A Dead New World: The 11:11 Series, #1

By Raven Rollins and Rick Rollins

When the world falls apart, what will be important in your life? Will you give up and die, or will you fight against all odds to protect what is most valuable to you? In this series, we follow the viewpoints of two characters who could not be more violently different: Alan Hawthorne, CFO of a Fortune 500 company in Los Angeles, and Alexis Jackson, Veterinarian for a small Texas town as they both struggle through the beginning of the zombie apocalypse. As fate brings these two together, they struggle through the reality of loss, the terror of the undead, and the failing humanity of the remaining survivors. The chaos of the city outbreak and the quiet unknown of the country wilderness bring different perspectives to these unlikely heroes, and they cling to the hope that humanity can prevail over a great darkness. As the sun sets on life as they knew it, these two opposites must find common ground to push back the hordes of zombies, stave off the depravity of a lawless wasteland, gather the shattered remnants of their former lives, and carve a place for themselves in this dead new world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Sirens Network
• Release date: Nov 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9798223723080

Book preview

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Copyright © 2012 by Raven Rollins, Rick Rollins, The Sirens Network

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact The Sirens Network at [e-mail].

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Raven Rollins

Third Edition 2024

Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Quote

1.ONE

2.TWO

3.THREE

4.FOUR

5.FIVE

6.SIX

7.SEVEN

8.EIGHT

9.NINE

10.TEN

11.11:11

12.TWELVE

13.THIRTEEN

14.FOURTEEN

15.FIFTEEN

16.SIXTEEN

17.SEVENTEEN

18.EIGHTEEN

19.NINETEEN

20.THE BOOK OF DAN LYNCH

21.PART ONE

22.PART TWO

23.PART THREE

24.PART FOUR

About the Authors

Other Works

Acknowledgements

Rick & Raven would like to thank everyone who doubted this would happen for being an excellent group of motivators towards its creation. They would also like to thank all their friends and family who tirelessly read and re-read chapters during the editing process, and the non-existent Academy they never attended and will never win an award from.

To their parents, whom, without them, this book would have never been read. Also, thank you to Robin and Ira, who took the time to help with the editing of this book and gave them a push in the right direction.

They would also like to thank YOU, for buying with such great taste. Cheers.

For my beautiful wife, without her support, this would just be another of my many wasted talents. -Rick

For my incredible husband. Without him, I would have nothing except my sanity. -Raven

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that, in the process, he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

ONE

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ALAN

Some things are so annoying they make you wish the world would end; like being awakened by an irritating flight attendant, for example.

Thank you, passengers, we will be landing at Dallas Fort-Worth International in about twenty minutes, and the Captain will be turning on the seat belt sign soon. Please place your tray tables in their locked and upright position. Thank you for flying with us. The nasally flight attendant’s voice pierced my ear sharply and roused me from the comfortable down pillow provided with my first-class ticket. I grumbled discontentedly and wiped the drool from the corners of my mouth with the napkin under my empty scotch glass, then handed them both to Ms. Nasally Voice and dismissed her with a wave. I pulled out my Blackberry to check my e-mail. The Gadget Nazi would demand I turn it off soon. Loading...loading..., Jesus, how did people with 256K modems get through life without blowing their brains out? No one has that kind of time anymore, especially not me, Alan Hawthorne, the CFO of a Fortune 500 software company called TeraMax. We design software for unmanned drones and satellites for the military and create custom PC parts for the everyday consumer to upgrade his constantly outdated desktop. Alan Hawthorne, CFO, waits on nothing and no one. Everything and almost everyone waits on Alan Hawthorne, CFO. Well, except for his outdated Blackberry, apparently.

Loading...Loading...Loading...I swear to God. The screen flickered, and my e-mail appeared, finally. I rolled my eyes and began to read the first subject line, entitled Read This Now, Urgent c/o David my CEO, when the Gadget Nazi’s cheap perfume overwhelmed my nostrils, and drew my attention to her face, now mere inches from my own. Her fake smile beamed, and with a condescending tone in full swing, she said, Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to turn off your cell phone. The signal...

Interferes with the flight controls. I know, I retorted, My company designed this plane’s flight software. Why do you think I’m in first class?

Thank you for that, sir. And I apologize for the inconvenience. That e-mail looked important, she said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable as her fake smile became so bright it almost blinded me. I glared back at her as she turned and went about her duties, still cranky from her scratchy awful voice waking me up. L. A. to Dallas, a seven-hour flight, landing at 7:00 a.m. CST. What demon thought of this itinerary? Oh, that’s right, my boss, David Maxwell, whose e-mail festered in my dormant cell phone, probably with critical information regarding my meeting to oversee and approve an enormous million-dollar merger between TeraMax and DynaGlobe, our largest software rival. I grabbed the Gadget Nazi’s attention.

Do I still have time to use the bathroom, or will my falling piss affect the Captain’s concentration? I asked, devoid of all emotion but strife.

The lavatory is located at the front of the first class cabin, sir, she sighed and stepped to the side so I could pass. Good thing, because if the scent of that hooker perfume bled into my suit I would have been pissed. I stepped into the restroom, much larger than the closet in coach would be, and lifted the toilet lid. Relieving myself, I turned my gaze up to the mirror above the urinal. There, staring back at me, was a pillar of modern achievement with piercingly beautiful ice-blue eyes. Dashing, handsome, and with perfect skin, grinned back at a man with a $40,000 smile, literally. My perfect teeth could warn boats of dangerous reefs at night if I stood under a full moon.

My all-business haircut only costs me $400 a visit, and I go once a week. It’s entirely worth it. My hairline looks youthful and stylish, and my natural black color is still vivid. Why shouldn’t it be? I’m only 32, after all, and you could see my rippling shoulder muscles bulge under my tailored suit coat. I finished, and the infrared sensor on top of the toilet flushed my pee out into the atmosphere. Come to think of it, even my pee was expensive since all I had to drink between night and that morning was half a bottle of 1939 Macallan Scotch and a glass of water, and since the scotch was a $10,000 bottle, that means I just literally pissed away five grand. Not that something like that would be a problem (since I make roughly eight hundred thousand a year), but the scotch was a special occasion. As of today, I had intended to pretty much monopolize our industry. A rap at the door interrupted my self-admiration session, and I wondered who it could be. A familiar nasally voice was muffled by the door’s insulation.

Sir, the Captain has advised all passengers to return to their seats and fasten their seat belts.

Thank you, I grunted disapprovingly, and wondered how much influence my name would have with this airline’s senior staff concerning help for a certain annoying stewardess find her way to the unemployment line. I exited the bathroom and made my way back to my seat, taking care to read Charlotte’s name tag as she stood guard outside the bathroom door. She blocked any passage except back to 3B, where my pillow had magically disappeared. I smiled. She smiled back.

The unloading process was much faster than loading had been at L.A. International, and I fumbled through security easily enough, only to find myself next to two familiar faces from back in L.A. My private sector security guards Garret and Tyler, or Thunder and Lightning, as I called them, were clad in stereotypical black suits and sunglasses. Garret was Thunder, African American, and standing 6'5", weighing in at over 325lbs, the man, a mongoloid, and looked like his primary means of defense would be to simply eat anyone that ever attacked me. Tyler was Lightning, and I had never seen anyone so fast in my entire life. The considerably smaller white ex-marine once disarmed a man who was holding a wine corkscrew and an open bottle in a bare second and never spilled a drop of the wine when he sat it on the table and zip-tied the man’s arms behind his back; all while he straddled the man’s prone body. They were my dual shadows, and I wasn’t allowed to walk in public without them. In fact, I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without them. The only reason they weren’t on the plane with me is because they had left from the airport in L.A. on a different plane so they could arrive in DFW before I got here to make sure it was secure.

Right this way, sir, Thunder boomed, and took my briefcase. Lightning said nothing, but then again, he always said nothing. We walked in tandem through the airport, Thunder in front, Lightning in back. Thunder placed an enormous hand on my chest, and almost knocked me to my rump.

What the Hell, Garret? I questioned, Why did we stop?

Homeland security checkpoint sir, but it’s not kosher.

How can it not be kosher Garret? It’s homeland fucking security. Get moving, because if I miss this meeting you won’t have to worry about whether or not I’m safe, David will kill us both, I said, but Garret didn’t move. His shades were dark, but I could see his eyes through the crack in the side. He stared off to the left, where a TSA agent was surrounded by men in white dress shirts holding clipboards, and the checked people one by one.

What are they doing? I asked.

"It looks like... they’re taking the passengers... temperature," he said, almost as if he was unsure.

Well, who gives a shit if those people have a fever, I have a meeting, I said and pushed gently on the small of his back. He looked down at me, sighed, and looked at Tyler. Then we were walking again. He moved between myself and the TSA agent, and I knew then that they would never see me around the Not-So-Jolly Brown Giant. I fumbled for my phone again, confident that I had lost it. I remembered I put it in my briefcase, and tapped Thunder on the arm when we were free of the TSA.

I need my phone, and it’s in my briefcase, Mr. Garret, I said.

Momentarily sir, it will have to wait. I need to escort you to the car first, he replied flatly as if it was not up for discussion.

Of course you do, I surrendered. We walked slowly, Thunder and Lightning scanned rhythmically for imagined threats and wasted my valuable time. I began to get frustrated, and I could feel my blood pressure rising. It was the start of a headache. ‘Why are airports so damn big, anyway?’ I thought, but more importantly, why wasn’t I landed in a private hangar and let out immediately into a car? Oh, that’s right, because of David. People get rich by NOT spending money, is what they always say, and if that were absolute truth, then David Maxwell would be the wealthiest man in the world. The truth of the situation was that this merger I was overseeing would give our company billions more in annual revenue, and myself a raise into the 7-figure mark. I would then be the third highest-paid person at TeraMax, and could finally afford to work from the house, which I loved. I hated people, for the most part, except for the ones at home.

My wife Sandra and my two kids, Allie and Matthew. Sandra was my high-school sweetheart, the prom queen, the cheerleader captain, the whole nine. A complete package. She would be the perfect trophy wife if she was only silent. But she spoke her mind like I did, and I love that about her. Not only did she speak, but she spoke carefully, and calculatingly. She was insanely intelligent, and always knew what to say. Gorgeous blonde, smoking hot body, baby blue eyes, and a brain? I was a love lotto winner, and she was the grand prize. My kids were perfect, too, just like their parents. Allie was the youngest, and Matt was the older brother. Allie was four and Matt was six, and they were inseparable. Allie’s midnight black hair matched mine perfectly, and Matt got his mother’s blonde. They both had our blue eyes and were smart and well-behaved. I guess you could say I hit the kid lottery, too. We had a nice big house in Pine Ridge Private Estates in L.A., a gated community for the unreasonably wealthy. White pickets, man. I couldn’t wait to close this merger and get back to them. They were the only thing that didn’t piss me off, my family, and I missed them. As soon as this Dallas crap is over, I decided I would take a two-week cruise with them somewhere. Pull the kids out of school, get Sandra into that bikini, and get someone to serve me alcohol while I stare at glaciers off the deck. I was lost in thought about them, and when I snapped back to reality it just made me that much crankier. We had stopped walking again.

Thunder, what is the damn hold-up now?

TSA spotted us, sir, and they are gonna want to check you out, Thunder said reluctantly. I sighed heavily. The last thing I wanted today was to get felt up by some overweight and underpaid annoyance, but the very last thing I wanted was to be detained and miss this meeting.

Alright, let’s get this over with, I said and walked out to meet the agent. She was a short Spanish woman, with big brown eyes and a heavy-set frame. Her uniform was stretched and barely fit.

Sir, I need to see your ticket please, she said, and two more men in white collared shirts holding clipboards came up behind her. I forked it over, and she eyed it carefully. Alright, thank you, sir, you can go.

Oh? No cavity search? I said jokingly, but she must have missed the punch line. Her face scowled as she twirled on her fat ankles and turned her back to me. One of the white shirts eyed me suspiciously, and I saw a laminated name badge that hung from his shirt pocket full of pens. Dan Lynch - CDC Inspector. I had to ask. What does the CDC want to check passengers for?

No reason which concerns you or your flight sir, he replied coldly, now have a nice day. Preferably somewhere else. Thunder’s gaze fell on him, and he rephrased. I mean, I’ll go somewhere else.

Smart move, toothpick, Thunder said, and the man’s gaze fell to the floor as he shrunk away. Thunder stared until he was far enough away to not concern him. I guess whatever they were looking for wasn’t on your flight, Thunder said, this time his gaze was directed at me, but looking relieved, That’s good.

Yeah, five wasted minutes of completely fantastic. If the car is not outside when we finally make it out of this hellhole, you’re fired, I said. Thunder raised an eyebrow, then looked over me to Lightning. Just like that, we were moving again. I was pissed about all the distractions, and it seemed like they were never going to stop. We got flagged down by three more TSA agents with matching CDC cronies before we finally made it to the outside lobby. All the same reactions. Look at my ticket, tell me to go fuck off, and then look at Thunder and go fuck off themselves. I swore that as soon as I got my phone I would call David, and chew his ass out for sending his CFO on a fucking commercial flight to DFW instead of a private jet. I knew secretly I wouldn’t, because no one talks to David except through email, and I probably wouldn’t have the balls anyway. That was more Sandra’s style. She was one tough broad, and intimidatingly beautiful even when she spoke kindly. Most men couldn’t meet her gaze when she flirted, especially so if she yelled. She could tell David to get me a jet, and he would listen to her. I missed her. I missed my kids, my house, and my quiet chair in the study with my scotch. But those might as well have been in outer space, as I was stuck in a stinking DFW with my surrogate father figure leading me along like a child in a grocery store with a body harness and retracting leash so he could pull me away from strangers, high shelves, and the candy aisle. Frustration boiled in me again.

What is the waiting about, Garret? I asked and got no response from him as he pressed his coiled earpiece further into his ear to drown me out as he listened to someone on the other end speak and was intently focused. I turned around like a pouting teenager, and Lightning was gone. Must be who Thunder was talking to. Except that I never heard him speak, so I can’t even imagine what he was saying to him. Thunder finally released his earpiece and turned to face me.

We are having a bit of a security issue sir, but Tyler is taking care of it. We need to set a safe parameter before we can pull the car around. It’ll just be a few more moments. Why don’t you take your briefcase and make yourself comfortable? he said, and I hated it. What people who are rich never tell you is that having a security team sucks. It’s like having parents whose every command must be obeyed or you die. They speak to you most kindly, but it comes out condescending and belittling like they are speaking to their child. I heard this:

"Daddy was on the phone with his friend, Mr. Tyler. It’s super scary outside right now, but Mr. Tyler won’t let any of the big, mean, nasty bad guys get you, okay pumpkin? Now, take your toys over there in the corner and be quiet while Daddy pulls the car around. When it finally gets here, I’ll open the door for you so you don’t pinch your tiny baby fingers and you can crawl in the backseat. OK? OK. Daddy loves you, but he has to work, small infant-child. Now go play nice with your toys."

Fuck me.

I shot him a go-directly-to-security-guard-Hell look and snatched my briefcase out of his enormous hands. I walked over to the bench and sat down away from the windows like all good boys do. I fumbled with the lock on my briefcase and it popped open. Everything was there, merger documents, passport, extra cash left over from my per diem (about $1000), extra business cards, brochures, my digital tablet, and my phone. I took it out and turned it back on, and my archaic Blackberry hummed to life. The eternal load bar ran across the speed at a losing pace for a snail race, and my blood pressure spiked again. I set it next to me on the bench and looked through my briefcase