Thy Kingdom Come (Navitas Post-Apocalyptic Series) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Free Book Offer

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fifteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Letter to Readers

  Free Book Offer

  About the Author

  THY KINGDOM COME

  Daniel Adorno

  Copyright © 2015 Daniel Adorno

  Lost Coin Press

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the author or publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  http://www.danieladorno.com

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  Clayton loathes going to school and being bullied every day by Blaine Jansen, the star athlete at Gladeway High. Most days Clayton wishes he could either be invisible or attractive enough to win the heart of his long-time crush, Maddie. One day while sorting through his deceased grandfather’s belongings, Clayton finds an old wristwatch that might make his wishes come true…

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  To Raymond, for all the imaginary stories we created together.

  One

  The pale streaks of red and orange intensify above the horizon as I watch the sun peek over the hills on Mr. Gray’s farm. It’s the first sunrise I’ve seen in weeks. The cool morning air dissipates as warmth and light wash over me on the moist ground. August has been unseasonably cool this year, even for Minnesota. I soak up the ascending sun for a few moments and clear my head of every disturbing thought. I am at peace for five minutes before the memory of my mother’s lifeless eyes invades my mind.

  A rooster crows in the distance as I reach into my leather backpack and pull out my father’s journal. Before he died, my father wrote an entry in the spiral-bound notebook every morning. The entries were short and easily take up a page. He always began with something he was thankful for and a short prayer afterward. I often wonder if the days he wrote simple things— Emily’s cooking, silence, and Dex’s smile—were days he had nothing else to thank God for. Today is not like that for me.

  With pen in hand, I flip through dozens of entries and find a blank page. Another rooster crow fills the air as I scrawl “sunrise” in the notebook. A short prayer eludes me, but that’s not surprising. My father loved to write praises and prayers for every trivial thing. In the last year since he and my mother died, I can’t think of anything beyond “please help me, God.” So that’s what I write. Then close the notebook and toss it inside my pack.

  A cool breeze sweeps my shaggy hair from my forehead as I walk to the dilapidated barn where Edith, our dairy cow, sleeps. Inside, the drone worker that use to do the milking sits in the corner collecting rust. His name was Del. Edith never cared for him. Like most farm mechs, he was too hurried and distressed the poor cow during milking. I’m glad we do it the old fashioned way now.

  Mr. Gray always milks Edith and rarely lets Mrs. Gray or his son, Zechariah, outside the house. I’ve convinced him to allow me do the chore on occasion, but most times he refuses. I pleaded with him about it last night. He grew tired of my whining and caved. But I have a suspicion that deep down, he lets me do it because he feels sorry for me and knows I’ve been through hell in the past year. But I guess everyone lost loved ones on IlluMonday.

  Few people take in their neighbors’ orphaned kid, but the Grays did. My family and the Grays were always close, so I can understand the obligation they felt to take care of me. But they could have left me to fend for myself since that’s so commonplace now, especially in rural cities like Forest Lake.

  The pungent smell of dung and hay fills the air of the barn. Edith’s head pokes up from behind her stall and she lows when I unhook an empty milk can hanging on the wall. I stroke her head before placing the can beneath her udders. The rhythmic chore of milking the cow is soothing and I lose myself in it. My thoughts linger on my parents for a moment, but then Cassidy Stokes, my best friend from youth group, enters my head. We used to communicate over a CB radio last winter before the world figured out the Mindless were using electricity to track the uninfected.

  Over a year ago, Dronis Biotech released a software update to their brand of popular cyber implants and inadvertently spread a nanotech virus called Navitas. The virus infected anyone with an Illumen implant and turned them into savage drones, capable of killing anyone in their path. Cassidy’s mom had an implant and Navitas deleted any semblance of the woman she once was. Her dad, Garrett, had to shoot his wife with a shotgun to stop her from killing him and infecting Cassidy. My parents’ deaths were tragic, but they don’t compare to what Cassidy and Garrett have been through.

  I miss my conversations with her over the radio. Despite the chaos the Mindless started around the world, Cassidy and I still laughed at stupid jokes we’d share over our own channel. I guess that’s how we coped.

  The sudden creak of the barn door causes me to jump. I rise from the ground and face the entrance. In the doorway stands Mr. Gray, a muscled black man with a focused gaze capable of cutting a diamond. His imposing stature and rugged clothing mask the compassionate person underneath.

  “What’s taking so long, Dex?” Mr. Gray asks.

  My full name is Declan Finnegan, but everyone who knows me and is still alive calls me Dex. Every so often Cassidy annoys me by calling me “Finny”.

  “It’s only been twenty minutes, I haven’t even filled half the can,” I say, gesturing at the milk beneath Edith.

  “It’s been thirty. You were watching the sunrise weren’t you?” Mr. Gray prods. He shuts the door and approaches me, giving me the same stern look he uses on Zechariah when he’s in trouble.

  “It’s been months since I’ve seen it. And I wanted to write—” I stop myself. Mr. Gray doesn’t know about my father’s journal.

  “Write what?” Mr. Gray questions, crossing his arms.

  “Nevermind, I’ll finish milking Edith.”

  “Dex, I consider you to be a son because your family and my family were—”

  “Close. I know,” I say while I turn to face Edith.

  “Right. I’m trying to protect you because that’s what they’d want me to do. So be careful out here. There are Mindless and sparkhounds still roaming outside the Cities.”

  Sparkhounds. Dogs infected by Navitas and used by the Mindless to track survivors. Some genius at Dronis thought it’d be a good idea to offer implants for dogs, allowing owners to connect with their pets and entertain them with canine apps. On IlluMonday, when the Navitas update released for Illumen, dogs became infected too. Now they’re programmed to sniff out electrical currents to find survivors. Their bites are rumored to spread the virus, but I haven’t met anyone who’s survived a sparkhound encounter.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gray. I just needed a moment to myself today. Out of the house for once,” I say.

  Mr. Gray purses his lips and nods. “I understand. Finish up here and I’ll wait for you by the vegetabl
e garden.”

  The door creaks open behind me and I’m alone with Edith again. I love the Gray family and owe them more than I can ever repay. But I hate being locked up in a house with little to do besides surviving. Edith lows as if in agreement and I smile.

  Before I resume milking, the barn door swings open and Mr. Gray steps inside—eyes wide and nostrils flared.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Get in the house now!” Mr. Gray growls. “There are dog tracks outside.”

  Two

  “How did they find us? We haven’t used electricity!” I say, following Mr. Gray to the tool shed behind the barn. “Are you sure it’s not a coyote?”

  Mr. Gray scowls at me. “Coyote tracks don’t have blunt claws or round heel pads. It’s a sparkhound.”

  It was a stupid question to ask, knowing Mr. Gray has hunted bears and wild game before, but my fear defies rational thinking at the moment. Mr. Gray unlocks the tool shed and hurries inside, leaving me alone for a minute with a half-empty milk can in my hands.

  The morning sun is hidden now behind gray clouds riding the wind from the west. I survey the forest surrounding the Grays’ property and feel the skin of my back grow cold. Could a sparkhound be watching me in the shadow of the trees? My eyes squint as I gaze into the stillness, but nothing moves except branches swaying in the breeze.

  Mr. Gray emerges from the shed with a hunting rifle in hand. “Take the milk inside and tell Jessica and Zechariah to go in the basement.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone, Mr. Gray. I can help,” I say.

  “No. There’s only one rifle,” Mr. Gray says. He loads a magazine into the rifle’s breech and slides the bolt in place. “I’m not going to tell you again, Dex.”

  I furrow my brow and sigh, knowing Mr. Gray will not change his mind. Walking back to the house, I hear a low, whirring sound to my right. Six feet from me, a dog with matted fur caked in dried blood stares at me. Grotesque growths that resemble coaxial wires protrude from the animal’s skin. The diseased dog’s eyes emit a bluish glow, the distinguishing mark of a sparkhound. The infected dog lowers its head and makes a whirring sound when its blackened teeth are bared.

  I can’t move or cry out. All I do is stare at the half-alive monstrosity before me, afraid to move a muscle. The dog takes a step and I snap out of it.

  “Mr. Gray!” I yell before sprinting toward the house.

  An electrical howl escapes the creature’s mouth before it pursues me from behind. I try to run fast while holding the milk can tight, but I can feel the sparkhound’s hot breath on my legs, ready to bite. I toss the milk can behind me, but it’s a wasted effort. The sparkhound dodges it and keeps apace behind me, growling in frustration.

  A gunshot cuts the air just then.

  The sparkhound whimper behind me, but I don’t turn to look. I round a corner where Mr. Gray’s hover mower sits and keep closing the distance between myself and the pale yellow house ahead. My sides are burning when I reach the back porch of the house. I pull on the rusted screen door with a quick tug before another shot echoes behind me. Just as I’m about to enter the house, Zechariah pokes his head out of the doorway. He’s a squat fifteen-year old with short-trimmed hair who resembles his father.

  “Who’s shooting out there?” He asks, his round brown cheeks pushed down in a frown.

  “It’s your Dad. Get inside!” I say, shoving him back as I step in the house.

  “What’s he shooting at? Are there Mindless out there?” He asks. “Why aren’t you helping him?” His voice rises with each question.

  “Just shut the door!” I say, but he doesn’t listen. Instead, Zechariah bolts out the door toward the shooting.

  I take off behind him, ignoring the pain shooting from muscles I have neglected for months. Zechariah is shorter and faster than me. He disappears behind the hover mower before I can reach him.

  In front of the tool shed, Mr. Gray stands with his gun trained on the lifeless sparkhound at his feet. It must have doubled back to attack him after that first shot. Mr. Gray’s face is emotionless for a moment, but when Zechariah approaches, his eyebrows collide into each other and his mouth becomes a thin line. “Stay back, Zechariah!” He bellows.

  “Dad, are you okay?” Zechariah asks, still jogging toward the shed.

  “Are you deaf? Don’t move any closer!” Mr. Gray says, jutting his arm in Zechariah’s direction with an open palm.

  I run up to Zechariah’s side and put my hands on his shoulders to keep him from moving any further. He looks like a lost puppy with his sad brown eyes watching his father.

  “You stay back too, Dex.” Mr. Gray orders. He pokes the barrel of his rifle into the sparkhound’s ribs, expecting a response, but it remains motionless. Mr. Gray slings the rifle over his shoulder and searches the surrounding area before turning to face us. His eyes squint as he steps closer. “We need to bury this thing. I don’t want others sniffing it out in the open like this.”

  I’ve never heard of sparkhounds tracking their dead, but I guess it’s possible. They often hunt in packs like wolves, so it’s odd that only one attacked us. The forest near the Gray’s farm is rather large, and it’s possible more of the dogs are nearby.

  “Where do you want to bury it?” I ask.

  “Near the tree line. As far from the house as possible. Get the shovel in the shed and I’ll meet you over there,” Mr. Gray says.

  “Can I help too, Dad?” Zechariah pleads.

  “Absolutely not! You can’t touch that thing, Zechariah,” Mr. Gray says.

  “Why not?”

  “Because of that!” Mr. Gray points at the shiny black oval protruding from Zechariah’s right temple. An Illumen implant. Zechariah’s shoulders slump and he looks down at his feet. He had the implant installed on his fourteenth birthday without Mr. Gray’s permission. Mrs. Gray knew Zechariah wanted one, so she encouraged him to save up and convince his dad to let him buy the implant. But Zechariah didn’t listen.

  I was there when he bought the implant and got it installed at a Dronis store. He needed someone sixteen or older to accompany him, so I did. Mr. Gray lost it when he came home that day. For whatever reason, Zechariah thought he could get away with getting the implant on his birthday, but Mr. Gray hasn’t forgiven or forgotten his foolish decision. After everything that’s happened, I regret helping him get the stupid thing installed. He’s susceptible to Navitas if the implant connects to an online network or any Mindless touch him. Thankfully, the Illumen implants have an offline setting, but I know Mr. Gray gets anxious about Zechariah switching it on by accident.

  “Go inside with your mother,” Mr. Gray commands.

  Zechariah saunters away without a word. When he’s out of ear shot, Mr. Gray turns to me. “I’m going to scout the perimeter of the forest and make sure we’re safe. There’s an old potato sack in the shed Jessica used for gardening. Put the dog in it before you bury it. Try not to touch it if you can.”

  I nod and we both split up—he heads to the foot of the forest while I over to the shed. With shovel and sack in hand, I approach the carcass of the sparkhound. The stench of death is already emanating from the dead dog, but I wonder if that’s just how sparkhounds smell since they all look half-dead. The dog’s eyes are open and no longer glowing. I examine the wire-like protrusions on its body and realize they’re almost identical to the ones on the bodies of the Mindless. A common symptom of Navitas infection? Perhaps. Not much information was released to the public about the virus before the disease spread and affected news outlets. Broadcast stations were easy targets for infected humans looking to devour electricity.

  I crouch next to the dead sparkhound and roll the potato sack inside-out over my right hand to act as a large glove. I unroll the sack over the creature’s legs, body, and head, being careful not to touch anything without the sack over my fingertips. No one knows for sure if Navitas can infect people without implants, but there’s no reason to risk exposure. When the body is bagged up, I cinch i
t closed with some hemp rope attached to the sack. The animal is heavier than I expect. Instead of slinging the bag over my shoulder, I drag it behind me to a spot under a maple tree at the edge of the forest.

  Mr. Gray is nowhere in sight. I imagine he’s searching for more tracks on the southern end of the property, which is difficult to see on this side of the farm. I dig a hole a few feet from the tree’s exposed roots. The summer heat hits me as I pile dirt. I’m reminded of my mother’s funeral. She’s buried on the Gray’s property near a flower garden that Mrs. Gray used to water every day. Driving the spade into the ground and tossing the dirt aside brings to mind Mr. Gray doing the same thing on that sunny afternoon about a year ago. I don’t remember Mrs. Gray’s prayer as Mr. Gray gently placed my mother’s covered body into the ground. She would be happy knowing her burial was on such a beautiful day, next to the bed of lilies and azaleas she loved so much. I wish my father could be buried next to her. We never retrieved his body and I’m not sure there’s any remains left now. Even if there was, I couldn’t bare to see him. My mother’s dead face haunts my memory—I can’t imagine how much the sight of my father’s mangled body would affect me.