Read Online Afterworld (The Orion Rezner Chronicles Book 1) by Michael James Ploof - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael James Ploof
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accepted.
A few miles and a half a pie later, we reached the base. Heading into the complex, I realized just how nervous I was. I guess Old Ben had been right—I hadn’t drank so much solely in the spirit of celebration. But neither was I afraid. After the horrors I saw during the Culling, the old definition of fear no longer applied. I was broken, we all were, but it was seldom spoken of. To think that you are going to die along with the rest of the planet, and then to somehow survive, without rhyme or reason, is terrifying—makes you wonder why in the hell you lived while so many other good people died.
The apple pie threatened to wage a coup as we walked past the gates into the main building. A pair of soldiers stood like statues as we entered, not acknowledging us in the least. I was tempted to make funny faces in front of them, but we didn’t have time.
Inside were similar soldiers, all donning the same insignia, BM—Boston Militia. Many of Boston’s army are ex-military who survived and found their way here. For a few weeks after the Culling, the soldiers still functioned as US military, but when they were attacked by warplanes and tanks with army and air force insignia, we began to realize that our government was no longer on our side—or else didn’t exist anymore. It seemed that the Elites had infiltrated every corner of every crevice of humanity, and they were in full control. Life here in the Afterworld is like living atop a bomb. We never know if they will just nuke us into extinction on a whim.
We made our way into one of the briefing rooms and found ten chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of a projector. Three were vacant. Mushiro was there already, and when he saw me, his eyebrows shot up and then toward the woman on his left.
I assumed she must be Melody Stone, judging by his dorky demeanor, and leaned forward to get a better look just as she turned from talking to someone.
Our eyes met.
Shit !
It was the woman who thought I called her a dude—perfect. She eyed me up and down, expressionless, and then glanced at Dude in the seat next to me. I’d almost forgotten entirely that he was there—it’s creepy how quiet he can be sometimes, like a ninja.
Our eye contact was broken as someone touched my shoulder. “Your ape,” said a guy about six four, and stacked with muscles.
I looked at Dude and then back at the son of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Xena Warrior Princess. “What about him?”
He deadpanned me for a moment and sniffed, as if containing himself. “Mind if I sit?”
“I don’t mind, but Dude might. It’s probably best to ask him.”
Dude perked up and hissed at Meathead.
He leaned closer to me. We had gained the attention of the others in the quiet room. “There is one seat for each of us,” he said, “none for baboons.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to stand, bro.” I smiled, and his nostrils flared threateningly.
“Rezner, quit stirring shit,” said Kronos. He briskly walked into the room to stand before us all.
I realized, to my dismay, that he was the party leader.
Sonofabitch
“Dude, get lights,” said Kronos, flipping on the projector.
The chimp eagerly leapt over the back of the seat, bounded to the wall, and shut them off.
Meathead gave me a contemptuous look and took the seat as a topographic satellite picture of a small lake appeared on the wall.
Dude returned and absently sat on Meathead’s lap, enthralled by the light show. He loves movies, but he gets a little carried away. He once watched the 2025 remake of The Wizard of Oz with me and Mushiro, and decided he was a flying monkey. It took us an hour to talk him down off the roof.
“Crystal Lake, Connecticut, seventy-five miles from Boston,” Kronos began, his thick accent making the place sound epic. “There was mayday signal intercepted night last from area. Could be trap, could be survivors. No way to tell. No matter, we go find out.”
As Kronos droned on in the background,
A few miles and a half a pie later, we reached the base. Heading into the complex, I realized just how nervous I was. I guess Old Ben had been right—I hadn’t drank so much solely in the spirit of celebration. But neither was I afraid. After the horrors I saw during the Culling, the old definition of fear no longer applied. I was broken, we all were, but it was seldom spoken of. To think that you are going to die along with the rest of the planet, and then to somehow survive, without rhyme or reason, is terrifying—makes you wonder why in the hell you lived while so many other good people died.
The apple pie threatened to wage a coup as we walked past the gates into the main building. A pair of soldiers stood like statues as we entered, not acknowledging us in the least. I was tempted to make funny faces in front of them, but we didn’t have time.
Inside were similar soldiers, all donning the same insignia, BM—Boston Militia. Many of Boston’s army are ex-military who survived and found their way here. For a few weeks after the Culling, the soldiers still functioned as US military, but when they were attacked by warplanes and tanks with army and air force insignia, we began to realize that our government was no longer on our side—or else didn’t exist anymore. It seemed that the Elites had infiltrated every corner of every crevice of humanity, and they were in full control. Life here in the Afterworld is like living atop a bomb. We never know if they will just nuke us into extinction on a whim.
We made our way into one of the briefing rooms and found ten chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of a projector. Three were vacant. Mushiro was there already, and when he saw me, his eyebrows shot up and then toward the woman on his left.
I assumed she must be Melody Stone, judging by his dorky demeanor, and leaned forward to get a better look just as she turned from talking to someone.
Our eyes met.
Shit !
It was the woman who thought I called her a dude—perfect. She eyed me up and down, expressionless, and then glanced at Dude in the seat next to me. I’d almost forgotten entirely that he was there—it’s creepy how quiet he can be sometimes, like a ninja.
Our eye contact was broken as someone touched my shoulder. “Your ape,” said a guy about six four, and stacked with muscles.
I looked at Dude and then back at the son of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Xena Warrior Princess. “What about him?”
He deadpanned me for a moment and sniffed, as if containing himself. “Mind if I sit?”
“I don’t mind, but Dude might. It’s probably best to ask him.”
Dude perked up and hissed at Meathead.
He leaned closer to me. We had gained the attention of the others in the quiet room. “There is one seat for each of us,” he said, “none for baboons.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to stand, bro.” I smiled, and his nostrils flared threateningly.
“Rezner, quit stirring shit,” said Kronos. He briskly walked into the room to stand before us all.
I realized, to my dismay, that he was the party leader.
Sonofabitch
“Dude, get lights,” said Kronos, flipping on the projector.
The chimp eagerly leapt over the back of the seat, bounded to the wall, and shut them off.
Meathead gave me a contemptuous look and took the seat as a topographic satellite picture of a small lake appeared on the wall.
Dude returned and absently sat on Meathead’s lap, enthralled by the light show. He loves movies, but he gets a little carried away. He once watched the 2025 remake of The Wizard of Oz with me and Mushiro, and decided he was a flying monkey. It took us an hour to talk him down off the roof.
“Crystal Lake, Connecticut, seventy-five miles from Boston,” Kronos began, his thick accent making the place sound epic. “There was mayday signal intercepted night last from area. Could be trap, could be survivors. No way to tell. No matter, we go find out.”
As Kronos droned on in the background,
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