Catalyst (Book 1): Decay Chains

Catalyst:

Decay Chains

KATE WARS

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual living or dead persons, events or places is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Philip Benjamin.

Copyright © 2016 by Kate Wars

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Staten & Cross Press.

First edition paperback printed April 2016.

ISBN: 978-0-9975055-0-4

ISBN-13: 978-0-9975055-0-4

Praise for catalyst: decay chains

Kate Wars proves her worth with her debut novel, Catalyst. Her characters stay with you long after you’ve reached the final page, and her knack for spine-chilling suspense makes it impossible to wait for the next book of the series.—Ryan Gish

Some say even the darkest souls can still love. This love is unbreakable even with no soul inside, and the threat of another.  —April Lockner

As the world is thrown into chaos, hope is restored with courage, grit and heart. Stormy Theo is not your average zombie warrior!  —Ron Colannino

Your deepest, bloodiest nightmares brought to life with the names changed to protect the newly undead and military defense tactics and gritty humor added for a false sense of comfort against the inevitable Supervirus.—Cindy Leto

This novel is a gift for both the undead and science fiction reader. I truly felt empathy for the heroine, while cheering her and her worthy companions onto their next battle. Looking forward to the sequel.—Michelle Lewis

DEDICATION

For dreamers, whose dreams are darker than reality.

For dreamers, who dream like I do.

And write down their haunting visions when they wake.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank the following people for their support and subject matter expertise. Without them, this book would not exist.

Erica Bargas, Todd Edwards, Michelle Lewis, Cindy and Vic Leto, Pam Aurigema, Ron Colaninno, Molly Spedding, John Blumm, Ricardo de la Cruz, Brian Wahlstedt, April Lockner, Sharon Barger, Vicky Higdon, and Kathy Michalek.

A very special thanks to my best friend and writing partner Jaimie M. Engle, who poured over this manuscript untold times, built me up when my doubts tore me down, showed me what true artistry demands, and assured me that I have what it takes. You have my eternal gratitude.

There are many others who have shared this journey with me and I’m honored by their love, support, and friendship. Many thanks.

CHAPTER ONE

DAYS UNTIL THE SUPERVIRUS GOES GLOBAL: 31:04:00

Stormy flicked the bathroom light on as a show of force. The meager amber ambiance it provided was unnecessary. Even in utter darkness, she could tell that Matt’s state wasn’t improving.

“Enough,” she said. “We’re going to the E.R. Put on pants or show up in your tightie whities.” She needed to convince him that she was serious, but when her voice faltered she lost everything she worked so hard to gain. Her voice held out that time, so she kept going. “Either way works for me.”

Matt cradled his side and spit words through a jaw that refused to part even a centimeter. “I’m fine. Just give me some more aspirin. No water this time. Can’t keep the shit down.”

In four short hours, her boyfriend had deteriorated from, “My stomach kind of hurts” to “I just need to take a shit” to bolting for the bathroom and remaining there until the contents of his stomach expended themselves. She watched him wallow around until their bed was drenched with sweat and his face resembled an autopsy headshot. Her insistence wouldn’t trump his stubbornness, now or ever. By quarter of four, he twisted in agony to the point that she was certain he was going to die or birth an alien any minute.

Stormy bit her lip to quell its trembling and tossed a pair of his jeans onto the bed. Matt didn’t move. This was the first time he had stilled in over an hour. She called his name. No response. He damn well better not die, she wouldn’t tolerate that. There were a handful of people on Earth she would fight the Reaper for and Matt headlined the friggin’ list. Flashes of gravestones and peace lilies devoured her until he cringed in pain again.

She forced his rigid body into her Jeep. Her weapon of choice: her cell phone’s emergency dial button. She listened to him moan the entire way to Reamer Medical Towers and told herself that his increased volume and use of profanity didn’t mean he was getting worse. Sweat drenched and disoriented, Matt hugged her side as they trekked the brick-lined entrance to the emergency room. He kept trying to convince her that it was perfectly normal to turn green and sweat profusely.
Right.

“It’s just bad Chinese, I swear.” Matt puked in the bushes outside the giant glass doors to the E.R.

This was the real thing, like back at the condo. It was easier for Stormy to stomach his vomiting than the sounds of his dry heaves. The heaves made her want to gag or vomit alongside him. Matt puking up water laced with stomach acids didn’t have the same effect. There was more desperation and less mercy in the heaves than the real thing. She suppressed the urge to cough and cleared her throat instead.

He hawked a particularly sticky loogie on an unsuspecting hedge. “I think the Chinese is gone now.”

“Can you walk or do I need to get a wheelchair?”

“Take me home. I hate hospitals. They’re dead zones. People die in them all the—”

A fresh burst of vomit ended Matt’s refusal.

Stormy patted his hunched back once before withdrawing her unsteady fingers. She had worked too hard on her fearless act to lose it five feet away from long fought for medical attention. Her fingers were mere inches from his back when Matt trapped them within his.

“I’m going to get help.”

“Don’t need a paper dress and an audience for food poisoning.” Matt spit on the bush again. “I just need to sleep it off.”

It ended up taking a Reamer staff escort to get him away from that hedge.

Clipboard in hand, Stormy turned away from the reception desk to watch a nurse wheel Matt off. His eyes widened as he searched the waiting area for her. The look within was unmistakable.

“I don’t think it’s the Chinese.” He buckled over and fell out of his wheelchair.

Matt’s appendix burst ten minutes after they arrived. Reamer staff said they were just in time. Stormy wondered what not in time looked like, dropping dead in the back of the parking garage?

Surging adrenaline had been a welcome feeling at the time, but its after effects were kicking her ass. The unknown tortured her until she got the news. The prognosis brought on relief, which her nervous system accepted and relayed immediately. Matt was going to be fine, until she got a hold of him, that is.
Thank God.

Her body’s response to the absence of adrenaline wasn’t graceful. She slogged about the pristine corridors of Reamer Medical Towers pretending she wasn’t the half-crazed woman who had dragged her vomit-covered boyfriend inside hours earlier.

Something about the combination of the early morning hour and the haze left behind by traces of memories, which she now lived to push past, kept her checking each new space for a clock. Like, if this nightmare ended it didn’t have to exist anymore. Like, if she loaded Matt up in the Jeep and sped away from the Business District, she could feign she had never been there. Simply call out of work, go back to bed, and this never happened. But this nightmare wasn’t ending any time soon. Matt had the surgeon to himself for another half-hour, and there would be a recovery period. Perhaps she should have their mail forwarded.

Over her panic now, her jitters were a byproduct of too many cups of coffee. The caffeine helped her make it through the early hours before the sun punched up. Fear of Matt dying had crippled her earlier, but was far off now that the Reamer surgical team was doing their thing.

Her thoughts gravitated to Matt, who now lay in a drug induced slumber five floors above her. Matt, the giant magnet that pulled everything and everyone into his world. Matt, who apparently had a high pain threshold, high enough that he would rather go into shock or let his organs rupture than allow her to drive him to the damn emergency room.

After moving the Jeep out of the drop-off zone, and into the underground parking garage, she ran out of things to do. Once it was a godly hour, she would call Matt’s mother and relay the events. By that time, he might be out of surgery and able to tell her himself.

She tired of the waiting room early on and wandered back down to the first floor for more caffeine. When the empty cafeteria threatened to bore her to sleep, she strolled the first floor. She forget her purse in her mad rush out of the condo. A hoodie would’ve been nice too. If she caught a cold from freezing her ass off in this hospital, Matt was in for it.

Stormy stumbled upon the deserted Outpatient Services lobby on the opposite end of the first floor. Architecture wasn’t her thing, but she knew enough to realize that this extravagant space belonged to a time when the city coffers were still stuffed with money. She admired the copper elevators for a moment before turning to take in the view from the floor-to-ceiling glass entryway.

The east wing of Reamer Towers faced some of the oldest skyscrapers in the city. The stone facades of the buildings across the street drew her into the district’s unfamiliar, but intriguing past life. The buildings took on a bluish hue as morning unfolded stories above their rocky surfaces. Taxis cruised by in rapid succession until a nearby stoplight cut off their passage. The glowing signs strapped to the cabs thrust her back to the present.

Of course, the building that interested her most was out of view. She passed the security guard’s oversized desk on her way to a window that offered what she wanted to see, a menacing winged gargoyle crouched above a weathered waterspout. The blue-haired guard smiled and set his magazine down, revealing a rather large bronze nametag. Etched from corner to corner in a crooked font, the word Martin glinted.

“That one there was the city hall before the bank bought it,” Martin said.

“Really?” Stormy asked.

“Yes, and this one here,” Martin pointed to the building she just admired. “It’s an insurance company now, but before”

Martin never finished his sentence. A male and female obstructed the view. They were Stormy’s age and could almost pass for gothic club goers that hadn’t beat the morning home. But they didn’t pass the litmus test. Not with the grenades strapped to their sides, protruding from gaping all weather jackets. Not with the semi-automatic weapons leaning against their shoulders and the too fast pace at which they approached the entrance.

Martin pushed Stormy under his desk. He tucked his chair in, which forced her farther back and hopefully out of view. She held her breath, but couldn’t control the violent shaking that consumed her whole body.

The sliding doors separated and icy air assaulted her. Martin pressed one of several red buttons on the underside of the desk, right above her head. He pressed the button again and drew his weapon. The second press took and triggered a monotone female voice that incessantly repeated, “Code yellow, code yellow . . . lockdown of all floors initiated . . . code yellow, code yellow.” The cyber monotone accompanied flashing lights that danced along the floor. “Code yellow, code yellow . . . refrain from moving in front of doors and windows . . .  code yellow, code yellow.”

Stormy covered her mouth with both hands in a feeble attempt to hold back a cry that ended up being silent anyhow. Silent until she heard the shots, three to be exact. Her cry became a gasp ended by a choke. She wasn’t sure if one or all of the bullets pierced Martin, but it didn’t really matter. He flew backward. She heard him somersault over the desk, collide with his chair, and tumble into a crumpled mess on the tile. Martin’s arms draped across the rolling chair, which the force of his landing skirted up against the wall. His weapon skidded across the floor in front of him.

Keys jingled. Stormy scanned Martin until she located his set. The ring remained clipped to his belt, untouched. She tried to process this as she heard keys clink into different locks. The second one sounded like it was right above her.

“Shut the damn thing off,” the male gunman said.

“I am,” the female said. “Your key sucks.”

“Reamer’s on a budget. Lowest bidder got the security system contract.”

The alert ran for less than a minute before being shut down. The flashing lights disappeared. Stormy’s brain rambled incoherent orders to run, help Martin, and stay under the damn desk, simultaneously.

A phone rang. Stormy whacked her head against the desk. Her eyes flew to meet Martin’s, but he didn’t look back at her. She scooted until her back ran flush against the far end of the desk. Desperate not to make another sound, she cupped her hands over her mouth and forced herself to breathe through her nose. The second ring cut off midway and was replaced by the male’s calm, but ever-assertive voice.

“No, it was an error,” he said. “Slip of the hand. Sorry, boss.”

Stormy followed his voice as it rounded the desk.
Don’t breathe.

“I just got here, but I have it under control now. Send someone if you want. No, Martin is in the john. I’ll log the incident and make the announcement.”

A pair of boots settled in front of Stormy. They were so close that she could yank on their laces. She grew lightheaded from the lack of oxygen and turned ghost white from her proximity to the murdering son of a bitch.

“Did you kill the cameras?” he asked.

“About a minute ago,” his accomplice said. “The alert call is offline too.”

“Good. Finish locking down. I want all restricted area doors sealed.” Sarcasm flowed out of his voice. “We move after this brief announcement.” He spoke in a patronizing tone, “Attention Reamer staff, patients, and family members. Please excuse and disregard the alert system. It’s under repair. Repeat, there is no cause for alarm. Please do not follow the emergency procedures. Contact security if you have further questions. Thank you for choosing Reamer Medical Towers.”

The intercom beeped as the message ended. The receiver never made it back to its cradle. Instead, the gunman flung it aside. The handset dangled from its curling cord, less than a foot from Stormy’s head. Thick cologne clogged the air and tickled her nose. She held her breath and begged God to delay her sneeze until the gunman departed. The urge intensified. She cringed beneath the desk, terrified of being dragged from it and gunned down on account of an allergy.

Martin convulsed and gurgled on the floor in front of her. He blinked twice in her direction, and then looked away. His shirt was stop sign red. He pressed his hand against his chest and spit out the liquid that pooled inside his mouth. A reddish-pink, bubbly mixture drizzled down his neck and stained the tile beneath his head.

“He wants us out sooner this time,” the female said.

“We’ll do as he asks,” the male said.

“Put your mask on. It will cut down time on the back end. This impact radius is three square miles.”             

“It will be tough. That’s farther than before. Don’t put that on just yet.”

The gun barrel dipped under the desk. Its owner followed close behind. As he crouched, the male’s jacket swept over his boots. He offered no words, just a wicked grin as he aimed the gun at Stormy.
Oh, fuck. Fight or flight?

Flight.

Stormy flattened on the floor and dove through the slice of space to his right side. Her head slammed into the rolling chair. Martin wailed as it careened into his arched neck. Dizzy, but not down for the count, she burst up and made for the hall.

The first shot fired at her was all motivation. Adrenaline took over and carried Stormy away from bullets two, three, and four. Shot three was particularly close. Close enough to obliterate the framed art behind her and make her duck down. Shot four derailed her mission to run screaming down the hall when it almost took her head off. She wasn’t barreling through the harbingers of death to get to the glass doors behind them, so she turned on her heel and raced for the elevators. She wouldn’t make it much farther than that unless they miraculously ran out of ammo, which was not likely to happen.