by Sean Kidd
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
BOOK 1
A novel
By
SEAN KIDD
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
Copyright © 2014 by Sean Kidd
All rights reserved. This book is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Design and Layout
Paramita at Creative Paramita
Editing and Proofreading
Jennifer A. LaDieu
David Vivian
Delores Vivian
Annie Luck
Shaun Luck
Casey Skelton
Ebook and Print Formatting
Jesse Gordon
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
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
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
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PROLOGUE
Dr. Peter Brooks fell into line with the other passengers making their way out of the filthy Lagos terminal. The line moved slowly past beggars, child pick pockets, and barefoot soldiers with their slung AK-47s. Pete watched as one of the soldiers verbally scolded a young girl who had taken refuge against the terminal wall. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. Passengers passed and glanced at the scene, but none had the nerve to stop. The young girl paid no mind to the soldier and focused on faces of the passing strangers. Pete was staring at the girl, when their eyes met. She raised an arm and pointed toward him. The soldier stopped yelling and turned, looking down the corridor at Pete. The soldier spun back to the girl and grabbed her under the arm leading her toward him.
“What now?” he thought as he watched the soldier approaching.
As a member of “Doctors without Borders," Pete had spent the last four months working Ebola outbreaks, that had swept through central Africa. The jungle towns had taken their toll on Pete, and he was more than ready to get back to the states.
Pete turned away from the approaching duo and looked straight ahead pleading to himself, “Please just let me get on my plane and get out of this god-forsaken country. I’m sick of the death and violence.” Pete’s pleas were interrupted by the Lagos soldier, “You, Doctor?” Pete stared straight ahead, ignoring the soldier, hoping he’d give up and move along. “Hey! You Doctor?” Pete felt the soldier nudge him in the ribs with the barrel of his rifle. He had no choice but to look over. “Yes, I’m a Doctor.”
“Good! You take girl to Cairo.” The soldier pushed the girl forward, and Pete watched as he held up a plane ticket pointing at the destination, “Her parent’s dead! You take same plane! Give to uncle in Cairo. She lives there now.” Pete began to protest when he felt the girl squeeze his hand, “Please!” the girl squeaked. Pete felt the girl’s pain and gave an affirming nod to the soldier.
The line began to move, and the two found themselves being rushed from the terminal. The rolling waves of heat across the runway made their ancient two propped Saab 340 look distorted and blurry. Pete hated flying and the thought of a puddle jumper to Cairo turned his stomach. Pete’s fear was momentarily broken when he felt a tug at his arm. He looked down to see the girl in the white dress staring up at him.
“What is it, honey?”
“My belly hurts,” she said as perspiration was beginning to form on her forehead.
Pete smiled and looked down at the girl, “It’s okay, my belly hurts too. Are you afraid of flying?” The girl shook her head “no” and moved her hand down to her stomach. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you some Tums when we get on the plane.
Fifty minutes on the runway did nothing to help the girl’s stomach. She was passed out in the seat next to Pete and the sweat was now pouring off from her. As the plane began to climb, Pete laid a hand across her forehead. She was burning up. In an hour, they’d be in Cairo and Pete could pass her off to her uncle. He would certainly be able to find her some medicine, or a doctor if she got any worse.
Pete laid back in his seat and closed his eyes. Thirty minutes later, Pete woke up and saw that passengers were already exiting the plane. The girl was still asleep next to him. He woke her and the two struggled down the aisle. His plan was to dump off the girl, get on his flight to the U.S. and not wake up until he landed.
As they stepped off the plane, an Egyptian family ran across the runway embracing the girl. Pete tried to explain that the girl was sick, but they didn’t speak English and seemed to have more important things to do, judging from the way they whisked her away. “She needs a doctor!” he called out as they entered the terminal.
Pete’s mood was slowly deteriorating and the long slow British Airline Check-in lines weren’t helping the matter any. He looked to the future for comfort. Twelve hours to Heathrow Airport where he’d have time to grab some dinner, and then ten hours back to the states from there. Then he’d be home.
An hour before landing in Heathrow, Pete rested his forehead against the cool, air conditioned glass of the 747’s window. His stomach was beginning to knot and his head was pounding. “That’s what I get for doing something nice. That little girl must have given me her bug and I’m going to be sick when I get home. Great!”
Two hours later Pete passed through Customs and made it to his gate. He watched as thousands of travelers roamed the terminal. Their constant moving made him feel weak and dizzy. He just needed to get home and go to bed. Time moved agonizingly slow, until they finally made the boarding call for his plane.
He looked around the gate and felt as though the other passengers were begin
ning to stare at him. One of the flight attendants approached him, touched his hand, and asked if he was alright.
“I’m tired of traveling and just want to get home.” The attendant gave him a smile and motioned him onto the jet bridge. Pete found his seat, sat down, and closed his eyes. He fought to stay focused, “Ten hours to Palo Alto and I’ll be home. Just ten more hours.” Pete leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He never woke up.
CNN Breaking News: September 30th 6:03PM
CNN reports the first case of Ebola has reached the United States. The Center for Disease Control confirmed today, that an unidentified male is being treated in a Palo Alto Hospital for the Ebola Virus. The CDC is reporting this is an isolated incident. Officials are telling us, the male returned home from working in Africa, where as a member of Doctors without Borders, he was providing medical treatment to Ebola patients across villages in central Africa. Central Africa is currently in the middle of a widespread outbreak, where it’s believed the virus has already taken more than ten lives. Once again, the CDC says this is an isolated incident, and there is no reason to panic.
CNN Breaking News: October 2nd 1:00PM
Today the CDC released at statement, reporting Dr. Peter Randall, the male who contracted the Ebola virus in central Africa has succumbed to his illness. The CDC reports Dr. Randall’s strain of the Ebola virus, may have mutated and become airborne. A spokesperson from the CDC advises they are currently searching for all passengers on British Airline flight 717 on September 28th from Heathrow to Palo Alto. All passengers are asked to contact the CDC immediately.
CHAPTER 1
October 17th 11:00am
“Man, will you turn that shit off, before it rots your brain!”
“What?” Chevy chuckled, as he twisted his hand in front of him, trying to manipulate the controller’s joystick from an awkward position.
“I said turn that shit off! We’ve got a lot to do today!”
I looked over to see my sorry ass friend Chevy, lying on the couch in his underwear with his feet propped up against the wall and his head hanging upside down off the couch. He was wearing one of his socks, while the other was stuffed halfway into the hole of his underwear. He glanced at me, the sock, then back at me again, “What?” smirked Chevy. “If you don’t like it, don’t look at it!” he said followed by a sinister, “I got you” laugh which he thought was almost as amusing as the sock tuck.
My roommate’s name wasn’t really Chevy. It was Matt. Matt Mathews. We are best friends, and have been since grade school. Matt and I thought we were pretty cool in high school, but had always been just a step outside of the “In Clique." That was until the summer of 2010, when Matt hurled himself into legendary status taking me along for the ride. Matt and I grew up in upstate New York. A small town nestled two hours north of Albany, and just fifteen miles south of the Canadian border. To most New Yorkers, we were known as Canadians.
During summer vacation between our junior and senior year of high school, Matt and I were forced to spend the whole summer working as Grounds Assistants at the Barrack’s Golf Course. Sometime that summer, Matt passed his driver’s test. With license in hand, Matt decided he was going to save every penny and reward himself with a car. In Matt’s case, the car was a piece of shit Chevrolet truck. It was a black Chevrolet 1500 with a 350 under the hood, six-inch lift kit and 48-inch tires covered in knobby treads as big as a boot heel. Even more embarrassing than the truck itself, Matt insisted on having the back window tinted with a Duck Commander logo. Oh, how he loved that thing. I’d like to tell you that it broke down and was hauled away by graduation. As I peer out of the living room window, I can see the orange glare from the street light bouncing off the rusted hood.
By the end of that summer, Matt had purchased his dream truck and lost interest in his job. Matt made it to work most days, but spent a majority of time there goofing off and hiding out until quitting time. A week before summer ended, Dave the owner of the Barracks, caught Matt sleeping in a golf cart behind the cart barn. It’s a well-known fact that Dave ran his course with an iron fist, and was quick to fly off the handle. Needless to say, when Dave caught Matt sleeping, you could have heard the yelling all the way to Montréal that day. In the middle of Dave’s berating, somewhere between “lazy” and “useless” Matt decided if he was going, he was going out with a Coup De Grace. Within five hours, Matt had arranged the biggest high school party in history, and his venue was obvious. Dave locked the gates on the main road that night unaware of the teenagers approaching the eleventh hole from every direction. Two hours later, there were a hundred kids running around drinking, screwing, and playing bumper cars with Dave’s cherished golf carts. I imagined having a party on the golf course was a bad idea, but I didn’t have anything else to do that night, so I figured, “What the hell?” We started a fairly good size bonfire, and a few of us gathered around sitting on some cut logs, sucking down a few PBRs. I thought it would be funny to start making fun of Matt’s truck, and it wasn’t long before the peanut gallery joined in. In the true spirit of friendship, we continued to poke fun at Matt until he was absolutely furious with us. Isn’t that what friends are for? It took us about thirty seconds until he was so pissed off he decided he couldn’t take it anymore. Matt jumped up pacing between us, feebly attempting to insult us, protecting his truck’s honor. A silence came over all of us when the challenge was thrown out of the crowd. To this day, I remember it perfectly. It came from that fat freshman with the hot sister. I think his name was Dillon or Dalton or something like that. He had on a pretty cool vintage Led Zeppelin Stairway to Heaven T-shirt. I saw that he was in serious need of a toothbrush when he got a little closer to Matt and me.
“If your truck is so great, then why don’t you jump that pond with it?” the fat kid goaded, as his arm swung around pointing to a small pond just a few yards away. It wasn’t the biggest pond on the golf course, and it wasn’t the smallest. At the widest point, it only spanned twenty feet. For Matt and his ego, it was too late! The gauntlet was thrown. Matt slowly turned in silence facing the pond. His eyes glistened as he crossed his arms. He took in a deep breath and released it slowly, “No problem chubby!”
“You’re crazy, Matt!” I laughed.
“I can make it. My truck can do it.” Matt mumbled under his breath. His brows lowered in deep thought. He began calculating his approach, speed, and landing. I rose from my timber seat, and walked around to the front of Matt, breaking his stare.
“If I approached from the other side and hit that bunker’s ridge, it will act like a ramp. Look at it! It’s got to be an eight-foot drop to the other side. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ve shagged balls out of that pond. It can’t be more than two or three feet deep. Even if I landed in the middle, I probably wouldn’t even get my feet wet!” He turned around and I heard him say, “It’s perfect!” as he disappeared into the darkness.
Kids were already spreading out to give Matt a wide birth. Some others worked on clearing the strip where Matt’s Chevy would inevitably crash and break up into a thousand pieces.
I chased him into the night and caught him as he was opening the truck door, “Buddy, this is stupid!” I said, but Matt was already hopping in his truck. Matt took a second to look down at me from the truck’s window, “Don’t worry Ty, I’ve got this.”
Before I could get a word in edgewise, Matt was racing to the other side of the pond. The loud roar of the truck was deafening as he pulled away. The truck’s tail lights looked like red eyes as he drove to the 10th tee box to set up his approach. The truck turned facing us. The lights seemed almost too bright, momentarily blinding me when Matt hit the high beams. The truck’s mammoth engine began revving to what seemed like too many RPMs, and fell to a slow idling hum.
Excitement took over! It was intoxicating. The crowd began to chant, “Matt! Matt! Matt!”
The chanting gradually sped up, then from a distance the truck’s engine rumbled to life. The headlights grew larger
as they came closer and bounced on the ruts in the fairway.
The crowd fell silent with anticipation, half hoping for success while the rest waited for a spectacularly gory conclusion. The truck’s lights jumped almost out of control as a silence fell over the spectators. The truck, going too fast to stop now hit the sand trap, and lifted off the ground with the aching sound of flexing metal. The crowd held their breath. Was he going too fast? Too slow? The truck soared over the pond, and only a single scream was heard. “FUUUUUCCCCKKKK! YOOOOUUUUU!” echoed from inside the Chevrolet’s cab. The truck cleared the pond and another twenty feet. A cloud of rust whiffed from the truck's frame as it bounced on the oversized tires. Once, twice, three times. It reminded me of playing with a super ball on the sidewalk when I was a little boy. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Each time higher than the last. The truck went up on two tires. It was about to flip! Without enough momentum to turn over, the truck came to rest on all four tires! Matt emerged from the driver’s seat.
“Holy shit! He did it!” The crowd erupted in a simultaneous cheer! Seconds later, Matt was immersed by his new fans, fist pumping, and high fiving anyone in arms reach.
Summer vacation ended a few days later. We returned to start our senior year of high school. After that summer, Matt had achieved legendary status and would never again be remembered as Matt Matthews, the goofy kid on the football team. He would forever be known as, Chevy! The guy who jumped a pond in his truck.
CHAPTER 2
October 10th 5pm
“Ty, will you please shut up, and turn on the fuckin’ Xbox! I want to shoot some zombies!” Chevy was bouncing up and down on the couch giving me his version of a tantrum.
“Yeah, okay! You know you can’t get through life killing zombies on the TV?” I said as I dropped my ass on the floor grabbing a controller.
“I’ve got to go to Hell in a little while. I’m on the schedule for work tonight. I haven’t been there in two weeks. I don’t really feel like going in. I’m thinking of ditching work and calling in sick. Do you think anyone would care?” I asked Chevy hoping he’d give me his vote of confidence.
