by Justin Bell
ZERO
HOUR
The Zero Hour Series
Book 1
By
Justin Bell
Mike Kraus
© 2018 Muonic Press Inc
www.muonic.com
www.JustinBellAuthor.com
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www.MikeKrausBooks.com
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, without the permission in writing from the author.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Author’s Notes
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Special Thanks
Special thanks to my awesome beta team, without whom this book wouldn’t be nearly as great. Thank you to Al, Ashley, Caroline, Claudia, Glenda, James, Jonathan, Julie, Karen, Kelly, Laurel, Mark, Marlys, Mayer, Robin, Sarah, Scarlett and Shari!
Zero Hour Book 2
Now Available!
Prologue
The days when the world changes forever still always start off the same.
There was already a line forming outside the small corner market when Dominic O’Leary pulled around the building, easing his 1970s Cougar around the brickwork corner. The Cougar was a bright cherry red, the pride of Dom’s life, drifting slightly beyond obsession and into compulsion. It was a rare day before April 1st that he drove it, but he knew there’d be a crowd in front of his store for Black Friday and he wanted to show it off.
Brandy Denardo was always one of the first in line and he’d had a crush on her since high school. The thought of her seeing him cruising by in his bright red vintage muscle car lifted his spirits to new heights. With the sun coming up bright and strong in the mid-morning sky and the temperature threatening to reach seventy on the unseasonably warm November day, he figured this was his chance.
Guiding the wide behemoth into a reserved spot at the back of the store, Dom pushed himself free of the driver’s seat and slammed the door closed behind him, giving one quick jerk on the handle to make sure the door was locked. Not quite in the worst part of Quincy, Massachusetts, he trusted the car in the rear lot, though he didn’t trust it enough to leave it unlocked.
What was it about his store in the south of Boston that brought everyone to his door early on Black Friday? Did they just not want to fight the crowds at the malls? He was third generation Irish and he kept his shelves stocked with some of the best stuff from the old country, but most of the people standing out front were just there for the basics. Bread, milk, beef, and of course the beer. He always tried to make sure his stock of beer was adequate for the post-Holiday onslaught but even so he’d be running low by mid-afternoon.
Emerging from the rear of the store out into the aisle, he looked out and saw her there, third in line out beyond the front door. Brandy Denardo flashed him a wide, white smile, brushing a thick lock of dirty blonde curls from her eyes. Dom flushed, hoping she couldn’t see the pink blush of his cheeks through the door and down the aisle, but cocked her a confident wave as he walked toward the front registers holding the drawers in the crook of his right arm.
Minutes later he approached the entrance, bending down to unlatch the bottom lock on the glass and metal door, then he eased it open, a small bell jingling in the frame above. There was a crowd there now, at least ten customers, though they pressed their way inside in a neat and orderly fashion. Brandy smiled again as she walked past, angling toward the beer cooler, and she was followed by the Silvas, Luciana and David with their daughter Melinda. Old man Krieger, then the Mahoneys and a few faces he didn’t recognize followed. Some of these people he only saw during the holidays, but they were all neighbors and family and he nodded and smiled to each and every one as they walked past.
Voices murmured in the store as they all talked to each other, reflecting upon their lives, upon the neighborhood, how times have changed, but how tradition must be maintained. It only took five minutes for the first customer to walk toward the register, a face that Dom didn’t immediately recognize but who seemed friendly enough.
“Mornin’ neighbor,” Dom said in his affable Boston infused accent. Born and raised in Quincy, this store was as much his life as the town itself.
“Morning,” the man replied. “Whaddya think of the Sox this year?”
“Same as always,” Dom replied. “They got the talent, but coach’ll screw it up somewhere down the road.”
He rang up the six-pack and nodded to the man who headed on his way. As he left, four more came in, the narrow aisles filling with customers.
“Dom?” a pale hand shot up in the center aisle and Dominic glanced over, spotting Brandy in the home and beauty section raising her narrow arm into the air. The fingers of her other hand were firmly coiled around the cardboard loop of a six-pack of Coors. The shopkeeper smiled, threading his way from behind the counter and striding toward her, his feet squeaking on the polished tile floor of his shop, the same floor he’d spent two and a half hours mopping the previous night.
“Brandy, it’s good to see you,” he said calmly, his heart fluttering in the chest buried by the crisp, blue apron he wore.
“You, too, Dom,” she replied. “I gotta question about these shampoos.”
Dom nodded and walked toward her.
The sound seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. A swift and sudden burst, a loud pop almost like a gunshot filling the air of the store with its unexpected sound.
A series of shrill shrieks echoed among the crowd as people jerked in surprise and just to Dom’s right a can of shaving cream blasted apart, spraying tin fragments in a wide arc across the aisle. One sharp-edged hunk dug into his right arm and he sucked in a breath, pulling his injured limb tight to him and grasping it with his other hand.
“What was that?!” screamed Brandy.
“A bomb? Was that a bomb?” another voice screamed, deeper in the store.
“Nah, that wasn’t a bomb, it was a gun! Who’s got a gun?”
Rubbing his arm and feeling the soft bulge of tin shrapnel embedded in it, Dom grimaced and looked at the shelf where the shaving cream can used to be.
“Nothin’ to worry about folks,” he shouted above the low din of concern. “Shaving cream can just combusted. All the compressed air. Happens from time to time.”
“Dom, you’re hurt,” whispered Brandy, pointing to his arm. “Don’t worry about my shampoo, go get yourself cleaned up.”
Dom nodded. “I’ll be right back, okay?” He walked down the aisle, his head spinning lightly from the jolt of pain in his right arm. The Silvas came around the edge of the aisle, then halted at the sight of blood oozing from between Dom’s fingers.
“Are you okay, Dominic?” asked Luciana. She was a pleasant woman in her thirties, a longtime resident of the neig
hborhood and someone who never forgot a face. She and her husband David worked at the bus station down the road, she as a driver, and he as an overnight maintenance guy. Good hard-working folks, the kind of people that made Quincy what it was. Dom nodded to her, forcing a smile.
“I’ll be fine, Mrs. Silva,” he said. “Just need to run out back for a second.” As he rounded the corner, Melinda Silva stepped forward and he weaved out of her way, smiling broadly. Mel smiled back, a young girl of nine or ten, Dom figured. A good kid who never tried shoplifting, unlike too many neighborhood kids these days.
He loved Quincy. He always would but it seemed like more and more of the young people were causing more and more of the problems. Turning sideways, he pushed his shoulder through the rear door, heading back into his office, his right arm on fire, and his head continuing to swirl into a whirlwind of fog and confusion. A dull ache pressed into the base of his skull.
Dom fought through the increasing pressure in his head and made his way toward the bathroom, his eyes roaming for the first aid kit. Slowly he clenched his fist, trying to force feeling back into his hand, but the only sensation was a flesh-peeling burn, the feeling of two layers of skin on his arm being flayed away with a scalpel. Something didn’t feel right.
It didn’t feel normal.
That’s when he heard the scream. More so than when the bang first happened, it was a fearful, visceral, life-threatening scream, the shrill call slicing the air like a knife. Dom whirled around a little too fast, losing his balance but catching himself with one hand, then pushed himself forward, stumbling through the back room. His eyes clouded over, the dark fog of unconsciousness pulling at the edges, threatening to haul him down, but he forced his way through and threw open the door, lumbering out into his shop. Into his life’s work. The place he had built and nurtured and turned into a neighborhood icon.
He saw Brandy first, sprawled out on the floor by the front door looking like she’d tried to make a break for the exit. She was in mid-convulsion, spasming wildly, her left arm shooting out straight, locking, then pulling in, coiling near her gyrating form. A shuffle came from his right and he turned and saw Luciana Silva lurching forward, trying to catch herself on the shelf as blood spattered across cracked lips, her eyes wide and frantic. She reached for him, fingers clasping for air, then she toppled over sideways, slamming down onto the floor, pulling boxes of cereal down on top of her.
They split open and spilled off-brand Cheerios over her face and Dom almost laughed at the ridiculous sight of it all. His mouth opened and the laughter locked in his chest, his stomach twisting, and then the darkness of oblivion was too powerful as its fingers coiled over his vision, pulling him down. He coughed loud and wet, and he felt something come up with it, heard it spatter on the neatly mopped tile floor, then the floor was rushing up to meet him, a sudden crimson-hued gleaming thing.
It only took minutes. The store was silent again, enveloped in a unique post-chaos quiet, the echoes of shouts and screams dying in the concave ceiling. Bodies were strewn on the floor, boxes and bottles fallen and broken. In the eerie silence of the aftermath of a bomb or sudden attack, the chaos and noise all vanish and all that’s left is the deep and all-encompassing void.
“M… mommy?”
The low voice was little more than a whisper. A cautious sound, as if speaking her mother’s name would somehow confirm her fate.
“Mommy?” this time the voice was more frantic. Near desperate. “Daddy?”
Melinda Silva stepped from the center aisle, the young girl surrounded by dead bodies, the bodies of her mother and her father. The most important two people of her life. They were supposed to have a special dinner tonight. Leftovers from Thanksgiving the night before all mixed together into a casserole, a tradition passed down from her mother’s grandmother…
Mel stood and stared, and the tears started to fall.
Introduction
The true beginning of the genetic revolution is a matter of some debate, but there is no doubt about the fact that the world is currently in the midst of a rapidly accelerating age of genetic research and manipulation. Stem cells, animal cloning, and mapping of the human genome have taken conceptual science fiction and morphed it into real world scientific fact. In the interest of medicine, treatment, and potential cures for life-threatening diseases, some would argue we’re on the precipice of a brave new world.
For every positive that comes from a technological or scientific advance, though, there seems to always be a downside. Something that makes us pause and wonder if the advance is truly worth the dark path that hides in the shadows. A path where, instead of using genetic programming to isolate and separate damaged genes, it could be used to develop weapons and viruses that attack specific people based on their genetic makeup.
Since the turn of the century, the attention of international ethics organizations has been on the development of ethnic bio-weapons; chemical, radioactive, or biological weapons that could be designed and programmed to kill only certain people. The applications for such a weapon are virtually limitless. A way to assassinate a target without needing to get nearby. Or wiping out an entire race or ethnicity based on small or large markers in their genetic code.
Imagine a bomb being dropped in the middle of a war zone, and killing only the soldiers on one side. Imagine if that same bomb was designed to kill citizens of a particular nation. Programmed with an aggressive contagion that targeted and attacked men, women, and children who were born or raised in a specific country.
On the surface it seems impossible; the genetic variations would be far too different to build an effective weapon against such a target. But with every advancement in genetics research and testing, the possibilities of terrorist states developing a designer virus that could be carefully and precisely targeted grows more and more realistic.
A complex, intricate mixture of genetic programming and corruption, a super bug that will kill only those whom they want to kill, effectively wiping an entire population off the map without putting themselves at risk.
At any moment in time, nearly ten thousand planes are in the sky, planes carrying 1.2 million people from one place on Earth to another. The world has never before been so interconnected. It’s never been easier for a disease to spread far and wide, as we’ve seen from real-world examples like Zika and Ebola.
What if one of these designer viruses was injected into a targeted population and “detonated,” creating an aggressive super virus that killed within seconds? Of course, the faster someone dies, the more difficult it is for them to pass the virus on to other hosts, but with technology where it is now, who’s to say that multiple viruses couldn’t be launched in a myriad of different ways, genetic viruses designed and programmed like computer software, counting down until the right time comes when they detonate and kill their hosts?
Ten years ago, the mere mention of this would have been ridiculous.
But now? In the twenty-first century, in the midst of what most of the world is calling a Genetic Revolution, the realities are only too frightening.
The reality is a world where advanced science developed to cure can also kill… and if the wrong people get their hands on it, the results could be catastrophic.
Chapter One
His hand pushed through the thick clot of dark blood on the window, smearing it rather than clearing it, spreading the congealed liquid across the windscreen in wide, palm-sized streaks. Glaring through the crimson haze, Jackson Block looked 15,000 feet down at the rising tops of the Boston skyscrapers growing closer with every passing second.
“Remember the crop duster, remember the crop duster,” he hissed as he wrapped his hands around the yoke, the polymer sweat-slicked and slippery, threatening to spring free from his grip. Even inside the canopy of the small Cessna 402, Jackson could almost feel the wind thrashing around him as sky and clouds screamed past, blurring into mixed colors, like a child slamming their fist into paints and swiping.
Almost like
the red-streaked hand print on the windscreen. His eyes kept drifting to it. That thick clot of wet blood, the congealed mass that had once been part of the pilot’s lung. He could hear his father’s voice in the recesses of his mind, that smoky, gravel-filled voice that sounded like rocks wrapped in wet cotton. Smoking a pack and a half a day for thirty years, he’d been the most powerful man Jackson had ever known, right up until lung cancer ravaged his body and pulled him, clawing and screaming, from this world into the next.
He snapped his head in both directions, clearing the vague memory from his mind, focusing his vision on the sight ahead, as much as he didn’t want to. Jackson could see the tops of the tall buildings like square fingers reaching up to grasp him, to gently cradle the plane and help it to the ground.
But that wasn’t what they were, and in that one brief moment Jackson suspected that in about five minutes he’d be repeating his father’s dramatic exit from this mortal plane. At least nobody would be around to hear him, unlike the audience his father had gathered during his last seconds on Earth.
“Seriously?” Jackson whispered to himself as he pushed his hands down his slacks to dry the sweat and blood. “Am I really picking now to deal with my daddy issues? More important stuff going on at the moment, Block!”
Settled into the co-pilot’s seat, Jackson looked to his left at the pilot who sat slumped over, his shoulder harness the only thing keeping him locked in place. There was no movement in his chest, no sign of life. Thick streams of crimson caked his chin and soaked into his light beard. Jackson looked at where the pilot’s legs were under the console and he knew he had to clear the pedals, so he reached over the center sticks and hooked his fingers under the seat latch, shoving the seat back hard, to make sure the pedals were free on the pilot’s side. Looking back over at his own console, he had access to all of the necessary controls from the co-pilot’s seat and he hooked his harness back in, drew in a deep breath and clasped his fingers around the sticks.
