Forever Until Tomorrow (War Eternal Book 5)

Published by Quirky Algorithms

Seattle, Washington

This novel is a work of fiction and a product of the author's imagination.
 

Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by M.R. Forbes

All rights reserved.

Cover illustration by Tom Edwards
 

tomedwardsdesign.com

Contents

 
•
Copyright
•
About Forever Until Tomorrow

1
•
2
•
3
•
4
•
5
•
6
•
7
•
8
•
9
•
10
•
11
•
12
•
13
•
14
•
15
•
16
•
17
•
1
8
•
19
•
20
•
21
•
22
•
23
•
24
•
25
•
26
•
27
•
28
•
29
•
30
•
31
•
32
•
33
•
34
•
35
•
36
•
37
•
38
•
39
•
4
0
•
41
•
42
•
43
•
44
•
45
•
46
•
47
•
48
•
49
•
50
•
51
•
52
•
53
•
54
•
55
•
56
•
57
•
58
•
59
•
60
•
61
•
62
•
63
•
64
•
65
•
66
•
67
•
68

Other Books
•
Join the Mailing List
•
Thank You
•
About the Author

About Forever Until Tomorrow

A war lost.
A civilization in ruins.
A spark of hope among the wreckage.

The war is over. The war has just begun. Major Katherine Asher of the newly founded United Earth Alliance knows nothing about the apocalyptic war of a past future. She's scheduled to pilot the newly christened Dove, Earth's first starship, in her maiden voyage. But when a terrorist attack leaves her wounded and hearing voices, she quickly finds herself caught up in the eternal struggle and fighting to stop a future that has no place for humankind.

At the same time, a man in St. Louis decides to leave the psychiatric hospital he's called home for the last twenty years, since the fateful night an alien starship fell to Earth...

 A man sits in the corner of a quiet room. His hands are resting on the table, clasped together as if in prayer. His eyes are open, his head up and straight. He's staring at the wall a few meters ahead of him, past the second man who sits at the other side of the table, leaning back in his chair. This man's eyes watch every movement of the first with intense interest. Every motion is a sign. Every breath. Every swallow. Every clenching of the hands together.
 

"Tell me, Reggie," the man says. "Do you think you're ready to get out?"

The man's eyes shift. A centimeter. Maybe two. His mouth opens slowly, and he licks his lips before speaking.

"No," he replies, a touch of sadness and despair filtering through the simple word.
 

The other man considers for a moment. He's known Reggie for twenty years - since he had been found in an alley uptown by a passerby and brought to St. Mary's. The thought diverts his attention to Reggie's arms, always covered in tight sleeves to hide the flesh beneath. New technology and procedures had helped repair most of the original damage, but it would never heal completely.
 

Nobody had ever been able to figure out what had happened that night. No one had seen anything. No one had heard anything. He always thought that was strange. If someone were on fire, you would hope someone would say so.

Then again, with everything else that had happened that day, it wasn't a total surprise that basic humanity had been forgotten. Not when humanity had learned that they weren't alone.

"Why not?" he asks.
 

Reggie continues to stare straight ahead. He spends most of his time this way, looking off into the distance as if he can see through the sanitary white walls of the hospital and out into the world beyond. As if he's looking at something specific, or at least trying to. A memory?
 

"I have nowhere to go," Reggie replies, eyes never shifting. "I have nothing to do but wait."

"You've been here for almost twenty years," he says. "What are you waiting for?"

Seconds pass. Then minutes. Reggie doesn't answer. His hands shift. They clench together, grabbing at one another and holding tight. Whatever is on his mind, whatever is sitting at the edge of his thoughts, he's trying to capture it and never let go.
 

For whatever reason, he can't.

The man leans his chair forward so that the front legs return to the ground. He stands slowly, considering. Twenty years. Reggie had come to them with nothing but the burns. No memories. No identification. No name.
 

He still remembers the first night. The Doctors had called on him because they thought Reggie would need comfort while they scrubbed away the charred flesh. The man surprised them all, sitting in silence while they removed the damaged skin.

Reggie has never presented like the others who have been traumatized. He doesn't shake. He doesn't sweat. He doesn't react to loud noises, or to screaming, or to any of the visual or auditory cues they have used in an effort to figure out who he was or where he had come from. There is something about him. Something different. It unnerves the others. It intrigues him. It always has. It's the reason he's stayed on. The reason he keeps coming back to St. Mary's though he retired from his other duties three years ago.
 

"Are you hungry?" he asks, changing the subject.

"No," Reggie replies.
 

"Thirsty?"

"No."

"You've been sitting here for three hours. It's getting late. Would you like to go to bed?"

"No."

The man thinks about sitting again, staying with Reggie. He seems worse today. More quiet. More agitated. Sometimes it seems as if Reggie's mind is split in two, and the active part is trying to see through to the subconscious because all of the secrets are hiding in there, and it wants to know what they are. He doesn't know what it's like to live without knowing who he is. He feels sadness for Reggie. He promised himself he would keep trying, no matter how long it takes.
 

He can be patient.

"I'm going to get a cup of coffee. Would you like some?"
 

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Reggie's head turns slowly as if it's on a track. The eyes remain fixed, moving with the head until they're locked on his. He takes a step back, a sense of sudden worry washing through him. Reggie's never reacted like this before.
 

"No," Reggie says again. There's anger in his voice. Upset.
 

"I. I'm sorry," he stammers. He doesn't want to look Reggie in the eye. He doesn't like what he sees there.

Pain? Yes. Hurt? Yes. Sadness? Yes. But also something else. Something new. A fire, like the sudden ignition of a thousand suns. An anger.
 

He's always known that Reggie could be anyone, from anywhere. He's always known that if the man ever did get his memories back, they both might not like what he recalled.

For the first time, he wonders if Reggie is getting closer to those memories. For the first time, he wonders if his worst fear is coming true - that all of these years he's been communing with and trying to save the soul of the man on the other side of the table, he's been inadvertently aiding Satan in his work.

He swallows hard and takes another step back, the thought pulling him away. His foot hits the chair, and he trips, his age working against his desire to regain his balance. He feels the world turning, falling away from him. He's ninety-three, and he doesn't know if he can survive a slip without spending months in a hospital bed instead of beside one.

He wants to think of Sophie in the last seconds before he hits the floor. It's been so long since he's seen her, and there's a part of him that hopes he won't live through the impact so he can be with her again. There's no shame in dying this way. It happens all the time.
 

He doesn't think of her, though. Instead, he can't stop himself from seeing those eyes, and the fire that was burning behind them. He hates himself for that.

Then, before he can strike, he feels a hand grab his hand, and an arm wrap behind him, clutching him firmly and gently at the same time, slowing his descent, taking care not to harm him in his frailty. He's confused for a moment, until he realizes that Reggie caught him, somehow moving fast enough to reach him before it was too late.

He's lifted slowly back to his feet. He tries to keep his eyes off Reggie's, but he can't. The fire is gone. No. Not gone. Controlled.