Dark Genesis (Shadow and Shine Book 1)

by Danial Hooper

  Dark Genesis

  Shadow and Shine Series

  Book One

  Danial Hooper

  Copyright: 2016, Danial Hooper

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition, 2016

  *This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locations is purely coincidental and does not reflect the author’s opinions.

  Acknowledgements

  If you’re anything like me, you ignore the acknowledgements and go straight into the story. Authors have earned my trust on the introductions, but I do not care to spend my time hearing about the second-cousin who unknowingly brought about the passion for the story. The one exception to this is Stephen King, but he’s the exception to pretty much anything when it comes to writing (for the record: I would read dog food labels written by King). I wanted to make this different and worth reading, so I promise a little surprise in the end. If this strategy can help my kids finish their Brussels sprouts, maybe it can help you read an extra page.

  My wife is the second-main reason this book exists. No, she’s not a monstrous psychopath. She has not only been my biggest fan and supporter, but she’s also the fuel in my gas tank. My Rib has believed in me throughout this experience making it easy to continue because she believes it can be great. She swears she’s not biased, but I am grateful either way. I owe my ambition to her. Thank you, love.

  My mom needs a direct shout-out too. She is the strongest woman east of the Mississippi and loves her baby boy more than anything. There are good moms, and then there are moms who edit your novel and demand you rewrite the ending. She got me through college, with no debt, and helped me move to Salt Lake City despite the three-thousand mile divot it would create between us. Mom, I love you, now move out here. Oh, and thanks.

  My big brother, Adrian, thank you for the support. Don’t tell Joanie, but you’re still my best friend. I’ll never forget the conversation we had at A&W in eighth grade. Your drive and passion are a constant inspiration for me. I love you a lot, big brother.

  Ashley, thank you for giving me comfort and excitement about this book’s insanely awesome cover. I cannot show enough gratitude for your expertise and marketing advice. And yes, fine, I admit, you’re a great sister. I am truly grateful for your impact.

  Troy, your concept art for the cover was the perfect illustration of my vision. I am so thankful to have a friend like you with such an amazing talent and creative eye. I’m looking forward to using your services (and hopefully paying for them) in the future. Thanks for your efforts!

  Hadley, thank you so much for your fantastic copy-editing. I had no idea how terrible my grammar is. You have been such an encouragement throughout this process and have gotten me over the hill of believing this book might actually be successful.

  To my dad, for being a friend and a model for consistency throughout this process. I know you might not ever read this, but there is not a day that goes by when I don’t think about if what I’m doing will make you proud. You’re a great man, don’t ever believe otherwise.

  Matt, Carolyn, Tony, Curtis, Jen, AJ, and the others who got the advanced copy. Thank you so much for the feedback and direction on what the book needed.

  One final acknowledgement before you start on the story; thank you, dear reader, for supporting my dream to become a full-time writer. Thank you for taking a chance on this book and if you’ve made it this far, I’m really grateful. I am really new to this process, so if you find mistakes, please let me know (contact information on the last page). Either way, you are committing yourself to investing time out of your day to my work, I’m honored.

  As for the surprise: Hope Worldwide is an organization I believe in, one I trust to commit to great acts of social service. For every dollar I earn from Dark Genesis, 50 cents goes to Hope Worldwide. It’s not a lot, but it’s a start. If I’m going to be successful in this writing life, I’m going to make a difference.

  -Danial

  Table of Contents

  Day 1

  Night 2

  Day 2

  Night 3

  Day 3

  The Chat

  Bryce Chapman

  Radical/Founder

  4/12/2016

  My readers will not be surprised to hear this; but I was not an A+ student. Or an A student. I established the beautiful art of mediocrity from grade school and continued the trend into my early termination of my freshman year of college. Yes, dear reader, your favorite political pundit turned blogging bantering bass fisherman did not graduate college. If it weren’t for Mrs. Conte spoon-feeding her favorite brown nosing class clown the answers to her Chemistry final, I would not be holding a high school diploma either. Not that I am currently holding my diploma, but it’s around here somewhere, along with my ability to write in cursive.

  I remember the first time I received and A+ for legitimate work. This wasn’t a spelling test or the display of my abilities to copy Susie Gale’s math quiz, I’m talking an actual assignment by a teacher. A real teacher. His name was Mr. Freeman, he taught 9th grade literature. Which is funny to type, since high school freshman do not have literature. Lit is lit. No matter the audience. Mr. Freeman understood the value of sound writing and diverse opinions. He once asked for us to read ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ and then compose a 3000 word response written from the perspective of a man sitting in Atticus Finch’s courtroom. The caveat, the man needed to be white, and he needed to hate blacks.

  Imagine yourself as a 15 year old suburban white kid with acne down the back of your neck and a pension for blurting out socially inappropriate diatribes at the dinner table with your near-deaf grandma. You have had the same outbursts at your friends, which is why you don’t have those friends anymore. Now, Mr. Freeman is offering you an opportunity to be creative, be expressive, and most of all, be radical.

  Quick tangent; I heard a little joke the other day, fitting my primary educational experience like a glove:

  Teacher: Jimmy, how do you spell conscience?

  Jimmy: C. O. N. C. H. A. N. C. E.

  Teacher: Incorrect.

  Jimmy: That’s how I spell it.

  It’s been 6 months since my termination at [Major News Network Name Redacted] and since then, I’ve thought about the year with Mr. Freeman. Who, by the way was a skinny black guy from East Philly who was recently fired after telling his class how to properly cook crack cocaine. I don’t know the full story, but he remains my favorite teacher. Not because I got to pretend to be a racist, which was enjoyable in a sadistic way, but because he required his class to battle convention. My time in 6th period literature was the most enjoyable reading and writing I have ever done. Yes, more than the Pulitzer. Which felt like selling my soul, not telling a story. Now, I am a free man, like Mr. Freeman (get it?) and have started my own blog with hopes of skewing the trends and writing something radical. I’ve never been right wing, nor left wing, I want to bring forward the ideas that are going to tick off your dad or get recited at Thanksgiving in front your uber-conservative (secretly gay) uncle Tim.

  This is my opportunity to write to you as a peer; no gimmicks, no advertisements — make a donation at the bottom if you wish, but my severance package means The Chat is going to be around until I’m drawn and quartered for my opinion. And yes, I am prepared for this.

  Don’t believe me, just watch.

 
; I’m going to write freely on my opinion of President Uriah “Warmonger” Watt, whom has built quite a sterling reputation despite murdering entire villages in the South Sudan back in his old days. No, I don’t have proof, but I have copies of papers with long black lines where there should be details reports. And I have corroborating numbers of high murder tolls in the Sudan surrounding a major terrorist stronghold. He looks great on paper, which is why he became POTUS in the last election, but if you look closely; he only looks great on paper because all of the words are redacted.

  I’m also going to write freely about the status of American media and how it compares to the prohibition of the 1920s. The American people can celebrate Monica Tyler for her surgeon made figure and her team of attention whores, but we scoff at the idea of a man challenging internet subscribers to view less pornography and spend more time developing a social stance of social reform. The media is quick to demonize a man who challenges his own network’s moral fortitude on live television, but is unwilling to investigate if what he claims is true. The media will talk about the innocent white kids who get shot, and the devil white cops who shoot the black kids, but no one blinks when they hear our own country holds more active terrorists, more child slavery, and more drastic political corruption than any 2 other countries combined. Seriously, go look at the numbers. Type it in your google.

  Also, I can’t hide my feelings for the Knicks, so there will be a few posts over the next few months on their track to bring a title home to NYC. They play The Jazz tonight, which should end up as their 17th straight win. I’m a proud adult who still wears jerseys of his favorite team. Right now, I’m wearing a #22 for Mo Burgess, the best point guard in the league.

  There is no doubt I’ve lost readers and supporters and friends after the debacle of my termination. My timing and the delivery hurt people’s feelings and broke people’s trust. My own research team deserted me, why wouldn’t you? I’m sorry. I cannot promise it won’t happen again, but I promise if it does, it will only affect my bank account and it will be only with the purest of intentions… Thank you for reading this. I look forward to reporting to you, and reporting for you.

  Be Radical.

  -bc

  Night 1

  As the sky grows dark, a new age has come. One unaffected by pain and fueled by rage. The darkness the only ally.

  ― Zach Minor

  Spotters would never be called a great bar, but it was good enough for Mickey and his buddy Andy every Saturday night. The same patrons came every weekend: dudes with too much cologne, a random 21st birthday queen, and the old drunks giving the rest a glimpse into their future. The service was so-so, the drinks were cheap and the bartenders were easy on the eyes. Mickey loved flirting with Linda, even if she smoked a pack a day and had an inmate’s name tattooed on her forearm. She was in her late thirties and probably had a seventeen year old kid at home. His advances toward Linda were never more than playful bantering with a woman who served him. She played coy all night, but those drinks were always strong.

  Andy was Mickey’s old locker mate in high school, and they ran into one another five months ago outside Spotter’s when Mickey stepped out to find someone to bum a cig from. Mickey went back inside the bar with a new old friend. It didn’t take long for the guys to become close; they were the perfect balance of crazy and cool. Mickey pounded the booze, and Andy was the mostly sober, designated driver. Andy never complained about the arrangement, and Mickey wouldn't dare ask. Crazy to think Mickey would be hanging out with the same kid who used to be the comic book nerd in Mrs. Raine’s class. Even crazier to find out he was actually a pretty chill guy.

  Any time the Jazz were playing, Mickey preferred to watch the game from Spotter’s over going to the arena. First, you never get drunk at the arena unless you spent eighty dollars. Second, hot chicks never went to the games. It was better (and cheaper) to watch the game at the bar and save the money. They stood directly underneath the only television that was working tonight. Spotter’s never upgraded to flat screen TVs, so it was only a matter of time before the picture started to fade on the old school tubes.

  It was a bummer the Jazz weren’t any good. Trying to watch bad basketball in bad reception meant Mickey would need a couple of extra shots tonight. He nudged his best bud and said, “Let’s go find the birthday girl and buy her a drink.”

  -

  Jenna loved Robert’s family more than she loved Robert.

  Well, not really.

  She loved the perks of being the girlfriend of the Robert North, heir to the family who owned half of New York including the New York Knicks. Flying all over the country, shopping at the best boutiques and eating the finest food were amazing perks included in dating one of the wealthiest young men in the country. In return, all she needed to do was listen when Ned North blabbered about basketball and smile when Henrietta North commented on her outfits.

  Nights like tonight made it really difficult though; Robert’s dad was called back to Manhattan while Jenna and Robert were sitting in the private box seats watching the Knicks play against the Jazz. Robert said the Jazz weren’t that bad, other than the fact that they didn’t have enough chemistry, and their coach wasn’t smart enough to pull it all together. He went on and on about how great Mo Burgess was playing at this stage of the season and how Utah didn’t have a point guard who stood a chance against him.

  Jenna didn’t care.

  So, yeah, Jenna thought to herself, they’re bad, but at least there would be Park City shopping tomorrow.

  The weekend wouldn’t be a complete waste after some retail therapy courtesy of Ned North’s credit card. Salt Lake City was beautiful but had a terrible club scene and lacked high-end shopping. Park City was twenty minutes away, even prettier to look at because of the boutiques tightly packed along one rustic street. Which was nice, since she hated using her crutches and the ugly pink cast.

  “The Jazz suck,” she said, twirling her fingers through her perfect blonde hair. He was looking at her again out of the corner of his eyes. This was the third or fourth time she caught him doing this tonight. He was acting so weird. “Let’s leave at half time and go back to the hotel. My ankle is achy, and this game is awful.”

  “It would be nice to go back, have a couple glasses of wine and run a bubble bath” Jenna thought out loud. That would have been great, except somehow Robert got a normal room instead of a suite, and she couldn’t get in the bath without covering her cast with a bag. She would have never had this problem, but Robert was too afraid to demand the suite and too selfish to catch her when she slipped down the stairs breaking her ankle.

  Being stuck in a boring city, watching a boring game, and being forced to sleep in a regular room was depressing Jenna. This kind of weekend could only be fixed by spending a lot of money on clothes and shoes. Instead, Robert was too busy staring at her like a creep.

  -

  There was a lot you could say about Jenna; beautiful, smart, funny, and whiney often came to Robert’s mind. She liked the finer things, and Robert loved to take care of his lady. She also complained about the smallest amounts of discomfort and wanted only the most expensive option. Robert didn’t hold this against her because his dad never held this against his mom. Jenna would make an amazing wife someday, if for no other reason than her need for the expensive stuff.

  Tonight was the night. If he could deal with her complaining and ignore her efforts to leave, the camera man would come into their private box to see Robert North get on one knee and ask his beautiful girlfriend to be his beautiful wife. Salt Lake City wasn’t the most romantic of places, but this would forever tie him to his father’s legacy and totally surprise Jenna. He could take her to Paris next week.

  Proposing in the locker room after the last game of the regular season would inspire the basketball team to go on a run into the Finals and bring home a championship. Jenna might not like his reasoning, but she was going to love the giant, princess cut diamond.

  -

&nb
sp; Today continued to be the most disappointing day of Gregory Hart’s life. He made a mistake by oversleeping an interview scheduled earlier in the day, but this did not excuse them from standing him up after their agreement to reschedule. He had spent months on the waiting list for Dr. Lucas and Dr. Simon’s groundbreaking two year research team. Their classless response to an honest mistake meant Greg wasn’t high enough on the list of prospects to warrant a second chance.

  He had wasted the last twenty-seven days digesting Dr. Simon’s excellent research on the Montara Fungus and its unstoppable impact on the human brain. He found Dr. Simon to be enthralling and insightful, someone whom Greg could build a fruitful dynamic with in the future.

  Dr. Lucas did not have the same effect. His research, while on the same topic, was more apt to leave young students falling asleep at their desks. The man did not have the same ability as his associate to captivate outsiders nor the heart to even try.

  Yet, Greg waited in the lobby of the Grand American Hotel for both men with his future hanging in the balance. An opportunity of a lifetime squandered because of a faulty alarm clock and failure to accumulate the necessary amount of sleep over the last month. Combine these facts with an adolescent response, and his chances of making the program were passed before getting started.

  This level of unprofessionalism would come back to haunt Dr. Lucas and Dr. Simon, Greg would be certain. The frustration would be fuel for Greg’s future and the eventual destruction of Simon and Lucas’ career. Greg had more potential and drive than either of them. He was going to prove himself as a terrible adversary. Greg would find a way to take their research and improve upon it exponentially.

  He checked his watch as the lights in the lobby flickered off and on. The cheap watch died at a terrible time. Greg needed to be able to stay for a long as possible in the lobby before the blue line bus made its way to Stop #186. He would wait for a chance to see Simon and Lucas and give them a final opportunity to speak their case, but he did not want to be forced to walk all the way home by missing the eleven o’clock bus. The balance of pride and reason was an ongoing battle for any intelligent man. Greg was no exception.