Mission: Soul Rescue: Escape from the Immortals (Volume 1)

Mission: Soul Rescue: Escape from the Immortals (Volume 1)

by William Fietzer


Publisher Cactus Moon Publications, LLC

Published in Science Fiction & Fantasy/Fantasy, Literature & Fiction/Contemporary, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Literature & Fiction

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Book Description


Psychologist Victor Furst acquired the shamanic ability to detect psychic vampires and retrieve the souls of their victims. But ability has a price—his wife, Evelyn, tired of his absence and left—taking their daughter, Miriam, with her.

Victor finds Evelyn again when his old rival at the CIA, Basil Zarkisian, abducts her consciousness, leaving her lying in a coma; diagnosis—Alzheimer’s disease. Certain that is just a cover, Victor races against rebels and time, his only hope: Evelyn’s eccentric sister and Miriam, a tough sell when he reveals what he needs to save her mother.

Sample Chapter

Kincaid emailed Victor scanned copies of their patient charts, and he scanned the male patient’s record while driving to Walter Reed Hospital:

Hispanic male,

Age—approximately 35-45 years old.

Height—five feet, three inches;

Weight—145 lbs.;

Eyes—brown; Hair—brown;

Multiple scratches across face and neck; Exhibits waxy flexibility of all limbs and rigid body posture; does not recognize or maintain eye contact with others; does not respond to oral address; minimal or non-existent response to physical stimuli.

Kincaid and his charge nurse, Julia, greeted Victor at the security station located at the head of the corridor leading to the Psychiatric Unit. The blond security guard studied the photo on Victor’s driver’s license and passed them through. Kincaid swept his hospital card through the lock of the metal door in the hallway’s opposite end which opened onto the unit’s common area. Kincaid’s John-Doe patient sat upright on an examining table in an anteroom behind the nurses’ station. He stared straight ahead while three medical professionals gathered around him.

“Nothing in or on his clothes helped identify him?” Victor asked.

“Just work-shirt and jeans with no identifying labels,” Kincaid replied. “He might be an immigrant, but his hands don’t look like those of a laborer.”

Victor’s muscles tensed with anticipation under his business-casual attire. Uncovering the demons behind an individual’s unusual behavior was more than a euphemism in many cases. Whatever controlled this man’s behavior had a death-grip on his actions. Victor raised the man’s left, then his right arm, and studied the wrists and armpits. “His arms show waxy flexibility, but no sign of drug use or withdrawal.”

He lowered the man’s arms and placed his ear against the patient’s mouth. His rapid breathing was audible. The patient seemed to be repressing something, but what? “Lay him out on the table.”

Kincaid pushed on the man’s chest until his back met the table, but his legs remained cocked at a ninety-degree angle against his chest. Kincaid and the charge nurse straightened his legs and extended them onto the table.

Victor wheeled the desk chair beside the man’s head, set his barrel top drum upon the floor, and directed Kincaid to lower the lights. Once his eyes adjusted to the twilight, Victor tapped the drum in a slow, steady rhythm with his fingertips. After a minute, he extended the drum toward Kincaid’s nurse. “Think you can maintain that beat?”

The head nurse rolled her eyes at Kincaid. “Is he serious?”

“Please do as he asks, Ms. Fairchild.” Kincaid glared at Victor. “For now.”

Victor closed his eyes, grasped the man’s shoulders, and began to sway with the drum-beat. The edges of his consciousness bubbled like an egg on a hotplate and his breathing slowed in time to the cadence of wood striking taut skin. The words of his favorite shamanic tune passed across his dry lips like soothing puffs of wind from a hidden sea, “Este la cancion para todo de mundo . . . ”

His croon dwindled to a drone and disappeared. As if riding on a cascading waterslide, his consciousness coursed down his arteries, tumbled out the pores of his fingertips, and splashed against the stricken man’s skin. Draining through the patient’s pores, it coalesced under the skin at the base of the man’s throat where the radiance inside his psychic-thyroid gland glimmered milky blue. Victor felt like a surfer cresting a wave as he sluiced through the man’s heart and down his aorta to the psychic furnace lying under the man’s breast-bone.

Akin to the manipura chakra of Buddhist-belief that New Age mystics affiliate with the body’s endocrine system, the stricken man’s solar plexus constituted the energy node and gateway to his unconscious emotions. As Victor suspected, the sun-colored energy that impels people’s psyches flickered lemon-green inside the man’s shriveled psychic gland.

He plunged into the tepid fire and floated among a kaleidoscope of smells, flavors, fears and anxieties that spun and eddied in all directions like a rotating Rubik’s cube. Then the vast terrain of images and sensations steadied, darkened, and disappeared, as he plunged toward a blinding patch of light. Bursting through the membrane like a movie star taking the stage, he tumbled onto the deck of a cargo ship bathed in a green, phosphorescent glow.

The deck of the Angela Negra pitched and tossed. Bounced off his feet, Victor skidded toward the stern, clutched the handrail, and rubbed the spume from his eyes. Frantic deckhands rolled a giant glass aquarium toward the bow of the ship. Inside the tank, black eels darted and bumped their heads against the glass, the tendrils of their sucker mouths lashing at the face of Kincaid’s patient. He struggled to secure the tank’s steel doors, jammed the bolt into the padlock, and pushed the sealed tank into the roiling sea.

Another tank materialized on the deck. Kincaid’s patient repeated his gruesome task. Again, the trapped fish lunged and snapped against the glass. After he tossed the tank overboard, the patient’s facial scratches deepened. He sealed the door a third time—“Ayee!” Victor cried.

Kincaid jostled Victor’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Victor blinked. His body prickled all over as it always did when roused to sudden consciousness as if a thousand needles had entered his body. Similar to a deep-sea diver surfacing too quickly, the sensation was as painful as the bends…and as dangerous. “What happened?”

“You screamed.”

Victor patted his face, arms and torso. Everything seemed OK, nothing broken or bleeding. Kincaid’s patient remained rigid on the table. “What happened to him?”

“He convulsed—once—the same time you screamed. No other response.”

A gargle rippled from the patient’s throat. His chest heaved and fell as though he were trying to speak.

Victor placed his ear against the man’s chest. His rapid breathing had become slow and shallow. He pointed at the nurse. “Resume, please.”

The nurse began drumming again. The man’s chest rose and fell in rhythm with her drum-beats.

“Stop!” Victor commanded the nurse.

The patient’s chest maintained its regular fall and rise. “A-an-angela.”

“What’s that?” Kincaid asked. “A name? Where he’s from?”

Victor hesitated. How much of his spirit-journey would Kincaid believe? The eels were the disturbing part. Did they signify the missing passengers? Or the destructive forces inside the man’s unconscious? “Check whether a ship named the Angela Negra has docked in any of the nearby ports over the last few days. He may have been a crew member.”

Kincaid phoned the Coast Guard’s port security. Victor and Nurse Fairchild raised the patient to a seated position on the examination table. His arms dropped to his sides, but he did not maintain eye contact. Victor and Fairchild guided him out of the examination room toward the other side of the Psych Unit.

“Congratulations,” Kincaid said upon Victor’s return. “The Baltimore harbormaster reported a Mexican navy frigate with the name Angela Negra has been quarantined as a health hazard. They found traces of blood on the deck along with a ship manifest of thirty passengers—all missing. The ship’s purser, Juan Gomez, matches the description of our John Doe.”

Victor grimaced. “The evidence suggests a smuggling scheme, but your patient’s primary emotions seem to be remorse and fear. I’m not sure Gomez, if that’s his name, is responsible for their disappearance.”

“It’s all speculation at this point,” Kincaid said. “The Navy has something for its investigation, and we have a direction for diagnosis and treatment.” He grinned and handed Victor another patient chart. “Your next patient may not be so easy.”


Excerpted from "Mission: Soul Rescue: Escape from the Immortals (Volume 1)" by William Fietzer. Copyright © 2017 by William Fietzer. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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Author Profile

William Fietzer

William Fietzer

William Fietzer, former English instructor (National American University) and academic librarian (University of Minnesota), resides in south Minneapolis with his wife and their black Norwegian forest cat, Selene. He has written articles, profiles, reviews, and stories for, “The Daily Planet,” Saint Paul Almanac and other publications about the diverse cultures and spiritual developments that make up the Twin Cities and national cultural scenes. His two previous novels, Penal Fires and Metadata Murders, explore the shadowy intersection of American culture, crime, and technology. His new novel, Mission: Soul Rescue, adds our collective unconscious to the mix.

View full Profile of William Fietzer

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