AFTER THE DUST SETTLED (Countdown to Armageddon Book 2)

by Darrell Maloney

RISE FROM THE ASHES:

  THE REBIRTH OF SAN ANTONIO

  will be available from Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble Booksellers in July, 2014.

  *************************

  *************************

  If you enjoyed

  AFTER THE DUST SETTLED

  You might also enjoy

  FINAL DAWN

  ESCAPE FROM ARMAGEDDON

  Available now at Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble Booksellers.

  *************************

  What would you do if you finally found the love of your life, and were making plans to spend eternity together - and then found out that eternity was only two years? Mark is a romantic and carefree young engineer, and a bit of a cornball. His beloved Hannah is a beautiful scientist. Pragmatic, intelligent and analytical, she longs for the family she never had, and a change from her horrific childhood. Mark offers that change, and her life is finally complete.

  Then Hannah discovers that mankind is doomed. Suddenly their lives become a mad scramble, to find a way to save themselves and everyone they love.

  An excerpt from “Final Dawn: Escape From Armageddon”…

  Sometimes the gods of fate smile upon you, and bestow on you a treasure of such magnitude, such wonder, that you pinch yourself over and over until you finally believe it’s really real.

  And sometimes those same gods bestow upon you a bowl of smelly, steaming crap.

  They seldom do both within the same week.

  Mark Snyder finished the breaker box tie in just before losing his daylight. He’d been working in an empty house for days, all alone in his thoughts. He hated jobs like this. No one to talk to, no other voices to listen to, other than the ones in his head. The house was only about eighty percent complete. Not far enough along yet to have power.

  The electricians were supposed to button everything up by the end of the week. And yes, he could have waited until then to start installing the security system. But he had several other jobs going on at once, and he was trying to maintain his good reputation for coming in on time. So while most people would have taken Sunday off to watch the ball game and relax, he was here instead installing security cameras.

  He’d come back on Saturday and check all the cameras to make sure they were working, then install the operations console.

  But for now, he’d done everything he could do without electricity. He loaded his tools back into his Explorer and headed home. Enough is enough.

  Mark picked up his cell and called Hannah.

  “Hey, Babe. I’m on my way. Is the game still on?”

  “Hi, honey,” she said. “No, it’s over, but you’ll be proud of me. I recorded it for you so you can watch it when you get home. The Cowboys lost at the last second when Washington kicked a field goal.”

  Mark winced and bit his lip. He resisted the urge to tell her it’s not so much fun watching a close game when you know how it turns out.

  Instead, he praised her. Because after all, she was the light of his life and the best thing that ever happened to him.

  “Well, thank you, my love.” He said. “Are you trying to out-sweet me again?”

  Hannah replied “Nope. Not trying. I won that contest a long time ago. I just wanted to show you how much I love you.”

  She went on. “If you want some beer you’ll have to stop and get some. Bryan came by to watch the game with you. I told him you were working and he asked if we had some beer. I told him to check the fridge. He took all we had and left. Said if we weren’t going to watch the game, then we wouldn’t need it. He said he’d take it to someone who had the game on.

  “How did you manage to grow up with him without ever killing him?”

  Mark laughed. “Because he was the baby of the family and Mom always took his side. If I had killed him she’d have grounded me for at least a week, maybe two. But I thought about it many times.”

  He made a mental note to find a way to get back at his brother. And yes, he’d have to stop for beer. The last hour of the job tonight, the only thing that kept him going was the thought of downing a cold Corona or two.

  Mark walked into the Exxon convenience store and waved at Joe Kenney, the assistant manager.

  Mark shouted across the store as he pulled a six-pack of Corona from the cooler. “Hey, Joe! All that I have are these, to remember you.”

  A couple of the other customers gave Mark the strangest look. A “better stay away from this guy” kind of look.

  Joe yelled back from behind the counter, where he was inventorying cigarettes. “Jim Croce. Photographs and Memories.”

  They’d known each other since high school, where Joe was one of the coolest guys Mark knew. Joe knew everything about music from the good old days. The music from the 60s and 70s. Back when music was good, and you could understand the lyrics. And every other word wasn’t profane.

  They’d played this game almost as long as they’d been friends. Mark would find an obscure song lyric and try to stump Joe. But he seldom succeeded. Joe played five instruments, and had been in various garage bands since he was ten. Music was pretty much his life. At least when he wasn’t at Exxon counting cigarettes.

  The line was a lot longer than usual. A rolling marquee above the cash register said the Powerball jackpot was at $310 million. Mark let out a slow whistle. That was a good chunk of change.

  He seldom played the lottery himself, but Hannah did all the time. Poor sweet thing. She’d been stuck at home with the flu for the last week and hadn’t been able to get out. But he knew she’d have gotten herself a ticket if she hadn’t been sick.

  So as a last-second lark, he told the clerk to throw in a quick pick for the lottery, cash option, and paid two extra bucks. It was worth two dollars to make Hannah smile that beautiful smile. And it was the least he could do for her, for thinking enough to record the game for him.

  But Mark forgot to give her the ticket. Forgot to even take it into the house. He laid it on the passenger seat of his Explorer and it sailed down to the floorboard when a dog ran in front of him and he had to hit the brakes hard. And he pulled into the driveway, took his beer and watched the game, and never gave it another thought.

  On Thursday, Mark was doing a sales pitch to a banker who was worried because his neighbor three doors down had been a recent victim of a home invasion. The banker’s community was gated and a private security company made their rounds occasionally, but none of that had stopped the brazen thieves from posing as utility workers.

  In broad daylight, they knocked on his neighbor’s door, and flashed fake IDs to gain access to the back yard “to check the power lines.” From there, they cut the phone cable, kicked in the back door, and tied up the occupants before leisurely looting the place of all its valuables. They even stopped long enough to make themselves a sandwich before leaving.

  Thievery, it seems, works up one’s appetite.

  The banker decided he needed a better security system, and Mark was trying to convince him that he was the man for the job.

  Mark’s cell phone went off. A little bird whistling “I’ve Got Sunshine” told him he had a text message from Hannah. He hit the mute button and went on with his presentation.

  Half an hour later he’d sealed the deal and was returning to his Explorer when he remembered the text. It said “Call me ASAP.”

  Oops.

  But luckily Hannah wasn’t mad. She was way too excited.

  “Did you hear about Joe’s store?” she asked him.

  He answered with a bit of apprehension. “No. Did they get robbed again? Is he okay?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’d say so! I heard on the news that they sold the winning ticket to the Powerball drawing. Somebody won over two hundred million dollars after taxes. And it’s somebody that lives right here in San Angelo. Wouldn’t it be cool if it’s somebody we know?”

  “Baby, hold on a minute.”

  Mark put the phone down and took out his wallet. The ticket he had purchased on Sunday night wasn’t t
here. Crap! Did he leave it on the counter at the store? Did some cretin come up behind him and pick it up?

  He instinctively felt his pants pockets, even though he knew he wasn’t wearing the same jeans he had on Sunday night.

  Then, on the floorboard of the passenger side of his ride, he saw a lonely piece of paper. And he remembered that damn dog.

  He picked up the ticket, then the phone.

  “Honey, don’t freak out,” he said. “But I bought you a ticket on Sunday night and forgot to give it to you. Would you go on line and see what the winning numbers are and read them to me?”

  The next thirty seconds lasted twenty years.

  Hannah came back on the line and said “Okay, here goes. 13, 25, 26, 44, 57, and the Powerball is 18.”

  Mark’s chest actually started to hurt, and he felt faint. In his mind’s eye, he saw Redd Foxx playing Fred Sanford, holding his chest and saying “This is it. It’s the big one…”

  But Mark wasn’t having a heart attack. Mark was experiencing what it felt to find out that you were suddenly a multi-millionaire.

  Hannah didn’t believe him, of course. She thought he was playing one of his dumb practical jokes. She met him at the door as he walked in and presented her the ticket as a new father might present his first born to a hospital nursery visitor.

  “Be careful,” he said. “Don’t damage it or tear it or sneeze on it.”

  The next day was Friday, and Hannah insisted on getting up and going to work. Even though she only got an hour’s worth of sleep. Mark stayed behind in bed, telling her just to call in and say “Go to hell, you bastards. I’m rich!”

  But Hannah was a scientist and an honorable one at that. She was above doing such a thing. She’d wait until her boss pissed her off. Then she’d tell the bastards to go to hell.

  When they parted that morning, both of them were on cloud nine. They’d spent most of the night talking about all the great things they’d do with their new fortune. They laughed when they thought of sour old Reverend Samuels, and how he might actually crack a smile when they presented him with a tithe check for ten percent of their winnings.

  They talked about which European countries they’d visit first, and even considered buying their own Caribbean Island.

  Yes, when they parted that morning, neither had a care in the world.

  What a difference a day makes.

  *************************

  Please enjoy this short story,

  The Journey of the Hands

  And thanks for reading my books.

  -Darrell-

  *************************

  I was born in a big marble building in the middle of Philadelphia in 1925.

  Back then I was sturdy and strong, with a sharp chiseled face. I even sparkled in the sunlight, although I didn't see sunlight for the first time until I was six months old.

  I took my first boat trip on the Erie Canal, in a canvas bag with 999 others just like me. It was cramped but not uncomfortable. I had no idea where I was going, but was happy for the company of the others.

  From time to time the bag we were in would be tossed from hand to hand as workers moved us from the boat to an armored car, then into a bank in Detroit.

  The first time I was touched by humans, I was picked up by a grizzled old merchant named Hanz, at his family's apotheke, in Taylor, Michigan. He handed me to a lovely woman named Clara, in a beautiful gingham dress and a bright yellow Easter bonnet.

  Clara immediately passed me to a young girl named Betsy, who held me up in wonder in the dusty sunlight breaking through the store's east window, and marveled at how I shone.

  I remember the brilliance of the light, and the warmth of her little girl hands, sticky from the gumball she had been passing back and forth between her mouth and her fingers.

  Thus began my journey of the hands.

  I took my first train trip in a rickety old Pullman car, nestled into the pocket of a man named Gustafson Baker. He preferred Gus, although his wife used his full name when she was peeved at him, which she frequently was.

  The train moved west over the Rockies, into Salt Lake City. I was rooted from my nest in Gustafson’s pocket and dropped into the hand of a young porter named Joe, who helped carry the Bakers' bags from the train into the station. Joe traded me for a piece of penny licorice a couple of days later.

  I look back at my days in Salt Lake City with fond memories. I got to meet a lot of people and felt the warmth of hundreds of hands, as I was passed around, sometimes several times a day.

  Sometimes the hands were soft, and smelled of sweet lilac or perfume. Sometimes the hands were grimy and gnarled, covered with dirt or coal dust, or heaven knows what else.

  Sometimes I would ride around in a genteel lady's pocketbook for days or weeks at a time. The women tended to hang onto me longer than the men did. I suppose that's because in the bottom of a pocketbook I could be easily forgotten.

  Once I got to go to a magnificent schoolhouse, in the small pocket of a girl of nine named Millicent. She traded me and an old buffalo nickel for a bowl of soup and a biscuit. Then she sat down and ate her lunch amidst a chorus of chatter and giggles, while I sat in a cold cash drawer, waiting to be passed to someone else.

  By the time I was five years old I had given up on my goal of counting the number of hands I had touched. The quest was borne out of boredom, and I had no idea it would be so many.

  After the first hundred hands or so I gave up on trying to remember all the names, or the details. After a thousand or so I gave up altogether. Suffice it to say it was a lot of hands in those early years.

  When I was ten, I was on the move again.

  This time was not so glorious a journey. I slipped through a hole in the pocket of a farmhand who was loading steers into a cattle car heading south.

  For days I lay on the hard wooden floor of the car as it lurched along its tracks, occasionally being stepped on by a four-legged beast who had no more idea where we were heading than I did.

  We wound up in southern California, where the cattle were turned into steaks and I was passed many times from one hand to another. I learned my worth was two tomatoes or one apple. I was in the land of itinerant farmers, most of whom were displaced by the dust bowl and the depression, and moved west in search of a better life.

  I would go back and forth, from a set of scratched and cracked hands belonging to a picker, to the soft and lotioned hands of a grocer, in exchange for two tomatoes, or an apple, or a pat of wrapped bread. Then given in change back to another set of cracked dry hands.

  Back and forth, day in and day out. It was monotonous. Sometimes I was passed back and forth in poker games, where I was apparently enough to ante my owner's hand of cards into the game.

  In 1943 I belonged to a man named John.

  John had picked me up on a sidewalk in Waco, Texas, where I had been carelessly dropped by a small child whose hands were too tiny to carry a handful of change.

  John looked at the my date and proclaimed me his lucky penny, since we had been born the same year. I knew it was 1943 because the other pennies being jostled about in John's trouser pockets were marked with that date, and were shiny and new.

  They never stayed around long, though. John carefully picked through his change whenever he paid for something. The shiny pennies would leave, never to be seen again.

  I would stay with him to bring him luck, he'd say.

  John worked in an armament factory outside of Waco, making gun barrels, until the day he changed careers and put on an ugly brown uniform. He stopped being John and began being Private Moseley, and he kept that name for the rest of the time I knew him.

  Private Moseley always rubbed my face before going into battle. For luck, he said. In those chaotic days, scared men in faraway lands did whatever they could to calm their nerves and convince themselves that they would live to see another sunset.

  The last time I saw Private Moseley we were on a landing craft in rough seas, heading
toward something called Omaha Beach. He rubbed my face, said a short prayer, and placed me in his left breast pocket. Then he patted me through the pocket. I heard him tell a buddy that his lucky penny would keep him alive.

  For two long weeks I sat in a box alongside a handful of other change, some love letters from Mary, three worn and tattered photographs of Private Moseley's mom, Mary and his young nephews with their ear-to-ear grins.

  I was jostled about in this box, not knowing where I was, or where I was going, but knowing from the constant rocking that I was in the cargo hold of a ship.

  Later I could feel the vibration of a truck that seemed to labor forever across the dusty and bumpy roads of west Texas. Finally I heard voices, then light, as the box was finally opened.

  I saw Mary's face, red and puffy, polluted by too many tears rolling from her pretty blue eyes. I saw her clutch the love letters she had written to Private Moseley, to John, so many months before. I felt the warmth of her fingers as she picked me up, his lucky penny, and gazed hard at me.

  Then in a rage she threw me from the porch swing where she was sitting, and into the soft green grass of her front yard.

  For many years I sat in the dirt of that front yard, watching seasons come and go. In the spring and summer months, the grass would grow tall, and would block out the sun. Then someone would cut it and I'd see light for a few days or weeks, until it went away again.

  My life became a series of cycles. I became very good at guessing the seasons. The grass growing and cutting cycles meant spring. When the growing slowed marked summer. When it stopped altogether it was fall. The cold marked winter, and I lost track of how many winters I laid there.

  One year in the cycle I knew as spring, I could hear voices. A lawnmower had passed over me not too many days before, and sunlight was penetrating through the shortened grass and warming my face.