Tent revival, p.1
Tent Revival, page 1
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Title Page
Introduction
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
Epilogue
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Edmund Stone
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information address the author at edmundstoneauthor.com
Dedication
To Mikel Stone, my love, my wife, and the one who kicks my ass every day to keep me going.
To my friends, Lowell Miller and Justin Boote, supporters, beta readers, and confidants both.
To all the people who made this book possible with their contributions of character. Gordon Clancy and Adam Rawlins, to name a few.
To all the people of the Write Practice, my writers group the first draft of this book was presented to. Especially the recently departed Des Dixon who loved reading the excerpts I posted weekly. I was fortunate to call him friend.
Finally, to the people of my hometown of Garrison, Ky. You all may never realize how much you contributed to this book, but hopefully, these pages will reveal some of it.
TENT REVIVAL
EDMUND STONE
Introduction
What you are about to read started way back in 2016. I was a new writer then, and as I suppose many new writers do, I studied. Not only by posting to my writers' group, but by observing the things around me. This form of observation gave me lots of interesting ideas. I wrote them all down, realizing one day, I'd have enough material to put it all in a book, and here it is my first novel.
Now, if I've given you the idea this all magically jumped from my head and lay comfortably on the written page, then I've misled you. A crime I would never want to be accused of. Mostly because its untrue. It took me nearly five years to get it right after all. No, this book was a collection of quirky things I saw around me. All starting with a box at work near the central supply office. A sticker was taped to the side saying, Mixed Parts. After this, the what ifs emerged. What if that box was a bunch of body parts, hibernating away, and ready to strike? As you read these pages, you'll see with greater clarity where my mind wanders.
Once the idea was cemented in my head, the characters started forming. People I knew, some I didn't, all with something to contribute. A few of those people know who they are, and maybe I'll reveal them someday. But for now, we'll keep it in these pages. The rest of the story evolved from the environment. Most notably, where I live. The people and places I see every day. Of course, the names are changed to protect the innocent, but the hometown feel is there just the same. The locals and others who live in small towns, will get a sense of this, and I hope they laugh a little.
When I began to write I realized the book needed a villain. One people could hate and love as well. Sage was originally that guy, but he didn't completely fit the mold, so, Rebecca was born. The definition of the name is 'to tie' or 'to bind'. As you read, you'll see why the name is appropriate.
Finally, all my characters and places were ready to go, and I sat down to write the story. I finished the original rough draft in one month, during NANOWRIMO. Once I finished, I read over it and hated it. Looking back though, I realize it needed to sit on a shelve for a few years. Partly because I bit off too much. I wasn't quite ready for the undertaking this novel demanded. Fast forward a few years, the beginning of 2021 to be exact, and Tent Revival was ready to see the light. Not only was it ready, but I had ideas for expanding it into an entire series. So, what you're reading is Book One of the Rebecca Mythos. I chose Mythos instead of series due to Rebecca is more myth than reality. Unfortunately for those who she comes for, she is all too real.
An entire series of books, all spawned from two common words. Funny how the mind of a writer works. I hope you enjoy this book. I sure enjoyed writing it. There will be others soon. You, my readers, are just getting started.
Thank you so much for spending your time here, and when you're finished, be sure to leave a review of what you thought of this book. I'd love to hear from you.
Edmund Stone
July 2021
Chapter One
Allen
Sy Sutton sat in the parking lot of Lexington State Mental Hospital, staring at the red-orange clouds above the hills. It reminded him of what he used to say to his children: Red sky at night, a sailor's delight; red sky at morn, and a sailor takes warn.
It meant a storm was brewing, possibly a bad one. He wondered if it was a sign. Should he turn back?
His son Allen lay in a hospital bed in there, and the boy needed him. He couldn't leave when he was so close to seeing him again.
The past year had been crazy since his wife died, and he'd lost touch with his son. The odd thing was that Allen's wife died too, almost a year to the day. The accident that put him in the hospital happened after her funeral. It was all too much. If he could bring him home, care for him there, things would be different. They could bond again.
He reached inside his jacket pocket, fumbling for the small flask of liquor he'd filled before he left. The cheap stuff he brought from home was better than any you'd find in the stores.
It was eight thirty, time for visiting hours to begin. He placed the flask back into his jacket, took a deep breath, and got out of his car.
The hospital doors slid open, and he entered the main foyer. A guard sat at the desk along with a woman in a suit outfit. Another guard passed by on his way to the guard shack.
"Can I help you, sir?" the woman said.
"I'm here to see Allen Sutton. I'm his father, Sy Sutton."
"Okay. Let me check to see what room he's in." She looked at her computer. "Here he is, Room 311. The nurse on the floor will have to give you access; I'll tell her you're coming."
"Okay, thanks." Sy nodded and walked toward the elevator doors.
A pit formed in his stomach as he realized he was nervous about the meeting. His daughter, Sally, visited Allen a few days before. She told him he didn't look good and to be prepared.
As Sy exited the elevator, a pretty nurse--looking to be in her early forties, Sy guessed--greeted him. She wore sensible khakis with a button up blouse, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
"Hello, sir. I'm the head nurse, Patty Hudson. You're Allen Sutton's father, right?"
"Yeah, but Sy's fine," he said as he put his hand out.
She shook it lightly. "Okay, would you like to see your son now?"
"Yes, please."
"He's in Room 311. Rhonda? I'm taking Mr. Sutton back to see his son. I'm leaving you in charge of the desk."
A red-haired girl with green eyes, looked up from the nurse's station, smiled, and nodded to Patty.
Patty walked stiffly to the door and punched a code into a keypad beside the glass barricade. She held the door open for Sy.
As Sy walked down the corridor, he felt like he was in another world. Strange noises came from the hall, screams and moans, things that didn't seem quite human.
He could see Room 311 up ahead. The door was closed, but the one before it was open.
A man sat on the bed with only a gown gaping open in the back. He faced the corner, murmuring to himself. The ridges of the man's spine protruded like some prehistoric creature, the skin taut around it looking dry and leathery. Red, scaly patches coated him from head to toe. The man looked older than his years would suggest, like a young man in an old man's body.
The ferocity of his movement increased as the murmurs began to turn into words. He spoke with an accent Sy had heard before, one of those British comedies or maybe Irish. It was hard to tell as his words were coming faster, building to a fevered pitch.
"From Earth it comes, to the dirt it returns...to the dirt it returns. From the Earth it comes, to the dirt it returns!"
The man snapped his head around and looked at Sy. His eyes were glassy, and the irises looked like they were swimming in milk. Pockmarks dotted his face with the same redness as the splotches, appearing as craters on his sunken cheeks. "Take the child away from here. For she seeks to destroy the womb, but the child, the child lives on...lives on! Lives on! Lives on!"
The man lunged for him.
Sy pedaled backward, colliding with Patty, sending them both crashing into the opposite wall.
Hurried footsteps came from the direction of the nurse's station.
"Harley!" Rhonda said, pulling a syringe from her pocket. There were two orderlies with her, and they grabbed Harley, pushing him against the wall. Rhonda deposited the contents of the syringe into his arm. He quit squirming almost immediately. The orderlies eased the wild man onto his bed.
"Bill, Nate, thank you," Patty said.
Harley smiled at Rhonda. "Thanks, my sweet." He then curled into a fetal position on the mattress.
"Please, Mr. Sutton. This way." Patty had collected herself and was motioning for Sy to follow. "I'm sorry about that. I'm not sure why his door was open."
She punched in a code below the handle and opened the door to 311. The room was small with a bathroom in the back. Allen lay sleeping in a hospital bed near the middle with monitors surrounding him. An IV was hooked to his arm and a tube stuck in his nose. His wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed like some heathen animal.
"Why's he being pumped full of dope? Isn't it counterproductive?"
Patty shook her head with a tight smile. "Allen's on a slow drip of Ativan. It's hardly dope. It keeps his heart rate normal and helps him to stay calm. Without it, he's prone to seizures. We're trying to make your son as comfortable as possible. Rest assured; he's well cared for."
"Yeah, I guess. I haven't talked to him for a few months, since before the accident. It's a little hard to see him this way. Why're his arms and legs strapped down?"
"Those are for his safety. If he woke while in seizure, he could fall from the bed before anyone got to him. A little archaic, but effective. I'll leave you to visit."
She studied the IV bag before she left. "Looks like this needs to be refilled. Rhonda should've replaced it an hour ago. I'll be back in a minute."
Sy held Allen's hand, squeezing it from time to time to see if he could get a response from him, but Allen made no sign he was even in the world. He sat back in the chair and then reached for his flask again. He unloosed the cap and took a drink, pausing as the warm liquid trickled down his throat.
He thought about why Allen was here. So much had happened in such a short time. Sadie, his wife of thirty years, passed, and Allen was near death himself. The boy had fallen into the sinkhole in town. He'd been in a coma ever since they found him. Sy knew he was distraught after his wife died but didn't think he would wander off and end up hurt. Nicole was good to Allen, and no one could understand why she'd commit suicide the way she did, not even her good-for-nothing family. They probably blamed Allen for the whole thing.
The sinkhole didn't seem to be getting any smaller either. The damned thing was going to swallow the whole town eventually. Sy had a lot to ponder while he watched his son's slow breathing. Maybe if Allen heard his dad's voice, then he'd have a better chance of waking.
He fished around in the top drawer of the bedside table and pulled out the Gideon's Bible left there. He cleared his throat and read a few verses. The story of Lazarus seemed especially appropriate for the situation.
As he read, he thought about his late wife, Sadie, how he believed strongly in the Bible while she was alive. But since she'd passed, he had a hard time with it, ignoring pleas from his daughter to come to church. He still remembered quite a bit but didn't have the conviction he once had. Maybe he'd lost his faith, or maybe he was just lost? The latter was probably true, but even though that may be, his faith was strong in his son.
Then, another thought occurred to him. When Allen woke up, what would he say to him? He hadn't spoken with anyone much over the course of the year. After Sadie died, Sy had practically been a recluse. He only left the house to meet up with his friend Buck for some of the corn alcohol he'd become so fond of.
He placed the flask in his pocket and watched Allen. If not for the occasional beep of the monitor, Sy would think the boy was dead. But in some ways, maybe he was. If only he could talk to him, like he'd wanted to for the last year. But all he had was the shell of a man, the once vibrant boy who couldn't stop talking when he was a kid.
Defeated, he sat back in his chair and looked out the window. It was so darkly tinted that all he could see was his reflection. It seemed like he'd aged twenty years in one week. Ever since Allen ended up there, he'd been on edge. His beard showed the evidence of how hard it had been on him; the gray had multiplied overnight, more than his fifty-five years should show.
"I need to get you out of here, son."
Suddenly, Allen bucked at the restraints and banged his head on the mattress. Veins protruded from his temples and arms, a network of blue running like road maps on his body. Sy rose from the chair, placing his hand on his son's arm.
"Allen? Allie? Are you awake?"
Allen relaxed a moment, turning his head toward his dad. The pupils in his eyes were starting to dilate, no longer the small black pinpoints they once were. The drugs were starting to lose their effect. He was coming back to consciousness.
"Hunmm...?" he said with a raspy voice.
"Allie, it's me; it's Dad. Wake up."
"Daa...d, wha...?"
"It's okay, Son. Save your strength. We don't have a lot of time."
"Dad, Dad is it...is it, really you?"
"Yes, Son. You're not dreaming. I'm here for you." Sy held Allen's hand in his.
"Dad, I'm thirsty."
"Oh, give me a second."
Sy studied the room. In the corner on a bedside table sat a pitcher of water with a straw in it. Sy brought it to him. He put his hand behind Allen's head and gently lifted. Allen coughed as he drank from the straw.
"Take it easy. You've been out for a while. The only water you've been getting is from that damn needle in your arm."
"Dad, I'm sick." Allen cried, dropping his head on Sy's shoulder.
Sy fought back tears, as he stroked his son's face. "It's okay. I should have been there for you. But don't worry, I'll make it up to you. I'm getting you out of here. You hang in there."
"Dad? I love you." Allen looked at Sy, his eyes still trying to focus. "What's happening to me?"
"You're going through a bad spell, but it's going to be okay. I'm going to take you home."
"Home?"
"Yes. My home, where you were raised, Allen. This'll all be over soon. Then you can start living again."
Kissing his son on the forehead, he straightened and stepped into the hallway. A wheelchair stood against the wall between Harley's room and his son's. Sy hurriedly brought it inside the room and quietly shut the door again. He searched the drawers for a pair of socks and an extra pair of linen pants. With moderate difficulty, he was able to somewhat dress Allen, who had fallen back under.
A loud thump reverberated on the wall that separated his son's room from Harley's. Noises were coming from next door, and he could hear a commotion building in the hallway.
Allen moved slightly, his head gently rolling from side to side. Sy removed the wrist restraints. The skin was red and irritated from the straps, and he tried to soothe the area the best he could by rubbing gently.
The sounds coming from next door were getting louder and the conversation more heated. He paid no attention to it and removed the feet restraints. Then, with trepidation, he began to remove the nose tube. Once it cleared his nostril, Allen immediately started gagging. Sy rolled him to his side and grabbed the trash can by the bed, placing it under Allen's chin.
"Go ahead, Son. It's your body's way of rejecting the poison."
Allen emptied the contents of his stomach, all liquid and nothing solid, then rolled onto his back and groaned. Outside the room, the noise was reaching a fevered pitch with people yelling. Bill and Nate could be heard the loudest. Sy left Allen's side for a moment and went to the door. He peered into the hall. No one was there. The noises were coming from Harley's room.
Sy retrieved a small wash basin from the nightstand near the bed and placed it in Allen's hand.
"Here, keep this close in case you have to throw up again. We're getting out of here, now."
Allen's eyes rolled back, showing the whites. Sy wasn't sure how much he understood or how much help he would give getting into the wheelchair. Another loud thump hit the wall, causing a picture to tilt.
Harley must be giving them hell over there, he thought. The voices next door were louder and more desperate.
"Hold him down!" Nate cried out.
"I'm trying for fuck's sake! He's too strong!" Bill said.
Now was the best time to make his move, while they were distracted. He unfolded the wheelchair and placed it by the bed. He remembered how the Home Health Therapist for Sadie taught him to transfer someone from a bed to a wheelchair. Hopefully, Allen had enough strength to stand on his legs and help.
