Collapse (Book 1): Perfect Storm
Page 1
Perfect Storm
Book One in the Collapse Series
Riley Flynn
Syndicate Press
Contents
Note from the Author
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
Thank you from the Author
Note from the Author
Hi!
Thank you so much for picking up a copy of my debut novel, Perfect Storm. It’s the first instalment in the Collapse series, which I have been working on for months, and planning for years.
I’ve been dreaming about the end of the world for as long as I can remember. I’m not sure that that’s an entirely healthy pastime – or that I should be admitting it to you – but it’s the truth. Zombies, EMPs, computer viruses, deadly plagues, you name it, I have wondered how I would survive it. I’ve spent my time on the forums. Prepared. Believe me, my bug out bag is packed and waiting by the door. I just don’t know how it’s going to happen.
But time after time, I keep returning to one terrible conclusion: that our networked world, where information flows along undersea cables and through satellites in milliseconds, where I can hop on a plane today and be in Beijing before the sun sets at home, is just a hair’s breadth away from disaster. A man coughing in Tokyo today can be a full-blown flu outbreak in Berlin by the middle of next week. It’s the butterfly effect on steroids.
And most of us are simply not prepared to survive the apocalypse. Central heating, electricity, the networked smart phones that most people stare into hour after hour, day after day: they have made us weak.
What if it all went away? Maybe it happens on purpose – Iran or North Korea decide that America’s weakness is the Internet that we all rely on so much. Or maybe it’s an accident – a solar storm that takes out the power networks, and our way of life as we know it.
It doesn’t matter how it happens – only what happens after. To us. The children of the electric generation. People who have forgotten how to kill for the food on their table, how to survive in the wilderness – and how to protect themselves – and their families…
I’ve been writing for years. Dry academic reports locked away in the dusty basements of half a dozen universities and companies, thrillers, you name it I’ve tried my hand at it. But Collapse is the story that had to be told. Perfect Storm is just the beginning. Fall Back, the first book in the Collapse: New Republic series, will be out in the next few days, if it isn’t already…
We will be releasing every couple of weeks until I run out of books. But don’t worry, I’m a pretty fast writer! So buckle up, and hold on tight…
Riley Flynn.
1
People have plans. Then people get punched in the face.
The words echoed around Alex's skull, each regretful syllable a ricochet that rattled around behind his eyes. Alex did not have a plan. So he ran through the darkness, alone.
A siren screamed. Shots fired on the other side of a wall. Sometimes, he thought, the only sure part of a plan was that it was doomed to fail. Plans were for other people.
And then someone punched Alex in the face.
The concrete floor kissed him on the chin. He felt the skin around his eye about to unfurl into a bruise, the blood already bitter beneath the skin. Even with the mask, the force of the blow caught him off guard. The assailant had stepped out from a dark corridor and laid Alex flat. Then vanished.
The flicker of the old-style fluorescent lights was no help. All Alex could see were ghosts and shadows, shapes painted on the walls. The inside of the mask began to steam up again.
On the other side of the room, more shots rang out. Another shout. Someone was hit. His gloved fingers scratching on the ground, Alex Early rose to his feet. There was no time to wait, no time to stand still.
Weighing his pistol in his hand, he knew he was short. Always bring more bullets, Timmy had told him. But Timmy said a lot. Alex found an unlit niche and stepped inside.
From here, he could see the room. It was a worn-out warehouse. Spray cans and paint had done their work on the walls. There were surfaces made to seem like corrugated iron, thick plastic mats placed on certain parts of the floor. The lights hung from heavy chains, swaying and unsteady, their yellow light littering and chattering.
Above the lights, the ceiling was far, far above. It was all cloaked in darkness. But there were people up there, waiting and watching. Deep down here in the belly of the machine, Alex was almost alone.
But he was only wasting his own time standing in the shadows. The gun was light, he knew, but he still had his fists. His elbows. Perhaps his legs, if these thick, heavy pants didn’t weigh him down. They were padded, protective. Restrictive, Alex now realized. But there was no denying that his heart was bellowing up out of his chest and into his mouth. The most excitement he’d felt in years.
The siren screamed again, beckoning Alex toward the end. This place had been a car factory once upon a time. The owners seemed aware of that: they’d left relics and burned-out shells lying around to hinder people’s progress. When it was everyone against everyone, he knew, the only way to progress lay through your opponents. Hidden away for the moment, he began to think.
There were a few essential truths: He needed to get across the room. He didn’t have many bullets. He didn’t know his way around, or how to shoot straight. His head was still reverberating and his mask only made things harder.
Timmy was nowhere to be seen. This wasn’t Virginia. Hell, this wasn’t even Detroit. Not really. But the blood was rushing through his ears and his veins, Alex noticed, and he was actually enjoying himself. So, he thought, time to act.
Alex dipped his head out of the shadows. The layout of the room was clear. He had fixed it in his mind. A wide-open space, about twenty feet across, punctuated by waist-high barriers, the skeletal car wrecks, and darkened corridors leading God knew where. Last time he checked, Timmy had been on the other side. Find Timmy. That seemed like a decent plan. Decent enough, at least.
Bursting out of the darkness, Alex ran to the nearest wall. Ducking down, he heard the siren once again. Time was running out. The light was glowing electric above, finally holding steady for more than a second. He looked up. Opposite him was a steel wall, polished and shiny. A mirror.
Lifting the mask to catch a breath, he could see himself. Six feet on the dot, crouched with his back against a barrier. Beard barely trimmed, though no more than two days old. Black hair short and cropped, anything long on top pushed to the right side but now muddled with sweat. The green of his eyes was being joined by the purple-blue of a bruise swell. It’d be shining bright by morning.
Alex recognized himself, but not the clot
hes. Combat fatigues, basically. Rugged, rip-proof clothes a far cry from the comfortable jeans and T-shirts that had served him well for so many years. He’d have to get used to this.
But, Alex realized, if he could see himself, then so could his enemies. This was a bad place to be. A more experienced man would have known that instinctively, he thought. Timmy wouldn’t be able to hold the laughter in. Life and its lessons.
Like a rat from a pipe, Alex ran from behind the wall. He ducked down, back flat, and ran across to the car.
A thud, thud, thud clanged near his head.
Someone was shooting. They must have been watching the mirror. Alex felt his breath heat up beneath the mask. But they’d missed.
For now.
Lifting his gun above the hood of the gutted Chevy, he fired a shot, and then another. Alex had no idea where he was aiming. The siren screamed again. What had been minutes was turning into seconds. He fired one more shot, felt the recoil twist his wrist, and heard someone lumbering on the other side of the vehicle.
They were close.
There was no choice. Alex had to run the last fifteen feet. Reach the other side of the room, hope Timmy was near, and get his help. Or give help. Whatever it took to win: to survive.
An idea struck, arriving quietly and making itself heard over the clamor. He needed a distraction. Still crouched behind the car, he felt around in his pockets. Nothing. They’d emptied them. Something to make some noise, to put off the attacker. Anything.
Alex undid the buckle on his mask. It was all steamed up, but at least he’d get some use out of it. He weighed it in his hand. It was light. Plastic and mesh, mostly. Hardly designed to block much. Couldn’t stop a fist. They just gave them out for the sake of it. He held the mask in his hand, scraped it against the side of the Chevy, and then rolled it along the floor, away from the wall.
A flurry of shots followed. They lit up the wall above the mask. But Alex was already running. He was gone, out and away from the car, his legs opening up. It was ten feet. Then seven. Then five. He was almost there, his eyes scanning the wall for any sign of his friend or any place to hide before the siren let out another, final scream.
The man’s shoulder caught him full in the gut. The impact knocked the breath out of him. Alex dropped his gun. Together, the two of them rolled across the plastic floor. Not as hard here. Hard enough to hurt.
They tussled, tangled up, arms and legs locked together. Alex hit out with a fist. It found the man’s mask. Didn’t do much. The man caught a wrist, wrapped one leg around Alex’s neck and leaned back. It was a tight grip.
Choking.
The assailant pulled back hard on the arm, his thighs locked around Alex’s collar and shoulder, squeezing. Every drop of blood began to crawl to a cold stop and he feel the edges of his eyes darken.
He flung his free arm against the man’s shins, against his ankles and legs. Nothing. The man tugged tighter. Alex flailed, twisting and struggling. The man had him in a lock.
It was impossible to escape. There was nothing he could do. He felt around, finding only the floor. Then: there it was. The pistol. Alex’s own. Light on ammo. But enough, maybe.
Alex turned the gun into his grip. He was losing sight. Losing breath.
He lifted the gun up, over his face. He fired. Once. Twice. A third and a fourth time.
But the man would not let go. Alex felt himself falling deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. His body was light. He fired the gun again. He couldn’t feel anything. Squeezed the trigger again. It was empty. Nothing left.
The lights went up. The siren screamed for the last time. The man’s legs loosened, and Alex’s eyes widened. Applause was sputtering into life above, the hasty patter of busy feet moving around the warehouse toward them. He drew a deep breath, feeling his mind creep back to the real world. Then, piercing it all, came Timmy’s voice.
“I told you: never take off the mask, man,” he laughed. “They don’t like it.”
Timothy ‘Timmy’ Ratz was standing above, his own mask perched atop his head, his crooked teeth barely containing the cackling rattle of a laugh as he stretched out a hand. Alex allowed himself to be dragged upright. Timmy was slightly taller and thinner. His skin was a pasty white, immune to any sort of sunlight, and near-translucent compared to Alex’s own. They were wearing the same clothes, still holding the same weapons. Around them, others entered the room and began to clean up.
“It’s like this every time?” Alex asked. “I don’t think I could handle it.”
“You did good, man,” Timmy said, gesturing with his gun. “Well, mostly. I did tell you to get more bullets. We all saw you running out.”
Alex waved away his friend’s comments and turned around. The man who had tackled him was talking to a judge, pointing to a fierce bloom of red paint dashed across his chest. The man was still wearing his mask, but Alex could see the anger in his arms and body. There was an argument brewing.
“What’s his problem?” Alex asked his friend.
“Oh, Freddy? He thinks he had you, says you shot him after the final siren. What did I tell you, man, people take this stuff seriously.”
Timmy took both guns, one in each hand. Using his thumbs, he flicked the safety switch, holstering one weapon and carrying the other. With deft fingers, he began dismantling his own pistol, raising it to the light and staring down the barrel. As Timmy turned, Alex could see a wash of smudged blue paint spread over his friend’s back.
“They got you,” he said. “I thought you were the pro.”
“I’m no judge,” Timmy replied, his tongue poking between his lips in concentration. “But I’m certain the aim on this is off. Should really invest a bit more in my own gear. The rental stuff they give you is crap.”
The pistol clicked mechanically as Timmy lowered it from the light and reassembled it without looking.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get changed and head out, before Freddy accuses you of anything.”
Leading the way, Timmy motioned over his shoulder. Alex turned. The man was shouting now, the mask barely containing his fury. Even now, he remembered the way the darkness had been setting in, the way the corners of his vision had edged toward the center. It had been exhilarating. He felt like he should shake the man’s hand. But he knew better. That same hand was now pointing in his direction.
Alex stepped lightly and caught up with his friend.
2
The warehouse corridors were spartan: long, thin concrete tunnels which twisted around the arena like an ant’s nest. Alex had once watched his dad pour boiling water into an ant hill. A young boy hypnotized by the steam seeping up in unexpected spots around the yard.
One day, a man had come all the way out from a museum in Washington and offered to pour aluminum down the hole. Alex had watched them dig the metal out of the ground afterwards, the huge structure hidden down in the dirt.
The tunnels and the chambers glowed with a molten glimmer, like a Christmas tree in the summer sun, speckled by ants frozen in the metal. All that, Alex had thought, had lived under his yard. He spent more time inside the house after that.
The innards of the warehouse had been painted up like the end of the world. The walk to the changing rooms from the arena was short but strewn with all the artefacts of some post-apocalyptic, burning Hollywood vision.
It wasn’t hard to find burned-out cars in Detroit, but hoisting them up on the walls must have taken some effort. This new sport was where the money was, Alex figured. He hadn’t paid tonight, just tagged along as Timmy’s guest. His skin still tingled, remembering the rush to beat the final siren. They gave you the first hit for free.
“You liked it?” Timmy asked, holding the changing room door open.
“I’ve never done anything like it,” Alex replied, following him in.
Even the changing rooms were riddled with the same aesthetic. Someone had taken to the metal lockers with red paint, giving them a rust flavor.
“I remember m
y first time,” Timmy replied. “Feels like only yesterday.”
Timmy turned on his best thousand-yard stare. “You kids today,” he said, “you don’t know how good you got it. Back in my day, we had fights and paintball separate. Two whole different things. Why, I went to an MMA match with one of my pals and we didn’t see a firearm all night. Could you imagine? What kind of hellish past was that?”
Alex jerked open his locker, throwing in his mask and finding the holster ready for the pistol. It was well-organized, this place, well-funded. Start with an internet video spreading round the world like a virus, he knew, and soon you’d have everyone infected. They had franchises all across America now.
Timmy had been bugging him for months to try this out. Every day, his head poking around the cubicle, that mess of red hair arriving first, passing through some leaflet or printout, the word ‘GUNPLAY’ splattered everywhere.
Alex began to remove the heavily padded clothing. As he eased off the vest—Kevlar-lined, the advertisement assured—he felt a twinge in his neck and his shoulder. That man had turned something, had twisted a muscle in a way it was never meant to be twisted. Even to raise his arm up brought a world of pain crashing down on Alex’s shoulder.