Obliteration

by James S. Murray

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Praise for the Awakened Series

  Also by James S. Murray and Darren Wearmouth

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  The fierce Hurricane Melyssa moved ominously across the Atlantic Ocean with formidable power. Reports claimed it would batter the East Coast of the United States like nothing before. It had the potential to dramatically change lives. Whole swaths of the Carolinas were being evacuated. Traffic jams clogged I-95. And the front end of the weather system hadn’t even neared land yet.

  For now, it was closing in on a lone steel-and-concrete rig precariously anchored in the roaring sea. Rain lashed down on the listing platform. A howling wind whipped against it.

  Light punched out of ten portholes into the darkness. In the far one, the shadow of a man hunched in his chair.

  A lone man at ease with himself.

  A man unperturbed by the constant sea spray lashing his window. Untroubled by the lightning splitting the sky, followed by the crash of thunder. Undisturbed by the creaking of steel and the swaying floor.

  A man who knew his true destiny.

  The wheelchair-bound Albert Van Ness lazily waved his finger around to the crackling strains of Schubert’s String Quintet in C Major. A dose of proper culture massaged his mind. It enriched him. Gave him a welcome break from the brainless interrogations and the terrible food.

  He closed his eyes and relaxed.

  The composition he was listening to went right to his heart. A true classic by a man of quality. It reminded him of the library in his French chateau, where he directed Foundation proceedings for the sake of humanity.

  Now the entire planet was at risk, thanks to his shortsighted captors. So naturally, why should he care about anything but music at a time like this?

  A record player was all he was afforded in this mid-Atlantic prison, a claustrophobic cell that afforded no creature comforts. He smiled at the phrase, knowing what little comforts creatures truly provided. The world thought itself safe now that he was locked away in this place.

  The same fools who marooned him here would eventually come begging for his help.

  At this moment, though, it didn’t matter. His concerns were for the here and now. He was listening to a German master. Someone like him.

  Van Ness wasn’t scared by the weather, the relentless rocking of the waves, or his uninviting prison cell. The starched lapels of his orange coverall remained vomit-free. He was clean-shaven. Sharp. After a year of this demented incarceration, he remained in control—of everything. His faculties, sure. But also beyond.

  Not that they knew it yet. He let out a deep, satisfying breath.

  His thoughts drifted from his father, Otto, cutting down a creature in Barcelona during the early sixties, to the look on American president John Reynolds’ face when he plummeted to his deserved death. Everything had a purpose, for better or for worse. Even being here, in the path of a hurricane.

  Van Ness let out a purr of satisfaction.

  He could sleep easy, and that’s what he intended to do.

  Another wave crashed against the rig, spraying his porthole window with salty water. The needle of the player scratched across the record, pulling him out of his reverie. Van Ness winced at the butchery of the music. The same kind of vandalism that had stopped him from saving the world and re-creating it in his image.

  Memories of Paris flooded his mind.

  His eyes slammed open in disgust, all pretense of tranquility shot when that god-awful man’s face haunted him once more.

  Thomas Cafferty, the failed mayor of New York City and second-rate impostor, deluded in thinking he had won the day.

  The fool.

  And yet—and this was where the bitterness lay, tearing at even Van Ness’ sizable ego—he, too, was a fool. It was Van Ness’ trusted right-hand man, Edwards, who had betrayed him, slicing off his hand moments before he could ignite the nuclear bombs planted underneath cities around the world. It was Edwards who had stopped Van Ness. Not Cafferty and his ragtag group of incompetents.

  Van Ness’ remaining hand clenched tightly, and he thought he could feel the phantom fist of the other. He stared down at his healed stump. Anger and pain washed through him.

  Another image flashed in Van Ness’ mind: Mayor Cafferty’s fist striking him in the face. The disrespect. The audacity. The sign of a man who had no control.

  If the world now relied on Thomas Cafferty to save it from the impending apocalypse, it was sorely mistaken.

  The prison rig listed in the swell of a force nine gale. More spray battered the window of his cell with such strength as to threaten its very integrity. But these structures were built to withstand seeming devastation. Just like him.

  Van Ness didn’t blink an eye as the record steadily resumed and Schubert continued to play.

  Remain calm, Albert.

  He looked across to the calendar on the wall and counted the days.

  It’s been one year. Any time now, he thought.

  They are coming for me, and I will answer the call.

  I will save humanity, and my price hasn’t changed. But now there is one more demand they must meet.

  Thomas Cafferty is a dead man.

  Chapter Two

  The early-morning sun had just risen over the already scorching Nevada desert, bathing the vast plains and peaks in a deep orange glow. A soldier on the top of an MRAP tactical vehicle silently aimed toward the mouth of an old gold mine. To his rear, former New York City mayor Tom Cafferty stood behind the open back door, focused determination on his face.

  Cafferty peered at a screen displaying footage from a drone sweeping the immediate area for any signs of a ground-level breach. During the last year, the creatures had ventured higher and higher toward the surface of the earth, ever more tolerant to oxygen and light. Cafferty suspected a land-based war was inevitable.

  But we still have time.

  Because now they knew what they were up against, and resources were finally being deployed on a global scale. The drone was a testament to that, its transmitted image showing the jagged peaks of the Toquima Range, before dipping down to the Mineral City ghost town. The skeletal remains of buildings and rusting machinery were partly shrouded in the shadow of the mountains, though clearly visible in their terminal d
ecline. People had flocked here during the mid-nineteenth century when the excitement of the California gold rush spilled over to this seemingly empty desert. Like most other settlements during this period, it had a short and intense life.

  Cafferty was preparing for a short and intense battle. Another step in the fight against these gruesome underground creatures that had attacked New York City three years earlier, to ensure other global cities didn’t suffer the same fate as the ghost towns here. The thought of the huge underground networks beneath his feet—created first by humans and now used by creatures and their enormous nests—made him wince. Tunnels stretched for miles. They went deep. A massive home inadvertently created for a deadly enemy. It was as if humanity had invited its own destruction all those years ago.

  But that same enemy now had an unrelenting opponent.

  He wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his brow and ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. Even at this time in the morning, the temperature had already risen to uncomfortable levels. It was shaping up to be one of the hottest days of late spring, and he was eager to get this operation started.

  The drone camera closed on Cafferty’s location. Twenty MRAP vehicles circled the old gold mine. Ten black SUVs sat behind on a rutted dirt track. Two Apache helicopters hovered in the air, their downdrafts throwing up thin dust clouds. Farther back, three trucks transmitted data and images back to the White House Situation Room, where President Amanda Brogan and her team watched.

  “Move in,” Cafferty commanded over his mic.

  With that order, two mechanized robots powered into the tunnel, brightening its walls with their powerful lights. Every hundred yards, they would fire rocket-propelled strobe grenades into the far distance, designed to keep any creatures at bay.

  Forty Special Forces soldiers, dressed in all black, immediately followed in an overwatch formation with their laser guns raised. A cable ran from every weapon’s grip to a newly designed battery on each soldier’s back. It ensured a superlong charge, which should be more than enough for this particular mission.

  The first four soldiers carried drills to bore holes in the tunnel wall at regular intervals. The next four would twist screw eyes into the created gaps. It gave everyone an anchor point if the creatures tried to use their unstoppable telekinetic force on the soldiers’ bodies. They’d hook their belts in place. During tests in their previous missions, this had proven a solid safety mechanism.

  Cafferty swatted a fly away with his second-generation laser pistol, using the same ease to kill an insect as a creature would when butchering a person. He marveled at the slick movements of the soldiers. A highly trained, heavily armed group. Powerful, with the right tools for the job. Experienced from previous encounters with the creatures.

  And he was in charge.

  After all he’d been through, all he’d seen, and all the begging and groveling he’d seemingly had to do to get to this moment, here he was: at the head of a government-backed mission that filled him with pride.

  Just as important, this was out in the daylight. This wasn’t a shadowy operation, run by a despot like Albert Van Ness and his deranged Foundation. Cafferty was proud of how much he had done to keep this aboveboard, to try to involve everyone in fighting the creatures. He wasn’t holding the world at ransom . . .

  At that thought, Cafferty’s hand tightened around the laser. That maniac Van Ness had caused the Z Train disaster in New York, which had almost killed him, not to mention his wife, and had killed hundreds of people. Only through quick thinking and the sacrifice of some incredibly brave people were he and his team able to somehow pull through a nearly impossible situation below the Hudson River. That same day he’d learned about the now dismantled Foundation for Human Advancement, and his mission was set.

  But at that point, he and his team were basically all alone, with no support from anyone. They had to take down Van Ness by themselves.

  He had to watch as the wheelchair-bound lunatic nuked cities in a twisted attempt to stop these creatures. Rapid City, South Dakota—gone. Lincoln, Nebraska—gone. Van Ness had killed an untold number of civilians. Irradiated land that would be uninhabitable for decades, if not more. Kidnapped, then killed former president John Reynolds. Killed British prime minister Simpson. Blackmailed numerous world governments for decades, amassing a fortune on the blood and sweat and fear Van Ness considered beneath him. Did all of this with impunity until a small team had finally taken him down in his underground Paris headquarters. Cafferty’s team. That feat alone had saved millions of lives. Van Ness now rotted in a remote prison.

  And now I run the show.

  This time, the hunters were about to become the hunted without any loss of human life. Only one species was dying en masse in the desert today.

  To him, the way to win this fight remained simple: identify the creatures’ locations around the world, hit them hard with the tech the Foundation had developed, and destroy the nests. Then move on until every subterranean infestation around the world was completely annihilated. He understood it lacked the nuances of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, but that also made sense: he was taking down something far more deadly—and decidedly less human—than ancient armies.

  That strategy had brought him to this scorched landscape. This abandoned Nevada gold mine was a confirmed nest site.

  People had gone missing here.

  A film crew from a popular ghost-hunting show had already gotten more than what they bargained for in the gold mine. They followed a voice that they mistook for a friendly spirit. The recovered footage showed them getting unceremoniously slaughtered, carved to pieces in seconds. The only other things recovered were the host’s broken glasses, their measurement equipment, and traces of DNA.

  Earlier this morning, Cafferty’s tech expert, Diego Munoz, had remotely navigated a bomb disposal robot into the depths of the mine. The robot’s camera captured images of advancing creatures before a tail lashed down, ending the transmission. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough—Cafferty had all the proof he needed to launch his strike.

  President Brogan had sensibly taken the threat to humanity seriously, meaning the required resources were at Cafferty’s disposal. This was only America, however. The global situation remained problematic. Governments still wouldn’t pay his reasonable costs or naively thought they could deal with the creature threat themselves. Why they thought this, when for so long they were willing to pay Van Ness his blood money, made no sense. Still, they held out.

  But not for long . . .

  This was the site where he and his team would prove their strategy, then break free of the bureaucratic chains that had bound them since ending Van Ness’ global reign of terror. Actions spoke louder than words. Once they’d recorded the whole end-to-end operation, no government in the world could deny the way forward. A path to victory, forged by Cafferty’s organization, the David M. North Foundation.

  Boots crunched on the parched ground toward him. Diego Munoz moved to Cafferty’s side, followed by former NYPD SWAT team member Sarah Bowcut. She glared at the mine’s flashing tunnel through steely eyes. The tech expert took a deep breath in anticipation of what was about to happen.

  Cafferty could feel their excitement. He felt it, too.

  Three other capable members of his close team remained to Cafferty’s rear, ready to follow him in once the soldiers had secured the area.

  “Move your vehicle into position,” Cafferty commanded into his mic.

  A recovery truck’s engine roared to life. Dust puffed around its tires as it reversed to the side of the group. The hydraulic brakes let out a sharp hiss.

  “Connect yourselves up,” Bowcut said.

  All six took turns to secure cables from their waists to winches on the back of the truck. The superstrong, mile-long carbon fiber tethers gave them extra protection if they had to enter the breach. If the telekinetic force became too strong when planting their bomb, they would radio the topside team and get immediately dragged out one after anoth
er, in order to avoid tangling.

  “No new seismic readings,” Cafferty’s wife, Ellen, said through his earpiece. “Still got live images from every helmet cam.”

  “Thanks, baby,” Cafferty replied. “You get slightest movement on that dial—”

  “Yeah, yeah, Tom. Just don’t take any stupid risks.”

  “Would I?”

  “Yes.”

  Cafferty glanced back at the SUVs and winked at his wife. Ellen was sitting behind the tinted window of the front one, overseeing the operation from his team’s perspective. She’d insisted on coming along, even though he’d wanted her to stay out of harm’s way for the sake of their son, David. Especially since it seemed she was here to specifically watch over him.

  Cafferty’s thoughts drifted back to his speech a year ago at the UN General Assembly. Ellen had implied that just like his obsession with the Z Train, Tom was now equally obsessed with his global mission to destroy these creatures. She feared he was becoming like Albert Van Ness. A bolt of irritation shot through him.

  This trivialization can wait for now.

  Not everyone sees the threat with the same clarity as me.

  Yes, the same clarity as Van Ness, but without his murderous intent. With the actual good of humanity in mind.

  Cafferty returned his attention to the entrance.

  Only the sounds of drilling and a faint whine from the robots’ engines came from the tunnel. No screeches. No shouts over the radio. No reported laser shots. They would come soon enough. He knew it. Knew that creatures never remained idle in the presence of their enemy.

  “You’re looking tired, Tom,” Bowcut said.

  “No time to rest,” he replied. “We’ll have plenty of time for sleep later.”

  “Then let’s get in there.”

  Munoz grunted as he readjusted his shoulder straps. His pack contained the C-4 bomb. Tech experts from DARPA had helped design the shaped charge to rocket toward a nest, then detonate on remote command. The creatures wouldn’t have a chance to destroy the graphene-concealed working parts.

  “You ready, Diego?” Cafferty asked.

  “Oh, don’t you worry, Tom,” he replied. “We’ll blow these motherfuckers to kingdom come.”