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  ABSOLUTION

  H7N9 series Book II

  Mark Campbell

  Darkest Hour Publishing

  Houston, Texas

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Mark D. Campbell

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Finest Piece, Inc. © 2019

  Author: Mark D. Campbell

  Edited by: Rubenka Bandyopadhyay

  Published by: Darkest Hour Publishing ™

  ASIN: B07THMB49T

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  NOVEMBER 4th

  Los Angeles was burning.

  Pillars of flames crept over the western edge of the Hollywood Hills, and left behind smoldering mansions and the charred remnants of palms, cypress, and jacaranda trees in its wake. The growing wall of fire spread outward toward the sprawling metropolitan area and reflected an orange glint off the glass of the skyscrapers that peaked through a murky haze. Plumes of thick black smoke obscured the sun, and gray ash fluttered from the sky like snow. The breeze carried glowing embers from the hills deeper into the city, threatening to create smaller infernos.

  Miles away, safe inside an estate located high in the Santa Monica Mountains, Senator Mark Hammond stood and sipped his cognac as he watched the rapidly encroaching fire from his study window.

  The stale odor of cigar smoke clung to his tuxedo.

  As he watched the wildfire, he couldn’t help but speculate on what had caused it. Nights were starting to grow cool, and the electricity came and went, so had someone left an appliance running before the flu took a turn for the worse? Had a campfire grown out of control? Or had it been something as simple as a cigarette butt thrown out the window along the Pacific Highway?

  Whatever it was that had caused it, he knew the fire wouldn’t take much to spread; there hadn’t been any storms recently, and it had been an especially dry summer in Southern California.

  Hammond took another sip and stared at the flames. Ever the pragmatist, he knew it wouldn’t be long before the fire burned through what was left of Beverly Hills, climbed up the mountainside, and devoured the remaining estates.

  It was only a matter of time, really.

  Soon, he knew he and the others would be forced to leave the opulence of the estate, and venture out into the unknown.

  The study was one of the home’s more ostentatiously designed rooms. Mahogany bookcases with intricate designs towered over exquisitely woven Persian rugs. The oil paintings that surrounded the handmade desk dated back to the seventeenth century. A crystal chandelier was suspended from the ceiling and bathed the room in soft, white light.

  He didn’t care too much for the ornate décor, but he did care about literature—thousands of books filled the shelves.

  Hammond inspected the bookcases and couldn’t help but mourn for the all the books that would soon be nothing but ash. Many of the books, he assumed, had probably never been read and served as mere decorations.

  He sighed, swirled the cognac inside its snifter, and stared through the picture window toward the burning city once more.

  There was an urgent knock at the study door.

  “Come in,” he said, not bothering to turn around.

  The varnished door opened, allowing the sound of laughter and classical music to fill the room. A young man wearing a black suit and a clear, coiled earpiece peered at Hammond from the doorway. "Sir, we've been given orders to leave."

  “I figured that’d be the case,” the senator replied. He took another sip from his glass and continued to stare out the window. “When will our transport be here?”

  “Ten minutes, give or take. We have to go by ground due to the smoke. They can’t send a helicopter under these conditions…the freeway is clear. They bulldozed a path through the abandoned cars this morning.”

  “Go by ground?” the senator asked, frowning. “During a wildfire?”

  “Yes, sir. The fire hasn’t crossed the freeway leading towards the convention center. The wind is picking up, though. That’s why the timetable has been pushed up.”

  “Fine,” the senator grumbled as he swirled the cognac. “Let me finish my drink…I’ll be out momentarily.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young agent stepped back outside and gently pulled the door shut.

  “What a mess,” the senator said to himself. He raised his glass to take another sip and was interrupted by another knock on the door. He scowled and lowered his glass. “I said give me a moment!”

  The door opened to reveal a short, husky man wearing an ill-fitting suit and a top hat. His cheeks were red from too much wine, and he gave a boisterous laugh as he stepped into the room. “Someone is in a rather sour mood!” he declared, resting his hands on his protruding belly.

  Startled, Hammond turned to face the newcomer, who happened to be the head of one of the largest banking firms in the nation—he had lined the senator’s pockets sizably during the last, and possibly final, election.

  Hammond shook his head with embarrassment. “Mr. Weinberg, I apologize. I thought you were from the security detail.”

  “I suppose you received the news then.” Weinberg waddled toward the desk in the center of the room and plopped down into the chair across from it with a heavy sigh.

  “Unfortunately, I did.” The senator turned away from the window, set his glass on the desk, and took a seat opposite Weinberg. “How are the others taking the news?”

  “Most are too liquored up to care, and the rest of them assume that they’ll whisk us away to stay at some other deserted mansion.” Weinberg grinned and waved a hand toward the door. “The band hasn’t even stopped playing yet!”

  “I don’t think we’ll be heading somewhere fancy this time.” Hammond glanced over his shoulder at the window. “I think we’re finally headed to the promised land.” Frowning, he stared at a letter lying on the desk next to his half-emptied glass.

  While waiting out the storm at his residence in San Francisco, Hammond had been handed the letter by an army officer before being taken into custody and shuttled off with a bunch of other wealthy politicians and people of influence.

  Weinberg ran his chubby fingers over his chin. “Do you think the facilities are ready?”

  “Doubtful.” Hammond closed his eyes as he folded his hands over his chest and leaned back in the chair. “If they had it their way, they’d just stash us someplace else and buy more time. Something tells me they’re desperate.”

  Weinberg reached out and snatched the letter from the desk. “Is this the invitation they sent you?”

  “I wouldn’t call it an invitation, but yes, that’s what was given to me just before they grabbed me.”

  Weinberg narrowed his beady eyes and scanned the letter:

  Department of Homeland Security

  Mandatory Civilian Conscription Notice

  Pursuant to Article I, Section 8 of the Un
ited States Constitution and 10 U.S. Code § 246, and under the full scope and authority of the U.S. Presidential Policy Directive 40 Continuity of Operations Protocol, you have been selected to serve as the Director of Operations at one of our facilities for a period of time yet to be determined based on the needs of whichever region you will be assigned.

  In exchange for your service, and in acknowledgement of your previous position of power, you will be given one of the numerous vacant cabinet-level positions within the new government once the recovery period ends. Monetary compensation will be discussed with selectees once the economy has been reestablished.

  You and your family are required to immediately surrender to custody for medical screening and—

  Weinberg stopped reading and crumpled the letter before tossing it over his shoulder with a snort. “It’s the same canned garbage they sent me. When they delivered it, they led me away like I was some sort of criminal! Do you even think they’re being sincere about keeping their promises?”

  “I think so,” Hammond shrugged. “If they were going to bamboozle us, they wouldn’t have shuffled us around like this and given us such a thick security detail. They would’ve let us stay in one of those awful quarantine centers with the others.”

  “I guess you’re right… I never took you for an optimist, Senator.”

  “On the contrary,” Hammond said. “I believe all of this is going to end badly. I don’t think they’ll be able to rebuild Babylon.”

  “Then why go along with it at all?” Weinberg asked.

  Hammond mulled over the question for a moment, his gaze focused on his glass before moving to the shiny gold wedding band on his finger. “I guess… I’m just riding along for the drinks.” He took one last swig of cognac and slammed the empty glass down on the desk. “If they do end up sending us to another castle in the hills, I hope the owner has some good cognac stashed away.”

  Weinberg chuckled, his hands resting on his oversized belly.

  Hammond stared down at his wedding band again and started rolling it side-to-side on his finger.

  Weinberg’s smile faded as his eyes trailed down to the ring. “Say… You never told me—and I feel like a heel for not asking earlier—whatever happened to Laura? Was she—” He was interrupted by a tremor that shook the house.

  In the other room, the band had stopped playing. There was a collective gasp from the guests as the estate went dark.

  Hammond glanced up at the darkened chandelier.

  A few seconds later, the generators came back on, and the lights slowly glowed back to life.

  “We should start heading out,” Hammond announced, then stood and dusted bits of fallen plaster off his shoulders. “It sounds like the party has finally come to an end.”

  “Right,” Weinberg said, and cleared his throat. He forced himself out of the chair, hiked up his pants, and adjusted his top hat. “I’ll meet you downstairs with the others, then.”

  “See you shortly,” Hammond said.

  Weinberg nodded and waddled his way out of the room.

  Two agents carrying submachine guns suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  “Sir, we need to leave right now,” one of the agents said. “The fire is compromising some of the southern support pillars—it’s spreading into the generator room. You have to evacuate and join the others outside at the transport.”

  “I’m coming.” With his back turned to the agents, Hammond reached up and wiped his eyes.

  The two men disappeared down the hallway.

  Another tremor shook the house, and the lights went out again.

  Hammond started to walk away, then stopped and looked down at his wedding band. With a trembling hand, he slid it off his finger and dropped it into the empty glass.

  CHAPTER 1

  NOVEMBER 23rd

  The overhead lights flickered, and the luggage bins rattled as Amtrak’s California Zephyr sped westward along the tracks. Air blasted through the vents, keeping the carriage at an uncomfortably low temperature.

  The passengers were ebbing in and out of sleep despite having their heads knocked from side to side each time the train turned a bend in the tracks. Those who were lucky enough to still have their significant other by their side stayed huddled together, offering whatever support they could to each other. The majority of riders were alone.

  The car full of strangers headed toward an unknown destination. The tight-lipped officials had offered no information since the train had pulled out of Tucson many hours earlier.

  Teddy Sanders sat slouched in his seat with his eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. His back ached, and his legs were numb from sitting so long. The stench inside a carriage full of unwashed people, himself included, was making for a less than pleasant journey. He thought his nose was becoming accustomed to the smell—or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

  The early morning sunlight poured in through the windows and created an orange haze as it filtered through the dusty air.

  Teddy had kept his window’s shutter pulled down, so he had no idea where the train was. Wherever it was headed, he imagined it wouldn’t be someplace good.

  Ein, his chin resting on his chest, was snoring in the seat next to him. His messy purple hair hung halfway down his face, and a string of drool clung to the bottom lip of his open mouth. His clothes were in no better shape than Teddy’s: white spots covered his black T-shirt, and his faded black jeans were ripped at the knees.

  The door at the front of the carriage slid open, and a FEMA officer entered. He carried an assault rifle and wore a ballistic helmet; the word POLICE was emblazoned on his vest in bold white letters. As he walked down the center of the aisle checking the passengers, a garbled voice came over his Motorola radio: —is critical and already low on supplies.

  Teddy heard the officer pass but he didn’t open his eyes.

  The officer lowered the radio’s volume as he continued up the aisle and disappeared through a door that led to the adjoining carriage.

  As soon as Teddy heard the officer leave, he opened his eyes.

  The carriage jerked again, jolting everyone inside. Ein’s head lolled to the side and came to rest on Teddy’s shoulder.

  Teddy pushed his head away.

  Ein woke with a start and looked around. “What happened?!”

  “You were doing it again.”

  “Sorry.” Yawning, Ein sank down in his seat and rubbed his sore neck. “It’s hard to get comfortable in seats that don’t recline.”

  “I’d rather you sleep than do that nervous fidgeting thing you’ve been doing for the past four hours.”

  “Can you blame me for being nervous?” Ein asked, his gaze darting between the front and back doors of the carriage.

  “You’re going to have to hold it together,” Teddy replied. “If the others smell fear or sense weakness, you might as well have a target on your back.”

  “Is that some more helpful advice from your previous life?”

  Teddy glared at his traveling companion. He had started to regret sharing so much information with someone he hardly knew. It was a mistake he normally would never make.

  “Keep that to yourself,” Teddy whispered. “If the wrong person heard your smart-ass comment, I’d be the one in trouble.”

  Ein looked down and squirmed in his seat. “You’re right… I’m sorry.”

  “And stop apologizing so much!” Teddy turned his head and stared at the darkened screen mounted on the headrest in front of him. “Jesus, kid—you have a lot to learn, and I sure as hell don’t have a lot of time to teach you.”

  Ein scowled. “What do you mean by that?!”

  Before Teddy could answer, the overhead lights brightened, and the air brakes squealed loudly as the train came to an abrupt stop.

  Groggy passengers rubbed their eyes and looked around in bewilderment.

  Remain in your seats! a voice said over the intercom.

  A woman with greasy blonde hair at the front of the train gave a
low whistle. “Hey, look! We’re in Vegas!”

  The passengers in window seats pressed their faces against the glass, while those in aisle seats leaned over their neighbors to get a good view.

  Teddy lifted his window’s plastic shutter. It had been many years since he’d last visited the city, but he could still vaguely make out the iconic skyline; sadly, it was barely recognizable. Pillars of black smoke and flames rose from the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, and the Bellagio Casino Tower had been reduced to steel beams and smoldering rubble. Small fires burned throughout the metropolis, and many of the low-rise residential buildings were covered in tattered plastic tarps marked with the biohazard symbol. The Palms Place tower was wrapped in plastic, and the Stratosphere Tower overlooking the city was leaning precariously. At the Palazzo Hotel, messages pleading for help were spray-painted on sheets that hung from shattered windows. The freeways were rendered useless by abandoned vehicles, and the dead lay rotting on the asphalt while birds picked at their corpses. A thin layer of ash and wind-blown sand covered everything in sight.

  Along the train station’s platform, people were crammed tightly into makeshift chain-link holding pens while FEMA police officers wearing riot gear watched over them. People inside the pens slammed their open palms against the chain-link and shouted uselessly at the train, pleading for help.

  A large convention center stood just past the train station. Its grimy windows were riddled with holes from gunfire, and the building’s exterior was covered with soot. A faded banner draped from the roof read “LAS VEGAS REGIONAL FEMA QUARANTINE CENTER” in bold, blue letters.

  Teddy looked away from the grim hellscape and turned his attention to the people trapped inside the uncovered pens. They looked as though they’d been roasting beneath the unrelenting desert sun for a very long time, judging by the boils and blisters that covered their skin. He saw the fear, anguish, and raw panic in their faces—faces he was sure he’d never forget. He looked away and shook his head.