Apocalyptia

By J.S. Frankel

Ed Sawyer, seventeen, is one of those ignored types at his school. A nerd hopelessly obsessed with all things cinematic, he lives for his next flick. He’s matched by Linda Usher, a classmate who is also into movies, as well as computer coding and hacking.

On the last day of school before summer vacation, Ed is given a flash drive by a dying man. He sees a code on it, and Linda, for all her genius, can’t decipher it, either. They are soon pursued by not only domestic terrorists—ex-members of the Department of Defense—but also by Russian agents who are after the same thing.

It seems that the creator of the program, Harry Haskins, devised it as the ultimate smart bomb, the ultimate tool for controlling the internet and every single computer program around, including those of defense.

It’s a secret that the wrong people will kill for, and Ed and Linda have to go on the run from those who would capture and kill them—and that includes citizens as well!

Only Linda has the knowledge to prevent such a catastrophe from happening. The only question is whether the duo can remain alive long enough to deliver the goods to the right people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Aug 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781487426460

Book preview

An unreadable code. A secret too big to keep. An idea that people will kill for.

Ed Sawyer, seventeen, is one of those ignored types at his school. A nerd hopelessly obsessed with all things cinematic, he lives for his next flick. He’s matched by Linda Usher, a classmate who is also into movies, as well as computer coding and hacking.

On the last day of school before summer vacation, Ed is given a flash drive by a dying man. He sees a code on it, and Linda, for all her genius, can’t decipher it, either. They are soon pursued by not only domestic terrorists—ex-members of the Department of Defense—but also by Russian agents who are after the same thing.

It seems that the creator of the program, Harry Haskins, devised it as the ultimate smart bomb, the ultimate tool for controlling the internet and every single computer program around, including those of defense.

It’s a secret that the wrong people will kill for, and Ed and Linda have to go on the run from those who would capture and kill them—and that includes citizens as well!

Only Linda has the knowledge to prevent such a catastrophe from happening. The only question is whether the duo can remain alive long enough to deliver the goods to the right people.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Apocalyptia

Copyright © 2020 J.S. Frankel

ISBN: 978-1-4874-2646-0

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

Look for us online at:

www.eXtasybooks.com or www.devinedestinies.com

Smashwords Edition

Apocalyptia

By

J.S. Frankel

Dedication

To my wife, Akiko, and to my children, Kai and Ray, thank you for putting up with my quirks and hogging the computer at all hours. And to—in no particular order—Sara Linnertz, Lolo, Emily Linnertz, Joanne Van Leerdam, Eva Pasco, Toni Kief, Michelle Holstein, Elizabeth Zervos, Julia Blake, and too many more to count, thank you for your support.

A special thanks to Brendan Smith, for his help on computer terms. As well, another huge thanks to my sister, Nancy D. Frankel, for never giving up on me.

Chapter One: Impromptu

Frank Fanner High School. Portland, Oregon. June eleventh, nine AM. Homeroom.

Listen up.

Two important words from our homeroom teacher—since this was the last day of school before summer vacation, everyone stopped talking about their plans and became all ears.

Mr. Randolph—our leader and the teacher who’d put up with countless amounts of crap we tossed at him during the year—nodded his head at the response.

I’m going to call you up one by one so that you can look at your final grades. Thank you for handing in your assignments, and enjoy your summer vacation... those of you not attending summer courses, that is.

The room was so silent and still that a person could hear a pin drop. He could have been announcing the impending beheading of someone who’d betrayed the side of the righteous. Grades meant everything, at least as far as I was concerned.

He’d also mentioned summer. Summer—a six-letter word meaning freedom, which was a seven-letter word. That season had always been my favorite, simply because there were no responsibilities, save reading the English literature novels for the fall semester.

Perhaps because it was the last official day of school, Mr. Randolph felt that he had to toss in that crack about attending summer school.

Ordinarily, he was a quiet, taciturn middle-aged man who taught American History and showed little in the way of emotion.

However, when he spoke, people listened, and a glance around the classroom showed me the impact of his words. It always went two distinct ways.

Way number one—students who’d studied hard and achieved decent grades and who’d also been spared the ignominy of studying and missing their summer fun, they would hold their heads high, so high in fact, that their noses practically touched the ceiling.

Way number two—those who hadn’t studied and those who’d failed a subject or five, and they would have no choice but to attend summer school. I’d seen this pattern many times before. When those unlucky few saw their grades, their heads would hang down, beaten and defeated. Screw summer vacation. Our classmates had already given them a nickname—the ultimate doomed.

Matt Snowden, my seatmate, tapped me on the shoulder, gave everyone the once-over, and he whispered, Ed, you alive or dead on this one? You don’t seem like a candidate for the ultimate doomed.

He always said that after a mid-term test or the finals. Matt was a funny guy, one of the few semi-friends I had in high school. He lived about fifteen minutes away from me, and sometimes he invited me over to play the latest games he had. I wasn’t a gamer, but it did give me a connection to society, something I’d never really worked on.

It wasn’t as though I went out of my way to stay out of social relationships. Not in the slightest. It was just that I was what one would call socially inept.

All right, confession time. I was a nerd. I lived for my movies. I loved all kinds, ranging from the silent movies to the early gangster flicks to the modern-day, zappity-pow superhero CGI fests.

I also lived for books, didn’t care about meeting others, was too blunt at times, and had zero close pals to share things with.

People talked about Asperger’s, and maybe I had it. I wasn’t sure. Even the definition of it varied, as it went along a continuum. Some so-called experts said Einstein may have had it. If so, then I was in good company...

Well?

Matt’s question brought me back to reality. I don’t know. Haven’t gotten the marks yet, remember?

Right. Mr. Randolph, portly, with thinning hair and a pockmarked face, started to call everyone up in alphabetical order. He always wore the same dirty brown suit. Stains and numerous small but noticeable holes in his jacket denoted the extreme age of the material or a lack of care—that—or poverty. Most teachers weren’t rich.

I had no doubt where I’d be this summer. At home, where my books and DVDs and computer were. That was how I’d spent every single summer for the past two years. Before that—that was a different story.

Youth is often wasted on the young, as the saying went. Me, as a kid, sports were cool. I wasn’t great, but I could hold my own. Then came the accident, and that changed everything.

To everyone else, it was a simple bus ride home. Two years ago. Summertime, just after I’d finished watching a movie downtown. The ride home should have been simple, but in my case, it almost meant a one-way ride to oblivion.

Number fifty-three bus waited. I boarded, sat near the window, and we pulled out into traffic. Time to my bus stop—twenty minutes. My mother was making spaghetti that night. Have a good time at the movies, she’d said as I went out the door.

I’ll be back at six-thirty, Mom!

Sure, I would. I’d always made it back in time for dinner—always.

Not today, though, as when we crossed an intersection, a garbage truck came out of nowhere and smashed into us at high speed, just in front of where I was sitting. It was like watching a slow-motion video, with me as the impromptu and unwilling star.

I heard screams, felt myself being hurled out of my seat and against the window, felt the shards of broken glass slam into my face, and felt my legs break. In short, I got mashed.

On a larger scale, the impact of the garbage truck meeting the bus caused it to rocket into another lane, and that was when the scene sped up. More thuds of metal meeting metal. More screams. More blood. I remained conscious long enough to hear someone say, Christ, what a mess!

I thought he was talking about the bus. Wrong. He’d been talking about me.

After that, the fade-to-black thing happened, and then, minutes or hours later, I woke up in the hospital. Casts covered my legs. Everything hurt.

My mother, short and slight and in her early forties with prematurely graying hair, stood off to my right. A tall, reedy guy wearing a white coat stood on my left, holding a clipboard. Doctor—he had to be a doctor.

My mind was foggy, but I heard words about both my legs being broken, a lacerated spinal column, two crushed vertebrae, and blood loss. I’ll have to tell my husband, my mother had said. He’s still at work. Will my son live?

He’ll live, the man in white said. I’ll make the arrangements for rehabilitation. He’ll need it. But he’ll live.

Thank you, doctor.

Yeah, I’d make it. A few voices in the corridor told me that a lot of the passengers hadn’t pulled through. Neither had the driver of the garbage truck. Someone said that he was drunk at the wheel or drugged—or both.

Did it matter? While I wanted to hate him, I couldn’t. Drunk and-or stoned or not, it wasn’t worth it. At least, at the very least, I was alive, and that counted for everything.

Then I passed out, and when I came to, pain full-on and me barely able to move, rehab began...

Mr. Sawyer.

My name. Matt nudged me. Bud, you’re up.

Reality returned, and I’d have to stop zoning out. I raised my head and locked eyes with Mr. Randolph. He had a questioning expression working, so I asked, Yes, sir?

Would you like to see your grades, Mr. Sawyer?

Uh, sure. Hang on.

A few people chuckled, those who’d managed to escape. Those who weren’t among the fortunate few didn’t laugh. They only stared at their desks and said nothing. Doom waited for them, and I didn’t want to join their ranks. I got up slowly, favoring my right leg.

My left leg had healed, but my right leg had a permanent crooked shape to it, bowlegged, like the cowboys of old. It caused me to limp severely.

That, and a questionable spine made sports impossible, although I could still swim. Sometimes I used a cane, but most often, not. Some kids thought me walking with a cane was my version of asking for pity. Nope, not even close.

However, today being the last day of school, I wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me use any kind of support. I was determined to make it on my own.

With a grunt, I moved toward his desk. He swiveled the computer around to show me, and I couldn’t help but smile. Solid A’s in everything, save gym—a D.

Still, euphoria time! I thought about doing a happy dance, but that would have to wait. Thank you, sir, I whispered.

You studied, Mr. Sawyer. Enjoy your summer.

After wheeling around, I forced myself not to grin and limped back to my desk.

Well? Matt asked.

My thumbs went up, and he repeated the gesture. He always got top marks, so he wouldn’t have to worry. Mr. Snowden, the teacher intoned...

School ended at noon. At my locker, I emptied it out and stuffed the books and notebooks in my knapsack. While doing so, I watched the oh-so-happy faces of those kids who were discussing dates, parties, romance, ballgames, and other assorted things. Me, no girlfriend, so dating was out.

Parties? No one had invited me, although they made sure to talk about what a great time they’d have with their friends, always within earshot, and glancing at me to see how I’d react. Screw that. Once again, no way would I give them the satisfaction.

While collecting my stuff, my gaze went to a lone figure a few feet over who was also emptying her locker. Linda Usher. She stood about five-eleven to my five-nine, had a head of braided and beaded dark tresses, and pretty brown eyes that sat atop a snub nose and full lips.

She was gorgeous, if to no one else but me. Everyone considered her to be a first-rate kook or heroine, depending on who told the story. She’d transferred here from another school a few months ago—and she’d been suspended or kicked out from two or three other schools before that, if the rumors were right.

And from what I’d heard—more rumors—she’d gotten into trouble for hacking into her old school’s database in order to change her grades.

Or hacking into various companies and changing their data.

Or hacking into the computers of the rich and famous and sending messages that weren’t overly complimentary. Not that she needed to. She’d done it to prove a point—that she could.

Since then, people had shunned her. It didn’t seem to bother her, though. She attended when she felt like it, rarely spoke to anyone, ate lunch alone, and walked through life as though nothing bothered her...

A crumpled ball of paper hit me in the side of the face. What in the...

It startled me into reality, and I looked at the pitcher—Linda—who asked, Hey, are you staring?

Had I been? It must have been pretty obvious. Okay, call me busted, so, ‘fess-up time. Sorry, just that we, uh, didn’t speak to each other all year, and—

I’ve only been here five months.

Her statement was accompanied by a wry smile. Were you thinking of picking me up, or were you contemplating your summer reads?

Pick her up... my face suddenly felt hot, and it wasn’t from the weather. Oh, uh, no, it’s not that. Just... just that we never got around to talking.

Right, say that and hope she’ll believe you. By now, she had a brilliant smile working, and her white teeth gleamed against her dark skin. It was quite a contrast, and a pretty one, too.

She finished collecting her books, slammed her locker shut, and moved over to stand a foot away. A few other students glanced at us, but considering I was a nerd and she was persona non grata, they couldn’t be bothered. In a challenging tone, she asked, You got a name?

Ed Sawyer. I know your name.

She chuckled. Yeah, after my little stunt, I figured everyone would. So, what are you up to this wonderful holiday season?

What to tell her? That I’d be leading a sedentary life? No, that wasn’t very exciting. How about jetting off to the Riviera?

No, that sounded too snobbish. Find a middle ground. Let’s see. I’ll start by climbing the Swiss Alps, then parachute off the Empire State Building, and maybe I’ll enter a marathon. Nothing I can’t handle.

All right, that wasn’t middle-ground. It was more like extreme bullshit. After my brilliant, semi-pithy comeback, I nodded at her and moved off, trying not to limp. I’d been working on walking normally, but good luck with that. My jerky, twisting gait never changed. It never would, and that pissed me off.

As for my attempt at pith, well, a person had to have dreams, didn’t they? My dreams, at least in terms of being physically normal, had been dashed forever. At the exit, I got halfway out before she called out behind me, Hey, wait up.

I waited as Linda strode over. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to diss your leg. I heard what happened.

News to me. During my stay in the hospital, no one had ever bothered coming around. Oh, the principal had contacted my mother, and Mr. Randolph had called—and they did send the homework for me to do online—but that was as far as it went.

Even after I returned to school wearing braces on my legs and using crutches, no one bothered asking me. Just the way it went, and life went on. Whatever. I’d gotten used to it.

I pivoted around to head out and go back to my world, a world of cinema and make-believe. A hand landed on my shoulder and turned me around—gently. Linda’s face was a foot away from mine, her eyes sober and serious.

Hey, I’m sorry, she repeated, her manner contrite. It’s just that I heard from some of the other students about what happened to you. They didn’t tell me—I listened.

Uh-huh. Well, you’re the first to say anything about it.

Linda cocked her head to one side as if assessing me in a new light. Or maybe she was just cracking her neck. I wasn’t sure which. Well, I’m sorry, anyway. That was number three, right?

I wasn’t keeping track. Right now, I had the feeling that she was the one doing the picking-up thing. Me, I’d only thought about it... but if it was happening, I was all for it.

She continued with, Seriously, what are you doing? I mean, for summer vacation.

I’ll read the books we have to read, do some studying, and watch movies.

A sudden gleam came into her eyes. What genre are you into?

Pretty much everything. Silent flicks, gangster movies, action—

Are you a Robinson or a Cagney fan?

Well, well, someone who appreciated the greats. I put on my best Little Caesar voice. See, it’s like this, kid. You gotta go with the original, see?

She chuckled. Pretty good imitation.

Maybe so. Oh, and I always have popcorn when I watch movies. You have to have popcorn. It’s canon—or something.

A laugh burbled out of her. You like butter or salt?

Both. I like to live dangerously.

Another laugh came from her, and she nodded in affirmation and maybe as a sign of respect. She then twirled a braid of her hair in a gesture that mixed diffidence with coyness. Yeah, me, too. Listen, if you want, uh, maybe we could get together?

A proposition—my first. I wondered why. Maybe she liked popcorn. Sounds good, I answered, trying not to sound too eager.

I dug into my knapsack, took out a pen and a piece of paper, and I scribbled down my phone number and address. I, uh, don’t have a smartphone.

Linda plucked the pen and paper from my hand, tore the paper in half, wrote something down, and handed the paper back to me. She’d written down her number and address. I don’t, either. My mother doesn’t trust me with one. But this’ll do. I’ll call you.

With that, she was gone, and I floated out to the sidewalk. Home was a ten-minute walk away. My mother had told me before I left for school that she’d prepare something for me before she went to work. She had a position at Helpful Hands, a job placement company she’d been working for since I was about ten.

My father had died of a heart attack when I was fifteen, two years ago, shortly after my accident. Of all the pictures I’d seen of him, the one that stood out most was one of him and my mother on their wedding day. It stood above our faux fireplace on the mantle.

Of medium height, he had a crooked grin, a hatchet face, a pair of mild gray eyes and dark hair—traits I’d inherited. In the pic, he seemed very happy.

Happy was a five-letter word I’d grown to be unfamiliar with. My parents had been good together. I never heard them argue, never witnessed a fight, or even so much as a disagreement. They had what the experts called perfect harmony.

Your father was a good man, she’d said to me after the funeral. He was kind, and we had fun together. When he went, it was a shock. It still is.

So much so, that she’d never remarried. We lived in a small house in Portland, ten minutes from my school on foot. The house was bought and paid for, but that was about it. There was no extra money for luxuries.

Then again, I’d never thought about them. I had clothes on my back, enough food to eat, an old but serviceable computer, and a ton