End of Gray Skies: An Apocalyptic Thriller

by Brian Spangler

  He heard the shrill sound of Sammi’s voice and saw her waving again. She pointed to the ocean, urgency in the way she jumped up and down. Declan felt a change begin in the atmosphere and followed her hand, finding the first of the rainbows. Not since one of Andie’s projections had he seen such an amazing sight.

  The light in the sky began to bend, turning the colors. Gray rainbows jutted down from the fractured dark clouds, splitting open with deep blue threads and yellowing light that bled through. The pain from the burns disappeared in a cozy breeze from the sea, and he dropped to his knees, fixing to watch the end of gray skies. The gray rainbows became more brilliant as they reached down, touching the ocean where they turned into the perfect union of color. And in that miraculous union, Declan saw bands of red and yellow and green and blues, and other colors he had no names for.

  His heart sat in his throat, and he tried to reach out and touch the impossible sight of a small rainbow that appeared in front of him. Within moments, more of them appeared, floating all around him as warm moisture lifted into the air and passed through the beaming sunlight. When his finger touched the color, he pulled back, uncertain of what to expect. His finger passed through the colors and spurred a laugh that mixed with tears filling his eyes.

  More of the dark clouds split open and lifted into nothingness, letting the colors grow wildly upward like a flower from the farming floor. The colors replaced the grays forever. Declan cried at the images before him. He cried even more when Sammi was nearer to him. Her beauty shined in the sunlight in a way that he had only seen once before. But today that beauty would not be eclipsed by her death. Instead, it was a testament to their new life.

  Ms. Gilly and his father approached next, but Declan could not hold on and fell forward onto his hands, exhausted.

  “Sammi,” he managed to call out. His voice felt rough and sounded hoarse.

  “Declan!” she yelled, dropping down next to him. Red hair flew around him as she carefully peppered his face with kisses. “Oh, Declan, look at you!”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” he answered. Ms. Gilly and his father joined then. Their eyes fixed on him with worry, but he shrugged it off, not wanting them to miss what was happening all around them. “It’s over. We ended it.”

  Tears stained their faces and smiles kept the words from coming as they hugged each other, continuing to watch the rainbows take flight.

  A soft, delicious wind rushed up the coast, sending Sammi’s long hair into the air.

  “Smell that?” his father asked.

  “So fresh,” Ms. Gilly answered.

  And over the breaking waves, Declan could see forever. Finally, he could see the giant surf far from their shores that roared and rumbled in hiding all of his life. The ocean was larger than anything he could have imagined—a vast sea of blue reflecting the open sky. Tears washed the stain of the fire away and for a long time he could say nothing. He held his chosen, thankful to have her back.

  “Amazing,” his father said. “Just amazing. Look over there.”

  From the furthest edge of the black sands, the grounds began to turn and change color in the new light. They may have always been like that, but with the strong sunlight, the brown they had known forever was nearly gone.

  “Is it supposed to happen like that?” Sammi asked.

  “After a thousand years of waiting, I suspect things will look very different, now,” Ms. Gilly answered, excitement in her voice. “Our world is waking up.”

  More of the ground came to life, showing off colors none of them had ever seen. It wouldn’t be long before the first plants would bloom and climb and swallow a millennium of decay. Declan imagined a few small plants at first, growing upward, budding and opening into flowers. In time, some of the flower petals would be enormous, fitting in the palm of his hand. And as the blooms unfurled, the flowers would turn to face the sun—reunited like lost lovers—they’d dip their faces to take a sip of the golden daylight.

  “Look over there,” Declan told them, and they turned toward their Commune. The distant buildings jutted up from the ground, crooked and decaying, covered in patches of black resin. To Declan, the Commune looked like a mouthful of jagged and rotten teeth, but it was home, and his heart ached to be there. He peered over and saw that everyone felt the same as each of them smiled at the sight of the old buildings.

  “I think it needs a little paint,” Ms. Gilly laughed.

  “I think it needs a lot of paint,” Declan’s father added.

  “It’s home,” Sammi said, her voice shaking. She took hold of Declan’s arm and joked, “I get to pick the color.”

  EPILOGUE

  WITHOUT THE LIGHTS TO drive the alien programming, Sammi never heard the call of the machine’s soul—the recycler. She went on to live a life with her chosen as had been their hope from the beginning.

  Two. There hadn’t been just one child, but two that Declan and Sammi raised after the End of Gray Skies. But unlike their parents, the twins never knew a world without the sun. They never experienced the dread or felt the dangers of walking under the veil of gray—their world forever captured in a heavy fog. They played outside, untethered and ran freely with the warm touch of the sun.

  Janice loved again, taking a chance with her heart, reaching out and asking Richard for his hand. Declan’s father had found his second love, but never forgot the pain of losing his first. He and Janice went on to work the school, only now they added something new to the curriculum: an afternoon recess held outdoors.

  The executive floor was no more. With the machines shutdown, the executives disappeared, having run with the burden of guilt weighing on their shoulders. Some were found dead on the beaches—salt gnats cleaning the scourge of the earth (so to speak). And for those executives who tried to make a difference, like Declan’s mother, they found a new calling as a new leadership formed. Small governing bodies worked together to keep the Commune running, and the families fed. A democracy was born, borrowing from their history to help forge their future.

  Declan often traveled to the machine, visiting with Phil and Isla. The two stayed together. They started a family of their own and created a new Commune for all who had become aware. Declan became an ambassador of sorts, visiting a few times a year, bringing back new technologies that would better their Commune.

  Often, he would ask Sammi to go with him, but she never did. Shaking her head, turning away, her words a mere whisper about where her place was. Declan understood and stopped asking, but always enjoyed telling Sammi about the progress Phil and Isla had made.

  In his walks to the machine, Declan often found himself staring up, his hand clapped against his brow, shielding his eyes from the glare. He looked for the alien star that Phil spoke of, wondering if they were still watching, wondering if they would return. But on his tenth visit, he decided to stop searching for what was not there.

  With the End of Gray Skies, the world eased out of a thousand-year sleep, stretching blues and greens and reds all over the globe. The Earth sprang to life, and before anyone realized what was happening, trees grew, and flowers bloomed, and even the wet mossy coverings were replaced by wisps of tall green grass.

  The first bird was spotted many years later. A white gull with mottled patches of brown covering its breast. Perched on the beach, stilted yellow legs, the bird drummed up bits of food from the surf. The birds were thought to have been gone forever, but soon more returned, making their homes in the fresh green of the trees. To Declan, they were like the rainbows—small feathered miracles, flying and singing, a living splash of color in the air.

  THANK YOU

  Thank you for reading the Gray Series. I do hope you enjoyed the series.

  Something that you may not know about the Gray Series is that they are indie novels, meaning that they are independently published works. Something else that you might not know is that you can help be a part of their success. When it comes to indie novels, nothing helps more than telling your friends and family about the
great book you just read. Reviews help too, and it would be greatly appreciated if you would please leave an honest review.

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  ALSO BY BRIAN SPANGLER

  Crime Thriller

  An Affair with Murder—Having an affair with murder is easy. It’s what happens afterward that’s deadly.

  Supernatural Suspense

  Superman’s Cape—A grim tale of a boy lost in a forest that holds all of his fears.

  A Contemporary Fiction

  An Order of Coffee and Tears—Friendships, romance, secrets, and forgiveness come together in this cozy mystery.

  Short Stories

  Naked Moon—For one young traveler, a naked moon may mean the difference between life and death.

  Some Sci-Fi, Dystopian Thrillers, and Anthologies

  From the Gray Series—an apocalyptic and dystopian series:

  Into the Dark—Book One

  End of Gray Skies—Book Two

  From the Indie Side

  From the Indie Side—An amazing collection of short stories by a dozen of the top indie authors!

  From Hugh Howey’s World of Wool

  Silo Saga: Lottery—What happens when you have one too many mouths to feed?

  For more, visit my site and subscribe to my newsletter, WrittenByBrian.

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  Brian

  ABOUT ME

  WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?

  I'M A WALRUS!

  Brian Johnson - The Breakfast Club

  Who am I?

  I'm a resident of Virginia, living with my wife and children, along with three cats (sometimes more), a mouse, parrot, lizard and the funniest chinchilla on the east coast.

  Although I live in Virginia, my heart is still in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where I grew up. And I hope that one day, I'll be able to call Philadelphia home again.

  Growing up, I liked to read short stories, but struggled with the words. You see, I had a secret: a sad little secret. Ashamed and embarrassed, I was the little kid in the back row of the schoolroom, quietly moving my lips along with the class while everyone read aloud. I couldn't read. I couldn't write. I hoped nobody would notice, but they did. They always did.

  By the time I'd reached the fourth grade, my secret wasn't a secret anymore. The teachers knew something was wrong. Dyslexia. Maybe that is why I liked science fiction so much? All those crazy looking glyphs on the screen, glowing, flashing.

  The fix? Back to the third grade for me, and then special classes three days a week. It worked. Once I started reading, I never stopped. Stephen King, Piers Anthony, Dean Koontz, and even the Judy Blume books my sisters discarded.

  I'm still one of the slowest readers I know, but school was never a problem again. I finally graduated the third grade, and then kept on going until I finished my Masters.

  These days, I work as an engineer and spend my nights writing, editing and thinking up the next great story.

  Happy Reading,

  Brian

  EXCERPT FROM KILLING KATIE

  A new crime/thriller from Amazon’s Kindle Press: An Affair with Murder Book 1 — Killing Katie.

  MURDER. I’M OBSESSED. I can’t stop thinking about it. Even as the sound of sizzling bacon fills our small kitchen, I imagine that it’s something more tempting, something more sinister, something more lethal. And the dreamy thought of killing is more delicious than any food I’ve ever had.

  I wish my obsession were simpler—maybe an attraction to someone else. I’d even welcome a housewife cliché, like filling my days with frivolous hobbies or getting lost in afternoon talk shows. But that isn’t me. That isn’t my passion. My obsession is dark and deep and seeded in every fiber of my being.

  “I’m a murderer.”

  There, I said it. That is the first time I’ve ever confessed it aloud. I have a problem and there’s no twelve-step program that can help me. I know. I’ve checked. I used to have hope that my problem could be solved by some random act that would shake it out of my system. If I’m being truthful, the real obsession, the greatest lie, is that I’ve been trying to be like everybody else most of my life. I’ll never be like everybody else. I know I am different. I’ve known for nearly three dozen years. But one day, I’ll finally become me—the real me. I just don’t know when that will be.

  But I’m afraid that I’ll be like an alcoholic and won’t be able to stop after that first drink. There might never be enough. I worry I’d need a busload—if you get my meaning—the kind of murderous campaign that would spawn a storm of newly published books and even a movie or two.

  My name is Amy Sholes, doting mother of two, impossibly in love with the most handsome man that I’ve ever met, and living a life that makes some downright jealous. Sure, we have our moments—ups and downs, just like anyone else. From the busy mornings to the impossibly endless patter of tiny bare feet, there isn’t much to complain about.

  But, like anything that is great, there is a catch—and that catch happens to be me and my preoccupation with murder.

  The smell of the bacon rose from the stove. I took in a deep breath and let it out. The familiar wish for something that could never be tugged at my heart while the scent tickled my palate. Sinful. Both of them. A rumble from our bedroom took my mind off this morning’s fantasy. I looked up, waited. I heard another stir. Today was my husband’s birthday. Steve’s favorite way to start his new year? Breakfast. And then a little something else too. The thought of what was coming brought a flush to my neck and face. It had been a while.

  I listened. One foot, then the other. I saw him in my mind, stretching and rubbing the sleep from his eyes and then pushing uncombed, salty grays against his head. But then I heard the sound of him falling onto our king-size bed. Disappointment. I’d lost him to that place where you could still remember your dreams.

  I shifted, feeling suddenly disenchanted. Steve had been working so hard the last month; I knew I should concede that he needed sleep more than he needed me. Breakfast could wait. Bacon always tasted great—hot or not. And so did I.

  Cunning and powerful, murder crept back into my thoughts like a dark shadow. What would my friends and family think if they peeked inside my head and saw one of my fantasies? I’m sure they would lock me away, appalled, shuddering in disgust. But to me, my imagination seems normal. When I’m thinking about murder, daydreaming and playing out all the gory details, my heart jumps and my blood gets hot, rushing through my arms to my fingertips like an electrical charge. And, deep inside, a flutter of anticipation consumes and takes over, pulsing through my entire body. I know that’s how it must feel to ready a weapon in anticipation of pouncing on an unsuspecting victim.

  If my family knew who I wanted to
kill, though, they might look more mercifully on me. My prey? My fantasy? Killing the seediest of criminals that, frankly, we’d probably be better off without. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. This month, I’ve been “targeting” the outcasts. You know the kind I’m talking about; you’ve seen their faces flash across the television screen during the evening news. You might have even covered your mouth in shock and awe, spit a few breathy words in disgust over what they’ve done. At one level, I know that targeting the seediest of criminals is easy—it could even be considered a cop-out since the world won’t lose anything when they die.

  But that hasn’t always been my fantasy. One murder fantasy has haunted me for years.

  Katie Dawson is my best friend. As my mother tells it, Katie and I were thrown together in a tub at the ripe young age of two and we’ve been together ever since. Growing up, we did everything together. We went to the same schools. Made fun of the same teachers. Failed the same classes. And then there was college, where we pledged the same sorority and met our future husbands.

  An unexplainable, enchanted closeness kept us together from our first apartments to house hunting and then to having our children around the same time. Katie is my dearest and closest friend. So why do I want to kill her? Crazy, right? Don’t get me wrong. For all the daydreams in the world, I’d never, ever harm Katie, let alone kill her. It’s just my quirky fantasy—a role-playing game—like playing dress-up. Katie is helping me prepare for the real thing, she just doesn’t know she’s helping me. I guess I use Katie because she is the closest person to me, and I don’t have anyone else. Not yet, anyway.