Zero

By W. H. Beswick

I thought my life pretty much sucked. A senior in high school not one date. Being six feet with angry red curls and face full of freckles. Need I say more? Then the aliens showed up. Turns out the genius in the wheelchair was right. It didn’t go well for us. Oh first they were all friendly and we are here to help. Then the wars came. Billions died. Then the virus. It killed everyone. Well, not everyone. I survived but not without some noticeable changes in body. Not sure if these changes are bad news/good news yet. The wars still rage on but the powers that be haven’t forgotten about me. It seems everyone wants me as a lab rat or dead. In a nutshell. It sucks to be me. Please don’t call me Zero. My name is Reggan Sobe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W. H. Beswick
• Release date: Apr 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310969324

W. H. Beswick

Lives in Corvallis Oregon

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Everyone thinks they know me. Nobody knows me. Not anymore. The girl I was three months ago is long gone. Dead and buried. I would send out a twitter if I still had a phone.

The person I am now is lying in cold snow using a fallen log for cover. Her jeans are getting soaked. The jeans were meant to be cool and comfortable. Definitely cool but not comfortable. Don’t care. Actually I do care, but I still can’t move. Thank God my Thermobal boots and North Face jacket are waterproof and insulated. So upper body and feet are nice and toasty. Lower not so much.

You may ask why I am lying in the snow behind a log. Well, the log is perfect cover and keeps the barrel of my rifle steady. My eye is pressed against the scope watching the thick trees across the clearing.

At this range with my new and improved eyes I really don’t need a scope but you can’t be too careful.

Perfect cover from the guy or alien tracking me. Of course the trail I left a blind man could follow. I haven’t seen him yet but I could feel him and the little voice in my head that has become my best friend tells me he is there. All things considered: There is always someone or something there. I am probably the most stalked seventeen year old girl in the world, maybe in history. Oh wow, just remembered not much of the world is left. Push that depressing thought aside.

It has been almost an hour and I am hoping this guy or thing has moved on. I am just considering getting up when he steps out into the clearing.

Dude, you are wearing green when everything around you, including the ground, is white. Did you not take or did you just fail the class on camouflage?

I steady my rifle, take a deep breath and hold it. I adjust my scope so his head is right in my crosshairs. A little over a month ago I always went for the body shot. Now it is always a head shot. Been getting a lot of practice. It would be easier if he were an alien.

Bigger head.

My target is bending down and studying the trail like it is not obvious that someone ran across the clearing. Has it hit your brain yet that this may be a trap?

He is looking up.

Damn. He’s cute.

I can see his baby blue eyes, nice nose and his lips that seem to curve up in a really cute smile. You know that kind of smile a boy gives you to let you know that he is more than interested. The correct response, or so I am told, is to giggle, toss my hair back, creating something called the ‘hair flip’.

Sadly never had the chance to use it.

He’s standing up now. I can see the doubt in his face.

Yes, the lightbulb is going off inside that cute little head of his.

Trap. Walk away. This is not your typical seventeen year old girl. Like I would know what a typical teenage girl acted like any more. Did I ever? I definitely didn’t know back when it was just us screwing up the world.

Yes!

He’s turning and going back into the woods. Yes, pretty boy, walk away. Walk back to your life. Hook up with your friends if you have any friends left. Maybe you still have family. Mom, dad, an annoying little sister or brother. Funny. Never had a sister or brother. Now I wish I had. I had a mom and dad. Everyone did. Now most people are gone. Maybe you are one of the lucky ones. You still have family and friends.

Probably not or you wouldn’t be here in the woods dressed in army-green standing out like a sore thumb hunting a girl that they told you was the enemy.

They fed you the line and like anyone else you believed it. Kill this girl and you will save the world. Not a problem. She’s just a seventeen year old kid.

A seventeen year that has a rifle trained on your head.

A smile creeps across my face. Now a days those are rare. My really cute guy is turning around and walking back into the woods. I am thinking I can get up and change into some jeans that aren’t soaked with snow. Maybe even make some coffee. I whisper a good bye and give him a good look over the barrel of my rifle.

Today is going to be a good.

NO!

Cute guy is stopping and looking over his shoulder.

NO! NO! NO!

Be smart. Be smart. Walk away.

I can see the resolve in his face before he turns. He is a man on a mission. Probably believes in that crap about a man has to do what a man has to do.

I put my eye back on the scope, let out my breath and take in another one.

Hold it. Hold it. Squeeze. Don’t pull. You and your rifle are one.

The little voice in my head says you have to do it.

Just once I wish that voice was wrong.

I hesitate or wait until the cute guy is right in the middle of the clearing.

Easy shot.

I have to blink my eyes because tears fill them. They run down my cheeks. I put my eye back to the scope and notice the rifle he is carrying.

It is a really nice one. Looks like it might have night vision. Be still, my heart. Could that be a Remington 700?

Sweet. I could use that.

Very sad that I know this and want it.

Cute guy has stopped. He looks up. The smile is gone. His pretty blue eyes widen. He knows. Too late. He knows. The fear fills his cute face.

I still haven’t squeezed the trigger. A small part of me is hoping he will run. If he runs I will let him go.

Yes, run cute guy. It is your lucky day. Run. Run. Run like a rabbit.

He doesn’t run. He brings up his really nice rifle, dropping to the ground as he does so. He is trying for the shot. Does he even know where I am?

Doesn’t matter.

I squeeze the trigger. The muffled shot sends some crows flying into the air. I don’t move. I wait. As I wait I blink away the tears streaming down my face.

For the millionth time I tell myself it was him or me.

This is the world I live in. I weep for the young man I just killed but am already thinking about the Remington 700 I just got.

CHAPTER 1

I hate my hair. I really do. Thick waves of red curls sprouting out of my head like some evil monster determined to ruin my life. A monster that is immune to any amount of brushing, combing, and yes, chemicals.

Really, it’s true!

I went to a hair salon. I told them I wanted the curls out and the red less dramatic. Something like a soft sunset with just the hint of some blonde instead of a blazing mass of red curls and frizz.

The stylist’s response?

Ain¬’t going to happen, honey. Nothing is going to take out these curls. I would have to use such a super strong straightener it would it probably burn your hair right off, and trust me. That would not be a good look for you.

Fine! I snapped, looking back at her, mustering all my anger into one powerful evil glare. Which really wasn’t that much. My evil glares had no effect on anyone, not even my now deceased hamster.

Yes, I had a hamster. Killed in a tragic accident. No, I don’t want to talk about it.

Cut it off.

Oh sweetie, that would be a big mistake. You don’t want to do that. You haven’t got the face for short hair.

CUT IT! I snapped, thinking what did she know? She didn’t have to live with this hair that had a mind of its own.

Turns out she did know a thing or two about hair. With the long red locks gone my head now looked too big for my shoulders. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My head looked huge. I mean really massively big.

Watermelon big!

Which was pretty amazing since I was six feet tall. That’s right, sixteen years old and one of the tallest people in my high school, including most of the basketball team. Of course the raging mop on my head gives me two, sometimes three more inches of unwanted height.

For the record, I live in a small college town, so my high school is not that big.

Still! You know how many guys will ask a girl out that is in most cases a good head taller than them?

ZERO!

Mom says not to worry about it. By the time I get to college I will be beating the guys off with a stick.

Gee mom, thanks for that image now permanently implanted in my brain.

Dad tries to say things will get better.

Why do parents tell you that? Gee honey, I know your life really sucks right now but it will get better. How will things get better? Will this hair suddenly turn into silky blonde locks that fall in perfect waves to my shoulders? Will I stop being freakishly tall? Oh yes, let’s not forget the freckles.

Grandma said they are angel kisses. If that is true then a bunch of horny angels had a major make out session on my face. Thank you, God!

Fortunately my hair grows like a weed so I only have to suffer the big head humiliation for a couple of months.

I am standing in my bedroom, which still has the hideous pink walls that I had selected at the age of five, complete with a purple unicorn. I have pointed out to my parents that I am no longer five and nothing against unicorns, but I have outgrown them. I have been making this request since I was twelve. My father always says, This weekend, honey, unless something comes up.

Four years. Four years and still the walls remain pink. Every night when my head hits the pillow I am staring into the face of a unicorn with a smile that mocks me. I tried putting a poster over its head but it just made Harry Styles look like some kind of strange centaur.

Creepy. I took it down.

Besides, I’m over him.

As I was saying I was in my room looking at my almost naked body in the full length mirror that my mother had put up. Yes, that is what I need for my self-image. A life size reflection to remind me that my legs are too long, my hips too wide and well…my breasts are okay. I mean they match.

Sally Rooker isn’t so lucky. It is so obvious that one of her boobs is bigger than the other one. The big mystery is why she doesn’t get it fixed. Her dad is a doctor. Maybe not that kind of doctor but he must know other doctors. Don’t they all hang out at the golf course or something?

Done with the daily self-evaluation for the morning. I moved over to my closet. My wardrobe is nothing to brag about. Why, you may ask? Turns out that there are not many teenage girls of my height in the world. Which means my fashion choices are limited.

No, almost nonexistent.

So I get to shop in the women’s department. Yes, there are mothers around who are dressing like teenagers.

For the record. They shouldn’t be doing that. It is just wrong.

So my wardrobe consists of mostly jeans, pants, a few dresses and no skirts. Skirts for some reason make my butt look big. My jeans are blue, black and never white. The big butt thing again.

I opted for black jeans, red blouse and red sneakers. Run my fingers through my hair and then shake it.

Done.

Now I just have to get focused for the first day of school. This is my senior year.

Yes, I am sixteen and graduating.

Apparently I am almost gifted. What does that mean? Almost gifted. You are almost a genius but not quite. Sorry, no prize for you. Almost doesn’t make the grade.

Because I was almost gifted I skipped two grades. They were going for a third when I realized that being the youngest and shortest person in class was not a good thing. I told them I am staying put.

Oh, the growth spurt happened a year later, resulting in me becoming the tallest but still youngest student in my class. No, scratch that. The school.

I took a series of tests. At the end of the test a group of doctors once again informed me that I was almost gifted. Apparently, I had what they called an analytical mind, with high points in the sciences and was able to adapt to new situations. I had a talent to figure out how things worked. They recommended a career in engineering.

Nice to know, but it still wasn’t going to get me a date with Thomas Lane. The cutest guy and captain of the basketball team. I could say that he doesn’t know I exist but how could he not notice the giant girl with bright red curls walking down the hallway towering over the other girls.

Get a move on honey, you don’t want to be late on your first day as a senior, my mom yelled through the doors. Do you want an Eggo or Pop Tart?

I don’t know mom! I yelled back. Surprise me!

What I needed was coffee, but mom, who was still stuck in the Stone Age, thought I was too young to drink coffee.

Geez! Everyone drinks coffee! Sorry Mom, an Eggo and glass of orange juice is not going to get me through the History of the United States and Calculus.

I need caffeine for that. Major caffeine.

Dad in one of his rare moments of genius bought me several gift cards for coffee shops around town.

There may be hope for him yet.

I grabbed my purse, backpack, and went out to face the world, unaware that just after fourth period the world was about to change in a major way. Since I also live on this planet, my life was about to change too.

Once again. Thank you, God.

CHAPTER 2

My name is, if you are taking notes, Reggan Sobe. Yes. Just like the drink. Surprise me by not making a joke that I haven’t heard.

Hey Sobe can you hook me up with something sweet?

Hey Sobe I hear you’re best served cold maybe I can warm you up.

Sobe, shake it before using.

Gross.

I live in Cornwall, Oregon. The home of Oregon Tech University. At this point I am supposed to say Go Fighting Otters.

Really?

The best mascot a major university can come up with was an otter? They are just too cute. My friend Ellie says it is better than a beaver or duck. She is convinced in a fight the otter would come out on top. Sharp teeth and claws. Ellie also says if a beaver attacks she can out run it. If a duck attacks she is thinking dinner. She hunts.

Don’t judge. This is Oregon. We hunt for food but we definitely don’t shoot famous lions or cute giraffes.

At least my school came up with a mascot that makes sense. A Spartan is so much cooler than a beaver. Who hasn’t seen the movie with the almost naked guys running around killing everyone?

Now that is a mascot.

It does get confusing because we are not the only school in Oregon with the Spartans as a mascot. There is an ongoing rivalry on who were the first Spartans.

Not that I really care. I only go to the games because my friend Trisha is on the cheerleading squad. Yes, she is a fashionista. Every hair in place. Clothes and makeup always perfect. She is just the right height. Tall enough to look into a boy’s eyes but not tall enough to intimidate. She has a wonderful laugh and smile that turns any guy into putty.

More on Trisha later or you can go to her Facebook page. She updates every day, actually several times a day. So do I, but that’s more to check out who is hating on who. As long as my name doesn’t come up I am a happy camper.

I am also on the volleyball and basketball team, not because I am so athletic. I am just taller than everyone on the teams. Gives me the edge for blocking and spiking. One time I spiked a ball right into the face of another girl. She just flew back onto the floor. Before I knew it I was kneeling right next to her telling her how sorry I was. My coach starts yelling at me because the game is still going.

Like I care? I just almost killed someone! OMG! We won the game, but she still yelled at me after. GAL.

The other problem with living here is red and purple can actually be a fashion statement here. OTU School colors are still better than yellow and green. I wear the purple but not the red. Once again. Redhead. Thank God it isn’t orange. Wearing orange is not ever going to happen.

I head down to the kitchen where my dad is reading the newspaper. The actual newspaper. Delivered to our house. He could read it online. For free. He is so old school. He