Love and Armageddon

By Rachel Anne Jones

Amy’s summer plans for reading to her heart’s content are forgotten when she receives a finger-on-ice in the mail pointing at the guilty party, a greedy cult leader holding her aunt, Lady Margaret, captive in a doomsday missile silo. Amy gathers a small army and dashes to the rescue; but is she too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Dec 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798886530919

Rachel Anne Jones

I’m a thankful wife of a wonderful and loving husband, and a blessed mom of three amazing children. I'm also a grateful nurse who has the privilege to work with some pretty great people every day.I live in the Flint Hills of Kansas. I enjoy reading and writing in my spare time. I love meandering through bookstores and libraries. I love traveling, especially to the ocean. I love meeting new people and experiencing new places. I love baking in a quiet kitchen.I enjoy watching romantic comedies and I’m a huge fan of “The Office.”I believe a good book is a great opportunity to welcome a new perspective.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I hug the door handle of the off-road vehicle as it flies down the runway at 100 mph with an 11-year-old at the wheel and ask myself—have we all gone insane? Why did I ever think it was a good idea to put my fate in the hands of a preteen boy, even if he is the son of an astrophysicist and knows a buttload about hand grenades, weaponry, and survival?

Handsome Hank sits by my side. His big hand covers almost half my leg like it has so many times before, but things are different between us now—I think. I shove Hank’s hand away just as Austin, my hotter than Hades, stubborn as a jackass, step-brother, who sits on my other side, glares openly at Hank, the hulking lumberjack, over my head. I can’t believe they’re still fighting when we’re seconds away from death. Keep your filthy hands off my step-sister, Hank!

I glance over at Jenni, my best friend. She looks like she’s about to lose her lunch. Her face is as white as a sheet, and that’s saying something. Ordinarily Jenni has a perfect olive complexion, and nothing rattles her, not debate club finals, or the ACT that determines her choice of colleges and the not-so-distance future—if she still has one.

What’s the plan, Simon? Hulking Hank asks the preteen boy wonder with complete and total confidence like it’s insanely normal that Simon should know how to stop a conscienceless cult leader from flying away in a helicopter with everyone’s money and dreams.

Simon clutches the steering wheel. He stares straight ahead, completely zeroed in on his destiny. He shows no signs of slowing down. I’m bringing down that whirlybird.

I choke on his words. Jenni’s eyes are wider than I thought possible. You can’t do that, Simon! You can’t run into the helicopter with all of us in here.

Simon glances in the rearview mirror as the chopper grows bigger than life before our very eyes. Just watch me.

Jenni flies over the seat and wraps an arm around Simon’s neck. He swerves slightly to the side and everyone flies across the seat, except for Jenni who clings to Simon as he tries to shake her. His jaw is open, and his teeth are bared. His foot comes off the gas. The chopper’s blades start spinning.

Faster, Simon! We’re going to lose him! Hank yells in my ear. His voice bounces around the car.

Jenni’s half-sitting on Austin, who has an arm around her waist. Jenni, let go of him before you kill us all! Austin yells. Austin jerks Jenni backwards. She holds onto Simon so tight his head slams into the back of the driver’s seat.

His foot comes off the gas again, and the car swerves wildly to the side. Ouch. Let go of me, Jen-ni! Simon cries as he jerks hard on the arm around his neck, but her terror is stronger than his.

I jam a hand in Jenni’s armpit and squeeze her arm as hard as I can. She jerks her arm down in reflex. Simon jumps forward in the seat and stomps on the gas once more. He aims for the hovering helicopter.

Damn it, Simon! He’s getting away, Hank screams like a madman.

Simon doesn’t even flinch. I know. We don’t have time to grab the oozy in the trunk.

Austin whips around backwards. Are you serious? There’s an oozy back there?!

Simon eyes Austin in the mirror. We have to be prepared.

I stare in wide-eyed incredulity at Simon. For what?

Simon’s face is expressionless. His lips form a flat line. For Armageddon.

ONE

BEFORE ARMAGEDDON - PAINFUL ADMISSIONS

Dear Journal,

Today is the last day of my Senior year. I remain an undatable, unkissed virgin. I have no regrets about this, as I haven’t met a boy who is even remotely interesting enough to consider swapping spit and DNA with. However, where else can you be entirely truthful about the sad facts of your life except in your journal?

Moving past my pathetic nonexistent love life, I would also like to add I graduated at the top of my class with honors as their Valedictorian, meaning I will be giving a graduation speech in the presence of my 428 other classmates as well as their extended family members and honored guests in a building which has the capacity to hold 5,682 people. I’ve checked.

Therefore, it is at this time that I must state my grievance once more over the fact that my mother would not let me join 4-H with my best friend Jenni Lee in the 4 th grade. Had I been raised in 4-H, I’m sure I would have the courage I need to prevent me from having a full-on, Defcon 4 meltdown, complete with the most humiliating blackout that can only be fully appreciated in the presence of a high school graduation audience - standing room only.

As it is, I may have to buy a contraband Xanax from Sheldon, the not-so-secret supplier of little white pills to the entire student body, to keep it together. Sheldon mysteriously remains inconspicuous, despite the fact that he may or may not be 21, and still in high school. Or, I can just rely on my endless supply of white notecards that are as monotonous as my reading inflection, which has never failed to put my audience to sleep within the first five minutes. My best friend, Jenni, tells me I have a soothing voice, but I think she’s just being kind.

These are the facts: I’m eighteen years old. I’m going to be graduating soon. I’ve read a book a week for the past four years, which makes 208 books, which is 49 books short of my reading goal, 257, a major personal disappointment. However, I’ve got this summer to make up the difference, which I intend to do, as I’m pretty sure my mother is giving me the summer off; a grand gesture that is just one more attempt to bribe me into undergoing the great transformation via Olivia’s Salon, which shall miraculously occur before I fly off to Texas Tech, my mother’s alma mater, the very creator of Mary Jane Johnson!, a fact she loves to remind me of quite frequently, to which I reply each time in an equally enthusiastic tone that only irritates her further as did Beatrix Cobb and Hortense Dixon and many other great intellectual women.

I’m excited to attend Texas Tech, home of the one-and-only professor who wrote one of the greatest history books of all time on Native Americans, IMO. However, my mother’s excitement lies in her highest aspiration for me - becoming a member of her former sorority house. I have sneaking suspicions she’s been sending hefty checks for the past four years to them to insure said dreams come true.

While living with a bunch of fashion-conscious divas whose greatest dream is to land a future state senator sounds like my worst nightmare, perhaps living in a sorority house for a few years will make up for the fact that I am not the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, queen of gymnastics, gym-rat buns-of-steel, pom-pom waving beauty queen Texas Cheerleader daughter my mom secretly always wished for.

I am, and always will be, a hazel-eyed, unruly-haired bookworm with nut-brown tresses who has an unforgivable affinity for using unnecessary, and often-times, extensive and outdated vocabulary. My loyalty is forever pledged to Stephen King, who once said Non-readers live one life. Readers live thousands. Until next time, Journal, I remain faithfully yours.

Amy Evalina Smith

TWO

UNCOMPLICATED

Slam! Austin’s home. Heavy footsteps barrel up my stairs. My bedroom door flies open, and 74 inches of nasty-boy sweat and hormones fill my doorframe. Yo, word nerd. Someone’s at the door for you.

I look up from my stack of books lying all around me, my security blanket, thankful I shoved my journal under the mattress before Austin’s prying eyes could see it. I glance up at him again, annoyed at his boy stench that floats across the room to offend my delicate nostrils. Who is it?

I don’t know. Some guy in a hot uniform. He wiggles his eyebrows at me. Maybe you’ll get lucky.

Stepbrothers are so stupid. Shut up, you incorrigible perv. I march past him, slightly curious. "Why didn’t you just bring me the package or whatever."

He levels me with a look. I tried. He says it’s registered mail.

I head downstairs and hug the wall of the door to avoid contact with the collection of mass and matter that is Austin, my temporary stepbrother, who I’ve managed to avoid like the plague, which is kind of like being around Austin. He’s kind of a headache, makes me uncomfortable on every level, and the longer I’m around him, the more I question my mortality. Besides, there’s no point in getting attached. I’m going to college soon. He will go on living his exciting party life and I will continue on with my ordinary existence between bookstores, coffee shops and the occasional WebMD search for my latest medical malady. I march down the stairs with my constant companion in my hand, a book. There’s a guy standing on my doorstep in a FedEx uniform.

Are you Amy Evalina Smith?

Yes.

He looks at me again. I’m going to need to see your ID.

This one statement grates on my last nerve. Now I have to march all the way back upstairs. Are you for real?

He holds his clipboard securely to his chest with one hand, as if I want to see who else’s name is on that list. The other hand remains behind his back. He stares at me like I don’t understand English. Yeah, I’m for real.

Fine. I march back up the stairs and yank my drawer open to pull out my lanyard, and return to my front door. I hold it out to him.

He looks it over once or twice before looking back at me. Satisfied, he shoves the clipboard in my face. If you’ll just sign here, write your address here, and don’t forget the date.

I fill it out and wait impatiently. His other hand comes out from behind his back, and he hands me a fat envelope, which I take. Wordlessly, I start to shut my front door, but he stops me by sticking a foot in like a forced entry in a horror movie. My anxiety level raises just a sconch. I’m about to call for Austin.

Wait. I have more. His boyish tone slows down the onset of my tachycardia. He goes back to his truck and opens a cooler. He hands me a white Styrofoam box. It’s cold to the touch. He looks me in the eye as if waiting for signs of comprehension. Whatever’s in there will keep for the next 24 hours. Then you’ll need to find some place cold to store it.

I give him my favorite sarcastic reply. Gee, thanks.

He flashes a smile. Okay, he’s a little bit hot. Have a nice day, ma’am.

I look him in the eye, although it pains me to have to look up to do it. I hate how my small stature makes me feel inferior. He stares down at me with a hint of humor. How irritating. My pulse changes. What is he waiting for? I sputter through my confusion. You do the same.

I guess that suffices as a dismissal, because he does a sudden spin-turn, worthy of Flashdance. This makes me giggle, which must have been his goal, because he looks back at me with a bold wink.

Someone’s hot breath is on my neck. I swat at him like a pesky mosquito. Shoo, gnat-boy. You smell.

Austin’s response is to blow air in my ear. So gross! I duck sideways to escape his germs and hit my head on the doorframe. I side-eye a chuckling Austin who now has his arms in the air. Gooooaaaalll!

I give him a hard shove. Despicable ingrate.

He raises his eyebrows at me. Ooh, such big words for such a tiny gir-l. He looks down at the box. What you got there?

I slam the front door in annoyance, anxious to carry the mysterious cold box to my room. I wonder what it could be. I lift my chin as I look back at Austin. Your improper use of grammar does not deserve nor constitute an answer. I march past him with my nose in the air.

Someone snores behind me as I walk back upstairs. Am-y. Your intelligence bores me.

I shake off Austin’s comment, but it stings more than I’d like to admit. I close the door to my room and leave the gnat and his insults outside. I grab a nail file from my dresser to cut through the tape on all sides, being careful because I hate how Styrofoam falls apart, leaving unbidden microscopic pieces of white everywhere that stick to everything. I lift the lid and expect to see ice cream or food. The box is full of cubed ice. I dig around in it. There’s a Ziplock bag somewhere near the bottom. With frozen fingers, I pull the bag from the ice. My curiosity builds as I hold it up to the light. A blood-curdling scream escapes me as I drop the bag before I fall to the floor, deadweight.

Austin’s footsteps pound up the stairs and in my head. He throws open the door to my room. "Why are you so loud, Amy?"

I point up at the box on my bed with a shaking finger as if it’s alive. There’s a…there’s a finger in there.

Austin looks at me like I’m speaking Cantonese or something. What? In where?

In the box. There’s a finger in the box. Someone sent me a finger! My loud shrill voice pierces my own eardrums.

Austin eyes me in disbelief. "No freaking way. Who would send you a finger?"

My head’s about to explode. "I have no unearthly idea!"

Austin spies the envelope lying on the floor next to me. Did that come with it? Why is he so calm? I just told him a friggin’ finger came in the mail.

What? My hands shake as I pick up the envelope. I recognize the loopy handwriting. It’s my Aunt Evalina’s. I stare up at the bag in Austin’s hand as he holds it up to the light. I look away before I faint.

This finger has a tattoo on it. It’s like a rose with thorns. Weird. Austin’s deep voice breaks through my fog.

My heart stops for a second at Austin’s words. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. I manage to answer breathily as I stare at Austin’s ear to avoid seeing the bag. I think I know whose finger it is.

Austin’s eyes bug out at me, as he continues to hold the bag up in the light. "You do?"

I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like I’m in a horror movie as I answer him like a Zombie. Yes. It’s Lady Margaret’s.

He sits down on the bed, still holding the Ziplock bag. Who is Lady Margaret, and why would she send you her finger?

I open the padded envelope and dump out the contents. Austin’s eyes get even bigger.

Hol-y crap. That’s a bunch of Benji’s. He pulls one from beneath the rubberband, and holds it up to the light.

I make a face at Austin before shoving the bricks of money back in the envelope. The front door closes downstairs. Great, mom’s home. I look up at Austin and put my finger to my lips and whisper. You can’t tell her any of this. Promise.

Austin’s eyes light up with joy, and he nods his head like a willing conspirator. He drops the finger in the box, puts the lid back on, and shoves it under my bed. He shoves the hundred in his hoodie pocket. I stow the envelope beneath the bed by the box and drop the comforter down just before my mom walks in my room. Hey, Amy. How’s your graduation speech coming?

I point at the pile of books, trying to reorient to the land of pre-UPS-man-dropping-bombs-on-my-doorstep, as I clear my throat. It’s going alright. I’ve just been pulling some of my favorite quotes. You know how I love a good quote.

She crosses her arms. Yes, Amy, I do. Just don’t get too fired up. No political comments, please. Okay? This is your graduation.

I nod my head vigorously. Got it, Mom. I’m Switzerland.

She cocks her head to the side. What?

I shake my head at her naivety. I’m neutral, Mom. No sides here.

She gives me a rewarding smile. Good. Glad to hear it. I don’t know why you can’t speak more plainly.

I answer under my breath. Because that would make me a troglodyte.

Did you say something, Amy? Her words are innocent, but her tone is sharp.

I shake my head again. Nothing important, Mother.

She turns to Austin. Her smile grows. So, Austin. How was weights today? Are you boys ready for another great football season?

Austin clears his throat. I expect we will be.

My mom looks back down at me, and her smile falters slightly. Darn it, Amy. I meant to get you a hair appointment before tomorrow. I thought we’d do some summer highlights and trim off about four inches. I’d like to get a haircut that frames your face. Have you thought any more about contacts?

I paste a smile on my face and hold back my response of possibly having partial Ommetaphobia. I guess I could try them.

Her face brightens at my words. Great. I’ll call the eye doctor and make an appointment.

She exits my doorway, but I hear nothing as she glides away. I hop up. I count the seconds before I rush to my door and shut it quietly. I go to get my envelope, but Austin already has it. I run over to the bed and plop down beside him. I snatch back my letter. I realize this is the first time I’ve had full physical contact with my stepbrother, who I’ve pretty much managed to avoid as much as one can escape an irritating and demanding gnat who buzzes to his own tune, lingers in doorways shamelessly eavesdropping, and constantly meddles in my affairs since he moved into my life nine months, two weeks, and three days ago, but who’s counting.

I open my aunt’s letter with reverence, wondering what in the world could be any kind of explanation for receiving a severed finger in the mail.

My Dearest Amy,

I write you this letter in the strictest of confidences, as I regret to lay such a heavy burden on your young, impressionable heart. However, I’ve managed to land myself in a heap of trouble, and I fear this time there’s no way out. I always worried my riches would be my ruin, and now my worst fears are coming true. I walked into a carefully-laid trap, never once suspecting I was being preyed upon until it was too late. As I write this, I’m certain my end is near. I’ve given too much of my wealth to a heartless predator who, at this very moment, is literally poisoning me. If I can stomach it, I will send you my finger to be tested to point at