Contents
LOST HOPE
Copyright © 2021
Books by Nathan Hystad
Prologue
Part I Beginning of the End
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Part II The Invasion
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Part III Lost Hope
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part IV The Aftermath
1
2
3
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Copyright © 2021 Nathan Hystad
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover art: J Caleb Design
Edited by: Christen Hystad
Edited by: Scarlett R Algee
Proofed and Formatted by: BZ Hercules
Books By Nathan Hystad
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The Bridge Sequence
Lost Contact
Lost Time
Lost Hope
Space Race
Space Race
Space Battle
Space Strike
The Survivors Series
The Event
New Threat
New World
The Ancients
The Theos
Old Enemy
New Alliance
The Gatekeepers
New Horizon
The Academy
Old World
New Discovery
Old Secrets
The Deities
New Beginning
New Lies
The Colony
Baldwin’s Legacy
Confrontation
Unification
Culmination
Hierarchy
Lineage
Legacy
The Resistance Series
Rift
Revenge
Return
The Manuscript
Lights Over Cloud Lake
Red Creek
Return to Red Creek
Prologue
One Week Earlier
“Welcome back to Across This Great Nation with Bill McReary. Today, we’re doing things in a slightly different format. We want to hear what’s happening in your corner of the country. We’ve had calls from Nebraska, informing us that their power has been fluctuating for the last three days.
“Jerome in Texas says they’ve lost their 5G network, and Linda in Manhattan tells us a military force has been sighted at Pier 25. We’re awaiting visual confirmation.” Bill wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and glanced through the studio’s window at his grimacing station manager. He’d thought that going national and being syndicated meant he wouldn’t have to deal with weasels like Sinclair any longer, but he was wrong.
He lifted a finger at Sinclair. “For those just tuning in, here’s a recap of this morning’s guests. Hold on to your pants and grab your tinfoil hats, because it’s been one hell of a ride.” His producer nodded at him, and he tugged the headphones off, waving the manager inside.
“What do you want?” Bill stroked his beard anxiously and glanced at the clock. Another hour and he was hitting the road, heading inland to his cabin.
Sinclair fiddled with his glasses, pulling them from his pronounced nose. “Bill, what’s this I hear about you bailing on tomorrow’s show?”
Bill stayed seated. “You think this will all blow over?”
“What? The power grid issues?” Sinclair asked.
“Open your eyes. These Objects are almost here. Do you want me to stay and interview them? ‘We’re wondering if you find the term extra-terrestrial offensive? Or maybe you prefer visitor?’ Step into reality, Sinclair.”
“You’ve been listening to these crackpot guests for many years, Bill. You better not be actually buying in to any of their crap.” Sinclair put his glasses on, and his eyes magnified as he leaned closer.
“How do you explain the strange things happening? China? Russia mobilizing troops.”
“Russia is always doing something—”
“And the Objects. You still believe they’re asteroids?” Bill finally stood, knocking his chair to the side.
Sinclair stumbled back, rubbing a hand over his bald head. “That’s not the point. You have a contract, Bill.”
“It won’t matter when we’re all dead, will it?” Bill muttered.
“What was that?” Sinclair asked.
“Nothing.” Bill glanced at the time, then at his producer. Sharon was tapping her wrist, advising him they were almost out of tape. “How about I keep the show running from my cabin? I have most of the equipment.”
“What about your producer?”
“I’m sending her home. Her family lives out of the city. It’ll be safer,” Bill told him.
“I don’t like this.” Sinclair set his fingers on the door handle. “Finish the show and consider yourself on vacation. You’re lucky I don’t call my lawyer.” He started to leave and then poked his head back in. “And stop smoking in here. It’s illegal.”
He left, and Bill dabbed his brow again. “Who do we have next?” He pulled a cigarette from his drawer and brought the ashtray out. It was half full of withered orange filters.
“We have Roger,” Sharon said.
“Roger, you’re on the air. What’s your take on the state of the country?” Bill lit the smoke and inhaled deeply.
“Bill, it’s your old buddy.” Bill immediately recognized the man’s voice. The Southern drawl. He sounded like trouble.
“Roger from the Freedom Earthers?” Bill peered at the time. Forty minutes. Another few callers, and he’d be climbing into his truck and leaving town.
He was already stocked with the essentials, and his bunker under the cabin was loaded with everything he required to wait out… whatever this was. Truth be told, Bill was looking forward to the solitude. He wasn’t much of a people person, even if he had to pretend to be for three hours a day.
“That’s me. I wanted to remind your listeners that we’re still recruiting.” Roger’s line crackled.
“For the militia group you’re using to battle the Believers?” Bill asked, slightly amused.
“Bill, are you suggesting this is a hoax?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m trying to spread the word out to the listeners.” The smoke from his cigarette drifted to his eyes, and he squinted.
“Our website has been frozen by the government for the past two weeks, and we’re struggling to find ways for people to contact us. Our social media pages have been reported, and it’s obvious the Believers are trying to mess with
the Freedom Earthers. But you, Bill. You can share my phone number with them. My team will personally direct the callers to their local sectors. Does that satisfy you?”
“You know I can’t do that. Boldly advocate for a group of gun-toting psychos who are admittedly going to kill other humans? It’ll be a witch hunt, don’t you see that, Roger?” Bill stubbed the cigarette out.
“We will not stand idly by while our country is overtaken by a cult. It’s already happened, Bill. Vice President Alan Black is one of them. Once we deal with the head of the snake…”
“Are you suggesting you’re going to kill the Vice President?” Bill’s finger hovered over the End Call button on his console.
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
Bill flagged Sharon down, and she caught his drift, cutting to a commercial. Bill rested his elbows on the table and lit another smoke. “Roger, how are you coming by your information?”
“We interviewed one of them. Tracked him for a bit and found out he was with the cult. He sang like a canary. Guess there was a big event near Boulder a couple weeks ago. Black was there, giving a speech. Can you believe it?” Roger sounded amused, but Bill’s blood was running cold. He glanced at Sharon and muted his call.
“Sharon, get out of here. Go home. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, okay?” Bill saw the fear in his producer’s eyes, but she just nodded, clutching her purse to her chest as she rushed from her office. He turned his attention to Roger. “What are you planning on doing with this information?”
“We’re not on the air, are we?” Roger asked.
“No.”
“Bill, I like you. Always have. Maybe you’d consider working with us. Help us gather our forces for the big showdown.”
Ashes drifted to the table. “What would you need me to do?” If what Roger said was true, this could be a serious moment in Bill’s life. He’d sat behind this damned microphone for years, judging others, discussing topics his Pulitzer Prize-winning colleagues thought were beneath his station. He kept asking himself one question: what if? What if Roger was right? What if the Objects really held an alien adversary?
“Take my number. We’re gathering outside Atlanta in a few days.”
“Why Atlanta?”
“That’s where Black is rumored to be hiding.”
Bill pulled on his beard. Could he align with a militia group to kidnap, arguably, the most powerful man in the United States? No one had heard from the President in weeks, but there was no proof of foul play. His family had gone quiet, but the official statement from the press secretary said the President was ill. It had conspiracy written all over it.
“Okay. I’m heading to my cabin in a while. I have the setup there. I’ll help, but promise me you won’t go too far,” Bill said.
Roger didn’t speak for a moment. He took two deep breaths. “Bill, we’ll do anything for this country. This… great nation, as you so eloquently put it each show. The Believers are at the helm, and things will become ugly in the coming days. Fight with us. And when we bathe in the blood of our enemies, we will do so knowing it was just. For God and country.”
Bill wasn’t one for overusing that type of rhetoric, but something stirred in him: an old pride passed down for generations in the McReary family. He was the first of his line to not join the military, and it had constantly rankled his father. Of course, the cranky old boot had been dead for five years. Maybe this was Bill’s chance at conscription. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. Here’s my number. Contact me as soon as you land in the eagle’s nest,” Roger said. Bill scrawled the digits onto a piece of paper and folded it, shoving it into his shirt’s pocket.
He was about to say goodbye, but the caller was already off the line. The red light flashed, and Bill continued with the show.
“You’re on with Bill, spread the news.” He was proud to keep a tremor from his voice.
“Name’s Hubert from South Dakota. Long-time listener, first-time caller.”
“Hubert, what’s the condition over there?”
“I work for the state troopers, and I encountered a situation your listeners might appreciate.” Hubert sounded older, probably close to retirement. If he’d been wearing the uniform for years and could still be shocked, this had to be good.
“Go ahead, Hubert. What happened?” Bill slowed the cadence of his words, lowering his timbre. He let the calm radio personality replace the fear.
“Got a call from a frantic husband outside Rapid City. That’s my hometown. Said his wife was speaking in another language. He thought it might be tongues, like those Baptists do, but his wife ain’t never been to church in her life.” Hubert paused while someone spoke to him. He was probably on duty.
“Did you go to the scene?”
“Went out on my way off shift. Pulled up to the house and instantly sensed something was wrong.”
“Why was that?” Bill reached for his cigarette pack and found it empty. He had a carton in the truck.
“Dog was barking at the front porch. Left outta the house. I called for the husband, but he didn’t respond. Heard someone walking inside, and the door was unlocked. Dog ran straight in, headed upstairs. I found her in the kitchen, holding a knife. Her eyes were red, like they’d burst. The knife was bloody.”
Bill knew where this was going.
“Ain’t never seen the likes. She wasn’t human, Bill. She growled and rushed me. I had to shoot her. She mumbled in another language as she died. Her hair was half pulled out, like she was tearing at her own scalp. Trying to claw in.”
“That’s terrible. What about the husband?”
“Dead. In the bedroom. Stabbed ten or so times. They figure she snapped, but a discovery in the house led me to another theory.”
Bill drummed his fingers. “What was it?”
“A cloak. I’ve been listening for years, and recently, you’ve talked a lot about this cult… the Believers. I think she was one of them. That one caller spoke of attuning. I think the woman tried to connect to the aliens, but something went haywire. She’d gone batty.”
Why did it always seem to come back to the cult? Bill patted his chest and heard the crumpling of the paper with Roger’s phone number on it.
“We can’t be sure that a cloak is enough evidence, but you might be right, Hubert. I’m sorry you had to endure a traumatic event like this. Are you okay?” Bill genuinely asked him. He was confident that if he’d recently killed someone, he wouldn’t be so casual about it.
“I’m fine, Bill. I want to sign up with them Freedom Earthers. If this is what the Believers are up to, we have to help. We need to hunt every last one of them down and…” Bill cut him off just in time, and dabbed his sweaty forehead with a cloth. It was the middle of winter. Why was this place so hot? His shift was up, and he sighed in relief.
“Thank you for tuning in. This has been another enlightening episode of Across this Great Nation. I’m your host, Bill McReary, signing off. Be good to one another.” He removed his headphones as the news anchor took over from the far side of the station. That had been one hell of a show.
He grabbed his jacket and peered through the window in the door, not wanting Sinclair to be waiting for an ambush. When he saw the coast was clear, he jogged down the hall and exited into a snowstorm. It would grow worse as he drove toward Idaho, but his truck could handle it.
Bill hit the command start and used a brush to sweep the snow from his windshield. It was a good three-hour drive to his cabin under decent conditions. He estimated another hour or more if the snow persisted.
A while later, Bill was well on his way past the city border. The roads were quiet as a result of the storm, but he had a fresh pack of smokes, a twenty-ounce black coffee, and a full tank of gas. He was set.
The skies were dark with heavy clouds, making it feel more like nine at night than five in the afternoon. Snow continued to fall, but Bill took it easy, going ten under the speed limit.
Ring. Ring.
Hi
s cell phone.
Bill searched the cabin for the device, and found it in the cupholder, crammed behind his coffee. The number was unfamiliar, but he decided to answer it. He’d been expecting a call from one of his exes, since she was located in upstate New York.
“Hello,” Bill said, with the phone on speaker.
“Is this Bill? Bill McReary?” The voice was gruff.
“Who’s asking?” He almost hung up, thinking it might be a solicitor.
“The name’s Saul. I need your help.”
Part I
Beginning of the End
1
“I’ll make the exchange! Don’t harm them!” I shouted the last, trying to ensure my voice was heard above the loud Rodax engines. The ship jarred to the side, causing my straps to cut into my shoulders. The cell phone flew from my hands, landing at Lewen’s feet. She stared at it with wide eyes, then plucked it from the floor.
“Please, pass it over,” I urged the alien woman. She tossed it down the line to Tripp, then to me. “Hello?” But the call had ended.
“Was it her?” Veronica didn’t have to ask which her she was referring to.
“It was Jessica.” I dialed the number again, but an operator told me the number was out of service.
“What did she want?” Tripp spoke loudly enough to hear his strained words.
“She wants the Bridge,” I said.
“So what? We give it to her.” Veronica shrugged like it was no big deal.
“We do?”
“Why not? We already have the Rodax’s help. Let them think they have the upper hand,” Veronica said.
“It might work. But do you really think she’ll trade Marcus, Bev, and the kids?” Tripp glanced nervously at the aliens around us. “Won’t we stand out, rolling up in a spaceship?”
“We’ll find a way.” I ran a hand through my damp hair. Veronica stared at me, as if expecting me to offer some profound plan. I didn’t have anything. I suddenly wished that my father, Dirk Walker, was with us to help me decide our next move.
The ship jerked sideways again, and I peered up at Gren. The window past his pilot’s seat showed an angry black sky with lightning forking across it. A meteor entered the atmosphere, burning hotly as it screamed toward the ocean.
Lost Hope (The Bridge Sequence Book Three) Page 1
