The Last Peak (Book 3): The Darwin Sacrifice Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

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  The Last Peak Series

  Freebie for Finding Errors

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

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  A Small Favor

  Other Works

  Questions or Comments?

  The Goal

  My Life Thus Far

  Copyright

  THE

  DARWIN

  SACRIFICE

  William Oday

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  The Last Peak Series

  THE DARWIN PROTOCOL

  THE DARWIN COLLAPSE

  THE DARWIN SACRIFICE

  THE DARWIN REBELLION

  Coming Spring 2017!

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  I do my best to squash every error creeping through the pages of this book. A professional editor also combs through it looking for what I missed. Despite our combined best efforts, the occasional mistake still slips through. But with your valiant help, Dear Reader, we will catch the last of them!

  If you notice an error, please email me at [email protected]. For just one caught error, I’ll send you a digital copy of any book in my collection for free. That’s right! One error for one book. (Creative use of words or grammatical structure doesn’t apply. Honest-to-goodness mistakes absolutely do.)

  Thanks!

  Will

  CHAPTER ONE

  Those who would give up essential liberty, to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.

  ~ Benjamin Franklin, 1755 ~

  The Divine Mercy Monastery

  Marin County, California

  LELAND ROBERTS shaped the clay so that it matched the vision in his head. It was God’s work but it was also a child’s work. Molding the plasticized material was no different than playing with the brightly colored clay that had happily occupied so many hours of his youth.

  No.

  It was different.

  A child sculpted clay made of basic household ingredients.

  Lee sculpted clay made of seventy-six percent pentaerythritol tetranitrate.

  A man had obligations no child could fathom. Being an extraordinary man, Lee had obligations that would’ve crushed a less righteous soul. Such was the burden of a Godly man living through the end of times.

  That was one of the reasons the previous abbot, Father Aemon, had to go. He didn’t have the depth of faith that Lee did. The blind old man had been stooped with age and infirmity. He didn’t have the strength to do what needed to be done.

  Some of the Brothers still whispered about the circumstances surrounding Lee’s ascendance to head of the monastery.

  If only they knew the truth.

  He finished working the clay into a tube shape and attached it to the stump that was all that remained of the ring finger on his left hand. The heretics had long ago cut it off to get at the gold ring his wife had given him on their wedding day.

  He stared at the fake finger in the bright light of the lamp above his head. A phantom itch in the missing digit tickled his brain. He scratched at the corresponding spot on the clay and found no satisfaction.

  After the outbreak two months ago, the dark years of doubt and suffering finally made sense.

  Losing the wedding band had been a sign that his earthly vows were no longer important. The concurrent loss of the finger had further signified that he was destined to be devoted to God and no other. It was so clear in retrospect.

  The virus that wiped out humanity two months ago had been a revelation in so many ways.

  Mankind had fallen into idolatry. It had worshipped technology and the easy pleasures of the modern world. The Delta Virus burned away the sinful scourge. And yet, the city to the south was already slithering its way back toward damnation.

  San Francisco, the new Soddom and Gamorrah, promised a return to what God manifestly had condemned. Leading the effort was their president, Gabriel Cruz. He was as relentless a man as Lee had ever met. If anyone could drag humanity back into sin, it was him.

  And so the head of the snake had to be cut off.

  The devil couldn’t be allowed to remain in the new Garden of Eden.

  If only Cynthia had understood it as Lee did, perhaps she could’ve avoided damnation. But her willful defiance and subsequent infidelity ensured God’s wrath.

  Lee remembered her face and words like the moment was again unfolding in front of his eyes.

  The look of shock that quickly twisted into scorn.

  Lee, why the hell do you care? You haven’t given a shit about me for years!

  He prayed every morning and every night that she was not beyond redemption.

  Lee pushed the dark thought away. He studied the clay finger, working details into the knuckles and nail. The bright lamp above cast a shadow on the work table below. The black silhouette of his left hand appeared whole. As if he hadn’t endured the torture that still haunted his dreams more nights than not.

  Outside the halo of the lamp, the rest of the small room remained cloaked in darkness. He preferred it that way. There were no windows with changing light to interrupt the meditation. There was no clock to bother him with the passing of minutes or hours.

  The work filled him with the Holy Spirit. Finishing it meant a return to the everyday world. A return to the phantom pain in his head that doctors had never understood and never cured. It was
only in these moments of timeless contemplation that it submerged below his awareness.

  Free of pain for the most part, Lee couldn’t help but smile.

  That was a mistake.

  The patchwork of scars that covered the right half of his face ached as the mottled skin tried to follow the muscles underneath. It had never completely healed. It was always oozing fluid or leaking blood. He pulled a handkerchief from under his robe and dabbed at the raw skin.

  A jolt of pain zipped down his spine but he didn’t so much as flinch. He was not new to suffering.

  Lee pulled the clay finger off his stump and continued with the work. He added more clay, pinching the edges to create a suitable horizontal post.

  Time passed as he slowly fashioned the material into a shape that would change the world. He put the final touches on it and then held it up to examine.

  A cross.

  A symbol of suffering and of redemption.

  But it had not always been just a symbol. It had once been a tool. And so it would be again.

  This cross would be his sacrifice.

  His final act of faith.

  Lee opened a small cardboard box of quarter-inch ball bearings. He pulled them out one at a time and pressed them into the surface of the clay in an unbroken line of ornamentation. He had never been much of an artist, but this was turning out better than he could’ve imagined.

  Such was the power of the Holy Spirit.

  He watched as motes of dust drifted through the cone of bright light. Appearing out of the void, sparkling for a short time in the light, and then once again disappearing into darkness. Such was the course of things.

  Both motes and men.

  It would take many hours yet to cover the cross in ball bearings. Several coats of primer and then gold spray paint would complete the project. With it attached to the top of his staff, it would become just another symbol carried by a holy man.

  A symbol had power.

  Especially when it contained over a pound of Semtex covered with hundreds of small metal balls.

  The right time for wielding it would reveal itself.

  Faith would show him the way.

  The door to the small outbuilding swung open. A shaft of light cut into the room.

  Was it morning already?

  Lee grimaced at the interruption, at the painful throbbing that again resumed everywhere and nowhere at once inside his head.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Father, but it’s time for the morning prayers.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you, Brother Ryan.”

  The right time would come. His obligation was to be ready when it did.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Green Zone

  San Francisco, California

  MASON WEST ran his fingers along the chainlink fence that kept deltas out of the secured section of San Francisco. Mostly kept them out, which was a big problem. The other problem was that he was spending today of all days thinking about any of this when tomorrow was less than one day away.

  Nine miles of perimeter fencing enclosed just over four square miles of what was officially called the Green Zone. The safe area occupied less than one-tenth the land area of the original city. Further expansion had been put on hold until the necessary infrastructure caught up to the demands of the current space and population.

  The western border ran along Divisadero north to the shore and south to Fell Street. The southern border ran along Fell and bumped out to Harrison over to Third Street. The eastern border ran up Third, along Kearny, then a portion of Columbus Avenue and finally cut north to the shore just west of Pier Thirty-Nine.

  Forty thousand people lived within its confines. The official number was ninety percent occupancy. If refugees kept trickling in, and there was no reason to expect they wouldn’t, they’d have to expand again into the Red Zone.

  Which was easier said than done.

  Every reclaimed block involved the risk of injury, infection, death, or worse for every officer involved in the operation.

  And clearing and incorporating a block into the Green Zone was not a small operation.

  There had been several security forays into the streets and skyscrapers of The Financial District east of Kearny, but it had quickly become apparent that the city didn’t have enough manpower to properly clear and hold block after block of the massive structures.

  So the towering pinnacles of modern engineering were left to decay.

  The northern perimeter along the shore was less an unbroken line and more a patchwork of fencing, barricades, and security checkpoints.

  No delta incursions had come from that direction so there was less urgency about finishing that border.

  Mason didn’t like it, but when everything was a top priority, something had to give.

  He stared south through the fence on Fell Street at the city beyond. The Red Zone. A thick fog concealed everything beyond the couple of blocks. The rest of the city, indeed the rest of the world, wasn’t safe. No one went outside the wire without an armed escort and a damned good reason.

  The fence itself was fourteen feet high. The first four feet comprised of heavy concrete barriers. Eight feet of thick chainlink fence was anchored to the barriers. Tight rings of razor wire lined the top making the perimeter a formidable obstacle for a human with minimal intelligence.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t as good at stopping ones with normal intelligence. Which was the reason they were considering potential upgrades.

  The voice he’d been trying to ignore for the last hour spoke again.

  “Deltas broke through last night and killed a man! President Cruz had to institute a curfew for the safety of all citizens. I’m surprised you can’t appreciate the necessity.”

  Speaking of humans with minimal intelligence.

  Shane Fowler.

  Now Police Chief Fowler after the death of the previous chief made the position available.

  At forty-six, he was eleven years older than Mason, and yet he exuded the emotional maturity of a teenager. Short-man syndrome certainly played a prominent role. He seemed to have two modes: total ass-kisser around the President, blustering bully everywhere else.

  If he polished the four gold stars on each of his lapels any more, he’d wear holes in the thin metal.

  Mason refused to address him as Chief Fowler. Having been a sergeant in the Marine Corps himself, he respected rank and what it did for organizational efficiency.

  A decorated tour in the sandbox proved the perspective.

  He and his men had endured a harrowing time during the Second Battle of Fallujah. And the ones that endured were the lucky ones. Many more never made it. The ones who didn’t come back instilled in him a deep understanding of the responsibility that any commanding rank required.

  But this jackass understood none of that.

  “Shane,” Mason said in a voice dripping with as much disrespect as a man could slather onto a single syllable. “I understand the need for safety. I was simply acknowledging that it’s an unfortunate thing that a mandatory curfew is required.”

  Shane adjusted the four stars on his lapel. He was always adjusting the damn things to bring attention to them. “President Cruz will do whatever is necessary to safeguard the future of The United States of America! Do you doubt his leadership?”

  Zealots like Shane were the reason democracies devolved into fascist states.

  Shane grabbed Mason’s coat with his thick, stubby fingers. “I should report you for this!”

  Mason felt his fist clinching up. An irresistible urge to punch this idiot in the mouth nearly overcame him. Instead, he shoved Shane hard into the fence and pinned him there with a forearm to the throat.

  “Don’t touch me,” Mason said in slow, clipped tones.

  Shane’s hand moved toward the pistol holstered at his hip.

  Mason towered over him, leaning in to accentuate the difference. “You don’t want to do that.”

  Shane’s hand stopped and Mason let him go. He stag
gered back holding his neck and coughing.

  Mason was so sick of the bullshit. So tired of Police Chief Fowler and others like him. The sycophants that sucked up to power so they could feast on whatever crumbs fell into their outstretched hands. Unfortunately, it frequently worked, as it had for Shane. But just because he’d weaseled his way into the job didn’t make him good at it.

  That was the part that made Mason sick to his stomach. There was a real danger to people when those that held power were self-serving idiots like the one before him.

  Mason wasn’t the forgiving type when it came to the safety of his family.

  Shane rubbed his neck while glaring at Mason with impotent rage. The kind that was the most dangerous because it longed to lash out, but only when you were least able to defend yourself.

  But what could Shane do?

  He was an idiot bully.

  But he was also the Chief of Police.

  The president was going to take a dim view of the Director of the Presidential Protective Division and the Chief of Police brawling in the streets. Mason would have to eat some crow to smooth things over. Probably apologize to Shane. Take him out for a malt that they could share with two straws.

  Bullshit stuff to smooth ruffled feathers.

  Shane spat and then screamed. “I’ll have you locked up for this!”

  “You do that.”

  That was stupid. It was like stepping on a rattle snake. You knew it was going to bite back.

  Goddammit. He hadn’t been himself lately.

  Shane flipped him the bird and stalked away.

  Apparently, his participation in the security survey had come to an end.

  Thank God.

  Mason would’ve preferred to be alone from the beginning. He continued on along the perimeter fence.

  The famous fog of San Francisco blanketed the city. He shivered under the dim disk that was the afternoon sun. Two months in the city had him longing for the sunshine of Southern California.