AFTER Life: INFERNO (The NEXT Apocalypse Book 1), page 1
AFTER Life: INFERNO
Book One
Robert Chazz Chute
Praise for Robert’s Work
Chute sucks you in from word one and pulls you down his post apocalyptic rabbit hole! You will sleep with the lights on, covers pulled over your head and dust off the old teddy bear for comfort. Horrifically well written and engaging. There are other popular books in this genre, but after reading this there is nothing else that climbs to the heights of Chute's caliber. Chazz ranks among the top tier of our generation's storytellers. ~ Alex Kimmell, Author of The Key to Everything
Robert Chazz Chute is such a skilled spinner of tales that the reader is more than willing to suspend any possible disbelief to go along for the ride. ~ David Pandolfe, author of Jump When Ready
It's not very often one finds a writer with such a dark side that has such a great sense of humor. ~ Glenn Roberts, Amazon reviewer
The author has a definite talent with words and ideas. ~ Love to Read!, Amazon reviewer
His words lift and dance off the page, bringing the story to life. ~ Kindle Customer, Amazon reviewer
The world building is horrifically well done with twists and turns and deceit around every corner. ~ Wanda, Amazon reviewer
RCC blends characters' beliefs & worries concerning society's failures, plus vivid action scenes skillfully. ~ RMerkl, Amazon Reviewer
Nothing but sheer exhaustion could tear my eyes from the captivating dance of words choreographed by Robert Chazz Chute. ~ Halph Staph, Amazon reviewer
Wonderful action constantly holds your interest. ~ Sharon Finn, Amazon reviewer
The complexity and attention to detail throughout absolutely blow me away. ~ Kindle customer, Amazon Reviewer
Very few authors impress me with their actual writing style, it's usually always about the story. But this author paints such beautiful vivid pictures with words that I found myself not only enjoying the story but enjoying the way the words created images in my mind. I know that sounds corny, but it is true. ~ B.H., Amazon reviewer
Chute gives us story worthy of Stephen King. A read both thoughtful and fun. ~ Linda Beer Johnson, Amazon reviewer
The author does an excellent job building the characters and getting you invested and involved. ~ Michele L. Hebert, Amazon reviewer
I just can't say in words what a powerful author this is! ~ Delinda L. Calkins, Amazon reviewer
Robert Chazz Chute writes so skillfully as to make the supernatural seem perfectly logical - and terrifying! There are twists, turns and surprises galore. You will be glad you bought this book - until you lose sleep because you can't put it down. ~ johligo, Amazon reviewer
When I want to read apocalyptic books or zombie stories, those books have to also be extremely well-written and something that I could recommend with zeal and confidence to everyone I know. Robert Chazz Chute's books are exactly that. ~ Mazie Lane, Amazon reviewer
He makes the stuff that is obviously fiction, believable. ~ W. Nickels, Amazon reviewer
I am a lover of paranormal, dystopian novels and depth of story as well as intelligence in writing style, and Robert has it all. Humor, wit, depth, intelligence and an awesome way with words/writing. ~ Amazon Customer, Amazon reviewer
AFTER Life
Inferno
Book One
The NEXT Apocalypse Series
Copyright © 2018 by Robert Chazz Chute
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-927607-47-3
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-927607-46-6
All rights reserved. Address media and rights inquiries and reader correspondence to: expartepress@gmail.com.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Special thanks to Gari Strawn for her excellent editorial services at strawnediting.com.
Cover design by Rocking Book Covers
Created with Vellum
You may also enjoy
This Plague of Days, Omnibus Edition
and
Robot Planet, The Complete Series,
available in ebook and paperback
You will find a link to the AFTERword
and a full listing of books by this author at the end of this book.
Contents
Welcome to Book One
EPISODE 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
EPISODE 2
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
EPISODE 3
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
EPISODE 4
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
EPISODE 5
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Author’s Note
This is the end of Book One
Sneak Peek of Book Two
The action continues in Books Two & Three
AFTERword
Also by this author
About the Author
Welcome to Book One
of AFTER Life
I N F E R N O
EPISODE 1
zombie (noun)
1. A person suffering existential angst or rage and trapped in banality, characterized by despair at interminable suboptimal life conditions and boredom, possibly escalating to violence or self-harm.
2. A ravenous cannibal, usually, though not necessarily, dead; a revenant defying death who hunts for the living to kill and feed or to convert victims to his or her kind. Origin: Voodoo religion; popularized in fiction.
3. A person carrying the Class I or Class II Picasso agent. (See also: AFTER)
~ Notes from NEXT
1
My name is Daniel Harmon. This is my confession.
About a month into my duty on the Emergency Task Force, Steve Taylor told me about the building they called the Box. The way he talked about it sounded like a typical cop story. I told myself there might be a nugget of truth at the story’s root but it was probably surrounded by a healthy dose of exaggeration. I was new to the Toronto Police Service’s ETF and was wary of becoming the gullible noob who got hazed. The only reason I knew there was some truth to it was Taylor made sure I wouldn’t talk to anybody outside the team about any possible mission we’d have there. I treated the Box as if it was a rumor that had gotten out of hand. Then one summer day we got the call.
“Green 32. Code Green 32 to the Box.” It wasn’t the regular dispatcher who gave the order. I recognized the Sergeant-Major’s voice. I’d met her only twice, once when I graduated from training and again when I was interviewed to join the ETF.
As I pulled on Hazardous Materials gear, I asked Frank Barnes about the call. Frank was a sniper in the Forces before joining the ETF. He’d been promoted to Staff Sergeant two years ago. He was one of the older guys but he was friendly in a gruff way. He didn’t look up as he pulled on his blue biohazard suit. “Some of the usual rules of engagement may not apply on this job.”
“The guys told me bits and pieces about the Box. It’s kind of an open secret, sir.”
“Open secret, huh? Supposed to be only one kind of secret. What do you think you know?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t think there was such a thing as a virus lab in a city. I thought they put them a thousand miles from nowhere in the bottom of abandoned salt mines or something. Then, during Hurricane Harvey, I heard there’s a similar lab in Houston. It almost went down during the flood — ”
Frank was more gruff than friendly this time. “We don’t know shit yet and I won’t know shit until I get there. You’ll never know shit, clear?”
“Yessir.”
He looked at me with hard, glassy eyes. “This is the deep water, Danny boy. Just watch my back and I’ll do the heavy lifting.” As Barnes pulled his tac belt around his waist, he moved like a man operating on automatic. His mind was elsewhere. His body was going through the motions. I’d seen him do recon, line up shots and console hostages. He was the kind of guy who wouldn’t panic even as he was drowning. Still, I could tell by his face he wasn’t prepared for Green 32. I’m sure now he never believed the order would ever come.
None of us really believed the rumors about the Box until we were in it. Then it was too late.
On the ride to the scene in the back of the Hazardous Materials truck, there was no chatter among the guys. I found myself revisiting the absurdity of placing a dangerous disease research lab in the middle of a city. If there is ever a hearing about how our disaster unfolded, I suspect it’ll be like the Fukushima nuclear disaster inquiries. Why did they construct a nuclear reactor over a fault line? Why did they build a nuclear plant in a spot vulnerable to tsunamis?
After everything goes bad, answers to those questions are not satisfying. All
Casual about death? Maybe that’s why they’re called casualties.
Maybe they built a viral research center in the middle of Toronto because they couldn’t persuade the best virologists to work in Antarctica. After a hard day sweating in biohazard suits, the nice doctors studying the most dangerous bugs in history wanted to pop over to the Eaton Centre for a frozen yogurt. Perhaps the allure of Philosopher’s Walk over at U of T was too much for them. I love Queen’s Park in the fall, too. All well and good until somebody gets sloppy and breaches Level 4 containment. We knew the Box held the most dangerous viruses in the world. We had no idea it contained the very worst of something new and different.
None of the why of things matters much now. We’re beyond the why and the how. Life’s all about the next meal, finding shelter for the night and not getting bitten. We don’t have a time machine to go back and stop the contagion. Just because it’s too late doesn’t mean we can’t assign blame. The trouble is, I’m to blame for opening Pandora’s Box.
The scientists froze the test tube nightmares in the deepest lab: anthrax, ebola, rabies, various poxes. The rumor was that above the elevator to Level 4 a sign read: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. Somebody had a sense of humor. But it wasn’t entering the Box that caused the end of the world. Getting out was the problem.
Staff Sergeant Barnes once shot a guy who took hostages on a TTC bus on Bay Street. I’d never killed before. I’d had to pull my weapon many times as a beat cop. I’d been in a lot of fights but I’d never killed anyone. I never thought I’d be put in the position of shooting people running at me in lab coats.
Once the regular uniforms had secured the perimeter, we’d go in wearing our biohazard suits. Barnes told us our job was to secure the Box and keep a lid on it. I’d hated training in our blue environmental suits. They were meant for dealing with chemical spills or “other mass casualty scenarios involving biohazards.” They were bulky, the hood was heavy and they were too hot. The canned air strapped to our backs smelled sweet at first, but after a few minutes in the suit, I felt claustrophobic and sweaty.
As we pulled to a stop, I asked the Staff Sergeant, “How do we know who’s infected?”
“Until further notice, assume they all are,” Barnes replied. “I’ll take point and do the interviewing. The rest of you hang back and control the scene.”
The guys on the team threw around the term zombie a lot. They were trying to be funny. I’ve grown up around cops all my life. We all have at least a touch of gallows humor. You have to if you want to try to stay sane for all the shit you see. I’ve seen beaten dogs and dead babies. I’ve seen people in their worst moments doing the worst things imaginable. It was natural to call the infected by the z-word, just like we referred to terrorists as tangos. Killing terrorists was slotting tangos. We used those terms because you don’t want to think of an enemy as a human being suffering any problem you might understand. Dehumanization is necessary to do our job, to stay detached, to be professional. If you got into every sob story, you couldn’t police the offenders. I’ve got weapons of death and torture on my belt. I used to say things like, “I’m a cop, not a social worker.” I said it with pride and a smile.
Things became more complicated after we got in the Box. I wanted to think what happened was the scientists’ own damn fault for working there, for somehow letting the genie out of the bottle. Now, through sleepless nights, I lie very still and wonder how many mistakes led us to the apocalypse.
Barnes told us we could be dealing with a variant of rabies. People could lose their minds. They might run fast or they might walk funny and fall down a lot. They could bite and tear our suits, “compromising our barrier to possible infection.” The infected might have a fever or foam at the mouth. “They might even seem fine at first,” he warned us.
We should have known better. Every civilization falls eventually but this one’s on me. All that death was my fault.
2
The employees who weren’t trapped below Level 1 got out of the Box before we arrived. Witnesses said some ran toward the subway. Others fled into PATH, downtown Toronto’s underground shopping network. The tunnels and walkways spread over thirty kilometers. It is a rabbit warren built so shoppers could avoid Toronto’s punishing winter winds and multiply the number of places to buy expensive things. Each fleeing employee would have to be tracked down. People on the run always run home. Every person they talked to or touched would have to be quarantined and monitored.
On such a beautiful July day, abandoning the sunshine to work underground seemed extra sad. For us, going deep into the Box felt like running into the dragon’s den. Once we arrived, it was as if a clock had been set in motion, its gears and cogs spinning, the numbers counting down to zero.
I’ve replayed that afternoon in my head a hundred different ways. The Box was broken from the start because the incident began with a very loud alarm. The high grating tone pulsed on and on, harsh enough to rattle eardrums. Because of that damn alarm, every scenario ends in the same shit storm. If things had gone a different way, we could have corralled all the lab’s employees in short order. They could have prepared us for what waited for us in the bowels of the complex. We might even have had the wisdom to seal off the building and leave it alone.
We could hear the alarm blaring as we rolled up. Staff Sergeant Gregory “Mac” MacGonigle, the incident commander, waited for us by his truck. We piled out of the back of the Hazardous Materials van ready to roll, respirators ready and comm gear already checked.
Mac didn’t look at us. He spoke only to Staff Sergeant Barnes. “Frank, the people you have to concern yourself with are in the basement levels. Anybody past the front door could be infected and should be dealt with accordingly.”
Our bomb tech, Bob Lundsden, asked Mac, “Do we have the layout of the place, Staff Sergeant?”
“Your team leader has it in his head,” Mac replied. “Follow his lead.”
It was a good question and standard procedure to find out what we were getting ourselves into. The Staff Sergeant brushed it off as if Lundsden had asked if his mom was available for a hot date.
“All you guys need to know is there are four levels: 1, 2, 3, 4. Got it? Your orders are to secure the location.”
The first principle of operational security is to recognize who needs to know what and when they need to know it. I thought at the time that sending us in blind was dumb. It didn’t occur to me my superiors weren’t dumb. Their tactics were calculated.
