Ashen Horse Update

[bretf]

I wanted to let anyone who is interested know of my progress on “The Ashen Horse”.

First off, I want to express my gratitude to everyone who followed and commented on the story. I consider all suggestions in going through the re-write process.

Next I have to extend a heart-felt “Thank You” to Tom, Tpals, PBB, and Texican for their thoughtful insights on the project.



I am splitting the story into four parts for publishing. After several revisions, I have published book one. It is titled Chad Smoke and the Ashen Horse. Here are links to it www.amazon.com/dp/1795719974



www.amazon.com/Chad-Smoke-Ashen-Horse-Saga-ebook/dp/B07NCBJ6FQ/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1549625267&sr=8-2&keywords=chad+smoke



In conjunction with publishing, I have asked Tom to remove the story from this site. If any of you who’ve followed and commented wish, I can send a PDF of the original to you through personal email. But be aware, some things have changed in the new version.

Included here is a preview of the book.

If any of you were to purchase the book, I would appreciate it very much if you would post a review at Amazon.



Thank you all for reading.

Bret

[bretf]

Chad Smoke and the Ashen Horse



“And I looked and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. And authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.”

Revelations 6:8 (NASB)



Bret W Friend

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.



Copyright © 2019 by Bret W. Friend



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 and publisher.



Prologue



Sergei Bubka’s head shifted in short jerks from side to side as he peered around the park. Portions of the park were swathed in deep shadows and lights blinked on in nearby buildings. The temperature dropped with the sun, yet despite the late hour and chill in the air, he heard happy squeals as children wrung out the last bit of play time. Bubka couldn’t share in their glee. His apprehension grew with the shadows and threatened to overwhelm him.



As he scrutinized his surroundings, he saw neither the man he was to meet nor those he dreaded he’d see. Those would take him away and erase his very existence if they suspected the reason for his presence. If they were watching, he wasn’t certain he’d recognize them if he saw them.



He shuddered, and not from the dropping temperature, though the cold had settled deep into him. His hand trembled as he raised the cigarette and inhaled deeply. It’s a puzzle, he thought. How can I feel so cold, the icy fingers gripping my stomach, yet perspire like I am? His forehead and neck beaded with sweat and his cigarette was damp from contact. He wiped one sweaty palm on a pant leg and raised the other; the cigarette moved like an orchestra conductor’s baton. It was a relief when it reached his mouth, and he inhaled deeply.



Bubka shuddered as he exhaled, and he turned his head about and peered through the veil of smoke. What is out there, no, who is out there? he asked himself. Do they hide and watch me? Do they feel the cold as I do? It was another part of the puzzle. Why does the outside cold affect me so? he wondered. After all, he worked in a frigid environment.



The lab was cold, although he never noticed while he worked. It was cold by necessity, the temperature like everything in the lab, controlled. He shuddered to think what would happen if anything it confined it breached that control. If loosed outside, death would rage unrestrained like the bitter winds from the north, unstoppable. It would find its way past doors and windows and through the tiniest cracks to reach out and touch everyone, everywhere. That storm would be more devastating than anything the world had ever seen. The line of thought chilled him even more. He shuddered and longed to leave the park and find warmth.



He took a long drag on the cigarette and considered. Warmth. Would it really be warm where he was going? Supposedly, it was hot and dry much of the time, and he longed for it; for the heat, for sandy beaches lapped by warm waves, and the sun shining brightly. If it all actually existed. Magazines and television programs showed such places, but he found it hard to wrap his mind around since he’d never experienced it. All he knew was cold, and it made those other places mysterious. But he longed to solve the mystery, like the mysteries he solved in the lab. Yet like happened with those, anything could go wrong with the new mystery. It could all blow up in his face and leave him dead. He tried to dismiss the thought and focus on the present as he looked around.



He scanned the park again and tried not to stare as he studied each person. Several people were scattered about. Apparently, they weren’t bothered by the temperature. They seemed to relish it, or at least ignore it while they enjoyed a few more minutes outdoors. None shared his tension, the oppressive weight pulling his shoulders down. Were any of them watching him as well? What about the man who’d looked at his feet? Why had he averted his gaze? Bubka scrutinized the man and took another drag.



He looked away from the man but continued to observe him through his peripheral vision. Shadows partially cloaked the man and Bubka realized he could no longer see into the darkened areas. Anything – or ANYONE – could be concealed in the gloom. He returned his full attention to the man. Had he been watching, and what would happen when the darkness engulfed him?



Before shadows further obscured him, the man shot Bubka a direct look, turned, and ambled away. Bubka watched his back until he was indistinguishable. The man had the look of a government agent, but he must not be one.



Sighing heavily, he raised his bottle and took a long swig of vodka, staring at the place where the man had disappeared. He savored the burn as he swallowed. It made him think of warmth again, and he dismissed the man from his mind.



He looked around for the other man, the one he was to meet. Maybe he’s not going to show, he thought. He drew deep on the cigarette, dropped and crushed it. “Maybe . . . too many maybes,” he muttered.



Much could still go wrong with the unbelievable opportunity. After all, it could’ve been arranged merely to test him. It wasn’t above his superiors to create the entire affair to see if he would sell his soul and his country’s secrets. And if he took the bait, send him to spend the rest of his life in a concentration camp in Siberia. If that happened he’d really be cold, and would never know warmth again. Perhaps execution would be preferable to such an existence. He looked again where the man had disappeared and shuddered.



He took another drink, but the vodka failed to give him comfort and warmth. He tipped the bottle again, drank, and yearned for the usual sensations. Instead, the only burn was his irritated throat from chain smoking while he waited. It didn’t stop him from shaking out another cigarette and putting it to his mouth. His lighter danced around and missed the tip several times before he controlled his hands enough to light it. He drew deep and expelled the smoke in a cloud. Peering through the haze, he searched for watchers. None were visible, but he felt unseen eyes bore into him. He looked through the smoke cloud of another deep drag and exhalation and wished it would conceal him, as the shadows concealed all in their path as they crept along.



“How did they find me anyway?” he muttered. “My research is a state secret.” Despite the tension he felt, the absurd idea caused him to chuckle. “Yes, a secret, like the American research is a secret.” It was such a joke. He knew despite heavy security, there were few secrets in his business. And it would always be that way, as long as people were people, and willing to buy and sell “secrets”. The Americans undoubtedly knew as much about his research as he knew about theirs. They should hold get-togethers and have biological weapon conventions for the ease the research information could be purchased. Perhaps they could hold the conventions in Las Vegas in the United States. He’d read it was the convention capital, very warm, and a place where fortunes changed hands. It would be perfect. A smile cracked his somber face and vanished as fast as it’d come. No, there wouldn’t be a convention. There were no secrets, but there’d be no conventions.



For despite the absence of conventions, the information changed hands with ease. It didn’t matter if the governments’ ideology differed; greed was the universal ideology. As long as money existed, information could be obtained. It continued unabated, research for deadlier pathogens and the purchase of the information years after both countries signed the treaty the naïve populous thought terminated the programs.



He chuckled again and drew another lungful of smoke, followed by a long swallow of vodka. Actually, the treaty specified something totally different, but the officials had spun and presented it that the programs would be discontinued. And the gullible public ate it up like they ate up so much misinformation and propaganda. In reality, the treaty stated neither country would strike first, not with those weapons. But if they were attacked first? What choice would they have, but respond with every available means at their disposal? So riding the euphoric wave of the media blitz, the facilities had closed, only to be replaced by new, state of the art research laboratories. The happy citizens slept better at night, believing one more threat to their safety had been eliminated. In the meantime, the research and development of more lethal killers had gone on.



The team Bubka worked with had discontinued their research, but only until the new facility was operational. The new secret lab; he’d bet the Americans knew of it before he did. And if they knew it existed, who else did? Obviously, others knew as well, or he wouldn’t be in a park at dusk, lured by the universal ideology; greed.



The thought of the money distracted him. He found it hard to envision such a large sum, the rubles to dollar exchange only the first confusing part. The next part bewildering him was the amount. It dwarfed what he could ever earn in Russia; he’d need ten lifetimes to earn as much and was difficult to put into context. So much money and it would only require a few months’ work. Afterward, he’d be free to do his best to spend it.



He slipped into the daydream, a version of the one he’d had countless times since first discussing the payoff. Along with a house on the beach, he wanted a car. Not just any car, but a fast sports car. The Americans were proud of their Corvettes, and the Germans their Porsches, but a Ferrari would be first. Maybe he’d get the others later. He’d drive the Ferrari to parties with other rich people and meet the Kardashians, or better yet, Paris Hilton. People thought of Paris Hilton as a tramp, but he wouldn’t make judgments, not until he met her and could form his own opinion. Smiling, he hoped she proved to be a tramp when he met her.



The smile vanished in an instant as a car backfired; he jumped and his breath came in ragged gulps, the daydream gone. He looked into the gloom, his pleasant thoughts replaced by dread.



He tipped the bottle up, followed the drink with a lung-full of smoke, and recalled a quote he’d read in a memoir years earlier. It’d stuck with him and felt more foreboding than ever. The American Ben Franklin said it more than two hundred years earlier, but it was timeless. “Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.” Other people knew of Bubka’s secrets and wanted him to share them. The thought filled him with more dread, and he looked around and took a pull from the bottle.



He should get up and go home. That would be the safe thing to do. Get out of the madness before it was too late. But he couldn’t; he’d gone too far. He felt the lumps in his jacket pocket. He’d gotten them out of the lab and it would be impossible to return them before they were found missing.



They were such small canisters, but Bubka felt their tremendous weight, their latent power pulling his shoulders down. To look at them, they appeared insignificant and weighed little, but inside they contained the potential to shake the foundation of the world itself. His shoulders sagged under the weight.



He’d convinced himself the virus would never be unleashed on the unknowing world and the entire exercise was a ruse for monetary gain only, a game of high stakes extortion. After all, others had seized like opportunities and none of the pathogens had been released. Still, he asked himself again if he wanted to play the game or if he should get up and go home. The weight in his pocket told him he couldn’t turn back.



He glanced at his magazine with Paris Hilton’s picture on the cover. He shuddered and took a long pull from the bottle, followed by a drag on the cigarette. If he did turn back, the dream would die, and he would too. It would be impossible to avoid the authorities and keep them from holding him.



He gave a wry snort. The authorities! No matter how the face of the country appeared to the world, the authorities did what they wanted, when they wanted. They always had and always would. If they watched, it was much too late for him. Maybe it’d been too late when he read the first note, the one which started him on the path to where he was. The small canisters in his pocket felt heavier than ever.



The chill deepened over Bubka and the icy fingers constricted tighter. He took another drink and yearned for the heat. Instead of warmth, it felt like ice, and the ice flowed outward until he shuddered in its grip. He drew deep on the cigarette, ground it out, and reached for the magazine. His hand froze, one finger across Paris Hilton’s smiling face when a figure materialized out of the gloom and sat on the bench he occupied.



Bubka no longer heard children’s happy squeals. His heart hammered in his chest as he attempted to fumble another cigarette from the pack with trembling hands. The cigarette fell to the ground. He stared at it momentarily before he picked it up and managed to place it between his lips. His hand quivered and he was unable to light it. The man beside him held his own lighter to the cigarette, its flame steady and controlled. The blast of light near his eyes left Bubka looking blindly into the gloom. Did the authorities watch him; watch the two of them together?



He asked himself again if it was what he wanted or if he should get up and leave. He hadn’t done anything yet. All he’d done was go to the park. The weight in his pocket pulled on him and pointed out his lie. He took another, longer drink from the bottle and failed to see the look of disapproval on the man’s olive-skinned face.



The man spread his newspaper in front of him although the print was indiscernible in the gloom. “So you have decided to become a wealthy man,” he said, his accent making it obvious Russian wasn’t his native tongue. “You have it with you?”



Bubka couldn’t guess the origin of the accent. He had little exposure to foreigners. To him, there were Russians and non-Russians; that was all.



“Well,” the man demanded. “Will you answer? You do have it, don’t you? Everything you need to become enriched beyond your wildest dreams?”



An interminable wait ensued for Bubka while a corner of his mind screamed at him to run away as fast as he could. In reality, mere seconds passed before he swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced at the man. Despite the gloom, Bubka made out his facial features. The man’s hooked nose, deep-set eyes, and intense stare resembled the fierce look of a raptor before it ripped into the flesh of its prey. The look was enhanced by the deep shadows and Bubka swallowed hard again and asked himself if he was prey.



Looking away from the disconcerting stare, Bubka answered, “Yes, I have it. I am ready.” His words were raspy, his throat irritated by near-constant smoke and strong liquor. He followed the statement with another drink.



The eyes glowed with intensity. “Then we should go.” He rose and looked at Bubka, waiting for him to move.



Bubka got slowly to his feet and the jacket pulled his shoulders down. How can such tiny canisters be so heavy? he asked himself. All thoughts of escape were gone. He looked into the gloom, searching. “I . . . is . . . is it safe?” he stammered softly.



“My associates are watching. We made certain you were not observed before I approached you.”



Bubka considered. So he had been under observation and missed it. Who else watched? He remembered the man he’d suspected watched him. The man had the definite look of a government agent. Was he? If so, why hadn’t he been arrested?



It no longer mattered. Bubka raised the bottle one last time and drained the remaining liquid in one long swallow. Again, he missed the warmth, the comfort. He dropped the bottle on the ground amongst the ground out cigarettes.



Bubka followed the other man into the darkness. He moved like a condemned man and dragged his feet in short steps as if he walked to the gallows. And maybe that is where I am going, he thought.



The man ahead of him moved in marked contrast. His crisp steps, demanding glares, and intense manner conveyed impatience as he waited for Bubka.



A car waited at the side of the park and the driver opened the rear door for Bubka. He looked into the dark interior before he turned back and looked at the park and the city’s skyline. He slumped as he settled onto the car’s seat. The closing door caused him to jump and the sound echoed in his mind. He found the handle, pulled, and discovered the door locked. The icy fingers squeezed his stomach tighter than ever and he shuddered. Oh Bubka, what have you done? he asked himself.



The hawk-faced man joined him in the back seat from the opposite side and spoke to the driver in a foreign language. Bubka had no idea what’d been said, but the engine started and the car pulled onto the street and drove away from the park. He looked out the window at the lights of the city and asked himself again what he was doing.



Sergei Bubka gave a wry chuckle as the lights faded. So who will know I am gone first, the Americans or my own people? he asked himself. After all, there are no secrets. If he was a betting man, he wasn’t sure which he’d put his money on. I wager one will know within minutes of the other. He stared out the window sightlessly and mused. I hope it is warm there, and they have vodka, lots of vodka.



#



Abdul Mueed lay motionless and studied Bagram Airfield, sprawled across the desert floor below him. He used extreme care as the discovery of his presence would be a death sentence. His clothing blended with the terrain and his binoculars were shielded to prevent reflection.



Planes and trucks assembled by the infidel forces occupying Afghanistan appeared as children’s toys through the powerful optics. Heat waves shimmered from the barren landscape, distorting the view, but he made out individual infidels. They were tiny in the distance; like ants as they bustled about. They were more insect-like as they scurried for cover when another of the faithful delivered a rocket into their midst. Mueed remained motionless and watched the initial, rapid response. The infidel’s unmanned drones were in the air in moments and fired their own rockets into the hills.



Mueed inched backward, knowing he had to get away while he could. From past observation, he knew the drones would expand the area they covered, searching for more true believers. Once he was hidden from view in the direction of the airfield, he stood and jogged towards a small rise, his AK-47 bouncing against his back with each footfall. As he ran, he remained mindful of the sky and its silent assassins. They could swoop in and deliver death in an instant.



Before any drones drew near, he saw what he looked for and dropped flat on the ground and wriggled past a clump of camel-thorn bushes into a small opening in the hillside. Dirt crumbled from the narrow entrance as he forced his way past. Once inside, the refuge opened up enough to fit two men, although it would’ve been tight. Mueed was content to have the shelter to himself. It allowed him to avoid the edges where scorpions and spiders tended to lurk. The drones’ thermal sensors would never locate him underground.



Besides removing him from the enemy’s eyes, the tiny cavity offered relief from the relentless heat. As he waited in relative comfort for the sky to clear, he recounted what he’d learned. After numerous days of observation, he’d devised a plan for his final act. The infidels were predictable, and he planned to use it against them.



The bus from Kabul ran on a precise schedule. Coupled with a depression between the road and the tall fence surrounding the base, it was all he needed to send many of the infidels to meet the devil, while he would go on to bow before Allah. They made it too easy.



He trembled with anticipation. The bus would be full, loaded mostly with the invaders, any remaining seats filled with pretenders. They claimed to follow the faith, but did not, not the true faith. Bin Laden’s fatwa was to be heralded; it was time to remove all the unfaithful and the American dogs they worshipped.



A low growl came from his throat as he pictured the women who’d be on the bus. The harlots showed no shame and revealed themselves to any man. His one regret was he wouldn’t be able to look into their condemned eyes at the moment before the bomb detonated; in the precise moment of realization, they were going to die and go to an afterlife of fire.



He recalled a time when he had looked into the condemned eyes; the incident permanently etched into his mind. The harlot had come to him, seduced him, and overwhelmed his senses with her witchery. Consumed by desire, he reached to drop his pants to satisfy his animal lust, and his hand brushed the handle of his knife.



Recognition flared in his brain as it burst free of her spell; she was a test, and Allah had placed her with him for a purpose. The knife slid free, and he stared into her eyes as he pushed the sharp blade in to the hilt and cut upwards. He watched her eyes as they turned to terror. Realization she would atone for her sins flashed in them.



He glared into them as they became lifeless and her blood drained out over his hand. Her hot blood and those eyes mere centimeters from his own sent electric jolts to his clear mind. He was overcome and cried out as he experienced ecstasy.



Mueed lay in the small underground refuge and relived the ecstasy. He shuddered with deep physical pleasure at the memory and felt the hot blood and looked into those eyes.



#



Mueed’s head emerged from the hole, and he searched carefully for threats. No planes or drones could be seen, nor did he detect any other movement in the gray-brown landscape as he wormed his way free and past the bushes.



He took a meandering route as he made his way further back into the hills. At several points, he stopped, waited and watched, but saw no signs he’d been discovered and followed. The path behind him remained as clear as the path before him as he approached the valley where the faithful met. He sat concealed for several minutes and studied the area before he proceeded into the encampment.



Mueed ducked into the hut and stopped. A stranger looked at him from across the meager room. “You are Abdul Mueed? I am told you are ready to martyr yourself and kill a small handful of the unbelievers. What if I told you I have an opportunity for you to kill many more?” the man asked without greeting.



Mueed did not speak as he studied the stranger, but noted the cup of kahwah he held. The saffron fragrance of the beverage hung heavily in the small space. Who is this man to be honored in such a way? Mueed wondered. Out loud he said, “A small handful? I have killed many infidels, and tomorrow I will kill many more.”



A small smile turned up the corners of the man’s mouth. “You kill small numbers. Would you broaden your sights to kill thousands at once? Tens of thousands? Perhaps more,” the stranger said. He raised the kahwah to his nose and drew in the strong aroma in a silent reminder to Mueed of his standing. With a satisfied sigh, he sipped. His intense gaze never left Mueed. His hand lowered and he said, “Ayman al-Zawahiri has the means to deliver a crippling blow in their homeland and drive the infidels from our lands forever. It may even be a fatal blow. But he needs men, warriors, to carry it out. Will you help deliver that blow and stand in glory as a dedicated warrior before Almighty Allah? Or will you die here, killing a small handful and allow others to achieve the glory?” He held the cup up and inhaled deeply, and sipped again while he watched Mueed.



Ayman al-Zawahiri? The Americans thought by killing bin Laden the movement would die like a snake with its head chopped off. But they were mistaken. Al-Zawahiri had kept the faithful together, and led them in the holy fight against the infidels. Could it be true? Could al-Zawahiri have the means to bring down the Great Satan? Mueed trembled with eagerness. His eyes had a feverish gleam. “Tell me more,” he said and pictured how glorious the world would be after the infidels burned.



#



The cave was devoid of light as Abdul Mueed and the other fighters were led down the sloping rock floor. With his hand on the shoulder of the man before him and a hand on his shoulder from behind, he had no idea how the guide found his way, but the man led with confident, practiced steps. Mueed knew in truth, Almighty Allah guided the way, and he followed with blind faith into the unknown darkness.



A light appeared ahead of them and the group entered a large cavern that’d been hewn from the stone. Scores of fighters, over a hundred, sat on the cave’s bare floor. At the head of the cavern, Ayman al-Zawahiri looked out at the gathered men. Another man, reminding Mueed of a falcon with his hooked nose and intense raptor-like stare, sat beside the great man. Mueed settled with the rest of the newcomers and accepted the tea offered him. It pleased him to see the woman properly covered and respectful as she did so.



More fighters took seats while he sipped his tea, and still more. The cup was empty when another group of men joined the assemblage and a man spoke to al-Zawahiri. Mueed guessed it brought the total number gathered to around two hundred. It would certainly be a major blow to the infidels for so many to strike at once. He focused on al-Zawahiri as the great man stood to address the assemblage.



“We are here to begin a new Jihad against the Great Satan; a Jihad they will be powerless to stop, a Jihad that will destroy them! You true warriors of the faith will fight this battle on the enemy’s own ground! Once the Jihad is underway, the Zionists will fall, along with all the heretics who welcomed the imperialists onto our soil!



“WE are the true children of Islam, our Lord the Prophet Muhammad is one, and WE, the true believers, are brothers! WE shall bring in the true Muslim world, free of the puppet masters and their followers who corrupt our people! WE shall purify the entire world under Sharia Law. This is in accordance with the words of Almighty Allah! There will be no more tumult or oppression, and JUSTICE AND FAITH IN ALLAH SHALL PREVAIL!



“OUR BROTHER,” al-Zawahiri indicated the falcon man beside him, “HAS BEGUN THE ACTION THAT WILL DESTROY THE GREAT SATAN. IT WILL BE MORE DEADLY AND SILENT THAN THE KILLERS THEY PUT IN THE SKY! YOU WILL ALL BE PART OF THIS GLORIOUS UNDERTAKING! TOGETHER WE SHALL WREAK RUIN AND DESTRUCTION IN THEIR HOMES, AS THEY RUIN AND DESTROY OUR HOMES!” He lowered his voice and hissed, “But to do so, you will have to humble yourselves, and do the unthinkable! You will learn to be like the enemy, to look at them and smile as the heretics do.” He raised his voice again, increasing his volume as he talked. “YOU MUST LEARN TO THINK AND ACT AS THEM BEFORE YOU GO TO THEIR HOMELAND AND TAKE THE LIFE FROM THEM! THEN YOU SHALL STAND BEFORE ALMIGHTY ALLAH IN FULL GLORY!”



His listeners were captivated, and the cave erupted in a deafening roar when they realized he had finished. Abdul Mueed jumped up with the other men, shouting. “ALL GLORY TO ALMIGHTY ALLAH!” The roar reverberated through the tight confines of the cave.



#



Abdul Mueed stared out through the small window at the city of Dubai as the airplane made its final approach. He and the rest of the fighters had been transported to Islamabad and boarded planes bound for Dubai where they would scatter. The city’s penchant for tourism and catering to the infidels made it perfect for the next stage of the plan to destroy the Great Satan. They’d left Afghanistan and Pakistan with their towering mountains behind, and the view of the city shocked him. Man-made structures created the skyline. The skyscrapers loomed, most notable the needle-like tower of the Burj Khalifa standing high above the rest. It seemed like a mockery of the real world to Mueed. He yearned for a future when such extravagance was razed and forgotten. The leaders of Dubai were no more than prostitutes to the Americans and their lackeys.



Mueed pulled the paper from his pocket and looked at it again. “The One&Only Royal Mirage” was printed in large typeface on the brochure. He swallowed down bile as he thought of the degradation, the humility he would have to endure. He prayed al-Zawahiri was correct, and he’d be forgiven for what he would do. Forgiven for going amongst the dogs themselves where he would lower himself to the heretic’s level, smile and nod the whole time. But he would learn and do all he could to be ready for the final act, to take death into the Americans’ homes.



And he would be able to look in their eyes as was their custom, their condemned eyes. It was written: "Tell the believing men to lower their gaze and be modest", but he would not lower his gaze. He would look in their lost eyes as he delivered their death to them. He only regretted they would not recognize him as the bringer of death, and he would not see their eyes turn to terror.



He saw the woman’s eyes again and quivered in pleasure at the memory. “Almighty Allah, you have tested me before and delivered me. I shall NOT fail this test. We will scour the earth and rid it of the unfaithful,” he murmured, as he shook the vision of the eyes from his mind and looked at the decadent brochure.

[bretf]

Chapter 1



“Alright guys, time to put your books away and do the chores,” Lisa Smoke told her three children.



Chad, her thirteen-year-old son grumbled, “It’s about time.” He slammed his book closed the instant his mom spoke.



She raised an eyebrow at him and asked, “Were you reading or just watching the clock?”



He ignored the question. “I don’t know why I have to read this Dickens stuff anyway. It’s boring and it’s not like I’m learning anything from it.” He didn’t notice the look she shot him or chose to ignore it too. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” he quoted. “What kind of beginning is that? And it only gets worse from there.”



He had no way to know how prophetic the line was; he was in the best of times, and very soon would go through the worst of times. His innocence crushed, he would be called upon in ways his family couldn’t imagine as they fought for survival in a changed world.



“Why can’t I read what they’re reading?” he asked and indicated his seven-year-old twin sisters, Alison and Brooke. Unlike Chad, they were still engrossed in their assigned book, each with a copy of Where the Red Fern Grows open in front of them.



Chad was usually the easiest of the three children. He always helped out and did what he was told. He used good manners and was a model child. At times his mom wondered if something was wrong with him. No kid could be that good, could they?



But the book he was assigned to read stirred defiance in him. It wasn’t reading per se that caused it. He loved to read, but only certain genres, and had no interest whatsoever in the classics. As far as he was concerned, they were a big waste of time. Unfortunately for him, he needed to expand, at least for school work.



His mom didn’t have a chance to respond before he spoke again. “Well?” Chad asked, and pointed at his sisters. “Why can’t I read a good book, like they are?” Lisa looked from her son to her daughters, their heads bent over their books.



While Chad was so good, the girls were a different story. They could be a challenge at times and kept their parents on their toes trying to stay one step ahead of them. They weren’t bad, just impish. At the moment, they appeared to be engaged in their books but paid close attention to Chad and their mom. They missed little, and mentally filed and stored information to use to their advantage at a later time.



The twins were identical, perfectly matched bookends to everyone but Chad and their parents. They loved it and played it up as much as they could. Nothing pleased them more than to mess with peoples’ minds when they tried to figure out which was which. Another thing they loved to do was practice speaking as if they shared the same thoughts. People looked at them in eerie fascination when they did a tag-team delivery. One would say two or three words, and then the other say a few more, and back and forth that way to express one complete thought. Their listeners looked on astounded and had no idea they’d practiced their lines over and over.



“Chad, you read that book, what, four years ago?” his mom answered. “And now, to expand your experiences, you need to read different styles of literature.”



“Yeah, but it’s a good book, and worth reading again,” Chad said. “But come on Mom, A Tale of Two Cities? Get real. Why can’t I read a book by Gary Paulsen or Jim Kjelgaard instead? Their books are good.”



“I know you enjoy them, but you need to branch out. I’ve explained it to you before,” Lisa said. The three kids were homeschooled and Lisa did her best to adhere to the program. The book was included in the curriculum she taught from and she refused to budge on the issue. “And believe me, there are worse things to read.”



“I don’t see how anything could be worse. But if I have to branch out, I can read The Hunger Games series. I’ve heard those books are good. And you know, Kjelgaard’s stories vary. They aren’t all about a boy and his dog and hunting,” Chad said. “One book of his has a cat instead of a dog.”



Brooke looked up from her book at Chad’s comment and asked, “When can we get another dog, Mom?”



Their last dog, Bullet, had been hit by a car three months earlier when a group of teens sped down the rural road at the wrong moment. Their mom sighed and said, “We can look for a dog this spring, but now it’s time to do the chores.”



“Mom, can I read to the end of the chapter?” Alison asked. “Billy just got his puppies and is training them.”



“Alright, but no further,” Lisa said. “Your dad will be home from work soon. I have to get supper started, and you guys need to have all the chores done when he gets here so we can sit down and eat.”



The family lived on a small farmstead with cows and chickens, a pasture and hayfield, and an extensive garden which included a number of fruit trees. The cows needed taken care of twice a day during winter, and the chickens were seen to each evening. Their dad took care of the cows in the morning before work, but in the evening, the outside chores were the kids’ responsibility. They also needed to bring in firewood, used to heat the house. Chad would milk and feed the cows hay. The girls would do the chicken chores and fill the wood box.



Chad certainly didn’t want to read to the end of the chapter any more than he’d wanted to read any of the tedious story. Though he loved the right books, he’d rather milk the cow than waste more time on that book. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, indeed! he thought. Reading that book was the worst time he could imagine. “I’d still rather read about anything else,” he grumbled and put the book away.



“You can read those other books for pleasure, not for school,” his mom told him.



Chad stifled his retort and got ready to go outside. When he’d bundled up for the cold and had warm wash water in the milk bucket, he stepped out the back door. The bitter air assaulted him and he lowered his head and trudged toward the barn, muttering. Even the cold was preferable to that lousy book. As he neared the barn, the back door to the house closed behind his sisters. They must’ve been near the end of their chapter or changed their minds. He shrugged and entered the barn with the cow right behind him. She was eager for the grain she’d eat while he milked.



Still grumbling about Charles Dickens and “the worst of times”, Chad put grain in the feed box and locked the cow’s head in the stanchion. He transferred the water to the wash bucket, cleaned the cow’s udder and teats, and settled in beside her to milk. While he milked, he forgot the arduous book and considered different dogs. When they got another dog, he wanted it to be a bird dog he could hunt with. His mind drifted and he day-dreamed about hunting and fishing while his hands squeezed and relaxed and he filled the bucket with fresh foamy milk.



Chad was filling the feeder with hay when his dad, Dan, drove up and parked his old pickup under the carport. Chad paused and watched him get out and walk to the house. His dad’s posture and lethargic movements made it obvious he was worn-out. The winter dragged him down. He got up early and took care of the cows in the dark and then spent the long day at work. It was physical work, building trailers in a cold, noisy, and stinky shop. He only got out in the light of day on weekends.



Maybe, Chad thought, I can get up in the mornings and feed the cows while dad milks. It would help his dad out a bit, and he might not be quite as tired at the end of the day. He made a mental note to ask his mom to wake him earlier.



He went back to the barn and got the bucket of milk, carried it to the house and took care of it, cleaned his bucket and straining cloth, and put everything away. When he was finished, his mom had the table ready for them to sit down for supper. As they ate, they shared stories of their day. Chad noticed his dad seemed down to hear what the family did and he’d missed out on while he worked. It struck him again that his dad looked especially tired. He made a silent vow to do more to help him.



After they’d cleaned up from the meal Chad wanted to read, and not the book his mom forced on him. He needed a good story to clear his mind after that torture. Brian’s Hunt was the final book in the Hatchet series from Gary Paulsen. Now THAT was a good book. It had hunting and outdoor adventures. It was real literature, worth his time.



The rest of the family followed Chad’s lead and got reading material as well. Dan looked through a stack of garden seed catalogs that’d arrived in the mail. Although he produced most of his own seeds in their large garden, he kept a lookout for new vegetables to try. Lisa settled in with the latest Lorna Landvik book. And although it was a school book, the girls continued with Where the Red Fern Grows. The book didn’t seem like school work to them. Chad read until his mom told him to put the book away and head to bed.



#



“Chad, Chad honey, it’s time to get up,” his mom said from his bedroom doorway. She paused for a few moments and watched him stir and rise to a sitting position.



Chad missed the maternal pride in her eyes as he rubbed his own eyes. “Yeah Mom, I’m up,” he muttered. With a smile, his mom went back to the kitchen.



Chad shuffled into the kitchen and held a hand over his wide, yawning mouth. Rather than his baggy pajamas, he was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, ready to put his coat and boots on and go outside. He was lean and wiry, with the top of his head even with his mom’s nose. His tousled brown hair could stand to be trimmed. His face, though soft and youthful, was a younger version of his father’s, but lacked Dan’s lines and roughened features which confirmed his age. Lisa couldn’t help but smile at him, with his hair sticking out every which way. “Good morning . . . Mom,” he said, and stifled another yawn. “Dad’s still outside?” he asked.



She paused to exchange a hug with him. “Good morning honey. Yes, he’s still outside, you can help him if you hurry. Did you sleep well?”



“Yeah, just not long enough. Someone woke me before I was ready to get up,” he said. It was the same thing he’d said the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that . . . He punctuated the statement with another yawn. “But I guess I better get a move on, so I can feed the cows before Dad does.” He got his coat, hat, and boots on, and went outside, pulling his gloves on as he went.



#



Alison was setting the table for breakfast as the back door opened and Dan and Chad walked in, accompanied by a blast of freezing air. “Brrr, it’s a cold one this morning,” Dan said, shivering before he set the bucket of milk onto the counter. After he removed his gloves, he stuffed them into the pockets of his canvas chore coat and hung it on an empty coat hook. Bits of hay clung to his coat, and a few dropped onto the floor when he took it off. It was a part of life on the small farmstead, and Lisa spent a lot of time in the effort to keep the house clean. Bits of snow fell from their boots despite stomping their feet on the doormat. When it was warmer, it was a different story; it wasn’t only snow that clung to boots when they returned from the barnyard.



“Good morning Dad,” Alison said, as she set out the plates and silverware.



“Morning Ali,” Dan said and gave another shudder from the cold that’d settled deep inside him while he was outside. With the aid of the boot jack, he took off his snow boots and put them on the shelf under the coats. He picked up his work boots and carried them to the chair closest to the wood stove, making a detour on the way to give Alison a one-armed hug. Lisa set a steaming cup of coffee on the end table beside him so he could warm his insides while the radiant heat from the stove warmed his outside. Chad put his coat and boots away and went to the sink to take care of the milk.



“Go get your sister, Ali,” Lisa said when she noticed Alison had finished with the table and was standing by the stove. Brooke hadn’t come out of their bedroom yet.



Alison obeyed, but muttered, “Alright, but she has to clean up after we eat since I set the table.”



Both girls returned and everyone took their seats. When they were settled, Dan asked the blessing, and they filled their plates. Chad took a bite, chewed and swallowed. With his mouth empty he asked, “So you’re sure we can’t go and try to find him this weekend, but we’ll go next weekend?”



Dan stiffened, sighed, and said, “Yes, I’m sure. . . I guess . . . I don’t think we should go tomorrow, not with the Super Bowl the next day. The game is like a national holiday for a lot of people. We don’t know if he’ll be around, and it might be best not to disturb him if he is. I think we’ll have a better chance to find him next week.”



Silence enveloped the table while they ate their breakfast, the short conversation hanging in the air. Chad had referred to Mateo Gomez, his half-brother, a man none of them had ever met, not even Dan. Despite their plan to find and meet him, it made Dan uncomfortable to discuss Mateo, a total stranger who happened to be his illegitimate son. But for better or for worse, they were going to try to locate him.



It’d been a humbling experience for him to tell his kids of his indiscretion as a teenager, but when they were old enough, he thought they needed to know they had a half-brother. He’d told Lisa years earlier, also a humbling experience, but it’d been harder to tell the kids he’d done something he felt so ashamed of.



As he ate his breakfast, Dan recalled the conversation when he’d told them. He’d never felt more uncomfortable in his life than he had at that moment. He’d hoped for the perfect time, but there could never be the perfect time for such a conversation. So one day, he and Lisa sat the kids down and he told them.



The coffee he’d had earlier in the morning threatened to erupt like a volcano and he sipped at his water to try to calm his stomach and nerves. The water did little to settle his roiling stomach. Lisa rested a hand on his leg and gave him a slight nod to begin.



“Well, okay, when I was young, still in my teens, but long before I met your mother, well, I met a girl and uh, I thought I was in love with her. And, well, she was leaving town, and we uh, thought we’d never see each other again. We . . . did something very regrettable, and . . . uh . . . well, she had a baby later. I didn’t know about it until years later, but, well, um . . . I’m the baby’s father.”



Chad’s shock showed on his face. “You have another kid, and you never told me before?”



“Uh, well, I was embarrassed,” he said. He was further embarrassed because since they had livestock, Chad knew what it took to get a new calf each year. He turned red from the looks Chad shot him; hurt, accusation, confusion.



The twins didn’t appear to share his feelings; they were intrigued. “Was it a girl baby or boy baby?” Alison asked.



“A boy,” Dan said quietly.



“Then we have two brothers,” Brooke said to Alison. “Chad and . . . ?” She looked at her dad with her hands open for him to continue and tell them their brother’s name and thought of something else. “When can we meet him?”



“What’s his name?” Alison asked the question Brooke had left hanging.



“Mateo, his name is Mateo Gomez. His family, well, they were migrant farm workers, and—”



“Dad,” Alison asked, “What’s my-grant farm workers?”



Dan drank again and said, “They are people who move around, working for different farms, all over. So I only knew his mom for a short time before they moved on to find more work. He’s in his twenties now. I don’t know much about him, but I do know he’s in the army.”



Chad looked at his dad incredulously. “You mean I have a brother with a different last name, and he’s off where he can get killed in war? So I might not ever meet him even if I want to?”



The uncomfortable conversation all came back to Dan while he ate and made it hard to enjoy his breakfast. He took a sip of his coffee and felt his stomach roil recalling it. Chad had taken a couple of weeks to warm up and act the same around him as he had before the bombshell. But after he’d warmed to the idea, he stated that he wanted to meet his brother.



Dan had tried to locate Mateo for years and make contact with him but failed to receive a response to any of the letters he mailed. Still, he kept trying and searched for any information he could find, and sent more letters. Then, during the winter he’d learned Mateo had gotten out of the army at least five months earlier and lived not too far away from them. He couldn’t find the exact location, but it was near the small community of Hamilton, at least that was where he received his mail.



Hamilton was a blip on the map on the main north-south highway, surrounded by farms and ranches. Besides supporting local agriculture, the town was a popular spot for sportsmen as it offered good access for hunters and fishermen.



It was time to try to find Mateo and meet him face to face. Ever since Chad had warmed to the idea of having a brother, he’d looked forward to meeting him. The twins had been excited from day one. And though Lisa encouraged him, Dan grew more nervous with each passing day. The unanswered letters he’d sent made him question what Mateo’s attitude would be and if it was a good idea to try to locate him. But he had to try and at least make the effort. His conscience wouldn’t let him forget he had a son he’d never met. Only time would tell if it was a mistake.



“Well, I better brush my teeth, and get on to work,” Dan said. “Those trailers won’t build themselves. Thanks for the breakfast, Hon, it was wonderful like always.” He left the table and returned a few minutes later. After a hug for each of the kids and a kiss goodbye to Lisa, he pulled his coat and wool cap on and picked up his lunch box.



“Bye Dad, have a great day,” the kids chorused.

[bretf]

Chapter 2



Dan completed the bead he was welding as welcome quiet replaced the shrill blast of the lunch whistle. He straightened up, removed his welding hood, and laid it on the welder he used. With a low groan, he stretched his arms out, flexed his shoulders, and twisted and turned his head, working the kinks out from being hunched over for too long. He groaned again as he flicked off the welder’s power switch and closed the valve on the gas bottle. Around the shop, other workers shut their equipment down, and two men slipped their coats on and headed for the door at a fast pace.



A dark cloud hung over the work area, a byproduct of the arc welding the men had been doing. Welding fumes, mixed with the smell of burned steel from grinders and the plasma cutter, hung in the air. Paint odors were heavy as well. All but one of the strong exhaust fans mounted high in the walls were silent. They not only removed fumes, they sucked the heat out, making the cavernous building feel like a meat locker during winter. The crew traded odors for a bit of warmth. Trailers in various stages of completion filled the shop space.



Dan laid his heavy leather gloves, leather jacket and chaps, and ear protection by his helmet, and pondered his kids’ future as he looked around the hazy shop. He didn’t mind his job most of the time, it was good honest work, but he hoped Chad would be able to find a different career, preferably outdoors. Time will tell, he thought and joined the other men as they made their way to wash and have lunch.



The lunchroom offered welcome relief from the stinky, noisy shop. Dan got his lunch out of the refrigerator and sat down at the long table with a sigh. As more of the crew settled around the table, two of them watched intently while he opened his lunch box. As a rule, Dan’s lunch was unlike what they had.



“So what’s it gonna be today?” John, one of his co-workers asked while he opened the top on his own lunch – a Cup O Noodles – and moved to the hot water dispenser to fill the foam cup and start the noodles cooking.



Matt, Dan’s best friend and fishing partner took out his lunch – leftover chicken and potato logs from the supermarket deli. “I hope she sent enough for you to share,” he said and slid his food into the microwave to heat.



Dan chuckled as he laid out the contents of his lunch box. Lisa always packed him a full meal, usually more than he could eat. And like most of their meals, the majority of it was homegrown and homemade. Along with the cows, chickens, and large garden, he had a greenhouse, from which he harvested cold-hardy vegetables all winter.



“Well, let’s see, here’s a quart of Jersey juice,” he said as he set out a jar of milk, “I’ve got a baggie of fresh vegetables, a container of home-canned peaches, and a sandwich.” The sandwich had a thick slice of elk roast between slices of homemade bread. “I’ll share the veggies and the milk but the sandwich is all mine,” he told them.



“Don’t you know raw milk’s not safe?” Matt asked as he pushed his cup across the table for Dan to fill. “And that fertilizer you grow your vegetables in, man, that’s all untreated manure. Think of all the disease you spread.” Matt reached into the baggie and pulled out a carrot and radish while he talked.



“I just know where I’m going if the brown stuff ever hits the fan,” John said, crunching on a radish.



The newest hire, Ben, stood at the coffee maker and listened intently to the conversation behind him. The hand holding his cup and the hand grasping the pot had matching tattoos of snakeheads with their fangs extended. The snakes’ bodies disappeared up his shirt sleeves. With his cup full, he moved to where he could eavesdrop on the conversation at the other end of the table.



Dan chewed a bite of sandwich and swallowed before he addressed John’s well-used comment. “As I told you before, you better bring your work gloves if you do. There’ll be no freeloading at my place. I’m not President Morton. You work your butt off or you don’t eat. These things don’t magically appear like your food at the grocery store,” he said and waved a carrot in the air before biting into it.



Dan chewed and swallowed. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that, at least not making it sound like it’s all the current President’s fault. She didn’t invent welfare; she’s only perfected it for the slackers.”



Fred, one of the guys further down the table, guffawed. “The only welfare I can think of this week is if the Buccaneers lay down for the Chiefs since it’s rumored this might be Moore’s final game.”



The hype for the upcoming Super Bowl had been going at a fever pitch. The game would be played in Levi’s stadium, where Peyton Manning had directed the Denver Broncos to a Super Bowl victory for his last hurrah.



The media couldn’t resist the opportunity to draw the comparison it was possibly the final game of another quarterback. Though not as accomplished as Manning, Kyle Moore might wrap up his career in the ultimate game of the sport in the same manner and on the same field as the great Manning had. Speculation ran rampant, but he’d neither confirm nor deny he had plans to retire.



Coupled with that, Moore’s Kansas City Chiefs team would face the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, a team who’d crushed them in the second game of the regular season. Moore started that game with an interception on the first play from scrimmage, and the results of the game were never in doubt. He vowed to do better, and the Buccaneers vowed a repeat. And the hype went on and on.



“You know,” Fred continued, “The way the Chiefs choked against them in the regular season, well you all saw it, so it’s gonna take welfare from the Buc’s to the old guy if K.C. is gonna have any chance at all in the game.”



Larry, his lunch finished, went to the counter, and held up a piece of poster board with “Chiefs” printed across the top and “Buccaneers” down the side. The rest of the board had a grid drawn on it, ten rows and columns, and most of the squares had people’s names written in them. “We still have six open squares guys. We need to fill this up and pick numbers so I can have all of you guys’ money on Monday. And I for one hope Moore doesn’t lay an egg like he did the last time. If this is his last game, I want to see him go out a winner.” Agreement came from around the table. Fred was certainly in the minority as a Buccaneers backer.



The biggest rooting point for the Chiefs was their center, a local boy. “It’s gonna be different this time,” John said. “Look who’s in front of Moore. That offensive line is so much better since Cody Parsons got the starting job.”



Dan’s mind wandered at the mention of the Chiefs center. Parsons had grown up and played eight-man high school football in a small town two hour’s drive north of the shop, in Hamilton, the very town where Dan would try to locate his son, Mateo. He had no idea where the trail would lead since all he had for Mateo was a post office box number. Around him, the upcoming game was the sole topic of discussion as Dan considered the man he’d fathered but never met.



“Did I tell you about my busted vacuum cleaner?” Fred asked. “It quit working, so I put a Chiefs bumper sticker on it right after the Tampa Bay-K. C. game and it started to suck again.” The joke produced groans, as well as a thrown wadded up paper towel from Larry.



“Alright, get your money out guys, we have to fill this board up,” Larry said. “How about you Dan, I don’t see your name on this anywhere. Or do the Amish do things like this?” Larry liked to kid Dan over his lifestyle; to him being Amish was the only reason anyone would raise their own food. Dan didn’t refute the idea in the least. In fact, when it came to Larry, he encouraged it. Larry didn’t seem to realize that unlike the Amish, Dan had most of the same modern conveniences everyone else in the shop had.



Dan looked at the poster board and wrinkled his brow. “No, I’m sure this is forbidden,” he said and tried to keep a straight face. “So how did you say this thing works?” He couldn’t help but grin at the look Larry shot him.



“You know dang well how the football pool works, now get your wallet out,” Larry snapped.



Dan took out a dollar. “Okay, I’ll take one square.”



“Just one? Come on man, you can do better than that. Are you even going to watch the game?”



“Of course not. You know we Amish don’t have electricity or televisions,” Dan answered. He handed over the dollar and signed his name on a square.



“So, are you going to watch the game?” Matt asked Dan, as Larry moved down the table.



“I might see part of it after I finish up outside, but it won’t be the focus of my day. After church, Chad and the girls and I are going to get a bunch of trays set up in the greenhouse. It’s time to get seeds in so the plants will be ready to put out in the garden when the weather warms up. Then we need to clean the chicken house and get all the manure on the compost pile. By the time that’s all done and I’ve showered and had supper, I might have a beer and watch the rest of the game. If I don’t fall asleep in my chair anyway.”



“Man, you are so bizarre,” Fred said and shook his head. The thought of missing the Super Bowl was sacrilegious in his view.



“So what do you think Jackson’s up to?” John asked. “Man, can you believe that guy’s luck? He not only has a hot babe for a wife, but her old man takes him to the Super Bowl. I’d love it if my father-in-law took me to the big game.” John referred to Sean Jackson, one of the shop workers. His father-in-law, a high powered executive, had swung tickets to the game and taken Sean along with him.



“He’s probably at a party,” Larry said. “I’d like to be there too, but not with my father-in-law, if I had one. I saw a story online that said call girls flocked into Frisco by the thousands for this. They generate as much money as all of the other activities combined according to the article.” Larry was unmarried, and would most likely remain that way. His phone chirped and he took it out, pulled up the message, and read. “Well speak of the devil. That son of a . . .” he trailed off, as he read the message and looked at the photos with it. “Here, look at this.” He handed the phone to Fred.



The screen showed a photo of the front of the Fairmont San Francisco, a luxury hotel. “Now scroll to the next picture,” Larry said. The second photo was a selfie of Sean. He stood inside a large ballroom with a buffet table set up on one side. People filled the room, with plates and drinks in their hands, and broad smiles on their faces. A short note accompanied the photos. “Hey guys, I’d be lying if I said I missed you, LOL. I’ll put more on Facebook when I can. And Larry, the article you showed me is true. I’ve seen quite a few who look incredible. Have fun at the shop.”



The men passed the phone around the table and everyone looked at the pictures and the note. The grumbling about how lucky Sean Jackson was increased.



#



Sean Jackson laughed at the message he’d sent, knowing how it’d needle the guys at the shop. He slipped the phone into his pocket and surveyed the ballroom. It was still hard to believe he stood in the Fairmont Hotel, and in two days would be at the greatest sporting event ever. He nearly pinched himself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. After lunch, he might take a nap to be ready for the evening, or he might not. It’d be hard to miss a single minute. San Francisco swarmed with activity. Parties would go non-stop, right up until the wee hours of Monday morning. There’d be food like he’d never eaten before, booze, and yes Larry, women, although he wouldn’t indulge in that particular pleasure.



The ballroom pulsed with excitement and noise, and Sean heard numerous languages spoken. The game was a world event, and to judge by what he heard and the appearances of different people, several countries were represented in the room. He’d read it would be broadcast to two hundred countries and most of them had their own crews on location. It was staggering to consider he’d experience it firsthand, and he was so grateful to his father-in-law for including him.



Grateful didn’t seem strong enough for the feeling he had. Other than his marriage and the birth of his children, he couldn’t imagine anything in his life would be more monumental.



Sean couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he moved through the crowd toward the buffet. He was so caught up in the atmosphere, he even smiled when a serving man in a long-sleeved white shirt and white gloves brushed against him. Sweat soaked through the man’s shirt and left a damp spot on Sean’s exposed arm. Sean glanced at the man as he wiped the spot. His face, framed by high white collars, was covered with blemishes and twisted in a fierce scowl as he maneuvered through the assemblage. His jaw moved like he had something that tasted bad in his mouth. His movements reminded Sean of the bumper cars at the fair, as he bounced from one person to the next.



“That guy doesn’t look too happy to be here,” a man near Sean said. He’d also been roughly brushed against.



Sean agreed with him and continued to work his way to the food. The enchanting aromas made his mouth water. As he made his way, he noticed the scowling man brush against more people as he took their empty glasses and plates. “They must be hard up for wait staff this week,” Sean muttered.



#



Abdul Mueed left the ballroom with his tray full of dirty dishes. Once out of sight of the revelers, his face contorted in pain. His head pounded and he had a raging fever. He coughed onto the tray and spittle flew everywhere. The open sores in his mouth made it hard to control while he lowered himself amongst the filthy swine in that room of decadence. But according to the men who’d sent him to the hell hole in the center of the enemy, the fire raging through his body burned at peak efficiency.



He leaned against the wall for support. Closing his eyes, he asked Allah for strength to complete his mission. Two more days, he had to hold on for two more days.



While the infidels reveled, two hundred faithful staged a silent attack on the unaware city. Though not right away, the unbelievers would know their wrath. As directed, Mueed had accessed the hotel’s ventilation system and released the contents of an aerosol can into the recirculated air. He had two more of the cans and would release one per day. The other phase of the attack involved direct contact with the infidels.



Mueed felt satisfaction mixed with revulsion. The injections he and the other faithful had been given were obviously at work. His fever intensified as the day went on and his sweating increased as well. The coughs were more frequent and he had occasional muscle tremors along with the fatigue. Praise Allah, the virus would spread to the infidels as it raged through his own body. The faithful had been told it would spread best through body fluids, but substantial spread would happen through the air as well.



Still, despite delivering their death, he was revolted. He had to look at their faces and bow and scrape as a servant. Each time he held his hand out to one of them, his muscles tensed and he longed for his knife to wipe the smiles from their faces while he cut their throats.



He was most revolted by the women. They were shameless whores, putting their bodies on display for all to see. He longed to see their eyes as he had seen the other woman’s eyes at the moment of recognition. The look of the dying. He remembered the harlot’s eyes as his knife tore through her abdomen, and shuddered in pleasure.



He’d refused the order to bed the prostitutes. It didn’t matter to him how well the virus would spread in that method, he wouldn’t degrade himself to perform such acts. That the virus would spread more readily wasn’t enough for him. He wouldn’t be able to stand before Allah with the shame. He knew others didn’t share his views and relished the opportunity. If the whores only realized he delivered their death, if he could see it in their eyes, he might relent. But he’d seen the lifeless eyes of the prostitutes when they came from a room, their bags tight with cash. No, they wouldn’t know he’d killed them. But those eyes . . .



Mueed pulled away from the wall and did his best to mask the pain. He carried his tray through the swinging doors of the kitchen area and set it down near the others piled with dirty dishes. Glancing around to see if he was observed, he reached for a new tray and coughed into the arranged plates, glasses and silverware. Particles of spittle flew with each cough and adhered to the utensils. Mueed coughed again before returning to the ballroom. His forehead glistened with perspiration as he worked through the crowded room.

[Ozarks Tom]

We'll buy it for my wife's Kindle as soon as she's done with the book she's reading. For some reason it's a real pain to get to a second book, at least she hasn't figure it out yet.

Hey, I've got bragging rights now, I know a published author!

[meandtk]

I just purchased it.
You deserve it for sharing freely with us.
I’ll look forward to reading the series.

[Deleted]

Just now purchased it.

Does this make me a patron of the arts?

[bretf]

Feb 18, 2019 16:46:45 GMT @pony said:

Just now purchased it.

Does this make me a patron of the arts?

I don't know the answer to that, but I do know it makes me very grateful to you!

[Ozarks Tom]

Feb 18, 2019 23:37:58 GMT bretf said:

Feb 18, 2019 16:46:45 GMT @pony said:

Just now purchased it.

Does this make me a patron of the arts?

I don't know the answer to that, but I do know it makes me very grateful to you!

Ah, it's just the reverse.  We're grateful first of all just to know you, and second of all for sharing your wonderful gift with us.  We've seen your stories grow along with your confidence in telling them.  Although fictional, we feel the reality of each person and situation you describe.  Unlike many stories I've read I've never come across a part of your stories where I said to myself "Well, than ain't right."

Wishing for your continued success,

Tom

[bretf]

Feb 19, 2019 0:07:08 GMT Ozarks Tom said:

Feb 18, 2019 23:37:58 GMT bretf said:

I don't know the answer to that, but I do know it makes me very grateful to you!

Ah, it's just the reverse.  We're grateful first of all just to know you, and second of all for sharing your wonderful gift with us.  We've seen your stories grow along with your confidence in telling them.  Although fictional, we feel the reality of each person and situation you describe.  Unlike many stories I've read I've never come across a part of your stories where I said to myself "Well, than ain't right."

Wishing for your continued success,

Tom

Thanks Tom! (use your imagination and picture a red-faced in embarrassment smiley here)

[Ozarks Tom]

Okay, I've got an unhappy wife. She finished book one, and said "Where's book two?" Get your butt in gear fella.

[bretf]

Mar 2, 2019 2:25:54 GMT Ozarks Tom said:

Okay, I've got an unhappy wife. She finished book one, and said "Where's book two?" Get your butt in gear fella.

Well Tom, that's the rub.
My butt is in gear when I'm not laying down. I still can't pull up a chair and sit in it.
But hopefully this Wednesday it'll be corrected and I can get my life back.

[Ozarks Tom]

bretf, Wishing best situation on your fix, prayers sent.

[themotherhen]

bretf, I ordered my copy late last night, it should arrive Friday. Can't wait to read it!

[bretf]

I’m excited to announce the release of the second book in the “Smoke Saga”. “Chad Smoke, Brotherhood”

Kindle: www.amazon.com/Chad-Smoke-Brotherhood-Smokes-Saga-ebook/dp/B07SXC64MB/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=Chad+Smoke&qid=1560383795&s=gateway&sr=8-2

Paperback: www.amazon.com/dp/1073321533/ref=sr_1_3?keywords=chad+smoke&qid=1560625636&s=gateway&sr=8-3

The nation has disintegrated into chaos and heavy clouds of nuclear winter blanket the sky. The Smoke family has fled their destroyed home, but they can’t settle in, not yet. They leave their safe refuge in search of Mateo, Dan’s illegitimate son. Unknown dangers wait, as well as questions and concerns. If they locate Mateo, how will they be received by the man who has refused to acknowledge Dan’s attempts to contact him?

I appreciate all of you who read the draft of the work, and if you choose to purchase, please post a review of the story.

Enjoy the preview, and I always welcome your comments. Now, I’m back to working on part 3 “Smoke and Burns”.

If anyone is interested, here are the links to Book 1:

Kindle: www.amazon.com/Chad-Smoke-Ashen-Horse-Saga-ebook-dp-B07NCBJ6FQ/dp/B07NCBJ6FQ/ref=mt_kindle?_encoding=UTF8&me=&qid=1560383936

Print: www.amazon.com/Chad-Smoke-Ashen-Horse-Saga/dp/1795719974/ref=sr_1_4?keywords=Chad+Smoke&qid=1560383936&s=gateway&sr=8-4