Soul Survivor

By Glen Robinson

Prevail Publications

Heretics Series Book 1

Copyright  2019 by Glendal P Robinson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

Prevail Publications

321 CR 805A

Cleburne, TX 76031

Except for God, of course, all characters, names, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are a product of the author’s overworked imaginations or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, or things, living or dead, is a product of yours.

The hymn, The Love of God, was written by Friedrich Martin Leyman in 1917 and is in public domain.

Heretic Series, Volume 1, First Edition

Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

Scripture quotations marked (KJV) are taken from the King James Version, Public Domain.

Edited by Tiffany Wellborn, fireflywritingandtutoring.wordpress.com

Cover Design by JD and J Design LLC, www.jdandj.com

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

1: Love Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry

2: Meeting at Rorikstead

3: Back in the Saddle

4: Stop the Presses!

5: God and Coffee

6: The Church of Mammon

7: The Long Arm of the Law

8: F for Fantastic

9: From the Frying Pan

10: Into the Fire

11: Heretics Among Us

12: Night of the Assassin

13: Nowhere, Texas

14: The Death of Innocence

15: Into the Depths

16: Throat of the World

17: Life and Death

18: Battlefield Austin

19: Welcome to the War

Acknowledgements

Bible Verses Used

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The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty—it is not only a poverty of loneliness but also of spirituality. There's a hunger for love, as there is a hunger for God. ― Mother Teresa

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Prologue

Hello. O zi buna. Bonjour. Konnichi-wa. Guten morgen. Welcome to my very first vlog. My name is Connie Simesçu, the Soul Survivor, coming to you from the great state of Texas. I’m here to ask you a question and tell you my story.

First, the question. Do you know God? I mean, do you really know God? I’m not talking about knowing Him because you grew up in the Church or because your Mom prayed with you before you went to bed at night. I’m not talking about knowing about God, like how you know about the guy in Washington who is running the country.

I’m talking about really knowing Him, like your BFF, but even more so. Proverbs 18:24 says, One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother. But why in the world would you want someone you can’t see to be that close to you? It’s kinda like having Casper the Friendly Ghost with you all the time, isn’t it? Kinda creepy.

Well, that’s where I come in. Here’s my story. I grew up with parents who escaped communist Romania back when there were Commies to worry about. They are devout, sincere Christians who believe anything the Bible and the Church tell them. I mean, these two are as traditional as the Fourth of July. Then I have an older sister who is a world-famous scientist and professor. She believes in God, sort of, as long as He doesn’t get in the way of her science. God, to her, is kinda like the crazy uncle that you talk about but you leave in the corner and don’t talk to too much.

I grew up with both of these experiences, either God as a watchful nun or as the neglected stepchild. Neither one of them looked good to me, so I didn’t really invest myself in a relationship.

And then I went away to college and got caught up in a cult. And got kidnapped. And almost got human sacrificed. It was all very…dramatic. Thankfully, my sister’s boyfriend—and I will have to say, God—rescued me. I was stuck in a dark, smelly basement with two other girls, and then I was free. Kinda makes you think, you know?

So here I am. Do I follow my parents, blindly doing what I think God wants because I call myself a God-follower even though I don’t really know Him? Do I follow my sister, putting God in the corner, calling myself, once again, a God-follower even though I only bring Him out on special occasions, like when a bunch of witches—yeah, they were real witches, by the way—want to kill me on a stone altar? Neither one appeals to me much.

I decided to take what was behind Door Number Three. Here’s the Bible again, this time in Jeremiah 29:13: You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.

That’s what this vlog is about. I’m looking for God. But more than that, I’m looking for my soul. I almost lost it when I got involved with the witches in Austin not too long ago. But He stepped in and saved me. Now it’s my goal to get to know Him better—in my own way—so that I can learn how to thank Him.

My plan is to return to the scene of the crime, the University of Texas at Austin. Scary prospect, I know. But it’s far removed from my safe parents and sister, and if God is out there, I’m hoping that He’ll take care of me. And in the meantime, I hope to become a true God-follower in a way that makes sense to me.

Wish me luck. I’ll be checking in from time to time.

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OFF THE COAST OF BORA BORA

John Sullivan, the first mate of the 400-foot luxury yacht Manifesto, finished watching the video featuring the young college girl. He frowned, unsure as to what he should do, then flipped his laptop shut, picked it up, and carried it off the bridge to the lido deck.

There, sheltered from the afternoon sun, pudgy, bald billionaire Ian Target sat on a lounge chair in Bermuda shorts and aloha shirt, surrounded by video monitors and speakers. Beyond him, basking in the brilliant sunlight and splashing in the on-deck pool, were a half dozen beautiful young women and one young man. But the middle-aged Target was oblivious to all of them, caught up as he was in a variety of tasks at the moment.

Target looked up as Sullivan walked toward him and paused a dozen feet away, then motioned with two fingers for him to approach. Sullivan noticed that one of the monitors was tuned to C-Span and a hearing for the next U.S. Attorney General. The other was focused on stock prices. A voice in the background was unrelated to either one.

You have to understand there are no guarantees, regardless of how great an investment you make, the voice was saying. The plan is sound, but unforeseen variables always come into play. That’s just the way things are.

I understand, Target said. But when we’re talking twenty million dollars, I do want some assurances on ROI. He looked at the laptop that Sullivan opened in front of him. Just a moment, Michael.

Target stared at the girl on the screen for a long while as she spoke.

Pretty girl. What am I looking at here, John? he asked.

Isn’t she the girl that put your sister in jail in Austin?

Target pursed his lips and listened more intently. Finally, he heard her say:

"My plan is to return to the scene of the crime, the University of Texas at Austin."

He frowned, then turned back to the man he had put on hold.

Michael, on second thought, I think twenty million is probably a worthwhile investment. You can count on me. I’ll have my banker in Switzerland wire it to you.

He shut off the connection and watched the C-Span hearing for another moment before looking up at Sullivan.

Tell my son to get out of the pool and come over here, he said quietly to John. It’s time he went back to college.

1

Love Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry

I’m sorry.

The words broke the silence of the long hallway where Connie Simesçu sat with Ezra Huddleston outside the office of the Dean of the School of Journalism at the University of Texas. Ezra leaned forward on the hard, wooden bench where they sat, his body language saying that he either didn’t hear what she had said or he was ignoring her words.

I said, ‘I’m sorry,’ Connie said, looking at him. "Es tut mir Leid. Lo siento. Gomenasai. Imi pares rau. Paenitet. Mne zahl.’ Let’s see…that’s German, Spanish, Japanese, Romanian, Latin, and Russian. I can keep going if you want me to."

Stop it, he said, still not looking at her. Just stop, will you? Did anyone ever tell you that you’re annoying?

Connie chuckled. "Moi? Annoying? Just a gazillion times. But seriously, Tex, I’m really sorry that all this happened. I didn’t plan on you being caught in World War III when I told my family I was coming back here. In fact, I didn’t plan on any fight to begin with."

Ezra frowned, finally turning to her. Well, you have to see it their way, Connie. You were kidnapped, after all, by a faculty member right here at UT. And now you want to come back here just six weeks later?

Better here than go to school where good old sis is a professor. I can see it now. ‘Oh, it must be so great to be related to the famous Dr. Madelyn Simms! Don’t you wish you were just as smart, as pretty, as talented as your big sister?’ She shook her head. "No thanks. I’d rather be a barista for the rest of my life than go through that. Wait a minute. Is barista masculine or feminine? Is a guy a baristo?"

Ezra grinned. I think he’s just a coffee salesman. He looked up and down the hall. Sheesh, lunch is over already. Why isn’t anyone around?

Think we should have made a reservation?

I think it’s called an appointment, and I didn’t imagine we would need one, Ezra said. After all, I just want to introduce myself and you. You knowing a three-time Pulitzer-nominated investigative reporter should have some pull around here.

Ya think? Connie said. Seriously, do you think you siding with me on the whole returning-to-Austin thing is going to be a problem?

Ezra shook his head. Honestly, I think the whole thing is blown out of proportion. I know they’re worried about you. But you’re an adult now. And I can very much understand you not wanting to be in your sister’s shadow. He paused and thought. The honest answer is, I hope it’s not a deal breaker. The family had pretty much bought into the idea of my marriage to your sister until….

Until you picked the South to win the Civil War, Connie quipped with a thick Southern twang. Well, we started off strong, but it was just that blockade and Sherman’s March to the Sea that done us in.

Not to mention Gettysburg, Ezra added.

Oh, I try to forget Gettysburg. Lot of good men died there, Connie said. She turned as a sound came from down the hall. Someone’s coming.

Footsteps approached. As they stood, an Asian-looking man in a suit entered the hallway and walked past them to the door on the other end of the hall. He pulled out a key to unlock the door.

Are you Mr. Stewart? Connie asked as she and Ezra stood to join him.

The man turned and looked for a long moment before answering.

"You mean Doctor Andrew Stewart, the dean of the School of Journalism? the man said. No, he’s on sabbatical. I am Doctor John Wee, acting dean in his absence. Can I help you?"

I’m Ezra Huddleston, and this is Constance Simesçu, Ezra said, stepping forward. Constance is hoping to change her major over to journalism.

Dr. Wee stared at the two of them as if they were homeless people to be walked around on the sidewalk.

Do you have an appointment? Of course not. This is my day off. I just came in to get my laptop. Wee pushed to go past them and into the office, but Ezra blocked his way.

If you could take just a minute, sir, we’d like to talk to you about her grades, and then we’ll be out of your way.

Dr. Wee bit his lip, obviously annoyed by the intrusion, but nodded and let them in the office.

Have a seat, Dr. Wee said. Connie and Ezra sat down in wooden chairs in front of a large desk, while Dr. Wee pushed his way behind the desk and flipped on the computer. He took a minute to pull up the screen.

Let’s see here, he said. Last semester was a bad one. Ouch. Four Ds and an F. That doesn’t look good.

We have an excuse. A good one. Connie reached into her backpack.

You probably remember hearing the news stories of the three UT students who were kidnapped and rescued a few weeks back? Ezra said. Connie was one of them. The event kind of interrupted school for her. She couldn’t finish.

Here’s a letter from the Texas State Attorney General’s office, Connie said, handing it to him. That should explain things.

Dr. Wee took the letter and stared at it for a long moment before handing it back.

I understand. I’m sorry you went through that experience. What made you decide to transfer from linguistics to journalism?

Actually, it was getting to know this guy right here, Connie said. He’s the one who wrote the stories about the kidnapping. He also happens to be my sister’s fiancé.

So, you’re a reporter, too? Dr. Wee said to Ezra. I think I would have heard of you.

So would I, Ezra said. I’ve been nominated for a Pulitzer three times.

Dr. Wee nodded in recognition. I note that you said nominated, but not won.

Ezra bit his lip. Not yet.

Dr. Wee raised an eyebrow, then turned back to Connie. What stories do you have published?

Connie looked at him in surprise. Excuse me?

I expect our incoming students to have a portfolio to share with us, a demonstration of their work.

Ezra cleared his throat. This is an undergraduate program, isn’t it?

Dr. Wee smiled out of the side of his mouth. We like to think that we have one of the top undergraduate journalism programs in the U.S.

But it’s still an undergraduate program, Ezra corrected him. You can’t expect students to already be published before they come here.

Dr. Wee cleared his throat. We’ve more than filled our classes with students for this semester. Who we accept at this point is entirely up to me, the acting dean. I intend to keep our standards high.

Ezra’s eyes narrowed. So…they come here already published and you teach them…what?

Why, we teach them journalism, Dr. Wee said. That should be obvious.

Connie saw Ezra starting to get worked up, and she grabbed his sleeve. But it was too late.

The only obvious thing I see is a stiff-shirted academic who thinks he knows how to be a reporter when chances are you’ve never seen the inside of a newsroom, Ezra hissed, standing up. "Tell me, Doctor Wee, how many Pulitzers have you been nominated for? How many awards of any kind have you received? No, no, let’s make it simple: how many stories have you published?"

Dr. Wee stared back at Ezra, non-plussed. It appears that someone has become offended by our conversation. Ms. Simesçu, I recommend you take a semester to raise your grades with general education classes and write a few stories for the local newspaper. Bring those stories back to me at the end of the semester, and I will reconsider you for the program. Good day.

Ezra opened his mouth to respond, mostly things he normally didn’t share in mixed company, but Dr. Wee had already shut down his computer and was gathering his things to go. When Connie and Ezra didn’t get up from their chairs, he stopped and looked at them in surprise.

This discussion is over in case you haven’t figured that out, he said. Now shoo. He flicked his fingers at them as if he were chasing away stray dogs.

Ezra and Connie stood up and walked out the door without saying a word. When they got to the hallway, Ezra turned to her.

Now it’s my turn to say, ‘I’m sorry.’

Connie bit her lip. I know you did your best, but I think this was a mistake.

What? Ezra said. Coming back to Austin?

She shook her head. "No, having you bring me here. Getting you involved at all. If you had