The Longest Road (Book 3): The Other Side

by A. S. Thompson

  The Other Side

  A.S. Thompson

  Cover and chapter illustrations and designs by Michael Boyajian

  “Weekend Warrior” font by David Kerkhoff

  Acknowledgment

  God.

  The cousins.

  My family and friends, you are my inspiration.

  B and T, you are amazing. Your support has been incredible.

  Michael Boyajian, I can’t thank you enough.

  Special thanks to CIA, CPG, JCM and .NET for your vast knowledge.

  To you, the reader. This has been a journey made possible by you. I humbly thank you for your patience, your words, and your encouragement.

  ...and Emma Watson, take your time, I’m patient...

  Prologue

  “WHAT IS AND WHAT SHOULD NEVER BE”

  January 1, 2010 (Present Day)

  0714 hours

  On the edge of a two-person swing-set, he sat hunched over. The wood had been subjected to harsh New York weather, and without proper care and maintenance, the paint bubbled and chipped, warping beyond simple repair.

  The metal hinges creaked as the bench swayed forward and back, but the motion could not be strictly defined as swinging, as it was more of a subtle rocking produced by his heel to toe movement.

  His fingers were interlocked and his thumbs pressed together underneath his prickly chin. The bristles of facial hair had been left unchecked for weeks.

  His eyes were closed, but the orbs behind the lids moved side to side as though reenacting a memory. Many memories.

  His breathing was slow and deep, each exhale lasting longer than the previous inhale.

  By all outward appearances, he was a man meditating in the serenity that surrounded him, but his mind was far from at peace.

  Sensing the warm sun on his face, he slowly opened his eyes, and from the backyard of Tom Brason's enormous home, he looked out into the valley of Fullertown.

  It was a beautiful winter morning. The sunlight crawled over the eastern hillside, and the rain from the previous night washed away the grime and old of the past. The light shined through the droplets, causing the water to glisten and give the illusion of movement.

  This was a day of new beginnings.

  Everything seemed fresh. The Hellebores planted in raised garden beds opened up their white-cream petals and smiled. The grass, although long and un-manicured, stood strong and unwavering. Birds, the ones who remained north, chatted with each other while a pair of squirrels came out from their homes to play tag.

  Despite the objective goodness of the day, he couldn't help but think of all that had been lost until this point. It had been over a year since he was in Fullertown, and in that time, he had loved and lost more than a person should in a hundred lifetimes.

  It all began with a family party on November 25, 2008. A highly anticipated day to be spent in celebration after he and his cousins returned from a yearly hunting trip. A day that was marked in their family as a great Thanksgiving feast- to Crown the King, to eat and drink happily, and to visit with family that had not been seen throughout the year. However, as fate planned, the outbreak of the Trinity Virus changed everything.

  That was just the beginning. The start of a voyage that would take over a year to complete, and a long, difficult road that would come around full circle. Thanksgiving 2008 would forever be remembered as the bloody night he was forced into exile from a place he both longed for and dreaded. To come back and confront all that this home stood for.

  Every face he remembered- the aunts, uncles, and cousins he watched celebrate, watched fill their stomachs with a variety of meats, beverages, and standard holiday dishes. Then the next minute, their appetites changed to human flesh, as they tore one another apart with the ease and insincerity as a lion does with a gazelle.

  By the end of that night, only five remained.

  They were close for cousins, but through their journey they grew to be brothers; a bond strengthened through passion, hope, loss, and love.

  Since that bloody November night, every one of his brothers had perished.

  First was Mike Brason; a sensitive, smart, lovable, pothead, who passed away what seemed like years ago. He had his faults, like everyone, but he did his part. On occasion, and always on his own time, he contributed his share to the group. Using his knowledge of biology and chemistry, Mike had saved his brothers a handful of times. Unfortunately, a mistake, unknown to him at the time, would be his downfall at Fort Kennedy.

  Months later, came the loss of Billy Wilde. Billy was a brute, no way around it. He was headstrong, stubborn, and possessed a terrible temper, but his force and strength of will was something to be sought after. He always held his family first and did his best to protect and defend them, especially Alex, with whom he shared a deeper bond. This pride may have been to a fault, as some argued that his idea of justice teetered on vengeance, which ultimately cost him his life at The Eye.

  Next was Collin Jacobs. Collin was the unofficial leader of the group. His ideology was confronted and decisions contested from time to time, but each cousin knew his logic was "for the good of the group." Despite their opinions, they believed that Collin did everything in his power to keep his brothers safe. His levelheadedness and objective decision-making abilities had saved countless lives, and not just his family. Collin survived everything the outbreak threw at him for an entire year. However, in the end, he died saving the life of a friend- a decision Steve and Alex both hated and admired.

  Within one year, their numbers had been drastically reduced, but the lives of those three would never be forgotten. They would forever stand as moral pillars in the minds of those left behind in this life.

  Steve Brason came to be a man apart. He was broken; void on the inside, though he never used to be. Once, he was known as the most hopefully optimistic; always seeing both sides of an argument, always keeping the peace when dissension ran amok in their inner circle. After suffering so much loss, he was subjected to the one thing that killed him on the inside; one thing that pushed him over the edge into an emotional abyss of darkness, hurt, anger, and hatred. The tragic passing of Sarah Lawrence, the love of his life, was too much.

  So, he carried on lifeless, someone merely walking in the shell of a man, living just because he wasn't physically dead yet. A moral compass no longer governed his actions, because to him, his soul had departed. He was tragedy, personified.

  Last was the karate fighting, movie quoting, joke telling, prankster, Alex Forest. Those who knew Alex well would describe him as loyal, tough, lighthearted, and a diehard Angels fan. Having found a new lease on life, Alex's journey was a mirrored opposite of Steve's.

  For a long time, he had grown cold and calloused after the passing of his best friend and cousin, Billy, but had come to find hope and love once again. The night before leaving Camp, he had made a promise to Collin, and he was never one to break promises. He wanted to live, wanted to fight, and wanted to protect his own.

  But neither Steve, Alex, nor the strongest of men can control fate.

  In the end, only one would remain.

  Why me?he thought as he sat on that wooden swing. It was the first thought to stick.Why am I the only one left?

  He didn't expect life to do him any favors. After all, it had taken so much away, why wouldn't it leave him alone in the end? Why wouldn't it make him live out his remaining days as the only surviving member of his family?

  It was a punishment. A curse. To live with survivor's guilt. Or, perhaps it was Karma, balancing the scales.

  That can’t be it...

  There was no way that the faults in his life could have allowed for this state of bein
g. Despite the bad things he had done, the fights, the men he killed- both living and infected- this could not be his destiny. He had endured and suffered so much loss that he found it impossible for this to be Karma's master design.

  No, it has to be something else...

  Then it came to him. An answer as meaningful as it was ambiguous.

  This is the way life was supposed to be, the way it has always been. It just is what it is. That's it, nothing more, nothing less.

  It was not the culmination of a life sprinkled with bad deeds. It was not a product of chance that consumed his family, friends, and world. It was the natural way of life.

  Some people get everything. They work hard, earn a decent living, and enjoy the fruits of their efforts. They watch their children and their children's children grow up and live their lives. Then, eventually, those people die peacefully in their sleep and drift on into the next world.

  But not for him. He was on the exact opposite end of the spectrum of life. He was forced to endure hardships, persist through physical and mental pain, and to watch everyone he had known and loved, die. He was forced to survive and carry on. Compelled to continue fighting until the very end.

  "Never give up, never settle," as Collin put it.

  That was the hardest thing he ever had to come to terms with. More than the demise of his band of brothers and his extended family and friends, the hardest part was finding understanding in a paradox. Solving an equation that was without answer. Comprehending what is and what should never be was impossible.

  So, this was something he had to believe, something he had to use to drive his existence in this world until death came for him, and it would, one day.

  Leaning back, he shook his head. The mental search for otherworldly answers was exhausting.

  He pushed himself up and limped away, leaving a pair of crutches and the philosophical debate with the wooden swing set.

  His feet guided him through the grassy yard where he passed the uniform row of markers, dozens, nearly fifty in total, identifying each family member who died in Fullertown that November night. He dragged a hand along the tops and sides of each one: aunts, uncles, cousins, mothers, brothers, sisters, fathers, all there in memoriam.

  Further along were wooden crosses for those like Collin, Billy, and Mike, who had perished elsewhere. Those, he paused to pay tribute, but after silent prayers, he continued onward.

  Finally, he arrived at the end of the yard, and hovered over a distinct grave. This was the resting place for the last of his clan, a brother whom he wanted so badly to have survived.

  He labored to bend down on one knee, fighting through the pain, grunting as his chin met his chest. He closed his eyes, and moments later, and without warning, a tear dropped from the pit.

  There was no quiver in his lips, no sniffle from his nostrils, and no physiology that indicated the coming of a tear. The fluid simply dribbled from his unblinking eye and landed on the moist dirt covering the body of the fallen.

  This tear was neither happy nor sad. It was for the journey they had spent together. The culmination of what they had gone through. The experience that shaped the two of them in a collective but distinct way.

  This tear was for every day spent together. This tear was for life.

  "We did a good thing. We saved a lot of people. You saved a lot of people," he corrected. His eyes opened and the faintest of smiles creased the corner of his lips but vanished as fast as it emerged. "We were almost there, almost in the clear..."

  He didn't bother wiping away the excess fluid as he rose.

  "I'll never forget you," he whispered. Then his eyes fell upon the other markers. “All of you. I love you all so much. Shame I never said it more."

  He paused, sensing the presence of another behind him. During the reflection, someone else had come for support.

  Lisa Spencer interlocked her fingers with his. She didn't speak though, instead, she waited patiently and quietly for him to finish. She respected this time. She knew how important it was for him. She could feel the emotions filling the air, and her eyes grew helpless, eventually succumbing to the grief that the markers elicited.

  He squeezed her hand tight for a moment, signaling an impending conclusion. There was one thing left that he wanted to do, wanted to say. Something was lingering. He only needed to find the desired closing words.

  "As much as I want to be with you all, to hug and kiss you, to laugh with you, to cry with you, to play with you, to relive stories of the past and reminisce about the old days, I can't yet. There is still something I have to do. I have to finish what was started. One day, though, it will all be over. One day, we will meet again. One day, I'll see you on the other side."

  The following events take place one month before.

  Chapter 1

  “The End”

  Northwest of Boise, Idaho

  November 30, 2009

  1007 hours

  One after another, three Black Hawk Helicopters lifted from a concrete helipad and followed an identical ascent. Within seconds, they were hundreds of feet above Blue Springs, hovering up and over the surrounding rock formation with a gentle ease. The only danger to the rotorcraft came from just south of their position: thick, intense smoke created by the bellowing flames that consumed the basin.

  Hours before, the site was home to a thriving refugee camp and Presidential bunker, but that home was reduced to rubble; the temporary structures and green pastures were now a mass gravesite for the thousands of unfortunate souls who were in the right place at the wrong time.

  All three helicopters had the same white lettering painted on their metal frames: LIFE.

  Owned and overseen by a woman named Elizabeth Baron, Longevity Intrinsic For Everyone was the largest corporation on the planet. LIFE's influence, Research and Development, and commercial products spanned continents.

  A year ago, Elizabeth Baron was deemed to be one of the wealthiest, most powerful people in the world. Now, those two titles were uncontested, and she even gained a third: most important.

  Under her supervision, Elizabeth and her team of scientists had created Ambrosia, the only known vaccine for the infection that caused an unprecedented pandemic.

  The Trinity Virus, a name coined by Dr. Diane Phillips, was elegantly brutal. Contraction was simple and one hundred percent lethal. It caused its victims to behave with a primal aggression in which they would attack non-infected humans with a cannibalistic rage. Over the span of a few months, the virus had killed and spread exponentially, until the entire world was overcome.

  Elizabeth Baron sat in the lead helicopter, while her genius son, Albert Stone, occupied the second. Inside the third was Elizabeth’s oldest son, an ex-Navy SEAL named Daytona Briggs.

  Daytona simultaneously pulled away from the window and the unwilling lips of Shanna Finley. With a smug look on his face, Daytona laughed as Shanna attempted to shove him away with all her might; it had been easy for him to force his muscular two hundred twenty-five pounds on her petite frame.

  “You’re sick! Get off me!” Shanna screamed, as she writhed and squirmed.

  “Aw that hurts,” Daytona mocked, diaphragm raising and lowering with a hearty laugh.

  Pistol in hand, Daytona waved goodbye to Craig West, as the determined Sergeant Major arrived seconds too late. West’s inability to rescue Shanna amused Daytona, but it was something else that filled the SEAL with inexpressible gloat.

  The kiss Daytona forced upon Shanna was intended to be a means of teasing his nemesis, Craig West, but after Daytona tasted Shanna’s sweetness, a notion of surprise hit him; a lustful pleasure in her luscious lips.

  Daytona zoned out the furious tone and ensuing insults as he surveyed Shanna’s tight body; her soft, almond skin, her perky breasts hidden behind the pantsuit, even her distressed condition and the saliva she spat at him was arousing.

  Sound returned to Daytona as Shanna slapped an open hand across his transfixed face. She followed with a claw to his cheek,
nails drawing three thin lines of blood.

  Daytona reeled back, putting fingers to his face. “Bitch!” he cursed, confirming blood. Then he dealt a vicious backhand so powerful that it caused Shanna’s head to thump against the metal frame, knocking out her hearing aid.

  “Do not do that again,” he growled, hovering over her body.

  Shanna moaned, eyes unable to focus.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Daytona said as though a sense of compassion overcame him. He pulled back a lock of her hair that stuck to the open cut on her lip. “You’re not African-black, so your skin won’t hide bruises, and I want that pretty face of yours to stay that way.”

  The moment some semblance of reality returned, Shanna swatted at Daytona’s hand and cowered backward, savoring what little distance separated her from him. “Don’t touch me! Get away from me!”

  “Aw, still sad because lover-boy couldn’t save the day?” Daytona teased, but was interrupted by an incoming call- a blinking red light lit up an area next to an LCD screen mounted in the cabin. “Do not speak,” Daytona ordered before taking the call. “Do you understand me?”

  Shanna pressed a hand against her curly black hair in the spot where the soon to be bruise would form. “Yes,” she stuttered.

  “Not one word,” Daytona reiterated, index finger pointing at her bloody lip. He used the barrel of the pistol to push the button labeled “Connect,” and then removed his glasses and ran a hand through his hair.

  The touch-screen monitor blinked and split, displaying a real-time feed of both Elizabeth and Albert.

  Above the display, a camera faced Daytona; the wide-angle lens captured everything inside the cabin, including Shanna.

  “Who are those people?” Elizabeth immediately inquired.

  “Care to be more specific, Mother?” replied Daytona nonchalantly.

  Elizabeth’s nostrils flared for a moment. “Them,” she grumbled, pointing out her window.