Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 2)

by Jay J. Falconer

  “DIE, MURDERER, DIE!” the crowd yelled as a mixed chorus of cheers, whistles and boos echoed off the walls of the arena. The public had been waiting for this event with bated breath, and the execution had been marketed to perfection—StarBright Networks knew what it was doing.

  Tessa opened her mouth to speak again, but her body twitched and a gurgling noise rose from her throat. The process was now in full swing, ravaging her body from the inside out. The cheers and jeers from the live audience grew in volume and intensity at the sight of her grimacing and drooling. The spectators around him were all on their feet, waving their arms in the air and shaking their fists.

  Simon tore his eyes from the video screen and scanned the crowd below. Behind the families of the victims sat invited government and network VIPs, each with popcorn and beer in their laps, cheering with the rest of the crowd. Everyone in the first level of the stadium seats had a perfect view of the one-way window into the execution chamber.

  Emotions were at a fever pitch in all directions, and he assumed the same was occurring all around the world. He imagined scores of drunken spectators in bars, homes and off-site betting houses throwing their money down—in officially sanctioned locations. The wagers were all in virtual currency, of course, except in the seedy, black market betting parlors where old school paper currency passed between the rough, calloused hands of hardened criminals, drug addicts, and down-on-their-luck outcasts.

  Everyone was betting on one thing . . . How long would it take until the end?

  The end of his wife and the end of his marriage.

  Two minutes? Three minutes? Five minutes?

  The official timer in the upper corner of the screen kept ticking, tracking every second that scrolled by like some twisted scoreboard of the damned. When Tessa’s life eventually came to an end, fortunes would arrive for those with the precise wager that matched the official execution time—down to a tenth of a second.

  The light in the execution chamber faded and a red glow surrounded the gleaming steel table. A single, soft white spotlight illuminated Tessa’s face. Her skin began to grow pink as small purple sores appeared on her cheeks and neck. The image on the screen panned back to reveal her entire body.

  She was clad in a tight white athletic bra and matching tight white shorts, both chosen to maximize the bloodbath that was about to begin. Two more chamber lights ignited and then panned up to show her body more clearly. The blanket of purple sores began to erupt, first on her arms, then her legs and torso.

  Simon gulped with hands shaking, hating himself for turning his back on her. But she’d left him no choice. All that was left to do now was to stand with the others and watch the criminal die. Then his torment would finally be over.

  Tessa rolled her head to the side and found her voice again, though it was thready and uneven.

  “Simon,” she pleaded through the obvious pain, “Simon . . . help . . . me. I love . . . you, darling with . . . all my heart.”

  His heart stung, but his feet never moved while the crowd screamed despicable insults at her.

  More sores appeared and spread across her face and chest, getting larger as her skin changed color from pink to dark red. Then her body began to shake uncontrollably. Her eyes went bloodshot and her arms and legs began to swell like inflating balloons. The swelling filled her torso, then her face and head. The skin of her face stretched tight, distorting her features into a sickening, clown-like grimace.

  The theater shook as the audience in the balconies stomped their feet and chanted in unison, “DIE! DIE! DIE!”

  The boils across her body had grown and merged together, making her skin purple from head to toe. A moment later, they began to split and crack—first on her chest as blood seeped through the clean white top she wore. Then her forehead began to break apart, turning her face into something less than human, her body expanding around the straps holding her in place.

  Then it happened.

  She exploded from the inside out, sending a shower of blood and gore outward, covering the inside of the one-way glass and all of the cameras in the execution chamber with a viscous pink and red film.

  “Official execution time: four minutes, thirty-two point zero four seconds,” the MC announced at the same moment 4:32:04 flashed in bright red letters across the video screen.

  Streaks of blood and bits of flesh dripped down the chamber window, giving the families of the victims and the rest of the witnesses around the world what they needed most—closure. Simon never looked away, wanting the ghastly image to burn into his soul as a reminder. A reminder of what can happen when your focus wanders and you lose situational awareness. Yes, even in a loving marriage, diligence is needed on multiple levels. Not just with focusing your love and dedication, but watching for changes in behavior and motivation.

  Simon stared at Tessa’s family huddled together in the protected chamber down in front as he made his way past the other people in his row. The murderer’s sister, mother, father and cousins each had their heads down, buried inside an emotional family hug. His former in-laws were obviously grief-stricken and dumbfounded, unable to process the horrifying spectacle they’d just witnessed.

  He took a moment to send a stream of compassionate thoughts to them from his elevated position in the balcony. What had happened wasn’t their fault, it was his. He should have noticed the changes in his wife. He should have stopped her from killing all those innocents. After all, he was the world’s most famous intelligence expert, and yet he never realized that a swell of evil had taken root in the marital bed next to him.

  The path out of the theater was slow going as he worked through the cheering and applauding band of spectators milling about and congratulating each other. Simon was careful to avoid making eye contact with anyone, just needing to find the exit and let his nightmare end.

  The rest of his plan was simple: slip away into the nothingness that was his future.

  TO BE CONTINUED in Chapter 2 of REDFALL: Fight for Survival

  GOLD MEDAL WINNING FICTION

  Click the links below to grab your copies of this award-winning thriller today!

  REDFALL: Fight for Survival Book 1

  REDFALL: Freedom Fighters Book 2

  Voted #1 Best Dystopia Fiction for 2016 by Readers’ Favorite International Book Awards. Click here for more information about the awards.

  SHADOW GAMES

  Time Jumper Series

  Book 1

  Published July 5, 2016

  by BookBreeze.com LLC

  ISBN: 978-1535123877

  Written By Jay J. Falconer

  www.JayFalconer.com

  August 11

  1:16 a.m.

  Emily Heart pushed through the burning pain in her chest and thigh muscles, convincing her legs to run faster. She dodged a park bench before jumping over a homeless man lying under a pile of cardboard.

  Her mind’s eye could see the gunman aiming his sights at the back of her head and squeezing the trigger, sending the bullet out of the barrel and downrange with supersonic intent. She leaned to the left, letting the round whiz past her fifteen-year-old body. It took out the headlight of a cement truck parked across the street near the alley behind Glassford Street.

  The flickering specks of blue light were fading in her vision. It wouldn’t be long before she turned normal again. She would then be unable to see through the gunman’s eyes, or sense the cold blackness of hate she could sense in his heart.

  She bent forward at the waist, using a low-profile running pattern, hoping she’d make it safely to the alley. She ran through the grass at the edge of the park, over the sidewalk and hit the asphalt, racing across the empty lanes of the street.

  More gunshots rang out, one after another in quick succession. She couldn’t see where the bullets were headed, telling her the link with the shooter was broken. Bricks and mortar exploded all around her as the hailstorm of rounds missed her. They hit the side wall of an old warehouse covered in spray paint and gang si
gns. She turned right, just before the cement truck, and ran down the alley.

  “Don’t lose me!” she yelled at Junie, who was sprinting in front of her, a book bag bouncing on the back of her rail-thin body. Emily was falling behind, unable to keep up with the speed and endurance of her twelve-year-old friend from the homeless shelter.

  A minute later, she heard another round of weapons fire erupt as she was nearing the far end of the block-long corridor, plinking and ricocheting off the walls around her. She felt the wisp of a bullet fly through strands of her flowing red hair. It took out the painted window on the wall ahead of her, shattering it into a million shards of colored glass.

  She looked back and saw the gang leader standing at the entrance to the alley, changing the magazine in his weapon. His crew came running into view, just catching up to him.

  She made the corner and ran further down the passageway, which stank of garbage and sewage. She hurdled a pothole, then flew over a garbage can laying on its side, almost losing her balance in the process. But she managed to keep her feet under her while her shoes pounded the pavement ahead.

  Faster, she told herself, faster! She pushed her feet to their tripping point, trying to draw more blood and oxygen than her teenage body could deliver. Her legs wanted to quit—so did her lungs—but she wouldn’t let them.

  She pressed on, looking ahead, trying to spot Junie, but she couldn’t see her anymore. She turned another corner and saw a scrawny, dirt-covered leg sticking out from behind a pile of stained mattresses leaning against the wall. She ducked in and grabbed her friend by the shoulder, dragging her eighty-pound frame forward.

  “Run, baby, run! Don’t stop! One more corner and we’re there! It’s on the left!”

  Emily had learned over the past two years of living on the streets of Phoenix that the blistering summers were endless and miserable, and so were the nights, keeping most of the normal people indoors. She knew that nobody was watching, and nobody cared. There would be no rescue. Not at this time of night, and not in this part of town. It was up to her to get Junie to safety before the shooter and his crew killed her.

  She felt a familiar tingle start to grow at the base of her spine when she turned the last corner. “Oh, no! Not now! Not again!” she cried, trying to steady her nerves as she caught up to Junie, who was squeezing her skinny body behind the dumpster.

  She couldn’t let it happen. Not so soon. She’d barely recovered from the last time. She needed to focus all her attention on Junie, and let the balance of her emotions run dry. It had only been four days since she’d met her fiery companion in the homeless shelter, but she felt a strong connection with this girl, even though she barely knew her. She didn’t know why, but something inside of her told her to protect Junie. She was important somehow, not just another homeless girl with a deadbeat mother nobody cared about.

  She followed Junie behind the garbage bin and into the hidden doorway; darkness engulfed them. “Down the stairs. And stay quiet,” she told Junie in a whisper, locking the door behind her.

  “But I can’t see.”

  “Go slow and use the handrails. There are twelve steps. Count ‘em as you go.”

  They made it down the steps and through another doorway that led into a basement storeroom. It was piled high with junk and old restaurant equipment that had been mothballed by the owner. Emily knew this place well, spending at least one night a week there in recent months. It was her secret hiding place where she could escape the insanity of the city.

  An emergency exit sign hung over the inside of the door that she’d just entered, showering an eerie redness over the scene. On the wall to the left stood another door. It led to a flight of stairs that rose up to the kitchen of a high-end Italian restaurant. Emily had made friends with the eighteen-year-old busboy, Parker, who was also a volunteer at one of the local shelters. When he was the last one to leave for the night, he’d push the red dumpster close to the door as a signal to Emily that the door was unlocked and she was welcome. She’d swoop in around midnight, and lock the door behind her.

  “Over here,” Emily said, gesturing to a huge metal cabinet with rusty hinges that was standing next to a stack of Styrofoam coolers. “I think we lost them.”

  Junie’s chest heaved in and out as it worked to recharge her lungs after the long run. “How do you know?”

  “I can’t feel them anymore,” Emily replied, equally as winded.

  Emily quickly opened the white cooler sitting on top and put her hand inside, pulling out a cellophane-wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a banana. As usual, Parker had left the food for her in the top cooler with a chilled Pepsi acting as ice to keep the contents from spoiling until she arrived. She tore the cellophane off, split the bread down the middle, and gave half of it to Junie.

  “Here, eat while you can,” she said, before stuffing the sandwich into her mouth, chewing it with abandon.

  Junie did the same, smiling, with peanut butter stuck to her teeth. “Sea food,” she said with her mouth full.

  Emily laughed. “We have a banana for dessert.”

  She popped the Pepsi open and waited to see if the contents would bubble up. It did. She sucked the cola off the top of the can until the carbonation settled down, then gave the soda to her friend.

  Junie guzzled several swigs before giving it back to her. Emily swished the can around in a circle to test its volume—only a quarter of the liquid remained. Emily finished her half of the sandwich, then washed it down with the last bit of Pepsi.

  They plopped down against the wall beside the cabinet. Junie wrapped her arms around her knees, keeping the dual-strap backpack sandwiched between her thighs and flat chest.

  “Junie, that’s not yours. Where did you get it?”

  “I—” Junie hesitated. “I took it.”

  Emily sighed, feeling disappointment spread across her body. “What’s in it?”

  She shrugged. “I snatched it from those boys right before you showed up.”

  “Lemme see.”

  Junie gave her the backpack.

  Emily unzipped it and peered inside. “Uh-oh,” Emily groaned. “We’re in big trouble.”

  She tipped it to the side and opened it wide so Junie could see the money inside. Lots of it. Bundles and bundles of wrinkled $100 bills, each wrapped with a blue rubber band and slip of notepaper with a four-digit number written on it.

  * * *

  Outside, the group of West Side Locos that had been pursuing the two street girls were becoming agitated. Their leader, Flaco, was more than agitated: he was pissed. The chase had taken them several blocks outside of their home turf and into enemy territory. He knew it was only a matter of time before a member of the Glassford Gatos noticed their trespass. His crew was light, no match for a full-out fight with a two-dozen-strong gang.

  The crew stood in a loose bunch on the sidewalk at the far end of the alley where the girls had disappeared. Flaco was sure that the girls couldn’t have made it all the way to the end before his crew rounded the corner. They must be hiding in the alley somewhere.

  “Where’d they go?” he yelled at his lieutenant, Nesto, shoving him against the wall, his gun pointed up under his chin. “El stupido! You let that street chica snatch the buy money?”

  Nesto shoved him back, hard.

  “Get the fuck off me!” he yelled. “I didn’t do anything. She was already there. It was your dumb-ass idea to set up the buy at the rec center. Back the fuck up.”

  Flaco backed away, lowering his gun. He looked down the alley, the way they had come.

  “Okay. They have to be in this alley somewhere. No way they made it all the way through here before us. Split up. You two, this side; you two, that side,” he said, gesturing down the alley. “Search everywhere. Garbage cans, dumpsters, everything. We gotta get it back. Nesto, go back to the other end and keep eyes. I got this side.”

  The crew split up, following his orders.

  Flaco knew that if they didn’t find the mon
ey, he was a dead man. His uncle would kill him without a second’s remorse. He’d trusted him to make this drop with the Russians—the first really big one since he’d decided to quit high school and join the family business. He paced back and forth, trying to find a way out of the situation. He was about to give up on the search when one of his crew whistled from down the alley. It was the new kid, barely 14 years old. What was his name? Derek? Kid didn’t look Latino, but he swore he’d grown up in Hope Gardens on the West Side. Not that it mattered. His uncle told him to take him along and break him in, so he did. “Do as you’re told, and don’t ask questions” was a phrase that he knew all too well.

  The new kid was waving at him to come take a look at something.

  Flaco ran down the alley at full speed. “What you got?”

  “Doorway,” Derek replied, pushing the dumpster away from the wall. He pointed at the doorframe where a torn shred of clothing was hanging on a nail. “Check it out. Wasn’t the older girl wearing a blue T-shirt?”

  Flaco smiled. “We got ‘em. Good eyes, new boot.”

  Flaco heard a cry from Nesto, who was running toward them in a full gallop. “Policía! Policía!”

  A police cruiser came screeching to a halt, blocking the alley at the end where they’d originally entered. The cop gave the siren a quick double blast and then called over the loudspeaker.

  “You there! Stop where you are! On the ground! Hands behind your head!”

  Flaco and his crew took off running in the opposite direction, but another police cruiser with lights flashing and engine roaring skidded into the mouth of the alley, trapping them.

  “This way!” Flaco yelled, instantly reversing direction. He ran a few feet, then veered and kicked in the door that the new kid had found. He ran into darkness, not expecting the ground to disappear from under his feet. He yelled as he fell down the void face-first. He bounced and flipped, cracking his head on one of the steps on the way to the bottom.