At the End - a post-apocalyptic novel (The Road to Extinction Book 1) Read online

  AT THE

  END

  BOOK ONE OF

  THE ROAD TO EXTINCTION

  JOHN HENNESSY

  An Innovation Today Book. Go Indie.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 John Hennessy

  All rights reserved

  Cover art by Brett Carlson

  Edited by Brittany Yost

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  eISBN-13: 9781476249599

  This book is available in print at:

  http://www.johnhennessy.net

  Also by John Hennessy

  Novels

  THE ROAD TO EXTINCTION TRILOGY

  Book One: At the End

  Book Two: Into Cinders (Winter 2012/13)

  Book Trailer

  THE CRY OF HAVOC SAGA

  Book One: Life Descending

  Book Two: Darkness Devouring

  Book Trailer

  Praise for Life Descending

  “As good as Game of Thrones.”—Stella Blackmore, Night Owl Reviews

  “A masterpiece.”—Reviewed by Rita V for Readers Favorite

  “A riveting read.”—Midwest Book Review

  “Endlessly imaginative.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “Hard to quit reading.”—Robert Medak, Allbooks Review Int.

  Finalist in Foreword Magazine’s 2011 Book of the Year Awards

  —fantasy genre

  Short Stories

  A Stalker’s Game (free eBook)

  Facebook

  Visit my facebook page and leave a comment.

  Dedication

  To my Grandpa John

  whose enthusiasm to read each

  chapter the day it was finished

  week by week

  propelled the story onward.

  Table of Contents

  Also by John Hennessy

  Facebook

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 — They’re All Gone

  Chapter 2 — Empty Shelves

  Chapter 3 — The Lonely Road South

  Chapter 4 — What’s Out There?

  Chapter 5 — Taken

  Chapter 6 — Portland

  Chapter 7 — Bones as Sweet as Candy

  Chapter 8 — The Truth

  Chapter 9 — Go Engines, Go

  Chapter 10 — Off the Ground

  Chapter 11 — Alions, Offline

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  They’re All Gone

  Darrel

  They did it; they really did it.

  The Catholics put an end to the birth control industry, eliminating contraceptives by over 97%, from what I understood. How? I should have paid more attention in school.

  The room became darker the longer I stared at the ceiling. Everything was so still, so quiet. It was almost as if I lived on top of a mountain, a lone man, in a sanctuary of solitude. This was far from any sanctuary. The alarm clock on the nightstand pierced my ears as if it sought to kill me. I hated that sound, always had, and probably always would. Although, this would probably be the last time I listened to it. Would that be so bad?

  I reached to my left to shut off the harsh noise. I moved as if a reptile waking up in the cold, blood running slower than slow. Numb to the world now, maybe, but I had never experienced this feeling before; I could have misinterpreted the emptiness. My finger must have made it to the correct button because the sound finally ceased.

  The room glowed with electronics. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw complete darkness. My computer: a tiny metal case smaller than a shoebox that perched on my desk, silent as it slept, lit most of the room. From what I was told, old computers always made humming noises, cooled by fans. I’m not sure what cooled that bugger, but I’d never heard a peep out of it. On the wall above my desk hung the Ultimate Resolution Display, a marvel of the twenties, I believe. Considered garbage in comparison to the shelved items on the current market, but it worked consistently. My eyes darted to the 3D contact lenses resting next to the silver metal clock. Quickly, I inserted them with painless ease. They didn’t change my dark-blue eye color like some contacts did. I hated those kinds.

  I plopped down into the roller chair, awakened the cursor, and ran a search for the world population. Still 38,638,347,313. No one would ever change it again, probably for the best.

  I cleared my throat, always a bad habit of mine.

  I drifted into the kitchen, possibly thirty minutes later, or maybe three; I didn’t know where time went. But it passed almost at a creep that I’m certain of. Well, I’m not certain about anything anymore, but about as certain as I dared to be. The neo-plastic countertops were bare; they even sparkled in the rising sunlight that found entrance into the house through minor slits in the blinds. An empty fruit bowl sat near the raised edge of the counter, waiting to be filled again.

  I cleared my throat. My eyes glazed over, the fruit bowl vanished, hidden in a mist that did not exist.

  The world came back as a finger nudged a spoon that sat in wait for me on the counter. The countertops were designed to look like wood, a modern kitchen. I had wondered what modern kitchens looked like half a century ago, probably bleak stainless steel. I had seen part of one before, about five years ago, as it was updated to neo-plastic, a type of super plastic that I knew nothing about. Again, I should have paid more attention in school. Maybe.

  I poured a bowl of cereal. Sugarcoated wheat flakes, I could have eaten them every day for the rest of my life, but I didn’t think they would be around much longer, then again, I’m guessing neither would I. Time escaped me again, as by the time I made it to the couch, the flakes were soggy. Damn.

  The couch was as comfortable as ever. Now this was a sanctuary, a haven, at least for the time being. “Uhrm. On,” I said loud enough for the sensor to pick up my voice. The brand new screen lit up. Immediately, a news anchor—a pretty woman—dressed well in a tan suit, came on.

  “Good morning and welcome back. The time is three minutes past the eight o’clock hour, Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of March, twenty forty-eight. Today, so far it is estimated that another two million people have gone missing in the Seattle metropolitan area . . .”

  “Channel 227,” I groaned. I couldn’t listen to the news anymore. Cartoons on the other hand I could watch, they did not remind me of the disaster happening outside. A rat jumped out on the screen, almost real. A cat chased its tail, but the rat had better plans, ones involving dynamite. So unrealistic, only people killed things with explosives. I loved it.

  All the blinds were drawn down, as I hoped to ignore the street, and the odd, high-pitched noises that periodically came from it. A while later, I thought a midmorning nap seemed appropriate, falling asleep to the boom of cartoon violence.

  A creak from the front door stirred me. My chest tightened. The end at last, I hoped.

  The cr
eak grew louder, followed by silence.

  Something bumped the piano in the room off from the foyer. A curse escaped, floated into the air, and was eventually picked up by my sub-average listening skills. I sat, encased in ice. I heard the blood in my ears. I thought maybe a heart attack would kill me first. My short brown hair bristled like a porcupine. I could feel my rosy-cheeked complexion paling.

  Four limbs touched the ground like a cat, fairly soft, but I picked them up despite the voices coming from the TV. I concentrated so hard on the sound that it was all I could hear.

  They drew closer, slow, as if they imitated a sloth. The last step I heard was at the end of the couch, just on the other side of its arm. My head was probably centimeters away. I don’t think I breathed. My heart thudded against my ribs, as if it were going to split me in two. I waited.

  An almond-shaped head popped out from behind the arm, two round, burnt eyes stared at me from behind nifty spectacles. “Darrel?” a voice said, but I was on my way out. Blackness surrounded me, engulfed me; it took care of me, like a warm electric blanket.

  Water splashed my face. I guess that worked, because I woke up, wet and screaming. Curse after curse, all the ones I knew, I let them fly.

  “Calm down, bromigo,” a voice tried to soothe me. The almond head dropped into view in front of me. I erected myself with my back against the couch. I didn’t trust what I saw.

  “Félix?” I gasped. I coughed some, still short on breath. I cleared my throat. Shocked, I just gaped at him. I never thought I’d see his dark, pecan skin again.

  His long face turned into a smile, presenting his luminous white teeth. “Yeah, it’s me. You going to pass out on me again?” he asked, nervous. I saw his hands twitch, scared. He ran his shaky fingers through his short black hair.

  “No. At least I don’t think so. I could use some water though.” A second later he was pouring me a glass. I never thought simple water could taste so damn good. “Thanks,” I managed, setting the empty glass on a neo-plastic coaster. Mom hated watermarks.

  “No prob,” he said. He poured himself a glass, sat down in the chair next to the couch, and stared at the animated bullets coming right at us. “Can I ask you something?” He shifted in the velvety fabric, turning to see my expression.

  My eyes were still a little unfocused, but my mind felt sharp, guessing as to what he was going to ask. “All right.”

  “Why are you watching cartoons?”

  “You see the mark on the door?” I asked him. I heard the shakiness of my voice.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “That’s why,” I answered. I turned back to the showdown, two red-stashed cowboys settling a dispute with a duel.

  “You should be watching the news, to understand what’s going on,” he remarked.

  “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you know what’s going on?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then I’m just going to watch cartoons, okay?”

  “Well that’s not logical, it just means no one knows yet,” he said. He took another sip from his glass.

  “Félix, why are you here? Better yet, how are you here? Yesterday the news said not to go outside, that it’s unsafe; I haven’t seen anyone on the streets for over a day.”

  Whatever I said struck a wounded chord in him. He buried his head in his lap, sobbing.

  I heard a muffled, “They’re gone.”

  Damn, so many.

  “Mine too,” I said. “Taken the first night, yours?”

  “The second,” he replied.

  His words were stifled by a cough, but I understood. “So last night was your first night alone?” He raised his head and nodded, taking off his glasses to dry his cheeks. “Well don’t worry, they’ll be back.” I didn’t know what else to say, more than likely all my words would be lies. “You want to play Death Squad?”

  “No,” he said. I think that was the first time in two years that he didn’t want to play. “I want to watch the news.”

  “Uhrm. There’s no point. It’s been the same news since yesterday morning,” I told him.

  He stood up, angered. “Billions of people are missing, your parents, my parents, don’t you care?”

  “Yeah, I care. But she’s not saying anything new, none of them are. They don’t know anything.”

  “But maybe they do now, when did you last check?” he asked, hope unconcealed in his words.

  I scanned the clock on the TV. “Less than an hour ago.”

  He shook his head again, not listening.

  “I’m telling you nothing has changed.”

  He ignored my words; he needed to hear good news. “Channel 0002,” Félix yelled. The same news anchor appeared on screen, streaming the same broadcast she had been for the last several hours.

  “Today’s current estimate has peaked at 38 billion people missing, about 13 billion more globally than yesterday.” She changed her tone; maybe something new was coming to break her from her repetitive blathering. “Surprisingly, the first two nights occurred without a trace of recovered video footage, but last night a French woman caught on camera quite a disturbing sight, using an antiquated 1998 camcorder. We have managed to interface the outdated technology.” They rolled the footage: a mellow-toned French woman shot a distorted image of a nighttime street at least three stories below. A few city lights illuminated parts of the sidewalk, where large, fuzzy dots crossed under them in single file. The image went in and out, alternating between darkness and a strange static screen I had never seen before.

  The camcorder played back a harsh noise drawing closer, high-pitched scratches that sounded as if claws dug into the building’s side, climbing. As the sound grew louder, the camera began to shake more, as though an endless twitch struck its bearer. “Do you see anything?” a man’s voice asked in French before the TV translated his words into English.

  The camera withdrew from the window, still focused on its frame. “Spots,” she replied. “Could be people down there.” The sound advanced faster for a few seconds until it ceased altogether, stopping near the window.

  “What is that noise?” the man asked with a tense voice.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, less afraid than her male counterpart. She edged closer again. “Maybe a squirrel.”

  The silence coiled fear in me, ready to discharge, but my eyes remained glued to the display despite the anticipation of horror.

  “Too big,” the man responded. The camera crept to where the footage had started by the window, but before it reached its destination, a claw swiped it to the carpeted flooring. The lens recorded nothing but blackness after, yet an audible short scream burst forth.

  “Estelle . . . Estelle?” the man whispered, almost choking in fear. A rush of footsteps ran at the camera, then carried the device off into more darkness.

  The news anchor reappeared. “That’s all the footage reveals, a giant claw, larger than a Tiger’s. From this, we know whatever the creature is, it is capable of scaling vertical walls. The man escaped his apartment and found his way to a news station still in operation around seven this morning . . .”

  I couldn’t listen anymore. “Channel 227, priority one,” I spoke clearly. The TV recognized the command and changed back to a cowboy riding away on a horse as the sun set.

  “What are you doing?” Félix screamed at me. His eyes had been just as stationary as mine, fixed to the screen. “They have new information, change it back.” My silence awakened a fury in him that I had never witnessed before. His skinny fingers curled into a fist with eyes targeting my face. “Channel 0002.”

  “Access denied, setting priority one in activation,” the speakers communicated.

  “My dad added the setting so that my little cousin would stop switching the stations,” I said.

  Félix stared at me, surprised. “Figures, you don’t know anything about electronics.” His arm trembled in agitation.

  Would he really strike
at me?

  “All right, dude. Calm down.” I put up my hands and swallowed. The dryness of my throat gave way to slight tears. “Channel 0002,” I commanded. No use arguing when he felt passionately enough to make fists.

  In size, I was much bigger than him, but I had little heart to fight in real life. I thought him the same, but it looked like my opinion turned out wrong. Clearing my throat, I seized my empty glass while he refocused his attention to the screen.

  Words that overflowed with panic were blaring out of the speakers. The rushed voice did not slow as the TV transitioned to a new image: the Space Needle climbed in the distance, failing to compete with a multitude of newer buildings that dwarfed the symbolic tower. The sound faltered, skipping over a few words. An instant later, it cut out altogether. The camera zoomed in, the screen blurred unable to draw the pixels fast enough. The screen adjusted to an image hovering above the city. The picture began to follow the sound in its collapse, flickering between static and skyline.

  The image stabilized for a moment.

  Félix gasped.

  “No way,” I muttered, staggered by the inconceivable spaceship that floated near the Space Needle, poised for possible destruction. “You believe it?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  Of course he didn’t. Despite the hundreds, maybe thousands of imaginary spaceships my eyes had encountered, nothing prepared me for what I saw. I had flown ships that looked and felt so real; I sometimes began to believe they were, but not anymore. Not anymore.

  A news chopper flew towards the great machine: five black and red ovals, like a bee’s abdomen the size of skyscrapers, trailed behind a slightly larger oval, connected by support beams that curved at peculiar angles, almost as if made for aesthetics instead of reinforcement purposes. A strange red light glowed at the butt end of the five, emitting trace amounts of a crimson gas that disappeared soon after it encountered the firmament.