The Shepherd

  The Shepherd

  By TW Luedke

  Young Adult Paranormal Thriller (15+)

  Graphic violence and sensuality may be unsuitable for younger teens

  Copyright © 2013 by Travis Luedke

  Book Cover Art by Amygdala Design

  http://amygdaladesign.net/

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Ephesians 4:11

  “And he gave some as apostles, some as prophets, some as shepherds and teachers.”

  Ezekiel 34:12

  “As a shepherd seeketh out his flock in the day that he is among his sheep that are scattered, so will I seek out my sheep, and will deliver them out of all places where they have been scattered in the cloudy and dark day.”

  John 10:11

  “… The good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.”

  Chapter 1

  Thursday, September 9th, 5:15 p.m.

  Shit happens, life happens, but for some reason it happens to me a lot.

  I was kinda hoping life would give me a break – maybe crap on somebody else for a while.

  Yeah, right.

  I mean, look at Justin Shelby. I’m sitting here in my car, in the McDonald’s drive through, and what is he doing? He’s climbing up the side of the damn playcenter. Probably faded on prescription pills he stole from his mom. This guy is begging for life to hit him upside the head. But it never does.

  And then there’s his buddy, Tommy Schroeder, goading him on.

  “Do it man! You’re almost there!”

  One of the wrestling elite of Moses Lake High School, Tommy’s mere presence inspired Justin to new heights of idiocy. Justin scaled the side of the outdoor playcenter like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.

  Justin skated religiously, a regular at the downtown Moses Lake skatepark across from the Aquatic Center. Like most of us skaters, he was thin, moderately athletic, and had a strong sense of balance from endless hours busting his ass on the concrete. Climbing the playcenter wasn’t any more dangerous than the skate tricks we recorded and posted to YouTube.

  He quickly reached the apex, damn spider monkey. He stood exalted atop the dome of the airplane-shaped plastic toy. An elementary kid inside gawked up at him from the Plexiglas window.

  “This is classic!” Tommy whipped out his cell phone and started recording.

  Looked like a good idea to me, so I did the same. You never know what folly you might catch on video. I mean, this was live action stuff. I could be ten seconds away from a viral Youtube video, Gangnam Style.

  Tommy encouraged Justin’s antics with loud catcalls. Justin proclaimed his status as king of the hill, arms held high.

  “Yeah bitches, hell yeah!” Justin yelled and hooted at the top of his lungs, pumping his fists in the air.

  I narrated to my potential audience of millions, “This is a flagrant violation of the rules.” I panned my cellphone camera over to the placard by the entry gate and zoomed in to catch a clear shot of the playcenter rules. “There it is folks, rule number three: No climbing outside the playcenter. And we can’t forget rule number four: No children over the age of fourteen allowed. For the record, Justin is sixteen.”

  Returning to the action, I caught Tommy’s upturned face lit with excitement, and then slid the view up the playcenter to Justin. “There’s the big man, putting on a show for his new best friend.”

  It kinda stung in a way I didn’t like to admit, that Justin was doing all this for Tommy. A couple months ago, Justin was my best friend, my idiot. Or so I had thought.

  But Tommy was cool. Popular and wealthy, he also happened to be one of the biggest arrogant pricks in my class, and Justin’s ticket into the ‘cool crowd.’

  “Always trying to prove something.” I shook my head.

  Tommy and I don’t get along so well. It’s a Rachelle thing. One of those life things that happens to me so often.

  I should just keep my mouth shut and catch some choice video, but you know what they say, the observer always affects the observed …

  “Hey ass munch, get down before you break your neck!”

  Justin’s head whipped around to the sound of my voice, causing his body to sway with the sudden movement. As soon as he spotted me parked in the drive-through a nasty smirk bloomed across his face. In a moment of sublime inspiration, Justin dropped his pants with a show of lily-white butt cheeks. He obviously hadn’t seen me recording with my cell phone.

  Tommy noticed me too. “How about a double McAss burger Mikey?”

  He loves to call me Mikey. He knows I hate it. No one but Tommy calls me Mikey.

  The girl delivering my cheeseburger held her hand over her mouth to cover her braces as she giggled and snarfed at the sight of Justin’s naked rump shaking back and forth while he taunted, “It’s a full moon tonight Mikey. Hope you enjoy the view!”

  Perfect. Now Justin’s calling me Mikey. God I hate that name.

  “It’s Michael, asshole! And thanks for the killer video. Goin’ straight to Facebook.” I held my cell phone out the window for him.

  Justin looked back over his shoulder in surprise, attempting to pull up his pants at the same time. The knee-jerk reaction caused him to lose his delicate balance atop the apex of the plastic airplane. He fell onto his right side, and slithered down the side of the playcenter. His hands shot out across the smooth surface, clawing, seeking a grip. There was nothing to grab.

  I watched him slide inexorably down the outside of the playcenter, pants and underwear still down around his thighs. He tried rolling into position for a feet-first landing. The maneuver would’ve worked if not for the fence being so close to the playcenter. The bright yellow, powder-coated aluminum fence that had aided his climb to the top now blocked his landing on the way down.

  Justin’s momentum came to an abrupt halt as he hit the top of the fence ass first.

  I cringed and almost ruined the shot. “That’s gotta hurt.”

  Justin’s blood-curdling scream of agony made my skin crawl. He sat there, squealing like a stuck pig. The top section of fence tubing had impaled him where the sun don’t shine. Pegged in the holiest of holies, he had two inches of aluminum post going in through the out door.

  “Oh my god this is insane!”

  I saved the ninety-three second video clip of Justin on my smart phone and posted it directly to my Facebook timeline. I had a momentary twinge of conscience. I mean, he was still crying, and Tommy was trying to climb the fence to help him. It looked really painful.

  “I can always delete it later …”

  I was gonna call for help, but Tommy already had his phone out as Justin yelled in his face, “Call 911!”

  I only had a few minutes to get to work. As I drove off, I thought about taking that video down. I probably should have. But it only took fifteen minutes for my video clip to find its way to over 200 students at Moses Lake High School, shared over and over to dozens of Facebook profiles. My first ever viral video.

  I guess life happens to Justin Shelby too.

  * * * *

  Chapter 2

 
Thursday, September 9th, 5:30 p.m.

  To the dismay of adults the world over, most teenagers maintain a secret nightlife. Sometimes it’s nothing more than sexting to their girlfriends, or browsing internet porn, but sometimes it’s worse. Some of these kids are into stuff that’s downright dangerous, even deadly.

  I may be only sixteen, but I’m not blind. And I’m not talking about me, Michael Evans. I don’t do much of anything. I’m not the guy to worry about. Its guys like Justin Shelby and Tommy Schroeder who you gotta watch out for.

  You’d think they had it all together. Their parents have money, good careers, nice houses, everything in order. So why are these kids so screwed up? Why do they do stupid crap?

  Climbing on top of the playcenter high on Xanax?

  These guys need an intervention.

  I prefer to keep to myself, stay out of trouble. And my Dad stays the hell away from me, just how I like it. So, I got it easy in some ways. Well, except for the fact that my Dad hasn’t had a job in like … forever.

  But I do.

  Yep, I work in the evenings for Mr. Kittelson, a farmer a few miles outside of town, conveniently located up the highway from the white-trash trailer park I call home. Good ‘ole Garden Grove. There is no garden, and if there ever was, it died a long time ago, alongside the hopes and dreams of all the residents in the park.

  So, while Tommy peels Justin’s ass off the fence so a doctor can prescribe him more pain pills to abuse, I have to work tossing hay bales on the farm. Sucks, but I guess it’s better than being a mindless zombie greeter at Wal-Mart.

  * * * *

  The left turn signal clicked away as I waited for an oncoming car to pass. Fatigue dragged on my eyelids and I felt the cool bumps of the steering wheel as I closed my eyes, forehead down. Just for a second, maybe a minute.

  My cell phone beeped a dying battery warning. Only 9:30 p.m., but I was so damn tired. Talk about earning your money. Farmer Kittleson never runs out of hay bales to stack. Okay, Mike, just a few minutes north and you’re home.

  I jolted upright and raked tired fingers through my shaggy brown hair. “Man I need to cut this mop. Yeah, right, like that’s going to happen anytime soon. No money.”

  At a break in the traffic, I straightened. “Okay, you got this. Let off the brake, gas and clutch. Come on baby, you can make it this time.” The Geo and I had a love-hate relationship. It loved to stall on me, and I hated driving it.

  Car shuddering on release, I tried to let the clutch out slow, applying just enough gas to keep it from dying. An apparition, a small waif in a blue hoodie sweatshirt, appeared directly in the path of my Geo Tracker.

  Shit! Where did she come from?

  Lurching forward, I slammed on the brake to stop a few inches from the punk. Damn Geo stalled. After almost eating the grill of my car, the punk had the audacity to smack a hand down on the hood, stopping dead in front of me for a staring contest.

  “What the hell?”

  She had a disarmingly intense gaze. Golden-hazel eyes with a cat-like slant glared at me. Like I was in the wrong. A wisp of reddish brown hair slid down her forehead from beneath her hoodie. She could have been fourteen or thirty, one of those strange timeless faces.

  She didn’t say a word, but her accusing look said it all. Like I had deliberately tried to run her over.

  I went on the defense. “Watch where you’re going!” I’d only had my license for three months, and the car barely a month. She had me so freaked, my hands were shaking.

  She stood there staring, a flash of challenge in her golden eyes. Then suddenly she was gone, walking off down the highway.

  “Oh that’s just great.” What a brat.

  As she trailed off into the darkness, I glimpsed scrawny legs clad in black skin-tight stretch pants and blue canvas slip-ons without socks. From her clothes, she looked more like fourteen.

  Why the hell was she out on Stratford highway this late at night? She headed in the direction of the Garden Grove. Must be going to the trailer park. There wasn’t much else out Stratford apart from the occasional farm house.

  And then it hit me, I had almost plowed her over. I should be apologizing. I’m such an ass.

  “Bet she could use a ride.”

  I started the Geo, verified the highway was clear, and took off with the intention of pulling onto the shoulder next to her. I passed her, slowed down to pull over, but the car shuddered, sputtered and stalled. I had forgotten to downshift from third to first gear.

  “Not Again!” It was only the hundredth time this month. Anita had been teasing me ruthlessly, “Are we going to First and Third again?”

  Rolling along in neutral, I pumped the gas a few times. I popped into first gear, still rolling. Lurch, sputter, and nothing. Stopped dead.

  After my fourth grind of the ignition, I knew I had a problem. Mr. Good Samaritan was dead on the side of the road. No rides here, the damn car won’t start. The trailer park was two miles north, Farmer Kittelson a mile back to the south.

  “Way to go Michael. Probably get my damn car towed by the highway patrol.” Maybe hoodie girl could walk me home? “Headed straight for loserville … stalled out on loser highway.”

  I popped the hood and tried to find something obviously faulty. No such luck. No wiring harnesses detached, the battery cables secure in place. A good, clean-running little four cylinder. The strong smell of gasoline said it all. Flooded.

  “Why does this shit always happen to me?” I pleaded to an unforgiving carburetor.

  The only thing that would help was time. I slid back behind the wheel, pushed in the clutch and tried the ignition once more. The starter kicked out a healthy grind, chug, chug, chug … and nothing.

  “Loser.” I should just get an ‘L’ tattooed on my forehead.

  The hoodie girl walked past the passenger window. Wonderful, a live witness to my supreme lameness and inadequacy. To make matters worse, she flowed around to the front of the car and disappeared under the opened hood. How embarrassing is that?

  “Hey, you, girl! Don’t touch anything!” I heard her messing around under the hood, click-snap-pop. Fabulous. I can’t even get a teenage girl to listen to me.

  She called out, “Try it now!” She had a strange accent, faint, but still noticeable.

  “Ain’t gonna work. It’s flooded.”

  “Try it!” The brat actually growled at me.

  Shaking my head, I turned it over and it started up right away.

  I yelled over the top of the revving motor, “What did you do?”

  Without answering, she closed the hood and smiled. Her face lit up, transforming from a girl to an enchanting pixie on the verge of becoming a woman. She had graduated to a petite twenty-something and all it took was a smile.

  I opened the door and stepped out. “Thanks, I really appreciate your help. Hey, ah, can I give you a ride? I’m going the same direction …”

  Her smile morphed into a vision of panic, like she was going to bolt. Her hand shot out to point at something behind me.

  That’s when I heard the noise and saw the flash of headlights hitting the Geo. From that point forward everything flipped into slow motion. I turned around agonizingly slow, as though mired in molasses. There it was, right there, seconds from smashing into me and tearing off the open door of my car.

  I dived back into the car and tried to pull the door closed. It was too little, too late, and I knew it. The vehicle laid into its horn, blaring right in my face as I hopelessly watched the oncoming headlights reaching for me.

  Then she was there, shoving me back into the car with amazing force. I had a split-second nose to nose with the hoodie girl before she slammed the door shut in my face. A car horn screamed hysterically, headlights raked the interior of my car with blinding light as it rocketed by.

  “Shit, shit, shit!”

  I heard brakes squeal and the sickening thud as a ton of vehicle smacked into her hundred pounds of flesh. Then she vanished. With my car still rocking from the
backwash of the passing vehicle, I peered through the windshield. A flash of blue hoodie and pale white skin flew through the air and landed in a crumple on the gravel.

  “Oh my god! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” I scrambled out the door, racing to get to the little body in a heap on the roadside.

  I couldn’t really see her in the dark, just an outline of her still form, crumpled face down on the gravel. The vehicle skidded to a stop up ahead. I thought it would reverse, but it peeled out at full speed.

  Hit and run.

  I rolled her over and a frantic storm of dread washed over me. Dead. She’d traded her life for mine. The oppressive weight of guilt squeezed my throat till I couldn’t breathe.

  It was all my fault.

  My guts wrenched. My stomach twisted in fear of the consequences. Was I liable? Could they blame me for hitting her with my car! No witnesses to prove otherwise.

  Then I realized what a selfish jerk I was. How could I think of myself when the real victim was dead on the ground? The burden of guilt sagged down around my shoulders, choking up a sob. If only I’d been a little more cautious, she’d still be alive and smiling.

  Her eyelashes fluttered. I noticed the slight rise and fall of her chest. Breathing? She was still breathing. She groaned in pain. YES! ALIVE! SHE WAS ALIVE! I wanted to sing and dance in circles in the middle of the highway.

  But what now?

  “911.”

  That was it, call 911, they would handle everything. I raced back to my car to snatch my cell phone from the ash tray. It was dead. “SHIT!”

  Just once, can’t something function the way it’s supposed to? My car, cell phone, something?

  “What the hell do I do now?”

  My mind raced through the possibilities: Take her back to Kittelson’s to call 911, or the other way to my trailer to make the call, or just wait on the highway to flag down some passerby with a cell phone.