Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Books by Paul B. Kohler
About the Author
Free Book
From the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Dear Reader
Reversion: Book Three of the Humanity’s Edge Trilogy
by Paul B. Kohler
Reversion: Book Three of the Humanity’s Edge Trilogy is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2018 by Paul B. Kohler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.
Edited by Ellen Campbell
Cover design by Ryan Schwarz
Interior design and layout by Paul B. Kohler
ISBN-13: 978-1-940740-19-5 (tpb)
ISBN-10: 1-940740-19-3 (tpb)
Books by Paul B. Kohler
Humanity’s Edge Trilogy:
Turn, Book One
Detour, Book Two
Crystal Medallion Series:
Perplexia, Book One
Astonia, Book Two
Bavaro, Book Three
The Hunted Assassin
The Borrowed Souls
The Immortality Chronicles
Rememorations (contributed)
Linear Shift, A Novel
Silo Sage: Recoil
An Anthology of Short Stories:
Summer 2014
Winter 2016
About the Author
Paul B Kohler is the author of the highly acclaimed novel, Linear Shift, and the remarkable novel series, The Borrowed Souls. Aside from his longer works, a number of his short stories have been included in various anthologies. His latest short, Rememorations, has been included in The Immortality Chronicles - a Top 5 SF Anthology and Hot New Releases. Rememorations was also nominated for Best American Science Fiction.
When not practicing architecture, Paul works on his writing. He lives in Littleton, Colorado, with his wife and daughter.
To learn more about him and his books, visit www.PaulKohler.net
To get your free copy,
just join my readers group here:
http://bit.ly/pk-jr1
From the Author
Reversion: Book Three of the Humanity’s Edge Trilogy is a work of fiction. It's a futuristic glimpse of “what-if”. I've used my creative license to develop a story that explores what life might be like at the end of the world. Also, the tech and biology used here are fictitious. As far as I know, there are no zombie making nanites in current use. Please consider that when reading the following story. But, more importantly, enjoy the read!
Chapter 1
The converted grain silo at the edge of the lake—somewhere deep in the wilderness of what was once Colorado—gleamed in the strange and penetrating sunlight. Atop it were two people, one sprawling on a lawn chair, with rifles in their hands. They shot casually from their perch, trying to pick off some of the strange, thrashing creatures down below. The crazed: once human but no longer. As each shot blasted through heads, green and amber blood burst from the back, sending the monsters to the ground, where they flailed like fish out of water. They hadn’t been human for quite some time. The exterminators above hadn’t seen another mortal for even longer.
Rex grunted, pointing at Megan’s stance. “You’re fucking it up again,” he grunted, lurching toward her and fixing her grip. “We been up here how long, and you still can’t hold the rifle right. It was a sore day when you were the one I stumbled upon on up here.”
Megan pressed her lips together, and gave him an outraged look, but kept her tongue in check. Across the lake, she could still see the dark and shadowed cabin to which she’d hurried when the crazed had taken over the town of Carterville. She’d raced up to the cabin in her little, now-dilapidated car, her anxiety through the roof as she abandoned the only woman she’d ever loved.
Rex followed Megan’s gaze. “What’s wrong, missy? You thinkin’ about your little lesbian friend?” he asked, spitting at the ground. “I don’t have time for any of that bullshit, and you know that.”
“I should have never fucking told you,” Megan spat back, glaring at him. She raised the rifle, took aim, then missed all of the crazed that roamed aimlessly below. She’d told Rex in a moment of weakness, when she’d thought sure they would die anyway. They’d guzzled hooch, saying things like, “What’s the point of the end of the world, if you can’t drink as much whiskey and shoot as many guns as you wanted to?”
But that mantra was running a little thin.
Megan missed again. She heard Rex sip his drink behind her, then sigh loudly, showing his increased frustration. “I never should have come over here,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Should have stuck it out over at my cabin.”
He leaned in close behind her, whispering into her ear, “If you hadn’t come to me, you’d be undead now—one of those monsters I’d be shooting at, you idiot.” Shivers rippled up and down Megan’s spine.
Rex was a prepper. According to him, he’d had a large arsenal of weapons at his house in Carterville, “just in case something like this ever happened.” But since he’d been hunting in the mountains when the outbreak happened (and heard the news of it on the radio), he’d hung back, with his weapons and food and water, and watched the world fall around him. Megan was just lucky enough to get to watch it with him.
Megan t
ried again, blasting at the crazed. But once again, she missed and dropped the rifle to her side. She felt tears begin behind her eyes, reminding her just how lonely she was. She could have stayed, been with Alayna. She could have held Alayna’s hand into the nothingness that was this reality. And now—
“Give me the damn thing,” Rex said, yanking the rifle from Megan’s grip. “How many times do I have to show you?”
He shouldered the rifle and squeezed the trigger once, twice, and a third time. Each bullet found the skull of a crazed below.
“See? No wasted bullets. I’d like to see your lesbian cop friend do that,” Rex boasted.
He tossed the rifle back to Megan and collapsed in his lawn chair, scratching his nails over his large and bulbous belly. Megan shouldered the rifle, bringing it to bear on his head. It was pointed at his skull when he turned around, making him flinch.
Megan huffed.
“Now, if you’re done belittling me, I think I’d like to get the hell out of here. Right now,” she growled.
Rex grunted a laugh. He nodded at the crazed and drawled, “Do you really think you’re ready to get out there, missy?”
A surge of adrenaline burst through her. With a quick motion, she swung back toward the lone, final crazed, staggering toward them through the trees, a good four hundred yards away. For the first time, she felt at one with the rifle—as if it was an extension of herself. She squeezed the trigger.
Bullseye.
She whirled back, her nostrils flared and her eyes burning with rage. Rex gaped at her. Megan held the rifle confidently and leaned toward Rex.
“You were saying?”
Chapter 2
There were twelve of them. Maybe thirteen. The crazed spewed from the red painted barn, as Clay and three of Sam’s men bumbled past. Clay leaped back, feeling an animalistic survival instinct kick in. Reaching for his gun, he blasted the first of the crazed before the monsters wide, toothy mouth wrapped around Damon’s thick and juicy neck. The crazed fell back, his blood and guts spraying everywhere.
“FUCK!” Damon wailed, grabbing his own gun and joining Clay in the massacre. The other two, Al and Sherman, lumbered up beside them. The crazed poured from the barn like spiders. Behind them, the field stretched out far and wide, the mountains blue in the distance. Clay knew that they couldn’t escape. In fact, it was foolish to even hope. They just couldn’t outrun them. They had to shoot.
Sam’s men began to flank the outpouring of crazed, using tactics that kept them alive for the several months they’d been on the road. They held their guns ready to fire, and their eyes were glittering, fierce. Seeing an opening, Clay sprinted through the center of the crowd, sending bullets through the heads of one, two, then a third crazed and finding himself behind the pack. Clay took cover behind the large barn door, taking shots when he could and trying to stay out of the cognizant and searching horde’s line of sight. His experience taught him if they couldn’t see you, and you weren’t making a racket, they’d go after easier targets.
Even as he pushed himself through the battle—yet another in an endless stream—Clay felt a desolation and emptiness. God, they’d been hunting for Malcolm’s compound for what seemed like ages at this point. Malcolm felt to Clay like his own white whale.
It didn’t help that the only person who claimed to know where the compound was, was a strung-out, pneumonia-stricken kid of about thirteen named Alex. They’d found him locked up in a hotel where Malcolm had been squatting. Malcolm had left the kid for dead, thinking he’d been infected by a crazed himself. What had begun as a cold had devolved to a dreadful illness, and Clay’s team had found him—wide-eyed and half out of his mind. They saved his life.
The kid had known his daughter Maia. And Clay hoped that Alex had the secret to finding her and saving her from all the horrors in Clay’s own mind. But goddamn. The kid pointed at the map and appeared to make guesses. “I think it’s out east,” Alex would murmur, his finger white against the grey paper. He would shake, quiver, as he thought about it. “I’m pretty sure it’s just out east.”
But each time, Alex led them to a dead end, and then another.
Frustration brimmed within Clay as he raised his rifle and blasted another crazed. Al cut through the last of the monsters, doing a strange flourish with his knife and driving it through one of the crazed’s heads. Clay rolled his eyes slightly, having grown accustomed to their tactics, if not appreciative. Sometimes, they got a bit too artistic with this murdering they were forced to do. Sometimes, they enjoyed it.
But as Al pushed himself toward the last of the crazed, his knife glittering in the sun, one of the crazed—wearing a V-neck sweater, ragged and torn—reached out and caught Al’s shoulder, and whirled him back. The crazed’s mouth opened to reveal a green and snakelike tongue, which circled Al’s ear before gliding along Al’s neck. Clay felt that familiar pang of fear, knowing that this was leading to something none of them could comprehend. That Al was about to face the end.
“NO!” Damon cried. He took several shots at its head, but it was too late. The crazed’s teeth had sunk into Al’s upper arm, making blood splatter across the ground. Puddles began to form in the dirt. The crazed gnawed at him, holding his arm as you might a hamburger. Damon’s screams were staccato, like those of a child, as he blasted the eating crazed a final time. That crazed dropped to the ground, a bleeding Al still across his lap.
Sherman took out the last two. Damon raced to Al’s side and wrapped his hands around Al’s chin, trying to slow the bleeding. “It’s going to be all right, bud …” he tried.
But Clay had seen this too many goddamn times. With the certainty and authority of a much more heartless man, he stepped toward Al and Damon and lifted his rifle.
“Damon, if you don’t get out of my way, I’ll shoot you, too,” he said.
Damon glared at him. His cheeks were ruddy, spattered with crazed blood. “Fuck off, Clay.”
“You know what happens if we let this go on one second more. You want to see your pal turn into one of them? Huh?” Clay demanded.
Reluctantly, Damon allowed Al to drop to the ground. After a long, horrible moan bubbled from Al’s lips, Clay let the bullet fly. It blasted through Al’s brain, sending grey brain matter across the ground.
For a moment, Clay was sure he would vomit. But he bucked up cast his eyes toward the horizon. “That little prick Alex doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing,” he murmured, his mind returning on Maia. “And I’m about tired of it.”
Chapter 3
When they reached the hotel a few hours later, Clay realized that he and Sam’s men hadn’t said a word since Al’s death. They marched up the steps with the sun setting behind them and dropped their guns on the front foyer table. The faint smell of beans cooking in the kitchen filled Clay’s nose. Something about it turned his stomach, and he went into the bathroom, hacking into a toilet. Outside, he heard Sam greeting Damon and Sherman.
“Where the hell is Al?” she asked, her voice gruff—such a contrast to her blonde haired, blue eyed beauty. “Damon, what happened out there?”
Clay stared at himself in the mirror before joining the inevitable conversation. Damon and Sherman stared at the ground, unable to answer Sam. The four of them had been a dominant force on the dystopian plains for the past several months—very nearly robbing Clay and Alayna in the process. Only when they’d discovered they were after the same ego-driven asshole, Malcolm, had she agreed to stay and help destroy him.
“He was fucking better than both of you,” Sam said, her shoulders shaking. “He saved both your lives time and time again, and this is how you repay him …”
Clay had been through this countless times now. Losing a member of the crew always felt so pointless; it left a part of you empty. Sam turned to him, eyes burning with rage.
“And you. You’re supposed to be some kind of leader. And you take my men out, MY crew—”
“Sam, it was an accident,” Clay said, knowing just how useless
his words were. Nothing had any meaning, not anymore. “You know he was getting a little extravagant out there. It was his own damn fault.”
Sam grunted. Clay sensed she was about to unleash hell upon him. But just as she parted her lips to speak, Clay spotted the doctor slipping in through the side door. Clay’s own rage flared, and the air around him seemed to turn red. Clay abandoned Sam, bolting to catch the doctor. The doctor’s eyes went wide and orb-like, clearly frightened of—and accustomed to—Clay’s rage.
“What’s going on up there, Doc?” Clay demanded, trying his damnedest not to shake the doctor like a terrier with a rat. “You keep telling me he’ll be better soon. That his mind is all lost and chaotic because of the flu, or whatever. But you know what? He sent us on another wild goose chase today, and we lost a man because of it.”
The doctor raked his balding hair with his fingers, hiding behind thick glasses. Finally, he said, “No matter how much you yell, Clay, Alex won’t get better any faster. He’s anemic. Do you, somewhere in that thick skull of yours, know what that means?”
Clay glared at him. Without waiting another second, he bolted toward the room they’d moved Alex to. He knew that Lane would be tending to him, as she so frequently did these days. She’d taken on a kind of mothering quality, saying words like, “Many hands make light work,” and ensuring that Alex was well-fed, well-watered, and spoken to frequently, in a loving manner.
And Clay was about sick of it.
Clay smashed his knuckles against the door. He howled her name, “LANE! ALEX! OPEN THIS DOOR!”
The doctor appeared at the top of the steps, with Sam and her goons traipsing up behind him. They observed Clay’s minor breakdown, although it was certainly not the first. Lane came out of the bedroom, clearly agitated at the tantrum.