The Next Dawn
C. G. Cooper
JBD Entertainment, LLC
Contents
“THE NEXT DAWN”
Prologue
Part I
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
Part II
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
III. Part III
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
Epilogue
Also by C. G. Cooper
About the Author
“THE NEXT DAWN”
Copyright © 2021 JBD Entertainment, LLC.
All Rights Reserved
Author: C. G. Cooper
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations and events are all products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events or real persons are completely coincidental.
Any unauthorized reproduction of this work is strictly prohibited.
Warning: This story is intended for mature audiences and contains profanity and violence.
Want to stay in the loop?
Sign Up to be the FIRST to learn about new releases.
Plus get newsletter only bonus content for FREE.
Visit cg-cooper.com for details.
Join my private reader group at TeamCGCooper.com.
A portion of all profits from the sale of my novels goes to fund OPERATION C4, our nonprofit initiative serving young military officers. For more information visit OperationC4.com.
Prologue
The official origin of the sickness that undid civilization like a thousand H-bombs never really mattered. At least it didn’t to those who suffered through the resulting pandemic. At that point—the point of rations and kangaroo courts held in backyards next to barbecue grills—squabbling about the virus’s origin was akin to arguing about what shade of blue the sky was. To question it was to miss the point.
The virus just was.
What did become apparent was that X-99 spread too quickly for perforated governments to close borders and shield respective populaces. Primitive lines were drawn in the sand. Some politicians railed against what could’ve been done to prevent the spread, while others hunkered down and looked to the future with foggy lenses. It was like holding candles in a hurricane.
Preparation for a pandemic is unsexy and expensive. So sayeth the truth of the past.
Thus, the damage was done before it officially began. And those who dared look back felt the blinding sting of hindsight.
Hospital waiting rooms filled even as countries implemented social distancing, a modern-day version of keeping a body’s worth of light between you and your dance partner. Families stayed home in those first weeks, and their untethered children jumped with joy to be out of school—for a time. Vacations never last. Tensions mounted, and rebellion crept up from the rumbling guts of citizens literally dying to be heard.
Of course there were always feel-good stories. For no crisis ever hit Mother Earth without a legion of heroes rising up to do good. Because it’s through the tough times that the strongest of us are forged. And that is where our story begins, four weeks into the global spread of X-99, in the homes of people who would become legends.
Part One
Today’s Top Headlines:
200,000 Infected in America
Florida Locks Down
Cruise Ships Keep Thousands Stranded at Sea
Chapter One
Dottie Roth
Dorothy Roth, Dottie to her friends, stirred her tea ten times clockwise, and then ten times counterclockwise, with the spoon she’d bought on a wonderful trip to New Mexico. There was no real reason for the ten and ten, other than the fact that Dottie had plenty of time on her hands.
A pair of hummingbirds zoomed into view outside the window above the kitchen sink. They were a battle-ready set vying for access to Dottie’s hummingbird potion.
“Patience, little ones,” Dottie said, her voice no more than a whisper, another badge of successful chemo. She tapped her spoon on the edge of the teacup and set it in the sink, giggling at the warring hummingbirds who were oblivious to her gaze. Dottie watched them until they’d had their fill. Her tea was half gone. Perhaps she’d finish the rest outside. What a beautiful day. Sun shining, barely a cloud in the sky.
She’d just sat down, eyes closing to thank God for such a gift, when the first yell of the morning came.
“That’s mine! Let go, you little twerp!”
It was the young brothers who lived next door, ten and six. Dottie didn’t know their names, having nurtured a desire to keep to herself as of late. It was this distance that had enabled her to forget about her past. It was better to remain apart, even if it cost her a friend or two, or in this case, a neighbor.
“It’s mine!” squealed the younger boy.
Dottie imagined the two pulling on opposite ends of a toy. No doubt the older boy would win.
Sure enough, a moment later came the satisfied grunt from the older and the frustrated scream from the younger. Usually that was the end of it. They liked to run inside and tattle on one another. Dottie never had kids, so she didn’t know the ins and outs of children from personal experience. But she’d watched and listened and learned. It was all about routines. She understood routines.
But today, the fighting children didn’t go back in the house. They didn’t get the chance.
“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?”
It was barely past nine in the morning. Too early to be sloshed, but sloshed he was.
Dottie’s gut tightened at the sloppy sound of the drunken man’s words: The herl you think’y’dewling
“He took my Nerf gun!” the younger yelled, indignation in every syllable.
“I did not! It’s mine!”
Dottie fully expected a sharp rebuke. She’d heard the father before, even though he hadn’t been around much before the current crisis. He kept to himself and let the wife talk most days. But she hadn’t appeared.
Dottie winced at the sound of the first slap.
“And now you,” the father said.
Annowyoo.
Another slap and a muffled moan.
“Now get inside, both of you, before I knock you into next week.”
There were no protests, no more yells. Only receding whimpers.
Dottie Roth stood frozen at her kitchen sink, her gut tight, her feet rooted to the floor as she stared at the ghost of her own past in
its drunk, unshaven face.
Chapter Two
Chuck Yarling
His knees popped like howitzers when he stretched off the side of the bed. Another day, another laundry list of aches. At least he was alive. He put his feet on the floor and said a brief thanks to the big man upstairs.
Morris rose from his own bed and padded over to nuzzle his master.
“I know, boy,” he said, rubbing the top of the yellow lab’s head. “Another day, another dollar.”
After taking Morris for a walk, shifting the back-porch plants to better sun, watering the plants in the dining room, and giving Morris a heap of food into his bowl, Chuck was finally able to take a seat in his worn-leather recliner, savoring every back-soothing inch.
“Now, that’s the ticket,” he said, reaching over to grab the TV remote. He had work to do, but work wasn’t what it was a month ago. Back then, by this time of day, Chuck Yarling was the first in the office, hacking away at the mountains of emails that had piled up overnight. Ah, the life of an auto insurance customer service associate.
Then they’d allowed him to work at home. That lasted two weeks. Then the call came. No more job. No more income.
There’d been the panic. A week of making phone calls and checking and rechecking his retirement account. Then a calm had settled over him. He’d remembered the past, the battles he’d overcome.
Vietnam? Check.
West Nile virus? Check.
Lost job? Double check.
Time had done it. It was the magic serum he forgot about until his subconscious memory kicked in and told him to put on his big boy pants and saddle up the horse.
He went on to his next checklist.
Home paid off? Check.
Car lease up to date? Check.
Health in order? Check.
He didn’t need much. It helped that he’d stayed up to date on the latest tech trends. Not only could he stream every single episode of his favorite TV shows, but he could also reach out to any friend, if he wanted. That had gotten him off the pity wagon and onto the train of the living.
But first he had to check in with the news. Not a lot. Just a taste. Too much and his day would be ruined. Not enough and he might not catch some key piece he needed. Sure there were days he was concerned. That’s why it was smart to plan. It was smart to have contingencies like his two months of preserved food in the basement.
He flipped from channel to channel, not more than five minutes on each. They were all talking about the same things: 100,000 cases in America, New York City hospitals getting crushed, and hot spots coming to Middle America.
Nothing new but the numbers.
Chuck turned off the television and closed his eyes. It was important to process new information without letting the headlines dictate his mood. That’s what this was—a sober moment to process, calculate, and distill it all into a juice he could digest. When his moment of quiet was done, he picked up the phone and dialed an old friend. He’d found this to be part of his reawakening: service to others.
The phone picked up on the second ring. The voice grumbled sleepily.
“It’s after ten o’clock, old timer,” Chuck said to Curly, his old Army pal. “Tell me you’re not still in your PJs and shower shoes. Sergeant Gatsby’s probably rolling his eyes in heaven.”
“What’s the use?” said Curly, his nasally voice grated from years of whiskey and smoke.
“Ah, don’t talk like that, Curly.”
“You got some insight I don’t?”
Chuck licked his dry lips. He’d expected a challenge with this call. Why hadn’t he prepared for it? “Sun’s out.”
“Yeah? What else?”
“Get some of it on your face and you’ll see there’s nothing else needed.”
“Chuck,” Curly said, sounding as if he was rising from his bed, “listen—I appreciate the call. I really do. But if you don’t mind, I’m going to go back to sleep.”
“Hey, soldier, come on—”
Curly hacked into the phone. “Don’t soldier me, Chuck. I’m tired. The news has got me wanting to suck on the wrong end of a rifle. I’m tired. Really tired of it all. This damn virus...”
Chuck let him rant for a bit. The old guy obviously needed it. The virus. The news. The death toll that rose every day—so reliable, so methodical—it was almost a constant.
When Curly was finished, Chuck had the creeping sensation that allowing his buddy to rant like that hadn’t done any good and might have made him worse.
After an awkward silence, the old man’s nasal rasp came through again. “I’m a barrel of laughs these days, aren’t I?”
“We all are, Curly.”
“Yeah. Guess so. Listen, I’m going back to bed. Thanks for the call.”
The call went dead before Chuck could say farewell.
It had been a mistake. A selfless gesture to be sure, but a mistake nonetheless, for he now felt as though the call had coated his body with a kind of unpleasant smell, one he needed to air out.
He paused his afternoon stretches to sit and listen. No sounds. No cars driving by. No trains on the tracks. No planes whooshing through the heavens. Chuck found himself wishing that the ice cream man might make a pass through the neighborhood just to bring some cheer. Now that was an idea. Perhaps someone could convince the governor that ice cream men were essential workers. Let them sell ice cream!
This was his problem. Too much time to think. He’d relished that time in the beginning. Now all he wanted was to strap on his biking shoes and hit the road. But not even that was allowed. It felt like more and more was being taken. Sure, there was a reason. Chuck himself was in the supposed danger zone: X-99 would ravage his body more than someone younger. But those reports were changing. It wasn’t only the elderly getting sick. On some level, he felt that was fair. He’d never liked being lumped into a category. He’d rather be the one to choose his station in life. Pity was the last thing he wanted.
He picked himself off the floor and decided to do something about it.
And besides, death had come calling before. What was one more dance with the Devil gonna hurt?
Chapter Three
Dottie Roth
You’d never know there was a global crisis on. There was so much to do. Clean the bathrooms. Sweep the stoop. Peruse Amazon for the latest deals. A true crisis upsets the balance and the natural order. Not much upset to be noticed when a broken hook on the hummingbird feeder commands your attention more than anything else.
By noon she was finished with her chores and sitting at the kitchen table nibbling baby carrots. One baby carrot at a time, sometimes with a dip of hummus, sometimes without.
She glanced out the window. The hummingbirds were back, appreciative of the hook replacement on their little restaurant.
“They say you eat half your body weight per day. Is that true?” Dottie asked.
The things hovered and buzzed around the feeder, caring little for conversation.
She nibbled a carrot. “Really, though, it must be exhausting.”
A chickadee flitted in; his busty chest puffed. He flitted off almost as quickly.
“Yeah, tell your friends,” she said, chuckling. “I wish I could eat half my body weight in anything, let alone nectar and bugs. A little gift from the cancer. Well, at least my figure is back to cute.”
No response from the birds.
“Anyone ever tell you guys you’re lousy conversationalists?”
Lunch ended for both birds and birdwatcher. Dottie took an extra glass of water for good measure. It was time for her daily walk.
She laced up her running shoes and pulled on a hoodie. It was close to 70 degrees out.
The sun caressed her face on those first steps out the door. She stopped near the street, closing her eyes to soak in as much as she could. Walks were forbidden, the entire town was on semi-permanent curfew. Enjoy every moment, she thought, smiling up at the sun.
There wasn’t a soul on the street, as if they�
�d cleared out just for her. But she’d found herself missing the sight of children on bicycles with parents chasing behind. Before the pandemic, those sights had something of a forced feel to them, like the parents were trying to be the best version of themselves as if trying to pass some audit. But now, four weeks in, triumphs in parenting amounted to surviving another day and little else.
A car drove by, the side dented and rusted in places, and Dottie raised a hand in greeting though she didn’t recognize the vehicle. The driver—a stern-faced man with a snow-white beard so straight it looked carved in wood—drove on, his eyes dead ahead. Dottie made a mental note of the car and driver. It was an old habit from a time in her life she was trying to forget, but something about the man triggered the reflex. She tried to ignore it. At any rate, one could never be too careful, especially if the scattered news reports about crime were true. If this mess lasted much longer, there would be an uptick. While Dottie held no illusions of her invulnerability, she remained cautious. A single woman in her retirement years should always be cautious.
The Next Dawn Page 1
