Read Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 for Free Online Page B

surprise. The disturbing part is how closely they resemble one another, like the Bobs—they all look the same. But not like the Bobs, those goons don’t wear ties. But still, these folks have their own brand of sameness, like a matching fleet of corporate associates late for an important meeting. Although they dress different, the businessmen share one feature with the Bobs—the black helmet hairstyle. Blended in the crowd are women as well, conforming as the men do, wearing smart business suits all black, except for knee-high skirts instead of slacks, and their longer hair is assembled into a bun.
    The room is filled with rows of matching furniture, dark red armless sofas with tufted padding. A number of poor souls could occupy this space at the same time, but I’m the sole occupant for now. Across the room is a flat screen mounted to the wall. I step closer, find the power switch, and the screen brightens with a video image. I ease back, sit on a padded bench, and watch.
    “You too can have all this,” a man says. “Now how much would you pay? Well don’t answer yet, you also get . . .”
    The scene is a kitchen with a guy wearing an apron and chefs hat, operating a countertop appliance. He tosses in vegetables and the gadget spits out neatly diced chunks. Now he grinds some meat. And the entire time talking, talking, he never stops talking. Next he demonstrates an array of attachments, then shows off plastic bowls for mixing ingredients. He insists that I must have all this, as everyone else does.
    “You get all this for the amazing low price . . .”
    For a bunch of plastic garbage?
    “Three easy payments of . . .”
    Three? One is too much for the whole thing. He keeps talking and talking, it seems without a single breath between words or sentences.
    “Call in the next fifteen minutes and we’ll also include . . .”
    More? Oh, just more plastic crap, big deal.
    “Operators are standing by.”
    The mountain of plastic garbage one will receive appears endless. A phone number zips past faster than anyone could possibly read, though he does repeat it six or more times during the final seconds, and the program ends.
    Now an attractive woman fills the screen. That’s better.
    “Feminine odor can ruin that crucial first encounter. Avoid embarrassment, and maintain status among your peers. Regular douching with the fresh, springtime scent of . . .”
    She’s not talking about what I think she’s talking about, is she? That’s disgusting. Now she’s going to show us how it works. No, I can’t watch this.
    I spring up and switch the channel. Now an older fellow comes on.
    “John Thompson here with some helpful hints for improving your home.”
    He’s in the backyard of a house. This show looks better, maybe even something of educational value, like a do-it-yourself remodeling program.
    “The color you choose for your home is an important decision. Here we have Jackensteen’s Brand Extra Durable Exterior House Paint, available in approved colors, now on sale at your local . . .”
    This show has zero value. They only want to sell more products.
    Armed with a bucket and brush, he paints a small area on the back of the house—the same color it’s already painted. The camera backs away to shows the entire neighborhood. What? Every house is painted the same boring gray color.
    I feel violated, invaded, infected with the desire of others, that I desire what they choose I desire, which I don’t, and never did in the first place. A creepy feeling, like getting brainwashed. I turn the stupid thing off.
    Back at the window, I gaze down on the sidewalk and the flock of individuals moving past, all of them anything but individual. Don’t tell me I have to join these mindless drones that have no sense of variety. I resist that, but I may be without a choice, which is the sickening part. I would never choose that lifestyle. It’s not right, not where I belong. But why would I think that? The feeling is unjustified,