The Nightfall Billionaire
Serial Installment #1
Vanessa Blackstone
Copyright © 2019 by Vanessa Blackstone
All rights reserved.
This publication is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents (other than those in the public domain) are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
This publication has not been approved, endorsed, or authorized by the National Security Bureau.
Contents
Preface
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Free Bonuses
Your Opinion
A Sneak Peak at the Next Installment…
About the Author
Preface
The year is 2076. The United States is no more, having degenerated nearly five decades prior into the American Federal Empire (AFE) after a nuclear attack whose fallout has left most of the country uninhabitable. The population has been forced into a limited number of large urban centers of the country that were able to be saved, in whole or in part, from the overwhelming salvos of dirty warheads.
As population numbers have continued to swell within these very tight confines, nearly all of the people within the AFE now live and die within a wall-less prison of concrete, steel, wires, and glass.
Advances in science, engineering, and manufacturing have allowed the existence of technological wonders, but also of technological nightmares.
In this dark, complex, dangerous world, the people of the former United States struggle to survive.
Prologue
That which we hope to attain, we must see as if it were already ours.
—Illias Smerch, PIR Unit Director
The girl’s pale skin was covered in dirt. A few damp leaves stuck to her torn dress, one that had pastel flower-prints set over what was once a white backdrop. That backdrop had, by now, become stained with blood and earth, and her dress itself was ripped in several places.
Her small feet felt out the cold, knotted terrain of the forest floor as she crept through the trees as silently as a ghost. It was night, and the sky held no moon that could be seen by the eyes of men. She looked through the clouds, however, and could see it.
I will be guided by the light.
Above the lower-level cloud cover, another, higher cloud, purple-black in color, raked across the sky, and its outer edges glowed a spectral purple from the soft, distant lights of the great cosmos beyond. Behind the cloud, many stars, lightyears away, ached in silent, primeval beauty.
She observed them dispassionately, then took a moment to adjust her direction.
I will walk until I am there.
A few hours later, she glimpsed what looked like the fence-line that formed the outer perimeter of the base. Spotlights swept across the flat, grass-covered earth just beyond the pair of high, chainlink fences. Tight spirals of razor-wire were curled along the top of each fence.
The wind blew cold, and bits of drizzle whirled in the night, sparkling faintly like tiny shards of broken glass.
She drew a little nearer to the base and then stood unmoving and hidden behind a tree, observing the timing and sweep-patterns of the base’s spotlights.
Inside the base, many hangars and buildings seemed to sleep, almost as if they were living things, and red and blue lights silently pulsed from many of them.
She peered intently through the fences, and then her eyes came to rest on one of the hangars.
There it is.
With the patterns of the floodlights established, she stepped forward at just the right time, out from the tree line, and placed her hands on the first fence.
They will learn. That which they have set in motion for themselves will come full circle, as it must.
A faint shimmer of multi-colored lights, like those that might have come from a nightmare, wavered around her for a moment, then vanished.
Sorrowful but steadfast, she began to tear the first fence open.
Chapter One
In the humid dark of her apartment bedroom, Scarlet’s hand frantically searched under the mattress for her pistol. Sweat matted long strands of her red hair across her forehead and along her temples. She could hear the muffled noises of the passing, honking cars outside her apartment.
Her heart raced.
Find it. Gotta clear this place.
Outside, beyond her apartment walls, lights of all kinds shouted from the great crush of the city’s many billboards, towers, and highways.
But none of the light reached into her room.
The pistol flew out. She whipped it to eye-level, tried to still her breathing. Veins in her forehead and neck throbbed.
Keep it dark. Tactical advantage possible. Breathe.
She edged up to the door of her closet, pistol ready.
A quick scan inside.
Her pistol faithfully followed every movement of her eyes.
Nothing there.
Clear.
She snuck up to her bedroom door. One hand went to the open-button. The other, sweaty and cold, gripped her pistol at low-ready. The door slid open. She sprang from the doorway to face one side of a hallway, then instinctively swept her pistol around to face the other.
Suddenly, she saw a small figure appear from another doorway.
Facing her, and holding his teddy bear, he rubbed one eye.
She gasped and immediately lowered her weapon.
Jamison.
“Mama, what… wrong?” he asked, his voice sleepy.
Scarlet collapsed to her knees, put the pistol on safe, and set it down, pointed away from him.
“Mama was just clearing the rooms, honey.”
“Again?”
“Yeah. Mama was clearing the rooms again. Come here.” She wiped one of her own eyes.
Jamison ambled to her. She hugged him tightly to herself, teddy bear and all, as though she might never see him again.
“Why Mama… clear… rooms?”
“Just old habits, sweetie. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe with Mama. We’re safe here.”
“No bad guys?”
“No, baby.” Her tears tried to come out. She shivered. With great care, she kissed his forehead and held him.
“Mama sure?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Is… time for school?”
Scarlet checked the clock of her inner-phone. It was still about an hour before she would normally have woken him for his school day, but there didn’t seem any point in having him fall asleep again only to wake him up so soon. In fact, he might not fall asleep at all.
“C’mon. Mama will dress you for school, then we’ll have some breakfast.”
“Waffles, Mama?”
“Yes, and a big glass of milk.”
Jamison giggled. “Big glass… milk!”
She activated the apartment unit’s lights. Half-globes in the ceiling emitted a cold, white light, illuminating a space of beige walls and a floor covered in a dark tan carpet.
The apartment unit was only sparsely furnished. It contained a synthetic table with two chairs in the dining room and a couch and a floor lamp in the living room. Along one wall of the living room was a giant, dark display-screen that Jamison used for playing video games.
Scarlet carefully dressed him f
or his day. It had not been easy to raise a child with Down syndrome, and he was not biologically hers, but her maternal instincts were no less than any other woman’s. As long as she were alive, Jamison would have someone to take care of him. She had vowed that to herself.
She placed Jamison at the table, where he wiggled contentedly in place, waiting for blueberry waffles. He had honey-brown hair; softly rosy cheeks; a small chin; and patient, cerulean eyes that rested upon everything in the world with an angel’s steady compassion.
Fall was now here, in New Washington, D.C., and the air outside was already much cooler than it had been only two months ago.
She went into the kitchen and placed two waffles into the auto-breakfast chef, a sleek but troublesome device in the shape of a great oval.
“Mama, we have… syrup?”
“Yes, sweetie.” She reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of syrup and placed it on the table.
Jamison eyed the bottle with delight. “Syrup!” He pointed at it, and his legs ran in midair as he sat in a chair too high for his feet to reach the floor.
She went back into the kitchen, closed her eyes, and leaned her back against the refrigerator to try to rest for a moment while breakfast was being cooked, but a small column of smoke snaked up from between the two plates of the chef, and the smell of burning waffles assaulted her nose.
Christ, she hissed under her breath. Not again.
She waved her hand across the chef’s off-sensor twice, and it powered down with a quiet, courteous beep.
Too late to save breakfast, she pried the two plates of the chef open with a fork and a washcloth, revealing charred discs of what had once been frozen waffles.
Jamison squealed with laughter. “Mama burn the… waffles! Mama… burn ‘em… good!”
The maws of the chef opened, the waffles hissed angrily, and more smoke came out. The smell of burnt, artificial blueberries filled the kitchen—and soon the whole apartment unit.
I’ve really got to get this thing fixed.
Chapter Two
The nearest diner was a couple of blocks away. Scarlet checked the time on her inner-phone. Only 0620. Time enough to eat out. And they’re sure to be open.
“C’mon, Jamie. We’re going to eat out for breakfast this morning.”
Jamison perked up. “Really? Mama… promise?”
“Yes, sir.” Scarlet smiled and gave him a salute.
Jamison saluted back, his legs still looking as though they were trying to run even while he was seated. He finished his salute, then tumbled out of the chair and ran to her. “Let’s go… Mama!”
They walked hand-in-hand down the city-streets, with congested, honking traffic crawling down a street only an arm’s length to their side. Except for the city lights, it was still dark out. A thick shroud of autumnal clouds concealed the poisoned sky. Frigid wind from the north wended its way through the concrete-and-steel warrens of their neighborhood, carrying the city’s various odors on its rusted wings: the ozone bite from hundreds of thousands of electric engines; the stale and pungent cooking oil of a pan-Asian food cart whose owner stood stooped over it as he seined its vats for lost particles of food; the musty wisps of sewage-steam that seeped up from the storm-drains like fouled ghosts from a grave.
Before reaching the diner, she was propositioned twice. She had pulled Jamison closer to her each time and had told the dregs, in so many words, to leave her alone.
“Hey, sexy, I’m jus’ out for some sweet, sweet ass, jus’ like everybody else,” one of them presently said to her. “You can understand that, right?” He winked at her with a smile, then spread his arms out, as if inviting her to receive a hug from him.
“Not interested,” she replied in a tone that could not possibly have suggested otherwise. She continued walking.
But the vagrant would not be deterred.
“Hey, hey, hey. Why you gotta act all cold like that? It’s me, Cricket, your baby, your man,” he called out. “Why you gotta act like that, sugar? Huh?” He hurried closer to her. When he had closed the distance to her, he reached a hand out to stop her.
That was a mistake.
Quick as a cobra’s strike, she wheeled around. In one fluid action, she caught his wrist, then bent and sharply twisted it, nearly breaking it, and brought the man to his knees. The man, his breath reeking of liquor, cried out in the cold, morning air, but few passersby took notice; even fewer cared. The entire submission had occurred in a flash, well before he could fully understand what was happening to him. Covered in rags that smelled of old urine and vomit, he trembled on the sidewalk, his face lined with deep furrows of pain and surprise.
“You will never so much as look at me again. Understand?” Scarlet warned. “Get up and leave. Now.”
The homeless man, not comprehending quite what was going on but aware of the pain that shot through his wrist, frantically nodded his assent. Scarlet released him, and he scrambled tipsily away, nearly stumbling into a wall while he muttered to himself, “Damn bitch nearly broke my arm… She nearly… broke… my damn…”
Soon he was gone.
They never learn.
The diner’s fluorescent OPEN sign flickered in a radiant, blue hue: off, on, off. On. Stray bits of litter swirled in a tiny whirlwind just outside the door.
Scarlet and Jamison stepped inside and were met by an automaton, crudely made to resemble a waitress in appearance, but which looked more like an antique wax figure from one of the amusement parks. For all the doctoring and cosmetic effects that had been done to it, it still looked like a mannequin.
“Welcome to our diner on this fine day. This way, please,” it recited in an electronic voice. It shambled on two mechanical legs to a table near the back of the restaurant, at which Scarlet and Jamison seated themselves. To Scarlet’s distaste, the tabletop was filmy and sticky. She consciously kept her forearms and hands in her lap, off the table.
“What will you have to eat this morning?” the automaton asked, its face stuck in a permanent smile, and its lipstick (if that’s what it was) looking as though it had been somewhat carelessly applied.
“Waffles!” Jamison blurted out, louder than was necessary. “And big glass… milk!” Several of the patrons, mildly annoyed but also curious, turned their attention to him. Scarlet, a little embarrassed but too tired to be much concerned by the onlookers, succeeded in avoiding eye-contact with them.
“And for you, ma’am?”
“Scrambled eggs, toast, and black coffee. Lots of black coffee. That’s it.”
“One moment,” the automaton replied, processing the request. “You ordered waffles with a glass of milk, scrambled eggs, toast, and an extra-large black coffee. Is that correct?”
“That’s correct,” Scarlet said.
“Cor-rect!” Jamison echoed. “Big glass… milk!” The only milk available to the people of the AFE was entirely artificial—it was produced in large vats at factories and stored in warehouses—but it was also the only milk they knew, and Jamison’s enthusiasm for it knew no bounds.
“One moment,” the automaton said again. “Payment, please.” It produced an electronic pad from a compartment in its abdomen and presented it to Scarlet.
Scarlet reluctantly pressed her right palm to it. The cloudy plastic film covering the screen had begun to separate itself from the pad and had curled up around the corners. Greasy from an untold number of palm-prints, the old pad glowed wanly from top to bottom as it scanned her hand.
After a brief moment, the pad chimed its notification that her payment had been accepted. Satisfied, the automaton shakily made its way back to the kitchen.
When it returned with their order, it carried their food and beverages on a large, plastic tray balanced precariously on one of its hands. It set the waffles in front of Jamison, the scrambled eggs and toast in front of Scarlet. Its mechanical hand attempted to set down Scarlet’s coffee, but it could not do so without spilling some of it. Small, hot pools of coffee steamed from the surface
of the table.
She quickly wiped up the spilled coffee with a napkin, then grabbed the glass of milk from the automaton’s tray before it could spill that, too. The automaton then grabbed where the glass of milk had been on the tray and carefully placed the invisible cup in front of Jamison, who eyed the empty space with a bit of wonder and suspicion.
“That’ll be all, thank you,” Scarlet said.
“You’re welcome. Thank you for choosing us as your diner. If this is your first time in New Washington, D.C., welcome, and please enjoy your stay.” The automaton bowed mechanically at a slight angle bladed away from the table, then tottered away.
Midway through breakfast, Scarlet’s inner-phone beeped insistently at her. A call was coming in from headquarters. From the particular sound of this notification and the fact that the phone-icon was bordered with a flashing red light, Scarlet could tell this was a high-priority communication. Her inner-phone encrypted these communications by default, using all of the National Security Bureau’s latest technology to do so. Turning slightly away from Jamison, who was contentedly munching on his second waffle, she went into light trance to answer her inner-phone.
“McRae here,” she said mentally.
A face appeared in her inner-vision from her phone. It was Elroy Cunningham, the dispatch officer who worked closely with the various Paranormal Investigative Response Units of the NSB. His round face sported his typical, red, brush-like mustache and a pair of black-rimmed glasses.
“McRae, we’ve got something hot. Really serious. We need you to get down here now.”
“What is it, exactly?”
The Nightfall Billionaire: Serial Installment #1 (Scarlet McRae) Page 1