Eschaton (The Scott Pfeiffer Story Book 1)

by Shane Woods

  The Scott Pfeiffer Story Part One

  ESCHATON

  Shane Woods

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2019 by Shane Woods

  To friends and family lost, and friends and family gained.

  Thank You

  PROLOGUE

  This is the worst headache ever. I don't know if you've ever been knocked out, or rendered unconscious in any way, but let me tell you, it sucks. Waking up is guaranteed to be worse than the action that put your lights out in the first place. Once your brain begins to regain consciousness, pain is the first thing you register. For those first few moments, it is your entire world. Think of the migraine that ate the migraine that your wife or girlfriend always complained about. Being hungover doesn't even compare.

  You guessed it. That's precisely what's going on inside my head at the moment. Musical Jolly Chimp is playing his cymbals inside of my head. Although, my brain is between them, so it's less of a cymbal crash and more of a painful squish, squish, squish. Each squish coinciding with the beats of my pulse. Well, there's that at least. I hurt, and I have a pulse. At least I'm not dead.

  I don't dare open my eyes. Not yet. One thing at a time.

  I can tell I am definitely sitting in a chair. Face down on a table or something. A cold, smooth surface under my cheek. Steel? Wood? Not sure about that, either. Probably not important. I'll get in touch with the decorator when I get a chance and see what's going on.

  The sensation of a puddle around the aforementioned cheek. Drool, it has to be. Oh well, no biggie. Not the first time I've woken up in a strange place with a splitting headache and a goatee full of the results of an overactive salivary gland. I am a product of the 90's after all.

  Slowly I begin to crack one eyelid open, and then the other. As my eyes adjust, I start to take in my surroundings. Bare light bulb overhead? Check. Stainless steel table under my face? Check. Okay, not a great start, but I can deal.

  Next, I begin the arduous process of kicking the rest of myself into motion. Slowly lifting my head, I can hear the soft whirring of a ventilation fan. As my eyes come into focus, I can make out a very sparsely furnished room. The low level of light provides just enough illumination to show I'm alone. I can make out three bare white walls, and one with what appears to be a large mirrored window in it. How original.

  Craning my head around some more shows the room to be about fifteen feet in both directions. Nothing else to it besides the chair that I'm in, and two more across the table from me. I begin thinking to myself if I just quit looking around, this whole situation could change for the better and stop becoming more and more stereotypically ominous.

  Yeah. Right. Fat chance of that. I could also wish and hope for a beautiful redhead to walk in holding a platter with a cheeseburger and an ice-cold beer, speaking in one of those accents that somehow make the attractive woman even more desirable. Norwegian, British, hell, I'd even take French at this point. Very doubtful that either wish would come through at this moment. Well...maybe...focus... Yeah, not happening.

  Reaching up to wipe the quickly cooling drool from my cheek and facial hair, I notice for the first time that my wrists are shackled and adjoined by a few feet of sturdy chain. Following the length of chain, I also notice that it has been routed under another length of chain around my waist, the length around my waist securing me to the chair. I was left enough room to allow for some freedom of movement of my arms, but not much else. This is looking worse and worse by the minute. I begin trying to move my feet, and, you guessed it, chained and bound, albeit much more securely in place than my arms.

  I'm pretty sure I've seen this movie. It doesn't go well for me. Alright, stay calm, don't panic. You're panicking. This is not the time for panic! Apparently, Mr. Panic didn't get the memo, that bastard showed up to the party in the loudest shirt I've ever seen and didn't even bring any drinks. Instead, he injected a full load of adrenaline directly into my system. With the quickening pace of my heart, the Chimp's cymbals picked up pace as well.

  SquishSquishSquishSquishSquish

  I pulled every which way on my bindings. I squirmed and writhed, I exerted so much pressure I even let out a little gas. Hey, don't judge me! Put yourself in my situation and see if you keep it together!

  It was no use. I was stuck fast by my bindings, and all I'd managed to do was make a little noise and change the previously sterile atmosphere of the room into something a little less than clean.

  Great. Amazing. Wonderful. All of those little adjectives that people think when they are frustrated and out of luck begin to rush through my brain. Well, alright, time to check out plan B and see what the hell is going on and who's got me here.

  I took a few moments to gather my breath, compose myself, all the while very prepared to stick to my usual M.O. and say the first thing to come to my mind. Nothing. My first efforts yielded nothing but a dry, dusty croak.

  Clearing my throat, I decided to give it another go. This time, I managed to bellow with as much voice as I could carry. Okay, maybe it wasn't a bellow, and definitely not much in the way of even an authoritative shout, conversational volume at best, but, hey, it was something!

  “I don't know what the fuck is going on here, but I definitely don't approve of bondage on the first date!”

  Really, you idiot? The hero of your own story, all you've been through, and that's what you go for as the opening line of what could very well be your end?

  Apparently, it was enough, because the single light over my head disappeared, to immediately be replaced by the multiple banks of fluorescent lights that, in my current state, could only have rivalled the intensity of the sun itself.

  It instantly began to feel like somebody gave our little monkey friend a full-on shot of cocaine. He was going to do all the squishing, do it now, and do it forever.

  Squeezing my eyes closed as tightly as I could and lowering my head, I squeaked out a meager “Not cool” as the pain in my head skyrocketed to a whole new level.

  From what seemed like a million miles away I heard several sets of the heavy footfalls of boots on linoleum, followed by a loud metallic click. Doing my best to lift my head and pry my eyes open against the heavy weight of so many lumens, my eyes slowly began to adjust once again, in time to see a plain steel door swing open. Stepping through the threshold and taking up spots on each side of the doorway were two armed men, both with M4's held tightly across their chests. They were perfectly military. By that, I mean you could have copied and pasted them both out of any given recruitment poster from any given military recruiting office.

  Following the two men into the room and proceeding past them, another pair presented themselves. Both with high-and-tight haircuts, although their similarities stopped there. The first wore basic dark suit pants and a plain white button-up shirt. Obviously the elder to the other man’s younger, with a touch of grey interspersed through his otherwise dark hair, and a pale, though serious and heavily lined face framed by entirely utilitarian eye glasses.

  The second man to enter was in his mid-twenties, a tan complexion with dark eyes, sporting a standard issue military ACU with a holstered sidearm and little more decoration than the basic unit and rank patches, along with a nameplate declaring him to be Munoz.

  Okay, so we have a soldier and a suit. Wonderful.

  The elder man took his seat across the table from my own. He laid a plain manila envelope on the table and motioned for the younger man to take the seat next to him.

  He began to speak as he opened the folder, adjusting his glasses just a bit higher on his nose with his index finger.

  “Mister...Ah, yes. Mr. Pfeiffer. My name is Agent
Grayson,” and, motioning to the younger man to his right,” this is Sergeant Munoz.”

  “I'm sure the pleasure is all yours,” came my reply. “I'd love to stand and shake hands, and be a proper gentleman, but you see...” and motioned to the chains still binding to my spot.

  “Mr. Pfeiffer, I don't think you are grasping the gravity of your visit with us,” Grayson replied,” nor do you seem to understand the severity of your actions.”

  The man broke out his most severe expression for the occasion, and I could feel his gaze penetrating through me as he glared over the top of his glasses. Well, that's great. My first time ever being tied and bound to a chair in the same room as a suit and a soldier and I've pissed off one, maybe even both of them, though I couldn't tell as Sergeant Munoz kept his gaze clear and impassive. Why stop now? Why not go for broke?

  Straightening in my seat and doing my best to fight through the pain in my head I snapped back, “Look, buddy, I don't know where you think this is going to go, holding me in this shoe box of a room as your captive audience, but we are not going anywhere until I know exactly what the hell you've done with my family and friends. Where are they?”

  “Mr. Pfeiffer!” he growled, “You are hardly in a position to be difficult. You are to be facing charges of crimes against your country, including, according to our reports,” as he thumbed through pages within his folder, “you and your men have murdered sixty-seven United States soldiers, as well as destroying several land vehicles, and bringing down an AH-6 Little Bird helicopter!” His voice reaching a crescendo as he spat those final words.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Grayson-”

  “Agent.”

  “-Agent Grayson, like it fucking matters, agent titles at the end of the world and such. But, excuse me, those men attacked us. No reason, no provocation. They were led by a man clearly acting outside of convention and law, but that's our fault? The fact of the matter stands that my head is absolutely fucking killing me, I've no idea where I am-”

  “Mr. Pfeiffer.”

  “Stop interrupting me, you dick! You also still have not told me what's become of my family and friends. I'm not giving you a damned thing until this back of mine gets a little scratching! End of story!”

  I was pissed. I mean, the nerve of this guy! I clasped my hands together and placed them on the table, leaning forward and attempting to meet his gaze with one equally as cold.

  Considering my stance, he muttered a concessionary, “Very well then”, and motioned one of the door guards over to him.

  The guard, a young private, stepped forward, leaning in close so Grayson could whisper some orders to him. After a moment, the private nodded once, spun on his heels, and left the room.

  Grayson leaned back in his seat, and soon Munoz and I followed suit.

  “Any chance of getting my legs loosened?” I asked.

  Grayson just smiled wanly, and Munoz let out a soft chuckle. Ok. I guess not.

  After a few more moments, the private returned, a black poly case in one hand, and a pitcher of water in the other.

  Following him into the room was a younger blonde, maybe around the same age as Munoz, wearing the pale blue scrubs of a nurse and carrying a small case of her own.

  She handed a tablet in a black case to Grayson as she passed him and proceeded to stand next to me. Laying her own case on the table, she opened it, and removed a syringe, which she laid on the table.

  “I'm Nurse Hannigan. We're going to get this little gremlin out of your head,” she reported with a demure grin.

  “Monkey,” I corrected.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “It's a monkey in my... You know what, never mind. Let's get to it,” I said, returning the smile.

  She began loading the needle and swabbing my arm with a prep pad as the private set the water pitcher and some plastic cups on the middle of the table and handed the poly case off to Munoz before returning to his post near the door.

  Nurse Hannigan finished cleaning the inside of my elbow, cleared the air from her syringe, and slid it into the arm with the skill of someone well versed in the subject. Within moments my head began to clear. Not entirely, but the pain and grogginess that was left became just a shadow of its former self. She produced another smile for my benefit before gathering her things and turning to leave the room. Upon passing Grayson, she nodded to him and declared, “He's all yours,” before making her way through the door, closing it with a heavy clang as she departed.

  Grayson nodded to me, asking, “Better?” as he started filling Styrofoam cups with water for each of us. I accepted mine, the cold water feeling like the most refreshing thing this side of...well, I don't know. Other refreshing things. Nonetheless, it was good. Damn good.

  Munoz cleared his throat as he unclasped the top of the poly case.

  “As Agent Grayson stated, I am Sergeant Munoz. I'm here as an observer, and for data collection. This is just a recording device.”

  “Ah, he does speak!” I reported to Grayson, “Does he do any other tricks?”

  Munoz shot me a withering look, and began anew, “Anyway, we would ask that you start at the beginning. Leave no details out. These recordings will go higher up the ladder to determine-”

  “Look, cupcake,” I said, interrupting him, “Do you kiss a girl before your first dinner together? Do you like taking road trips before you fill up the tank or check the oil?”

  “Excuse me, puta?” Munoz shot back.

  “My head may be better,” I started, “but that's only half the deal. Calm yourself. We ain't going nowhere until I know-”

  Grayson's turn to interrupt somebody came, “Yes, your family. And friends. Look,” and he propped the tablet on its case, bringing up a screen showing the very room we were in, all three of us seated at the table. A live feed.

  “So that is an observation window! You clever bastard! I had no idea!” I shot out, giving him my best 'you got me' expression.

  “And,” Grayson said, thumbing across the screen, “your wife. Your daughter. Cute kid.”

  Several more panes slid by on the screen, all presumably live feeds of either cells, or rooms much like the one I was in. The only ones not kept in confinement were the children and babies, all shots showed them in either day care settings, or nurseries tended by what I assumed to be nurses.

  “Now, see?” I offered, “I'm much more willing to be just a little bit more cooperative. When can I see them?”

  “Soon, Mr. Pfeiffer. First things first. I believe, as you said, there are backs that need scratched?”

  Sighing in resignation, I said, “Okay, okay. Name's Scott, by the way. We're not in school, and you ain't my principal, drop the last name bullshit. What do you need?”

  “As Sergeant Munoz was stating, the beginning. Start just short of when you saw your first infected.” And, catching my apprehension, he continued, “The charges I'd mentioned before have not been moved to convictions, and nothing has been formalized as of yet. This is more to...” he paused, then continued, “to determine the validity of said charges, and determine what really happened. We have conflicting reports across the board, and also, any real-world experience you can bring to light concerning this worldwide catastrophe will of course be of great benefit.”

  “Alright.” I conceded again, “The beginning?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pf- I mean, Scott. The beginning.”

  I stole another sip of that God-tier water, ran my hand over the stubble on my cheeks and usually clean-shaven head, and sighed.

  “Yeah. The beginning. Clench that sphincter and buckle up, man. It's been a ride.”

  One

  Stepping out of the doors of the Highway 80 service plaza, I sighed. Another long trip from New York. Nah, not the city itself, I'll never take a semi into that mess. I may be a little off in the head, but I'm not crazy. Orange County, one of the places this outfit sees fit to send me, more often than somewhere that the sun actually shines.

  No sun yet, but close. The rain clouds that have
plagued my entire journey finally tearing themselves away from their low hanging valance in the place just over my head, revealing pin pricks of starlight for all to see. Another typical late April morning in Ohio. Rain across the entire region, only to give way to a clear sunrise, likely followed by more rain. Fine by me, I'm a whole 25 miles from my home terminal, and another little ways south to my bed.

  Walking across the lot towards my truck, the morning sounds of a busy highway rest spot coming to life are all around. Other drivers grumbling their way to and fro, either running their pre-trip checks, or off to get their first coffee, and maybe a morning shower in one of the rented stalls. Some trucks here and there coughing to life in anticipation of another leg of their cross-country trek.

  And there she is. My truck for the day. An absolutely hideous orange Volvo, over a million miles on the clock, hooked to a pair of brand new trailers loaded with God knows what inside. One seat in the small day cab. Never a passenger, just me. My way or the highway, amirite? Eh? Ok, I'll stop.

  Nearing my rig, a large driver in a well-worn sweat suit came out of the shadows next to his tractor, leaned against the front fender, any further downward movement hampered by his ample gut, and began a deep, throaty roar of a coughing fit. Spitting oily looking gobs of expectorate all over the ground and his chrome bumper. Running his already stained sleeve across his face, leaving behind crimson and tar-colored smears.

  “Damn, dude,” I entreated, “you should probably get that checked out.”

  He grunted something unintelligible and went back to his fit. I passed him by and went about my day as well. Some people just aren't morning people.

  Climbing into the driver’s seat of the Giant Orange Turd, I retrieved the phone I'd ignored for most of the night. I had left my charger laying on the dining room table when I left two days previous. This meant when I started it up, I was met by a very dim screen and a battery life reading three percent. Being so close to home, and a man with his priorities in order, I ignored the 'Wife: Three Missed Calls' notification and went straight to social media. I was immediately assailed by posts speaking of everything from mass riots and unrest nationwide, to people claiming that the zombie apocalypse is upon us. Of course, the obligatory posts interspersed into the mix of the girl everyone ignores posting as much cleavage as possible, and that one smart-assed friend marking himself safe from the California earthquake, twenty-three hundred miles from his house. Well, maybe I should call the wife after all.