Intruders (Book 2): The Awakening Read online

  INTRUDERS

  The Awakening

  Tracy Sharp and Paul Seiple

  If the dead don't get you, the aliens will.

  Where were you when the world ended?

  It's a question Zoe has wanted to ask someone… anyone… since escaping death. But, she doesn't have time to sit around and wait for an answer. Moans from the dead remind her that death isn't far behind. She has to keep moving, that is until nightfall, when the aliens rise from tunnels below.

  Why are they here? Why are they destroying Earth? Why are the dead not dead?

  More questions.

  Zoe's only hope is to find Griffin Murphy, a paleontologist who may have the answers. If he survived the invasion, Murphy is hundreds of miles away. Zoe will have to fight the dead and dodge the aliens to get to the one man she's put her faith in to save what's left of the world she once knew.

  If she dies, she goes down swinging. If she lives, maybe she will find someone to tell her where they were when the world ended.

  Introduction

  Where were you when the world ended? It’s a question no one ever thinks of asking. When the world ends, there’s nothing left, no one around to ask the question. At least that’s the way I would have pictured it months ago. It’s not true, though. I’m around to ask. There just isn’t anyone around to answer.

  Loneliness is the worst form of emptiness. Silence is slow torture. I remember days of wishing that the world would forget I existed. There’s no more, “Zoe, can you do this for me? Zoe, did you leave the light on again? You know that wastes energy.” No more people cutting me off in traffic while their eyes are glued to their cell phones. The world listened to my complaining and granted my wish. I guess it’s true: you have to be careful of what you wish for — it could bite you in the ass.

  I remember watching the meteorites light the night sky before falling to Earth. I wasn’t the only one — people flocked to the streets from restaurants and coffee shops, sipping on high-priced lattes just to gawk at the wonders of the universe. No one knew the event was a harbinger of things to come. People took the meteorites at face value — nothing more than a spectacular fireworks show. Even when they crashed into buildings and dug into asphalt, people still marveled at them. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone left that things ended up this way.

  There were signs — children and babies vanished. Sure, it was all over the evening news, but if tragedy doesn’t directly affect someone, they lower the rose-colored glasses and drown themselves in television and social media. Cluelessness makes for an easy target. I’m not saying that’s why mankind no longer exists as it once did. Heeding the warning signs wouldn’t have mattered much. Once the aliens decided Earth belonged to them, we couldn’t avoid the end they wrote for us. But if people bothered to lower their blinders, maybe there could have been a fight. Did the government know? By saying nothing, did they think they were protecting us? It doesn’t matter now because there is no government. No military. There’s no one for me to yell at when they take too long at the drive-thru. Hell, there are no twenty-four-hour McDonald’s. There is nothing.

  “Where were you when the world ended?”

  Hank took a break from gnawing on a Nab to flash his puppy dog eyes and wag his tail. Maybe he was starting to understand human. He whined, letting me know he wasn’t quite ready to speak it. He flashed another look my way and then returned to the Nab.

  “I bet you were settling in for bedtime, buddy. Was it treat time?”

  Hank’s ears perked up, and he placed his front paws on my thighs.

  “You know what that means, huh?” I laughed and handed him another Nab. I bit into one of the peanut butter snack crackers. There wasn’t much crunch. “Getting a little stale, right?”

  Hank ignored me. The crackers still satisfied his hunger. I was a different story. The peanut butter made my craving worse. What I wouldn’t give for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I thought. Most people would crave steak, but for me a good old PB&J sandwich was comfort food and man, did I need some comfort.

  One of the last people I remember having a conversation with was Detective Rayback. Although it wasn’t as much a conversation as it was an interrogation. Still, there was something comforting about Rayback in a grandfather kind of way. I smiled when I thought about how he tried to ease my stress by telling me he saw the Clash play. Obviously after noticing I was wearing a Clash T-shirt. And how he complimented my hair. I’ll never know if he was sincere or if he was feeling me out. At the time, I didn’t care; I just wanted to get out of the police station and get home. Now, this is my home — a broken-down pickup truck surrounded by empty streets, destroyed buildings, and the smell of smoldering embers mixed with rotten flesh. Home sweet home. Yeah, right.

  I laughed at the irony of the situation. Hank and I hiding out in the back of a pickup truck that overheated in the middle of winter. I lost count of how many days we camped in the middle of nowhere. Down to the last bit of food and water, the situation looked bleak. Death was throwing everything it had at us, but we were stubborn. If the aliens and zombies couldn’t get the job done, there was no way a busted radiator would be the end of us.

  “Hank, you about ready to get moving? We’ve moped here too long.”

  Again, he ignored me, picking apart the cracker trapped between his front paws, to get at the peanut butter. He could have finished it awhile ago. It was as if he knew food was scarce and he wanted to savor it as long as he could. I wouldn’t have survived if not for Hank. Not only was he one hell of a guard dog, he kept reminding me that there were still things worth fighting for in this world. Without me, Hank would surely die. He had gotten me through tough times. There was no way I would let him down by dying.

  “Okay, take a few more minutes, buddy.”

  I rubbed Hank’s head and thought about the survivalist group the crawlers and deadies wiped out in front of me. Hank and I were lucky to escape. Or were we? We had half a pack of crackers and a bottle of fresh water. That was it. No car and New York City was days, if not weeks, away on foot. We had come through so much and getting to the city was our true hope for survival. Finding Dr. Griffin Murphy was our only way; there wasn’t a Plan B.

  According to the flash drive Dr. Barrows gave to me before he died, Murphy was the key to fighting the crawlers. Maybe it was a pipe dream. I saw those things up close and personal — giant lizards intent on wiping out mankind. Unless Murphy had some sort of secret weapon, mankind, or what was left of it, was doomed. I still had to try.

  Hank growled, causing me to slip a little farther into the bed of the truck.

  “Deadie?” I whispered.

  Hank let out another low growl.

  He could smell them before I could. Something clanked against the asphalt like an empty can being dragged on a string. By this point, we had gotten pretty good at avoiding the dead. And the ones we couldn’t avoid weren’t too hard to stop. Put something deep in their skull and game over. I didn’t feel all that confident with groups of deadies, though. I peeked over the tailgate. Two deadies walked toward the truck, struggling to move their legs with each step.

  “Okay, Hank, stay.”

  I grabbed a tire iron and scooted my butt toward the tailgate. The shuffling of feet grew louder. The winter wind caught their stench in its grasp and dropped it like a stink bomb into the bed of the truck. I swallowed hard, trying to hold back vomit. I closed my eyes, listening to the deadies’ faint moans. Hank growled. I motioned for him to be quiet.

  A nearly translucent hand slapped against the metal of the truck. Long, dead fingers gripped the tailgate. Hank barked. It was futile to try to keep him quiet. I had to end
it before his barking drew more attention. The deadie looked over the truck bed. I jammed the tire iron underneath his chin. Flesh gave way; the iron sank deeper into him. He fell against the truck. I ripped the metal from his head, sending specks of flesh flying. The other deadie was still a few feet away. She was older, about seventy. I hopped from the truck and didn’t hesitate to bury the tire iron in her forehead. She dropped to her knees and then fell on her back. Splatters of blood decorated her dress, giving accents to the floral pattern. Her green apron had stains that looked to be chocolate. This was someone’s grandmother. She was probably making cookies when the meteorites hit. And I just jammed a piece of metal into her head like it was nothing.

  “She’s dead,” I told myself. “Don’t lose it. You have to be tough if you’re going to make it.”

  Hank stood with his front paws on the pickup’s tailgate.

  The wind moved over me, its murmur lonesome as its old fingers caressed me.

  Hopelessness washed over me. The futility of trying to survive. And then a rage burgeoning on hysteria.

  We were truly alone in this dead world.

  “Where were you when the world ended?” I screamed and jerked the tire iron from the old woman’s forehead. The only answer was my voice echoing off wrecked cars. I screamed the question again, hoping someday someone would answer me.

  Part I

  North Carolina

  Chapter 1

  The thumping was like a heartbeat, but not constant enough to keep anyone alive. Well…not anyone of this world. She hung, suspended like a slab of beef, encased in a film that reminded her of afterbirth, only thicker. Tiny holes moved in waves over the parasitic second skin as if they had a job to do. In a way, they did: they were keeping her alive.

  She couldn’t open her eyes. The weight of the substance wrapped around her felt crushing, like a constrictor, after a few days. Or was it weeks? She couldn’t remember. Maybe the goop had glued her eyes shut. That wouldn’t be the worst thing. Judging from the surrounding screams, things get much worse. Her arms pressed against her body, but there was a little wiggle room. Knowing she only had one chance at escape, she picked at the membrane with chipped nails. Just a few weeks earlier, she was sitting in a chair at Lee Nails, getting a manicure. Once a month, she treated herself to a mani and pedi. It was a subtle way of reminding her she deserved to be pampered once in a while. She had earned it.

  Daphne Stover was a fighter. And a damn good one. Named after the Greek nymph who evaded Apollo’s advances when her father turned her into a laurel tree, Daphne lived through more than her fair share of hardships. Unlike the Greek nymph’s father, Daphne’s father left her and her mother high and dry when she was twelve. By sixteen, her mother, an aspiring novelist who liked drugs a bit more than writing, passed away from a heroin overdose. Her mother’s death left Daphne with no one and homeless. She fought to pull herself out of the streets and into a good life. There was no way she would stop fighting now. Whatever this was that had kidnapped her may kill her, but it would definitely know that it had been in a fight.

  Daphne tore at the film, ripping open a small gap. She let out a brief chuckle, fueled partly by relief and partly by the childhood memory of toy slime. The material oozing over her wrecked manicure felt just like that crap. The membrane shifted, closing the hole that had taken her hours to make.

  “Shit.”

  She stabbed at the substance again. The thumping came back. This time, the knocking was closer and more rapid, like someone whose heart was about to burst from their chest after a hit of speed. An ear-piercing shrill stole the attention away from the thumping. And just as fast as it had happened, the screaming silenced, but only for a moment. Knocks, maybe a form of Morse code, took its place.

  There is more than one, Daphne thought. They’re communicating. A small electrical charge developed in her toes and fingertips. This was the first time since being taken that she realized she was barefoot. She felt her thigh — bare flesh. Somehow the cocoon had numbed her. A deeper feeling of vulnerability crashed over her once she realized that she was naked. Daphne was a strong woman; the thought of having her clothes removed without her consent enraged her. That emotion gave way to fear when the speculation that these things violated her crossed her mind.

  The electric charge grew in intensity until it overtook her entire body. Daphne’s heart sputtered as if it were a car running on fumes. She tried to swallow, but the electricity released a static that lodged in her throat like a bitter pill. Daphne gasped hard. The movement helped tear at the slime that encased her eyelids.

  Looking at her through the membrane were dozens of beady gold eyes. Studying her, the eyes moved with her every little movement, like a cat chasing a light. The knocking grew louder, like a swift turn of the volume button on a stereo. These things were yelling in whatever language they spoke.

  The pod that entombed Daphne swayed. It moved slowly at first, but gradually picked up speed until her body was bouncing off walls. Something tugged at her hair. With each movement, more of her hair clung to the sticky sides. The beady eyes circled her like a strobe light. These bastards were trying to beat her to death inside the cocoon. She braced herself by spreading her arms and legs. The swings were just as violent, but she had control.

  “Come on, motherfuckers. Is that all you got?”

  And then the swaying stopped. The golden eyes scattered in all directions, like marbles hitting concrete. Four red speckles caught Daphne’s eyes. The speckles grew into dots. The electrical charge returned. The pulsating waves were much stronger. Shock raced through her body, leaving heat in its wake. The fire that raged through her body made Daphne fear that her organs were liquefying.

  The red dots were right in front of her pod. They were eyes. No denying that — red eyes with yellow slits dissecting a small black circle in the center. An orange glow filled the cocoon, followed by a puff of smoke. Pain tore at the flesh on Daphne’s stomach. A mark of burnt skin, about two inches long, appeared to the left of her belly button. The orange glow widened. A small incision opened in the membrane. The smell of dirt and mold pushed its way through the opening, gagging Daphne. She dry-heaved.

  A red tentacle covered in millions of razor-thin hairs pawed at Daphne. She ducked a split second before it could make contact. The tentacle smacked against the back of the pod, singeing the membrane. It took another swipe at her. She moved to the left. It missed and charred the cocoon again.

  It has limited vision, Daphne thought. It’s reacting to movement. Before the tentacle reached for her again, Daphne kicked the lower right side of the pod. The tentacle darted toward the vibration. Daphne eyed the hole in the membrane, which was big enough for her to fit through now. Without hesitation, she dove forward, hands ripping at the alien skin. She pushed through the wall and landed at the feet of the red-eyed monsters. She rolled behind them before they could spot her.

  The sound of thumping drew her attention away from the seven-foot-tall beasts. Over her shoulder, ducked behind another cocoon, were the beady gold eyes. One of the tall beasts turned attention to the knocking.

  Shit, they are telling it where I am.

  Daphne got to her feet and ran — face first into another pod. Staring back at her was a woman, probably in her twenties. It was hard to be exact from the sunken-in cheeks and wrinkles. Do I look like that? A tentacle buzzed by her shoulder and pierced the cocoon, stabbing the woman in the throat. Daphne dropped to her knees and rolled underneath the pod. The knocking grew louder. The beady-eyed creatures were yelling again.

  She put her hand against a wall, pulling away a clump of dirt.

  I’m underground.

  There wasn’t much light, but what little there was led to another passageway. Daphne didn’t have a choice. She had to run toward the light. The knocking faded. They weren’t following her.

  An invisible wall of horror stopped Daphne in her tracks. She was in the middle of what could only be described as a birthing room. There were twel
ve metal tables, each equipped with stirrups. But the tables were hanging from a dirt ceiling. The stirrups were almost flush with the ceiling. “What the fuck is this?”

  Lining the left wall was a row of wooden crates that resembled planter boxes. A clear dome covered each crate. Curiosity tugged Daphne toward the boxes. As she got closer, she noticed something like a calendar on each dome. Ignoring her fears, which begged her not to look inside, she peeked into the first one. A perfectly normal newborn stared back at her with wide eyes. Daphne glanced down the line of boxes, all housing babies. But something was different with the baby under the second dome. Her eyes were glassy, almost shining, as if a light was pinpointing them. The third baby’s eyes were pale yellow with no pupils. The fourth baby’s eyes were gold just like the creatures that had gawked at Daphne earlier. She turned away, fearing sight of the final transformations.

  Her skin broke out in gooseflesh and disgust rolled over her. Those bastards are breeding us.

  A soft moan startled Daphne, causing her to fall back against one of the domes. A woman lay underneath the birthing table directly in front of Daphne.

  “Oh, God, don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.” Daphne reached for the woman, gently grasping her wrist. The woman was cold to the touch. Her skin held a scale-like quality. Daphne jerked her hand back. The woman turned her head toward Daphne. The scene resembled a television show being played in slow-motion. The woman opened her mouth.

  “Don’t try to talk,” Daphne whispered. “They’ll hear us. I’m going to help you.”

  The woman widened her mouth and lurched her neck forward. Her head made spastic movements, like a baby bird trying to feed. She couldn’t produce any words, just a knocking sound.

  She was calling the creatures.

  Daphne sprang to her feet. She whirled in a circle, trying to gain a sense of direction. Where had she been? Where did she need to go? There were two tunnels to lead her out of the room, but one would take her right back to the creatures. The dizzying effect of the twirl made choosing all that much harder.