by Ryan Schow
“Thanks,” she says.
“Uh…you’re welcome?” Macy says while the three of us just stand there slack jawed and speechless.
While collecting the other arrows that missed their targets, to no one in general Indigo says, “So where are you staying?”
“Off of Turk,” I say. “But we were ambushed by guys like these. We made it out alive, but lost one along the way.” When I confess this, I’m thinking of Gunner. It’s all I can do not to start crying again.
“What’s in the backpack?” she asks slipping two more arrows back in her quiver.
“Medical supplies. That’s the thing. My husband has a bad gash on his head and Rex has been shot and has a head wound as well, by the look of it.”
Rex swivels his head around and points to a gash on the back of his skull.
“Uncle Rex?” Macy asks.
“Yes, niece Macy?”
“We thought…I mean, well…mostly I thought—”
“I was a goner?” he asks. We all nod. “I was turned while running and shooting and somewhere along the way everything just went black. Next thing I know I’m in the weeds and these clowns are dragging me to my feet.”
“I thought you were shot,” I say. “By the drone.”
“‘Fraid not,” he says with a sly, sexy grin he turns on the archer. Oh, Lord. I clear my throat audibly, disappointed in him for the first time right now. He pretends not to notice me scolding him.
“There’s a few vacancies in our neighborhood, if you want to try to find someplace nearby,” Indigo offers, ignoring Rex’s subtle flirting. “At least there you’ll have heat and shelter.”
“Hate to break it to you,” Rex says, “but that power surge that just broke open the skies—if that’s what that was—it means no more drones, but it also means no more heat, no more electricity, no more anything electronic.”
Now she’s all eyes on him. The concern in her eyes, that’s the first truly identifiable emotion. At least now we know she’s human.
“For how long?” she asks.
“Could be awhile,” Stanton says, his tone rather ominous. “Years maybe. Decades.”
“So what does that mean for us?” Indigo asks.
Rex gives her a grim smile, then says, “What my brother-in-law is so eloquently trying to say is, until we hear otherwise, we’re pretty much screwed with a capital F.”
END OF EPISODE 1
NOTE TO READER: Who is the archer? How did she come to save the McNamara’s from certain death/enslavement? Meet Indigo in her insane rise from obscure teen to the enigmatic archer in a new thriller, titled The Zero Hour, written exclusively for readers of The Last War. Indigo’s story is action packed post-apocalyptic survival fiction at its finest. Not only do you get to know this badass huntress on day one of the fall of San Francisco, The Zero Hour sets up critical events that will take place in Episode 2, titled The Ophidian Horde. CLICK HERE not only to get your FREE copy of The Zero Hour delivered to your eBook reader of choice, an exclusive link to the cast pictures on Pinterest, and to keep up with the latest new releases from this author in both The Last War series, and The Swann series.
***Read the first two chapters of The Zero Hour at the end of this book***
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The Zero Hour: Indigo’s Story
1
Some people are always talking about how when you need someone, anyone, that when your friends fail you and your family abandons you and humanity sinks into a mire of its own making, at least you have God.
But what if you need Him and all He’s got for you is closed lips and a cold shoulder? Well, the answer becomes simple: you’re on your own.
I tell myself it’s better this way. But it’s a lie. It was a lie when the world was normal and it’s a lie now that it’s not. Every so often, when I think back to the beginning, to just before all this happened, when I think about all the drama that used to breed, gestate and grow legs not only in school but between my parents at home, I think I might actually believe in the high merits of solitude.
At one point I might have even told myself the apocalypse would be a welcomed reprieve from real life. That if civilization fell, I’d no longer feel so alone. That the threat of extinction would bring us all together not as one social group or another, but as human beings.
I allowed myself the indulgence of these grand, foolish thoughts because the unthinkable had happened and I suddenly found myself grappling with a new reality, one with ragged edges and the everyday promise of death.
The pillars of this once cultured world shuddered and disintegrated. Much to my dismay, to my absolute horror, people didn’t turn to each other the way I had hoped, rather they turned on each other with a sort of sick desperation. Now that I’m up to my teeth in it, my perspective has shifted. I am no longer that naïve girl from before. The world is different, I am different, and nothing is guaranteed, not even the survival of our species.
My name is Indigo, and this is my story.
2
My dad is leaving me, and honestly, it feels like the worst time ever. This day was coming, I knew it was, and I knew it would feel like this, but still…
“I won’t be gone long,” he says. “Two days for sure, three tops.”
I give my father my big empty eyes; I show him my most neutral face. This will be my first time at home all alone and though I’m eighteen—certainly no child—a first is a first.
The truth is, when my mother fell for some high society knuckle dragger pitching her the dream life, she left creating a gaping hole in our lives, this big, sad vacuum me and my dad felt swallowed in. It left us raw, but at least we had each other.
Now he’s leaving, too. Unlike my mother, however, he’s coming back. Which is good, because most people have a few someones they can lean on, just not me. All I’ve got is him.
“What am I going to do with myself for the next three days?” I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders and gives me a sheepish grin. He knows I don’t really have any friends. He also knows I’m not prone to getting into trouble, so perhaps he’s thinking that leaving me here by myself is a no-brainer. Well, it is for him. But it’s not for me, not at all. I make the face.
“What?” he asks with a laugh.
“I guess sometimes I just wish Mom were here,” I admit, although I know the weight behind this statement is too much to bear right now, for either of us.
His subtle amusement fades.
“Join the crowd, Shooter,” he says, gathering up his things—car keys, cell phone, wallet.
My dad calls me Shooter because it sounds better than archer. Mostly I’m into archery, but I shoot guns, too, therefore, I’m a shooter.
Shooter.
Mom split a few years back. She’s gone now, but not all the way gone. Every so often she calls to see how I am, how school is, how life is treating me.
“It’s amazing, Mom,” I answer, deadpan. “Just amazing.”
She once said she loved my dry humor. I’m still not sure if she was being sarcastic, or if she was for real.
Now when she calls, I say, “Hang on, I’ll get Dad,” to which she says, “You know I’m calling to talk to you.”
Of course she is. She doesn’t talk to my dad. Even though he’s super chill, good looking and usually on his game, she’s avoiding him like the plague. Even I know she doesn’t want to take responsibility for what she’s done, for how badly she hurt us.
When she first went and demolished our family for this promising new beau of hers, after a few weeks passed, she called and I asked how things were. To her, everything was fairy dust and rainbows. She was in love. Now two years later, she’s doing everything she can to hide the remorse in her voice. It’s there, though. I can hear it.
Beneath the reflective surface of those still waters, an undercurrent of discontent is churning. It’s a restless undertow she’s desperately trying to hide. Sometimes I think when she’s done with Tad (yep, the home wrecker has a name and it’s a really dumb one!), I wonder if she’ll come crawling back to my dad. Even worse, I wonder if he’ll take her back. I hope he doesn’t. She doesn’t deserve someone like him.
Anyway, I’m no psychologist and I’m not going to pretend I understand anything that has to do with relationships—especially marriage—but even I can see she’s not where she needs to be in life. The woman has no clue what she wants. If she hadn’t cheated on my dad the way she did, I would almost feel sorry for her. But she did, so I don’t.
So now she lives with her new boo a few miles from here. I’ve been to their home half a dozen times and I swear to Jesus, I don’t like it. It’s too large and too ostentatious and it’s really cold inside. Not cold like the weather, or ice cream—rather it feels cold the way you describe something as empty, something devoid of a soul. That brings me to Tad.
Oh, Lord…Tad.
I don’t like talking about him since he pretty much stole my mom from us, but whatever. He’s a small part of my life whether I like it or not. I’d tell you all about the guy, but I don’t want to waste too much time subject of Tad because teenage angst over your mom’s new squeeze is just a tad too juvenile and annoying, even for me.
After going to my mom’s new place for dinner for the first time, my father asked me how it was. What he was really asking for was intel, gossip, my most judgmental take on what has become enemy territory. Naturally, I embellished.
“Tad is a bit of a douchebag with a tad more hair grease than a man his age should have and he’s a tad bit condescending when he talks to me, acting like I should be more of a girly girl like mom and not some practically flat chested tomboy who likes to shoot things and drive muscle cars.”
The way I said it, honestly, I’ve never seen my dad squirm like that. Was I being a bit too dramatic? A tad too self-deprecating? Perhaps.
“That kind of language is unbecoming of a woman,” my dad said, completely ignoring what I thought was a brilliant play on words.
“Did no one ever tell you? Douchebag isn’t a bad word. It’s an adjective people like me use so we don’t have to say a-hole.”
“Whatever,” he said, half amused. “And don’t say those things about yourself. You’re perfect the way you are.”
The one thing not lost on me was my dad referring to me as a woman. I’m a senior in high school and ready as ever to get out of the cesspool of bullies and narcissistic cliques and over-liberal teachers telling me how I should think rather than how to do math or science or where to properly place a dangling participle. I feel like an angsty teenage girl who doesn’t quit fit into the world around me. What I don’t feel like, however, is a woman.
To me, a woman has a job. She has bills and credit cards and appointments with the salon. She has a place of her own, a few different guys wanting to please her, and she has sex. Lots and lots of mind blowing sex.
So no, I’m not feeling so much like a woman. But if I’ve got to start somewhere, then staying home by myself for a few days will be the next step in the evolution of yours truly. It’ll be like a trial run of growing up. And I’ll tell you this…the first thing I’m going to do is not get up at six a.m. The second thing I’m planning for is more sleep!
Not that I’ll tell my dad any of this. I won’t.
Right now the two of us are standing in the kitchen with a morning chill pressed on our windows and the outside world black and silent. I’m in my pajamas with bed head and sleep crusted eyes not wanting my dad to leave.
“Will you let me know when you get there?” I ask, folding my arms. “Because San Diego is a long ways away.”
He’s eating toast, skimming his itinerary one last time.
“I will. You have a list on the counter. Alarm code. Emergency credit card. Keys to the gun safe if you need it. Plus there’s a hundred dollars in there for food and gas. And you know where all the emergency numbers are, so…”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
He glances up at me, gives me a look, then opens his arms and says, “Come here.” I go to him, and he pulls me into one of his amazing hugs. I won’t lie, I’m a daddy’s girl. He lets go after a minute or two, tells me he loves me then says, “Will you please, please, please make sure you go to school?”
“I’m going to give it my best,” I say on the tail end of a long yawn, “but I can’t make any promises this early in the morning.”
He frowns at me, but that’s because he knows I love teasing him. And right now I’m only teasing him because I don’t want him going away. I don’t want him leaving me all alone.
“I got you a little something for when I’m gone,” he tells me.
It’s not hard to see how much he cares about me, how much he loves to dote on me. It’s one of my favorite things about him.
“You did?” I ask, feigning surprise.
“It’s in my office, on the desk. I’ll call you when the conference lets out tonight, then again before it starts back up in the morning. Keep your cell phone on, okay?”
“Ten-four,” I tell him with pouty eyes.
Outside, he fires up his new Dodge Challenger. It’s matte black, lowered on beefy custom rims and it’s got some pretty cool headlights, specifically the blood orange halo surrounds. With the shaker hood, the hearty rumble of the Hemi engine and glowing reddish-orange eyes, this beast has a life and personality of its own. The minute we saw it, we both fell in love with it, and that’s how Dad got his new car. Of course, with him getting a new car, I couldn’t help but ask about his old one.
“Baby,” he said, “my old car is your new car, if you want it.”
Hell yeah I wanted it!
Anyway, as my dad is leaving, I wave to him one last time, then stand there in my pj’s and listen to the Detroit engine grumbling its way down Dirt Alley. I won’t lie, the sound is beyond intoxicating. The second his wheels leave the packed earth and touch asphalt, Dad gets on it and that sexy black beast tears a hole in the early morning silence.
Had I known that was the last time I was going to see him, I would have hugged him a tad bit harder and a tad bit longer.
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