat condition. Seth had expected to work out some, but spend most of his time learning how to handle heavier weapons. The man in charge of the training out here in the rural area southwest of Saint Louis, Carl Stoddard, had disabused him of that error. He'd been a trainer in the Army several years before and had modeled the course on the nastiest parts of Boot Camp and West Point. He'd resigned from the service in protest of the increasing number of mutants allowed to enlist.
Seth and his fellows were to be the cadre for the future, but they had to learn the basics of their new trade first.
The ache in his joints made the boy wonder if the plentiful, high quality food was worth it. The instructor pushed them all hard and reminded them that, no matter how much they hated the mutants, the deviants were usually faster and tougher than a real human. They had to be in top physical condition to ensure they'd survive their encounters.
All they had to do was to survive the instructor for the rest of the nine week course first.
*****
The Preacher walked along the sidewalk toward the administration building of the camp, and watched the activities of the young men as they relaxed from the week of training. He was determined that their spiritual needs would be met and had established that he would be there, every Sunday, during the entire training course.
The men were only part of his flock, though. The trainers, too, needed to be strengthened and encouraged for the difficult tasks ahead. It was unlikely that they would succeed in sweeping away the mutant plague with the first teams, and the men knew that. They needed the encouragement that their work was the Lord's, and they must persevere.
He rapped on the office door for the man who was the keystone for the entire effort.
"So, Carl, how are the recruits?"
The Preacher intended to take advantage of his weekly visit to the training site. This first team was critical to the goal of purging the evil from the world; he wanted to ensure the camp had everything possible to complete the education of these warriors for God.
"It's going well, so far. The physical training is progressing a little better than average, and the whole group is smart, so the combat basics are going well. The only concern I have, Reverend, is the kid. I have real misgivings about putting someone that young onto our strike teams, much less into a leadership role. He needs time to grow, mature, and learn. Seth didn't complete high school, and he hasn't the background for some of the advanced training. We need to get him through that so he'll be ready." The man behind the desk sighed.
The black-clad visitor looked puzzled. "I think I don't understand."
"Look, Frank, a hundred years ago you could shove a rifle in a kid's hands, teach him to stay in formation, and have a decent chance of him living long enough to learn the soldier's trade. Today you can't even have a rifleman without enough brains to graduate high school.
"Nowadays an officer needs to be at least a college graduate, and really should be doing post-graduate work. There's too much technical information for a dropout to understand, and it's even more impossible for one to train troops. If you want cannon fodder, you can just put weapons in the hands of the mob. They'll die without accomplishing anything, but you'll have your big army as long as they survive. It's a given that today, even without the mutants, the smarter soldier wins.
"You need soldiers -- men who are tough, trained, and smart. Seth has potential to be one of the best snipers and scouts I've ever seen, but he has to get the training first. The math required to be a sniper means he'll need weeks of class work, and your timetable doesn't allow for it. We're wasting his potential, but he'll be a good scout for now if I can get at least some of the basics in."
Frank sighed. "You're the expert; I'll see what I can find in the way of help for the boy. Will this affect the schedule?"
"A little. He really shouldn't be fielded until he's fully educated, but give me an extra two weeks and Seth will be ready for deployment as a scout."
*****
The Preacher knelt at his altar, eyes closed and hands folded as he communed in prayer with his Lord. He recalled the first time the quiet voice had spoken to him in this impoverished corner of the city. He'd worked steadily to provide food, clothing, and shelter for the men who had been beaten down by life; despair filled him as he watched the numbers swell with each passing year, and the resources that could have given life and hope to so many were squandered on the ornate edifices that housed the increasing numbers of mutant teams.
At last there was that day when his soul screamed out its frustration, rage, and hopelessness -- and a voice in his heart answered. There was no quick correction possible, but he was given a vision of a country, and a world, that had been purified such that a man could walk without fear, and where men could provide for themselves and their families.
The Preacher took time each night to pray; he told of all he'd done, and the problems he'd faced. Inevitably, the warm, comforting voice came with its peace, calm, and wisdom.
~Well? Are the preparations proceeding on schedule?~
~Yes, Lord. The only problem is the boy you commanded be selected. The training commander says the child needs classes, and that will take two more weeks.~
~That is tolerable, but the child must be in place at the proper time. You must not be late, or the opportunity will be missed. I don't want my work in directing the boy to you wasted.~
~It will be done as you command, Lord!~
*****
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
"Recruit Thompson reporting as ordered, sir!"
The boy was filling out a little with the food and exercise. He'd put on weight, and all of it was muscle. He still had the scrawny look of a young adolescent.
"Take a seat, Thompson."
Seth parked himself in one of the hard-backed chairs before the commander's desk. The adjutant had pulled him from a flag hunt -- sort of an orienteering exercise -- with orders to report immediately to the commander. He trotted to the office building and wondered if he'd done something wrong.
Carl had taken time to review the boy's file again, as he waited for Seth to arrive. He was too young, really, but the decision to recruit was made at a higher level.
~The boy is smart, strong, and skilled. He'll be a good officer, someday, but....~ The man cut off the thought; there was no point in arguing a decision he couldn't affect.
"Seth, you are an exceptional talent in the field; that will only be part of what you'll need to be ready for in the future. You need to finish your high school education before you can understand some of the technical details of your new job. I've arranged for a tutor, and you'll be working extra hours to get the classes out of the way. We only have a couple of weeks to spare, so you won't get through everything, but you'll get the critical courses out of the way."
The boy gulped. He felt as if he was falling behind as it was, but there was only one possible answer if he wanted revenge.
"Yes, sir!"
*****
Thursday, July 19, 2007
The woods around the training site were like a giant playground for Seth. He'd gotten used to hunting in the scrub-filled flatlands of South Dakota; the big trees of this part of the country provided him with an unlimited number of blinds. He would have been willing to try hunting in a Hawaiian shirt.
The Major, though, had given him a gift that was like having Christmas in July - a 'ghillie suit'. They all had to sit through a video, and then an on-site demonstration, of what a combat uniform, with jute patches carefully fastened to critical parts of the soldier's body and finished off with local foliage and dirt, could do to hide a man. He'd never seen anything like it, but the boy seemed to have an intuitive understanding of how to best set up and use the ancient Scottish camouflage. The instructors were at first amused at his intense focus on customizing the suit, and willingly gave him tips on how to use local brush to enhance the effect.
Their amusement turned to frustration when they found that the young man was quite capable of hiding from their most determined search. He had spent hours of his meager free time tweaking his new toy.
*****
The Major gathered the group of trainees around him as he and the instructors pointed out the deficiencies in their efforts to remain concealed and camouflaged as they assaulted the simulated target. He looked around, and noticed the trainee count was short by one.
"Where's Thompson?"
The senior instructor shrugged. "We don't know, sir. We haven't spotted him, and we've looked from the edge of the woods back to the starting line. Maybe he gave up and bailed out? We haven't called him in since you didn't order that."
Carl gave a wry smile. "You still don't get it, do you?" He turned toward the target site. "Thompson! Get your ass over here!"
A voice came from a patch of brush and grass. "Yes, sir!" The instructors started as the heavily sweating young man rose from concealment not ten feet from their location.
*****
Friday, August 17, 2007
The eleven weeks had reshaped the young man's body and mind. He knew that he was far short of where he needed to be as a commander, but he'd set the standard for performance in fieldcraft -- no one followed him if he wanted to remain hidden, and no one saw him if he chose to remain hidden.
The team was due to head out for the mission -- they had to move before the school year began, lest Seth draw attention. He'd grown some as he developed muscle, but no one would mistake him for anything other than a school age boy.
Somehow the organization had managed to turn up new identification -- birth certificate, driver's license, Social Security, and all -- that gave him a new last name, date and location of birth. He was now Seth Haskins, eighteen years old, from Billings, Montana. There was a twinge as he set aside his old ID; it felt like he had turned his back on the last tie to his family.
The full team transport briefing lay ahead, but he'd been called in for a special conference with Major Stoddard.
~Probably another 'you're a young kid, so stay out of the way' talk.~
Seth's eyes widened as he walked into the room, but that was the only sign that betrayed his shock. The Preacher was the only man in the room and stood as the boy entered.
"Welcome, young man! I congratulate you on your perseverance; few men could have completed the course you've gone through. You should be proud of your accomplishment!"
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate the support I've had from the Major and the rest of the unit. Without them, I'd never have made it."
"I think you're underestimating yourself," the black clad man replied. "Nevertheless, it is good to know you can rely on your companions. You have a travel briefing shortly, and I promised the Major I'd not keep you from attending. You are unique in your unit; your scouting skills are far beyond anyone else available. Because of that, the Lord has chosen you for a special task."
He opened a folder and spun it to face the boy; atop the paperwork inside lay a picture of a young looking woman, taken as she walked down a sidewalk. Her hair was long and black, and her facial features seemed distinctly Middle Eastern.
"A foreigner, sir?"
"And a mutant, young man. It isn't enough that we fight our own, home-grown evil; they're even coming from overseas, now. The Lord wants you, as you scout, to keep watch for this woman. She is a source of much potential trouble and must be dealt with. You are to carry out the Lord's death sentence, if you have an opportunity.
"She is not a powerful mutant, but she claims to represent one of the false gods -- the goddess of truth. Her lies are cloaked in enough truth that she will mislead those who don't know her true evil. She has come as a university professor and will spread her taint through those young, ignorant minds. You are the one who can save that infestation from taking root. You MUST stop her!"
Seth's eyes grew hard, and he nodded firmly. "I will, sir."
"The Lord will be with you, young man; He has told me so. Listen for His still, small voice; He will guide you to success."
"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down!"
*****
The briefing was nearly complete. Seth had been partnered with Greg Haskins, who had enough resemblance to pass as an uncle to the boy. They would still travel via automobile to avoid any chance of encountering someone who was looking for a young runaway from South Dakota, but with a little care, they expected an uneventful three day trip.
"What's the name of the town we're heading for, Greg? I know we're headed for that campsite at Milan Hill State Park near Berlin, New Hampshire, but what's the name of the town and school that...."
"Dunwich, Seth. The name of the town is Dunwich, and the school is called the Whateley Academy."
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