Extinction Point

by Paul Jones

  EPILOGUE

  * * *

  Emily and Thor crested the rise of the hill.

  In front of them, the freeway lay clear and empty, stretching out toward the horizon. Behind them, several miles distant now, Emily could see the town they had left behind, almost entirely hidden within a swirling bank of smoke. Beyond that, she could see the fire stretching away into the distance, a glowing arc of flame consuming everything in its path, alien and earth bound alike. It did not discern between either.

  Emily looked down at her dog and then back to the open expanse of blacktop leading north into the distance. “Well boy, are we ready to do this?” Thor gave a loud bark and began padding his way forward along the road.

  “Talkative mutt, aren’t you.”

  Emily set off after the dog. Whatever lay before them was in the future and right now, in this moment, as strange as it sounded even to her ears, Emily couldn’t have been any happier.

  The past, where the old Emily lived, well, that was gone, swept away forever. The future was unknown, nothing more than potential and full of unpredictability. There were very few certainties left. Emily found that oddly comforting.

  The one truth she could clearly see was this was no longer her world, it belonged instead to the invaders who had wiped humanity from the planet in a single day. She, and all the survivors left on this rock they called home, were now the aliens.

  And it was going to be up to her and whoever was still left alive out there to try to take it back.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  Follow the adventures of Emily Baxter in book-two of the series EXTINCTION POINT: EXODUS, coming Summer 2012. Join my mailing list at www.DisturbedUniverse.com to receive early notification of its release.

  Afterword by the author

  Dear reader,

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read Extinction Point. As you’ve probably guessed, there’s a lot more of Emily and Thor’s story to tell. I expect there will be at least three —probably four—books in total before we are done with their journey. I’m aiming to release two books a year; depending on how well this first book in the series sells.

  So, if you’re interested in hearing the rest of their story, I’d encourage you to sign up for my mailing list at www.DisturbedUniverse.com. I promise the only time you will hear from me will be to tell you about a new book release.

  As an independent author, I don’t have the kind of resources at my disposal that authors signed to a publisher have. So, I have to (happily) rely on my readers and fans to spread the word. If you have a second, I’d like to encourage you to leave a review (good or bad, don’t hold back) at Amazon and let others know what you thought of the book. You will have my undying gratitude and help ensure that Emily’s story continues.

  I’ll be starting on the second book Extinction Point: Exodus sometime in April, and I hope to have it ready for release in August. Things are about to get a lot stranger and a lot more dangerous for dear old Emily. I’d love to hear what you thought of my book, so please feel free to post comments on my blog or send me a message via my Twitter account, @PaulAntonyJones.

  As an added thank you for taking a chance on an unknown author, I’ve included the first twenty-chapters of my first novel Towards Yesterday. You’ll find it on the next page.

  PAUL. JONES

  TOWARDS YESTERDAY

  PAUL ANTONY JONES

  ~ A Novel ~

  © 2011, Paul Antony Jones

  Self publishing

  email: Paul@DisturbedUniverse.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  For Karen, with love

  PART ONE

  NEW YEARS EVE - 2042

  One

  Do I dare disturb the universe?

  T.S. Elliot

  – New Orleans -

  The noise from the street was deafening. Shouting and singing blended with the occasional burst of raucous laughter, which in turn combined with the happy squeals of drunken women. The whoop of a police car’s siren clamored to overcome the combined voices of thousands of inebriated revelers. Instead, it became a counterpoint to the melody of yelling and singing rising from the mass of dancing bodies as the squad car slowly pushed its way through their midst.

  Jim Baston, his eyes red and tired, tried to concentrate on the paragraph he was writing, but the blare of the rowdy crowd below his window was just too distracting.

  “Save tonight’s work and forward a copy to the house’s inbox, please,” he said quietly.

  “Yes Jim.” The female voice of the computer’s AI was soft and comforting. “I’ve done as you requested Jim,” the AI said a second later. “Is there anything else you would like?”

  “No thank you. You can shut down. I won’t need you for the rest of the night.”

  “Very well. Oh! And Jim…”

  “Yes?”

  “Happy New Year.”

  “You too,” he whispered.

  For the past ten years, he had been coming to this same hotel. Same room, every time. On first name terms with the owners (a pleasant couple from North Carolina), he didn't even have to tell them his name when he called two months ahead to confirm his arrival. His reservation for the following year penciled in each time he ended his stay.

  This was the quiet part of the city, too; he could only imagine what it would be like in the more popular areas. He felt like throwing open the windows and screaming at the crowd to shut the hell up! Couldn't they see he was trying to work? Didn't they know how important this book was to him?

  Of course, who could blame them? It was, after all, New Year’s Eve, and if he had even half a life he would be out there too, welcoming in the New Year in as much of a drunken stupor as the rest of the city.

  Instead, he stood, stretched his aching arms - careful to avoid the ceiling fan that twirled almost noiselessly overhead - and walked stiffly to the window, pulled up the blinds, pushed open the French doors and stepped out onto his balcony.

  The noise that had been a grumbling rumble now became a cacophony, bolstered in part by Jazz and Salsa bands scattered throughout the city. The sound swelled up like a wave over the balcony, washing over him. From his third story vantage point, Jim looked out over a significant part of the city, its incandescent glow helping the full moon to fight back the darkness. Far off to the south a thick roll of thunderheads, black and roiling, threatened a damp end to the year. But Jim didn’t think a sudden soaking was going to do anything to squash the spirits of the thousands of revelers walking the streets this night.

  Resting a shoulder against the doorjamb, he pulled an already opened soft pack of Marlboro's from his shirt pocket. Tapping out one of the remaining cigarettes, Jim lit it with an antique Zippo, sheltering the fragile flame from the light breeze gusting over the rooftops with a cupped hand.

  He took a long drag, held the smoke in his lungs for a few moments before exhaling it into the cool evening air in one long, slow breath. He was trying to give the things up, weaning himself off them by using them as a reward. When he completed five pages of the book, he got to have a smoke. Of course, he had been using the same excuse for the last ten years or so - didn't look like his technique was working too well.

  At twenty dollars a pack, it was amazing that anybody could still afford to smoke the damn things. Countries and presidents, ideologies and industry; they all came and went, but cigarettes outlived the lot of them. Jim wasn't sure whether that was a testament to the resilience of people's freedom of choice or just to the obscene amount of money that tobacco companies still threw into their marketing and advertising campaigns.

  He hadn'
t completed his five-page quota today; it wasn't for lack of trying on his part, and he'd be damned if he was going to take a ride on the guilt-trip-express just because he fell down this once.

  Its New Year's Eve for God's sake, he reminded himself.

  Glancing at his wristwatch, he realized it was almost 10 pm. Still another two hours left until the ball would be falling in Times Square.

  He could have chosen a hotel closer to the festivities; instead, he booked himself into his usual room in the small family run place on Royal Street, just a block or so away from the Old Ursuline Convent. If he was quick he could change into some fresh clothes and head for one of the bars that littered Bourbon Street. Jim didn't want to see in the coming year stuck in a room on his own.

  He would take a wander down Bourbon Street and see the sights; have a few drinks and maybe he would even treat himself to a cigar.

  That’s what he loved about this city, you could amble through the streets drinking a glass of wine and smoking a big fat stogy if you wanted, and no one would look at you sideways. If he tried doing that in LA, he would have half-a-dozen unemployed actors - between jobs, they would be quick to correct - yelling in his face how much harm he was doing to himself, how he was depleting the ozone, blah-blah-blah. He'd heard the same arguments for the last half-a-century. Even good sense can start to stink if your nose gets rubbed in it for long enough, he thought.

  Jim laughed at himself, a quiet half-mocking snort. A cigarette, the promise of booze and a cigar, damn he was living dangerously these days.

  What the hell! Why should he care? He was sixty years old, after all. A couple of smokes and a few drinks weren’t going to shorten his life by more than a couple of minutes. He deserved a break. He had thrown himself into the latest book with more gusto than usual. It had consumed him for the past four months and it had also taken a toll on him, both physical and mental. A few hours away from it would do him good, give him a chance to clear his mind and reset his imagination.

  Jim Baston had never once encountered writer’s-block during his career as a writer. Twelve books, all of them in the top ten of all the right bestseller lists. The books had flowed from him. He had written them on the fly, straight from his imagination to the computer. The completed novel invariably needed little in the way of editing; such was the clarity with which he was able to visualize the story and its characters in his mind.

  But this one was different.

  It was a work of non-fiction, his autobiography of sorts. Facing his past was hard and painful. So many mistakes locked away, hidden in the darkness of his previous life. And, as he released each memory out of its mental holding-cell, carefully removing the psychic padlock that had kept them safely locked away, he was forced to confront them in all their horrible glory.

  As he watched the thunderheads moving closer to the city, he realized how weary he was. It was a weariness that started deep in the marrow of his bones, radiating out through every sinew, along every vein and nerve ending; resonating in every atom of his body.

  Exhausted, he thought. Tired of getting up in the morning alone, of drowning himself in his work, of the only calls he ever received being from his editor. He was tired, he realized, of life. He was exhausted by the weight of his past. One night of rest would be a good thing. He could rejoin the human race for a little while.

  Flicking the dog-end of the cigarette onto the concrete of the balcony, he extinguished it with his foot, turned and walked back into the room. A shiver ran through him, it was cool out there.

  Jim grabbed his overcoat from the hanger behind the door, threw it on, picked up his wallet and keys from the side table, and headed out the door that would take him to the streets of New Orleans.

  * * *

  Two

  Byron Portia slipped his silver-gray Peterbilt Hydro-Con into gear, rumbled out from the truck stop off I-15 and headed towards the interstate onramp.

  In his late fifties, Byron was a man who just seemed to slip past the view of most people. If he had walked into a restaurant and blown away a couple of the patrons, the survivors would have been hard-pressed to remember any distinguishing feature. 'Nondescript' was the word most people would use to describe him, if they had to.

  Of course, they would be completely wrong.

  His unremarkable appearance was a carefully cultivated part of his persona. He did not want people to remember him. The mop of graying hair, usually hidden beneath a Met's baseball cap, changed color at his whim with the use of an off-the-shelf hair dye. He didn't favor wigs - too much chance they could fall off in a struggle. The paunch jutting out over his belted Levi's was sufficient to suggest a lazy, relaxed, lifestyle, of nights in front of the TV and a diet of Coors and fast food. His naturally frost-blue eyes were occasionally altered with the use of disposable tinted contact lenses, and he was always quick to cultivate a beard or mustache, interchanging as he saw fit. Underneath the baggy, blue flannelled shirt, he was a tightly muscled man. He worked out regularly using the dumbbells he kept in the back of his big-rig, putting in three hours a day most days.

  Strong as an ox, as his dear departed mom had often said.

  He was meticulous about one other thing: maintaining his mask.

  It did not matter how careful he was with all of his physical disguises, if you didn't take into account your mask then you were screwed. He had learned that little lesson early on in his career. No matter how well he manipulated his appearance as non-threatening, however shy he acted, how big-brotherly or fatherly he appeared, if he could not control his unconscious thoughts he would betray himself.

  That bitch in Las Vegas had proved that to him.

  The big-rig thundered up the onramp. The interstate filter light showed green, so he slipped the gear stick up a notch and gently eased his foot down on the accelerator, pushing the speedometer up towards sixty. He did this on instinct, his subconscious running through the routine of controlling the rig. His conscious mind ... elsewhere.

  Byron could have activated the rig's artificial intelligence system and had it drive the vehicle but he was a man who liked to remain in control of every situation. In all the years that he owned the truck, not once had he switched the AI on.

  Instead, he allowed his mind to drift, running through memories almost a quarter century old.

  Vegas Baby! What happens here, stays here. That’s what the old ads had extolled. That whore of a city, built by the mob and run for years by a mayor who had represented more killers and triggermen than he could probably remember. It was in this place that his calling had almost ended before it started.

  He had picked her up not far off the Strip. There were plenty of nondescript saloons and cantinas scattered throughout Vegas that would cater to the lonely trucker back then. Besides, it was always safer to pick them up in a bar rather than straight off the street; much less chance of them being an undercover vice cop that way.

  Sitting at the bar nursing a rapidly warming Bud - he didn't enjoy beer, so he only occasionally took a sip from the longneck - she had sauntered up to him, taking the vacant barstool next to his.

  She was all tits and make-up. She wore a short sequined dress that shimmered and glittered when she moved, cut just low enough to show off her implants. It rustled like a windblown tree when she sat down. Peroxide-blond hair framed a face pretty enough for her age ... and her profession.

  "Hi," she had said her voice husky from too many cigarettes, "been in town long?"

  He had just shaken his head and smiled at her.

  She pulled a cigarette from her clutch bag and he lit it for her with an envelope of matches from the bar. She made sure she leaned low into him so he could see the full package. Why do they always smoke, he had thought to himself.

  "My name’s Jenna," she said between puffs and extended her hand. He took it and shook it gently, returning her smile. Her skin was warm and clammy to the touch. It sent a thrill of revulsion through him.

  "Anthony," said Byron, "Tony to my frie
nds." He was careful always to use an assumed name.

  "Well, Tony," - another Goddamn smile- "do you need a date?"

  Then his mistake. For a second he saw what he was going to do her, its exquisiteness playing through his mind like a movie. The shock of her realization when he showed her the knife - 'the tools of the trade' as he preferred to call them - the skittering look of confused terror on her face as she felt the steel slip between her ribs and pierce her heart, the muted gush of blood that would be accompanied by his own gush of liquid as he ended her dreadful, sinful, life.

  It was all he had been able to do not to explode right there, so vivid were the images and so intense the need to fulfill God's will. The anticipation brought cold perspiration to his brow as he unconsciously wiped his greasy, sweaty, palms on his trousers.

  His mask had slipped and the whore must have sensed the change in him, because her coy expression quickly disintegrated into a look of puzzlement, then a half-realization of just what she was sitting next to, of how close she was to death. It was subconscious but it was there.

  "I ... I need to go freshen up," she stuttered her coquettish demeanor transformed now to that of a cornered alley cat. He could almost see the hair standing up on the back of her neck.

  Confusion backlit her eyes as she pushed away from the bar and started to head towards the ladies-room. He grasped her by her forearm, gently but firm enough that she would have to struggle to break his hold. That’s when the full realization had hit her, and she pulled her arm out of his grasp.