by Jeff Olah
The Last Outbreak
SALVATION
Jeff Olah
Copyright © 2017 by Jeff Olah
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, locations and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is merely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Rebecca Frank (http://rebeccafrank.design)
. . .
Visit the author’s website for free stories, behind the scenes extras and much more.
www.JeffOlah.com
Contents
1
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3
4
5
6
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8
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41
What’s Next?
Sneak peek of The Dead Years
About the Author
1
Day Forty-Seven...
Ethan Runner was in a dead sprint when the first round tore into his back. He was thrown violently to the right and then immediately to the cold asphalt where he slid to a stop alongside a charcoal grey pickup truck. Up onto his knees, he flinched at the sight of his blown-out shoulder and wiped the thick shards of flesh and the pinkish mist from his face. “So this is where it all ends?”
A second crack echoed in the distance and before his mind could fully comprehend what was happening, an explosion of pain rocked the left side of his head. Instinctively reaching for the side of his face, he pulled back a thick layer of warm blood and the tattered remains of his left earlobe.
With nothing but pure adrenaline pushing him forward, Ethan crawled on his hands and knees to the far side of the pickup as two more shots rang out. He buried his head in his chest and tucked in behind the rear passenger side tire. His pulse raced as he scanned the sidewalk ahead and waited for what was to come next.
After a count of ten, and with the area falling into absolute silence, Ethan slowly moved to the passenger door and reached for the handle. He pulled open the door and sat back for a beat to slow his breathing.
Ethan swallowed hard and pulled himself into the cab, only now noticing the shattered driver’s window on the opposite side. He opened the glove box and peering inside, let out an involuntary chuckle, shaking his head as he laid back against the seat. “Why does no one carry a weapon in their car anymore?”
The moment had grown uncomfortably quiet. He wanted to look, but feared that whoever had taken the previous four shots was simply waiting for their chance to finish the job. Against his better judgment, Ethan slid to the window at the back of the cab and raised his eyes to just above the seats. He quickly looked toward the sixteen-story building two blocks away, and then just as fast, slipped back into the passenger seat, unable to believe what he’d seen.
“This isn’t possible.”
Ethan remembered the face. And although he knew the man standing in the fourth-floor window, he remembered this place as well. It was the same and yet somehow it was different. He couldn’t put into words what that meant, and even though he wasn’t afraid, he knew that he should be. He’d been here many times over the last five days, but something wasn’t right.
On his hands and knees again, Ethan slipped back out onto the sidewalk and turned his gaze toward the end of the long city block. Something was telling him that he needed to go in that direction, and for now instinct was all he had.
Ethan crouched as he moved to the front of the pickup. He looked over his left shoulder and as a thick drop of blood fell from his ear, he spied the man with the rifle on the fourth floor. The man hadn’t moved his weapon away from the blown-out window, but looked to be repositioning himself behind the scope.
With his left hand on the front bumper, Ethan steadied himself. He glanced one last time to the left and then launched himself forward like a world-class sprinter. His shoulders were tensed, and although he seemed to be moving toward the end of the block faster than was humanly possible, his legs felt heavy.
Passing the front of a newly decorated outdoor café, he swung wide to avoid a pair of white antique dining chairs just as a fifth shot rang out. A fraction of a second later, a warm sensation buzzed the right side of his head and exploded into a concrete pillar.
Tiny fragments of concrete hidden in the hazy dust cloud pelted his face as he ducked left and continued running. As his vision began to clear and the next block came into view, he again felt the nagging twinge of familiarity creeping in from somewhere just beyond his subconscious. Earlier he welcomed it, but now it felt more like a warning.
Over his left shoulder, the shadow of another high rise fell over the abandoned city street, blocking his path away from the man in the window. A sixth shot was fired, but as Ethan stepped off the sidewalk and into the coming intersection, he was far enough away from the line of fire that he hardly noticed.
Ethan slowed as he approached the next sidewalk. A small brick and mortar building was set back away from the street and as he stopped to catch his breath, a massive roll-up door began to open.
“What the hell is this … Emma?”
As the early morning sunlight faded behind the long casted shadows of Sixth Street, Ethan rushed to the entrance and pushed his sister back into the building. He started in toward the right side of the door, and hand over hand, began pulling at the chain.
“Ethan.” Emma’s voice was different. Somehow softer.
“We don’t have time, he’s out there. I don’t know how—”
“Come inside Ethan, you don’t have to be afraid.”
She was calm, much more so than she should have been. The man in the window, the same man he remembered killing back in Colorado, was somehow here in California taking shots at him from the building two blocks away. But as Ethan turned and looked past his sister into the partially lit warehouse, he finally realized what this was.
He wasn’t in this warehouse, although he’d seen it numerous times over the last six days. He hadn’t run along the sidewalk across the street and to his delight, he hadn’t been shot twice by the man he remembered as Maddox.
He was far from the world he now feared, he was inside his own head … he was now certain that this was a dream.
Beyond his sister and standing in two lines were his friends. His mother, Carly, and Shannon stood one beside the other. And opposite them, Boone, Griffin, and Tom looked on. They each smiled and nodded as Ethan moved his gaze from one to another, and as they parted, the youngest member of their group stepped forward.
Zach began walking toward Ethan, his right hand extended and with a slight limp. Ethan met the boy’s eyes and upon closer inspection noticed the familiar milky white haze.
Ethan began walking back toward the door as Zach continued forward, increasing his speed as the severity of his limp wor
sened.
“WAIT!” The words only echoed against the inside of his head. Taking another step back, Ethan stumbled and began to fall, crashing silently onto the cool cement floor.
He was instantly pulled away from the warehouse and the city streets beyond. And as their faces disappeared one at a time, he was left with only the memory of what he had lost.
Confused, breathing hard, and with his pulse still climbing, Ethan’s eyes shot open. He was back in the darkened classroom and alone, just like he had been for the last several days.
2
Bryce Young sat with his back to the wall. He had forgotten what day it was and had no idea how long he’d been locked in the oversized garage. His arms were now beginning to cramp and the pain at the back of his neck intensified as he slowly rolled his head from left to right. Waiting for the thin man to return, he was told that they weren’t going to kill him or his friend. However, now that the tortured screams coming from the interior of the home had subsided, he wasn’t so sure.
Cutting his eyes to the left, he squinted through the darkened interior and took a measured breath. The light that intermittently slipped in from under the door had come on once again, this time followed by a voice Bryce didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the thin man and it also wasn’t the beast who left his face a bloodied mess only hours before. No, this was someone new.
Someone with a bit more sophistication. Bryce couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was in the man’s voice, but it was there … and it frightened him.
From beyond the door, the unfamiliar voice spoke in a hurried tone. He was apparently speaking with the tall thin man. “Where did he go? And why am I just now finding out about this?”
The thin man paused for a brief moment and then hesitantly responded, “I … uh … he didn’t really explain—”
The new man slowed his words. “Okay, when he returns, tell him that we aren’t moving on until we know what it is we are dealing with. Let him know that I don’t want to have to ask him again. You got it?”
“Yes.”
“And for now, get back in there and take care of our guest. There’s no reason why that had to happen.”
“Sure.”
The man’s voice ratcheted up once again. “Do you understand what it is I want going forward?”
The thin man quickly responded, “Yes, absolutely.”
“Then no more of these mistakes.”
Shallow footfalls moved from the opposite side of the door and faded as a key was slid into the lock. Light flooded in as a silhouetted figure stood in the threshold and paused briefly before taking the two steps down to the cold concrete floor. The unrecognizable figure then propped the door open and turned to Bryce.
“You know, Ernest Hemingway was a smart man, much smarter than historians will probably ever give him credit for.”
Bryce tilted his head to the right and squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the change in illumination. He thought the man’s comment was odd, although with as much as he’d been through over the last three days, he wasn’t even sure of his own consciousness.
The man walked away from the steps, casting a wide shadow as he approached. He carried a folding chair to the center of the floor and stood beside it, pausing as he looked down on Bryce.
At just over six feet tall and weighing somewhere in the neighborhood of one-hundred-eighty pounds, the meticulously dressed man straightened his tan leather jacket, removed his darkened aviator glasses, and then slowly breathed in as he sat down in the chair.
“Hemingway once said that ‘The world is a fine place and worth the fighting for and I hate very much to leave it.’” The man then stopped, looked around the room as if searching for a lost thought and then again turned to Bryce. “And you know what, he was right. This world is worth fighting for, I really believe that.”
Unable to form a rational thought based on the man’s last statement, Bryce leaned back against the wall and slid his left arm away from his hip. He swallowed hard, attempting to clear his throat, but only managed one word. “Why?”
The man shifted in the metal folding chair. He looked back at the open doorway and then around at what remained in the newly constructed garage. “You know where I was when all this went down?”
Bryce didn’t answer.
The man again adjusted his jacket before running his right hand over his slicked-back blond hair. “It’s a really good story, trust me … and I’ll tell you what, if you’ll at least tell me your name, I’ll give up all the juicy details.”
Bryce squared his chin and locked eyes with the man. “Kill me.”
“Wait,” the man said. “You’re actually asking me—”
Bryce leaned forward, pulling against his restraints. “You’re going to do it anyway. Maybe not today, but as soon as you and your goons get what you want, it’s going to happen.” He stopped to swallow once again. “Why not just get it over with?”
The man stood and started back toward the house. Calmly speaking to someone beyond the doorway he said, “Bottle of water, now!”
Returning a few moments later, the man knelt alongside Bryce and set a liter of water at his feet. He moved quickly to his left hip, drew a Schrade Carbon Steel seven and a half inch survival knife, and moved for Bryce’s right arm.
Bryce pulled away. “What are you—”
“Just giving you some room to breathe and you know, a sign of good faith. So don’t do anything that’ll turn this into something else, got it?”
Bryce relaxed his shoulders and nodded. He cautiously leaned to the left and allowed the blond man to cut free the zip tie binding his right wrist and then carefully turned to the opposite side, eyeing his other arm.
The blond man slid the bottle of water closer to Bryce’s right side, backed away, and returned to his chair. “How about for now we just start with the one arm, see if we can build a bit of rapport.”
Bryce eyed the man for a brief moment and then turned to the water. In one fluid motion, he twisted off the cap and lifted the bottle to his lips. Two days without anything to eat or drink had him incensed. He pulled furiously at the cool liquid as it ran over his tongue and down into his throat.
“Good,” the man said, “drink up. We’ll get you something to eat as well.”
Quickly dropping the bottle to his side, Bryce was pulled back to the present. He looked back toward the open door and then cut his eyes at the blond man. “My friend, where is he?”
The blond man stood. “Your friend is going to be fine, but before we go any further, I’m going to need something from you.”
Bryce had begun to bring the water back to his mouth, but stopped as the man took a step toward him. He looked through the open door into the house, and then back at his left wrist. Seeing as how the man with the thick blond hair hadn’t exhibited the same unhinged brutality as the others, he decided to see where this was headed.
“My friend,” Bryce said through gritted teeth. “I want him in here. I want to see with my own two eyes that he is okay. I also need to understand why you and your men have such an interest in things that don’t have anything to do with you.”
The blond man slowly nodded. “I get it, I really do. But that probably wouldn’t get either of us where we want to go. Your friend—while he’s physically still here with us—he’s also in pretty rough shape. You seeing him in his current condition may not help with the conversation you and I need to have going forward.”
Bryce paused briefly before taking another long drink from the plastic bottle. “You and your men have been asking for my name, my friend’s name, where we came from, and how we’re connected to the group at the high school. But I still don’t know who it is I’m talking to or why it is you want to know.”
“Okay, so it appears you’re interested in an exchange. You’ll show your hand, but you want a peek at mine first. Sounds fair, I guess.” The blond man turned back to the chair and sat down. “What do you want to know?”
“Why …
why are you holding us here?”
“Well,” the blond man said, “that may get a bit complicated. Why don’t we start with something a little more innocuous? How about I tell you my name and you respond in kind? I know it’s been a sticking point for you and your friend, but I feel that if we’re able to find some common ground, the other stuff won’t be as hard to swallow. Whatta ya think?”
The blond man’s expression began to harden, and after what Bryce had endured over the previous twenty-four hours, he was reluctant to continue pushing his luck. “Okay, but I’d like be sure you aren’t going to—”
“I’ll start,” the blond man said. “You know, to ease your mind for what’s to come.”
Bryce didn’t completely understand. “Okay?”
The man ran his hand over his freshly shaven chin and regarded Bryce with a half-smile. “My name is Roland Mayhew, I’m thirty-seven years old, and I used to write music for a living. Lived right here in the city … well, that was until the world decided to go to hell.”
As the man he now knew as Roland Mayhew paused, Bryce again looked at his left wrist before starting. “I’m still not sure why it’s so important, but my name is Bryce Young.”
“And?”
“There’s no point in giving you any of the details of who I used to be; it didn’t matter two days ago and it doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing you need from me or my friend that you don’t already have right here in this house.”
Roland moved quickly to Bryce’s left side, held tight to his upper arm, and cut free his wrist. “You’re lying.”
Rubbing at the raw skin along his left wrist, Bryce again narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“You and your friend. The two of you show up out of nowhere—on foot—with nothing other than the clothes on your back and expect me to believe that you’re simply drifters, that you don’t have a home of your own somewhere else?”
“I don’t know what you want?”
Roland lowered his head and breathed out through his nose. “You’re hiding something.”
