The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Read online

  Jim was slammed to the ground as the earth rippled in a enormous wave. Buildings swayed to and fro like stalks of wheat in a breeze, then toppled into each other like dominos, smashing to the ground in jumbled piles of concrete, glass, and metal, stained here and there with smears of bloody flesh.

  The Brown Palace and Jill died together.

  Bridges jerked, snapped and collapsed. Huge crevasses, great gaping wounds, appeared in the convulsing earth. Roads heaved apart, buckling and folding. Gas lines ruptured, sparked and ignited like giant flame-throwers. Water mains broke and geysered. Power lines whipped about like spastic snakes.

  Through tear-blind eyes Jim tried to make his way downtown; tried to reach Jill. He was thrown from his feet countless times by the violently shuddering earth.

  Heat from the fires scorched his hair, singed his eyebrows and lashes. Dust from fallen buildings and shaking earth choked him. It didn't matter to his overloaded mind. Nothing mattered but finding Jill. But try as he might, he couldn't even find the Brown Palace. Which mountain of broken brick and concrete was the hotel? Which crimson stained piece of debris was Jill? Nothing recognizable was left of the buildings or people of downtown Denver.

  *

  Through the chaos of crumbling buildings and screeching animals Randy Kellogg moved with calm deliberation, humming a tuneless jingle, opening one cage after another. Some animals, like his bears, Huey, Louie and Dewey, cowered, too frightened to move, and Randy figured that’s okay. They’ll come out when they want to. Others. like Hobbes, bolted as soon as the door was opened and disappeared into the night.

  He released elephants, antelopes, eagles and every other caged animal he could get to until a large pine tree toppled onto him and ended his efforts.

  *

  The Freeholds

  Michael Whitebear lurched towards the sound of his two-year-old son's terrified screams through darkness and dust so impenetrable that his flashlight was worse than useless.

  “It's like driving with your brights on in a fog,” he yelled to Ellen.

  “So turn it off,” she replied, hoping he wouldn't. The light didn't help them to see but it gave them a point of reference, a bit of comfort, in a world gone mad. Ellen was beside him, tied to him with a bed sheet so they couldn't become separated.

  Their home kept jerking and shuddering, throwing them off balance into walls and furniture. They crawled and tumbled and rolled ever closer. He’d thought an underground home was supposed to ride the ups and downs with an earthquake, but this felt like his house had been placed inside a blender.

  Steven's room was right down the hall from theirs, just a few short steps, if steps were possible. The tortured wails of concrete cracking, glass shattering, and wood splintering mingled with the boy’s cries of terror.

  And then Michael's leading hand encountered nothingness where the floor of their hallway should have been.

  “Damn!” He thrust the flashlight into the void but could see nothing.

  Frantically, Ellen snatched a painting that had tumbled to the floor and chucked it out in front of them across the gap. Both sighed with relief when it thunked into solid flooring just beyond their reaching arms.

  Michael untied himself from the sheet and handed Ellen the flashlight. “Get out of the house,” he said. “I'll get Steven and join you outside.”

  Her small hand grasped his with surprising strength. “I'll wait here,” she said, and her tone brooked no argument. She waved the flash. “The light will give you something to aim for after you have our son.”

  Michael braced himself against one wall and leapt blindly forward. Stumbling when he hit, he slammed off balance through the drywall of their hall closet. Extracting himself, yelling to Ellen that he was okay, he rolled into their son's room.

  Steven’s wails led Michael to the boy, who was terrified and bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but appeared otherwise unhurt.

  Making his way back into the hall Michael followed the sound of Ellen's voice back to the gap in the floor. He could dimly see the beam of the flash beyond. Cradling Steven in his arms he jumped, but the ground shook again while the two were in midair. One wall jerked into him, slapping him across into the other wall from which he rebounded like a Ping-Pong ball, toppling onto the floor. He just managed to twist enough to absorb the blows on his back and head instead of crushing his son.

  He lay there, stunned, but Steven started screaming again and Ellen followed the sound of his terror to them. Her hand grasped Michael's ankle, and then she was huddling over them taking the boy in her arms, crying with relief even as she asked Michael if he was all right.

  They were choking on dust now, speech too difficult.

  They tied themselves together again and felt their way along the hall and out onto the rain-soaked deck adjoining the master bedroom. Once outside visibility improved from impenetrable to merely murky. They were halfway down the stairs when a seventy-foot spruce crashed into the house collapsing the stairway and plunging Michael into unconsciousness.

  Ellen dragged him and Steven away from the shaking house. Trembling with the effort she refused to give in to panic. She sat still, in the partial shelter of another downed tree, comforting her son, checking Michael for injuries, gathering her thoughts, and beginning to plan for the future. They would need food, clean water, shelter and medical supplies--undoubtedly more than they had stockpiled. They needed to restore communications with the outside world, to figure out how to get the wounded to a hospital, restore basic sanitation. They needed construction supplies to rebuild--but first they just needed to survive.

  She peered through the rain. Some homesteads were on fire and she hoped others would call out the volunteer fire department. At least the rain would contain those blazes, but there would be wounded trapped inside many of those homes and someone had to get them out. She pulled her iPhone from the pocket of her housecoat--she couldn’t recall putting it in there--and found it had no signal. Not unusual here in the mountains and especially not with the solar storm that hit a few days ago.

  She froze as the ground heaved and cracked. Her son bellowed and suddenly this asteroid strike she’d only half believed in was all too real. She brushed visions of Stephen King’s “The Stand” from her mind, but something told her things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.

  Chapter 17: The King of California

  Joey Scarlatti lived in the center of a flame, burning even in the cold of the Mohave Desert night. Pain was all. His flesh blistered, cracked and peeled. His blood flowed from hundreds of small cuts and the ants had found each one, their tiny pincers slicing him to pieces they could carry home. Benny had spared his eyes and his manhood, saying he was saving the best for last.

  Oddly enough his mind seemed clear. Instead of being confused and tortured by the pain Joseph understood that he was being tested. Each wave of searing fire lifted him closer and closer to God, until the Deity drew aside a veil, revealing Joey's destiny.

  Joseph saw himself riding at the van of an army that rolled over a changed earth, uniting people, restoring civilization, building a world spanning empire. He saw his sons--Anthony directing an air strike, John commanding tanks and infantry. Sergeant Carswell wore a General's star and waved a saber. Jamal Rashid guarded Joseph's back. And young Nicolo Bonetti, all grown up, directed intelligence agents.

  He opened his eyes to the star-filled glory of desert darkness, and saw Benny standing over him.

  “Good,” Benny sneered. “You're still with me. You were outta your head a minute ago, raving about kingdoms and other crap. I was afraid you were kickin' off. Happens that way you know. A guy goes from calm, to nuts, then,” Benny snapped his fingers, “just like that--gone.”

  Benny leaned over and slapped Joey's face.

  “I'd be real disappointed if you was givin' up already,” Benny said. “Big, strong guy like you would last a week if I could wait around that long.” Benny slipped a 9mm out of his pocket and cocked it. “Too ba
d I gotta hurry, but Alonzo just heard something about a rock gonna hit the earth and mess everything up, so I guess we'll have to cut this short.”

  He aimed the gun at Carswell's head. “Least I can do is kill your flunky and kids first.” Joey smiled calmly, his pain receding as he awaited his destiny. Benny saw the smile and erupted. “The hell you grinnin' about you stupid fuckin' goon?” Benny swung the pistol back and pointed it at Joey's nose.

  Joseph Scarlatti's Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively as he struggled to speak with a parched throat. Finally, a hoarse whisper emerged. “I'm grinning because I've seen my fate, Benny. I know what lies ahead for me and my boys. So if you're going to kill us now, it must mean you're about to die.”

  Out in the darkness seventy yards away Jamal swore silently as the batteries on his night scope failed and he lost the sight picture of Benny in the crosshairs. But before he could decide whether or not to fire blind a brilliant light flared in the East illuminating the entire scene. Swiftly, Jamal centered his sights and pulled the trigger.

  “What the fuck?” Benny looked up, startled by the flash. A small hole appeared in his forehead and his body spasmed as it toppled over onto Joey. The rifle shot echoed along the hills, but to Joey it was muffled by Benny's fat gut.

  Someone grasped Joey's wrists and sawed his bonds in two. Someone else pulled Benny's body off him and rolled it to the side. Jamal pressed the butt of a pistol into Joey's numbed hand, and swung back to cover Alonzo and Nicolo with the rifle, forcing them to free the others and submit to being bound.

  The Earth trembled as Joey staggered to his feet and an unearthly glow lit the eastern sky. Joey welcomed both as signs he was reborn.

  John had a gun in his hands, pointed at Nicolo Bonetti. “You fucking snitch,” he growled.

  “No John,” Joey rasped. He took a swig from the bottle Jamal handed him and reveled as his strength flowed back with the water. He explained his vision of the future and ended with a simple, “He'll be useful.”

  “But he...he...” John was outraged. “How can we ever trust him?”

  Joey took Alonzo's .38 and ejected all the shells but one. He freed one of Nicolo's hands and showed the boy the single bullet before saying, “There are two of you.” He pointed to the boy's father, lying bound and gagged. “One can live. Your choice.”

  Nicolo's eyes watered as he looked at his father, understanding now that the price of one betrayal was ever greater betrayals. His hand wavered. “I...I can't.”

  Alonzo caught his eyes and nodded, wanting his son to live. He managed to smile around the gag as the gun swung toward him.

  When it was over, Joey cut Nicolo’s bonds and pulled the boy to his feet, but his words were for the others. “We have to get out of here fast. Find shelter, food, water. This thing’s just beginning.”

  *

  San Gabriel Mountains

  Lola MaDonna stood over the headless corpse, an evil smile on her ravaged face. The bloody knife in her hand dripped onto the lifeless body. “I suppose I should feel something, Ronnie,” she said, staring down at the dead man, “but I don’t. I can’t even hate you anymore.” Her shudders, her twitches, gave the lie to her words. “You took me from my boring middle-class life and made me part of your glamorous world. At least it was glamorous to a schoolgirl. I loved you, dammit!”

  Her shoulders shook and a single tear rolled down her scarred cheek. “Even when I found out you were connected I loved you. But my heart wasn’t enough for you. You wanted my soul!”

  With a vicious kick she sent the severed head rolling, dried leaves and twigs sticking to its dead eyes.

  “Ow!” Lola grabbed her foot. “What the hell did you fill that thing with? Cement?”

  “Cut!” The director yelled.

  “God!” Lola cried. “I think I broke my toe.”

  Will Benton appeared by her side, giving her a shoulder to lean on while she hobbled to a chair. She hated night shoots and wilderness shoots. So what was she doing? A night shoot in the wilderness. At least it was the “Martini” shot. She moaned, her foot throbbing. It damn well better be the last shot of the day anyhow.

  Her director ran up saying, “It’s okay, babe. The shot’s good right up to when you grabbed your foot. How is it anyway? And where’s the damn doctor? Doesn’t anybody listen to me? Shit! I need a phone. Somebody get me a phone!” He stormed off still ranting.

  Will had her shoe off and was rubbing her foot. Maybe it wasn’t broken. “Thanks, Will.”

  He smiled up at her. “No sweat, Lola.” Will was the only one on the crew other than the director who she let call her Lola. She shook her head. She’d have to change her stage name if she ever hoped for a more serious part. At least the shoot was almost wrapped. Between meeting that giant freak and dealing with this inhuman shoot schedule, and sub par script, her sister’s invitation to the Freeholds in Colorado was sounding better and better.

  A bright flash lit the eastern sky. She blinked, seeing colors and a large sunspot in front of her eyes. “What was that?”

  Everyone on the crew turned to look, spellbound at the weird yellowish glow from the East. Her vision began to clear.

  She grabbed Will’s arm so tight he winced. “Did you see that?”

  Before Will could answer a fist of air punched them to the ground and a squall of sound like God’s fingernails on a cosmic chalkboard clawed at their nerves, quivering their bones, making even her teeth hurt, toppling large trees into the set.

  Her heart raced as her brain flooded her body with adrenaline, prepping her for fight or flight.

  She struggled out from under Will Benton and saw the blood trickling out of his ears. He was groggy, stunned. She bent to help him up and the earth jerked and whipped like it was doing aerobics. She fell on top of Will and held on for dear life as the land tried to buck her off.

  Across the canyon the mountainside slipped and slid into the valley demolishing her trailer and the entire movie set encampment. Stagehands, extras, anyone not on the set disappeared under the roiling cloud of dirt, rocks and trees.

  A fog of dust closed off the view, shutting visibility down to three feet. Trees continued to snap and fall. Boulders tumbled to new resting places. Screams split the night but were lost among the grinding boulders, the splintering pop of trees breaking and the roaring chaos of the earth.

  Lola MaDonna, formerly Irene Walker from Bismarck, North Dakota, screamed until the dust parched her throat and she could only wheeze and sob helplessly.

  *

  The Launch Facility

  Carl Borzowski stood like a statue in the middle of a blizzard of activity. TV monitors showed scenes of appalling destruction. Fax machines and emails churned out reports filled with death and despair. Monica was dead, he felt it the same way he felt that somehow he had killed her. Loneliness howled through him like a moonstruck wolf.

  Satellite feeds charted new continental outlines, spotted new volcanoes, and noted the lights going out as power grids snapped. But the usefulness of satellites was fading as the black cloud slowly enveloping the Earth obscured their views.

  Another quake jolted the building and Carl reeled into a computer desk, grabbing the edge to keep upright. The monitor flickered, but the generator fed emergency power supply stayed on.

  As much as he wanted to quit, to flee, to simply grieve, the scientist in Carl forced him to observe, and the sense of duty he’d sacrificed everything for kept him at his post. His mind continued cataloging events and predicting consequences. Right now temperatures were rising, with most weather stations reporting temps in excess of 130 degrees, and with a few reading more than 400--almost like sections of the Earth had been placed in a broiler. Soon the light would dim as the smoke from the wildfires and ash from volcanoes joined the debris in the atmosphere. Temperatures would drop.

  Impact Winter, thought Carl. Harry said this would happen.

  *

  Kansas

  The old man stood next to his grandson, daughter a
nd son-in-law amid the ashes of an eighty-acre wheat field. A light breeze stirred a cloud of ash and dust around them. “Don’t think we’ll get a crop in this year,” Wes Haviland said. He took his John Deer cap off with a big-veined hand revealing his farmer’s tan and wiped his sleeve across his forehead.

  “We did good to save the house and barn,” Harry Garrison sighed, wiping a cotton work glove across his ash-grimed face.

  “Don’t forget the garden,” Sheila Garrison said. “That may be the most important thing we rescued.” She and her father had driven the tractors, plowing a firebreak, while Harry and Robby wet everything down with garden hoses. She thanked God the antique Honda generator Wes had kept stored in the barn still worked, giving them the advantage of emergency electrical power. She looked back over her shoulder at the smoldering outbuildings and ruined equipment.

  “Wish we could have saved the fuel tank,” she added.

  “Just have to ration electricity from now on,” Wes said. No extra gasoline meant no fuel for the generator. He broke out coughing and Sheila quickly poured him a glass of water. The air was so thick with ash and dust it tasted charred.

  “Wow!” Robby exclaimed, pointing. “Did you see that?”

  Harry and the other adults scanned the evil-looking sky in the direction the boy indicated. Dense dark clouds hid the sun but a flash of light rippled across the sky. A few seconds later thunder rumbled. A greenish glow lit the clouds and the air got eerily still, almost electric.