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Chronicles of time book.., p.1
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       Chronicles of Time: Book 1, p.1

           J. C. Allen
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Chronicles of Time:  Book 1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2012 J. C. Allen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be stored, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the author.

  ISBN: 9781476093567


  This series is dedicated to Kate, who not only inspired it, but drove it with her boundless curiosity, unique imagination, and indelible personality.

  The history behind this novel is completely disputable. Although based on years of factual research, it is fiction. So, if you take literally, or seriously, any of the concepts, ideas, representations, inferences or conclusions contained herein, try Valium! I simply followed my own conscience and mind through the trail of evidence I compiled over the years. It was conceived to inspire interest in history and promote exploration — of your surroundings and soul — in every generation, not mindless, sheep mentality or blind faith. I hope it encourages others to make their own determinations about everything... or at least try to.

  I would also like to thank the following for making this book possible: My mother, Shirley, for... everything! Kate, Kristen, Carrie, and Olivia for giving me insight into the thoughts and feelings of this newest generation of girls as well as planting most of the ideas in my head for many of the characters (they're sneaky like that). Rich, for encouragement. Scott, for hashing out the intricacies involved and for trying to tear apart every theory I had and eliciting controversy at every turn. I would also like to thank everyone who has, and continues, to stand by me through everything! And a special thanks to you, the reader, for supporting me!

  Nobody is to blame except myself for any errors, screw-ups or omissions, although I'll try to blame whoever I can, if I can (those pesky aliens).

  Part I — Buried Treasure


  March 21, 1756, 8:47 PM, Appalachian Mountains.

  Branches, bushes and trees flew by on the amazingly stable video display. The man’s labored breath was exceptionally clear. You could almost hear his heart pounding out of his chest. Occasionally, an upside-down glimpse of his face came into view. He appeared to be quite young, perhaps thirty, but had a look in his eyes, the eyes of an old man. A wise old man. The video oddly seemed to be recording from a camera mounted on a chain around his neck. His dirty complexion and half-inch beard growth gave hint that he had dwelled in these woods for days. The perspiration on his face and tenseness of his forehead and jaw reflected his fear — and determination. He had several scratches on his face, mostly from running through the heavy brush. Looking down, his right hand was bloody, as was his left side, where a small hole pierced his buckskin jacket at the bottom of his ribcage.

  “Not… gonna… make… it!” he panted with difficultly as he stopped to gather his senses — and breath. He ducked behind a tree, concealing his breathing as much as possible. No more than fifty feet away, atop a horse so black it appeared to be a void in the already dim light, dressed in black trousers and a bright red shirt and cape was his nemesis, Bergamiser — or Bignose as he liked to call him, because of his huge red honker.

  “I know you’re out there, Taylor,” the man called as he turned the horse in circles, looking each way carefully. “I know I winged you, too. Just give me the box and we’ll get ya patched up.” He tapped his gun, which was lying across his legs, impatiently. He heard a crack of a twig in the opposite direction, turned his horse and sped off in pursuit.

  Taylor breathed what seemed like an hour’s worth of breath and sighed, “Thank God he’s as bad at tracking as he is at physics,” he giggled painfully. “And thank God for the trees, or the moonlight would have given me away.”

  He pressed his hand against his side and pulled it away, wincing as he stared at the bright red blood on his fingers. He grunted and then continued on, hoping to reach his destination before his body failed.

  Twenty minutes later Bergamiser slowed to barely a trot, then a walk. He was about to give up the chase. He was angry and it was getting cold when he saw a large lump in the path ahead.

  Taylor watched as Bignose climbed down from his mare and walked over to him. His eyes closed before the man reached him. He was face down, apparently clutching something to his body. Bergamiser carefully pushed Taylor over onto his back with his foot, full of anticipation at recovering his prize — finally. Taylor had died with a grin on his face, and Bignose’s features twisted with fury when he saw what Taylor was holding in his hands — a parchment scrawled in blood that read: “NO TIME FOR YOU! HA HA! J.T.”

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