Breathe Deep Fear Vol. 1

  BREATHE DEEP FEAR

  VOL. 1

  Author: Heath Waterman

  Interior Art: Tasha Hicks

  Cover Art: Joseph Chevrette

  A Wrathful Squirrel Entertainment Book

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2011 Heath Waterman

  All rights reserved, no parts of this book can be reproduced or altered without the consent of Wrathful Squirrel Entertainment and Heath Waterman.

  Acknowledgements

  It is with the most sincere gratitude that I mention the people below. Without them devoting their time and effort, I wouldn’t be able to put this book out with any sort of confidence.

  First up is Edward Aspinal. He is the only person that I have not personally met and worked with. However, his death grip on the English language is why this book isn’t a chaotic field of commas, and for adding the final edit.

  A very special thanks goes to Joseph Chevrette. His work on the pitch perfect cover art aside, he continually amazes me by not running away whenever I inevitably come up with another project. A great marketer and even better advisor, if I find any success, chances are Joe had a guiding hand in it.

  My brother, Ethan Waterman, also deserves a nod for not only being willing to say that something I wrote sucks, but for the times he covered the dojo so I could lock myself away in the basement to write this.

  The same goes to my students and instructors. Your patience and understanding of my absences are sincerely appreciated.

  I’m also grateful to my Dad. It was because of him that I learned about this avenue in publishing. I also thank him for reading my writing and giving honest appraisal even if the genres aren’t what he normally enjoys.

  I also want to praise Tasha Hicks. She was the talent that got WSE rolling, and I continue to be impressed by how she improves in her art. She has stuck with us, why I’m not sure, but it is no less humbling. For whatever reason, she keeps devoting her time and skills to these projects, entirely on the belief that they will find success.

  Breathe fans, your enjoyment of the series pushes me through the times I am discouraged and helps to keep me striving to improve so that I can continue to create and share the worlds I imagine.

  A heartfelt thanks to my Mom, who edits every page before anyone, reads every rewrite, and has devoted more time and energy to my projects than anyone else. I can’t say thanks enough.

  And finally, I have to acknowledge Mr. Alan Brooks, the man who started my interest in writing.

  A Word About Breathe

  Breathe Deep Fear, or Breathe as its small circle of fans call it, started as an experimental chapter that I threw out onto the internet to see if a ‘free to read’ story could meet the same level of success as the webcomic scene. If a small, but growing number of people could meet critical, and sometimes commercial, success putting out free comics, why couldn’t an episodic book?

  I have learned several things over the two years since then.

  One, my inability to market properly rendered the experiment largely impossible. I seriously would have had more people see it if I printed it on paper and tossed it into the wind. Keep in mind that deer and turkeys make up ninety percent of the population.

  Two, doing three page ‘episodes’ several times a week changed the entire pacing of the work itself. I liked writing it that way, and the story seemed tenser because readers had to wait several days in between chapters.

  Three, people liked it.

  Before a ten month hiatus, I was working on five different stories, many of which I thought were better than Breathe, and one of which had a larger readership. Yet, no matter what I put out there, that small contingent kept asking about Breathe. When they got someone new to read it, the same three questions came to the forefront;

  “Are you working on it? When is the next chapter? How’s it coming along?”

  I decided to give the story another chance, but before I considered continuing on with the episodes and the plot itself I needed to see if the story was honestly good enough. It had to warrant the time I devoted to weekly updates on a self-managed website, a website that was probably buried in cobwebs, and made the collective team shudder at the thought of how much work would be needed to get it in presentable shape again. People, in general, tend to be a little more critical when they’re putting hard earned money forward. It would be an honest answer.

  So here it is. BDF Vol. 1, a compilation of the first two Breathe arcs still in episodes, but back to back and expanded. To new readers, welcome and enjoy. To old fans, I’m sorry for the wait and get ready to be surprised.

  Chapter

  1

  John ran a calloused hand over his withered face as dozens of men and women in pristine lab coats scurried in front of his gaze. They largely ignored him, their noses buried in data filled monitors and clipboards, obscuring anything in the outside world from their focus. Gripping the edge of his trash cart, he pushed it toward the next bin in line, the lone squeaky wheel keeping time with his thumping left limp.

  One of the lab rats butted in front of him in a hurry.

  Wanting to toss a weary glare, but knowing it would be pointless, he took the moment to lean up against the closest desk and rub out the increasing ache in his leg. The appendage was acting up today, probably because of all the hubbub. What he wouldn’t do for the deformed muscle to smooth out to its past greatness.

  Once, he had been a soldier, a damn good one at that. A commander specializing in under the radar missions, it had taken one stray grenade to end almost twenty years of service. Oh, there had been awards and thanks, plenty of back patting from people who forgot about him as soon as he limped out the door. His check came in the mail, and compensation had been generous by government standards. He should have retired with a smile on his face and a rocking chair on a deck.

  Instead, his desire to serve made him jump at an offer from the Pentagon. It wasn’t field work, but it was a return to the only thing considered home. They hadn’t mentioned he was going to be a janitor locked in some secret lab.

  He repressed a chuckle as the worker moved away from the bin.

  It hadn’t taken him too long to figure out they weren’t interested in his know how or experience. They only needed people who could keep quiet, the kind of people loyal enough they would never even think of speaking about it outside the concrete hellhole they lived in.

  He dumped the trash into the cart with a grimace. Even the refuse around here smelled sterile. In his opinion, if they spent half as much time working as cleaning, the little project of theirs would have been long over. Pushing a plastic liner back in the bin, his nose curled up as another gust of sterile air was forced upward.

  God, he hated this place.

  Countless hours of silence, endless repetitions of the same janitorial cycle; one day was almost always identical to the next, year after trudging year. And still, he hadn’t a clue as to what they were doing. All he saw were a bunch of lab monkeys playing with slabs of meat, chemicals, and fancy machines. It was like a blasted, high tech cook out; the damned sickos. It wasn’t right and reinforced his dislike of non-military in a military facility.

  But of course, they had funded the God-forsaken project.

  He pushed his cart closer to the wall and gave a nod over to the four guards lining the bottom of the expansive staircase leading to the only exit. The closest one returned the nod, and he rested his back up against the rough surface. The security guys could be a fun group when they weren’t on duty. Not exactly military, but close enough for John to feel a sense of camaraderie with them. They let him rest close to the stairs. It was his favo
rite spot in the place. Out of the way but slightly elevated, he could look out and watch the entire lab.

  And for the first time in ten years, it honestly was a different picture.

  Security had been doubled and was positioned throughout the lab instead of just close to the exit. The normally dronish lab monkeys were skittering about excitedly and flashing charts at each other faster than they could probably read. It was like someone had finally found their on switch.

  Of course, the biggest change was that someone was in the box.

  The box was a large, truck-sized, reinforced glass cube sitting on an elevated platform. All sorts of sci-fi gizmos pointed at it. Pseudo-science crap as far as he was concerned and not really of interest. What did interest him was that there had never been anyone in the box. Now, a young soldier sat in there naked. His face chiseled into a serious expression as the fluorescent lights shone off his bald scalp.

  He was tied into a heavily welded chair, a gag secured tightly in his mouth – probably to prevent him from biting his own tongue. He seemed calm enough, only the veins in his arms showing any signs of strain. John, though, was unnerved. The lab rats had placed one of the flesh slabs in the box as well … a big slab.

  John’s breath caught in his chest as the machines slowly powered up in a rising chorus of dull hums and sharp beeps. Deep down, there was no doubting this entire thing was unnatural … wrong. Putting a healthy kid in there meant the lab monkeys thought they could improve him, the common soldier. He scoffed at that thought. A soldier needed a strong body, bullets, and pride; not a bunch of egghead garbage.

  A harsh twinge ran up his leg, his hand instinctually moving to massage it out. Well, fixing human fallibility would be wonderful.

  The humming had increased to the point the air itself was seemingly vibrating. John swallowed the lump in his throat as the fluorescent lights began to flicker, surges of electricity being drawn into the machines at an uncontrollable rate. Different colored lights flashed in the box, and the boy noticeably tensed. His veins bulged as his skin quickly reddened from strain. Sweat dripped off a clenched jaw, as the serious gaze had been twisted up into squeezed eyes. Pain was apparent.

  And the lab geeks weren’t even bothering to look up from their flashing screens.

  Seeing enough to be suitably disgusted, John grabbed his cart and started to push it out of the main lab and down the hall. He’d park it in the utility closet, get a bite to eat, and head for bed. Watching the kid any longer would only cause nightmares.

  Then, a scream echoed from the lab; a tortured scream identical to those being mutilated on the battlefield.

  John’s throat went dry. Wasn’t there a gag in the young soldier’s mouth? How was he screaming?

  He struggled to spin the cart around on his good leg and hobbled as quickly as he could back to the lab. The white-coated God players were shouting in panicked blurbs of data and orders. The lights above were in full strobe effect, and the blasted machines were beeping incessantly.

  Then, the soldier’s scream gurgled like his vocal chords were … tearing.

  Against every nerve in his old body, John looked up at the box. The flesh slab was gone, and the soldier was- no. A wave of vomit embittered the back of his throat. Swallowing it down and listening to instinct, the old man limped toward the stairs. The feeling in the pit of his stomach demanded retreat.

  The guards on the stairs were so mesmerized in the chaotic scene that they ignored him as he pulled his cart up the stairs. It was stupid to carry the damn thing along, but the sad truth was it was the closest thing he had for a friend. Ashamedly, many a conversation had been held with it, and he was solidly attached to its silent humor. It couldn’t be left to the hell his senses were prophesying.

  John ignored everything as the screams stopped and a hall shaking roar began. Focusing on the clunk-squeak rhythm of his cart being dragged up the stairs, his thoughts kept going over how it would only take twenty-four steps to reach the top. Then, only fifty more steps were needed to get to the elevator.

  So what if he was only on step five.

  People were screaming incoherently, commands drowned out by fear. The guards rushed from the stairs as they undid the safeties on their assault rifles. He just kept his eyes glued at the top of the stairs, hand in a white-knuckled death grip on the cart. Three steps from the top, the lab was filled with gunfire.

  Glass shattered, and an explosion rocked the facility, knocking him and his cart across the top step as the lights completely died and all sound stopped. He forced himself up, not wanting to be in a worse position than he already was. Pitch black surrounded him, suffocating him and robbing him of his breath.

  Was anyone alive down there? Should he call out?

  He shifted the cart to the side and winced as it squeaked. It might as well have been a gunshot. The dull emergency light strip running along the floor kicked on, and something … bestial, snarled from twenty four steps down. Grabbing the cart, John hobbled down the corridor to the elevator as fast as his bum leg would allow.

  Whatever was down there scrambled like mad as something hard raked across the smooth tile of the lab floor. It tore up the stairs as John came within feet of the elevator button. He dove for the illuminated square, slammed his palm on it, and nearly tumbled in with the cart.

  The thing bounded over the stairs, John struggling to get around his cart enough to hit the up button. He hit the up switch – nothing. Crying a silent prayer, he hit it harder – still nothing. The silhouette of the beast started to take form from the shadows and leapt.

  With a yell drowned out by a roar, he grabbed his mop and jammed it into the thing’s shadowed maw. It stumbled back as he was knocked into the back wall, blood seeping from the gash in his neck. The elevator doors shut with a cheerful ding, sealing the monster away. Giving one last shuddering breath, he went completely still.

  John was dead.

  And then, his body twitched.

  Chapter

  2

  Cale Oliver stepped inside his uncle’s home, thankful for the warm air that wrapped around him. All he wanted was a hot meal and to spend the rest of the night inside. The autumn air was already hinting at winter’s inevitability, and if he took a guess, chances were there’d be a frost tonight. Normally, the cold wasn’t a problem, but the thick fog added a heavy dampness that seeped into his bones. It didn’t help he had been out so long. The drive to and from the barn had been a never-ending crawl.

  Hanging the tanned leather coat up while fighting through the numbness of his fingers, he tugged his feet out of the muddy boots and went straight for the kitchen. What had his aunt made for him again? His stomach growled out, as if it found the question pointless. Rubbing the prickly sensation from his hands, Cale pried the fridge door open with his big toe and peered in.

  A large bowl of ham and bean soup sat right in the center.

  He grabbed it as a grin spread across his face. Hopefully, she hadn’t gone as heavy on the pepper this time … like every time. Taking it to the microwave, he turned the box on and sat down at the nearby table before rolling his head back and massaging the bruise on his collarbone.

  The cows had been spooked tonight, and he couldn’t remember a time when they had kicked so much. One had almost ruined a years worth of braces. That wouldn’t have been a fun conversation to have with his parents. He probably should give them a call and figure out what they were doing for the holidays this year. Hopefully, the tension will have diminished.

  They had respected his decision to take over his uncle’s farm six months ago. Not thrilled by any means, especially since he dropped out of his senior year of college, they quietly accepted it as a noble pursuit. His uncle had been getting older and needed more than his aunt and often absent cousin could provide. It was either he come in or they sell. Before his folks moved, he had grown up on the farm. It wouldn’t feel right letting it go.

  He rubbed the bruise again.

  “Although with the way th
e cows were tonight, I wonder.”

  A chill ran up his spine as a cold nose pressed itself into his hand. Absently reaching down, the golden retriever wagged his tail as Cale scratched behind his ears. The microwave beeped and Cale got up with a small groan, Sam closely in tow. Odd, usually the dog was fairly independent and wasn’t one for wandering close by. He frowned. Something had the animals on edge and it was freaking him out.

  He grabbed the soup and went over to the kitchen window, peering out into the backyard of dark woods. Had the wolves started snooping around again? His green eyes strained to see through the night and made out several shapes from the shadows. It was almost as if they were looking right back at him. He leaned forward and squinted, the shapes becoming more defined.

  The phone rang, making him jump and almost dump the steaming soup on Sam’s head.

  “Man,” he groaned as the dog happily lapped up the few traces of broth splattering the floor.

  The shrill ring sounded again. He set the bowl down and nearly dove over the counter to get to the phone before the machine picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Cale? This is Mike. Your uncle in?”

  “No, they’re out of town for the week. What’s up?”

  The brief pause caused a lump to form in his throat.

  “I’m probably being ridiculous, but something has got the livestock all shook up. I was wondering if there was a similar problem at your farm.”

  Cale felt the hair on the back of his neck lift slightly. So something was out there, but what on Earth could freak out so many animals at the same time? Mike’s farm was at least a five minute drive in good weather, and the family farm was another four if you didn’t cut through the forest. It was still almost a full mile stretch on road.