American Exodus

by JK Franks

  American Exodus

  a Post Apocalyptic Journey

  J.K. Franks

  Published by Red Leaf Press

  Made in USA

  American Exodus is a work of fiction. The characters, events, names, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any references to historical events, real people or actual locales are also used fictitiously.

  American Exodus

  Copyright © 2017

  J.K. Franks

  Cover art: José Julián Londoño Calle

  Editor: Richard Peevers

  ISBN: 978-0-9977289-6-5

  v 81020220

  To Holly, Cameron, and all those who wander.

  Contents

  Foreword

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other books by JK Franks:

  Author’s Notes

  When I was developing the Catalyst series, the idea of a connected novella wasn’t part of the plan. That changed when I was asked a relatively simple question. “What would you do to get home if the CME happened, and you were a thousand miles from home?”

  From that, this story was born. At its heart, it is a simple “get home” journey, but embedded in it are clues to more of the Catalyst stories. I have written this in-between writing book one, two and now book three, so this book is influenced by all of those but is a standalone story. Fans of the series will see threads from the other books, and in some cases, rather similar situations dealt with in a very different manner.

  This story takes place essentially during the same timeperiod as the first book—Downward Cycle. Revisiting the aftermath of that disaster I first wrote of several years ago was more fun than I probably should admit. It was also nice to explore the struggle to survive from a different point of view as well as visit scenes we may have only glimpsed in the earlier books. I believe you will enjoy this novella. It certainly fits with the series and includes some very pivotal information to the greater story, but in and of itself, is a solid tale which I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I have writing it.

  1

  He fumbled with his belt, trying unsuccessfully to find the loop while finishing a cup of coffee. His overnight bag stood by the door, watched intently by his wife’s most ardent advocate, Buckles. The cat was the bane of his otherwise idyllic existence. Buckles was the reason his trusted friend Elvis was in a fenced compound on the back corner of the expansive lot. Looking out over the yard still covered in morning fog, Steve saw the silhouette of his eight-year-old mutt standing like a lone sentry by his fence. I need to check on him before I go, he thought before mentally going through the punch list of other priorities before he headed out of town later this morning.

  The small flat-screen TV on the granite counter was showing the latest headlines of political scandal, celebrity gossip and a teaser of a live chat with a NASA astronaut in the next half hour. Steve checked his watch. “If it’s not on this break, I should get a refund,” he said quietly to himself. He idly waited as the cell phone, insurance and pharma commercials played. Then he saw his familiar and striking spokesmodel standing in front of his Ford dealership and smiled. This ad was one of three he had airing in currently. Since adding the 24-hour news channel to the mix, his traffic increase had been substantial. While most of his competitor's ads aired during the evening hours, he found the early morning seemed to reach the more serious buyers and resulted in better rates.

  He went to kiss his wife, Barbara, goodbye. As expected, she seemed to barely register the peck on her cheek. Quickly he wondered if she would even realize her Stevie was missing for the next few days. He traveled frequently for work, but this one was one of the major business trips he had to take each year. He walked down the hall to his son’s room, inhaling deeply before entering. He expected his son would likely be awake. “Trey, you up?” He saw no sign of the boy. He was still a “boy” in mind only. His son was nearly eighteen.

  “Don’t call me that,” came a mumbled response from the closet.

  Steven approached the door which was cracked open. “Oh yeah . . . I forgot. S-P-3 it is now . . . right?”

  “Yep! I gonna be a rapper.”

  “Trey, it’s ‘I am going to be a rapper.’”

  “Really?” his son said excitedly. “You gonna be a rapper too?”

  His dad laughed, “No, son. I was, well, nevermind. Look . . . ”

  “I know, I know, you gotta go.” Trey stood and walked out of the closet. His broad shoulders and six feet of height dwarfed his father. The look on his face was pure sadness. “I have to stay with BarBuRuh.”

  Trey had been a challenge, more so than the boy’s mother had been able to handle. Steve’s ex was long gone from both of their lives. He and his current wife, Trey’s stepmother, had been married for almost five years. While she said and did all the right things, the true emotional connection had just never really formed. Barbara had a full life, and giving Trey the level of attention he needed was sometimes challenging for her. While his son looked like a man, he was mentally more on the level of a first or second grader. “Trey . . . I mean S-P-3, be nice. She loves you and tries hard. She’s never mean to you, is she?” He briefly recalled the time she had let Trey go into an enclosed playground at a fast food restaurant. Even though he could have easily climbed out, he got confused and scared. The other kids were making fun of him. He balled up and rocked back and forth until someone on the staff went in and pulled him out. The episode set them back months in the already slow developmental progress. She did try to do the right things though, that was more than most.

  Trey looked at the floor and shrugged. “I dunno. I guess not. It’s just more funner when you’re here.”

  “More fun for me too, buddy . . . I have to work though, so we can live here, and you can go to that nice school and summer camp. You like camp, don’t you?” He knew his son liked going to the wilderness camp. It was for special-needs children and cost a fortune, but it was worth it. Trey loved the outdoors; something his father was far less enthusiastic about. The camp was in two weeks, and hopefully, he and Barbara could spend the private time repairing their somewhat strained relationship.

  “Yeah, I like camp—I wanna be a C
herokee this year. How long before I go?”

  “Just over a couple of weeks, son. We’ll see if you can be a Cherokee—maybe I can put a word in with the chief.”

  Trey started running around his bedroom doing Native American war whoops. “Shhhh, son . . . that’s enough. You will wake your stepmom.”

  “Sowwy, dad.”

  “You think you can take care of Elvis while I’m gone? Check his food, and he needs fresh water and to be walked every day.”

  “Why?” his son asked.

  “Why do I want you to do it? Because I think you are a big boy, and you know how to do it.”

  “No, why does he need to eat and have water every day? Buddles doesn’t eat like Elvis, and he is fine.”

  Trey just couldn’t get the cat’s name right no matter what. Barbara constantly corrected him to the point that he was pretty sure Trey just did it to spite her now. “Well, son, Buckles is a freak . . . an anomaly. Something that shouldn’t exist.” He laughed inwardly at his son’s confused look. Trey tended to take everything literally. “Sorry, the cat eats . . . just not as much as a dog. He also seems to prefer to eat when no one is looking, so we don’t usually see him do it. All animals need food and water to survive.”

  “I need food . . . and water,” his son said softly. “Am I a fweak too? Some of the kids at the old school used to call me dat.”

  Oh Lord, why did I use that word?

  “No, son, you are not a freak.” He walked over and hugged the boy. “Definitely more of an anomaly,” he said with a smile.

  “I’m an ano . . . an omelet? Is that something like a rapper?”

  “Let me think on that . . . could be similar, yeah.”

  He finished his goodbyes, shooing the cat from atop his bag and stuffing his bag of vitamins and pain pills into a side pocket before loading it in the big new truck. Backing out, he glanced out to the fence in his backyard and briefly considered driving away before shifting the truck back to park. I’ll get to Charlotte at some point. Walking through the dew-covered grass, Elvis’s tail was wagging like a propeller before he was halfway there. One more goodbye to make before he hit the road.

  2

  He watched in semi-boredom as the colorful cars circled the track, again and again. His seat here in the luxury suite overlooking Charlotte International Raceway would have been a dream prize for most of the hundred thousand crowding the massive grandstands. The luxury suite’s windows were open to the sounds and aromas of the famous raceway. Each time the cars whooshed by, a wave of heat and the acrid smell of burnt fuel washed over him. The sound, though, that was what was making him nauseous. “Oh God . . . please no—not a migraine,” he whispered to himself. The roar of the engines was unbelievably loud, and it was overloading his senses. I have to get out of here.

  Steven Porter found it ironic that he, of all people, was here. Of course, it was ironic that he lived the life he did at all. The truth was, he had no real love for cars and a complete disdain for auto racing. On some level he sort of got it, the reason millions of fans were so passionate about the sport, but not him. This was simply business. Something he made himself do. Truthfully, it was just as forced as the grins and handshakes with all the others here in the corporate suite. Giving up, he made his way to the exit in as covert a manner as possible. He could feel himself beginning to shut down.

  His head was pounding now. This trip had been a mistake. He’d thought he could manage the three-day conference ending with the NASCAR race and accompanying afterparty. But rubbing his eyes to clear the agonizing haze, he knew he had been wrong. As the owner of one of the largest groups of Ford dealerships in the Southeast, he was expected to be here. He had been expected to deliver the keynote address to the annual dealer meeting two days earlier. Just like he had been expected to keep the Porter dealerships running and profitable after his father finally retired. It was indeed ironic that he lived this life at all.

  The blinding August sun was too bright as he exited the building and clumsily walked past the garishly colored race team support trucks and into the parking garage. He couldn’t remember where he was parked or even the color of the damn truck he was driving. He pushed the buttons on the key fob in his pocket. Instead of the chirp, he heard those revving engines on the track again and the roar of the crowd as an apparent accident occurred. “Fucking barbarians,” he said to no one. He clicked the button again and finally saw the headlights blink on a large pickup in the front row.

  With a sigh, he climbed into the specially-outfitted Ford SVT Raptor, which had been custom built by Hennessey Performance and now boasted a 600HP beast of an engine. The already potent truck could probably have run the Baja off-road race as it had come off the assembly line. This one, however, could now tame nearly any terrain. It was showy—bright red, with massive tires, and looked like an animal ready to attack. Inside, the look was more luxury jetliner than truck. Rich leather, wood trim, and every technology that could be crammed into the masterpiece of engineering. The truck was overkill; nobody really needed that much power. Truthfully, it was at best, a mildly interesting vehicle to Steve; he had selected it mainly because it was the one closest to the office door when he left the dealership.

  Steve started the engine, enjoying the blast of cool air coming from the vents. He looked quickly through the leather messenger bag for some aspirin. Shit, nothing. He must’ve left the prescription pain relievers in his suitcase. That was still over at the conference center hotel. Putting the truck in drive, he sped toward the hotel, the roar of the powerful beast rivaling that of the cars inside the stadium.

  The hotel and adjacent conference center was a half-mile away. It had been chosen deliberately to give its better rooms a clear view of the impressive racing facility. Knowing that the race afterparty was likely to run late, he had kept the deluxe room for another night. Walking in, he was greeted immediately by the concierge.

  “Mr. Porter, welcome back! Is everything ok? You don’t look well.”

  “Hey . . . um, oh, Thomas, yes everything is fine. Just a headache. Thought I would lie down on that fabulous bed upstairs for a while until it passes.”

  “Very good, sir.” The concierge rushed ahead to summon the elevator. “I’ll make sure you are not disturbed. Would you require anything, perhaps an ice pack or a cold beverage?”

  “No thanks, I have what I need. Very kind, though.”

  The elevator climbed to the fourteenth floor, and he stepped out onto the rich carpeting of the penthouse level. He went to his suite, which was massively oversized for what he alone needed, but he didn’t complain. The door shut and the sounds of the nearby race diminished significantly. He retrieved the medicine and pulled the blackout curtains tight. He popped two pills with some water from the wet bar. Still feeling queasy, he decided to take the other medicine to help relieve nausea as well. That was going to make him sleepy, but it was better than the alternative. Kicking off his John Lobb shoes, he cleared some of the numerous pillows before lying back on the bed. The luxurious feel of the mattress helped calm his spinning head. Within moments he was out.

  Steve wasn’t sure what woke him up. The fog of drugged sleep still shrouded his eyes with a gauzy haze. He did know he had to use the restroom and stumbled from the bed in that direction. The distant screeches of rending metal and explosions came from the track side of the hotel. This wreck seemed to be going on for much longer than normal. If the race hadn’t finished yet, he knew he’d not been asleep nearly long enough to avoid the headache’s effects. More sounds of destruction came from outside as he flipped the light switch, but the tiny room stayed dark. Several more attempts produced the exact same result. He shrugged in frustration as he went to pee.

  The whirring of something close sounded directly over the hotel. Since Steve was on the top floor, that was a little unnerving as well. That must’ve been what woke me up, he thought as he lay back down. He really should go see what was going on, but the pain and drugs decided otherwise. The throbbing w
as returning, but this time it was mostly inside his head. He pulled the pillows around his ears in an attempt to keep the outside sounds away.

  The next time Steve awoke, it was dark outside, and the sheets around him were sweat-soaked. Did he have a fever? Getting up, he realized it was the room itself that was stifling. The thermostat was a blank screen. Power must still be off. He stumbled the few steps to the window to open it. Drawing back the curtains, his mind couldn’t interpret the view. When it did, he nearly collapsed.

  He was still asleep. He had to be, right? This was just a very vivid nightmare.

  One entire side of the racetrack was filled with billowing, dark, thick smoke; high flames could be seen roaring in multiple places. It appeared that an accident must have taken out most of the field of cars.

  Altering his view, his eyes widened even further. The accidents were not just limited to the racetrack. Just outside the hotel, up and down Concord Parkway, was a line of stalled cars and smoking wrecks. Stumbling to other windows in his hotel room, he could see similar scenes through each of them. As he watched, a large explosion lit up the skyline of Charlotte, which already seemed to have numerous large fires raging.