by Connor Mccoy
Defending Hope
Surviving The Shock Book 1
Connor McCoy
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Copyright © 2017 by Connor McCoy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
Thomas Criver walked the streets of a city that had no life. At times, he could walk entire blocks without running into a single soul. His boots marched across asphalt that had not had working cars or trucks drive across it for months. In fact, on most days he ran across more animals than humans, unless he traveled to a survival camp.
Every now and then he’d run across another dead body. What troubled him the most was how fresh the bodies appeared. People still were dying on the streets. When they were kids, it was even worse.
Life no longer was about getting the latest electronics, or the newest car, or the biggest house. It was all about survival. When Criver walked these streets, he had two things on his mind: helping an unfortunate soul who needed food or direction to a camp where he might stand a chance at living, or finding any kind of resource that he could barter with in the future, for food, water, anything to last another day.
Actually, Criver had a third purpose, to find a purpose for living.
Today, Criver’s journey took him to a parking lot. Naturally, none of these cars had moved since the Darkness fell, but they might contain some gasoline. Advanced electronic machines had stopped working, but older machinery that just ran on gas might still work, if they had the fuel.
But before Criver began his work, he spotted something moving fast. It darted between vehicles so fast Thomas Criver at first mistook him for a large cat. But there was no doubt it was a boy rushing like a hunted animal among the parking lot’s abandoned vehicles.
“Come here you, little shit!” A bald, bearded brute of a man pursued the kid, along with about four other men who shared the same traits: muscled, torn shirts, ugly as hell, and eyes lit up by savagery. If that boy had not been quick and agile enough to get in and around these cars, he would have been dead meat by now. As the boy fled into the building that overlooked the lot, Criver chewed on his lip. Just what the hell did this bunch want with this kid?
As he crept along rows of the cars, approaching the building, he ran through the sickening possibilities. Slave labor. Human trafficking. Actually, the boy’s skin was a light brown. He could be of Arabic descent. In that case, he’d be dead on sight almost anywhere. When it came to targets of vengeance for the attack on the good old’ U.S.A., Muslims were numero uno on the list.
The boy already had raced through the open, broken glass doors. His pursuers followed. Criver checked the building’s perimeter in a hurry. He didn’t find any side doors. No wait, there was a fire exit. It was a way out, but he doubted the kid would find the exit in time.
Criver’s hand seized the door knob like a vice. The whole country’s shut down, no food or running water, and these six assholes waste all this effort to chase down a single boy? He pulled the door open so hard he smacked it against the back wall.
He stormed inside. In another time and place, women and children would be first in the lifeboat when the ship was sinking. Now, things like chivalry, civility and even pity were fed into the wood chipper and blasted out into a pile of sawdust. Now almost everybody was prey, especially women and children, except for the filth of the streets. They were the hunters.
Thomas Criver was a hunter, too. A hunter for the hunters.
He emerged into a darkened showroom. Naturally, the fire alarm didn’t go off. Electricity hadn’t flowed through these wires in months. Criver stuck to the walls. None of the brutes had made it in here yet. He kept silent, not even calling out for the kid. Better to not draw these guys to him until he found out where the boy was.
His nose burned with the musty odor of the abandoned building. This place was a showroom for the latest smartphones, personal computers and laptops, likely abandoned as soon as the Darkness came. Now it was a showroom of fried computer chips and motherboards. In other words, this place was a monument to a dead era. Criver wanted to laugh at the irony.
Footsteps grew louder from the main doors leading to the hall beyond. By the time Criver got to the end of the displays and kiosks, he found an open door into another room. From the stink, this was probably a dining room for attendees during the shows.
Criver slipped into the dining room and shut the door, then pulled out a tiny flashlight. The shouts outside grew louder. “Did you check in there?” “Look in there!” “Aw shit, there’s a bunch of rats in here!” Good, they hadn’t found the boy.
A scratching sound caught Criver’s ear. He shined the light along the wall. His light illuminated long dark hair, wide brown eyes, a dirty, worn, orange shirt and brown shorts. It was the boy, nestled under a long table next to the wall.
He approached, but carefully. The boy glided, smoothly, to the corner, to hug the darkness that Criver was dispelling with his flashlight. The kid didn’t lunge nor jump. He knew how to creep in tight places without making much noise.
Criver had looked into other kids’ eyes after the Darkness came. He had seen their fear. They didn’t understand why they suddenly didn’t have an air conditioner any more. Why their iPods and computers didn’t work. Why, instead of going to school or hanging out with friends, they now must help Mom and Dad find enough food and water just to live.
And why they must watch where they put down roots—or they’ll wind up in the territory of a criminal boss, a gang, or a cabal.
But this kid was different. He acted as though he had lived through this living hell for most of his life. He knew what danger was. He knew how to run from it, hide from it. It was burned into his soul—the soul of one who had been preyed upon.
Dammit, he’s a human being, not a deer, not something to be hunted! Criver fumed at the unfairness of it all. But he couldn’t show his anger in front of this boy. Criver had to get him out of here, and quickly.
Criver held out his palms. “Don’t worry,” he said, gently, but quietly. “I’m not with those guys chasing you. I’m not part of any gang. Just me.” He smiled a little. “I’m Thomas Criver. And I’m sure this is the last place you want to be right now.”
Now the shouting was coming right through the wall. The gang must be in a nearby hall. The boy pressed against the wall and tucked in his legs.
“Look, we’ll save the talk for later. Those guys will hit this room any minute. We must get out of here.”
The boy still hesitated.
Criver held out his hand. “I know you’re scared out of your wits, but we cannot stay here.”
“Are you alone?”
Criver frowned. “What?”
“There are so many men chasing me. Won’t they kill you?”
Criver drew in a breath. “They can try.” Criver grinned. “I cou
nted about five. That should be just about even odds.” He came in a little closer. “We will get out of here. Come hell or high water, I’m not letting this bunch of gutter trash get their hands on you, even if they have to kill me first.”
Now the boy crawled out. “I’m Amir.”
Criver pulled out his pistol. He was armed, but he had to use his ammo carefully. With all the lowlifes roaming the streets, it wasn’t as if they would be much safer outside the building, so he had to make shots count. “Okay, here’s how it goes. Stay along the walls until we get to the fire exit. I’ll go ahead. If it looks like it’s getting bad, run like hell to the exit. I’ll keep these guys off your tail so you can get away.”
Amir nodded.
Criver inched toward the door with Amir close behind. He cracked the door open and peered through the opening. Light pouring through the fire exit shone on three moving shapes in the back of the showroom, all of them too close to the fire exit. Damn.
Shaking his head, Criver pointed to the door on the other end. Amir got the point and started walking. Criver got ahead of the boy, then slowly turned the knob and pushed it open, while holding Amir to the wall, out of range for whatever might…
Suddenly, a black boot kicked the door wide open. Amir yelped. “Stay back!” Criver shouted as he rushed into the opening. A large, red-haired, mustached man barged in, his hands and fingers big enough to squash Amir’s head in one grip.
Criver squeezed off two shots. One struck the sternum, the other the head, enough to fell the brute. Criver jumped aside, barely avoiding his attacker collapsing on top of him.
“Let’s go!” Criver dove through the door first, turning quickly one way and then the other. In the dim light of the showroom, three of Amir’s other pursuers were pushing aside displays or kiosks that got in their way to get at him. The fourth, the bald, bearded man who had led the pack earlier, by the showroom’s big doors. The main entrance had to be on the other side.
“Amir, down!” Amir fled under a display table while Criver turned and squeezed off a round at the man blocking the door, but the leader returned fire with a similar weapon. Faced with no choice, Criver dove behind a computer display, even if its plastic surface afforded little actual protection against bullets.
After flipping and rolling over, Criver kicked the display hard, knocking it into the leader. He then slammed his boot hard into the gunman’s midsection, but before he could finish off the man, two more attackers arrived, brandishing knives.
Criver sweep-kicked the first knifeman onto the floor, then caught the second’s arm before he could plunge his dagger into Criver’s neck. The two struggled. This guy was strong, but his stance shaky. Criver took advantage, using his back leg to brace himself in a proper stance, then grabbed the man and slammed the brute’s head against the nearby table.
Amir!
Criver jumped out of the wreckage of kiosks, displays and computers toward the open doors, only to be blocked by attacker number four, a skinnier man who threw a high, sweeping kick that could have bashed in Criver’s head. He sidestepped it, and brushed his attacker’s leg away with one hand. His new opponent struck fast with a flurry of kicks and punches. He possessed solid martial arts knowledge, but Criver knew his mistake right off the bat.
As Mr. Kung Fu threw another kick, Criver grabbed the attacker’s leg with both hands and threw it back, tossing the man into the last standing kiosk. True, this guy was dangerous, but his moves were too broad, too wide, probably learned from kung fu movies and not from a serious teacher. Anyone properly trained in martial arts knows to keep the moves close to the body or your attacker’s gonna grab your limbs and take you down.
“Mister Criver!”
Amir’s shouts came from the other side of the doors, out in the main hallway. Criver charged through the doors. Amir was running up the hall with the gang’s leader, though wounded, dashing after him.
“Stop!” Criver aimed his pistol, but the leader turned and whipped out his own gun to fire first. Criver ducked and rolled. A nearby water fountain caught the shots intended for Criver’s body. Criver then returned fire, but the leader retreated to the other side of the hall, avoiding Criver’s shots.
“You mind telling me what the hell you want with this kid?” Criver shouted. Maybe he’d get an answer or two from this meathead, but he really hoped he’d buy Amir more time to escape the building.
“And just what do you care?” The leader spat on the ground as he approached Criver. Criver killed his flashlight, but soon the shield of darkness wouldn’t be enough to give him cover. “This is our territory. We own everything that moves here, even the roaches!”
They’re just crypto-Nazis, Criver thought. They probably don’t have more than a brain cell between them.
The leader was almost on him. Criver looked up. The ceiling panel was worn enough that it might just work for him, and it was a clearer shot then trying to turn and aim at the leader.
Criver aimed up and fired his last shot. The panel broke loose and slammed the leader in the chest. It’d disorient him for just the moment Criver needed, as he jumped up and crashed his boot hard into the leader’s chest. He went down flat on the floor.
Criver charged over the leader’s form to meet Amir near the open doorway. “That should be all of them,” Criver said, “What’d you say we get out of here and—”
A large figure cut through the sunlight of the open doorway. Criver stopped. His heart quickened.
If it was any other muscle-bound goon, Criver would have moved in and dealt him a blow that would sent him sprawling onto his back. But this guy…he was the only one who made Criver feel like the hunted instead of the hunter.
The newcomer’s boots crunched glass as they stepped into the room, with light from nearby windows illuminating his face.
In the background, the goons Criver had taken out began stirring, but instead of going after him and Amir, they started scattering along the walls. Naturally. Nobody moved unless it was at the order of the most powerful man in this part of the country—The Coach.
Chapter Two
Thomas Criver walked the streets of what used to be the pinnacle of human civilization. Today it was a lifeless husk of a city, a place where hope was lost and survival was the only thing that mattered. No cars drove these streets. No planes soared overheard. The throngs of people in and out of stores were gone.
After the pulse hit, a new order took hold. After a mass of deaths from lack of food, medical care, and outbreaks of violence, the survivors clustered together. Masses of homes were abandoned. What held the city together was a string of camps, led by people who understood enough about survival that they could pool together resources and help each other to live for just one more day.
Criver traveled from camp to camp. He was an able-bodied man who had no problem with labor. That actually was quite an asset in a society where creature comforts had been supplanted by the need for hard, physical labor. Criver could recall the fear on the faces of some of those people who knew nothing about gathering food. He spoke to one man who was playing online games before the power went out for the final time. He never dreamed he’d have to figure out how to get drinkable water.
Criver’s nostrils wretched. He was walking in another “death zone.” Without sanitation services, there was no one to pick up garbage. Worse, when people died, there was no one to pick up the bodies and bring them to a morgue, and then bury them. In the new order, people dropped dead and their bodies just stayed there. This neighborhood definitely was hit hard. Criver must have passed eight bodies by now, and the insides of the nearby houses may have been worse. Unfortunately, finding shelter wasn’t as easy as picking out an abandoned house. It could be infested with corpses and filth that would make even breathing the air unbearable.
As the stench of death finally began subsiding, Criver could think clearly again. How long had he been out here? He couldn’t remember. He had strolled through this wasteland for weeks, maybe even months now.
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He thought back, once upon a time, to when all was right with the world. Thomas Criver’s world, to be exact.
As newspaper and television headlines blared rising tensions between world powers, the only headlines in Criver’s head read things like: “Thomas Criver scores two touchdowns, bringing college football team to victory.” “Tom Criver graduates college.” “Tom Criver completes training for security guard position.” And then there was: “Tom Criver meets the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”
Her name was Jessica Marie Noel. She was a lady of flowing blond hair, radiant blue eyes and a wicked sense of humor. When Criver first saw her, he was in awe. She had worked her way up to a management team at a corporation where Criver worked security. Criver may not have been able to form long sentences at their first meeting, but he did get her email address out of her. From there, other wonderful things followed. He learned she was a big football fan. She actually laughed at his jokes, even the ones that should have been taken out back and shot. She accepted his invitation to dinner. And the next one, and the next one, until at some point neither could deny the obvious: they were in love.
A few weeks later, Jessica Noel became Jessica Criver. Almost a year afterward, Michael Christian Criver was born, 8 pounds, 6 ounces. The most recent headline in the world of Thomas Criver read: “Tom Criver gets new position as security guard of Roy Mintz Hotel, with hefty pay raise.”
And so, whether it was getting the job, or Michael’s birth just two months ago, or Tom’s own thirty-second birthday just three months prior, Thomas and his wife Jessica had all the excuses they wanted to hold a small party at their home. Friends, any member of their extended families in the area, and work colleagues showed up.
“Now, this…” Tom Criver pointed to the bent doorframe, the bubbled apoxy along the kitchen cabinet, and the crack by the door. “…is why I should never be let near a hammer.” Leo, a security guard from the Mintz Hotel who Criver had known for the past year, nodded. “You want someone who could work demolition, I’m your man,” Criver finished.
