Chaos Read online

  Chaos

  By David Meyer

  Chaos Copyright © 2011 by David Meyer

  Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  Cover Design Copyright © 2013 by Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  Cover Art Copyrights:

  1) Railcar - David Stanley (Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic License)

  2) SAS_0035 - Metropolitan Transportation Authority / Patrick Cashin (Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic License)

  Publishers Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, scanning, uploading, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, or the Internet without prior written permission of the Publisher, copyright owner except where permitted by law. Your support of the author’s rights is greatly appreciated.

  Second Edition – July 2013

  ISBN -13: 978-0-6155503-1-2

  ISBN-10: 0-6155503-1-2

  Manufactured/Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This book is for Julie, my wife and the love of my life.

  Without your support, none of this would’ve been possible.

  Thank you for everything.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue: The Omega

  Part I: Vanished

  Part II: The Colony

  Part III: The Bell

  Part IV: Aladdin's Cave

  Part V: The Race

  Epilogue: Hartek's Cache

  Don't Leave Just Yet!

  Ice Storm: Cy Reed Adventure (Sample)

  About the Author

  Works by David Meyer

  PROLOGUE

  THE OMEGA

  March 6, 1976

  The long, twisting tunnel should’ve been empty.

  Fred Jenson’s heart skipped a beat as he examined the gigantic black shadow that rose menacingly out of the darkness. What was a subway car still doing in the tunnel? Had it been damaged by the fire?

  Sweat poured from his forehead, soaking his grimy face. With shaking hands, he lifted the bottle of Evan Williams, unscrewed the top, and tipped a few ounces down his throat.

  It didn’t burn. It never burned. Not anymore.

  He stared at the car through bleary eyes. Must be fire-damaged. That was the only explanation that made sense. Yet, at least from his vantage point, it looked perfectly normal.

  Jenson inched forward. He didn’t want trouble. He merely wanted to see the destruction. The old guy, the one in the checked blue coat who slept in the maintenance shack, had told him all about it.

  The old-timer said it was the worst disaster he’d ever seen. Maybe even the worst disaster in the history of New York’s subway system.

  Earlier that evening, a mysterious fire had ravaged the Times Square station, destroying a five-car length strip of the terminal. The 42nd Street Shuttle ceased operations immediately. Shortly after, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority shut down the entire route. Maintenance workers converged on the station, eager to complete repairs before the morning rush.

  Three R36 ML subway cars were crippled by the blaze and all had supposedly been evacuated from the area. Scores of people suffered burns, with at least four confirmed fatalities. While the cause remained unknown, the old guy swore he overheard police officers chatting about it.

  And they thought it was arson.

  Abruptly, Jenson stumbled to his knees. His teeth clenched as a thousand knives pierced his skull. His vision crumpled from the corners and blackness enveloped him.

  A roar of pain screeched out of his belly. Slamming his mouth shut, he cut it off, just like he’d done thousands of times before.

  Breathe, damn it. Breathe.

  No one’s going to hurt you down here. The war is over.

  Jenson began to count to sixty, slowly and methodically.

  One. Two. Three…

  The excruciating pain continued.

  Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six…

  Gradually, lines and shapes began to poke out of the darkness. He saw the concrete trough. The dull running rails. The rotten wood ties. His pulse slowed. His nerves relaxed. Finally, the knives exited his skull and he exhaled with relief.

  It was over. Sixty seconds had passed since he’d first felt the pain. Just sixty seconds. And yet, it felt much closer to sixty days instead.

  His fist still held the half-full bottle of Evan Williams. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he raised it back to his lips and poured more bourbon into his stomach. His heavy breathing eased.

  He took another swig.

  Then another.

  And then another.

  He stared at the bottle, wavering slightly in his hand. Cheapest medical treatment he’d ever known. And far safer than those damn Veterans Affairs hospitals. He had that thing that was all the rage these days…what did the papers call it? Post-traumatic stress disorder?

  Jenson bent over, fished through the dirt, and retrieved the cap to the bottle. Slowly, he screwed it back into place, protecting the precious liquid.

  Sixty seconds. That’s all it took. Sixty seconds to normalcy. Sixty seconds for his body to forget that other sixty seconds in Iwo Jima, the ones that had destroyed his life. That day, a bomb exploded in his soul, shattering it into a billion pieces.

  Within sixty seconds of hitting that hellhole, enemy fire cut down his four closest friends. The five of them had jumped off the boat together and stormed the beach. But it was no ordinary beach. It was volcanic ash. As they ran forward, they quickly found themselves buried waist deep in it.

  And then the shooting began.

  Jenson didn’t know how he survived the battle. The last thing he remembered was seeing his friends bent over at the waist, their arms splayed to the side, their faces lying in ash, their bodies riddled with holes.

  After the war ended, he returned to his family. He went back to work at Brooklyn Gas & Electric. And for weeks on end, he sat in his chair, hunched over his desk, checking transactions for eight hours a day. He tried to live a normal life. And it worked.

  For a little while.

  Admittedly, he hadn’t tried that hard. What was the point? He wasn’t the same person, not anymore. So, how could he be expected to return to the same life?

  Sure, living with the other bums in the subway tunnels wasn’t exactly paradise. But at least they didn’t expect anything from him. At least they didn’t give him funny looks.

  Jenson took a deep breath and walked forward, determined to conquer his fears. Fuzzy lines gradually firmed up and he began to see the subway car and its surroundings clearly. His aged, cauliflower ears caught something. He cocked his head and listened for a second. An uncomfortable feeling crept over him and he felt his blood pressure rise.

  The noises arose from the general direction of the subway car. Noises he recognized. Noises that told him one indisputable, yet disturbing fact.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Jenson felt a pinprick in his skull. He clamped down on his emotions, struggling to get them under control.

  Eventually, his breathing slowed. He forced himself to look at the car and put it into context. It was one of the ruined R36 MLs. It had to be. And the noises probably came from subway workers. They were preparing to tow the car back to one of the yards for repairs. Yes, that explained everything.

  And yet, it didn’t.

  He could see shadowy figures now, moving back and forth from a gaping hole in the sou
th wall to the subway car. Two figures climbed out of the hole, carrying a massive bell-shaped object between them. It looked like it weighed a thousand pounds. And yet, the two figures held it aloft with little apparent effort.

  Jenson’s brain told him to turn and run. But the strange object piqued his curiosity. Against his better judgment, he crouched down and moved toward the center of the tracks, hoping for a better look.

  The two men carried the object to the side of the subway car. They stood tall, unbending, as if the object in their hands weighed nothing at all. They disappeared into the car and then reappeared a few seconds later.

  They walked away but Jenson barely noticed them. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the car, trying to catch another glimpse of the strange, bell-like object.

  But before he could do so, the men returned. This time, they carried a long, cylindrical burlap bag between them. Jenson stared at it.

  His heart skipped another beat.

  The bag was moving.

  He’d seen enough to understand the danger he faced. If the shadows saw him, they’d kill him. Spinning around, Jenson ran.

  Twin lights surged from behind him, casting a bright glow across the tunnel. Cursing, he slipped to the side of the track, opposite the third rail, and put on a burst of speed.

  The single, non-pedestrian track under his feet connected the 42nd Street Shuttle Line to the Lexington Avenue Line. Ordinarily, it allowed shuttles to be taken in and out of service. But now, it served another purpose. It was his way out. His freedom.

  His salvation.

  Twenty yards to go.

  He felt the ground tremble slightly. Digging deep, he picked up the pace.

  Ten yards.

  He stumbled. His hand reached out and touched the wall. Lurching forward, he tried to maintain his footing.

  Five yards.

  The light grew brighter and brighter. With one last long step, Jenson flew into another tunnel. Ducking to the side, he plastered himself against the wall. His heart slammed against his chest.

  The subway car breached the pedestrian tunnel. It moved slowly and quietly, almost as if it were sneaking away from something.

  As it passed by, Jenson couldn’t help but stare at it. In addition to its strange contents, the railcar itself was highly unusual. Unlike the dull, faded grey that covered most subway cars, it exhibited a rich coat of silver paint. Instead of graffiti scrawls, a single word, written in black foot-size lettering, adorned the low alloy high tensile steel siding.

  Omega.

  The Omega paused and Jenson pressed his body as hard as he could against the concrete. Someone had seen him. He was sure of it.

  But then, with a sullen, mechanical groan, the car completed its turn and pressed forward, heading south.

  Jenson slid down, his back scraping against the wall. His haunches came to a rest just above his worn shoes.

  Relief swept over him.

  A loud high-pitched shriek reverberated across the tunnel, ping-ponging from wall to wall. Jenson glanced to his right. The Omega stood quietly in the semi-darkness.

  Now what?

  Metal rasped against metal. Then, three shadows hopped out of the subway car’s side and ventured to the front.

  “Running rails,” one of the figures announced. “How the hell…?”

  Jenson squinted. Long metal slabs lay perpendicular across the tracks. He didn’t remember seeing them earlier.

  Gunfire erupted from the south. One of the shadows jerked backward and fell. The other two retreated to the safety of the Omega.

  Knives sliced back into Jenson’s skull, sending waves of debilitating pain down his spine. He crumpled to the ground.

  New shadows, too many to count, swarmed the subway car. The ear-piercing barrage continued for another forty seconds. As the tunnel fell quiet, Jenson felt more screams barreling their way toward his throat. Desperately, he tried to stop them. Any noise would give away his position.

  And he wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.

  Blackness reappeared at the corners of his vision, eating its way toward the center. He blinked. The Omega’s doors remained open, providing some visibility to its interior. During the battle, the objects inside had shifted.

  He sensed the new shadows surrounding the Omega. But he ignored them, keeping his attention focused solely on the bell-shaped object.

  He now understood its secret.

  And it scared the shit out of him.

  Darkness swept across his eyes, consuming his sight. He felt himself falling, falling, into a deep abyss. And then, nothing.

  Nothing but blackness.

  PART I

  VANISHED

  Chapter 1

  August 21, Present Day

  Javier Kolen held his breath as he descended into the ground. It was a totally useless gesture, yet he found it comforting. The longer he kept the odors below from penetrating his nostrils, the better.

  His hiking boots emitted soft scraping sounds as he worked his way down the rungs. His palms, encased in cheap leather gloves, held an iron grip on the rust-ridden bars.

  He could’ve let go like the Braggart. He could’ve just dropped into the maintenance tunnel. After all, just ten feet separated his short, stocky frame from the concrete below. But that wasn’t his style. Safety remained his top priority, no matter how much the Braggart needled him for it.

  Kolen clambered down the rest of the ladder and stepped off into the old stone-block tunnel. As his boots sank into the inch-thick grime, he finally allowed himself to breathe. The odor, an unsettling combination of stale air and decaying trash, sickened him.

  He looked up. The lamp strapped to his protective headgear shone on the closed manhole one hundred feet above him. The sight made him dizzy.

  Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars.

  Kolen repeated the mantra a few more times until his head began to clear. He didn’t like the job. It didn’t feel right. Yet, two thousand dollars cash was impossible for him to resist.

  Reaching to his belt, he unclipped a handheld transceiver and raised it to his mouth. “Team Eagle is in the pot. We’re ready to cook. See you on the other side.”

  The radio vibrated in his hand. “Roger that.”

  As he returned the transceiver to his belt, Kolen sensed movement. Turning to the side, he noticed the Braggart clawing frantically at the back of his neck.

  Kolen tilted his head, confused. Suddenly, he felt skittering tiny touches on his shoulder. He swept his hand through the air, brushing off some sort of bug. He started to shudder but stopped cold instead.

  Cockroaches.

  The tunnel was crawling with them. He swiveled in a tight circle, horrified yet awed. The nasty little bugs covered practically every inch of the walls and ceiling. They shifted constantly, always in motion, a never-ending showcase of creepiness.

  “Damn it, Javier,” the Braggart said. “Stop standing there like an idiot and help me out.”

  Kolen didn’t respond right away. He didn’t like the Braggart, didn’t like him one bit.

  The Braggart’s real name was Dan Adcock. He was just a kid, a ridiculous looking kid. His long black hair, tied into a ponytail, looked silly. His soft, hefty frame was laughable. Heck, even his gait, which was far too short for his lanky body, seemed absurd.

  Kolen didn’t know much about him, just that he was some kind of amateur treasure hunter. A treasure hunter who liked to talk about himself. A lot.

  As he looked into Adcock’s contorted face, Kolen found himself feeling the familiar doubts all over again. He was a respected urban archaeologist for God’s sake. So what the hell was he doing in the middle of New York’s subway system with a joker like Adcock?

  Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars.

  Kolen needed the money, needed it badly. He cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you wear a turtleneck?”

  “Do I look like I’ve been down here before? How was I supposed to know this was cockroach central?”

&nbs
p; Reluctantly, Kolen walked over, peeled back Adcock’s shirt, and flicked away a couple of large cockroaches. “Next time come prepared. And don’t ask me to do this again. You’re on your own from here.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  Kolen felt his temper building. “Nothing.”

  “You’re full of it. You’ve been on my ass ever since we met.”

  “No I haven’t.”

  “You think you’re better than me don’t you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Adcock made a face. “You’re a liar. You think you’re better than me. But you know what? You’re wrong. You might have a fancy degree. You probably get quoted in obscure magazines every now and then. But since you’re here, I’m guessing your profession doesn’t pay shit. And in a capitalist world like ours, that means your work is worthless.”

  Kolen knew he shouldn’t respond. But he couldn’t help himself. “There’s more to life than money, you little bastard.”

  “Than why are you here?”

  “I have my reasons. What about you?”

  Adcock shrugged. “I like money.”

  “You’re a treasure hunter right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ever find anything?”

  “All the time.”

  Kolen laughed. “I doubt that. But regardless, do you know how to properly excavate a site? Do you know how to remove artifacts without damaging them? Do you keep every single thing you find, no matter how small, and painstakingly record it for future analysis?”

  “Well…”

  “Of course not. Because you don’t care that you’re destroying history. In fact, I bet you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

  Kolen sensed a weight lifting off his chest. It felt good to speak his mind. But one look at Adcock’s sneering, obnoxious face caused the weight to come crashing back down again.

  “You talk a good game,” Adcock said. “But it’s just talk. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

  “This is different.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  Kolen fell quiet. Not because he couldn’t answer the question but because he didn’t want to give Adcock the satisfaction.