Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Time Slip
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
About The Author
More About The Author
How To Load Your Free Gift onto a Kindle
A Sample Chapter From H.E.L.L. Substation: The Last Stand Of Gary Sykes
Text Copyright ©
2013
Philip A. McClimon
All Rights Reserved
To Peanut
Acknowledgments
Several people have helped me prepare this book for “final” publication, chief among them are my friends and “Beta Readers”.
Mallory Haun, her comments can be incredibly insightful, and her input helped shape the tone of the motel scene at Friendly’s.
James Harris, ever the “Big Lebowski” compatriot, his suggestions can be timely and have resulted in a clever exchange or two between characters.
Chris Stoesen, a college buddy whose knowledge of guns and ammo borders on the encyclopedic. His advice allowed Nicole and Steven Bennett’s thoughts on Zombie weapons of choice to ring more authentic than was possible if left to my own devices.
Chris Sapp, my sometime writing partner. With a passion for writing, structure, the “set piece”, pressing the limits, and all things hero and heroine, he remains a true sounding board, idea man, and the only other one I have met that can match me hour for hour in tirelessly talking “story” and the limitless worlds yet to be explored.
Much thanks goes to Rebecca at Sister Sinister Speaks, http://sistersinisterspeaks.blogspot.com/. She provides a forum for Indie Authors to get a word out about their work. She also does book reviews and has been very kind to me. Thanks, Rebecca!
When I finally stopped being stubborn and beating my head against the wall, I went out and found a professional book cover designer. I don’t know why I waited so long. Debbie over at The Cover Collection, http://www.thecovercollection.com/ does the most amazing and thoughtful work. Her creations are a thing of beauty. The cover for this book is hers and I could not be happier with it. Thank you, Debbie!
I would be remiss of course if I did not thank my wife, Sherry, who does more than anybody else could, which is put up with me for more hours than anybody should. She often finds things others miss and helps me make any manuscript better.
Two kinds of trouble in this world
Living… Dying…
--Lindsey Buckingham
Prologue
When Francis Delroney turned seventeen years old, he took his pellet gun and shot out all the windows in the next-door neighbor's house. The damage was extensive and costly. In an effort to teach Francis some responsibility, and that actions have consequences, his mother took away his money, money that his uncle had given Francis on the occasion of his turning seventeen. The money was not nearly enough to pay for all the windows, but it was everything Francis had.
Three days later, while she was sleeping, Francis stole checks from his mother’s purse and cashed them for a larger amount than his mother had taken from him. He absconded with the ill-gotten gain and rode the train into the city. Casting about for ways to spend the money and “pay his mother back”, he happened to meet an unscrupulous and most certainly “connected” low-level thug. Within moments, Francis Delroney found himself in the back room of a pizzeria that never seemed to do any real business. With thoughts of turning his small stack of bills into a large stack of bills, Francis joined their “friendly” game of poker. He walked out of the pizzeria indebted in the sum of fifteen thousand dollars, the mere mentioning that his mother owned her own restaurant proving sufficient collateral to play with money that he did not have.
When an ultimatum was given to Mrs. Delroney by emissaries of the self same low-level thug, that essentially stated she could keep her restaurant or her son, she resigned herself to a mother’s choice. Some part of Francis knew he had hurt his mother. Moreover, while he certainly wanted to convey his lament and did on occasion actually put that lament into words, some other part of him did not let the pain he had caused bother him all that much. It was not necessarily any kind of dissociative disorder or sociopathic tendency that if allowed to run its course would turn him into a serial killer. What plagued Francis Delroney was just plain old-fashioned selfishness, a selfishness that always allowed him to justify in his mind everything he did.
They say hope springs eternal, and so it did in Mrs. Delroney. She pressed charges against her son for the stolen checks, in the hopes that the threat of state sanctioned punitive action would finally jar him into right thinking. She had good reason to see those hopes fulfilled when Francis chose the judge’s option of joining the military in lieu of jail time. Francis was stationed far away in Colorado. He did not write or call his mother, who was out of his sight and therefore out of his mind. She died five years later. A heart attack took her and she went down, washing dishes for minimum wage in the restaurant she used to own. She never stopped hoping that her son would become a man and learn some responsibility.
Four years and seventeen days after what would have been his mother’s fifty-first birthday, if she had been alive and he had remembered it, Francis Delroney boarded a plane to leave Colorado in a hurry. Something had happened in the secure military facility where he was stationed, something that scared the living hell out of him. The same something that put that facility, located deep within an innocuous mountain in the Rockies, on lockdown. He squirmed into seat 32-B and watched the flight attendant demonstrate how to use the oxygen mask in the event of cabin depressurization. He was not thinking of the protocols he was breaking by being on the plane. He was also not thinking of his mother, who had she been alive, would perhaps have finally understood that her son never did learn the lessons of responsibility she so desired to teach him.
Six months later…
One
Sam Jennings could not remember if he dreamed last night. It was this thought that occupied his mind as he shuffled to the front sliding doors of the Fair Valley Home Improvement Super-center. More troubling to him than that, he could not remember dreaming the night before last either. As he dis-armed the security system and unlocked the doors, the store’s lights flickered on. The fluorescents
lit the clean floors and orderly shelves. Sam prided himself on creating an environment that enabled the customer to have a pleasant shopping experience. He took the job at the super-center the summer before his junior year in highschool. By the time he graduated, he had worked his way up to manager of the lawn and garden department. After graduation, his parents had kept asking him what he wanted to do with his life, but a year later he still did not have a good answer. Friends of his parents, whose kids had all gotten into college or at least out of the house, would call and invariably ask about their son. One question that always got asked was, “Did Sam still work at the home improvement center?” The answer his parents always gave was, “Yeah, he’s still there.” Something else that was still there was Sam’s pizza face and gangly pubescence. It was like his body refused to move on until Sam did, a test of wills, only his body wasn’t blinking.
Sam paused, staring out at the vacant parking lot. “When was the last time I actually had a dream?” he asked.
He searched his mind for several seconds before giving up. Other, more pressing matters demanded his attention.
Where was Bob?
He was the assistant manager. It was really his job to open the store. As a department manager, Sam did not make as much as an assistant manager, so he did not think it was fair to have to take on an assistant manager’s responsibilities. Sam turned and stood staring at the ceiling.
“Did Bob call in?” he said. He stood thinking about it for several seconds.
If Bob hadn't called, then that was a “no call /no show.” You only got three of those, then they could terminate you.
Not quite being able to remember, Sam shook his head and shuffled on. Other, more pressing matters demanded his attention.
Mowers and grills.
Sam leaned against a John Deere Zero Turn Radius lawn tractor and pushed. To prevent their theft, the mowers and grills had to be brought in every night. He had pushed them in the night before. He did remember that. Sam reminded himself that having to close then open was not supposed to happen. An employee was supposed to have at least eight hours off between shifts. He planned to talk to Bob about it when he came in.
The mowers and grills secured outside, Sam went to the Outdoor Power Equipment desk and logged onto the computer. He figured he better check the sales numbers from the previous day. Sales had been a little flat lately and he wanted to have some kind of answer ready for the morning meeting. He stared at the screen. The sad news was there staring back at him.
Yesterday's sales were zero.
His eyes scanned further down the screen.
Sales week to date: zero.
He stared up at the ceiling. “A week? No, that can't be right, I sold a mower to a...”
His voice trailed off. His mind faltered as he tried to recall the transaction. “What week is this?” he asked himself. At the front of the store, the sliding doors opened then closed. Sam stared at the screen a moment longer. He gave up trying to make sense of what was clearly an I.T glitch with the sales reports. Besides, other, more pressing matters demanded his attention.
Bugs.
Sam did not know why, but lately bugs were getting into the store. He tried to get rid of them whenever he saw them. The last thing he needed was an infestation. Those kinds of things did not make for a pleasant shopping experience. Sam went back to the shipping and receiving department and got his hickory ax handle. He had billed it out for store use from the Lawn and Garden department and carried it on his bug patrols. Stepping on these things was just not an option. They were the biggest bugs Sam Jennings had ever seen.
Sam was three quarters around the “racetrack”, the four main aisles that formed the perimeter of the sales floor. He rounded the corner into the lumber department. There, half way down the aisle, was a bug. With its arms, it heaved itself forward as it crawled along the floor. Something had been at it, because its body ended at its torso. Behind it, a wet reddish-black trail marked its progress. Sam stared at it. His face twitched as, for the briefest of seconds, the bug appeared to Sam as no bug at all. Horrific images filled his vision:
Blood and screaming, ripping and... Eating!
Something like the sound of high voltage sounded in his head. Sam took a step back and stared. He looked away then back again. The horrific visions faded. The bug looked as it had before. Sam sighed, gripped his ax handle, and took a step forward. Its back was to him, which he thought was lucky. He might be able to kill this thing before it saw him coming. Sam had learned they could be slow but would try to bite. He approached quietly and raised his ax handle high. When he got to within ten feet, it sensed him. It turned slowly, mouth hanging open revealing blackened teeth. Skin fell away from its body revealing white bone in places. It let out a gasping hiss as it tried to turn toward him. Sam quickened his pace and closed the distance. In a sweeping arc, he brought the ax handle down hard. A wet sounding crack drove the thing’s head into the concrete floor. A final blow with the hickory and the thing lay unmoving. Sam stared a long time at the bug. Finally coming to himself, he grabbed one of the thing's arms and dragged it back to Shipping and Receiving. Raising the bay door, he hauled the bug that was no bug at all outside and left it in a pile with the others.
He stared at the waist high pile of carcasses a moment. “Stink,” he said before he turned back to the store.
He would have to run the floor scrubber now, he thought to himself. That was the other thing about the bugs, they left one hell of a mess when you killed them.
Two
Dad, NO! I’m not going for your militaristic subterfuge! Either tell me what’s going on or I’m hanging up…
…Yeah, yeah. You know that’s why mom left you, Dad, all the secrets.
…I know it’s the nature of your job, Dad, but me and Mom weren’t your job— Oh, you’re ordering me out there now!? Newsflash, Dad. I’m not in your military and you’re not my commanding officer!
…Oh, as my father, uh huh. If you really thought there was a difference between being a commanding officer and a father to me or a husband to Mom you might be making a dent right now, but you don’t, so…
You know what, Dad. There’s always something big coming with you, some danger that only you can fight. Seems like you fought for everything but— You know what, I can’t do this. I gotta go. Talk to you at Christmas!
As Nicole drove her red Chevy Cavalier down the empty highway, she ran the last conversation she had with her father over again in her mind. She and her father had philosophical differences that went right to the core of who they were as individuals. It was not that Nicole ever felt like her father would rather have had a boy. The disappointment she sensed he had for her and the source of contention between them did not spring from her gender. Nicole had not adapted her father's militaristic utilitarianism, opting for a more charitable and holistic take that all life was precious. The preciousness of life certainly extended to people in Nicole’s mind, but her true heart went out to animals. To that end, she devoted herself to their care, enrolling in veterinary school after college. This choice had completely frustrated her father, who while valuing individuals for their ability to contribute to the mission, hardly registered any value for animals whatsoever. Nicole's decision to care for them instead of pursuing a military career all but sealed the deal on their mutual self-imposed exile from meaningful relationship.
That had changed six months ago with a mysterious phone call and her father’s frantic plea. Even if her father had been the perfect Dad, she couldn’t have just picked up and gone to Colorado. There were midterms to think about. She was interning at a local clinic and her patients were relying on her. Whenever he would belittle her use of the word patients, saying they were only animals it marked the opening salvo to a new battle in an old war. Working from such a deficit, Col. Steven Bennett had not a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing his daughter that something was about to happen, that she needed to come to him.
When it became obvious to th
e world that the “something” that happened involved the dead rising and eating the living, she did her best to hang on. Eventually though it became untenable. Classes were canceled. Nobody was bringing their pets by the clinic anymore. In the end, the only “humans” that were coming by were the ones looking for a fresh meal. She bitterly concluded that her only recourse was to go to him.
She tried to get in contact with her father to let him know she was coming, but by that time nobody was getting through the phone lines, cell or otherwise. All lines were down, including the Internet. With grim resolve, Nicole Bennett packed a bag, got into her Chevy Cavalier and hit the road for Colorado.
Three
Nicole drove her Cavalier through the blackness and fought the sleep that wanted to take her. She rubbed her eyes for twenty miles. For thirty-five miles she blasted the air conditioning and was reminded that it did not work very well. She opened all four windows in the hopes the night air would keep her awake. When it did not, she resorted to slapping herself in the face for the next thirteen miles. When these tactics did nothing to stave off her fatigue, she plugged her mp3 player into the car stereo and cranked the volume to maximum. She always liked the classics and so she sang along with Lindsey and Stevie at a volume that woke the dead. In the dark, a group of twelve of them stood in a field just off the road. They were fresh, as fresh as dead can be. You Can Go Your Own Way blasted from the open windows of the Cavalier and Nicole was hitting all the notes, more or less. While the song meant nothing to the Dead, it did alert them to the only synaptic response they still had left, the need to feed. Twelve gray heads turned in unison as Nicole cruised past. Clouded over eyes sought her out. While so much had been taken from them, the Dead got something in return, they never grew tired. Most of the Dead were slow because of decay and damage. The twelve in the field were fresh. They could run.
Nicole's Odyssey (Human Extinction Level Loss Book 1) Page 1
