Through dark glass, p.1
Through Dark Glass, page 1
THROUGH DARK GLASS
A NOVEL
TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT
MARATA EROS
Levi
Never forget - you are my treasure
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CONTENTS
Synopsis
MUSIC
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tamara Rose Blodgett
SYNOPSIS
Three groups.
A Navy SEAL and his bride on their wedding night.
A middle-aged survivalist protects what is his.
Three brilliant teenagers who make a terrible mistake.
Coming together in one parallel reality.
When the lights dim across the United States, the new Brain Impulse Technology of this dystopian future is blamed.
Until they don't come back on and the government exploits the collapse by any means necessary.
Accountability doesn't matter when everything runs on mind to mind interplay.
Suddenly, water is scarce—and food is next.
As chaos ensues, can a group of Navy SEALs protect the people who are responsible for the downfall of civility—even if they're just kids?
Can a man employ a skill set he believed he'd never have to use again to protect his family against the new threat that circles their lives?
Will America fall?
Or will a few good people fight against all odds to see what's left of humanity, survive?
MUSIC
Welcome To The Revolution
by
Hi-Rez & Jimmy Levy
PROLOGUE
JANUARY 2, 2032
Brain ImPulse Technology goes Worldwide
* * *
Story highlights:
The world's newest technology is security free, instantaneous and lightyears beyond the archaic “viral” tech of yesteryear.
“Brain ImPulse Tech, aka 'Pulse',” will revolutionize response, interaction and save billions in commerce worldwide.”
* * *
(WNN) worldwide network news- Does the government's monitoring of American citizen mind-to-mind use smack of a segue into “big brother interference?”
Noble Science prize winner, Benedict Aaronson, for who the Noble prizes were amended to add the broad Science category, is celebrating the second day of the new year of the worldwide implementation of Brain ImPulse Technology. He will be the first human being to demonstrate his groundbreaking technology in real time.
For those of us lay people, who benefit from each new technology that rolls down the pike without appreciating the process, Brain ImPulse Technology, or more simply “Pulse,” is just another new bit of gadgetry in a long succession of items to ease the weariness of our day-to-day responsibilities. Pulse technology has been in the workings for almost two decades. Aaronson's scientific team, along with a dedicated control group of volunteers, have patiently seen, through human trials of perfecting the controversial mind-to-mind activated “new cellular,” and new “internet” of the twenty-first century.
No more will the humans of this world be dependent on signals, other than our own brains. The nanotech delivery system is unique and can synthesize within our unique genetic make-up to provide with the stroke of a fingerprint, any system or device that is owned by us and will use our brain “waves” to fuel our wishes and transfer exactly the information we want conveyed with a simple touch and thought. Daily life will be simplified. From buying groceries to paying taxes, one can simply “upload” their data from their own brain.
No more will security be a problem. We are the only ones who possess the unique whirls that configure our fingerprint.
In response to the heavily organized protests of our domestic government gathering intel of knowledge we'd rather keep to ourselves, Aaronson assures the public that without a thumbprint, there is no way for anyone to gain information outside of that person deliberately “pulsing” the recipient said knowledge.
Lastly, to those who worry that the security of our nation is in a vulnerable transitionary state while the old tech is transferred to the new; America stands firm on the belief that this changeover will go smoothly.
Your freedom, independence and privacy are assured.
Where there's a will, there's a way.
After all, elbow grease and ingenuity is the American way ….
1
NOW - ROTH FAIRCHILD
“Take your hand off the pump—nice and slow.” Snugging the butt of my Typhoon F12 shotgun tight to my shoulder, I let the tip nod, underscoring my imperative.
Instantly, the piece of shit raises his grimy hand from the aluminum handle of the hand pump that sits atop our wellhead.
“Make that two hands,” Tia adds in a nonchalant voice.
I dare not look at her because this POS and crew might take that distraction to mean they don’t require my full attention when, in fact— they absolutely do.
My bride holds her identical shotgun positioned in a mirrored position to mine, but her sights are alternatively leveled on POS one and two, standing abreast and slightly behind Number One.
“Hey, man,” Number One pleads, his beady eyes shifting between the two of us, “we’re so thirsty. Just let us wet our whistle; then we’ll go—I swear.”
Tia mimics my earlier shotgun hike. “You’ll go now.”
“Fuck,” he howls in clear fury, swinging long, greasy bangs back.
A moment later, one lank strand falls back into place, covering one eyeball like a badly applied eye patch as he levels a scorching stare at us.
I take a step closer to him, closing our distance to a scant two yards, my gun as steady as my intent.
“Tia.”
“Yes, stud,” she answers without pause.
I would smile at the affectionate nickname if I could dredge up any humor. Unfortunately, that’s been in short supply for the last couple of years, so I opt for action.
“Be ready.”
“Yes.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lars shift in his baby backpack carrier. Our infant son faces reverse direction for lots of reasons.
I hadn’t thought this event would be one of them.
Weary of the killing, I state in a tone devoid of emotion, “Leave now or die.”
“You’d kill us for grabbing a drink of water?” the dude behind Number One chimes, eyes wide.
“Yes,” Tia answers, smoothly shifting the tip of her shotgun to him, targeting the biggest bullseye, his torso—like I taught her.
“That’s cold as fuck, not gonna lie,” the guy who hadn’t spoken yet offers.
Yes, yes it is. But in our experience, we’ve found it’s them… or us. Many times.
We keep choosing us.
“What the fuck is that?” Number One points to my left.
I don’t turn.
“A dog.”
He retreats a step. Smart man. “That’s a big mofo dog.”
My smile is grim. “He’s not keen on strangers.”
Gage begins to growl. Of course, he knows when to show his teeth, so that works.
Number One keeps his hands up, slowly backing away.
“There’s a creek about a mile east of here,” Tia offers as he distances himself from our position.
Softie.
“People have destroyed the waterways, bruh,” one of the three says.
True. I take in the trio with a little more notice. They’re about Luke’s age. Instinctively, I tighten my mental reins. I don’t have time for grief, emotions, or anything. Still have a family to protect. That part hasn’t changed. As long as I take breath, it won’t.
“You got filtration?” the quieter of the three asks.
“No,” Tia replies, lying so smoothly it gives me pause.
He gifts us with a final glare. “Come on,” Number One says in disgust, “we keep looking.”
I don’t have to look at Tia to know she gives a neutral face back.
They trudge backward up our one hundred-fifty-foot gravel drive, eyes moving everywhere at once.
I see what they see.
Just two people and a dog, plus one. Larson. A vegetable garden spans the entire length of our log structure. Running narrow, it has a series of raised beds, and at this time of year, everything has nicely germinated into tiny green heads, seeking the intermittent sunshine of our western Washington state location.
It’s almost laughable that we’d fenced the entire thing two years ago to keep out the deer. Now deer are rare because they’ve all been slaughtered.
We still have canned meat left.
After seeing the intruders are nothing more than colored dots in the distance, I allow my eyes to shut for a long second, thinking back to the endless siege of hunting I accomplished when we first arrived at our bolthole property.
Tia had been my helpmate. Literally. We did nothing but field dress game, skin and harvest everything but the hooves, canning it all for months afterward. When we ran out of room inside our house, we dug out a root cellar and, cutting down a few trees on the property, built crude shelving and began to stockpile canning jars grabbed from a lucky raid.
“Roth, my arm’s numb.”
Fuck. “It’s okay, you can relax.”
Turning my head, I take in my wife and son, the familiar fierce feeling of protection swelling inside me.
Gage trots to my side, having just stopped the low melody of growling once the men were no longer in sight.
He nudges his big head against my hand, and I stroke the silky fur. “Good boy,” I say in a low voice.
The stump of his tail wags.
Figure he’s a giant Schnauzer. We don’t know, really. Back in the day, they’d have pegged him as a rescue dog.
We figure he escaped during the collapse and found us by happenstance.
Sometimes, I wonder who rescued who.
Carefully, Tia lowers her shotgun as Lars starts to fuss.
“Gotta get the baby fed.” She has that faraway look.
Dropping my hand from Gage’s head, I walk to her side, swinging my shotgun to my side, tip wide.
I give a little pat to Lars’ dark head, and he gives a dissatisfied snort, blissfully unaware of his parents’ near-miss of violence and concerned only with the empty spot in his stomach.
“Here, let me help.” Setting my shotgun down, I take the straps strangling her shoulders and lift.
Tia ducks, gratefully sliding out from the contraption with a groan of relief. “He’s such a chunk now, probably too big for the baby pack.”
“Feel like we couldn’t have done what needed doing without it.” Another lucky find on one of our many raids.
After setting the lightweight frame directly on the ground, Lars gives another dissatisfied bleat, and Gage walks over, opens his big mouth, and does a long lick of the baby’s jaw to temple.
“Argh!” Lars shouts like an offended pirate.
We laugh, look at each other, then laugh louder.
When we finally gain some control, I say through my gasping, “We’re bad parents, letting Lars starve while we have a laugh at his expense.”
Tia shakes her head, grinning. “Nope. We haven’t laughed like that in…”
We exchange a glance, humor leaking from the moment like a popped balloon.
After a few seconds, I clear my throat and finally finish her thought, “—a long time.”
“Yeah,” Tia answers softly. Bending over, she struggles to extract our chubby ten-month-old son from the baby backpack.
Without fanfare, she sits on the ground, crossing her legs Indian-style. Whipping up her long-sleeved silk undershirt, Tia positions Lars in the general direction of her nipple.
He dives in, beginning to suckle ravenously.
“Yeah, starving,” I say with typical unsurprised sarcasm.
Scanning the area and deciding everything is okay for the moment, Gage being better ears and nose than I’ll ever have, I pull myself up a patch of grass and sit beside my wife and son, watching him feed, shotgun positioned within reach.
A few minutes slide by in the absolute quiet of no buzzing lights, no cars, no planes—no activity from anything that turns on; we’re kept company only by our mental gears grinding without pause.
“Haven’t had any visitors in a long time,” Tia comments quietly.
Visitors is code for intruders, I immediately interpret.
We’ve been living at the investment property I bought ten years ago for almost two years now. Every penny I made went to this trapdoor of an escape. No pension for me. No 401K. I held a different vision, and it was probably the only thing Tia and I had ever argued over since the day we got married.
That’s not an argument anymore.
How many summers did we spend here, using every day of accumulated sick leave and vacation time to cut trees, shave and place logs, and grab appliances from the scratch and dent section of the closest box stores?
A buttload of time.
It’s where I taught Luke how to hunt and fish.
“Suppose there’s been a lot of casualties from the chip.” I pluck a tired blade of grass struggling among all the bright green plunging through the fertile earth.
Tia gives a weary laugh, and Lars shifts, gazing at her with a half-lidded, on-his-way-to-having-a-milk-drunk, gaze.
In the next moment, Lars gives up the fight, arms falling apart and dead, hanging at his sides, but his small mouth continues to suckle.
Tia tenderly pushes inky-colored ringlet curls that sprout everywhere from his forehead. “He nurses when he’s not awake,” she comments with a sort of awe.
“Can’t blame him there,” I say with feeling. Kid’s got the life.
“Perv,” Tia chastises in a voice warmed with love for me.
“Yup,” I answer instantly, eyes still searching the distance where the young men had gone almost an hour ago when what I really want is to see the heat in her expression.
Tia follows my gaze. “Are you worried they’re going to return?”
Some. “No.” My head swings in her direction, considering Tia. She’s changed in the last couple of years. Too lean, for one. She’d had a soft body, curved in all the right places before—exactly what any man would want.
I still want her. Desperately. Even if she is whip-thin now. There’s no conscious choice, no “diet.” With her heavy nursing schedule, coupled with workouts that aren’t from the gym but from nature—Tia’s naturally lost weight and honed down. Food is plentiful, thanks to our early days (and continuance) of hardcore preservation, but the daily chores keep us fit.
The chores of survival.
And there is no indulging in dessert within the parameters of an apocalypse. Or wine. Or a goddamned proper cocktail, I mentally sulk.
I sigh, continuing my earlier thought, “I don’t think they liked our willingness.”
“To kill them,” Tia phrases like a question that’s actually a statement.
“Yeah. They knew we would.”
“We have,” her voice is low and so full of unshed grief the two words hold swollen weight, begging to fall and never land.
“Yes.”
I place my hand on Gage’s head, petting the solid skull beneath my touch. He’s helped our existence, our survival.
“Remember last year when Lars was a newborn?” I recount quietly.
She hears me fine, nodding and not stuttering over which incident I reference for even a moment. “Unforgettable. I was so scared my milk let down.”
I nod, struck that we both circle the one memory. Of all the memories, it's the one of my wife's drenched cami, weird as that is, that remains the singular image above all others. Large circles darkened by breastmilk, her bedside Glock glimmering by dark candlelight as she gripped the weapon in the middle of our fortified entryway.
