Free Monsters of the Apocalypse by Jordan Rawlins Page B

squinted.
    “Best of
luck, Nestor,” the card read in small neatly printed letters.
    Inside the
gym bag he found a 9mm Beretta pistol, 8 clips, two weeks' worth of military
field rations, a water filtration system, a first aid kit, a compass, a map of
the surrounding area, a carton of cigarettes, a Leatherman and his old Special
Forces knife that had been on him when he was shot.
    Nestor
stared at the bag in disbelief, until he was brought back to the moment by the
sound of the door sealing behind him. He looked up at the sky above, blue
for the last time, before the first missile hit off in the distance. The
impact of the missile shook the ground and laid him flat. His world
turned bright white with a sickly yellow tinge and then it was nothing but
darkness.

BOOK TWO

***
    "The problem is
recognition. To be recognized as the smartest person alive one must spend
time doing parlor tricks for idiots. To be recognized as the strongest
man alive you have to lift things for the enjoyment of gawking people with
cameras and chicken legs. To be recognized as the greatest man alive you
have to make life better for the pathetic masses that are too lazy to help
themselves, much less do what you tell them. Recognition takes time,
which means that when you finally get it, you aren't all that you could have
been. You're not as great as your potential had been, because you had to
slow down and make your case to all the idiots living their sad little lives in
small apartments and bad clothes. But, at the same time, what's the point
of being the best if no one knows it?
    "Life without recognition
is no fun at all. Of course, every now and then, someone thinks they've
found a shortcut to recognition - that's where genocide, war and drum solos
come from."
    - Jacob
Rothschild, "Thoughts on The Art of Ruling"

Chapter 23
***
    It seemed a lifetime,
but when the ground finally stopped shaking Nestor forced himself to sit
up. He quickly took in his still and quiet surroundings before opening up
the first aid kit and attending to the spots where he was bleeding.
Nestor poured alcohol on his bullet wounds. Once they all seemed to be
bleeding without obstruction or taint, he took a needle and thread and started
sewing. He worked steadily and efficiently, focusing completely on the
perfect stitches, the flawed wounds becoming perfect lines. He finished
the stitches and then cleaned his scratches and lesser wounds. He felt
what was left of his ear without too much sorrow. Once everything was
clean again, he took more paper towels and alcohol and re-cleaned his wounds,
most of which still seeped blood. He felt weak and wanted nothing more
than to sleep, but he forced himself to stand.
    Nestor could
feel the heat from the radiation that was now mushrooming through the air above
him. He looked into the sky and frowned to see a sickly color in all
directions. He spat on the ground with a shrug. He squinted from
the pulsing manmade suns where the missiles had hit on the horizon. He
struggled to breathe as the burning winds carried black soot into his
pores.
    There now
were two men alive who were responsible for the marks on his skin.
October Carnegie and Jacob Rothschild. There was nothing that Nestor
could do to reverse what Carnegie and his Islanders had done to the sky or the
land, or what Carnegie and Rothschild had done to his skin… so he turned his
back on Camp David and started walking west in order to make them pay for it.
    After an
hour he fell for the first time and passed out.
    He didn't
know where it was he was lying when he came to, but he quickly was able to make
out due west and moved on. The woods slowly grew sparse and gave way to
roads and innocuous white buildings. Soon there were fires
everywhere and Nestor knew he had reached a town, or a city. There were
sobs and screams, but Nestor couldn't place any of the sound. He
struggled to find a voice that cried out over and over, but never got any
closer before it went silent.
    Nestor