SKULL'S SHADOWS
A Plague Wars Novel
By
David VanDyke and Ryan King
THREE KINGS PUBLISHING
Copyright © 2014 by David VanDyke and Ryan King. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, except for brief excerpts for the purpose of review or quotation, without permission in writing from the author.
David VanDyke's Plague Wars series:
The Eden Plague Book 0
Reaper's Run Book 1
Skull's Shadows: A Plague Wars Novel
The Demon Plagues Book 2
The Reaper Plague Book 3
The Orion Plague Book 4
Cyborg Strike Book 5
Comes The Destroyer Book 6
Look for them at your favorite book provider or visit www.davidvandykeauthor.com
Ryan King's Land of Tomorrow series:
Glimmer of Hope
Children of Wrath
Paths of Righteousness
Cover by Jun Ares
Formatting by LiberWriter
Table of Contents
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 1
The worst things in life are never free, thought Alan “Skull” Denham as he watched the two-engine turboprop plane rise into the faint glow of approaching dawn from behind the wheel of his battered SUV. Though cool in the high desert of southern Arizona, he didn’t feel the chill.
A black ice of loneliness and wrath, a thing he’d fought off with action and hatred, now threatened to consume his being. He’d set those things aside long enough to get Daniel Markis, Larry Nightingale and the others safely away on that plane.
Now, he embraced those feelings. Now, the time had come for retribution.
People who knew the tall thin man might describe him as quietly unsettling. When he did speak, he did so purposefully, often accented by cutting sarcasm that revealed a quick and dangerous mind. Yet, he was neither a clown nor a man to be safely ignored.
Even those who knew him well would not have described him as exceptionally philosophical, but they’d have been wrong. Skull often contemplated deep truths about the world and himself.
One truth: genuine friendship was so extraordinarily rare it might as well be an apparition, a specter, a ghost. Another truth, one so deep and so hard it felt like a spear through his chest, was that Zeke Johnstone had been his last and truest friend. The depth of the emotion surprised him.
Against his will he relived the events outside Zeke’s Fayetteville, North Carolina home. Members of a secret government conspiracy had murdered Zeke in front of his wife and children. Undoubtedly they’d wanted him alive, to trace him back to the Sosthenes bunker where those infected with the healing Eden Plague hid, but they’d started the shooting.
In the mayhem, a bullet had blown Zeke’s head open.
Skull ground his teeth at the memory and walked back to the SUV. He thought of those men who had killed his friend and caused such pain to Zeke’s family. On Zeke’s orders, Skull, Spooky and Larry had injected the killers with the healing Eden Plague, in his opinion a grave injustice.
The killers had deserved to die.
More like them could be coming after him soon. Their crimes could not go unanswered. He knew his chances of finding the specific men responsible were unlikely, but not impossible. The new INS, Inc. headquarters in Maryland would be a good place to start.
Skull felt the fluttering of dark wings around the edge of his mind and relied upon the old antidote: revenge and death. Many deserved it, cried out for it, and Skull knew he’d been made to fulfill that purpose, an angel of doom.
Why else had he been born?
Starting the SUV, he turned north away from the abandoned airfield outside of Tucson. He didn’t fear anyone he might run into; he’d always known that when his time to die came it would be at his own hand, but until then, he didn’t want anyone to interfere with his work.
The only work that was ever right.
His primary purpose for existence.
So be it, he thought and smiled grimly at the orange light rising over the stark mountains.
Driving just above the speed limit, Skull kept an eye out for anything unusual. His vehicle should be clean and as far as he knew no one who might be looking for him had his physical description, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. This thought made him lean back in his seat until he felt the reassuring pressure of the Glock 37 .45 caliber compact pistol concealed at the back of his waist.
The sun rose on a beautiful day, the sky clear over the panoramic mountains. A man could almost forget that the U.S. government had detonated two nuclear weapons on its own soil in the last few days, or that martial law now oppressed all of America. He wondered what could be happening out in the larger world as he drove north.
South of Phoenix, Skull hit the first checkpoint, a hasty affair with plastic cones and police cars as barriers. He slowly rolled down the window to speak to the officer who waved him forward.
“How’s it going?” asked Skull with a friendly smile.
“License and registration,” the man answered back without any trace of personality.
“Sure,” said Skull, pulling out a California driver’s license with his picture and the name Victor Erickson. He reached for the registration and proof of insurance that matched the false identification.
The policeman examined the documents so closely, Skull wondered if the man could read. Just sound it out, Skull thought with internal sarcasm. The big words can be tricky. With iron self control, he kept the thoughts from spilling past his lips.
“Where are you headed, Mister Erickson?” the policeman finally asked.
“Back to Sacramento. Got to be at work on Monday.”
“And what is it you do for work?” The policeman seemed skeptical.
“I’m the manager of Prince Lumber and Construction Supply.” Skull felt confident giving these details because he had already paid for the backstopping. If the cop decided to call the company, they would verify that Victor Erickson, a tall bald man, worked there and was expected back to work on Monday.
The cop peered at the growing line of traffic behind Skull’s vehicle. “And just what was your purpose in Arizona?”
Skull saw in the line next to him officers had pulled the family out of their station wagon and were searching the vehicle and making them turn out their pockets. If they did that to him, the game could be up given all the weapons in the vehicle. He mentally marked the positions of the policemen. Only the one he was speaking to was paying him any attention.
“Sir? Why were you in Arizona?
”
“I’m sorry, officer,” Skull replied with an embarrassed smile. “I was visiting my sick aunt in Sonoma and realized I was supposed to call my wife before I left and didn’t. She gets so pissed when I do that.”
The man seemed to relax a little. “Yeah, mine too.”
“Officer, is there some sort of problem? Is this because of the terrorist attacks?”
“Yeah,” he answered, leaning back so he could see the full extent of the forming lines. Now both vehicles on either side of Skull’s were getting tossed. “Martial law, you know. Those damn terrorists. I had friends in Los Angles.”
Skull forced his eyes to get soft and watery. “I had a brother there.” He rubbed his face and looked away. “Haven’t heard from him since...since...well, since then.”
The policeman handed back his identification and papers. “We’ll all get through this. Just stay tough and hang together. The President will give those sons of bitches what they deserve.”
“I sure hope so,” said Skull taking the papers. “You take care.”
“You too,” the policeman answered. “And stay to the north. They’re saying fallout is still drifting east from L.A. Shouldn’t be too dangerous, but even a little radiated rain is bad.”
Indeed it is, thought Skull. It wouldn’t just be radioactive rain; it would be ashes from millions of innocents killed to cover up a lie. Skull was under no illusions what the leaders of the government would do to contain the Eden Plague that threatened to disrupt their comfortable power blocs and politics. He’d seen dozens of examples in his time all over the world. The average Joe thought it couldn’t happen in America, but all it took was a big enough threat. 9/11 had made people so afraid they were begging the government to take their rights in exchange for security. Decades had to pass for the feds to back away from knee-jerk reactions to every imagined danger, and now all that normalcy had been wiped away again.
Skull passed through several more checkpoints, none as thorough or efficient as the first one. These policemen appeared to only be making a show of checking people’s identification and were nearly apologetic for stopping motorists. Fortunately, traffic was light. Most people likely stayed at home during this time of uncertainly and crisis, heeding the public service announcements.
Needing coffee and food, Skull pulled off at an exit for a large gas station. He noticed an agitated group of people near the pumps. Driving around them slowly, he examined the posted signs: ALL FUEL RATIONED BY ORDER OF THE GOVERNOR. SEE YOUR LOCAL COURTHOUSE FOR RATION CARD.
Skull looked down at his fuel gauge. That could be a problem, he thought. The large SUV still had over a quarter of a tank, but that wouldn’t take him too much farther. Maybe he could get into New Mexico. Hopefully the governor there hadn’t enacted similar measures.
Parking in a spot he could see from inside the large convenience store, he grabbed a basket from a stack near the door and started tossing in nuts, jerky, and any other food that would keep for several days. He also pitched in a few packages of flashlight batteries before getting himself an extra-large coffee with double cream and sugar to ward off what would be an inevitable burnt flavor. A couple of irradiated egg and meat sandwiches that had been under heat lamps for who knew how long would serve for breakfast.
Walking over to the checkout, he set his basket and coffee in front of a stick-thin woman with glasses.
“That be all for ya today?” she asked with a cheerfulness that seemed out of place.
“Sure,” he answered. “What’s up with the gas rationing?”
The cashier cackled loudly like a witch from one of the old movies Skull used to watch as a kid. “That just happened this morning. Pissed lots of people off. My manager ain’t too happy either because we have to give gas to police and state officials without charging them. We only get their receipt with a state IOU. Meanwhile, he says we still have to pay all our bills in cash.” She laughed and shook her head while placing his purchases in a bag, clearly enjoying herself.
“Total seems a little high, don’t you think?” Skull said as the numbers rang up.
“Got to charge more, otherwise the hoarders’d buy us out right off and we’d have nothing at all.” Reaching out to take his money, she lowered her voice. “Mark my words, this is all because of something those Jews in Israel did.” Then her smile faltered, as if noticing his bronzed skin for the first time and wondering at his background.
Actually, Apache in his ancestry had bequeathed him the skin color, much more noticeable when he’d gotten sun. “Mazel Tov,” Skull said with a straight face, taking his coffee and bag of food off the counter and walking to the door. He stopped at the sight of the newspaper stand near the exit. The headline read, MILLIONS KILLED IN TERRORIST CULT ATTACKS IN LOS ANGELES AND WEST VIRGINIA. TWELVE STATES DECLARE EMERGENCIES. He read a little further. The article stated that Federal authorities had placed Daniel Markis at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list as the leader of the terrorist group at fault. The article also told how his group was believed to be responsible for the sinking of the cruise ship Royal Neptune.
Skull knew he shouldn’t be surprised or disgusted, but felt both. So Markis is America’s most wanted man, he thought. Maybe that’ll keep the heat off me. Let self-righteous DJ be the face of his new movement and draw all the attention so I can do what I need to. Leafing through the paper, he didn’t see pictures of any others from the Sosthenes bunker group.
After loading his food and batteries into his pack, Skull sat in the SUV, ate his sandwiches and drank the sweet foul coffee. Watching the angry and growing crowd at the pumps, he decided things were getting a little too unpredictable right there. Better not to get caught up in a violent situation that was bound to attract a law enforcement response.
He hadn’t used the embedded vehicle GPS yet, but now he turned it on. The system wanted a destination, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to type in the INS Inc. facility in Maryland. Instead, he put in Amarillo, Texas, a good waypoint in the right direction. More importantly, he set the GPS to avoid traffic jams and freeways. That should help conserve gas and maybe even get him around most of the checkpoints, even if it did cost him time.
Skull drove the SUV back out onto the interstate and then, at the direction of the GPS, exited six miles north at Camp Verde onto State Route 260 running generally southeast before turning back to the northeast. The two-lane road was nearly deserted except for an occasional pickup truck with a dog in back. The noon sun illuminated orange rock, pale soil, and hardy, stunted plants – all that survived in this harsh and desolate land.
Skull remembered how much he enjoyed the desert and its pitiless nature, unforgiving of errors or weakness.
Of all the places where he served as a Marine, rugged Afghanistan was the most beautiful, despite all the raghead assholes living there. High mountains, wide-open vistas, and in the north, green fields and swift primordial rivers. Skull had enjoyed watching the landscape from his sniper positions in the downtime between servicing targets.
Afghanistan had been as close to sniper heaven as he’d ever found.
Much like northern Arizona, Skull thought. I would really like to kill someone here. Someone deserving. Someone on the wrong side.
Only problem was, he wasn’t yet sure of the sides. Still, he knew if he just stayed patient, evil would reveal itself.
It always did.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a police car across the road ahead. Skull considered turning around, but they may have already seen him. Running now would be like fox scent to the hounds, an admission of guilt. Hoping this checkpoint would be no more difficult to get through than the others, he slowed as he approached the lone cruiser.
A policeman as tall as Skull, but much heavier, exited the driver’s side door, paced by his shorter, younger partner. Both cops rested their hands on their weapons, a sign of the times.
The bigger officer held his free hand up for the SUV to stop. When Skull complied, the cop walked o
ver, followed by the other.
Skull calmly handed them his license and registration. “How you doing today?”
The big cop looked at the license plate on the SUV and the identification. “California? You’re way off the freeways, partner.”
“I was trying to get around all the traffic and maybe find a place to buy gas,” Skull improvised.
“Good luck with that,” said the smaller cop. “Everyone in the state is scrambling to buy gas now. Damn thing caught everyone by surprise. Not just gas but other stuff too.”
“Other stuff?” Skull asked.
The big cop gave his partner a stern look, shutting him up. “Where you headed to?”
“Amarillo,” Skull said, thinking of the destination he entered in the GPS. “I’ve got family there I’m going to visit.”
“Really?” asked the big cop. “Seems like a strange time to hit the road, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“You mean with the crazy attacks and all?” asked Skull. “Well, my parents have been bugging me to come visit for a long time and with everything that has happened, it just seemed like maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get out of California.”
The cop nodded. “You carrying any contraband, Mister Erickson?”
“Contraband?” asked Skull with a confused look.
“Yeah, contraband,” said the smaller cop. “Drugs, explosives, guns.”
“Guns are contraband in Arizona?”
The big man frowned. “Ever since the State Security Measures were enacted, it is illegal to transport more than one weapon in a vehicle. Why? Are you carrying firearms?”
“Me?” Skull laughed. “Hell, no. I’m from California. If you even say the word ‘gun’ there, you get a ticket.”
“Then I guess you won’t have any problems with us searching your SUV, will you?”
Skull looked at both men and saw they had already made up their minds. They were likely just bored. Before martial law he might have been able to push back and assert his right to refuse, but things had changed.
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