The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Greene, Daniel

  A large plus sign filled the little diagnosis box. Shock filled her and she blinked rapidly, trying to digest the prognosis she had known for weeks. Tears rolled down her face. She wiped one away from her eye, letting her hand cover her mouth. It was something she had wanted so badly before and had looked forward to for so long in life, and now, it was happening to her at the worst possible moment.

  “Everyone is dead. Everyone else is trying to kill us. And I’m going to have a baby. This can’t be happening to me.”

  She tossed the stick into the waste bin, disgusted by its prediction. Tearing open another package, she squatted down on the toilet again. The sound of tinkling water filled the room. She repeated the process again after that. And each time a large purple plus sign mocked her. It was as if the gods were showing contempt for her deep desire as a woman, waiting until the most inopportune time to drop a bomb of sweet infant joy on her.

  An unexpected rapping on the door made her jump.

  “Jesus, you scared me,” she said at the door. She smoothed her clothes, exhaling loudly.

  The knob turned and stopped. It twisted again.

  “No need to lock the door. It’s just me,” Mark’s voice said from the other side.

  “You know I get nervous. Give me a minute. I’m getting cleaned up,” she said, looking for a place to hide her personal shame.

  “Do they have running water in there and you aren’t sharing?” he asked.

  “Ha. No running water. Give me a few minutes, okay, Mark?” Silence met her from the other side.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he said through the crack. “Why don’t you let me in?”

  “I’m fine. Now go away.” I can’t tell him. If we can get to a pharmacy, maybe I can find some drugs to take care of this. A sense of dread struck her. I don’t want that, but what choice do I have? Risk being pregnant and on the run during the end of the world? What kind of monster would I be bringing a child into such misery?

  Opening the window, she picked up the trash can and tossed its contents outside. The sticks were swallowed up by the night and tall grass. Straightening her camouflage, she took a deep breath to calm herself. Everything is going to be fine. “It’s fine,” she repeated to herself. “It’s fine,” she said into the mirror.

  She tiptoed down carpeted steps to the living room. Ahmed lounged on the couch, hands behind his head. Steele sat nearby, his gear laid out. He took a cloth and oil to the receiver of his gun.

  He looked up, his blond, snarled beard covering a bothered face. “Are you okay? We left you some chow in case you were still hungry.” A small tan ripped MRE package sat on the ground next to him.

  “Thanks, but I’m all right.”

  She sat down cross-legged on the carpet. The house had been untouched since the apocalypse. Closed up for the coming winter. This lake home probably belonged to someone that never made it out of the Grand Rapids metropolitan area alive.

  She watched Mark work the gun, cleaning it with a rag and reapplying oil to different pieces.

  “Lots of sand on that beach. Shouldn’t hurt the guns too much, but long-term it might degrade their functionality. Here, let me see yours.” She checked to see if the weapon was safe and handed it over to Mark. He shifted the two pins out and removed the upper receiver from the lower receiver of the black military carbine. He began disassembling the pieces from the bolt carrier group.

  “These are your hotspots. Here and here. Gotta keep these as clean as possible.” He wiped the pieces hard and then blew on them.

  He always has been a caretaker and protector. He always had the makings of a great father. Can I ask him to do that now?

  “Wish I had an air compressor.” He looked up at her and smiled, mere curves of his features visible in the darkness of the house. His hair separated in the dark, revealing a nasty scar covering his skull from the front to the back.

  He’s still handsome with his wounds. Scarred but handsome.

  “Then you slide this back in here and reconnect here, and you’re back in business. Not a professional cleaning, but it’ll get us by in the field. Keep us in the fight.” He checked the safety of the weapon, and without pointing the barrel in anyone else’s direction, he handed it back to her. He gave her a grim smile. “Don’t want to flag you.”

  She took the weapon back, cradling its weight in her arms like a newborn. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Hope lined his eyes. “Tomorrow we should be there. Check on Mom, make sure she’s all right. Her house isn’t ideal for defense, but I bet I can make it work in the short-term. Barricade the living room and get a sniper nest on the top floor.”

  He still has hope that she’s alive. I still hope she is, but how can we believe that? “Where’s Kevin?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Top floor looking out for problems,” Mark said.

  Could he have heard me getting sick?

  She could lie to him if he asked, deny the whole thing, or she could blame it on the food again. They were men. They wouldn’t take notice of minor mishaps like this. Better to root and stamp out such inquisitive thoughts early.

  “I’m going to go help him.”

  Steele rested his head back on the white plush couch like a pillow.

  “Okay. I’m going to crash for a few. Wake me up if something’s going on.”

  “You look like you need it,” she said, watching to see if he caught onto her bluff.

  “I know. I know,” he said, leaning back to get comfortable.

  He did need the sleep. How the man operated with so little rest bewildered her, but better for her to talk to Kevin alone.

  She left the two men snoozing and drifted up the stairs. Kevin stood at a window, his M4 carbine resting in the corner. He paced nervously back and forth. The moon glinted off a bottle traveling to and from his lips as he walked.

  “Hi, Kevin,” she said lightly. Kevin splashed alcohol onto the carpet in surprise. He looked down and back at her, disappointed.

  “Gwen. God. Jesus and the saints. You scared the crap out of me. Make an announcement or something. I spilled the good stuff.” He gave her a half-smile.

  She stepped inside the bedroom, looking out into the window.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “No worries,” he breathed and turned back to the window.

  They were quiet, watching the night. Waves thundered below in the dead of night. The moon glowed on the water, revealing the whites of the caps as they crashed on the shore. Moans drifted from below. The wind or them?

  “Wild and beautiful,” Kevin said, startling her from her mesmerized thoughts.

  “Wha-?” she said. She shook her head, folding her arms beneath her tender chest. Try and act normal, she reminded herself. “Yeah, it is. Almost two months ago, it would have been warm enough to go in. Perfect weather. Fall comes fast and hard up here. When we come for Thanksgiving, there’s always snow,” Gwen said.

  Kevin took another swig from his bottle and stopped, muttering under his breath and reprimanding himself. He wiped his lips with his sleeve.

  “Sorry. Where are my manners? Want some?” he asked. He shifted the glass bottle in her direction, offering her some.

  “Ahh, not tonight Kevin.” She held her breath, waiting to be discovered.

  He took the bottle back. “Not feeling so hot, huh?”

  “No, not really,” she mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

  He shrugged his shoulders and looked back out onto the giant fresh-water lake. “I heard you getting sick. I always say we have to be more careful about the food we eat. Tons of bacteria and parasites in the water and with no refrigerator, we are just asking to catch something.”

  She exhaled a bit. He was a typical man. Oblivious to the obvious. Unobservant at best. Couldn’t find the ketchup if it was on his burger.

  “Sure you don’t want a swig?” he said with a smile. His features were long in the moonlight, his eyes only drunkenly half-open.

  “No
thanks,” she said, avoiding his gaze. She adjusted her arms beneath her chest trying to get comfortable. I need a new bra to hold these gals.

  Kevin broke the silence. “I have this feeling you didn’t come up here just to hang out. Is there something else you want to talk about?” He gave her a side-glance.

  “No.” She looked away. Anger welled up in her followed by the fear of being alone. Bearing her burden alone made it so much heavier. She feared being unable to hold it all together.

  “I’m pregnant, Kevin,” she blurted out. Kevin stood in silence for a moment, slowly nodding his head. He took a quick swig of his whiskey as if he forgot he was holding it. He turned her way and spread his arms wide.

  “Come on in for the real thing,” he said. She let herself be pulled in for a hug. He smelled like whiskey and body odor. His lanky arms brought her some comfort.

  After a moment, Kevin pushed her away from him. “Are you sure it’s mine?” he asked. She felt a pang of guilt in her gut.

  “Of course it’s not yours.” She laughed a bit, wiping a tear from the corner of her eyes. He released her.

  “Just checking. I like to throw a few back. Thought maybe you snuck one by me,” he said, chuckling. “But between you and me, it was pretty obvious. How long have you known?”

  She folded her arms back beneath her breasts. “About thirty minutes. But I’ve suspected for a couple of weeks. How could you tell?” Her eyes watched him for recognition.

  “I was a high-school teacher in a poor rural district. You aren’t the first woman I’ve seen puking her guts out for no reason. Combined with not drinking, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist or a history major.”

  “History major?” she laughed.

  He smirked. “Yeah, we’re the smartest. We know why everything is the way it is.”

  She stifled a laugh.

  They stood in silence, the reality of her pregnancy during the apocalypse hovering over them.

  “Please don’t tell Mark. I’m not sure what’s going to happen yet.”

  He made a mock symbol of locking his lips together. “Lips are sealed my dear, but on the down low, you should tell him. I would want to know, and I think he has a right to know.” He pretended to throw away the key.

  She pursed her lips together.

  “When you’re ready, of course. That’s only my two cents.”

  She looked off to the side, avoiding the idea of an even more serious conversation with Mark. “I will, but I have to get my feet under me. Thank you, Kevin.”

  “For what?”

  “Listening.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” he said with a smile. He gave another glance out the window. “Wait a second.” Closing in on the window, he cupped his hands attempting to block out the glow of the moon.

  “What is it?” she peered out, seeing only dark water.

  “I thought I saw it before, but now I’m sure. Look there through those trees and down the coast.” His finger thudded off the window glass.

  Small slivers of orange light danced between far away trees.

  “Fire,” she said.

  “Fire means people,” he said.

  She nodded, turning for the door. “I’ll get Mark.”

  JOSEPH

  Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  Water trickled down the rock walls in tiny streams. It followed the outlines of the coarse and jagged rock. The walls were uneven as if the creators of the facility were more interested in completing the complex than making it uniform. Every ten feet, metal-encased lights with exposed wiring poked outward attempting to illuminate their way with minimal effect.

  A dozen soldiers’ boots echoed down the corridor as they marched. The soldiers were dressed in all black tactical gear, giving them the appearance of a SWAT team. For all Joseph knew, they were. They surrounded him and Patient Zero, making Joseph feel a bit like he was a mastermind serial killer on death row. Patient Zero’s head had dropped all the way to his chest. His head bobbed from side to side in defeat as he trudged.

  They walked through open three-foot-thick nuclear blast doors. Circular six-inch metal locking mechanisms stuck out from the side of the door. Beyond the giant door they entered a better lit corridor, and after another thirty feet, a duplicate nuclear blast door. Would the mountain not be enough?

  The mountain complex was a multilayered hive. Each floor gave way to another layer of the complex. Military officers passed them. Civilians with ID badges on their belts walked past. The farther Joseph walked into the safety of the bowels of the earth, the more Joseph felt the anxiety of his task. Each step took him farther from the dangers of the outside and infected but brought him closer to his molecular battlefield and the insurmountable task at hand. It was a game of chess at the microscopic level; he was the novice and the virus was the mastermind. He wrestled the doubt into his gut and settled for a permanent state of distraught uneasiness.

  A black-helmeted soldier stopped and pointed to a metal door on the right. His goggle-covered eyes ignored Joseph.

  “Put the subject in there,” came his voice from underneath his black ski mask.

  Two soldiers disappeared with Patient Zero through a doorway on the right.

  Patient Zero emitted a muffled “Ow.” The middle-aged beer-bellied man gave the soldiers a dirty glare as they shoved him inside the room.

  Joseph pointed with his non-injured arm. “Where are you taking him?” He had been stitched up when he had arrived on site, hastily given a bottle of pain pills, and whisked away with a heavily armed escort.

  “Observation room.” The soldier waved a gloved hand. “Follow me, Doctor.” The soldier gestured forward and a placed a firm hand on Joseph’s back. A white door was opened nearby, and Joseph stepped inside with some assistance from the soldier into a dimly lit room.

  A cluster of white-coated individuals gathered around a one-way glass mirror that they could see through, but the person on the other side could not see them. They ignored Joseph, enamored by the subject on the other side. They murmured and whispered to one another in careful consideration.

  Joseph walked to the window and stood near a taller than average shoulder-length auburn-haired woman with pointed black glasses. Her nose stuck out farther than average and came to a sharp point. One arm was folded across her chest, propping up the other held thoughtfully under her chin. A long finger ran up her cheek.

  Joseph shoved his free hand into his pocket, joining them in their observation. Richard Thompson sat attached to a metal chair. Bright lights beat down on him, glinting off his almost bald head and causing him to squint. He sobbed softly to himself, his whole body jiggling. Every few moments he would look up at the lights and mumble something. His head would then fall again and he would cry. The soldiers had removed his duct-tape-and-sock gag and replaced it with a folded surgical mask. His eyes regarded the reflective window with fear, knowing that unknown people on the other side were watching him.

  “Amazing, Dr. Weinroth. Look at his facial distress. He is showing what appears to be both behavioral and physical manifestation of emotions,” an older heavier-set white man said, leaning over near the auburn-haired woman.

  “All of our subjects so far haven’t expressed any sort of remorse or fear, only uncontrollable violence,” she said, letting a finger tap the side of her mouth as she watched. She pressed her lips together as she thought. “This is interesting. Are we sure he’s infected?” She looked down the line of white coats.

  The fat doctor leaned away, considering her question. “We haven’t run any tests. He arrived not long ago.” He picked up a piece of paper, peering down at it. “It is a field subject.” The doctor looked over his glasses. “Discovered by a Dr. Jackowski? Hmm, states here he is a CDC virologist. I’m not familiar with any of his work.”

  Joseph watched them from the corner of his eyes as he stared at Patient Zero. He cleared his throat. “He’s infected. I can assure you of that.”

  Dr. Weinroth turned her head in
his direction and gave him a curious glance from the corner of her glasses. The fat doctor leaned around her, staring at him.

  “You know, if you take the gag from his mouth, he can talk too.”

  “He can talk? That’s different than all of our research. Every other subject has lost all ability to orally communicate.”

  “Fascinating,” the fat doctor said, his belly almost touching the window, as he got closer to it.

  “Of course he can talk. He’s alive,” Joseph said, raising an eyebrow.

  The doctor at Dr. Weinroth’s side leaned past her, his fat jowls seeming to stick out farther than his belly. “Wait, who are you? How do you know this?”

  “Forgive me,” Dr. Weinroth said. She gave Joseph a pleasant smile with clean white teeth. “Dr. Hollis, this must be our CDC virologist, Dr. Joseph Jackowski. Our newest associate.”

  Dr. Hollis gave him a nod of approval, his double chin tripling. “Incredible fortitude, doctor. We had written off this scenario much earlier in the pandemic.”

  “Thank you,” Joseph said. He removed his glasses and gently rubbed them on his clothes with one hand. The crack in one lens reminded him of the Battle of Steel City where his gun had recoiled into his face. Could have been worse. You could have died. Many times.

  “We’re ecstatic about this discovery. I’m Dr. Weinroth, infectious disease specialist with the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, USAMRIID.” Keeping an arm folded beneath her, she offered the other and shook his hand. “I’m a civilian. No need to salute,” she added with a little laugh. “How long have you been studying the subject?”

  “We found him in Michigan four days ago. My observations have only been outward conversations.”

  “Conversations? He can put together complete thoughts? This is unlike anything we’ve seen,” an Indian woman said. She stood on the other side of Dr. Hollis, blocked by his girth save for her head.

  Dr. Weinroth touched his arm. A gentle and somehow comforting gesture as if he were her longtime friend. “Forgive me Dr. Jackowski, let me introduce my team.” She gestured to the gray-bearded heavyset gentleman next to her.