The Next World (Book 3): Resurgence

by Olah, Jeff

  As the lead chemist, the investors from the East Coast demanded that she attend. And although she hadn’t completely familiarized herself with the project, the science behind the injectable was something that she believed to be at least ten years off. The men who were to invest nearly a billion dollars would be looking for specifics, although she was instructed to keep it simple—and under no circumstances was she to reveal what the true capabilities of the program were.

  Coming in near the unofficial launch of Project Ares, she understood that she’d been the fourth to take on the position. However, the fate of the first three chemists, along with any indication as to who they were, was kept private. She didn’t care. This was her break, and she didn’t see fit to question the company willing to pay her twice what she was asking.

  An hour prior to last night’s dinner meeting, seated in the backseat of the jet-black Rolls-Royce Phantom, she sank into the buttery, crème-colored leather. And as the man who signed her checks scrolled quickly through his phone, she awaited his instruction.

  Standing nearly six feet tall, his thick salt and pepper hair, chiseled features, and lean frame lent credence to the H. Huntsman suit he’d decided on for the evening. The man seated to her left finished with the details of his message, checked the time, and then turned to her with a grin that only slightly put her at ease. “Emma Runner… do you think you’re ready for this?”

  “Mr. Goodwin, I would first like to express to you my gratitude for the opportunity to—”

  His slight smile began to morph into something resembling confusion. And Emma’s short sermon fell off abruptly as he shook his head. “Listen, I’m a man who has little time for anything other than forward movement. You’ve already proven worthy of this job, and this trip. There was no need to thank me or anyone else when you were initially hired and there isn’t one now.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “My name is Marcus Goodwin. Formalities can wait until we are back in that other time zone. For now, let’s focus on making sure the men who are handing over the check are satisfied with the explanation we have to offer.”

  “Sure, but how exactly are we going to explain what this program is all about—I mean the physical details can be a bit complicated?”

  “We aren’t.”

  “No?”

  “Not tonight,” Goodwin said. “Tonight we make sure they’re comfortable accepting that what we are doing is going to change the world. Make them believe it, make them beg me to let them invest.”

  Smiling apprehensively as the car slowed, Emma turned and peered out her window, still unclear about exactly what he wanted and why she was flown across the country. “It looks like we’re here.”

  Before responding, he leaned in, laid his hand on her left knee, and let it drift up her thigh. “Once this investor is secured, we’ll be completely self-regulating. No agencies to dictate the how’s and why’s. Those other contracts will be burned. And if another politician ever steps foot in our building, it’ll be for an interview. Tonight I need you to—”

  His phone’s ringing sliced through the tension, and Emma drew her left leg back. Straightening in his seat, he looked at the screen and shook his head. “Daniels,” he said under his breath. “What the hell does he want?”

  As the car rolled to a stop, he stayed seated, as Emma’s door was opened from the outside and she exited. Placing the phone to his ear, his door was also opened. “Daniels,” he said, “what are you still doing—”

  “Yes, I’m meeting with them tonight.”

  Looking down at his watch and then back through the open door, he stepped out and started for the entrance. He marched across the busy sidewalk and paused before the entrance as Emma moved inside. “No, that couldn’t be us. Trust me, there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t care what you’re hearing. And yes, they’ve been trying to reach me all afternoon. However, I have a few things to take care of. I’ll call them when I get back to the room tonight. You just head home and take care of—”

  Holding the phone out away from his ear, he again checked his watch. “Yes, I’m well aware of your title. You’ve made sure of that over the last few years,” his voice intensifying, “but you need to remember that I don’t answer to you… any of you.”

  Looking over his shoulder, he could see through the crowded restaurant and into the bar. The deep pockets he was there to meet had already spotted Emma and were quickly approaching. “No, I haven’t been watching the news, I’ve been out here on the other side of the country attempting to keep this thing afloat. When I get back in town at the end of next week, I’m coming up there to throw you and everyone else out of my facility.”

  Staring through the floor-to-ceiling, plate-glass window as it gathered arcs of frost in each of its four corners, Goodwin could feel his heart beating in his ears. “Do what you have to, although you know who I am, and what I’m capable of. Just make sure that you and your people are gone by the time I arrive.”

  Ending the call, he slid his phone into his pocket, straightened his tie, and walked into the crowded bar.

  . . .

  Having scrolled through each message twice, she paused on the final text from her mother and read it once again. Sweetheart, your father is ill, and at the moment I just want him to rest. I’m shutting off the phones and will call you in the morning. Have a safe trip, we love you. Mom and Dad.

  As the door to the hanger slammed shut, Emma dropped her phone into her bag and turned toward the exit. He came through with the same exaggerated stride as earlier, although he was different. Much different.

  Moving quickly to the second jet at the far end of the open air hanger, Marcus Goodwin spoke quickly to the unidentified man at his side. As Emma tossed her bag over her shoulder and started at a right angle toward the jet, he didn’t appear to notice her existence.

  “Mr. Goodwin, are we—”

  He didn’t acknowledge her; instead, he turned to the much smaller man who trailed by at least two paces and pointed at his plane. “James, let the pilot know that we need to be in the air within five minutes. I don’t want to hear any excuses. Once airborne, I need you to gain access to the offices and make sure we're ready. The next few days are going to be interesting.”

  As the smaller man moved away, Emma hurried to Goodwin’s side. “Sir, what are we doing here? Do I need to begin—”

  Stopping at the stairs to the second jet, Goodwin finally turned and acknowledged her. “I’m leaving.”

  “We’re leaving … right?”

  “Yes and no. I’m leaving in this plane and going back to the office. I’ve got a few things to take care of in the coming days, and will come for you when the time is right.”

  “Wait,” Emma said. “What do you mean come for me? I thought I was leaving as well.”

  “You are; however, you’re getting on that other jet and going home—to your house. I have arranged for a private security team to stay with you until I’m able to bring you to a safe place. I don’t have time to go through everything right now, although I want you to—”

  “Safe place?” Emma’s mouth went dry and as her knees began to falter, she questioned the cause. Was it from the punishing exhaustion brought on by her lack of sleep, or this new look of desperation poisoning Goodwin’s expression? She was willing to bet every penny she’d earned over the last year that it was the former. The man standing less than two feet away had little use for such emotion.

  Pulling out his phone as it again interrupted their conversation, Goodwin peered into the display and continued. “You haven’t seen the news tonight?”

  “No, why?”

  “I’ll have someone brief you on your flight back to Los Angeles. Just get home and stay put; I’ll be in contact.” Goodwin turned and quickly made his way into the plane, the door closing behind him.

  Walking back to the idling jet reserved only for her, Emma withdrew her phone, keyed in her four character pass code and began checking her social media feed. Now stopped at t
he foot of the steps, she leaned into the railing and tried to ignore the icy tendrils climbing up her spine. “What. The. Hell?”

  Early winter, approaching sunset…

  Standing with his back to the wall, Ethan Runner wasn’t yet ready to end his best friend’s life.

  The weapon hung loosely in his left hand. It was heavier than he remembered and now felt a bit awkward. Turning to the others, he said, “I can’t do this.”

  No one said a word. Avoiding his gaze, the others had already made up their minds. They were done negotiating.

  Shaking his head, he slowly raised the nine millimeter and placed it against David’s temple. He’d run out of excuses for not doing what these people had demanded and the decision was no longer his to make. The four remaining survivors backed tightly into the rear of the vault had to take priority, and his best friend—were he still able—would have agreed.

  Scanning the room, every expectant eye now focused elsewhere—the group had spoken. They not only wanted him to end what was left of his friend’s life, they were also asking that Ethan do it now, before it was too late. Some were scared and a few had just run out of patience. The group already made it extremely clear how they felt, and given the fact that this was for the most part his idea, he had a hard time disagreeing.

  Back to his friend, he stepped to the left and again checked the restraint. A five-foot section of audio cable tied around David’s wrists didn’t offer much in the way of security. He knew that. If what was happening out in the streets were to take hold of his friend, there would be little he or anyone else could do to stop what was coming.

  “Do it! You know what’s happening to him—just do it. You’re putting everyone at risk.” The outspoken drifter was finally putting a voice to what the group wanted to say.

  Ethan didn’t respond.

  “Give me the gun, I’ll do it.” Mr. Outspoken, again living up to his moniker, couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut. Placing him at just shy of forty years old, his overly muscled frame and a month’s worth of facial hair fit his exaggerated personality perfectly. Since entering the vault behind the two bank employees and pulling the door shut, he had yet to let up.

  Ethan turned to the casually dressed man as his friend began to pull away. “Last time, keep quiet! You’re the reason we’re stuck in here. I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “Oh yeah I forgot, you’re the big shot with the uniform and the badge. So tell me, what’s your plan—huh?”

  Ethan began to answer, but was cut short as the man continued. “You do realize that I just followed you and the others in here. And with those—those things outside the door, you’re all real lucky I even thought to shut it behind us. If I hadn’t, you’d all be dead or worse,” Mr. Outspoken said, pointing at David. “You’d be just like him.”

  Turning away, he again focused on his friend. Sliding the pistol to David’s forehead, he dropped to one knee, grabbed the back of his head, and pulled him in tight. “You don’t deserve this. It should’ve been me.” Ethan leaned in and placed his mouth just outside his friend’s bloodstained ear. “I will get to Carly. I will get her somewhere safe. I promise you that.”

  His friend’s body began to go rigid. Ethan felt David beginning to struggle. Leaning away and starting to stand, what little remained of his friend was now gone. The wounds along his right triceps oozed a yellowish-orange fluid that leaked out into the pool of coagulated blood surrounding their feet.

  Peering into David’s eyes, they were nearly unrecognizable as human. His once sapphire-blue eyes had faded into something just shy of translucent and were now obscured by a milky white haze. What lay behind the thick film was no longer the man with whom Ethan had spent the better part of his life. The fragments of his friend that still remained were quickly losing the battle with what had taken hold.

  Beginning to growl, the beast now inching toward Ethan wore his friend’s face, but most certainly was not him. Tugging at his makeshift restraints, the thing that David had become fought to free itself as the group collectively took a step back. Twisting against the weakened audio cable, his left arm, the less injured of the two, gave way.

  The ensuing sound of bone on bone reverberated through the cramped vault. However, the realization that his friend had just broken his own arm in an attempt to free himself hung in the air with a bit more weight. What appeared to put an exclamation on the moment was the fact that David hadn’t even flinched. Not in the slightest. He didn’t look at the injury and only stared across the room at the five unbelieving individuals.

  Turning from the others as he again raised the weapon, Ethan heard their gasps only just before he realized his friend was loose. With his hands now free, David shot forward as if out of a cannon. He slammed face-first into Ethan’s chest, sending both men to the blood-soaked concrete floor, and Ethan’s nine millimeter sliding into the corner.

  Shielding himself from David’s snapping jaws, Ethan drew his legs back into his chest and kicked straight up. He drove what used to be his friend’s body back into the row of safety deposit boxes and twisted right in hopes of retrieving the weapon he’d just dropped. No luck—the only thing in his inverted field of view were the men and women now scrambling to either side.

  As Ethan slid up and onto his knees, scanning the vault for his weapon, David shot forward yet again. Reflexively turning away, Ethan held out his right hand, attempting to deflect the initial blow. He expected to be hit dead on and assumed that shortly following the collision he’d be flat on his back yet again. He envisioned his own demise, his friend tearing him apart without even the most remote chance of defending himself. This is where his life would end.

  Clenching his jaw, he twisted to the right as David lunged forward yet again. The two bodies slammed into one another like wet bags of sand, sending Ethan back and into the bottom row of safety deposit boxes, the top of his head making contact first. Blinking through the pain, he attempted to draw in a deep breath and failed. This was it.

  As his friend climbed on top and inched his way toward Ethan’s face, his vision began to fade. Next, the low buzz in his ears told him that unconsciousness was not far off and if he hoped to walk out of the bank alive, he had to take some sort of action, only his arms were pinned to the floor below.

  With David clawing his way up onto his chest, Ethan was only able to get glimpses of the battle he was losing. In between the shouts and screams, his mind waded in the shadows until it finally gave up. The last image to flash through his narrowed field of vision was the nine millimeter he’d held to his friend’s head only moments before, and the glint of the barrel.

  Continue with the story here…

  Sneak peek of The Dead Years

  No one knew how or where it all began. There were only rumors at first, spreading from one city to another. The infection took hold quickly. Many that became victims of the first wave were caught off guard by the unusual behavior of those infected. Millions perished with each day that passed and the number of survivors continued to dwindle as they desperately searched for places free of this hell.

  The devastation was almost immediate. Law enforcement fell, utilities powered down and civilization was shattered within the first few weeks. With no structure left in the world, the few remaining sought to band together to fight and survive in this new existence.

  They had no other choice …

  Mason looked out over the floor in between sets and was somewhat caught off guard, and also a little amused as one of his favorite songs from high school started up through his headphones. He hadn’t heard this for quite some time and figured his phone must be cycling through the deep reaches of his enormous playlist.

  Just as the chorus set in, the music muted, signaling a call was coming through. Mason pulled the phone from his pocket to check who was calling. “April,” he said aloud. He figured there must be something else she needed to harass him about and he wasn’t going to ruin another workout just to satisfy her need to belittle him
. He hit decline and lay back on the floor for another set of crunches.

  Mason ran through his next set like a man on fire and lost all focus on the world around him. He often used his outside frustrations to fuel his high intensity workouts in the gym. This proved to be an effective tool in that he was able to push off his problems and at the same time get into top shape. The downside to all this was that his workouts, coupled with the time spent training clients, fueled the fire that resulted in his and April’s separation three months ago.

  Rolling forward and standing from his final set, Mason was surprised to see the weight room almost empty. He turned and noticed at least thirty people gathered outside the owner’s office and as he got closer, he saw there was at least half that amount inside the office.

  They seemed to be intently debating something as others hurried out the front exits of the gym and were headed for their cars. Mason asked one of the female on-lookers what was happening and just as she began to answer, his phone started to buzz, indicating he was getting a text message.

  Again it was April.

  Looking back at the woman standing directly in front of him, now appearing irritated, Mason said, “I apologize, what did you say?”

  “The old folks home,” she said.

  “Yes?” Mason followed.

  “They’re killing each other … LOOK!”

  Mason pushed his way through the diminishing crowd inside the office to get a glimpse of the television now directly in front of him.

  The reporter standing in the hallway was in the middle of his report when he was overtaken by what appeared to be three individuals, all of whom were at least eighty years old.

  Someone in the crowd said, “I am not sure what the hell they’re taking, but I want some. Damn, I have never seen people that age move so fast.”