Wicked

  Wicked

  DIGITAL EDITION

  Written by John Macallen Davis

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical people, events or places are used fictitiously. Any other names, places, events or characters are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 John Michael Davis

  Editing: Daniél Lecoq

  Beta: Daniél Lecoq, Hannes Birnbacher

  All rights reserved, including the right to copy this book or portions of this book in any form.

  First edition September 2017

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Also by John Macallen Davis

  Gunship Series

  Gunship - Kindle - Nook

  Glimmeria - Kindle - Nook

  Reflections - Kindle - Nook

  Gears and Spears - Kindle - Nook

  Legendary - Kindle - Nook

  Space Rebels - Kindle - Nook

  Bone Harvest - Kindle - Nook

  Ghost Planet - Kindle - Nook

  Skyfall - Kindle - Nook

  Wicked Series

  Paperback

  The Journal of Emma Wilson - Kindle

  Fleet Series

  The Fleet - Kindle - Nook

  The Blood War - Kindle - Nook

  Chaotic Worlds - Kindle - Nook

  The Afterworlds - Kindle - Nook

  The Run - Kindle - Nook

  The Great War - Kindle - Nook

  Vampire Hunters - Kindle - Nook

  Return of the Fear - Kindle - Nook

  The Colony - Kindle - Nook

  Graveyard - Kindle - Nook

  Singles

  Hammer of War

  Atlantis

  The Colony

  EMMA

  Brookhaven

  American Superhero

  Catch me online

  johndavisbooks.wordpress.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 (Part One)

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10 (Part Two)

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Part One

  Derick Wesley's job was pretty important.

  At least he kept telling himself that it was. As he leaned forward in his large work van to fill out a travel log, Derick looked himself over in the rear-view mirror. He'd never understood the need for a rear-view mirror, seeing as how there was a steel bulkhead behind him. Though it did provide a place to stare himself down.

  “Derick, you help people breathe.”

  For a moment he contemplated a couple of things. The fact that he'd just turned 31 and found himself delivering oxygen tanks to nursing homes in and around Taylorsville, North Carolina, and how he now found himself speaking to his own reflection like some sort of crazy person.

  He'd considered quitting countless times before. Every time his pager went off, in fact. He didn't mind the job itself. Hell, he actually enjoyed seeing his regular customers once a week. Elderly people have a story to tell and far too often, people ignore what they want to say. Derick hung on their every word. He liked hearing about the great war of 1944, or the way the world survived the Great Depression.

  What he didn't like was the fact that everyone had their part to play in this world of ours. Some people found fame when it came to singing or acting, while a select few made it into the world of professional sports. Becoming rich and famous in the process. He delivered steel oxygen tanks to nursing homes.

  He helped people breathe.

  Either way, his stomach growled like a toddler eating jelly beans. Pulling himself from the van and dropping to the ground, Derick slammed the door; pausing for a moment to straighten his boring blue work shirt. His work-issued boots were scuffed all to hell, but Derick figured that a man who delivered oxygen in nice, polished boots wasn't doing his job right.

  Making his way into the small roadside diner, Derick considered it a normal day. A dozen or so cars sat in the parking lot, most of which were from out of state. The usual, considering that the diner rested off of the main highway.

  “Hey Derick,” a woman said as he entered. A small silver bell jingled as he pushed the glass door open, immediately smelling the aroma of bacon and eggs. Making him far hungrier in the process. “The usual?”

  He smiled, approaching the young, attractive woman who played the role of waitress, cashier and anything else she was told to. That's typically how the Hometown Grill worked. He took a moment to look at her with purpose.

  “Couple of pancakes, three strips of bacon and a glass of orange juice.”

  “So... in other words, the usual?” she asked with a smile.

  Pam had always enjoyed Derick's daily visits to the roadside diner. They were, in essence, a team of low-paid, under-appreciated workers who understood each other. Ask any two people that work too hard and earn too little – they'll tell you. There's an unspoken brotherhood. The fact that these two were easy on the eyes didn't hurt, either. She was literally the bright spot of Derick's day.

  “Well, you know me. I like to name everything off of the menu just to make myself feel important,” Derick said. “What's today's official report?”

  Pam leaned over. Changing her voice to more of a whisper. It suddenly became “official” business between the two of them.

  “Murphy's here-”

  “Bitching about politics?”

  “Of course,” Pam grinned. “A few people are in off of Highway 90. I haven't gotten their stories just yet, but one of them did order bacon,” she added, slighting her head to the seat near the window. “The one in the red shirt.”

  Derick glanced to the young black man. Ordering bacon at a roadside diner was a statement of power. At least in the minds of low wage workers. The rich had their fancy yachts and wine mixing parties. The working class had sports and greasy food.

  “Yep,” Derick said. “Him and me – we both know the struggle. Those big box electronics stores put in as many deliveries as I do.”

  “I'm right there with the both of you,” Pam said. “This waitress apron may look prestigious, but don't be fooled. I'll have your food out shortly.”

  Derick smiled.

  He wanted to do more than smile – much more, and that had been the case for quite some time. They certainly shared a lot of the same interests. But, he was nearly middle-aged and worked for a company that could barely remember his name. Moreover, his apartment was only a tad bigger than the cab of his work van and the daily lunch plates at the Hometown Grill added up pretty quick. He honestly didn't want to add being rejected by Pam Fisher to his list of accomplishments gone awry. Pam was the girl that half of Taylorsville had tried to woo at one point or another – unsuccessfully.

  Instead, Derick found his way to a small table that sat close to the counter. If he was going to pay almost six dollars for lunch, he'd do it while flirting as much as possible. Not that he had much to choose from in the diner. It was virtually the size of a double-wide trailer, except that would be giving the eatery a little too much credit. There were eighteen tables total and two of them were leaning something fierce. He could remember a time or two when someone had mustered enough courage to actually sit at one of the two tables. As you might expect, things hadn't gone too well.

  As the diner's door chimed once again, ringing loudly from a bell that shook as the glass swung wide, Derick found himself looking at Pam with sur
prise. It would seem that this day was about to get a lot more interesting.

  Two prison guards entered, escorting an inmate. His wrists were in front of his waist in cuffs, while his feet also found themselves chained together. Each of the guards surveyed the interior of the small diner. Had they've been displeased, they would have been shit out of luck. They were nearly 50 miles to the next place to eat.

  Finally, one of the guards nodded to the other. Approaching the counter, the lead guard watched his partner sit down at a corner booth in the back with the prisoner in front of him. Satisfied that things were secure, the guard turned to Pam.

  “Whatever you got on special, we'll take three of them, along with two black coffees and a glass of water.”

  No pleasantries. No flirting. Just an authoritative tone.

  “Bottled water or-” Pam began.

  As she saw the look of disinterest on the man's face, she understood. Most guys came in and immediately began slinging pretty words Pam's way. This guy either didn't care that she was outright gorgeous, or he had more important shit to worry about. Making the whole event that much more interesting for Derick.

  “I see. A glass of tap water it is.”

  “And put a rush on it, would 'ya?” the guard demanded.

  Rather than await a reply, he found his table. Leaving Pam and Derick to stare at one another for several moments. They were locals. They were used to old man Murphy flipping through the newspaper and bitching about anything and everything political, especially the Democrats and their let's all get along bullshit. It's what Vietnam veterans did – he'd earned the right. To hell with the politically correct.

  They were also used to having working folks dive in for a quick plate of plain food dressed with lots of butter. But this was a new one for the both of them. Alexander Correctional Institution was a long stretch down the road and their vans typically didn't stop for meatloaf. Especially if they'd ever tried the Hometown Grill's meatloaf and a side order of mashed potatoes. It was on sale for a reason.

  Pam turned to give the order to her boss, Raymond Irving. What the chubby man lacked in manners and hair, he more than made up for with a spatula and grease. And to be expected, his dingy white shirt was evidence. Grease speckled the working man's tuxedo.

  As she returned to the counter, Pam glanced over to Derick, who remained sitting with a look of surprise on his face. Prison guards at the Hometown Grill were big news. But it didn't stop Derick from smiling wide – returned by the cute waitress. Damn! If he just had some way of knowing if she was into him, he'd throw his feelings out there. He was just like everyone else when it came down to it. Derick wanted the reward without taking the risk.

  Suddenly, the ground shook.

  Enough so that pots hanging from the wall of the kitchen slammed into one another. And then again – this time many of the hanging pots came crashing down, reminding Derick of when his mother used to have trouble fitting all of her pots into a single cupboard many years ago.

  Earthquake? he thought.

  It was his first reaction and likely a very silly one. He'd seen plenty of earthquakes on television but in North Carolina? Glancing to the counter, he could see Pam with a look of confusion on her face. Earthquake be damned, he wasn't going to let this opportunity slip by him without at least trying.

  “You OK?” he asked. Standing and walking to the counter. This would soon pass and with any luck, she'd remember his concern for her.

  “Yea-” Pam began.

  Again, a string of thunderous booms let out.

  “Bombs!” Murphy yelled.

  He did a lot of yelling and most of the time his words were littered with sarcasm and curse words. This time felt different.

  Moments later, a jet screamed by at very low altitude. At a place like the Hometown Grill, that's generally all it took to get people to drop their forks and rush outside. Sure enough, dozens of jets followed.

  “F-18 Hornets,” Murphy yelled out. “Son of a bitch!”

  “He's right,” one of the prison guards confirmed. “Haven't been out of the service a full month yet. I recognize 'em. They're ours.”

  “But what are they-” Raymond began. Still holding his spatula as the Carolina winds blew calmly. For a brief moment, the hills around his eating house breathed in the succulent serenade of bacon and eggs.

  Explosions rocked in the distance.

  “Holy shit!” Murphy announced. A part of him looked excited to be back in some sort of action.

  Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Much more so than when he watched his favorite political commercials on television. He could remember being back in it, with rifles firing into his direction. He could even recall the smell of smoke and the destruction which had caused it... once upon a time. For a change, Murphy felt alive.

  “Charlotte?” Derick asked.

  Three more birds screamed by, only a couple hundred feet in the air. Derick could see one of the prison guards trying to reach Alexander Correctional Institution by radio, but couldn't hear anything beyond the roar of Navy engines.

  After a few seconds, each of them stood silent. Doing their best to listen for what they presumed was Charlotte. Nearly 30 people, most of them complete strangers, now stood in silence.

  “Listen.” The young black man said.

  “I hear it, too.” Derick replied.

  A very thick rumbling beneath their feet turned into what appeared to be a massive convoy of U.S. Army vehicles hauling ass down Highway 90. Lots of Humvees along with a few cargo trucks.

  “I'll find out what's going on.” one of the prison guards announced.

  Approaching the road and holding his hand up in hopes of stopping the convoy, he was instead gunned down where he stood by the first Humvee in line. The convoy didn't stop, hell, it didn't even slow down. They just shot lead into the man and kept going about their business. A few soldiers glanced with apology – nothing more.

  Everyone else fled for cover behind something – anything. Derick found himself diving behind his own work van filled with highly flammable oxygen. Not the wisest move, but a desperate one indeed. They fully expected the convoy to continue firing on them but instead, it rumbled down the highway. The group of citizens in shock were merely an afterthought to the military.

  As the last Humvee drove past, the second prison guard waited until it was almost out of sight. Then he rushed to the aid of his friend.

  “His ass is dead.” Murphy yelled out, bringing a scowl from the prison guard.

  “Shut up old man!”

  Reaching up, the guard clicked his radio on once more and tried his best to contact his prison. Getting nothing but static and feedback in return.

  “Oh my God.” the big box delivery driver said.

  “They just shot him down in cold blood,” Derick said. “Why would they do that? Why would our own military do that?”

  “I've never seen a dead body before.” the man replied.

  “We should try to call the police.” Pam said.

  “Good idea,” Raymond began. “You give 'em a call and I'll do what I can to pull in the Charlotte news.”

  They were the first to go back inside, leaving the rest of the group standing in the parking lot. Clueless as to what to do.

  “Y'all can call whoever you want. I'll be calling old Smith and Wesson.” Murphy said. Reaching into the driver's side window of his truck, the old man pulled a large black revolver from its holster.

  “Ain't such a bad idea.” the prison guard replied. Reaching down to ensure he had his own service weapon, he slowly pulled the pistol from his dead friend's holster. Placing it beneath his own belt.

  “Ma'am, you OK?” Derick asked.

  A woman, middle-aged and far too properly dressed for the Hometown Grill stood numb. Still trying to process everything.

  “I – something told me to keep driving.”

  Doing what he could to prevent shock, Derick walked closer to the woman. Noticing that the young black man tagged righ
t behind him.

  “Got a name?”

  “Lisa,” she replied with shakiness in her voice. “Lisa Coppola.”

  “From Charlotte?”

  “No, I,” she began. Continuing to struggle with the sight of the dead prison guard. “I was headed to Charlotte but my plane was delayed. Instead of waiting, I thought it'd be easier to leave the terminal in Raleigh-Durham, rent a car and drive. I'm from Los Angeles.”

  “Well Miss Hollywood, that will teach you to try and game the fucking system.” Murphy said with a curl of the finger.

  “Stay out of it, Murphy!” Derick said.

  “Who are you yelling at,” the aged man snapped back. “I'm still young enough to whip your ass and that shadow following you around!”

  “What did I do?” the black man asked.

  Staring at the older man for a moment, the twenty-something shook his head.

  “Oh, I get it. You don't like me because I'm black.”

  “Relax, he doesn't like anybody.” Derick said.

  “Will y'all stop bickering and help me get my friend's body away from the road!”

  Derick turned to look at the man, as did the rest of the group.

  “You're making the big bucks and I'm barely pulling eleven dollars an hour. I'm not dragging anyone's dead body.”

  “I second that.”

  “Fine!” the guard blasted. “Then somebody put a gun on this convict and I'll drag him my damn self!”

  “Much obliged.” Murphy was quick to point his revolver.

  As one prison guard dragged the body of another to the side of the Hometown Grill, Derick watched on with amazement. Most Thursdays were rather boring. Today, they had a dead body, bombs dropping and a military convoy...and it was only lunchtime.

  “Got a name?” he asked.

  “Lamar,” the black man replied. “Lamar Avery. I hook up wireless networks.”