The Goliath Code (The Alpha Omega Trilogy)

by Suzanne Leonhard

  The Goliath Code

  Alpha Omega Book One

  Suzanne Leonhard

  KC Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Suzanne E. Leonhard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover Art: HighImpactCovers.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9993922-0-1

  For the God who created me,

  The Spirit who sustains me,

  and the King who saved me.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part III

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve always wanted to write a book about the end of the world. I’d like to think it’s because I long to give the most “tragical” story in the history of the universe a happy ending, but it could also be that I’m a bit of a drama queen—and what could be more dramatic than the apocalypse? The idea for The Goliath Code rolled around in my head for years before I finally started writing it and, once I sat down at my keyboard, writing through the eyes of a sixteen year old girl didn’t come easy. There were a lot of people that encouraged me along the way and kept me going, so bear with me while I thank them.

  First, Robert Leonhard. Bob stepped into my life at just the right moment and showed me the Truth behind all the mystery. Not only is he my favorite Bible teacher, he’s a brilliant military strategist, a gifted writer, and an invaluable sounding board for stubborn plot points. On those days when I felt the story overwhelming me, he was always in my corner holding the spit bucket. I owe my persistence, as well as all the military references in this book, to the man I was smart enough to marry.

  Then there are my priceless Beta Readers—brave souls that step into the fray of mediocre writing to encourage and redirect writers that, adorably, mistake a first draft for a final manuscript. For me those people were Rebecca Duffy, my sister in emojis, who gave the book its first thumbs up; Kadey Kerns, who got so angry at the original ending that I changed it immediately in fear for my life; Rachel Cole, who was instrumental in helping me organize the noisy chorus; Danielle DeSousa, who fell in love and demanded more; Heather Pontious, who encouraged me with lots of exclamation marks; Hazel Hickman, who gave me permission to be proud of this one; and my granddaughter Rosie Witter, who stayed up all night reading the book. All of you will never know how much your enthusiasm motivated me and kept me going through all the doubts.

  Of course, no book would be complete without a magnificent cover, and I have Sean Lowery of HighImpactCovers to thank for this one. His patience with my perfectionism says a lot about his character.

  I’d also like to thank the Pastoral staff at Fellowship Bible Church in Winchester, Virginia, for making my first experience with a Christian church so fulfilling and intellectually stimulating. FBC is definitely not a check-your-brain-at-the-door-church. God truly blessed us when he lead my family to your door.

  Finally, thank you to my editor Rosanne Catalano. Not only is she knowledgeable about the infrastructures of bridges and the lifespans of cheeses, she is a divinely gifted wordsmith.

  And now…let’s begin.

  Prologue

  I raced through the snow-covered forest, ignoring the biting cold. Sunbeams filtered through the pine canopy over my head, casting scarlet bands of dancing light across the frozen landscape. The scene reminded me of a book my mother read to me when I was little, about a magical world forever trapped in winter. Mom was gone now. So were happy endings.

  The shouts behind me grew louder.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the perfect set of boot prints I’d left behind in the snow. Two fresh, powdery inches had fallen the night before, slowing me down, leaving a visible trail, and making the soldiers’ jobs that much easier.

  I veered around a dead stump and crashed through a tangle of ferns. The muscles in my legs complained. I dug deep and ran on, letting the forest close in around me. My boot caught on a branch winter-welded to the forest floor. I stumbled but stayed on my feet.

  Finally, I burst from the tree line and into a bright, snowy clearing where the brilliant red sky blinded me. Apocalypse red. The words rang in my head. That was my grandfather’s description of the ruddy Devastation sky.

  The reminder twisted my stomach into a familiar knot of grief and guilt. I could still hear his gruff order. “Be smart. Stay tough. Protect them at all costs.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut against memories that always left me feeling desperate and alone. They say time heals all wounds, but mine had only festered.

  The two men crashed out of the forest behind me. I took off running with a renewed energy. I dashed across the clearing into the shelter of the trees beyond. I dodged rocks, ducked branches, leapt fallen logs, and shot through a thick wall of blackberry bushes, no longer caring where I placed my feet. I ran from more than just the soldiers now; I ran from the crush of memories that threatened to overwhelm me.

  A patch of ice did me in.

  I landed hard on my back, knocking the air out of my lungs. The cold soaked through my coat and jeans, but I stayed on the ground. Everything had gone quiet—no more shouts, crunching snow, or snapping branches, just the sound of my heart thumping in my ears.

  I’ve lost them.

  I took a moment to catch my breath, pushing my black cap high on my forehead to stare up at the swaying green canopy above me. Nothing moved in the forest. Most of the animals had either died during the Devastation or been hunted to extinction.

  I missed the birds the most. They’d been the first to die. One by one they’d fallen from the sky like fat, feathered hailstones, leaving swarms of mosquitoes to multiply. The deer and elk died next. Thousands of them went blind, developed lung diseases, starved, and wasted away. Then the predators fell: bear, mountain lion, wolves, coyotes. Except for the persistent buzz of insects, the forest had become an empty, lonely place.

  Male voices broke through the silence. I lifted my head; the two soldiers stood in the trees thirty yards away. I hadn’t lost them after all.

  Good.

  I smiled to myself and rolled to my feet. It would have spoiled the fun if our game had ended too soon.

  I brushed the snow from my pants, lingering long enough for the men to spot me. The fat one saw me first. “There!” he shouted. Then I headed off at a steady pace, careful to run slower this time.

  A few minutes later I found myself in a familiar glade where a crooked elm grew sideways over a rotten stack of firewood. I stomped around in th
e snow, making a confusion of tracks, then shimmied up to the highest branches of my favorite hemlock tree to wait for the fun to begin.

  I spotted the soldiers easily from my vantage point. They shuffled along beside my tracks and, after a few moments, entered the glade to puzzle over my hodgepodge of footprints. I looked down onto their heads, watching them peer in one direction, then the other.

  Finally, the tall soldier called out to me in accented English. “Ve know you are here, boy.” He had gold bars on the collar of his ocean blue uniform, gold braided epaulets on the shoulders of his long overcoat, and a gold officer’s insignia pinned to the beanie perched on the side of his head. He was a centurion, the obvious leader of the two. “Ve vill not hurt you.”

  I rolled my eyes at the lie.

  The fat soldier tried coaxing me out. “We got some bread and fresh water for ya, lil’ fella.”

  Violence flared in me. The man’s Southern accent branded him a traitor, which made him worse than the invader standing next to him.

  I fingered the sharp hunting knife in my pocket and imagined hurling it straight into the top of the private’s large head—right through the fabric of his Europa beanie. It would be such poetry to kill him by skewering the symbol of his betrayal to his skull.

  He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious. It was my enemy’s favorite quote, one I’d taken to heart and used to my advantage.

  A distant howl snapped me back to reality.

  The sound grabbed the men’s attention, too.

  “It’s that thievin’ wolf from camp,” the Southern soldier grumbled.

  The centurion scanned the tree line, his rifle at the ready. “Enjoying our food, I am sure.”

  “I told you,” the private snapped, “the animal attacked me. What was I s’posed to do, Kovac, get myself killed over a sack a potatas?”

  Anxious for the party to start, I shifted my weight off the branch. I wrapped my arms and legs around the thick tree trunk, hugging it tightly to my chest, and waited for the perfect moment.

  Then my foot slipped.

  I scrambled for a better hold, doing my best to stay quiet, but the slippery bark betrayed me. I came crashing down the tree in a hard rain of wood and pine needles. The centurion dove out of the way, but the fat Southerner had slower reflexes. I landed on top of him, knocking him to the ground. We grappled, each trying to get the upper hand. I kicked my bootheel into his face and sent him backwards, crying out and holding his nose.

  I sprang to my feet, ready for whatever might come next. The cold steel of an automatic rifle barrel pressed against my cheek. “Do not move,” the centurion ordered.

  Every ounce of my training demanded I disarm him, but Europa soldiers were a heartless bunch of dogs—they shot first and asked questions later—so I fought down the impulse. Deciding on the “frightened child” approach, I scurried back against the hemlock tree.

  “That’s right, boy,” the centurion sneered. “I am ze vun in charge here.”

  The private, his hand clamped over his face, wailed in agony. “Webel twash bwoke my dose!”

  Keeping his weapon trained on me, the centurion kicked at the private. “Get up! You do not need your nose to stand!”

  The private staggered to his feet. Blood oozed from between his fingers, dripping over his lips and chin. It was hard to hide my satisfaction. The fat man picked up on it immediately, grabbing me by the throat and shoving me back—hard—against the tree. “I’ll teach you, ya scrawny runt!” he spat.

  He hauled back his hand and cracked me across the face. Sparks shot through my jaw. I shook my head to clear the ringing in my ears, but, before I could stabilize, he struck me again. I staggered. One more blow and he’d knock me off my feet.

  My hand shifted to my pocket, to the knife. I could put him back on the ground in a second.

  The private moved to hit me again—my fingers curled around the smooth hilt—but the centurion grabbed his arm. “Halt!” Assessing me with narrowed eyes, he shoved the private away. “Vhat is your name, boy?”

  The centurion had a rigid, pitiless face. When I didn’t answer, his stare intensified. He was trying to intimidate me, but it wouldn’t work. Then he yanked the black cap from my head and freed my tangle of hair. I gasped, feeling instantly vulnerable.

  The private’s eyes practically leapt from his skull. “God almighty!” he shouted. “He’s a her!”

  He took hold of my chin, jerking my head from side to side.

  I clenched my teeth. Stay calm.

  “Wait a minute. Wait one mother-lovin’ second.” The smile on his blood-caked face widened.

  I’d been made.

  “It’s her! We found her!”

  The centurion peered harder at me, wrinkling his nose. “Vhat is your name, girl?”

  But they already knew the answer.

  “It’s her, Kovac! I will tell you somethin’, mister, the praetor better give me a promotion for this. I am done traipsin’ through the wilderness roundin’ up his lab rats.” He cackled, patting me on the cheek. “This little lady is gonna make sure Melvin Calhoun gets exactly what he deserves.”

  “Ziss isn’t America anymore, Private,” his superior dismissed. “Ve do not give promotions to men for simply doing zeir jobs.”

  Calhoun gave him a calculating look. “Well, then. Maybe it’s time I found more advantageous employment.” He directed his weapon at the centurion.

  This sudden change of events didn’t surprise me at all—once a traitor, always a traitor—but the centurion’s pinched face turned scarlet. “Vhat are you doing, you idiot?!”

  “I’m takin’ the girl.” The private grinned. “Black market’ll pay top dollar for a comfort girl with copper hair.”

  He’s going to sell me? The knife in my pocket called again. One quick strike to his kidney; that’s what Melvin Calhoun deserved.

  A branch snapped on the other side of the glade, followed by a subtle, steady rustle through the snowy underbrush. The soldiers were too busy arguing to notice.

  “C’mon, Kovac,” the private coaxed. “I’ll cut ya in for a share. We can’t waste prime girl flesh like this on the praetor’s cracked experiments.”

  Kovac puffed out his chest. “You cannot bribe me—”

  “Forty-five percent.”

  The centurion blinked. “But is it really her?” he breathed.

  Calhoun took me by my coat sleeve and gave me a shake. “Go ahead. Tell ’im your name.”

  A large, hairy shape appeared in the woods behind the men. I smiled and looked the private in the eye. “You can call me bait.”

  “You see?” The centurion huffed. “She says her name is Bates.”

  The private scowled. “No…she said bait.”

  A low, rumbling growl filled the glade. The soldiers turned. A hulking white wolf stood in the underbrush ten yards away.

  Calhoun whimpered. “K-Kovac?”

  The animal’s black lips curled back into a terrifying snarl.

  “Quiet, you idiot!” Kovac hissed.

  The wolf raised his hackles. His thick body coiled. A glimmer of imminent death reflected in his cold amber eyes.

  I cocked my head at the vicious beast. “You’re late,” I chided.

  The centurion scrambled to turn his weapon on the animal. With a savage growl, the wolf was on him. Centurion Kovac went down in a riot of screams and sharp, snapping teeth.

  The private shrieked at the wolf and raised his weapon. I moved into action, lashing out with a perfect crescent kick—one that would have made my grandfather proud. The private’s weapon flew from his hands and flipped, end over end, against the red sky. I caught it in midair, spun, and slammed the stock into his chest, adding broken ribs to his cracked nose. He fell to the ground, moaning in pain. I snapped the weapon to my shoulder and pointed it at his left eye. He looked up at me, sputtering. Like my victims before him, the private was having a hard time reconciling my sudden transformation from scrawny r
unt to guerrilla fighter.

  His breath came quick and shallow; he was calculating whether I was capable of shooting him. “You can’t—”

  “I can.” Thanks to men like Kovac and Calhoun, my skills had been refined in the unforgiving fires of war and vengeance.

  I stared down the rifle sights at the private’s sweaty brow. I could hear the wolf enjoying his centurion lunch and, judging by the look of horror on his face, Private Calhoun could hear it, too. I pressed the rifle barrel against the soft, fatty flesh of the man’s forehead, shifted my finger to the trigger, and slowly let out my breath—

  “Seraphina!” the private shouted.

  I hesitated.

  “That’s yer name, right? I-I have somethin’ for ya.”

  He eased his hand down to his uniform belt and slipped a piece of paper out from beneath the brass buckle. He handed it to me with trembling fingers, its glossy surface faded and worn by time. The past and present collided. Hot tears flooded my eyes. Everything I was—everything I’d been forced to become—came crashing in and rage welled up inside me.

  “Where did you get this?” I demanded.

  The private snorted. “Thought that might get yer attention.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Not the kind you were hoping for.”

  I swung back the rifle stock and bashed him in the side of the head.

  Part One