Final Days Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Jasper T Scott and Nathan Hystad

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Art by Tom Edwards

  TomEdwardsDesign.com

  Edited by: Scarlett R. Algee

  Acknowledgments

  We’d like to thank everyone who contributed to this book in some way. Giving credit where it’s due, our editors Scarlett Algee and Christen Hystad worked tirelessly to prevent sneaky typos from slipping through. And a big thanks to Tom Edwards for bringing our vision for the cover to life. Special thanks to Steve Beaulieu for the epic typography. Finally, we’d like to thank all of our advance readers: Gwen Collins, Rick Woodring, Milt Sanders, Geoff Parker, Davis Shellabarger, Lisa Garber, Raymond Burt, Karl Keip, Mary Whitehead, Karol Ross, Debbie Day, Bruce Thobois, Dave Topan, Jeff Belshaw, William Delaway, Jim Kolter, George Dixon, Gerald Geddings, Wade Whitaker, and Howard Cohen. This book wouldn’t be the same without all of you!

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

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  MORE FROM NATHAN HYSTAD

  MORE FROM JASPER T. SCOTT

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  One

  Roland

  Light peeked through Roland’s drawn curtains, blinding him temporarily. He glanced at the clock at the bottom right of his center monitor, seeing it was already eight o’clock. When was the last time he’d eaten? The bowl of half-empty cereal four feet away had turned to mush, telling him it had been hours.

  He spooned the remnants of warm milk and oats into his mouth, and continued scanning through the files.

  “Come on, Rollie. You’re so close. Keep going,” he told himself, blinking his sore eyes.

  The living room had become a makeshift office: screens were mounted along the wall behind the desk, intercepting newsfeeds around the world. Roland shifted in his chair, scanning between the monitors. The volume was off, but the graphic images clearly depicted riots in Botswana as toxic fog thickened, rolling across South Africa from the Indian Ocean. People were dying by the thousands, and only half of that number stemmed from the terrible disaster.

  The next screen showed hail falling in Iran. Snow blanketed half of Egypt, and people were screaming that the end of the world was nigh. Roland watched the third monitor as a light coating of ash fell over Paris, a precursor of what was to come from looming eruptions in Iceland’s active volcanic network.

  Roland had guessed this was coming. Since he was a teenager, he’d followed the erratic weather patterns, and all of it led to this day: this “Doomsday,” as the media was so apt to name it. A convergence of numerous horrifying events could only mean one thing, and Roland thought of the phrase: The Cataclysm of Earth.

  “And what do you have to say?” Roland asked the man in a cheap suit and a trench coat on the news feed, standing outside Yellowstone National Park, fear stamped on his face. He flicked the volume on, and observed with interest.

  “…when the Yellowstone supervolcano is affected by the tremors, it will erupt, along with a series of volcanoes along the Pacific Rim. Tsunamis will wipe out Hawaii, along with the entire western coast of the United States. Japan has already begun their evacuation…”

  Roland turned it off and focused on his work. An email popped up from his source, this one through untraceable channels, and he wondered if they’d finally found the information he’d been searching for. No. It was a video feed from right near his own home. The feed was live, and he watched as the streets filled with people. Looting had begun—police lights flashed as they marched down San Pedro Drive in riot gear, fending off attacks.

  Roland stood, heading to the window, and spread the blinds apart with his fingers. The sun was almost below the horizon, and he caught a glimpse of it off the water. Here in Newport Beach things still seemed civilized and normal, at least from the view of his waterfront house.

  He wondered what his grandmother would have thought about all of this. She’d been so headstrong, she would have stayed here until the tidal waves tore her home from the ground and dragged her out to sea. Roland wasn’t going to follow her lead. He glanced to the side of the room, where a bag sat packed. He had a plan, but he needed something first. One more email, one last detail, and he’d be able to make his move.

  Roland went to the kitchen, taking his empty bowl, and searched for something edible. Dishes were piled in the sink, and he really wished he’d hired a maid. But he couldn’t trust anyone inside his house, not with all the classified information stored in the computer system. Nope. This place was sealed tighter than the Pentagon.

  He brewed a pot of coffee, hoping the caffeine would spruce him up, because his head was beginning to swim. The countless shipping manifests and spreadsheets he’d been combing through were affecting his vision.

  With a steaming cup, he made his way to his desk, turning off all of the news feeds so he could focus. He clicked a document closed, and spotted a folder on the desktop. He clicked the letters TSP, for “top-secret project,” and retrieved the file he wanted. Inside were details on the billionaire Lewis Hound, and a scattering of blurry pictures of the man. He was rarer than a unicorn, and photographed about as well as the Sasquatch.

  Roland zoomed in on one in particular, seeing the short black hair, stoic thin face, the expensive suit, and dark sunglasses covering his eyes. He was at the water, but where? His contact had sent him this, and he wondered if PiedPiper19 had taken the image themselves.

  “Lewis Hound owns Trickle Source. Trickle Source is the parent company of Aquaticoli, whose website indicates them as a third-party boat parts distributor.” Roland documented the steps of the supply chain out loud. It was a habit he’d had since he was young, and it always helped him through a problem. “Aquaticoli has received shipments from five major overseas robotics manufacturers, as well as from Boeing and Bombardier, but there are no signs of where the product went after that.”

  There was a string of details he was skipping over, about shell companies, publicly traded corporations, and private consultants, but all paths led to one person: Lewis Hound. He stared at the man’s indistinct image for another minute, and something clicked.

  He fumbled through his files, searching for something that he’d seen a long time ago, but had brushed off: a town’s name that suddenly felt like it was
important. Roland’s hands shook, and his heart raced. Pulling a key from the chain around his neck, he unlocked a drawer on his desk, revealing five pill bottles. He reached for the left one, and dropped two small capsules in his hand, flicking them into his mouth and swallowing them dry.

  He found what he was looking for on a two-year-old shipping manifest. Destination Capetown, California. He hunted for another and confirmed the same destination, from the same trucking company. Roland cracked his knuckles and did what he knew best. He hacked into the trucking company’s website, finding easy access into their internal software program. Two hours passed before he discovered a long list of jobs ending at Capetown. Their pickup locations were all over the country, likely trying to hide something, but the product needed to end up there.

  The satellite view made available to the public showed nothing but coast at the address given on the manifests, so Roland sneaked into NASA’s database instead, combing the coordinates. His heart beat so fast he thought a bird was trying to escape its cage inside his chest.

  He’d found it. The warehouse shown on the screen was immense, and had a private dock near the ocean. There were no signs of vehicles or boats nearby. The image was from satellites, only twelve hours old.

  “Bingo.” Roland smiled as he leaned back in his seat. He had a destination.

  His smile broke as another message came through from PiedPiper19.

  Payday. The subject meant his contact needed funds before sending the final details. This was it. What he’d been waiting for.

  He accessed the dark web, finding PiedPiper19 on his list of contacts. He sent the cryptocurrency and hoped it was worth it. With the world ending, he didn’t really worry about money any longer. Anyone looting stores for things beyond water, food, and medication was a fool.

  The speakers chimed, and Roland bent forward, elbows on the desk, as he ran his hands through his thick shaggy hair. Once he saw the message, there was no going back.

  He opened it, only to discover a countdown to a date: September 30th, 2029. Only ten days left.

  Roland leaned over the desk, his fingers trembling as he captured a screenshot.

  Two

  Andrew

  10 Days Left…

  Metallica blasted from the aging speakers of Andrew Miller’s Silverado. The windows were down, and warm air was rushing in. To Andrew’s left, on the other side of the highway, he could see an endless ribbon of white sand running like a gleaming river beside the rippled blue canvas of the Pacific Ocean. A clear blue sky domed the world. To his right, atop dry, rocky hills, wealthy neighborhoods and ocean-view mansions peered through a messy wall of power lines.

  Andrew glanced up at those mansions from time to time, wondering if their owners were all just as stupid as his ex-wife’s husband.

  It wasn’t long before the transition from Santa Monica to Malibu was complete. The homes on the right had descended to block his view of the beach and water in a hodgepodge parade of capitalistic pride. Traffic clogged the highway, and he began crawling along, never exceeding twenty miles an hour.

  Andrew smirked and shook his head as he studied those mansions. None of them had any kind of yard. No greenery of any type, and not even enough space between the houses to be able to walk between them. And the real kicker was that all of them backed right onto a busy highway. This was what had attracted so many of LA’s rich and famous? Well, they could have it. Selena had probably thought she was trading up when she’d divorced him and married Dr. Michael Lewis. Andrew snorted and shook his head. All she’d done was find a bigger box to live in, and a bigger asshole to share it with.

  Traffic went from a crawl to a dead stop, and Andrew slammed his horn with his fist in frustration. Someone else echoed his sentiments a few cars behind him. Every other week he made this trip to pick up his daughter, Val, and every other week it was the same. An hour there, an hour back. At this rate they were going to miss the movie!

  Andrew caught a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror, and realized that he was scowling. The beginnings of a familiar dark haze were descending on him. He turned the music down, then muted it entirely and began to practice his breathing exercises. It had been a while since his last visit to a therapist or support group, but now that he was divorced, why bother? Besides, even his therapist had admitted that there’s no cure for PTSD. All you can do is treat the symptoms.

  The traffic began inching forward again, and Andrew noticed that every other car passing on the other side of the road was a Tesla. He snorted. Figures. A warm breeze blew through the cab of his fifteen-year-old Silverado. She was a gas guzzler and hell for the environment, but at least if he had an accident, he’d know it was his fault and not because of some bug in the latest autopilot update.

  After half an hour of crawling along, Andrew finally turned off the highway and up into a hilly residential area, with oversized homes squatting on every available inch of land. Fancy sports cars and luxury sedans were parked on both sides of the street, leaving barely enough room for one lane of traffic. These homes had more green space, but not by much. At least they had the view, though.

  Within a minute he reached the end of the cul-de-sac where Dr. Lewis’ mansion sat. It was a pretentious monstrosity with Roman columns and gold doors. Ridiculous in every way, just like him.

  Andrew pulled into the sloping driveway, boxing in Michael’s Tesla Roadster and deliberately tapping its rear bumper. Oops. He smiled. He realized he was being childish, but he couldn’t help feeling like Michael deserved it. With all the stories Val had told him about the guy, he was lucky Andrew didn’t put a fist through his plastic face.

  Andrew opened his door and jumped out. Striding up to the golden doors, he deliberately ignored the video intercom and knocked loudly instead.

  A few seconds later he heard clipped footsteps. Heels. The door swung open and Selena appeared. Andrew’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Andrew, finally.” She smiled faintly as she said his name. She was wearing a see-through summer dress that accentuated her natural curves and revealed a bikini underneath. Her long chestnut-brown hair draped over her shoulders. Striking brown eyes blinked slowly at him, and her smile faded. That smile could put a man on his knees. He would know. He’d been there and done that, and had the bruises to show for it.

  “Is everything okay?” Selena asked.

  “Yeah, sorry. Just tired. Is Val ready?”

  Selena crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s been ready for an hour already.”

  “Sorry. I got tied up in traffic.”

  “Don’t tell me. Tell her.”

  Andrew bit his tongue and smiled thinly. “All right, I will. Would you get her, please?”

  “Come on in.” Selena spun away from the door and walked inside.

  So you can rub my nose in your millionaire’s lifestyle? Andrew wondered as he stepped across the threshold. He didn’t bother to shut the door behind him. Let all the flies come in and sit on Michael’s shit.

  “Val!” Selena called as she strode away from the foyer and out of sight.

  Andrew glanced about. Expensive-looking art hung on the walls. There was an office to the left, and a sitting room to the right. The main living room and kitchen were on the other end of the hall, facing a wall of windows and a stunning view of the ocean that Andrew could see clear from the entrance of the house. A modern crystal chandelier hung from a high ceiling above the entryway.

  This place had to be worth at least five million. I guess that’s your price tag, huh, Selena? Maybe that wasn’t fair, but as far as Andrew was concerned, it was the only way to explain it. Michael was a balding plastic surgeon a decade older than her. Of course, he didn’t look ten years older. With bleached-blond hair plugs and two separate facelifts, he resembled a retired Ken doll.

  Valeria came into view, striding ahead of her mother. “Hey, Dad,” she said. They collided in a brief hug at the door, and he kissed the top of her head.

  “Remember, you have homew
ork,” Selena said. “You’ve got that essay on climate change to do.”

  Val rolled her eyes. “As if writing about it is going to stop it. Besides, this is bigger than that. We don’t know what’s going on.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You need to keep your grades up, especially if you want to get into MIT like we’ve been planning.”

  Val snorted and shook her head. “Newsflash. MIT is going to be gone along with everything else. Have you even been watching the news?”

  “People have been talking about the end of the world forever, Val. This is nothing new.”

  “It must be really dark under there.”

  Selena shook her head, eyes narrowing swiftly. “Under where?”

  “The giant rock you live beneath!”

  Selena blew out a breath and glared at Andrew. “You see how she talks to me?”

  Val brushed by him on her way out the door. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

  Andrew stood frowning in the entrance. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Selena sighed. “Some geology professor published a study about the San Andreas fault line, and now there’s a bunch of copycats all over the world spewing the same doomsday rhetoric about other fault lines. It’s just fearmongering. We’ve been here before.”

  “Yeah, we have,” Andrew admitted. A few times, in fact. He did his best to avoid the news, but lately it was almost impossible not to hear about all of the strange things going on: hail in the Middle East, toxic fog rolling in from the ocean and killing hundreds in Africa, massive earthquakes in Asia and Indonesia, Mount Etna blowing its top, Iceland’s volcanoes sending ash as far as Paris… Now, apparently, the paranoia was spreading to the good old US of A.

  “Make sure she writes that essay,” Selena intoned, her hand on the door.

  “No problem,” Andrew said.

  When he made it to his truck and climbed in behind the wheel, he noticed that Val was smiling wickedly at him from the passenger’s seat. “What?”