Dark Genesis (Shadow and Shine Book 1)

by Danial Hooper

  The kitchen looked out of place, even for a nice hotel like the Grand American. The doors on the other side of the room, about fifty feet away, were to the chef’s private basement. There wasn’t a trace of crumbs or stains on the stainless steel cabinets and white wooden countertops. The room looked like it belonged on one of the popular cooking shows and could fit more people than the giant dining room. Everything about it was expensive and sharp. There were at least ten large refrigerators in matching steel with wooden trim and a hibachi grill in the middle. A hanging knife rack was firmly planted over the grill. This was fanciest kitchen she had ever seen.

  “So the chef was some highly trained quirk who loved to make the server’s lives miserable. Unless you were Charlotte. But he’s like, the best cook in the world. People would come just for him. He was also the most anal-retentive goober in a city made up of anal-retentive goobers. Every night, he and his apprentice would spend an extra two hours doing inventory and cleaning. I mean, hey man, get a life, right?”

  Suddenly, a large creak let out from the stairs below. Jenna was close enough to the door to hear the exhale before the eruption of feet coming up the steps. Someone was rushing up after them. Jenna wanted to run but felt her casted foot slipped on the linoleum floor and she toppled over. Edie smoothly climbed into one of the stainless steel drawers.

  A man with a knife stormed out of the door.

  They found you.

  -

  Throughout his young life, Greg was often caught staring into the abyss of his thoughts while also staring at a wall. His mother first caught him in this practice when he was fifteen, and her first reaction was to assume he had a tragic mental deficiency brought on by his late arrival of puberty. Greg’s mother was never in possession of common sense or medical training, only a flare for the dramatic. The woman still did not understand what Greg did for a living, otherwise she would have offered positive reinforcement about his career path and potential. Instead, she seemed to only ask about girls and friends. Of which, Greg had neither.

  If walls could talk, they would breathe into an otherwise lifeless situation in dire need of resurrection. Greg had found himself at ground zero of the Great American Downfall, and yet, there was minimal knowledge to be shared. This faded yellow wall with tiny wheat strands would offer such a wondrous view of the details. It was not as if Greg expected them to talk back, but he felt as if the peace and quiet of the walls gave his mind a chance to navigate better. It was so hard to focus when other people were making demands and speaking to you at the end of the world.

  Was this a global event?

  There is no logical explanation of why this would have taken place in Salt Lake City, unless it happened in other parts of the country. Salt Lake was not important enough to incite such a heinous act as an isolated phenomenon. The predominant faith was conservative but not harmful. There was not a major economic impact to be the cause of a vicious outburst in a middling city. This place was no American staple. This had to have been global or at least an attack on America. Regional would be more believable if this had happened on the East Coast where major cities were jumbled together.

  Harry was not a clean man, as his living quarters proved. Anyone could look at Harry and deduce he didn’t enjoy doing the dishes, the laundry, or vacuuming. His apartment was a mess before the blank-faces came, Harry admitted, but he was adamant it was never this bad. Every shelf was cleared off, and the floors were an unmanageable blend of clothing and trash. His tiny studio apartment was too easily accessible and not worth time fortifying. They would need to move on after obtaining the protection Harry found vital.

  The old man came out of the bathroom wearing dirty charcoal mechanic’s scrubs. His cinnamon and salt beard was hiding a smile while he carried in a rusty hatchet and a hammer with a red handle. He handed the hammer to Greg, but what exactly did he think Greg would do with it? Greg never had the need to hold a hammer before, let alone use one for defensive measures.

  Here he was, in the studio apartment of a haggard mechanic and a mid-twenties jock who may be the closest definition of friends Greg would ever have again.

  Mickey said, “Hey man, I know you’re beat up and all, but you have to carry your own weight when we go to the streets. If half of what you’ve said is true, then we’re going to need to protect ourselves.” Mickey was more right than he realized. Greg would carry his own weight. However, he would not be doing it with physical strength but with his mental acumen. Greg would be the weakest physically but would never allow himself to be outsmarted. The blank-faced people were not tactical; they were like wild animals hunting for their first meal in months. No logic, no planning, and no strategy. On the inverse, Greg could supply the brains, while the others were the brawn. Greg would formulate a plan to protect his group tonight, as soon as they found a safe location. It was time to start displaying his capabilities. “Harry, do you have an old radio?”

  Harry kept searching when he replied, “I do, but I let my neighbor, Art, borrow it. When his TV went out last week, he wanted to listen to the game on the radio, like old times. Why?”

  “Well, you see, I want to turn the radio on and listen.”

  “Music? What good is music in a time like this?” Mickey inquired.

  “No, Mickey, not music,” Greg attempted to respond like a patient, grade-school teacher. “We need to measure the extremes of this situation. Is it regional, national, or worldwide? That will tell us plenty about those blank-faced people and maybe give us a chance to figure out how to not only save those girls but also save ourselves. I would like to know the scope of what kind of attack we’re dealing with. If the radio works and picks up local channels that would be great, but if not, we need batteries, aluminum foil, and higher ground.”

  “How high?” Harry had stopped and was listening intently. “Art’s room is two doors down on your left. It probably looks like mine does. Those freaks must have torn each room apart hunting for people. Didn’t all the power die?”

  “I’m banking on AA batteries doing the trick. My guess is the massive power outage is due to a surge, and we may be able to eventually turn them back on.”

  Greg tried to remind himself that higher ground and food were the most important aspects of this equation. He had found numbers, and these men were decent. Now it was time for safekeeping and fuel for the body.

  Mickey stepped towards Harry and offered up an idea, “Why don’t we go over to Art’s room and search for the radio? There aren’t any boogiemen over there, otherwise they would have come over already. So how about me and the Greg-man go over to Art’s while you look for your last few tools.”

  Harry responded before Greg could say anything, “That’s a good idea. Room 204 down the hall. Good luck, boys.”

  -

  Jenna looked up and saw a fat man looming over her. His big smile made him look like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. Gobs of sweat hovered over his haggard eyebrows that stretched to connect to his haggard beard. He looked more like a bear than a man. His large stomach was covered by a dirty white apron with long hairy arms jutting out on each side. His large butcher knife was the only clean part of him.

  Jenna denied his offer to help, but it didn’t break his ugly smile. “And who are you, ma’am?” He licked his lips, and his smile grew wide. He was attempting to be charming but had disgusting written all over each of his mannerisms. Even the idea of touching his fat hands gave Jenna goose pimples.

  “Don’t be shy. I’m not exactly a knight in shining armor, but I promise I’m not a dragon either. My name is Martin Lillie, but call me Toppy.” His hand was offered again, this time to shake. Jenna averted her eyes away from his friendly advance. Toppy might be a perfectly nice knight, but Jenna wasn’t going to trust him.

  That’s right, Jenna. Be smart. He came after you with a knife. He only stopped when he noticed you were pretty. What do monsters do with pretty girls?

  Her cast slipped again as she was standing on her own. Toppy
instinctively caught her with his large, but soft, left hand and gave his ugly smile again. It was a perfect chance for him to be a creep; only, he was friendly and very polite about it. Even the hand he caught her with was placed in a position so as to make sure Jenna did not feel violated.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t need this, do I?” he said, putting the knife down on the shiny countertop. “Sorry to have startled you. I’m sure you are terribly frightened by all of this. What can I do?” Toppy asked.

  Do not trust him.

  Jenna looked at him and couldn’t speak. She thought of running, but where would she go? Edie had already left her, and now, this mountain of a man could snatch her up and take her if he wanted to. Only he didn’t. He was polite, kind and had good manners. She didn’t have to trust him, but she didn’t have to be afraid of him either. Somehow she was going to have to be protected. Toppy must have noticed her thoughts as he said, “Ma’am. With all due respect, I would love to know your name unless you plan on staring at me until those monsters come back.” There they were again, licked lips and his ugly smile.

  Do not trust him.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just really scared. You came up the stairs so fast. I, I just…” His smile turned serious as he held on to her words. “Sorry. My name is Jenna. I ran in here because I thought this would be a good place to hide.”

  He shook his head in agreement. Toppy looked like an overstuffed Teddy bear with the sparkle in his eyes. “Jenny? That’s a very nice name. Can I get you something? Glass of water? Cookie? I would love to cook you a nice meal, if you are hungry.”

  Jenna didn’t want to interrupt the moment to correct him on her name. He seemed to be trying to be sweet and a good listener, and it came off honest. She could correct him later. “A glass of water would be nice. So would a little breakfast if you have anything?” Jenna’s stomach growled in approval.

  She’s hiding. Where you should be, you fool. But no, now you’re about to ask a murderer to make you breakfast and a fresh cup of OJ.

  “Come to think about it, I swear I heard two people moving around up here. Where’s your friend?”

  Don’t. Just, don’t.

  “Really? No, no one was with me. It must have been this old cast. Sometimes it clicks twice when I walk.” She sounded like she was lying. He bought it though.

  Lies.

  Licked lips. Ugly smile. “I suppose that makes sense. Well, what can I make for you? Most of our patrons were kind enough to take today off.” His thick eyebrows stuttered as he winked. “So, I can make anything on the menu. It would be an honor to cook for such a lovely lady at the end of the world. A master chef can cook at all times, so if you like, I would be grateful to cook you something delicious. Would you care to try the chef’s favorite: the five-cheese, grilled cheese sandwich with my special savory sauce? It’s great comfort food.”

  Toppy wasted no time waiting for her response. He moved about the kitchen in an effortless fashion. Each step was graceful and each part of the sandwich was treated with special care. “You see, the trick to a great sandwich, any sandwich really, is freshly cut cheese. The flavor is far more rich and buttery, especially with Gouda. Do you like gouda?”

  She nodded her head. She felt almost in a trance by how perfect he was in the kitchen.

  You seriously cannot be this dimwitted

  As he tended to the bread, Edie slowly peaked out and gave Jenna an awkward look. The thing was, everything about her was awkward. Jenna ignored her. All she knew was that this chef was as quirky as Edie described, plus a little creepy, but there was something friendly about him, in a ‘Hunchback of Notre Dame’ kind of way. Edie, on the other hand, was a weirdo who watched a bunch of people die last night and ditched Jenna in the first twenty minutes of knowing her. There was no way Jenna wanted to be running away with either, but Toppy was the better option. She propped herself up onto one of the unmanned counter spaces and drank a cool glass of water with lemon. Toppy cut it fresh for her.

  “I have a bacon and avocado spread in my basement. It’s the perfect touch for the perfect sandwich.”

  “Come to think about it, yes. That sounds spectacular. Thank you.” Jenna said.

  Licked lips. Ugly smile.

  The big brute shuffled his way down the noisy stairs where he would find something as delicious as bacon and avocado spread. My goodness it sounded good. For a few moments Jenna realized that she’d forgotten all about Robert and everything that had happened. She’d been caught up in her empty stomach and was lost in the delicious smells.

  “Jenna. We need to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

  Edie poked her little round head out of the drawer where she had crawled into. She was quick to leave Jenna to die before, and now, all of a sudden she was urging her to run away from the creepy chef. “No thank you. Go ahead and leave if you want, or crawl back into your little hole. But I think I’m a lot safer with the chef than I am with you.”

  “You don’t understand.” Her voice was barely above audible.

  “That’s not the chef.”

  -

  Why would he want a radio that didn’t work? Greg seemed to be quite the odd, little man. Mickey didn’t need to understand why, but he needed to get out of the old man’s room and start looking for something to eat. Mickey’s standard breakfast after a long night of drinking started with four toaster strudels (with all the icing) and a giant glass of chocolate milk. Sadly, the freezer only had a couple frozen dinners and a weird piece of ice-burnt meat. Whoever Art was, he definitely didn’t have many friends over for dinner and had no skills in the kitchen. He was probably a fatter version of Harry with a less red beard and a couple jailhouse tattoos. A name like Art meant he was probably a heavy drinker too, so it would be wise to look through the cabinets and maybe find a bottle of bourbon. Because obviously, this guy drank bourbon.

  A bottle of tequila was found behind door number one.

  “Maybe Art is an Arturo,” Mickey said.

  “Hey, Mickey, can you come over here and help? I doubt the radio is sitting beside any bottle of alcohol,” Greg asked from the other side of the small apartment. It was built like Harry’s but with less clutter. Arturo must have been a minimalist because his place had almost nothing in it. A guy like Greg wouldn’t know Arturo the way Mickey did. It takes a drinker to know another drinker. It takes a man to understand another man. Mickey pretended to ignore Greg and opened up two of the cabinets.

  “Are you sure?” Mickey pulled an old radio from door number three. “Because this looks like a radio to me, and I think the next one has another bottle of tequila.” Mickey was no idiot, despite what Greg or Harry thought. Mickey knew how to read people. He knew that Arturo would have more than one bottle of booze and probably threw the radio somewhere when he was cleaning his kitchen. That’s what Mickey would have done, and Mickey knew Arturo. “Five bucks says I find another bottle” Mickey lofted the radio to Greg, fully expecting him to drop it. Fortunately, his reliability was better than expected. He was not completely inept.

  Greg said, “I’m not making a bet with you. I cannot relate to someone like this, nor can I understand their basic course of actions. You, it seems, can.”

  “Well, Greg. That’s good, because that’s not a bet you want to make with me, little buddy. I believe there will be another bottle right here, behind door number five.”

  He was right. Of course, he was right.

  “Ha. Told you,” Mickey said.

  He could tell he was getting under the smarty pant’s skin, and that was okay. This was part of Mickey’s charm. Be morbidly obnoxious until people saw the sweetness in it. He didn’t mean any harm, usually, and he would always be there to protect Greg. He protected Andy from plenty of misunderstandings at the bar.

  The wrench weighed heavy in the back pocket of his jeans and slid with each step. Harry said it was big and sturdy enough, but looking at Greg’s hammer made Mickey a little jealous. It made sense to allow the little guy to have the
most powerful weapon.

  Poor Greg, Mickey thought. Both of his ears would probably end up like cauliflower and his nose would look similar to an old prune. There was really never any hope for his lips, since they were probably chapped and raspberry’d before he got beat up.

  A hallow dinging echoed by Greg’s feet causing him to jump in shock. He would have jumped into Mickey’s arms if he would have been any closer.

  On the ground was a revelation for Mickey Kyle. No longer would he be stuck with a tiny, little wrench as his weapon. He would now be the proud owner of a black and gold aluminum baseball bat.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Mickey said in his best Clint Eastwood voice. “Ain’t this my lucky day.”

  -

  As Mickey took his first practice swings and as Jenna was having a magnificent meal prepared by the imposter chef named Toppy, Asher Blake plunged his shovel into the soft dirt for the last time. He had been digging in the courtyard of his brother’s apartment, slightly over a mile away from Mickey and Jenna. A proper burial took him nearly two hours of consistent digging, and that was after over six hours of constant fighting.

  Despite all of this, he was not tired, and his body did not ache. Asher assumed this was another part of the change his body had gone through since last night, and he appreciated not needing time to break. Asher was never a hard worker, but he found it far easier to work when he did not get tired and the blisters on his hands did not hurt.

  “If any beast comes now, I hope they have the courtesy to put us in here together,” he said to the covered body lying next to him. His dirty blonde hair was now just dirty. On any day before today this would have been an issue, but he cared far less about his appearance now that she was dead. Even the thought of washing his hair seemed trivial. The thirty-two year old with the perfect jawline, tan, and facial features had given up on his quest to always look his best after last night. Today, his pristine face was covered in other people's blood. Today, he was a grieving man who wanted to bury his best friend, the love of his life, his sister-in-law.