World's End
Page 1
World’s End
The Stolen Affinity Chronicles: Book 1
D.B. Green
Contents
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Monday August 23, 2019
08:31 GMT
08:42 GMT
08:56 GMT
09:17 GMT
10:04 GMT
10:25 GMT
10:44 GMT
11:05 GMT
11:20 GMT
11:48 GMT
12:01 GMT
12:23 GMT
UNKNOWN TIME
13:38 GMT
UNKNOWN TIME
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Author’s Note
About D.B. Green
Acknowledgments
Copyright
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A lonely teen awaits her salvation unaware that her saviour will bring with him magical secrets that will change her life forever.
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For my family:
Lorna, Brandon, Kara, Pebble, and Marble.
MONDAY
August 23
2021
08:31 GMT
LUTHER STONE
RUTLAND HOSPITAL | NEW BAKEWELL
Amber’s building a bomb.
I watch over her shoulder as she moves the intricate parts around the table like they’re part of a puzzle. I know the detonator and explosives are fake, but the actual device is real. She’s building a bomb. Yet, it doesn’t faze her at all. Damn it. This isn’t a task I should have given a fifteen-year-old girl.
She sings silently while she works as bright sunshine streams in through the cracked rear window of the camper can. Her head moves in rhythm to the deafening music pumping through her headphones. Her lips form the words, but no sound leaves her mouth — no sound can ever leave her mouth. Not now, anyway. Damn magic.
I squeeze past her and sink into the soft, worn, leather seat at the back of the van. The springs, having given up the fight a long time ago, leave me at eye level with the table and the fake bomb.
I follow Amber’s fingers as they tighten around a small circuit board. She examines it, her face a picture of concentration. Suddenly, the board clatters back onto the table and her hand shoots to the back of her neck. She parts her short brown hair, revealing a small Band-Aid under the neck of her pink T-shirt. Her fingers pull at the sticky edges.
Jumping forward, I knock her hand away and press the Band-Aid down, before the biometric transponder underneath it falls out.
She turns, aiming a narrow-eyed glare in my direction.
Right on cue, my own Band-Aid itches. I resist the urge to scratch under my collar. I don’t want to disturb my transponder. Damned fake biometrics.
I point at Amber’s neck and sign with my hands. “Stop it.” She hates it when I resort to sign language.
She drags her hand away, shrugs her shoulders, and returns to the bomb — not caring about the devastation this small explosive could cause if it was real. I can’t work Amber out anymore. Her somber mood swings intensify with each passing day. She hardly makes eye contact, and when she does, her eyes look empty. Lost. Is it the bomb? Does she hate me for asking her to make it?
I reach for the journal and press my fingers into the aged, brown, leather cover. Why won’t you connect to her mind? The magical pages should show me her thoughts, but the magic just won’t work on her… I need to know what she’s thinking.
I need many things. A shot of whisky would do right now.
I shake away the urge.
The tip of Amber’s soldering iron smokes as another piece of the bomb slots into place. The smell of burning metal forces the memory of Libby’s car into my mind. Ripped apart like it was tin foil — her scorched purse, melted into the sidewalk.
Damn it. I need some air.
I slide open the side door and step out of the van. The smell of morning dew and lavender greets my nose. Sweet lavender. Libby’s favorite scent. Her face jumps into my mind. Her pained smile… Her last smile.
I need that whisky.
Grabbing my hip flask, I take a quick sip. The whisky warms my throat and numbs the memories. Not for the first time, I’m grateful Jack Daniels lived in this Godforsaken alternate timeline, too.
I move into the cool shade next to the van. A purple carpet of lavender plants grows under a row of tall conifers. The smell is intoxicating. I take another sip of whisky and focus through the trees. Rutland Hospital, England’s premiere Neural Research Center, stands just three hundred feet away on the other side. Flanked by two tall brown brick buildings, the entrance gleams through the trimmed conifers, like a large, curved greenhouse.
For days, Rutland Hospital has been my sole focus. But today, right now, the whisky opens my eyes wider than before. I never realized how much this part of New Bakewell resembles Central Park in New York City. Tall buildings stand behind the tree-lined parking lot like silver giants, guarding the horizon. The quaint market town of Bakewell no longer exists. New Bakewell is yet another travesty of this alternate timeline.
A snake-like hiss comes from van roof, followed by a loud pop.
“Damn it! Shit, shit, shit!”
Nicci.
I shield my eyes from the piercing sunlight. Nicci’s hazy silhouette dances around the van roof, backed against the unbroken blue sky.
“What happened?!” I shout.
She drops to her knees, sucking her fingers, her bleached hair a bright beacon in the summer sun. “Piece of shit antenna.” She scowls, launching a mental tirade back at the aerial poking out from behind the rear door.
For once, I’m relieved the journal isn’t yet tethered to her mind.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Don’t worry, Old Man. There’s no one near us.”
“I meant your language.” I point at the open side door. “You need to set a better example for your niece.”
“Step-niece — and Amber’s got her headphones on, anyway.” Nicci shrugs her shoulders. “Bad language doesn’t get a rise from her now. I just don’t know what to do with her anymore.” She connects the cable to the aerial and sparks erupt under her hand. “Jesus frick!”
I need another shot of whisky. “The son of God is not a profanity,” I shout.
Her eyes narrow and she points at my hip flask, just as the sun glints on the silver. “I thought that was the only religion you followed now.”
“Touché.” I toast her and then take another sip. She gives me the finger and almost stumbles off the roof. “Careful, you don’t want to fall through this rust bucket,” I shout. “You should have traded this van for a newer model.”
“Don’t diss my van,” she says. “It’s not as old as you, Grandad.”
I toast her again.
“Seriously Luther, no more whisky. You’ve had more than your ration today already. I don’t want to do all the driving again.”
I take another quick sip of whisky while she climbs down the ladder. I watch as she checks the base of the aerial. She pauses at the side door. I hide the flask behind my back, but it’s Amber that’s taken her attention. She climbs into the back of the van and peers over Amber’s shoulder, giving her young niece a thumbs up. But Amber doesn’t register the praise.
Nicci spins around. She shakes her h
ead and holds her hands up. “What you got there, Old Man?” she asks, focusing on my hand. “I said no… more… whisky!”
I slip the hip flask in my pocket and grasp for anything I can pull out instead. Libby’s pendant jumps to mind and my fingers wrap around the silver half dollar charm. I hold it up by the silver chain.
“Sorry.” Nicci turns to hide her red face.
My stomach knots.
I grip the silver half dollar tight as the shakes overwhelm my hand. Have I fallen to this? Using you as an excuse?
Deep breaths. I fight the urge for my whisky. Relaxing my fingers, I rub my thumb over the letters around the edge of the silver coin. I’m sorry, Libby. As I trace across each letter of her name, the shakes lesson their grip on my hand.
Nicci’s boots crunch against the asphalt, snapping my mind back. “I can’t get through to Amber,” she whispers as she slides the side door shut. “It’s like she doesn’t care anymore. Eddie’s execution really changed her.”
“His execution changed all of us.”
And it was my fault. I need another drink.
Nicci raises her left eyebrow, and then hands me a small mint. “For the whisky breath,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t think Amber knew how to deal with it. She lost her stepmother, her voice, and then her friend and mentor — all in such a short space of time.” She glances through the van window at her young niece. “Amber just shut down. It’s my fault. I didn’t see the signs.”
“You just need to talk to her.”
“I’ve tried.”
“You need to try harder.”
Nicci yanks open the passenger door and grabs a pair of binoculars from the threadbare seat. She stomps over to the conifers, crushing the lavender under her boots. Peering around the last tree, she focuses on the gleaming hospital entrance in the distance.
“Where’s Kathy? I can’t see her. She’s not in position.” Turning in an arc, she points the binoculars straight at me. “Check the damn book, Luther.”
“Journal,” I say.
She climbs into the front of the van and slumps into the passenger seat. “Fricking mind robber, more like.”
Slipping Libby’s pendant over my neck, I pull the journal from my jacket pocket. I open it to Kathy’s page, so I can read her thoughts. New words magically appear on the paper as if written by an invisible hand.
08:38 GMT
KATHY MEADOWS
WYE BANK BRIDGE | NEW BAKEWELL
Smuggle in the EMP. Easy.
No.
Break Dean out of hospital. Simple.
No, it’s not simple at all.
I can’t do it. I just can’t…
Nicci jumps out of the van. “Well?” she asks, her fingers drumming against the door.
“Kathy’s fine,” I say, closing the journal before she can read the page.
Her eyes narrow, and she slams the passenger door shut. “Kathy needs a kick up the arse.”
She pulls out her phone, but I grab it before she can hit dial.
“No!”
Nicci’s lips press together, and she clenches her fists. Her cheeks turn cherry red. I step back, expecting her to lash out, but she relaxes and slumps against the passenger door.
“Don’t take your frustration with Amber out on Kathy.”
“But… I don’t know what Kathy’s scared of,” Nicci says. “We’ve been through the plan like a million times. She always gets the easy tasks.” Her voice trails off to a whisper. “Famous Kathy Meadows.”
“Come on. You know Kathy isn’t famous here.” Nicci lowers her eyes and kicks her heel against the asphalt. “We’re outsiders in this timeline. Kathy isn’t. She could have easily laughed us away. Breaking Dean out of this place is no easy task. She knows helping us will sacrifice her own life. Everything unique about this version of her will be gone forever. Erased from time. That’s enough to sca—”
A sharp tapping noise comes from the van window, interrupting me. It’s Amber. She holds her tablet up to the glass. A message flashes on the screen:
“Finished.”
I give Nicci her phone. “Kathy will be fine. Trust me.”
She forces a half-smile and then slides open the van door. We climb inside to inspect Amber’s handiwork. A clear box stands on the table, full of wires, computer parts, and blinking LEDs. It’s the size of a small toaster. Strapped to each end is a liquid-filled canister. One red, one clear. A long empty canister sits across the top, linking them.
I ruffle Amber’s hair. “Not bad for a bunch of eBay junk.” She shrugs my hand away.
Nicci bends down until she’s at eye level with the table. “A binary liquid bomb. The staple ingredient of any blockbuster film or video game. Visually stunning, but completely impractical.” She grins and points at the red tank. “Cranberry juice?”
Amber nods.
Nicci grabs her tablet from the seat next to Amber. She taps on the screen and large red numbers count down on a screen inside the bomb casing.
“The countdown will reach zero at twelve, midday,” she says. “The same time the EMP is due to go off.”
I confirm the countdowns are in sync with both watches on my left wrist. “Now you can text Kathy.”
08:42 GMT
KATHY MEADOWS
WYE BANK BRIDGE | NEW BAKEWELL
Nicci’s rusty, blue camper van shines through the trees on the far side of the hospital parking lot, flickering in the sun like a beacon. Right on cue, my phone vibrates.
Nicci.
I take a deep breath and read the text message.
The package is ready. Get your arse into gear. Don’t forget to turn off your phone.
“Okay. I’m nearly there,” I whisper to myself.
My phone vibrates again. Another message from Nicci.
And good luck.
A warm breeze whistles between two parked trucks, the kind of breeze that would soon turn bitter if the sun disappeared behind a cloud. But, there’s no clouds in the sky. A part of me wishes the sky was full of them. It just seems wrong the sun can shine so bright on me with what we’re about to do today.
I take a sip of my bland, food-truck coffee and turn off my phone as instructed. It’s eight forty-three. My shift starts at nine. I need time to get Nicci’s customized EMP device through security. I better get moving. I hope that dick, Phil, isn’t on the desk. When will he get it? No means no. My heart rate shifts up a gear at the thought of his leering face.
Crap. Not today. Please.
I push through the east gate. Rutland Hospital looms in the distance, surrounded by trees. Dark-blue Fall banners hang from every lamp post in the parking lot, fluttering in the warm breeze like kites in the summer sky. Each one adorned with golden writing.
7P7: Remember the Fallen
But I don’t want to remember the Fall. All those poor souls. I just want to remember the Fall as a season. My favorite time of year. The smell of pumpkin spiced lattes, burning wood stoves, and crisp morning air. Now, death will taint the word forever.
Bright sunshine reflects from the glazed hospital entrance, like a signal snapping my mind back. I take another sip of the bland coffee and step onto the road.
The squeal of tires and a car horn.
I dive back onto the sidewalk as a small silver car hurtles past, heading down the ramp to the underground parking lot. My heartbeat shifts straight into high gear
That car could have killed me!
Crap. It’s Staff Nurse Ripley, my supervisor. As the parking barrier rises, she turns and scowls before driving off down the ramp. It wouldn’t surprise me if she sped up on purpose, just to scare the crap out of me.
Shaking spilled coffee from my hand, I watch her car disappear into the darkness. I could do without having her on my ass today.
With no sign of any more maniac drivers, I head across the road into the full sun. It’s warm on my neck, like a soothing massage. The main hospital exit is to my left. The parking lot gates are wide open… It’s so te
mpting to just run — run away and never look back.
I drain the last of the tasteless coffee and toss the cup in a trash can. My stomach drops. I grab a discarded newspaper from the trash. It’s a copy of yesterday’s Metro Global Press.
Two Years on From the Fall – by Cassie Collins
Tomorrow we remember the fallen. Two years ago, in one fatal moment, 2.4 billion people died. Was Edward Munro the architect of this magic terrorism or just a scapegoat?
“Scapegoat,” I whisper.
Caressing Eddie’s black-and-white picture clears my mind.
Oblivion awaits. I can do this.
I drop the newspaper back in the trash can. Eddie’s eyes stare back at me. You were my future. My eyes fill with tears. I turn away before they start. Not long now until the pain is over.
The hospital doors slide open behind me. I take a deep breath and go inside.
“Morning, Kathy.” Harry, the officer working the security desk, holds up a hand for me to stop.
My heart rate drops a gear. Harry’s on duty. Soft and kind Harry. It should be easier to get the EMP through security.
I pass him my purse, then walk under the Bio-Arch and wait while I’m scanned.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Nothing to worry about. My biometric details are real. But my heart still pounds like a bass drum solo.