Ascendant Saga Collection: Sci-Fi Fantasy Techno Thriller Brandon Ellis (ebook reader for comics txt) 📖

but he most likely hadn’t run through the list of all the trigger words Slade had given him. From what Jaxx remembered, Donny didn’t like keeping his subjects under for too long. “Jaxx, we have to keep going. I’m sorry.” His job no doubt depended on it.

“Jaxx, understand you’re safe. You’re going deeper, conjuring up vivid memories...”

37

June 7thPortland, Oregon

The sun’s rays splintered through the cracks in the cedar trees and branches which shadowed the spot where Drew lay. He felt for his phone. Still there. He wiped the slobber from his cheek and shook the dirt out of his hair.

He powered his phone on, watching a car drive down the street, its turn signal blinking.

Drew was tired, stiff, and a little wet from the dew. His phone displayed 8:07 AM and his phone’s battery was at twenty-seven percent. He’d need to ration his phone use.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned. The phone rang. Hobbs Howell. Again. He yawned and stretched, rubbing his stomach. “Hey, Hobbs.”

“Are you happy?”

He glanced down the road and, seeing no cars, walked across the street. He needed food. There had to be a bagel shop nearby. “I don’t think happy is a word that can describe the feelings I’m having lately.”

“Well, we ran the story this morning on WNN morning news. The internet, all major news networks, and radio shows are having a hay day with our particular take on the story. That Drew Avera is our star undercover reporter and is still undercover as we speak. All the news heads are looking for you. And you have critics. We need you on our nightly news program to defend yourself. Please don’t speak with any other networks until you’ve spoken with us. You’re our reporter. Remember that.”

Drew rolled his eyes. “Gotcha. And who’d you get to argue against my facts, my documents, my research that I almost died to get?” He turned a corner.

“Colonel Slade Roberson.”

Drew stopped in his tracks. “The head of the GSA?”

“Yes.”

He looked at his battery—twenty-five percent. “I have to get off the phone. I’ll call you later.”

“No, you need to prep. If Slade’s shitting us, you need to counter his spin, give us the facts.”

Hobbs was right. They wanted him to look good and right, and Slade bad and wrong. Drew wanted the same thing. Prepping was one way to do that. But he couldn’t. No battery life. “If I keep talking, my battery will die.”

A bagel shop was across the street. “Thank, God.”

“What was that?” Hobbs asked.

“Nothing. I’ll call in on the Nightly News line. Just put a picture of me up on the split screen. You’ll hear my voice.”

“What about prep?”

“Sure, but I need food.”

“Remember, Drew, during the interview always complete your thoughts, even after being interrupted.”

“Got it, boss.” He hung up, then powered down his phone, seeing the phone was at twenty-one percent before it shut off.

He jogged across the street.

Drew opened the glass door, the cooked dough aroma filling his senses. He stood in a short line.

A young woman sat at a corner table gave him a glance. He smiled. He knew what she was about. She did everything in her power to not throw her half-eaten bagel away, dump her coffee, and approach him like a cat in heat. He then realized he hadn’t brushed off the dirt on his clothes.

“I’ll take two bagels and a small coffee...black.”

The cashier rang him up. “$8.85, sir.”

He reached into his pocket for his wallet. His pocket was empty. He dug into his other pocket. Empty. He searched his back pockets. Same results. He dropped his head, defeated. “Not good.”

His stomach growled. He leaned on the counter; eyebrows raised. A look he hoped was vulnerable and charming. “You’re not doing a free special on bagels and coffee today, are you?”

“Cute,” she said, “but no, we’re not.”

Drew nodded, dejected.

“My boyfriend works down at the co-op on Strand and Overbrook. If you hit them up at around noon, they have samples and, as long as you’re polite and don’t pull any asshole moves like panhandling the customers, they’ll let you graze your way through the store.”

“Wow. Thanks. I owe you.”

“Hope you find your wallet.”

Drew left the store and its heavenly yeasty smell. With a few hours to kill, he needed to raise enough cash to get his phone in the mail.

In a squidge-proof carrier.

Before anyone tracked him down and put a bullet in his brain.

Or took him prisoner.

Or worse.

Drew knew, having spent a lot of his free time with assorted conspiracists, geeks, and weirdos that there were many things worse than death. He also knew how to juggle while reciting pi, which for some reason, was a crowd pleaser.

It took him two and half hours of non-stop juggling to raise enough money for postage and packaging. He wrote his mom’s name in big, bold letters on the padded envelope and included a card—kitties in a watering can, something she’d think was darling and harmless—then sent his entire life insurance package to her in the United States Postal Service.

He checked the clock on the Post Office wall. Ten to twelve. Thank all the gods that ever were. Screw the government and the GSA and the spaceships and the conspiracy and Slade whatshisname. Free food beckoned.

Drew never liked it when organic food co-ops weren’t busy. It usually meant that the larger, corporate stores took money away from hardworking hippies.

He cruised the freebie tables arranged around the store three times and no one had said a single word. Other than the guy with the beanie, stacking oranges in the produce section, Drew was the only customer in the store. These stores always smelled of granola and sweat, and the sweat was a little too intense.

He moseyed around and made sure nobody watched, then lifted his arm and sniffed his pit. The intensity was him, not the store. He glanced at the bathroom. They wouldn’t kick him out if he had a standing wash at one of their sinks. Would they? No. They were hippies.