Salvation: Secret Apocalypse Book 5 (A Secret Apocalypse Story)
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Authors: James Harden
SALVATION
Book 5 in the Secret Apocalypse Series
By James Harden
Contents
Three days to die.
I wake slowly and I open my eyes and I realize I must’ve passed out again.
“I choose to
fight.”
I say this out
loud. Like a mantra. Like a goddamn war cry.
I stand up,
using the table and chairs for support.
And I am ready
to fight. I am ready
for
the fight.
But…
But…
I
am alone.
I
am locked and trapped in an interrogation room.
And
this room is a box made out of concrete. And the room spins. Faster and faster.
The whole world spins.
My legs are weak
and I fall to my knees and I close my eyes. I shut them as tight as I can.
I know I need to
make a move. I need to do something with my last days on earth, but right now,
I am trapped inside a concrete box. I am miles below the earth’s surface in a
military installation known as the ‘Fortress’.
I am trapped
inside a prison within a prison.
I pass out.
And when I wake, I can’t move. I stay curled up on the floor. I stare at
the ceiling.
Hours pass.
I haven’t moved from the floor of the interrogation room since I woke. I
haven’t moved because I can’t move. The man in the gas mask pumped me full of
powerful sedatives.
Chemical
handcuffs.
My limbs feel like lead. It feels like earth’s gravity has increased
exponentially. I can barely breathe. I read somewhere this is how a lot of
heroin addicts die. They overdose; the opiate subdues and depresses their
airways, their lungs. They stop breathing. They suffocate.
I have been
passing in and out of consciousness for nine hours now.
Nine hours and
forty-four minutes and thirty-two seconds.
I know the exact
time because strapped to my wrist is a digital watch.
A timer has been
set. A countdown.
The watch was
given to me by a man wearing a gas mask that he has stitched into his scalp.
The watch was given to me not as a present. Not as a gift. More as a sick
reminder of how long I have left. And I am watching the hours disappear. I am
watching my life disappear.
Along with the
sedatives, I have also been injected with a time release nano-virus. And when
the countdown reaches zero, the virus will
be
activated. When the countdown reaches zero, I am screwed. I am dead.
The man in the gas mask said. “The nano-bots will eat you from the
inside. There is no stopping it.”
The watch currently reads: sixty-two hours and ten minutes.
So I need to get
moving.
I need to get out of this room.
I need to find my friends.
Maria.
Jack.
Kenji.
Kim.
Big Ben.
I know they are down here somewhere. I know they are because I choose to
believe they are.
And I choose to believe they are still alive.
So I need to get moving.
But right now I am curled up in the fetal position and I am suffocating.
Come on, Rebecca. Move!
There is only one door to this room. I actually don’t know if it is
locked. I hope it’s not. I don’t have the strength to kick it down.
There is a giant one way mirror situated on one of the walls. I suppose
I could break the glass. But I have no idea who or what is on the other side.
The noise of breaking glass would also be bad.
I’m not entirely sure, but I think this section of the Fortress is now
completely overrun with infected people. Noise attracts them. Like a lightning
rod. A magnet. Life attracts them. My heartbeat. The electrical impulses that
my brain and my body produce.
This is how sharks hunt.
They sense electrical impulses in the water.
This information is swirling around in my head. I don’t know why. It is
long forgotten and fairly useless trivia I learnt during ‘shark week’ one year.
I need to get it together. I need to focus.
Come
on, Rebecca. Focus!
But it is hard
to focus. It is hard because I am terrified. I am starting to realize that I
have stumbled into hell. Willingly. And down here there are all manner of
demons and killers. Butchers and torturers. Maniacs and psychopaths.
Yes.
This is hell.
And this small
realization begs me to ask the question: Am I already dead? Have I died and
descended to hell for the sins I have committed?
But what sins
have I committed?
Let’s recap.
I stole a ‘My
Little Pony’ from Wal-Mart once. Her name was Cotton Candy. She came with a
special accessory. A special limited edition brush that you could use to brush
her mane and tail with. I just had to have it.
So I stole it.
And then I stole
a GI JOE action figure with special Kung Fu grip to protect Cotton Candy from
poachers and evil businessmen who worked at the dog food factory and the glue
factory.
I
realize this is stupid
And after I
smuggled the toys home without anyone at the store finding out, without my
mother finding out, I felt so bad and so guilty that I couldn’t even play with
the toys anyway.
Cotton Candy
would look at me with those big beautiful eyes, judging me. It’s as if she was
saying, “You don’t deserve to brush my beautiful pink mane.”
GI JOE would
look at me and say, “Real American Heroes do not steal.”
And who cares
about toys? God?
No.
God does not
care about toys.
God does not
care about the trivial.
God does not
care about My Little Pony.
So what sins
have I committed? Why am I being punished? Why would God punish me?
For death I have
caused.
For murder.
I killed a man.
An old fisherman with a messy, grey beard. But he deserved to die, didn’t he?
He was crazy, wasn’t he?
Yes. He was a
butcher. A cannibal. He deserved to die and I did the right thing. I will
defend my actions. To my last breath.
But maybe I have
already taken my last breath.
Again, the
question is begging to be asked.
Begging.
Am I already
dead?
Is this hell?
Where is the
devil? Where is Lucifer? I need to speak to that crazy son of a bitch. I need
him to send me back. I’ve got things to do.
I need to find
my friends.
I need to get
them to safety.
I need to save
Maria Marsh.
I need to kill
the man in the gas mask and anyone else who gets in my way.
There is a whole
list of things I need to do before I die.
Before I die in
exactly sixty-two hours and seven minutes.
I can hear a
noise.
It’s this weird
beeping noise. A reminder.
An alarm.
My watch beeps
every hour. On the hour.
I now have
sixty-two hours left.
Seven minutes
just disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Time does not
exist in hell, in the afterlife.
Heaven. Hell.
Purgatory.
Eternity.
Darkness again.
And then light.
Asleep.
Awake.
Conscious.
Unconscious.
Eight more hours
pass and I keep having this dream. I had it just then. You know the dream.
You’ve had it before. Everyone has.
You’re giving a
speech.
You’re giving a
presentation.
You’re taking a
test.
An exam.
All of a sudden
you’re not wearing any pants. All of a sudden you’re naked. In public. Everyone
sees. Everyone stares.
This is a dream
about fear. The fear of failure.
This is a dream
about not being prepared.
And I’ve been
having this dream a lot lately. It’s funny how our sub-conscious can articulate
our fears so clearly. So concisely. So accurately.
For example,
when I was fifteen, I had this part time job back in Brooklyn at a fast-food
joint. You know the one. I only worked there for a few months, and I don’t know
if it was the worst job in the world, but it sure felt like it. The store manager
was an absolute jerk.
Anyway, I gave
my notice. I quit.
The manager was
shocked. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “We were just about to give you a
pay rise. A promotion. More responsibility. It would look great on your resume
for future employment prospects.”
I said,
“Nothing’s wrong. I have so much school work.”
I lied.
It was a white
lie to save face. I just wanted out.
The manager said
he understood. But he’d keep my details on file just in case I needed extra
cash or if they needed someone to work in an emergency. Like if they had an
employee shortage or whatever. I thought nothing of it. Anyway, a couple of
months later he sends me a text. He doesn’t even call; he just sends me a text.
“Can you work on
Friday?”
I had a dream
that night.
Not a dream. A
nightmare.
I dreamt I was a
prostitute. It was my first time. My first night. My boss, the manager, the
pimp, was encouraging me to do it. I needed the money, right? There’s nothing
wrong with it.
I woke up in a cold
sweat.
My subconscious
had articulated how I felt, how I felt whole heartedly about working that job.
Working for no other reason than to get paid.
I shake my head.
Those problems feel so old world. They feel like they were from another
lifetime. I would gladly go back to work, flipping burgers and working the
deep-fryer. I would gladly go back to a shitty after-school job with shitty
pay.
“Hi, may I take
your order? Would you like to upsize?”
This sounds like
a kind of heaven right now. A kind of paradise. Hell, I’m getting teary-eyed
just thinking about it.
But I no longer
have the luxury of choosing not to work a part-time job.
This is my life
now:
Running.
Fighting.
Killing.
Hiding.
Food
Water.
Surviving.
And I am not
prepared. I am not ready. This is my final test. And I forgot to study.
I forgot my
pants.
I am struggling
to survive.
It always came
down to food and water. We were always so hungry. So thirsty. Me. My friends.
The little group we had formed. We were basically a small unit of soldiers. We
had to be. It was the only way we were ever going to make it. A ‘fire team’ is
what Kenji called us. And we were pretty awesome.
But not anymore.
So my life is
this: I need to find them. I need to find them because I have no idea where the
hell they are, and I have nothing else to do and nothing else to lose.
And I
need
my friends.
My friends are
all that I have left in this life.
I have no idea
if they’re dead or alive, but I choose to believe that they are alive because
the other scenario is completely not good. The other scenario would probably
cause me to shut down.
So my dreams are
no longer about whether or not I’m ‘selling out’.
This is my
dream. The dream I just had.
I’m giving a
speech. I’m trying to make a case. An argument. I’m trying to persuade people,
someone. Someone important that my friends deserve to live.
Suddenly I’m
naked.
I’m afraid of
failing.
My friends are
tied up. They are standing on the gallows. Noose around their necks. Black
hessian sack over their heads.
The hangman is
there, but I’m not talking to him. He’s just following orders. He’s just a
soldier. He’s just a pawn.
There is someone
else. The mastermind. The man in control. I need to convince him.
And I’m failing.
I am not prepared for this.
The hangman
pulls the lever. My friends are hanged. I hear neck bones and vertebrae snap.
I hear choking
noises.
And then I hear
the rope creaking against the wooden gallows.
And then I hear
silence.
And then I’m
awake.