Almawt Virus Series (Book 1): Days Since...Thomas [Day 758] Read online

  Dedicated to Cincinnati Police Sergeant Arthur T. Schultz who served to combat some of the very topics touched upon in this book.

  Copyright © 2019 by Power Shift Publishing, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews—without written permission from the author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  I have used the city of Cincinnati as the location for this series. Please understand that this book is fiction and I have bent the settings of certain areas to fit in with what the story needs. The Cincinnati in this book is not completely accurate.

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  PO Box 14131

  Cincinnati, OH 45250-0131

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  Prologue:

  Surrounded by the height of hundred-year-old oak trees, a group of women gathered by the creek, chatting quietly, cautiously beyond prying eyes. Some words could not be shared—these thoughts were better told through subtle gestures—a code only they knew. Too often, guards stood closely by. The women couldn't afford to step out of line.

  They drowned blankets and clothing—a white foam cleansing blood and unsavory stains. Flat stones covered in soaked fabric. A large woman with a paddle pressed the water from the balled up material. The others hung the damp cloth along a clothesline.

  “I'm going for it. I'm done,” she said, her nervous eyes darting between the row of sheets—just a harmless peek toward the top of the ridge. Four guards posted atop its edge, pacing amongst the trees, mostly watching over the women. Only occasionally did their faces turn.

  “They'll kill you,” another woman reminded her.

  “What’s the difference?” She looked her companion straight in the eyes. “If I make it out, good, if not, at least it’s over.”

  “But your sister?”

  “The Butcher cares for her. She won't leave.”

  “But what if he takes your escape out on her?”

  “He won’t. Just give her my chits. Maybe she’ll save enough to buy her freedom.”

  “I just—” Quickly, the other woman draped a dingy, white sheet to dry, blocking the approaching guard's view from her as she nodded a hush down the line—each woman relayed to the next.

  “What are we talking about here?” He moved his eyes from woman to woman, from top to bottom, moistening his lips while admiring their state of nudity. “Your twos mouths are moving quite a bit. Care to share?”

  “No sir,” they said in unison. Their eyes dropped in unison. Trained. Submissive.

  He reached out and cupped her breast.

  She turned her head away from him. “Nothing important.”

  “You mean, nothing important, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.” She gulped. “It was nothing important, sir.”

  “Then shu—”

  “Bill! Get up here! Quit messing with the women!”

  “Alright, John! Just trying to have some fun!”

  The guard scoffed, took another look at the women, winked, and then turned from them. He crossed the shallow creek and climbed the steep embankment, joining his squad. Their attention was drawn toward the service road that wound its way through the valley between the ridges.

  “This is my chance. When you see my sister, tell her I'm sorry.”

  She casually walked behind the clotheslines, hidden, gradually making it to the end. One last look—a bob of her head and she bolted, scrambling up the hill opposite the guards. The other women continued working, muttering prayers to themselves that their friend would make it.

  “Hey!” John pointed to the frantic woman. “The Butcher’s gonna have our asses if we don’t get her.”

  Bill raised his rifle, but it was swatted away.

  John pulled at Bill's arm, and the two raced away. “Marcus, stay with them!”

  “On it!”

  The woman crested the top and continued her race through the trees. “Don't look back. Don't look back.” Her pale body slipped in and out of view between the trees and brush.

  “I don't see her,” Bill said, panting as they scoured the woods.

  “It's been too long. They're gonna know.” John raised his pistol in the air and fired off several rounds. “I'll wait here. Get them women back to the tents. Make it believable. No one gets away.”

  Chapter One

  “Mr. Tom?” A young boy’s voice. Thomas could feel a tugging at his arm, but not hard enough to bring him from his dream. “You got to wake up.”

  “I can’t believe you did it.”

  “Why?”

  “It just isn’t you. Going to basic training, getting yelled at for nothing. I don’t know—it just isn’t you.”

  “Have to pay for college somehow.”

  “I’m surprised your dad didn’t kill you for doing it.”

  “We looked at everything, and this was it.”

  “So for sure it’s happening? The gentle giant’s going to war?”

  “No one calls me that anymore.”

  “I’m kidding you, Tommy.”

  “They don’t call me that either.”

  “Lot’s changed, I see. You’re not that guy in the street with the picket sign anymore, huh, soldier?”

  “Nope. I realized that’s not ever going to be enough. We weren’t saving anyone.”

  “What is it you think you’re gonna do?”

  “Something real, maybe some real damn change for once.”

  “They brainwashed you good, huh?”

  “It’s not like that. After seeing the pictures of their people—the kids, I know this is the right thing. The shit in Syria’s been going on way too long. Everyday those people are being slaughtered over there. Their own people, man. Those protest signs aren’t saving shit.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “I do.”

  “Come on, you’re in the Reserves. How much action you think you’ll really see? How much do you think you’re gonna change?”

  “More than you will.”

  “At what price, though?”

  “Mr. Tom? Mr. Tom, wake up!”

  “But in all seriousness, man, I’m not trying to give you too much shit. I don’t want our last conversation to be—

  “Last conversation?”

  “Not like that, I just… I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Yeah, someone has to do it. This war isn’t going to be won from over here. That just isn’t going to happen.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be you.”

  “They told me I have to go, so yeah, it does have to be me.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He’ll be here when I get back whether he agrees with my choice or not.”

  “Don’t get yourself killed out there.”

  “Yeah… got ya.”

  “Don’t try and be the hero. Just do your job and get home.”

  “Mr. Tom? It’s time.”

  Thomas rolled onto his side and gradually opened his eyes. A round, smiling face, unblemished and innocent, came into focus. “Hey, big man.” Thomas’s voice was raspy from just waking up.

  “I’m not very big.”

  “Sure you are.” Thomas lifted the frail boy from the floor and set him into bed next to him. He scooted himself over to make room, and the two of them lay there next to one another staring at the ceiling. Thomas brushed a few stray hairs from the boy’s face—the rest of his dark hair swirled from restless sleep. Last night’s storm must have kept him tossing in bed. “What do you see this morning?”

  “The dinosaur.”

  “This same one again?” Thomas purposely pointed in the wrong direction.

  “No, here.” The boy tugged on Thomas’s arm, trying to redirect him. “It’s a T-Rex, see!” The boy traced the shoddy patchwork of the plaster ceiling that had become discolored and started to show signs of another leak.

  “I don’t know how much longer he’s going to make it. Looks like I’ll have to try and patch it up again.”

  “But I like that one.” The boy finished his tracing with one final swoop of his index finger. “He’s big.”

  “I know he is, buddy, but that’s the problem. We don’t want water getting in here, do we?”

  “No.” He fell silent for a moment. “Could you make some more dinosaurs for us?”

  Thomas smiled. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.”

  “I know.” The boy rolled onto his side. “Am I still seven today?”

  “Yeah, buddy. You’re still seven today.”

  “When am I eight?” His voice a mixture of curiosity and concern. He began nervously fiddling his fingers together and chewing his lip.

  “You still have some time before you’re eight.”

  “And then I have to start doing the army stuff?”

  “Something like that.” Thomas took the boy’s hands into his own to interrupt his anxiety. “But you don’t have to worry about that stuff yet. You still get to help in the fields for now.”

  “But when? What if I have to move to the Capital?”

  “Lower Price
Hill Fortress is our home. We aren’t going anywhere. And don’t worry about the army stuff right now. I’ll let you know when it gets close.”

  The boy nodded. “But—” Thomas lightly pinched his cheeks together, interrupting his words.

  “Let’s get ready, Joseph. That first bell’s going to be chiming soon.”

  “They already did two sets.”

  “Shit!” Thomas popped the covers off them and took Joseph from the bed.

  Joseph looked at him with wide, brown eyes. “You said a bad word.”

  “Sorry.”

  The apology must have sounded insincere in the haste of gathering his things. He snatched his black uniform from the closet and forced it on, followed by his boots. A silver semi-automatic pistol dropped into his leg holster. Thomas looked over his shoulder—Joseph simply stared at this rushed spectacle. “You’ll have to go to Kate’s this morning.” He took his watch, dog tags, and U.S. Army Zippo lighter from a bowl sitting on a small dresser. Joseph was almost knocked over as Thomas went to leave. “You hear me!?”

  “Yes.” Joseph slumped to the floor, his arms gathering both knees into his chest.

  “I know I say this a lot, but”—he struggled to work the watch onto his wrist—”you have to stop calling me Mr. Tom.”

  “Why?”

  Thomas knelt down in front of him and tried to clear his frustration before lecturing the boy. “You know why…”

  Joseph buried his chin into an armpit to avoid eye contact with Thomas.

  “I don’t want them to take you from me. Hey…” He gently took the boy’s chin and aligned their eyes before continuing, “I promised your parents I’d care for you. You have to remember, buddy, I’m Tommy… Only to you, I’m Tommy or Big Brother.”

  Joseph smiled, and Thomas, running increasingly late with each word, kissed his forehead, bolted for the apartment door, and grabbed his rucksack on the way out. “Be good for Kate!”

  …

  Rushing through the cool shadows of the street, Thomas maintained the thumping of his boots against the damp pavement. The brick row houses lined the sidewalk—the sidewalk lined the street, not an inch of grass between any of it. Red and brown bricks as far as the eye could see.

  A group of young elementary-aged boys dressed in old, school uniforms stood in military formation within a small pocket park boxed in by the concrete and brick. An older boy stood at the front, barking orders, running them through various facing movements. One of the kids called out to Thomas, but was swiftly rebuked by the young man in charge of morning drills.

  “On your faces!” The children dropped into the push-up position. “Down! … Up! One! Down! … Up! Two! Down!” The counting faded as Thomas rushed away.

  Although he had wanted to stop and offer some words of encouragement, time’s hurried march toward the hour wouldn’t allow it. They’ll learn soon enough. Shit, maybe I’ll learn. He knew this couldn’t be the best impression. His black uniform exhibited too little wear for mistakes like these. If he were to earn the promotion he’d worked so hard to obtain, then today became the tipping point. Push yourself. Only one more block. You can’t be late again.

  He broke the corner, his momentum tailing him off the sidewalk and into the street, giving him an unhindered line to the command post. So close. Half a block. His eyes steadied on the flagpole atop the repurposed Oyler School that bore the Second Alliance’s banner. The sun and moon split by a broadsword flapped triumphantly in the wind, towering above the yellowed, cream-colored limestone—above the red bricks occupying spaces where the limestone ceased.

  As he neared, Thomas remembered the dream his neighbor had told him about several weeks ago. A dream where the stone angels that gripped the corners of the school would animate their wings and lift it from this plagued world, placing it upon a more proper timeline. The timeline where man powered machine and in return was empowered by machine. A time when the world held enough men to power such a concept. We’ve come a long way, but still… No matter how far we come. What I wouldn’t give to go back to how it used to be.

  His fist banged against the thick metal door. He paced the top of the stairs while waiting, running his thumbs along the inside of the rucksack’s straps. “Come on! Come on!” His fist banged against the door once again. More pacing then finally he heard a creak. A helping hand rotated the lock and pushed the entrance clear. “Thank you!” Exasperated, Thomas tore through the second set of doors. His outburst met with a dirty look from the receptionist that had been shaken from her work.

  “Sir!” Her plea echoed through the grand vestibule, but went unheeded.

  Two steps by two steps, Thomas bounded up a large staircase that curled around on itself, climbing the four stories toward the vaulted ceiling. He checked his watch the moment he hit the landing. Two minutes. So close! His stride grew into a full sprint through the hall. “Make a hole!” He shouted. The few people ambling toward him scattered to make way. One woman dropped a short stack of papers to the floor—a few pens clacked against the linoleum. The lockers on either side became a blur. Two more classrooms and his sprint started to unwind, his boots pounding to a stop in front of room 410. He paused briefly to compose himself, straightening his uniform before entering. He took a deep breath.

  All eyes locked onto Thomas as he entered. It felt stuffy—the room swollen with the egos of ambitious men. He could feel the judgment of previous tardiness, but today it was misplaced. Thank, God. I made it. He exhaled his pent-up anxiety—all the worry of not making it—and couldn’t help but let a childish grin creep onto his face. A bullet had certainly been dodged. And although he had been seen running like a lunatic down the hall, at least they knew he wasn't late. Always live another day.

  He set his ruck on the floor, lining it up with the others against the wall and took a small notepad and pencil from a side pocket. A single seat sat open in the back. He maneuvered past the other Guards in the room, sidestepping boots and knees obstructing his way. He went to sit, but before he could…

  “Atten-tion!”

  Thomas spun around and snapped into position. The rest of the men followed suit, becoming stiff and upright. Their faces forward. Their hands cupped along the outer seam of their pants. Their heels clicked together. An automatic response to the word. It was as if they would all begin breathing in unison, eerily robotic, waiting for their next command.

  “As you were!” The captain stepped through the jamb and centered himself at the podium in the front of the classroom—a trail of subordinates followed.

  Captain Abel stood above the tallest of those he commanded. He was bald with a mustache. His shoulders and chest much wider than the podium itself. His brown, deep-set eyes moved carefully over the men that sat before him wondering why they had been summoned. “Anyone have anything before I get started?” With his rank, the question was undeniably asked for the appearance of being courteous.

  “No, Sir!” A uniformed response. Not a single person uttered a word beyond that—everyone inched back into their seat eager for instruction.

  This must be a damn big deal. Captain Abel rarely made the trek from the Capital. Typically, he limited his presence within L.P.H. Fortress to hand-written directives passed on by lowly clerks.

  He gathered the reports from the podium and shuffled through them while whispering to his lieutenant. There were several agreeable nods between them—some items worth noting with a touch of his finger against the pages, but once he finished, Captain Abel patted him on the back, signaling that their conversation had ended. He tapped the stack of reports along its bottom to even it, laid it down, and then ran his hands along the sides of the podium. “You there, young man.”

  “Yes, sir.” A young boy stepped forward and snapped to attention. From where Thomas sat, he could see the kid shaking, his clenched fists quivering alongside his legs. Thomas caught a glimpse of the red ‘O’ sewn into the cuff of his uniform sleeve—an orphan left by the Almawt virus to fend for himself in this world.

  “Hang the mid-north sector.”

  “Yes, sir.” He thrust himself forward, seemingly relieved by the task, eager for anything to take him from the spotlight that had been cast upon him. He sorted through a collection of large maps on the tables just underneath the windows.