by Tim Meyer
SUNFALL:
Season Two
(Episodes 7-12)
Tim Meyer, Chad Scanlon, & Peter Draper
Copyright © 2016 Tim Meyer/Chad Scanlon/Peter Draper
Cover design by Najla Qamber
http://najlaqamberdesigns.com
Kindle Edition
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
Also by Tim Meyer:
Demon Blood: Enlightenment
Demon Blood: Gateways
The Thin Veil
In the House of Mirrors
Less Than Human
The Lemures (A Short Story)
WORLDS BETWEEN MY TEETH
Also by Peter Draper:
Sacrifice & Surrender (A Short Story)
SPECIAL THANKS:
A huge “thank you” to authors Natalie Carlisle and DS Ullery for taking the time to read and provide feedback. Season Two is better for it.
CONTENTS
On Terrible Things & Other Such Occurrences: A Foreword by Pete Draper
January 22nd 1985
Exodus: Part Two (Episode Seven)
Dopesick (Episode Eight)
Tunnels (Episode Nine)
One Angry Man (Episode Ten)
Westward (Episode Eleven)
Plan B (Episode Twelve)
On Terrible Things & Other Such Occurrences
(A Foreword)
It came without warning, as most terrible things do. Without discernible motives or clear intentions, the sun fell from the sky and scorched humanity to the brink of extinction, leaving little in its wake, and substantially less than there had been before. Some things have changed while others have ended, and the line between such subtleties has blurred indefinitely, perhaps forever erased. What remains is what the few survivors make of it, if they choose to make anything of it at all.
The most significant of tragedies strike unexpectedly. In worlds both fantastic and factual, that much can be certain. And even when their occurrence is foreseen and anticipated, there is often very little which can be accomplished to deter or prevent their arrival. Hearts are broken, lives are shattered, and all too frequently are we left with the fragments of the past, wondering how can a future be built on what was and never will be again.
As Sam, Soren, and the others are beginning to realize, the moments following the aftermath of such terrible occurrences is vital. In those times there are many decisions to be made, some less questionable than others. With regard to those more complicated matters, while the resolution to such may be apparent, it is often the means to achieve that end which receives considerably more scrutiny, especially in dire circumstances. This is what my fellow coauthors and I find most fascinating about the world portrayed in Sunfall. Individually and collectively, all the characters have experienced some sort of tragedy, whether foreseeable or unexpected, and certainly some more personal than others. Nevertheless, despite their extensive collection of experience, none of them have ever faced the challenges which lay before them subsequent to the events of The Big Burn. Accordingly, the most important question is not what decisions will they make, but rather, who will be the one to make them.
If history has shown us anything, it is that we as a society rely upon those who demonstrate strength and courage in times of desperation and despair. In those darkest hours, those men and women who rise and lead their communities, cities, or nations to better tomorrows shine the brightest. This prompts yet another question: who will rise and shine? Sam or Soren? Both or neither? The best answer we are able to offer is this: Patience.
One may argue that patience is something which neither Sam nor Soren can afford, especially under the circumstances which they currently find themselves. Perhaps there is some truth to that logic, but there remains much in need of exploration, and thus, it is essential that our characters be given every opportunity to rise, so that they may shine their brightest. Or perhaps you, faithful reader, advise that you yourself have not the time for patience. We are well aware of this, and on behalf of Tim and Chad, I thank you for your exercise in perseverance through the delay between Season One and Season Two. It is no easy task to be asked to stay vigilant and tolerant, and left wondering and waiting, but we thank you for continuing on this journey with us. Much like our characters, an opportunity was needed to rise so that we too, as authors, could shine our brightest. We hope we have not lost any luster on the way to creating what we believe is an exciting second season.
Much has been said about the unexpected tragedies that come and go in all worlds of differentiating shapes, sizes, and schemes. But what cannot go unmentioned is that much like terrible things, great and wonderful things tend reveal themselves unexpectedly as well. It is the unexpectedness of these great things that make them even more romantic and worthwhile than imagined. We are not always told or forewarned of these joyful occasions or possibilities; they simply happen, with or without our permission. They come without warning, as most wonderful things do.
Thank you for your patience and continuing on this journey with us, faithful reader. May you too find your moment to shine.
Pete Draper
SUNFALL
Season Two
(Episodes 7-12)
When he closes his eyes, all he sees are ghosts:
January 22nd, 1985
The man in the glass reflection pushes his hair back in place. He dusts off his lab coat, sending a chalky powder airborne. He sighs deeply and places his hand on the security pad next to the door. The glass panels spread, giving way to a long white hallway. It looks like Heaven, but this place is far from divine. Truth be told, a demon lives here, and his name is Elias Wheeler.
This place is Hell, he thinks as he approaches two guards. They're blocking the entrance to Wheeler's lair.
Stop, one guard says.
I've been sent for, the man responds. He shows them his beeper with the boss's number scrolling across the screen.
We weren't aware Mr. Wheeler had a meeting this afternoon.
The man smiles. Feel free to consult with him. I'll wait.
Your name?
Sandborough.
San.. San... San...
The guard runs his finger down a list. Nothing, he spits. According to my record, you're only a Level 5 clearance. I doubt Mr. Wheeler would request a meeting with someone from your sector. His nostrils flare like a bull.
Very well, the man says. I'll be on my way.
Hold it right there, Sandborough. The voice comes through the speaker next to the door. It booms like thunder. Boys, you can let Mr. Sandborough through. I apologize I didn't inform you of our meeting earlier. Things were quite busy.
No problem at all, Mr. Wheeler.
The guards push the doors open manually and Sandborough steps inside, his feet heavy with uncertainty. The doors hiss shut as he enters the loft. The room is big and open, unlike the facility beneath them.
Elias Wheeler rises from his desk, removing his nose from a small mound of cocaine. His arms are outstretched, like he means to wrap them around the world. He wants to embrace Sandborough, but the last thing Sandborough wants is a close encounter with a demon. As Wheeler strolls across the
room, Sandborough notices the book on his desk; Fear and Trembling by Soren Kierkegaard.
We did it, Alan, Wheeler says, a child's grin growing across his face. We fucking did it.
Did what, exactly?
The demon's grin concerns Sandborough. It doesn't look natural.
Ignoring him, Wheeler pointed to his desk. Care for a bump?
Sandborough shakes his head. I'll stick with cigarettes, he says, pulling one from his pocket.
Wheeler makes his way to the minibar. He's quiet when he fixes himself a drink. The silence is unsettling. He didn't come thinking Wheeler had invited him here to celebrate. He thought Wheeler summoned him to terminate his employment. Or relocate him elsewhere, which—if the rumors were true—was worse than getting fired. Remember Bobby Egbert?
Maybe I will take that drink, Sandborough says.
Excellent!
Joe and I are making headway with A61Z, he says, trying to fill the silence.
That's great news. He spins with two drinks in hand. He extends one to Sandborough, who takes it reluctantly. But I have better.
Please tell.
The United States Government is extending our contract through the year 2000.
Sandborough's eyes widen. That is great news. Fifteen years is a long time.
That means job security for you.
Sandborough laughs. Dr. Wheeler, I'm just a research analyst. I'm a dime a dozen.
Not anymore you're not. You're being promoted.
Promoted? To what?
Head research analyst.
What about Joe and A61Z?
You'll be overseeing that project. Among many others.
Dr. Wheeler, I don't know what to say.
Say yes. And call me Elias.
OK, Elias.
Elias Wheeler turns to the long window behind him. It overlooks the snowy Alaskan landscape. In the distance, an endless mountain range stands in the purple glow of the afternoon sun. It's beautiful, Sandborough thinks. He's only seen beauty like this on postcards and dreams. He closes his eyes and wishes she was next to him, enjoying nature's gorgeous statues. But she can't be and he knows it. She does too.
Is it lonely down there, in The Dish? Wheeler asks.
Sandborough shrugs. Sometimes, he lies.
It's quite lonely up here.
You have your wife.
Wheeler doesn't flinch and continues to gaze into the vast white terrain. Kyra, he speaks softly.
Hearing her name fills Sandborough with joy. He hides his delight behind a cloud of cigarette smoke.
The door to Wheeler's domain whooshes open and as if on cue, she enters. Both men turn, her presence draping smiles across their faces. She doesn't expect Sandborough to be there and seems startled by his appearance, if only for a second.
Dr. Sandborough, she says. What brings you out of The Dish?
Me, Wheeler says.
Kyra forces a smile and sidles next to her husband. She pecks him on the cheek. Sandborough clenches his fist at his side.
I've offered Alan a job.
A job?
Yes. Head Analyst.
Oh.
Isn't that great news?
Absolutely, she says, turning to Sandborough. Guess that means we'll be seeing less of each other.
Much less, Sandborough thinks. But isn't that the point?
Has my wife told you the good news?
Sandborough, in a daze, shakes his head.
Kyra's pregnant.
The world spins, but Sandborough is able to keep his balance.
Embarrassed, she looks at Sandborough coyly. I thought Aldo would have told you. Didn't my brother tell you?
Sandborough, now a practiced actor, puts on a smile even he mistakes as genuine.
No, Aldo has been hush on the subject. But congratulations! I'm very happy for you. Boy or girl?
Too early to tell, Kyra says. She looks like she wants to cry. But my instincts tell me—girl.
Congratulations, he says again, unable to think of something more original.
You look pale, Wheeler comments. Can I fetch you a glass of water?
No, Sandborough says. But I'll have another Scotch.
The past is a graveyard, and the ghosts are active:
September 19th, 1985 – Of that day, he remembers the blood the most. Hers. Puddles of red in the white hallway. Her hand over her stomach, catching crimson. Her mouth stretched to scream, but the world is mute and no sounds are heard; not her, not the commotion of the moving crowd, not the encroaching army, not the trampled innocents. Joe tugs him under his arms, helping him to his feet. Traitor Joe. Aldo is waving him on through the chaos. People screaming. Running. When he closes his eyes, he can still hear the echo of their feet clanking against the white marble floor. So much blood. Dripping from her. Not one life lost, but two.
February 3rd, 1985 – The cells underneath the microscope stir. The blue cells invade the pink cells' territory and the pink cells react violently. A swirling frenzy of blue and pink. The blue cells advance on the pink coagulants and the pinks fight their best battle yet. It's not long before they're overtaken and eliminated from the slide.
And? Joe Nava asks.
Sandborough looks up from the microscope. Joe looks like a clown minus the makeup and Sandborough has always found this funny. But today Sandborough isn't laughing.
A61Z is a failure, Sandborough says. He slams his fist on the table. Everything shakes.
We'll get there, Joe assures him.
He believes Joe. In that moment, they're friends. They talk about things beyond their work, mostly over beers. That's before the revolution. Before things go south. Before the demon crowns himself king of Hell and turns Heaven upside down. Before the white room becomes red. Before—
December 2nd, 1984 – She's on top; he's beneath her. There's lots of sweat. She's grunting, pains of pleasure, but he can barely hear her over her beauty. Before he knows it, it's over and she's dismounting him, falling on the bed next to him. She's trying to catch her breath while calling his name. Alan. Alan. Alan, that was amazing. He turns to Kyra, wanting to tell her the same when—
March 15th, 1985 – Remember Bobby Egbert? He stares at Aldo Hood, watches him rub his caterpillar mustache. What about him? Aldo asks.
He defied Elias once. Then disappeared.
He's living in North Carolina. Retired.
How do you know?
I have sources outside of The Dish. I told you.
Right.
Trust me.
Elias is a monster, he says. Your sister is in danger. Don't you care?
Of course I care.
I've seen the bruises, cigar burns. The scars.
Aldo sighs. He's an asshole. Not a mass-murdering psychopath.
How do you know?
I see it in his eyes.
You're paranoid, Sandborough.
He has to be stopped.
And who's going to stop him. You?
Maybe.
It's too dangerous. He's too powerful. And if you bring him down, you'll bring the whole Dish down with him.
Maybe not.
Oh no?
The government owns this facility now. They'll replace him with someone else.
Maybe they replace him with someone worse.
Maybe your sister will be safe.
Aldo slaps his forehead. You're putting me in a terrible position here.
You're not going to help me carry out my plan?
It's dangerous.
Yes.
You need a Plan B.
It'll work.
You're not Clint Eastwood. You need a Plan B.
My plan will work.
You need a Plan—
—More blood. Lots of it. On the floor. On the walls. Red footprints cover the floor, impossible to follow with his eyes. When he thinks of the last time he saw her, he sees her stomach and the hole the laser rifle created. He thinks he sees the unborn baby inside, trying to slither its way out of the womb
, but that's not a memory, but a horrible snippet from a nightmare he once had. In the nightmare, the baby lives and crawls out of his lover's stomach, toward him, asking questions, like what happened to my mother, and Sandborough can only cry and—
—B. Don't you understand?
What does Joe think?
Joe agrees with me. Thinks your bat-shit crazy. You'll never pull it off.
You don't know me that well.
I know you well enough.
You think you do.
You love my sister?
More than anything.
Then don't do this. At least not without a Plan B.
What if Elias pushes the button?
He won't.
You don't think he's capable of activating one of them? Quakefall? Sun—
—Round two. He's on top this time, thrusting rhythmically. She cries out his name—Alan, Alan, Alan—and he whispers—I love you—into her ear and for the moment they're one, inseparable, until it's over and they're two again and—
—there's blood on his hands. He thrashes wildly. Two guards are carrying him, holding him up by his arms. Sandborough's shouting, calling for his release, but the guards only grip him tighter. He sees Aldo ahead. Aldo turns. There are tears in his eyes. His sister's blood stains his jacket. He faces Sandborough and stabs him in the neck with a long needle. He says welcome to Plan B and he's sorry and—
—The smell of cow shit is strong. He awakes in darkness, hears something that sounds like thunder, as light floods his eyes. Straining, he looks past the sun and stares out across the American landscape. Cows graze on grass greener than Irish hills. Wild horses run amok across the never-ending stretch of field, purple snow-capped mountains behind them standing proudly.
Hell?
No, not Hell, a portly man jotting down notes responds. But close. South Dakota. At least I think it is. This part of the country all looks the same to me.
