Dark Genesis (Shadow and Shine Book 1)

by Danial Hooper

“We will also need to talk about those fires soon too, Greeny. I would like your input.”

  Then the line closed. Conrad was left confused and concerned. “So much for the nap,” he said to himself.

  Conrad would head south to DC right away.

  All you need to know, President Watt had said. All. All. The letter A was the message.

  And the message Conrad had feared.

  A: Air Strike.

  -

  The time of fellowship of the newly formed Salt Lake group lasted only a few minutes after Greg’s proposition to Asher and Ben. From there, they would return to the hotel when the sun was over their west shoulder.

  It took a few minutes for Harry, who was now able to stand and speak softly, to explain to the group which direction was west. “The closest mountain is on the east, so when you see the sun at about the same height but on the opposite side, go back to the hotel and wait for everyone to return.”

  It worked well enough for Greg to assign everyone to travel in threes. Jenna, Shelly, and Lynn were going to stop at the nearest convenience store to find food and potentially a gun behind the register. The preference was for Lynn to stay behind with Asher and Ben, but Shelly argued and Greg did not fight back. It was better to establish amiable relations early with these new people. Jenna made a lackluster attempt to argue as well, but it did not have the same desired effect. Greg, Harry, and Mickey would travel north to the drug store, gun shop, and pawn shop, respectively. They would separate, but only a small distance separate them. Mickey was told not to leave without Greg or Harry, and Harry used this as an opportunity to speak to Mickey like he was a six year old who couldn’t follow directions.

  The air in Salt Lake was especially dry and heat radiated off the ground in fumes. Greg hated sweating. The overcast made the sun’s brightness amplified, and the temperature rose accordingly. This led to each falling particle of dust to feel warm on everyone’s skin.

  Mickey thought one of the cars may be operable, despite every vehicle being covered by a foreign substance with apparent decomposing qualities, and climbed into one of the vacated cars. The engine didn’t even tick when Mickey turned the key.

  They were now living out a peculiar phenomenon, to be sure, one that Greg was trying to process while focusing on his current duties. How was it the only form of power to work so far had been a refurbished radio? The city’s life had been decimated: no birds, no alley cats, and no more people than Greg’s group. The new population was less than one percent of its former number. Former, as in two days ago. For all of the emptiness, empty cars, empty business and empty streets, there was a vitality brimming above the surface captivating Greg. The deteriorating dust made the air ache of life, and it was invigorating. Salt Lake City became devoid of its former life, but still yearned for breath in entirely new ways. The ash brought about this change. One could not help but have a vision for the potential of such an untamed wilderness as an empty city. It made complete sense as to why American culture had been so obsessed with this thing called the Apocalypse. It was the new frontier.

  There were nine survivors ready to make their mark on the blank slate formerly known as Salt Lake City.

  Greg would lead them.

  He knew the social implications his group has been dealt. Large groups exposed to catastrophic trauma are rarely able to stick together. A man alone has the opportunity to be self-sufficient, but will succumb to depression. Two will partner, but one will feel under-appreciated. Three will create rules, with one inexcusably breaking them. Four will form factions. Five will ostracize an individual. Any more brings about a society needed to be governed while also risking the prior ailments shared by the smaller groups. Greg would continue to tread lightly as he played his role within the group. Ultimately, he understood the importance of support and his potential for the future.

  -

  The pawn shop was a hilarious buffet of random objects. Out front there were two matching unicycles and a lawnmower. Who was the genius to pair these up? Who owned a unicycle in the first place? Not that Mickey didn’t have the desire to at least sneak a test drive, but Mickey had a duty.

  Inside had the mess of all messes. The register was to the left of the door while the rest of the building was a total disaster area with anything and everything scattered about, mostly in broken pieces. Long aisles made of a rusty steel separated each mountain of clutter.

  He was able to find a few knives (of which Mickey put in his pocket) and a bow with no arrows. They could make their own arrows, right? So he packed it, in case. He looked behind the register for a gun but only found dried blood splatter and a clump of hair. There were wads of cash laying on the floor, but Mickey didn’t see worth in picking those up now.

  The beauty of this store, which was named, ‘John’s Pawn’, was the creative possibilities in the items. He saw three gas powered generators, a few sets of rusty workout sets, and a bunch of great yard equipment. There were tools of all shapes and sizes and blankets to keep them warm. If Greg was right and this was the beginning of the end of the world, they would need to be in it for the long haul. All those dead cars outside meant there was enough gas in Salt Lake City to run generators for like thirty years.

  All of this gave Mickey a swing of confidence, and he needed it. Mickey’s group needed creative minds to make this work, and Mickey felt the urge to be inventive. He was a dreamer, he was a thinker, and even if people didn’t give him credit, he was a problem solver. Everything here had so much potential; they could build traps, make bombs, and maybe even build their own guns.

  Well, unless Harry was having luck at the gun store.

  -

  “Oh what a beautiful site,” Harry said to no one as he walked through the missing door of the gun store. “I think I’ve died and gone to Gun-Toting Heaven.” In front of him was a white wall with thin black stripes running around the room horizontality. On those walls were high powered rifles, pistols, and shotguns. Of all the buildings to remain organized, this was the one, and it was the most important store in town. The floors actually looked clean, not even a gum wrapper. The store must have been undergoing some changes prior to the attacks, for some odd reason half of the display cases were empty.

  The place was perfect in every reason. He walked behind the register, fighting off the urge to pick one of the beauties off the wall and focus on storage keys and whatever else would be behind. These guns weren’t just sitting on the wall freely. They were locked in place and Harry needed to find their freedom. There was no gun behind the register, just an unopened snicker bar and a faded war picture.

  The picture featured a band of brothers in one of the wars. Either the one when Harry was too young to enlist or too old. He was born at exactly the wrong time. His life would have been better if he ever had the opportunity to be in a picture like this. Instead he ended up as a drunk mechanic with two divorces and no children.

  It was different now; he had a chance to be the soldier he was meant to be. With this armory, he could be a leader against the greatest threat in mankind’s history. No training commitments, no age limits. Just a man with a gun and the will to survive. Maybe someday he would be in a picture like this.

  “Jackpot,” Harry said as he saw a key laying underneath where the picture once laid. This should be the key to free the guns and unleash the bullets which would be here somewhere. He held the key tight in his hand and looked to see where the ammo would be stored. Of course, it wouldn’t be out in the open. It was not a good idea to have a gun shop and have an armed robbery waiting to happen.

  The glass counter in front of him displayed other treats for their protection: extended clips, scopes, custom handles, and straps. Harry was a kid in a candy store.

  He counted out loud the number of people in his group. “Women,” he said looking at a couple small pistols. These would suit the women. “Mickey.” Harry pointed at a small caliber pea shooter. Greg would be here in an hour or so, he would be able to pick his own poison if he liked
. Asher and Ben said they didn’t want guns. That kind of cockiness would end up killing them.

  “Harry,” he said admiring a long rifle with a red scope. It’s long, thin build was like a modern day spear ready for hunting the enemy. He looked through the scope and found it curious why the color was red. Probably a night time advantage.

  “Oh, Harry,” again, this time there was a Desert Eagle with black steel. “Oh, Harry… Harry… Harry.” This kind of gun would make him like Clint Eastwood. “Dirty Harry,” he continued talking. It weighed almost as much as the rifle despite being half the size. It was a true intimidation piece capable of doing more than intimidating, which was good since those freaks didn’t have fear. Neither were super charged humans with giant hammers, but you didn’t have to be afraid for this bad boy to put a hole in your chest.

  There were plenty of heavy duty bags available to pack up the guns to take to the group. They would celebrate Harry. They would be grateful. It would be exactly what they needed for some hope on survival. Harry, even after being punched in the stomach, would be viewed as the hero and someone they could trust. Right now, with the freaks hunting at night and the brothers with more power than anyone deserved, the rest of the group needed to know Harry was taking control back for humanity. This was the first chance for this to happen. Harry would give that to his people.

  “Where are…,” Harry asked himself aloud taking a step back and searching the room for boxes of ammo. Guns and guns and guns.

  No bullets.

  None.

  Not even a single .22 shell was found on the floor.

  There was a door, and through the door had to be bullets. Otherwise this building was filled with nothing more than scrap metal. Who owns a gun store without bullets? That would be like a bar without alcohol.

  Of course the door was a locked. The sign said ‘private’ for a reason. Any smart business owner knows to keep the patrons honest. Harry had the key though, and he doubted the gun shop’s owner would mind him clearing out a couple boxes of goods for the road. He reached back into his pocket, first pulling out the picture (which he wanted to keep out of respect) and then handling the key. The key to Harry’s heart.

  The key had a Dallas Cowboys emblem on its back. Of course a Cowboy fan would be the one to own a gun store. “How ‘bout them Cowboys!” he shouted to the empire room. The key fit perfectly in the lock granting him access.

  The room was lit by a big, barred window with the cloudy light shining in. He flipped a switch, forgetting the power outage. He squinted his eyes, searching for the boxes of ammunition. There was a big desk in the middle of the room flanked by a messy cot where the owner must have slept. No safe, no filing cabinets, no boxes of bullets.

  How could this be? There were enough guns to arm a small army, but somehow the only thing that made them useful was missing. This room was his only hope.

  Harry punched into the door leaving a small dent under his fist. Hatred filled him so fast; it was best he didn’t find any bullets. This feeling felt like the one that brought him on The Commodore’s roof. The group needed him to find supplies for protection, and instead he found nothing but stupid emptiness.

  He walked out of the building, no reason to search anymore, and threw the key out into the foggy city. He could hear it clink on the ground out of his view. “Story of my life. Story of my stupid… wasted… failure of a life.”

  Greg would be here soon.

  -

  In major civil unrest, the businesses first looted were electronic stores. Something about anarchy made a wild population decide to upgrade their sound systems and DVD set. Next up were the pharmacies for the addicts to steal their weekend fix.

  The smell of medication tingled under Greg’s broken nose as soon as he entered the pharmacy. The sliding glass door could have given Greg trouble, since there was no power, and they were not built for easy entry. Fortunately, a looter had thrown a cinder block through the door, so Greg could limbo his way through. Cough syrup and other medications were spilled and smeared along the aisles. Greg’s worn down dress shoes slid along the tile floor while he maneuvered through the messes making his way to the back of the building to the pharmacy section which was with all possible entrances locked by an apparatus similar to a grade door and a key-code, locked door. There were scuff marks on the metal blinds where people had tried to enter. Greg would not be short-sighted. These systems were meant only to allow entrance to those with permission.

  Greg looked around the large pharmacy and enjoyed the moment of silence. The closest wall was empty of decorations making it the perfect location for Greg to clear his thoughts. He needed to come up with a plan, preferably fast.

  The first step needed to be identifying whether or not the lock system on the door was connected to the electricity or battery powered. Battery powered would be more beneficial for his case, but it was also more practical in the event of a major power outage. A lock system needed to be able to work in the event of someone cutting the power. Thus, the battery powered lock system would be operational and only in need of the proper code entry, meaning Greg needed to find the correct code.

  Upon entry, Greg would need to perform necessary precautions to ensure not setting off any alarm systems. If the alarm was connected to the battery, then there could be a time release alarm, and Greg could not afford to draw attention to the pharmacy. The wolves (a term Greg had preferred after hearing Ben’s explanation) would not come until dark, but other survivors may. Greg was too weak on his own and did not want to add numbers to an already stretched thin group. They had a limited amount of resources, and more mouths to feed could create tension. All of this was mere conjecture until Greg was able to find the passcode into the pharmacy.

  He broke his gaze from the empty wall and first examined the front of the building. It was a long shot. Anyone who operating the cash register would not have the educational background to enter into restricted areas.

  Only cash and a pack of cigarettes here. Greg opened a candy bar too as a little treat for himself. The peanuts stuck into his teeth and rubbed against his raw cheeks. The soreness of his jaw escaped him no more. He dropped the rest of the candy bar on the ground.

  There was a back room marked ‘employees only’ with no codes or keys needed for entry. This would be the area of his successful obtainment of the code. The room was cramped in close with three lockers and a large desk. A change of street clothes hung in the middle locker, as well as a pair of athletic sneakers. They were a size too big. The desk offered next to nothing as in, the desk was empty. It was a complete waste of space and looked to have been unused. Even the pen drawer had no pens.

  Certificates hung on the walls with achievements, recognitions, and trainings. Martin Black Junior had his name well noted on over half of the sheets of paper, while the other half were split between Jamie Black and Layla Black. A newspaper clipping was featured in the middle of it all: Martin Black Senior and an infant Martin Black Junior standing outside Black’s Pharmacy with a ‘Now Open’ sign. The article was referring to Black’s Pharmacy as the best general and drug store in Salt Lake City in only its first year of business. ‘Est: 1941’.

  It was the only lead he had, but Greg believed 1941 could be the code needed to open the door. It was too simple. Difficult enough while also simple enough to remember. Greg took his time walking back to the pharmacy area.

  Jenna opened a bag of Chex-Mix to eat her emotions. These were her favorite kind of guilty pleasure, which was why she was opening up her second bag. She stood staggered with her weight shifted off her casted foot. She was starting to get used to walking with the cast, but it wore her out quickly nonetheless. Not as quickly as Edie’s friendship, but quick. Shelly was in the freezer looking for the standard rolled tacos for dinner. This gas station chain always had the best instant hunger fixes. Those things would probably last ten years before expiration. Not that they were bad, they were gross but tasty too.

  While Shelly works, Jenna wastes
time ogling at food prospects.

  Jenna’s responsibilities were simple: find the necessities and look for a gun (so said Harry). The cash register was locked, and there was no gun to be found. There were batteries, a whole bunch of them actually and some cold medicine too. There was also enough clean water that they shouldn’t have much of a problem with dehydration.

  And you’re drinking an iced tea?

  It was crisp and smooth, just like the label said. Jenna never ate much junk food, at least not the kind you would buy at a gas station. She enjoyed her lattes and caramel coffees. She enjoyed chocolates, and yes, she enjoyed a bag of trail mix but only when Robert was away. He didn’t associate with those places. He didn’t even fill his own gas tank, let alone go inside. Robert was the kind of man with high end preferences. He never expected or demanded Jenna disassociate herself (he never would demand anything), but it was implied that she was beyond cheap delights. He said places like this gave him a stomach ache. Jenna was about to find out of it did the same to her.

  An old, withered hand reached into her bag and took out a pretzel. Lynn smiled as he chewed on his prize. He was too sweet to be mad at, even if it was bad manners. “They’re good huh?” she said and smiled.

  He chuckled a little and said, “I had no idea what they were, sweetheart, but I heard you chewing them up and my tummy took over. Can we blame it on the dementia?”

  Jenna nodded and laughed a little.

  “If you’re nodding, I can’t see ya.”

  “Oh, uh, yeah. We can blame it on the dementia, or you can just have the rest of the bag.”

  “See any chocolate-covered raisins around here?” Lynn asked.

  She crouched down and sorted through the bags and a found Lynn’s heart desire. Maybe she would have one too. Lynn took an oversized handful into his mouth and chewed loudly. He smiled at Jenna, with pieces mixed in his teeth.

  Shelly came into the room holding a large box, interrupting the little moment they were sharing. “I’ve got steak taquitos. There are five or six more boxes we will need to move down to the freezer at the hotel. What do you say we move a box each and come back tomorrow to get the rest?” She caught Lynn’s hand in the cookie jar. “Dad! No! Too much sugar. You’re going to make yourself sick.” Shelly took the bag out of his hand and scolded him. She looked to Jenna and said, “He can’t handle sweets. His meds upset his stomach to begin with, and they don’t like sugar… at all. Please don’t give him anything else.”