Doc Harrison and the Apocalypse Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  PETER TELEP

  www.docharrisonbooks.com

  Copyright © 2017 Peter Telep

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author, expect by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in print or electronic form. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is coincidental.

  Cover design by Peter O’Connor

  www.bespokebookcovers.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ms. Cristina Gonzalez worked with me every step of the way. Her advice and encouragement contributed immensely to this series, and I’m so grateful to know her. Check out her awesome blog here: http://www.iamwickedz.com/

  Ms. Michelle Pruss offered great suggestions on many key scenes. Her notes on clarity and reactions were extremely helpful. When she finished the book, she wrote, Please tell me there’s another one… Yes, Michelle, there is!

  Ms. Aja Jacobson is a former student of mine who poured over these pages, offering insights on every chapter. When she left me, she was but the learner, now she is the master! I can’t thank her enough for making this book so much better.

  Ms. Jackie Fiest is a great friend and collaborator on many of my Tom Clancy tie-in novels, mostly notably the Splinter Cell series. She always provides clever suggestions, and I’m blessed to know her. Thank you so much, Jackie!

  Mrs. Suzy L. Davis volunteered her keen eyes and close reading skills to help with descriptions and dialogue, as well as providing me with some invaluable reader reactions to many scenes throughout the novel.

  Ms. Carly Howard used her visual storytelling expertise to give me some pointed notes on the plot and characters. I’m in her debt for such a close and committed critique, as well as bringing her really cool sensibility to the manuscript.

  Mr. Pat Rugg introduced me to entangled particles. Many ideas for the apocalypse on Flora and the engine grew out of my conversations with him.

  Bestselling fantasy writer Mr. Will Wight inspired me to return to my roots as a science fiction writer. He’s a great writer and friend! www.willwight.com

  Friend and fellow author Sam Hunter gave the very last draft of this book a close read because after a while you can no longer see your own errors. You see the correct sentence in your mind, but the incorrect one is on the page! Sam fixed many of those issues. Thanks, Sam! www.samhunter.org

  I have to thank my cover artist, Peter O’Connor, for not only doing a breathtaking job on my covers but for helping me launch my website. He really went above and beyond the call of duty and is quite simply a great friend.

  http://bespokebookcovers.com

  Also contributing their valuable time, encouragement, and advice were Mr. Ty Karnitz, Ms. Katrina Holtz, and Mr. Christopher DeSimone. It’s difficult to find volunteers to read your work, and their generosity is greatly appreciated.

  Nancy, Lauren, and Kendall Telep always provide me with the time and support to do what I love: write books. Special thanks to Kendall for taking my author photo.

  CHAPTER ONE

  So my name’s Docherty Harrison—

  But everyone calls me Doc.

  Can I tell you a secret?

  My dad’s a mad scientist.

  No, really. I’m not exaggerating. He works for this military company that’s so secret they don’t even have a name. They develop stuff from like Star Wars and Star Trek, but it really exists. Basically, my dad thinks it up and the government pays to make it happen.

  Pretty badass, right?

  So tomorrow’s Friday, my sixteenth birthday.

  Dad promised he’d take the day off, which in his world is like a freaking miracle.

  But instead he decided to get himself kidnapped.

  Two guys. Sunglasses. Pistols.

  So there I was, walking up the driveway with a pepperoni pizza as they dragged my father through the front door. One guy had his arm around Dad’s neck. The other pointed his gun at me.

  “Doc, run!” my father screamed.

  So I threw the pizza and took off.

  A gunshot boomed.

  I sprinted around the house, jumped the backyard fence, and landed in my neighbor’s yard.

  I knew Julie was on her way home from school, so I called her. She lives just down the street. We grew up together, and she’s like my annoying older sister.

  However, she is eighteen and owns a car, which makes her less annoying, especially when you’re being chased by bad guys. Of course, she didn’t believe my story until I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  That worked.

  I hid in some bushes until she picked me up—

  But they found us, and now we’ve got two more minions on our tail.

  “I’m not losing them,” she says, glancing at the rearview mirror. Her Mustang GT rumbles when she hits the gas.

  And, oh, yeah, she hits the gas, but the light’s turned red.

  “Look out!”

  We rip into the intersection, and here comes this colossal tractor-trailer with its horn blaring.

  My jaw drops.

  I see nothing but chrome grille and headlights, nothing but an Imperial-class star destroyer about to T-bone us. Diesel fumes. Sudden death.

  Rest In Peace Doc Harrison… your dad’s been abducted, your mom’s off “finding herself” in Seattle, and you still don’t have a girlfriend.

  Incredibly unfair, right?

  Obviously, we don’t die. The truck misses us by inches. Maybe less. Maybe by a distance measured at the subatomic
level by Dr. Thaddeus Harrison, PhD, my father.

  I take a breath, and my eyes burn. They took my dad.

  “Doc, are they still back there?”

  Julie’s voice sounds distant, like we’ve made the jump to hyperspace and the streets of Orlando have blurred into that swirly white tunnel thing. She screams again.

  I crane my head—

  And there they are: Black Explorer. Sunglasses.

  “Make a right.”

  She does. Three seconds later, here they come.

  “Uh, hello, we’re not losing them.”

  She eyes the mirror. “That’s your fault! We need help! Why did you hang up on 911?”

  “Because she’s like, sir, I need you to keep talking, and I’m like, hello, there’s a guy shooting at me!”

  Julie glares at me. “Call her back.”

  “I gave her the address,” I say.

  “How does that help us now?”

  She’s right, of course. I’m about to dial when a shadow passes over the driver’s side windows.

  It’s the Explorer, roaring up beside us. The passenger’s side window scrolls down, and this thug aims his gun at Julie. With his free hand, he gestures for us to pull over. He reminds me of my Sensei from Karate school, a Japanese college kid who never smiled.

  Julie stomps on the gas pedal. My head hits the seat. My phone goes flying.

  Two shots crack from outside.

  “Seriously?” she cries. “He’s shooting at us!”

  We’re doing nearly seventy-five miles per hour, with the next intersection racing toward us. Strip malls. Fast food chains. Quickie lube shops. Some guy wearing earbuds and twirling a sign for electronic cigarettes.

  Green light... yellow... red.

  Julie’s sweating, her hair whipping like blond flames as boom! One of our rear tires explodes!

  We fishtail into traffic.

  The stench of burning rubber.

  An earthquake tearing through the cabin.

  Two cars peeling off to avoid us.

  And somewhere in the middle this near-death experience, I drift back to one of those tutoring sessions when Julie was trying to teach me to conjugate verbs in Spanish.

  I was so stupid.

  And she was so patient.

  She’s always looking out for me, even when she hates it.

  Why?

  Because, well, I’m not sure how to explain it, but there’s this connection between us… it just goes way back… and it keeps us together, even when she’s annoying and I’m a total jerk. It goes beyond friendship or family or love… it’s just… weird.

  Of course if we die now it’ll be all my fault, and if there’s an afterlife, Julie will be waiting there to scream at me.

  For now she tells me to hang on and cuts the wheel. The seatbelt claws at my shoulder. I clutch it with both hands and check the side view mirror.

  No Explorer. We lost them crossing the intersection.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “We’re okay.”

  I throw my head back and breathe.

  The Mustang thumps over the asphalt. Flat tire.

  Julie pounds the steering wheel, jarring me. “Really?”

  “What? We lost them.”

  The whine of a motorcycle engine rises from behind us.

  She shakes her head and bangs on the accelerator, but the Mustang’s limping, and it’s like the drummer from AC/DC is playing a solo in the trunk.

  We slip into an alley behind another strip mall, weaving drunkenly between the dumpsters and legions of fleeing squirrels.

  The motorcycle follows. The guy wears jeans and a green T-shirt. Helmet with mirrored visor. Concealed weapon, no doubt. Probably keeps it in his boot. He’s a Terminator. He’ll ask Julie if her name is Sarah Connor.

  Still, there’s something strangely familiar about him, the way he holds his shoulders and how perfectly his arms are spread apart… almost military…

  My breath grows shallow. “Uh, Julie?”

  “Don’t you think I see him?”

  “Uh, yeah, I think that. So, uh, maybe we should—”

  “Stop? And why aren’t you calling 911? I told you to call them back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Now we’re alone with this biker. He’s probably a psycho! Why did I pick you up? My mom’s gonna freak out!”

  “Probably...”

  “Wait a minute? What am I saying? Your dad’s gone. Guys were shooting. That’s a free pass.”

  “Yeah, you’re right!”

  “Wait. She’ll never believe me! Why didn’t you get them on video?”

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously? How ‘bout a selfie with the bad guy? They’ll find it on my phone after they pry it from my cold, dead hand.”

  “Shut up!” she orders. “Oh, God, here he comes.”

  The biker thunders alongside us and points to a row of empty parking spaces behind the mall.

  “I’m stopping,” Julie says. “I don’t see a gun.” She slams on the brakes.

  “So we’re giving up?”

  Her eyes bug out. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the smart one. Do the Wonder Woman thing. Figure it out!”

  She snorts and fumbles with her phone. “Okay, see? I’m calling 9-1-1 again, and you tell them we have...”

  She breaks off as the biker raps a knuckle on her window, and then motions for her to lower it.

  “Don’t call anyone,” he shouts from behind his helmet. “Just pull over. Trust me!” He sounds really familiar.

  We park. “Come on,” I urge her. “I think I know who it is!”

  As we get out of the car, the biker removes his helmet.

  I thought so. It’s Tommy. Semi-old dude. At least forty. Crew cut. Gray temples. Scars and muscles and a medium-sized gut from all the beer he drinks with Dad.

  To be more precise, he’s Major Thomas McMillan, United States Marine Corps.

  Oorah.

  He works with my father, and I’ve known him my entire life—my surrogate uncle who practically raised me.

  However, his motorcycle’s black, not red. Maybe he borrowed this one from somebody?

  “Tommy? What’s going on? Who took my dad?”

  “Hang on, son.” He barks something about assets being moved and a non-specific delay into his phone. Solid copy. Good to go. Roger, out.

  “What’s he doing here?” Julie asks.

  She knows him, too. He’s been at our house many times while she was there.

  Tommy raises his palms. “Y’all are coming with me.”

  “What is this?”

  “Doc, just listen up.”

  “Yeah, whatever. What’s happening?”

  “We’ve got a massive security breach. No worries, though. Y’all are safe with me. And we’ll get your old man back—but we can’t do it alone. We need both of you.”

  Julie and I look at each other like what the hell?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Before we can ask Tommy even one more question, the Explorer barrels into the alley, tires squealing. The passenger leans out of his window and opens fire.

  “Get back in the car!” Tommy shouts, reaching for the pistol concealed in his waistband.

  Julie curses and says, “We’re not safe! You lied to us!”

  “No, he lied to me,” Tommy answers.

  More gunfire belches from the SUV. I’m so scared that I can’t move. I’m under the planet Jupiter’s gravitational pull, and my sandals are glued to the asphalt.

  Shots rip into Tommy’s motorcycle, clanging and pinging as he ducks behind the rear wheel and returns fire.

  Here comes another vehicle. Opposite side of the alley. Cargo van. Thug leaning out from the window. Some kind of rocket launcher jutting from his hands.

  With a gasp, I lunge forward. Too late.

  Rocket man fires.

  Canisters hissing gray smoke skitter across the ground near the Mustang.

  I glance back at Tommy.
He ejects a magazine and slams another into his pistol. He waves me back toward the car as curtains of smoke fold over us.

  Meanwhile, Julie’s yelling that she can’t breathe.

  Neither can I.

  The world turns sideways.

  Hot asphalt presses on my cheek.

  And then someone shouts, “Get them to the engine!”

  * * *

  I dream of the island.

  These are my memories. This is the vacation home of my childhood. Tenerife, the largest of Spain’s Canary Islands. These are my snow-capped mountains. My lizards with blue bellies. My dragon trees whose bark and limbs are like gray coils of wire.

  As I float over green hills, sweeping toward the glowing ocean, Dad says his research will finish soon. He says we’ll go on another rock climbing adventure. We’ll spend a few hours at our favorite comic book shop. We’ll make mountains of homemade nachos using over five pounds of cheese. We’ll play games until our hands get numb on the controllers.

  We know these are lies because he’s busy, always busy. When you’re on the “cutting edge of particle physics and quantum computer research,” you have to make sacrifices, Dad says. He strokes his beard and smiles, but the pain always sneaks into his eyes.

  And now I’m back on the driveway, throwing the pizza and seeing him for what could be the last time.

  No. You don’t reason with people like this or with seniors calling you D-Bag instead of Doc. You kick their asses.

  So this time I run toward my father’s kidnappers. My karate lessons are fresh. My hands tingle. The men face me—

  But I can’t raise my arms or move my legs.

  My eyes flicker open. I’m lying on something. A bed. Soft. The ceiling is smooth, metallic. I can’t tell where the light is coming from. Dim light. It hurts to turn my head. There, a small cart. Could be medical supplies. A pitcher of water.

  I’m wearing something... blue pajamas? Calm down. Try to remember. I reach for the phone in my pocket. I need to text Julie. Where is she? For some reason, I’m already out of breath. Oh, yeah, no pocket. No phone.

  And that smell. Familiar. Sweet. Like the lemon furniture polish mom told me to use on my headboard and dresser.