The Gryphon Virus

By Chris Strange

The world is changing at an alarming pace, and Graham Sheppard finds himself at the centre of two opposing forces. One is trying to manipulate him, and the other wants him dead. It is a journey to discover what is causing these alterations in time. Testing the divide between illusion and reality, Sheppard will have to rely on old friends and seek out the help of his enemies to solve the mysteries and try to correct a quantum computer corruption known as the Gryphon Virus.

The Gryphon Virus is the sequel to the novel Hijacking Heaven.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Back Bridge Publishing
• Release date: Nov 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780995895034

Book preview

The Gryphon Virus

THE GRYPHON VIRUS

Chris Strange

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the fine men and women who entertain the endless carousel of conspiracy theories and who make life more colourful and thought-provoking by doing so.

Copyright © 2019 by Chris Strange

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or other media.

First Printing: 2019

ISBN 978-0-9958950-3-4

Back Bridge Publishing

212 Beech St. E.

Whitby, Ontario, Canada L1N 3B2

Preface

When writing original material, it seems to me; I always end up running into similar themes somewhere down the line in various media formats. It can be quite frustrating.

I then must remind myself that those ideas to formulate my story came from the same various media formats in the first place. Exploring the research on everything from the Mandela Effect to quantum computers was needed for accuracy, and it is the ubiquitous information available to other nimble fingers also.

It is not me saying there are no original stories left out there to tell, but plainly, there is always room for a tale intriguing, entertaining, heart-pounding, informative or all of those mentioned above. I mean, how many times have you heard the narrative of love and loss, or loyalty followed by betrayal? These are themes woven into the fabric of many plots, in movies, in books, in social media, and I have done my best to fulfill these obligations while advancing the story of characters created in the pre-existing novel, Hijacking Heaven.

As I have stated in previous prefaces, it is not mandatory to read one before the other, but it does help in establishing a preconceived investment in characterization and understanding the Easter egg references to the predecessor. It is a decision I leave up to you, the reader.

Either way—please enjoy.

Chapter I

Michigan State University, Friday, October 11th.

The world ends tomorrow, Moss! Get your head out of your ass and back to reality, Birch said, playfully slapping his friend in the side of the head.

His buddy, Derek Brochette (a.k.a. Moss), jumped up startled and punched into the empty air around him, nearly making contact with his friend.

Jesus, what! he said as he removed his virtual reality headset and tossed it with its controller to the table. It skidded across the faux wood and crashed into a half-filled ashtray coming to rest on an angle like a plane that had skidded beyond the runway.

The world, Birch said triumphantly, it ends tomorrow...or at least that’s how it’s going to feel with the drinking we’re going to do tonight, buddy. He wrapped his anaconda arms around Moss and hung his chin on the fleshy mantle of his friend’s shoulder. "We are going to get so lit!"

Moss shook him off, Man, you fucked up my game. I should end your fucking world right now, ass hat! You scared the shit out of me! Moss rustled his black hair back to the state of organized confusion it had been in before the damped-down mess his VR headset had created. How long had he been gaming—hours probably, judging from the soreness of his back and the strain of his eyes. His friends laughed about it, but it was a wonder he didn’t have moss growing on him with all the time he spent online and in his virtual worlds. He palmed the back of his neck and tilted his head from side-to-side, listening to the cracking of his vertebrate.

Moss had, what they called, the elite life—school all paid for by rich parents who saw him at Thanksgiving, Christmas and not much else. It’s not that they didn’t love him, it was just they loved their freedom and their privileged existence more, and that was fine with him. They weren’t from old money either. Moss had heard the stories of how his parents had made some shrewd investments in the early 2000s and turned a small reserve into a substantial nest egg setting their future up for good. Being of dark skin, yet wealthy, Moss had to endure the endless bullying as he grew up—Did your parents steal the money from some old rich white dude, Moss? Hey terrorist, Al Qaida must pay you well. Say, Brother A-rab, what’s the news with oil futures? Never mind telling them that Brochette was a name of French origin, and his family were third-generation Americans; it all fell on deaf ears.

Moss eyed his friend suspiciously, Who let you in?

Birch wiggled a copy of the door key at him, You did—remember? Come on, Moss, you going to stay in your dorm room all night and slay demons? I texted you almost four hours ago to remind you—It’s almost nine in the PM, my friend. We have to get our drink on; time’s a trash bin of lost opportunity and a glorious all-you-can-eat buffet of pussy out there for the taking. We need to prep our game-face and party hard. Mid-terms start next week, and we should’ve been chill about two hours ago. Birch raised the edge of a pizza box near the bed and scooped up a slice of the pie going on two days old. He bit into it and tore a chunk off and began to chew, making his face scrunch into a mixed bag of disgust and delight. This pepperoni is for shit, bro... I think rigour mortis is setting in.

Moss continued his side-to-side, listening to the xylophone of his spine play its concerto of snaps and cracks. He seemed unresponsive to his friend’s comments, or he heard them and truly didn’t give a shit.

Hey, you coming or not? Birch said gruffly. Chop, chop little man!

Moss looked up at him a little dazed. He moved his hand from the back of his neck and rubbed it over his face and onto his T-shirt stained with pizza sauce, which in turn, dripped down the silk-screen face of Bob Marley looking reflective and making it look like he had a bloody forehead. Yeah, yeah...all right, give me a minute to check my messages. He reached for his phone, selected an app and scrolled down as he flopped into his chair and rocked backward.

Cool. I’m going to use your shitter if you don’t mind, then we’ll dip, but change your shirt at least man, you reek, I wouldn’t even get with you smelling like that, Birch said. Did you even go to class this week...or shower?

You’re annoying as fuck; you know that, mother?

What are friends for?

Moss still had his head buried in his phone and waved his friend away by flipping him off. He grabbed blindly for a half joint and his lighter without looking up from his phone, tweezing them both from the table next to him. He put the rolled weed between pursed lips and lit the end while he sucked in deeply.

Birch turned and marched into the bathroom. Ah, the sweet aroma of God’s tight pucker—better save some of that nasty-ass Kush for latter man. He shoved the pizza slice between his teeth and unzipped, releasing a steady stream into the toilet. When he had finished, he shook off the excess and returned his zipper to the penthouse of his jeans and flushed. He set the slice down on the sink and checked his face in the mirror as he washed his hands. His skin had been a little red the last few weeks making it look as if he had Rosacea, but his shoulder-length, brown hair and dark scruff of beard hid it well. His nose seemed to be the worst hit, standing out like a hillock of poppies under a morning sun. Great, I look like fucking Rudolph, he thought, and we’re not even close to Christmas. His friends said he looked fine, but he knew they were forever trying to move him off subjects they cared nothing for and issues affecting them even less. It was all to deflect to the pursuits of greater interest—like getting shit faced and crushing female ass. They knew he knew their modus operandi, but worse than that, he knew, they knew, he knew. Birch convinced himself the red nose wasn’t so bad and gave him an air of appearing shitfaced in a sober reality while all the lightweights were tossing their cookies into the toilet bowls of the world with a vomiting roar.

Birch looked away from the mirror in mid nose poke, That chick who likes you is going to be at the party—what’s her name...Regena, Regina? He snickered to himself as he scratched the side of his nose, scraping off some loose skin, Vagina? Anyway, signs are favourable if you feel like getting some tonight, bro. Ply her with a little liquid libation, and she’ll be all over you—or if you don’t want her, I could...you know...be your official taste tester if-you-like—make sure she isn’t trying to poison you with pussy. Birch turned back to his reflection and darted his tongue out, wagging it side-to-side like he was stretching for an Olympic event, going for the gold in the Cunnilingus Twenty Minute Dash. He pulled his tongue back between his lips and grinned wide to check his teeth—nothing worse than two-day-old pepperoni between the pearly whites.

Birch repeated himself, "I said: make sure she isn’t trying to poison you with pussy. Come on, Moss, usually you laugh at trill shit like that? Fuck man, are you even listening to me mother fucker?"

Moss didn’t answer.

Birch snatched the remaining crust from the sink and sawed-off another bite. He spoke as he chewed, "Hey man, you there, or did Orcs finally cut your throat, game boy?"

He walked out of the bathroom to an empty room. Moss was nowhere to insight. His phone and lighter sat on the table next to the now smouldering ashtray, a far off burning trash heap in the middle of some arid desert. What, did that shit head vanish into thin air? I said, change your shirt, not run down to H&M to buy a new one. That’s when he saw the open window with the curtains blowing gently in the early evening breeze and heard the first screams from below.

Birch raced to the window and pushed his head through the opening. His hands clutched to the sill like talons feeling the sun-baked paint crumble under his fingernails. Three stories below a light standard washed the ground in artificial daylight casting an eerie glow. Moss’s broken body lay motionless on the concrete at the center of its spotlight, where blood pooled out from his head in a dark halo. Some on-campus raced to his side, some took pictures with their phones flashing in the surrounding darkness like paparazzi, and some screamed out at the horror of what they saw.

Birch found himself mouthing the words, What the fuck? He then raced out of the room and down to the elevator, where he punched the button frantically.

Come on...come on. Fuck this! Birch thrust open the door leading to the stairs. He thundered down the steps as fast as his feet would carry him until he reached the bottom level. With a leap, he sailed over the last four stairs and tackled the outside door with a bang and nearly falling as he stumbled into the outside. He ran panting around the side of the residence. He hurdled over the hedge dividing the building from the sidewalk. His foot caught the top of it, and Birch felt his balance leave him. He put his arms out to brace his fall and keep himself upright, but he fell anyway with a thud, feeling the air pushed out of his lungs in the process. Immediately Birch was back on his feet to try and reach Moss as if time was of the essence, and he had the power to turn back the clock to a few ticks before his friend’s fatal impact.

Finally, he reached the spot where Moss had landed. A larger crowd had now gathered there in a flutter of shocked voices.

Let me through! Let me through goddamn it! With effort, Birch fought his way through to the inner circle around his friend.

At first, he thought he might be hallucinating. It had to be some insane dream where his real friend was still upstairs doing battle with immortals in some virtual kingdom, but there was no denying his eyes. Moss lay unmoving like a sack of laundry, just broken flesh filling out empty clothing like some hideous scarecrow blown over by a high wind. Except this one was attracting more to the scene then repelling.

The crowd continued to grow.

What happened? said one.

I called 911, said another.

To Birch, they sounded like disembodied voices blowing in on the breeze and swirling in and out of comprehension.

Below him, Birch could see Moss’s head twisted to an awkward angle, and the gaping wound in his head still oozed the black wetness of lifeblood. His left eye was still open and bulged out slightly, gazing at everything and nothing. His nose had all but been pulverized to shattered cartilage and leaked two tiny rivers of blood and snot. His mouth was open in a hideous grimace, and his shoulder bone thrust by the force of his fall to the middle of his back. His arm, like the hand of a clock, pointed to nine. His legs crossed slightly at the ankles and the only part of his friend seemingly close to normal. He looked as if he had made no attempt what-so-ever to break his fall.

He just crawled out the window and belly-flopped into the afterlife. But why would he do that? He seemed so normal, so easy going with his whole life ahead of him and everything at his fingertips, he seemed so Moss. Why would he jump to his death?

Sirens warbled in the distance and now accompanied the mummer of the confused individuals who had gathered around the body. People started looking skyward and pointing joined by screams and gasps of horror. Birch gazed up to join them, only to see more people jumping from the upper windows and rooftops of the dorms all around them. It was as if they were trying to escape the flames of a building on fire, except there wasn’t any.

Bodies were hitting the pavement all around him now. Some burst open like they were spring-loaded piñatas releasing a sprinkler spray of blood, others landed in twisted heaps of mangled flesh and jagged fragments of bone with oil wells blood gushing up under them.

It was crystal clear to Birch as it was to everyone else there who witnessed it, this was no random event.

Chapter II

Bliss Landing, British Columbia, Saturday, October 26th

Graham Sheppard sipped his morning coffee from the solid comfort of an Adirondack chair on the back deck. He looked out over the water to the rocky shoreline and trees lush with life on West Redonda and Cortes Island. They were merely a ridge rising out of the water to form a distant outline and its mirrored reflection, but visibly clear this morning. Ribbons of rock lined the shoreline with black, auburn and gold formations occasionally kissed by the white foamed froth of the water’s edge. Majestic hills rolled in from behind in a haze of mystery with just enough definition to accentuate where the land ended, and the sky began; it was incredible in its beauty and almost prehistoric in appearance.

It seemed unseasonably warm for this time of the year (jeans and a sweatshirt sufficed to keep the chill at bay), and Sheppard thought it might be an environmental anomaly he would have studied in his past life as Dr. Robert Forder. But was his life now so bad? He had everything he needed, food, accommodation (however rustic), and shelter from the constant communication with the outside world; he had no cell phone, no computer, and no television—for all intents and purposes, totally disconnected. Graham Sheppard had peace and peace was not just what was needed most; it was craved.

A solitary loon called from across the water and the mist, evident in the coolness of the early morning, had dissolved into wisps to be blown away on a phantom breeze. The water now sparkled like a bed of diamonds and offered a strange tranquillity as Sheppard watched two kayakers in the distance scratch through the waves with their orange life vests in contrast to the colour of their vessels. Somewhere someone was burning underbrush, and the scent was sweet-smelling and serene. Sheppard had grown accustomed to this vast living canvass on the edge of anonymity.

He had enjoyed his time near Desolation Sound, quiet and unobtrusive, but something inside him tugged away at his subconscious mind with ethereal fingers; it gnawed like a rodent chewing the hell out of the wooded studs on the other side of his mind’s drywall. It paraded the doubt and paranoia with underlying palpable fear, and he knew he would soon be on the move again.

He rubbed at his right shoulder as if an old pain had awakened there, a ghostly imprint of a time years ago and barely within remembrance when his life had been more complex.

He had lived in many places since he had crossed the border north from Montana seven years ago. He had worked here and there for cash and with the assistance of others. His friend Marty Stevenson had been most charitable helping him out when he could. Marty had allowed him to live in his cabin in Oregon for a short time, while he had carried on his crusade, in secret, to expose the truth about what they had called the Montana Massacre. But when things had become too hot, Marty had found him a small rental near Lake Louise for six months, and Sheppard had fled the country once again under his alias.

From there he had bounced around the Canadian interior of British Columbia—Prince George, Vernon, Whistler—always moving and staying off the grid as much as possible while his dark hair grew longer and his beard fuller—both were now dusted with shocks of grey as the effects of middle age finally took hold.

It had all served to cover his past and give way to a present where only a few (if any) ever knew where he was. Outside of the odd letter from Marty, brought to him from a Post Office box in Powell River by a neighbour who also delivered a bi-weekly care package of groceries, he rarely had contact with others.

Sheppard had heard of a place called Pleasant Camp, four hours outside of Whitehorse in the Yukon. There were only twenty-five-or-so people who lived in the area and the winters there were severe enough he would be cut off from civilization for months at a time. There he could stay for an extended period like a hermit to the end of his days—safe, secure, unnoticed. It sounds like the perfect place for me, at least until cabin fever sets in, he had thought.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, but the growing grumble of tires on gravel invaded his tranquillity and brought him back to a state of cat-like awareness. Sheppard bolted to his feet and quickly headed around the side of the cabin near a woodpile waiting patiently for cold nights and winter months. With his body pasted to the side of the logged exterior, his eyes peeked cautiously around the corner. From his vantage point, he could see a black limousine snake its way along the coastal road heading north. Its opaque windows twinkled in the sun as the light flickered off metal and chrome.

Just keep driving. Just keep driving.

Regardless of Sheppard’s mantra, the car slowed to a crawl and sluggishly turned into his driveway. It rolled forward until it came to a full stop twenty feet from his front door, followed by a cloud of dirt and dust devouring the vehicle like an approaching sand storm. Sheppard stood unmoving, maintaining his vigilance out of sight from the corner of the cabin as it did so.

A man in his early thirties emerged from the driver's side once the debris cleared. He was dark-skinned, wide at the shoulders, over six feet tall, bald and dressed in a dark blue suit with an equally dark tie cleaving the white of his shirt in two. Black sunglasses shielded his eyes, and his mouth was a flat line of seriousness. Sheppard was certain, despite the man’s size, his ability to move quickly would not be called into question if the need presented itself. 

The driver now paused by a rear door and opened it for another man, more diminutive in size and advanced in age, who stepped out into the sun. He looked to the heavens as if awaiting a sign from God before he made any further movement.

This new man had a sheath of white hair combed straight back like the crest of a wave with every hair astringently in place. He had eyebrows black and as thick as two crow’s nests and pale features contained within a well-defined jawline, cleanly shaven, but deep blue eyes that seemed empathetic, yet wise. He too was dressed in a dark suit, yet he had a sky-blue tie speckled with gold and dark, blue flecks. He reminded Sheppard of Marty Stevenson and that late fifties professor-look that he rocked so well.

The two surveyed their surroundings as Sheppard looked on from his protected corner of the cabin. Too late to get my gun, he thought. So he reached down for the axe next to the woodpile. Its handle felt smooth and cool in his calloused hand as he wrapped his fingers around it. His arm slightly trembled as he picked up the tool (weapon). He stepped from his hidden security and exposed himself to the men with the axe resting across both hands at his waist as he stood with his legs planted solidly in an inverted V.

After a moment of careful observation, the older man held up a hand to the driver, motioning him to stay. He then approached Sheppard without his bodyguard. Dr. Forder, I presume, or do you prefer to be called Sheppard? he said with a sly smile. You tell me.

Sheppard studied the man for a long while before deciding to come right to the point, Are you here to kill me?

If I were, you’d be dead already....wouldn’t you agree?

Who sent you?

May I come inside and talk to you?

Sheppard stood silent and still as a statue carved of marble; his brow furrowed and his face tense.

It’s about a matter of extreme urgency, the man said, trying to sweeten the pot, but Sheppard remained steadfast. The man’s eyes pleaded as he spoke again, "Inside...please...and you can stand down, there’s no need for the axe, I am unarmed." He opened his suit jacket like a peacock exposing its plume to prove his point. There was no sign of any weapon.

Sheppard glanced at the other man, still standing by the car.

The smaller, older man noticing his uneasiness spoke, Just you and I...one on one. You have my word. My associate will remain here.

Sheppard paused for a moment longer then reluctantly extended his arm toward the door. The two entered with Sheppard following. He brought the axe with him anyway. The driver remained outside next to the limousine as instructed. He looked like a human monolith—tall, straight, devoid of emotion.

The light danced through the windows and created the warmth of comfort to the surroundings. A simple kitchen table sat near a window beyond a small nook with an old cast-iron, wood stove. Beside it, a pantry and a row of wooden cupboards brooded over a small countertop littered with a tree of mugs and a few plates speckled with crumbs. Beyond the table was a small living area with a ragged couch of burgundy and a faded, brown armchair separated by two end tables of oak with kerosene, lantern sentries on both. A small, iron, wood-fed furnace completed the triangle of calmness. It sat next to a cord of firewood and kindling snuggled in a brass holder. Beyond the furnishings, an open staircase hugged the far wall leading to the pale light of an upper level. The logged walls were strangely devoid of any pictures, both generic and personal. The cabin was neat and pristine as if barely lived in, although Sheppard had been