Fall of the Seven Cities Saga (Book 1)

by Brenham, Jay

  The driver handed him a piece of paper and Khalid scanned it. The paper had a list of hotels in a place called Virginia Beach. Khalid’s lips formed the name silently, testing the familiar words. He’d been told by his handlers that he would be given a list of budget hotels at which he could stay, selected for their high volume of customers and frequent turnover.

  “Rent a hotel room from this list. Stay there every night until it’s time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fourth, there will be no drinking alcohol and no strip clubs. You will not act like the September 11th hijackers. There is no room for a mistake.”

  “Of course.”

  The driver reached behind the seat and picked up the suicide belt.

  “The fifth and final rule: You will keep this belt on at all times. There are no exceptions to this rule. If you are in danger of being discovered detonate the device.” He placed the suicide belt in Khalid’s lap.

  “We were briefed on this earlier,” Khalid said, annoyed at being spoken to like a child.

  “I understand, brother, but I was told to review the rules again,” the driver said in an even voice. “I have been living in this country undetected for years.”

  They pulled into the parking lot of the train station. Khalid put his hand on the door but paused at the sound of the driver’s voice.

  “Fi Amanullah brother. Because of you, our fight may soon be over.” The driver handed Khalid a ticket.

  “Fi Amanullah,” Khalid said as he stepped out of the car.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sam stared down at the camping equipment carefully laid out on the floor of his bedroom. He could almost taste the freedom of the trail. For the first time in five years he didn’t have to report where he was going or for how long.

  It was exhilarating.

  He’d come into the Navy with high hopes of fighting in the War on Terror. It was a cliché, but he’d joined to serve his country. His grandfather had been a Navy man and spoke fondly of it, so that’s the branch Sam joined, but he hadn’t done the kinds of things he thought he would.

  When he enlisted he was 24 years old. Soon he was chipping paint and taking orders from 18 year old kids, but he was faithful that a chance to serve in the way he had imagined would present itself. Sam kept up the good work even if it was not work he enjoyed.

  He volunteered for a joint tour with the Army but was denied because his rank was too low. When an earthquake struck Haiti, he volunteered for that too. That time he was denied because his command wanted to transfer the worst performers first.

  There was a running joke among Sam and the rest of the low-ranking sailors. “What are you doing,” one sailor would ask another, as they paused in their endless rounds of painting, sweeping and swabbing. “Just serving my country any way it needs me,” the other would reply.

  Sam was serving his country, he knew that. He wasn’t ashamed, exactly; he’d volunteered when his country needed him and continually sought out opportunities to actually help people. But the fact remained that some people were on the front lines, making more than their fair share of sacrifices. He just wasn’t one of them.

  The thought of the last five years made him restless, even a little angry. He needed to relieve some stress. Sam put on an old pair of shoes and some mesh shorts, and headed out to his garage.

  The garage door creaked as he lifted it and rolled a big rig truck tire outside. A few moments later he emerged, gripping the hickory handle of a sledgehammer.

  Twenty minutes later Sam lay on his back, sweating and breathing hard. The sky was beautiful, a cloudless blue that stretched as far as he could see. His chest heaved from the effort of striking the truck tire with the sledgehammer. It was a therapeutic activity for him. People who box often talk about how they were angry people before they took up boxing, before the sport gave them an acceptable place to focus their anger. Sam had never been an angry person but the tire was still a great place to vent his frustrations.

  The sound of footsteps brought him back to the present. Sitting up, Sam saw his neighbor.

  “When I was young, we used tools for what they were made for. Don’t you know what that thing is for?” Jack crossed his arms, but he was smiling. His face was wrinkled and spattered with dark sun spots. White hair lay carefully parted to one side, a temporary thatching for his balding head.

  “Yeah, I heard about that guy John Henry you worked with,” Sam said, still slightly out of breath. “Took on the steam engine, didn’t he?”

  Jack chuckled and stuck out his hand to help Sam to his feet. “Hell of a day, huh? I thought I’d wander over to see if you regretted leaving the finest institution this country has ever known.”

  “I’m feeling pretty good, Jack. This is my first day as a civilian in five years. Check back in a month when the budget gets tight and those steady paychecks stop, maybe then I’ll feel some regret.”

  “Are you still planning on heading out to do some camping for a few days?”

  “Yeah. I should be gone for a couple of weeks. I’m looking forward to following no one’s schedule but my own.”

  Jack grinned and Sam knew he was about to hear a wise crack.

  “Your own schedule. What you need is a Navy Chief to tell you what to do and when to do it or you won’t know when to eat or which direction to go.”

  “I told you that you can come along,” Sam said. “Resurrect your Navy Chief roots and direct me.”

  Jack chuckled. “You know I’d love to, even if I met you at a campsite for one night. But I need to stay with Theresa. Anyway somebody needs to pick up your mail while you’re off being irresponsible.”

  “Fair enough, I’ll take some pictures for you.”

  “That will have to do.” He gave Sam a friendly wave. “Talk to you later. I have a golf game that needs playing.”

  Sam put his equipment back in the garage and headed inside the house. He turned the hot water on so high that steam was already filling the small bathroom as he stepped into the shower. Out of habit, he sprayed shaving cream into his hand and rubbed it onto his face. As he pressed the razor blade to his skin, Sam paused. He wasn’t in the Navy anymore; he could skip the shave if he wanted to. He set the razor blade down with a smile. Today he would start growing a beard, for the first time in five years.

  By the time Sam finished showering and eating it was almost one in the afternoon. He’d left the TV on before he got in the shower with hopes of hearing the news, but the sound of the shower had drowned out the TV. Now the screen was filled with images of what appeared to be protests or riots.

  Probably some stupid political thing. Sam turned on his streaming service instead. If it was important he’d see it later in the night or tomorrow; the twenty-four hour news cycle would never let him miss something important.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Khalid could already see his target. There’d been advertisements for days: a live radio broadcast from the oceanfront. Now the crowd swelled in front of the stage beneath a large sign that read “Rock on, Oceanfront.”

  It was 11:53 a.m. Seven minutes to go. The timing needed to be exact. His instructions were clear.

  The male DJ had left and now a woman named Shelley was on stage. A few people stood next to her, holding various instruments like they were about to play some live music. His timing would be perfect.

  The hotel next to the stage had a patio with fire pits and large tables. Each one was filled with people. Khalid crossed the patio and entered the hotel lobby, walking straight to the bathroom on his right. The music from outside and the sound of people cheering was loud enough that he could hear the rumble from inside the bathroom.

  Khalid began to sweat. His time was waning. He wasn’t afraid to die, or of what the afterlife would bring; he knew with certainty what awaited him. The nervousness inside Khalid was what anyone feels before a large life event. He gulped water from the faucet.

  Another glance at his watch. 11:58 a.m. There were others like h
im all across the United States. He didn’t know how many or where, just that together they would cripple the West.

  When Khalid first learned his target would be in Virginia, he’d protested. Why couldn’t it be Chicago, Los Angeles, or Washington, D.C.? How could a city he’d never even heard of be important in the fight against America? His handlers were prepared for his objections and explained that he was being given an honor: this area was home to the United States Navy. If this city was crippled, the American military would be crippled, the way a severed spine makes the rest of the body immobile. Entire carrier strike groups would be relegated to the sides of the dock. No longer would America have the power to launch air strikes in any country they desired. Without their interference, the Caliphate could be restored.

  11:59 a.m. Khalid stepped into the handicap stall and locked the door. This was it. The culmination of his life. Other men talked of the virgins waiting for them in Paradise, but Khalid only wanted to be reunited with Nadiya.

  He lifted his shirt and glanced down at the belt. It wasn’t laced with explosives or ball bearings. From the outside it looked like something you’d find in a department store. Many lives had been given to the cause but none like this. Not yet.

  Withdrawing a small pocket knife, Khalid separated the seam along the upper edge of the belt. Between the two pieces of leather lay a miniature syringe, pale and unassuming except for the green fluid inside.

  The handlers explained he had nothing to fear. The compound inside the syringe would make him slowly drift into death. It would be like falling asleep. He wouldn’t feel the virus destroying his body, but the American people would suffer.

  Khalid’s watch switched to 12:00 p.m.

  It was time.

  The cap of the syringe came off easily and he glanced down at his forearm to select a vein.

  “Allahu Akbar,” Khalid whispered so only he could hear. He pushed the syringe into his forearm, depressing the plunger and releasing the virus into his blood stream.

  Khalid carefully wrapped the syringe in toilet paper and tossed it into the garbage. The injection site felt warm as he walked outside into the summer sun. The warmth spread up his arm and into his shoulder, turning so hot it felt like he was on fire. Surely something had to be wrong. He’d been promised a painless sleep. The crowd in front of the stage was larger; people drifted toward the sound of the wailing guitars echoing across the waterfront. Khalid pushed his way into the crowd, following his orders despite his agony.

  The fire spread to his chest. When it hit his heart he could feel the flames of the infection radiate outward until all of his extremities felt hot. Mucus started to drip from his nose and a cough built in his lungs. He brought his hand to his mouth automatically, stumbling at the same time. He put a hand out to steady himself. It was covered in blood.

  The people around him were oblivious, transfixed by the music on stage. Blood and mucus pooled in Khalid’s hands as he tried to cover up his condition, but he could not control his coughing or the flood coming from his nose. The front row was bouncing up and down to the beat of the music as Khalid pushed through. Shelley, the female DJ, was directly in front of him, throwing her hands in the air along with the rhythmic beat.

  The fire had spread everywhere. He was losing control over his movements. He didn’t even know why he was moving toward her. Khalid stumbled into the table in front of the DJ, coughing up a mixture of bodily fluids as he went down.

  The DJ was singing along with the crowd when the blood hit her open mouth. If she had a plan for this sort of thing she wouldn’t be implementing it. Shelley was the first person infected with Rhabdo-786, a biological weapon derived from the rabies virus.

  People ran to help as Khalid collapsed onto the table but it was too late: the fire had fully consumed him, turning any semblance of humanity to ash. In its place was the twisted mind of an already twisted human being. Khalid grabbed, bit, and tore at the people trying to help him and with each bite and scratch another person was infected. The good Samaritans would soon feel the fire of infection course through them, destroying the humanity within.

  Thanks for reading Fall of the Seven Cities! I hope you enjoyed my story. Reviews really help drive sales for indie authors like me. So if you liked Fall of the Seven Cities, please leave a review so other readers can connect with my work.

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  Don’t stop reading! If you liked what you read you can get the second book in the series, Exodus from the Seven Cities, and start reading it today. Visit Amazon.com and type in Jay Brenham EXODUS FROM THE SEVEN CITIES.

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  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, even though this isn’t enough to express the extent of my gratitude, I want to thank my wife. Without her, I would never have been able to make this story publishable.

  Thank you to my family for supporting me and, in particular, my mother and father for being good beta readers. C.T.C., thank you for your boundless enthusiasm and for throwing me a launch party.

  In no particular order, I would also like to thank:

  My childhood friend, Mike, as well as his father, for introducing me to a genre I love. As well as Mike’s mother for pretending not to notice we were watching age inappropriate horror and action movies.

  My good friend, Nick F, for painstakingly reading what I produce and for volunteering to edit. I hope one day I get to repay the favor.

  I owe a significant thank you to my beta readers: Sander, Casey T, Vic, Dave, James S, and my college roommate, M.K.

  James Cook, author of the Surviving the Dead series, for sharing his pre-publishing checklist with a random fan. His books are a great read and anyone who’s interested in the survival horror genre should check them out.

  Sean Platt and Johnny B. Truant, for replying to me when I asked for advice. Their book, Write, Publish, Repeat, was a key factor in getting my book finished.

  And last but not least, Orson Scott Card, who is my favorite author of all time. When I’d written no more than a single paragraph, I wrote to him asking for advice about feeling self-conscious with my writing. To my surprise, Card wrote back to me and essentially told me to get over myself. That was exactly the kick in the pants I needed.