The Dark Trinity (Book 1): Shuffle

by Steven Till

  SHUFFLE

  THE DARK TRINITY ~ BOOK 1

  A NIGHTMARE BY

  STEVEN TILL

  SHUFFLE copyright © 2014 Steven Till.

  All Rights Reserved.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events which appear in this text have been derived purely from my imagination. Any similarities to actual persons (living or dead) and events are purely coincidental and should not be construed as fact or reality. Locations described within the story are real places. Although I strive for authenticity and accuracy, some details may have been altered to better support the story and experience.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This is always the hardest part of the writing process for me. I mean, seriously, how am I going to name all the people who had a hand in getting this novel out there in the world, when everybody I’ve encountered during the past three and a half years has been nothing but encouraging? I suppose that’s a good problem to have.

  I would like to thank my parents Ron and Cheryl. They had the most difficult job hands-down; they raised me, which was no easy task. I love you both so very much. You taught me that determination and perseverance pay off. Your love and support during the tumultuous times kept me going, and for that, I am grateful.

  I am also grateful for all of my friends and family who have supported me throughout this journey. There are too many of you to list here, but know that your tolerance, patience, understanding, and encouragement has meant the world to me. I am truly blessed to have such amazing people in my life.

  Boundless thanks go out to my beta readers Jason Randle, Melanie Tuck, and Kimberly Kiehne. Your input, thoughts, criticisms, comments, and critiques have been invaluable. This book would be a big steamy pile of dung without it. I have no doubt.

  To the naysayers and iconoclasts who lacked faith that I would complete this endeavor. Your negativity and doubt provided fuel to my motivation. Thank you for driving me to prove you wrong.

  I would be remiss to leave out those whom have planted in me the seeds of passion for writing and horror. In one way or another, you have inspired me to chase this crazy dream of mine and to share the stories in my head, just as you have shared yours with me. Thank you Scott Sigler, J.A. Konrath, Steve Alten, Clive Barker, Stephen King, Wes Craven, John Carpenter, and George Romero.

  Last, but certainly not least, I would like to extend my gratitude to you, the reader. You have no idea how important you are. This is an exciting and groundbreaking time for literature, as technology and the Internet have all but toppled the elitist model of traditional publishing. Gone are the days when only a handful of individuals are granted the privilege of writing a novel. Now, anybody can have a voice. Anybody can share their story. Thousands upon thousands of new worlds have opened up and are waiting to be explored.

  You have made a conscious decision to support independent authors by choosing to read this book. By doing so, you have entered yourself as an active participant in this “New World Order” of publishing. When you purchase a book from an indie author, you aren’t just stroking their egos—you’re putting food on their tables. You’re paying their mortgages and rent. You’re putting their kids through college. Your hard-earned money isn’t going to publishing house executives or the corporate machine. It goes to the people who have poured everything they have into telling the stories that entertain you. You now have the power to shape the landscape of today’s literature. When you encounter a tale by an indie writer that you enjoy, tell your friends about it. Tell everyone you know. Let them hear about your experience. Your word-of-mouth is the best marketing engine in the world. By spreading the word about the works you love, you allow us to continue to create. You are no longer “just a consumer.” You are a partner. I am honored to call you a member of my team. Thank you. I now invite you to sit back, pour yourself a tall glass of wine, and enjoy this first nightmare of mine.

  FOR AMANDA

  My best friend.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PART I: THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL

  CHAPTER 1 DMITRI

  CHAPTER 2 EXPOSURE

  CHAPTER 3 RUN AGROUND

  CHAPTER 4 TURBULENCE

  CHAPTER 5 THE CLEANSING

  CHAPTER 6 GRANDPA

  CHAPTER 7 WAKE UP CALL

  CHAPTER 8 EMERGENCY CALL

  CHAPTER 9 NAPALM

  CHAPTER 10 EVOLUTION

  CHAPTER 11 SAFE HAVEN

  CHAPTER 12 I, ZOMBIE

  CHAPTER 13 THE SUBWAY

  PART II: SMOKES, GUNS, AND ORIGINAL SIN

  CHAPTER 14 FILL ‘ER UP

  CHAPTER 15 MAN’S BEST FRIEND

  CHAPTER 16 SHOPPING SPREE

  CHAPTER 17 THE MARATHON

  CHAPTER 18 THE QUEEN

  CHAPTER 19 ON THE RUN

  CHAPTER 20 INSIDE VOICE

  CHAPTER 21 TWO AMIGOS

  CHAPTER 22 BAIT

  CHAPTER 23 FORT PITT

  CHAPTER 24 THE ROOFTOP

  CHAPTER 25 HOME SWEET HOME

  CHAPTER 26 DOBBS

  PART III: THE GREAT ESCAPE

  CHAPTER 27 GOTCHA

  CHAPTER 28 WAITING FOR THE MOON

  CHAPTER 29 LORRAINE

  CHAPTER 30 GESUNDHEIT

  CHAPTER 31 TUNNEL TROUBLE

  CHAPTER 32 THE CROSSING

  CHAPTER 33 REUNION

  CHAPTER 34 WAITING

  CHAPTER 35 CROSSING AGAIN

  CHAPTER 36 NEXT STEPS

  CHAPTER 37 HANG IN THERE

  CHAPTER 38 DINNER TIME

  PART IV: THE BEGINNING OF THE END

  CHAPTER 39 A SHEEP IN WOLF’S CLOTHING

  CHAPTER 40 DEAD SLEEP

  CHAPTER 41 HOMECOMING

  CHAPTER 42 EXODUS

  CHAPTER 43 BLOOD STORM

  CHAPTER 44 THE RABBIT HOLE

  COMING SOON

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART I

  THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL

  CHAPTER 1 DMITRI

  Saratov, Russia

  December 8, 2014

  “AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!”

  That was the last sound Dmitri Yugavanovich heard as he flew out of the fire door to Building 13 and into the frigid, icy night. Eyes wide with sheer terror, legs propelled him forward faster now than any other time in his life, Dmitri ran. Images of his friend erupting into a red fountain of gore burned in his mind. Echoes of Iakov's blood-curdling screams filled his ears.

  Dmitri ran straight for the tree line, which was a good three hundred yards from the lab. Adrenaline coursed through his burning legs, driving him on through the knee-deep snow. His eyes darted around in all directions, scanning his surroundings as he continued on to the safety of the trees. Chaos sang its chorus into the cold night. Gunshots, an explosion, and the unending screams caused Dmitri to glance behind him. The only movement he detected was the thick black smoke that started billowing out a broken window.

  Just a little farther, he thought as he traversed the open field. The trees would provide some cover. They would allow him to hide. They would save him. Just then his foot caught on a rock underneath the powdery snow, which sent him sailing through the air and into the ground. Panic flashed and Dimitri popped his head above the snow, glancing behind him. Nothing. He let out a slow breath and pulled himself up. Relieved that he was alone, he continued on.

  About twenty yards from the forest, Dmitri stopped dead in his tracks. The snow in front of him was awash in blood. Something had piled the remains of an elk on the ground in a hot mess of gore. Whatever had killed it had torn off the limbs and strewn them about. The animal's entrails were everywhere.

  Shit. Shit! SHIT!
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  His eyes moved from the dead carcass to the trees that were now just a stone's throw away.

  Had they been able to get ahead of me? No, that doesn't seem possible, I would have seen or heard something, despite the havoc that was happening back at Thirteen. No, this must have been the handiwork of a natural predator; a wolf or bear perhaps?

  Dmitri finally managed to rip his attention from the mess that laid at his feet and continued into the forest. The twenty-something lab technician finally lurched across the threshold of the woods. Now that he was no longer an easy target out in the open, he slowed his pace a little, not wanting to trip on a tree root. An injury now would be most unwelcome and would make further travel near impossible.

  SNAP!!!!

  The sound of the breaking stick froze Dmitri in mid-stride. He looked around and saw what appeared to be blood smeared on a nearby tree trunk not six feet away.

  Had to be from the dead animal I just saw.

  He tried to convince himself that it was just a result of nature in action. A predator hunting its prey. Yeah, it was just a bear. He chuckled to himself.

  You know things have gone to shit when running into a bear is preferable to the alternative.

  SNAP!!!!

  This time the sound was much closer. Dmitri's hand groped the frozen ground for a weapon, resting upon a thick branch, about the size of a baseball bat. His heart pounded; as his hands gripped his makeshift weapon for dear life, another sound fell upon his ears. It wasn't a twig breaking, but something much worse. A low, deep, continuous growl originated to his right. He turned his head towards the guttural growl, expecting to see nothing but fur and teeth. That would have been a godsend.

  From the darkness, blood-stained teeth emerged in a Cheshire grin. Ruby-red eyes glared at him. A long forked tongue snaked its way through the gaping smile as the thing's jaw distended. Behind him, a hot, stabbing pain flashed at the base of his neck as a second monster severed his spine. His body crumpled to the ground; a fleshy marionette of useless muscle and bone.

  A moment later, he was on his back, the two creatures were upon him. He could hear flesh tearing, bone breaking, and the unmistakable sound of squishy organs. He tried not to look at the scene that played out before him, but the horror had him riveted in shock. These two creatures were feasting on him like a pheasant at Christmas.

  Thank God I can't feel this.

  Dmitri Yugavanovich became the second puddle of gore to stain the porcelain-white snow.

  CHAPTER 2 EXPOSURE

  Calais, France

  December, 12 2014

  Marc Chevalier leaned against the railing that overlooked the Western Docks and waited for the ferry to arrive. The wind was picking up; it carried a chill across the English Channel that could freeze the bones of even the most rugged man.

  The sea port at Calais is one of the busiest ports in Europe. It handled the most traveled shipping lanes between France and England. On average, the ferry fleet made about forty crossings each day, shuttling thousands of passengers across the English Channel. Today, the volume of people passing through seemed much sparser than usual.

  Marc noticed that he was the only soul standing out on the observation landing that overlooked the SeaFrance docks. The door leading back into the terminal opened and a rather rotund elderly man hobbled out onto the platform. He continued to the railing and stopped about a foot away to Marc's right. The old man leaned on the railing, his face pale and expressionless. A long and uncomfortable silence passed; the Arctic wind moaned across the water as the two men stood.

  Marc stole a quick glance at the old timer. He could see a large piece of gauze taped to the back of the man's neck. A dark, reddish-brown stain had soaked through the bandage. The stranger stood there motionless, oblivious to the fact that he wasn't alone on the platform. To put an end to an awkward moment, Marc turned and extended his hand towards the stranger.

  "Salut, je suis Marc," he said.

  His voice sounded muffled against the blowing wind and the man didn't turn to acknowledge him. He moved his hand up and placed it on his shoulder, shouting this time.

  "Excusez-moi, êtes-vous bien?"

  The old man jumped and almost toppled over the railing. Reaching his hand out, Marc steadied the man, who turned to face him with wide eyes and a look of utter confusion. His face changed and took on a jovial, yet somewhat nervous appearance.

  "BLOODY HELL! You gave me quite a start, mate!" the man said, with a thick British accent.

  After seeing Marc's look of surprise, the man offered out his hand towards the Frenchman.

  “My sincerest apologies, mate. The name's Brown. Seamus Brown."

  “Bonjour, I am Marc Chevalier," he said in the best broken English he could manage.

  Marc grasped Seamus's hand, shaking it. The grip was firm. So much so that he had trouble matching the strength that the old man exerted. A moment later, the pressure eased and Seamus released his vice-like grip. Blood flowed back into Marc's fingers. As their hands began to separate, Marc felt something sharp scrape his palm.

  "Nom de Dieu!" Marc cursed as he looked down at the two inch gash on his hand. Blood began to bead along the razor thin line of the cut.

  "So sorry dear chap. I must have a hang nail or something." Seamus offered. He pulled a handkerchief from his inside breast pocket and pressed it hard on the wound. He then held up his hand and looked for a moment at his fingers. From what Marc could see, Seamus had something that looked a lot worse than a hang nail. At the tip of his right ring finger, a small, sharp nail, which looked more like a claw than a nail, protruded from the tip of the finger. A red ring of blood encircled the strange looking protrusion where it had erupted through the skin.

  "Hell, would you look at that," Seamus said, surprised by the anomaly on his hand. "Looks like I'll be keeping the doctor busy when I get back to London."

  "What happened to you?" Marc asked, as he nodded to the bloodied bandage on Seamus' neck.

  "Oh that? Damnedest thing," Seamus answered as he began fidgeting with the gauze. "I was leaving my hotel in Paris when this vagrant assaulted me, biting me like a rabid dog." He began scratching at the wound as he talked. "I've felt sick ever since. With a little luck, I'll be able to get some penicillin in me before I turn into a similar abomination of society." He chuckled as he said this, causing a slight twang of panic wash over Marc.

  Looking down at the scratch on his hand, the fear of infection grew. He tried to push those thoughts from his head as he attempted to put up a more casual and friendly demeanor.

  "I'm sure it will be alright."

  Seamus gave a confident nod in agreement and looked out over the channel. "Looks like our ride has arrived."

  Marc joined Seamus's gaze and saw the large ferry Molière power through the rough chop of the water. The two men watched the enormous vessel creep to the docks, until it finally came to a stop along the dock closest to their right.

  Marc said goodbye to Seamus and made his way back to the main terminal area. Once inside, the rush of warmth from the building flushed his cheeks and brought a wave of nausea over him. That's strange. He glanced down at his palm, which had swollen to a blackish appearance and itched painfully. This is definitely not good. Seamus most definitely had infected him with something... but what?

  After taking a moment to let the nausea pass, he continued past the rows of seats in the waiting area and located the nearest bathroom. By the time he made it through the restroom door, his stomach knotted up and contracted, causing his insides to lurch. Marc rushed to the closest stall and heaved. Thick viscous fluid poured out of him at an alarming rate. Much denser than normal vomit, the substance was a dark, reddish-brown color and produced the foulest smell he had ever encountered. This caused him to gag and heave even more, until finally, the retching abated, allowing him to draw in much needed breaths.

  He stood still, bent over at the waist, looking at the disgusting bile which now decorated the inside of the stall like a Jac
kson Pollock painting.

  Oh my God. What the hell is this stuff?

  Marc exited the stall and made his way to a sink. Panic had hit him with full force, causing him to wonder what the Englishman had gotten into in Paris. He turned on the faucet and immersed his head, allowing the cool water to wash over him. He turned his head and allowed water to run into his mouth. No sooner had he swallowed than another violent wave of vomiting struck like a Nazi Blitzkrieg. Reddish-brown ooze rocketed out and onto the mirror, the wall, the faucet, the sink, the floor, the soap dispenser, the hand dryer, and last but not least, the garbage can.

  Five minutes transpired; Marc's abdominal muscles burned. His throat was raw and a severe fever had set in. His body convulsed as he shivered. He staggered to one of the stalls that wasn't covered in vomit and began tearing arm length pieces of toilet paper. Marc wiped himself off as best he could and returned to the sinks. He washed his hands and face again, careful to not swallow any water, for fear of starting the vomit-fest again. His stomach behaved for the moment, although the thought of riding the choppy waters of the channel caused the nausea to flutter in anticipation of the next wave of heaving. Luckily, it never came.

  The low deep moan of the ferry horn which signified that the ship was about to set sail snapped Marc from his fever-induced trance. He hurried out of the bathroom and towards the departure gate. Fumbling in his jacket, he located his boarding pass and shoved it into the steward's hand, aware that the SeaFrance employee glared at him with obvious concern. Thankfully, the steward handed his boarding pass back and waved him through without incident.

  He thinks I'll infect him. Infect him with what?

  Marc staggered-ran to the gangplank and boarded the ship, making his way to the top observation deck. He was burning up and sweating buckets, the cold winter air providing relief from the fire that he felt in his blood. The Molière's horn sounded off again, announcing their departure. Marc saw a bench at the center of the deck and made his way to it. He eased himself down, aware for the first time that his joints ached; every single one of them. There he sat, eyes closed, breathing in the salty sea air, listening to the water lap against the ship. He felt movement as the boat made its way from the dock and out into the harbor.