Edge Walker Read online

Edge Walker

  By Chris Hampton

  Copyright 2016 Chris Hampton

  Edited by Morgan Vogel Chinnock

  Cover Design by Victoria Davidson @ Killercovers.com

  To the Signpost—thank you.

  To Morgan, my editor and friend, I am honored to have your assistance.

  To Ann Mary, whose graceful spirit meanders through this story, I am grateful for the gift of you. What a beautiful life we're co-creating.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  For information on Book II in the Edge Walker series and announcements about upcoming events, join our email list at:

  [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - The Ledge

  Chapter 2 - New Orleans

  Chapter 3 - Still Burning

  Chapter 4 - The Letter

  Chapter 5 - The Lab

  Chapter 6 - The Warning

  Chapter 7 - Sickness

  Chapter 8 - Serum

  Chapter 9 - Questions

  Chapter 10 - Daylight

  Chapter 11 - The Agency

  Chapter 12 - Funeral Pyre

  Chapter 13 - No Trace

  Chapter 14 - The Barrier

  Chapter 15 - The Watchers

  Chapter 16 - Re-Entry

  Chapter 17 - Blood

  Chapter 18 - Man-made Death

  Chapter 19 - Shark

  Chapter 20 - Hunted

  Chapter 21 - Escape

  Chapter 22 - Shelter

  Chapter 23 - Fox Speak

  Chapter 24 - Stuck

  Chapter 25 - Fox Walk

  Chapter 26 - Death Camp

  Chapter 27 - Cottonwoods

  Chapter 28 - Water

  Chapter 29 - Skirmish

  Chapter 30 - First Mesa

  Chapter 31 - The Ranch

  Chapter 32 - Ghost

  Chapter 33 - Fire

  Chapter 34 - Gratitude

  Chapter 35 - Throwing Stick

  Chapter 36 - First Kill

  Chapter 37 - Food

  Chapter 38 - Ally

  Chapter 39 - Disagreement

  Chapter 40 - Walker

  Chapter 41 - Tracks

  Chapter 42 - Awakening

  Chapter 43 - Cave

  Chapter 44 - Nourishment

  Chapter 45 - Primal

  Chapter 46 - Name

  Chapter 47 - Connected

  Chapter 48 - Preparation

  Chapter 49 - The Hunt

  Chapter 50 - Code

  Chapter 51 - Grandfather Speaks

  Chapter 52 - A Plan

  Chapter 53 - Town

  Chapter 54 - Recon

  Chapter 55 - Huaraches

  Chapter 56 - Mission

  Chapter 57 - Exposed

  Chapter 58 - Dark Medicine

  Chapter 59 - Rendezvous

  Chapter 60 - Attack

  Chapter 61 - Safe

  Chapter 62 - Journey

  Chapter 63 - Juniper Berry

  Chapter 64 - Home

  Chapter 65 - Black Scar

  Chapter 66 - Hope

  Chapter 67 - Dark Search

  Chapter 68 - Vision

  About the Author

  Chapter 1 - The Ledge

  The city burns. Orange against black night.

  Over his left shoulder hangs a blood-red moon. Sickle moon. The stars: red, too.

  Four days, four nights, the city has burned.

  Soon, people will come into the desert to escape death in the city. The boy feels this in his gut.

  Sick, hungry, the people will be crazy, killing anything to live. They will come out in his direction. Hunting.

  This ledge makes a good camp. Primitive. Simple. His sanctuary.

  He sits, arms around knees, and watches the city burn, a long day's walk to the south.

  No fire here. No need. Late spring. Enough leaf and debris for night warmth, stuffed in a shallow cleft behind him.

  But soon he must go. He's been here too long. Yes. He will leave in the morning.

  He stands, turns from the far-off glow, and worms into the debris cleft, feet first. Head stays out so he can hear, see, move quickly, if needed.

  Each night, he fears what might come. Still, though, he sleeps. Some.

  A small backpack makes a pillow. Everything he owns now.

  No.

  He owns nothing.

  Sporadic flashes erupt in the far-off city. Then muffled booms. He's tired but watches. Can't help it. Metal dragons in the distance, small shiny ships, exhale fire.

  He saw the ships and their death up close, four nights ago when he fled the house, fled the city.

  Man-made lightning. Man-made storms. Man-made death.

  His head drops to his pack. Heavy. Weary. No answers to questions he's not sure how to ask or who to speak them to, now that Grandfather's gone.

  Chapter 2 - New Orleans

  "Mom!"

  The boy woke with a start. Panic flooded his brain. He was late for school, and today was the biology test. He loved biology—plant life, flora and fauna stuff—and was excited to be tested on his knowledge. Most other tests he hated. Seventh grade core classes were boring. Not this one.

  "Mom, I'm late!" He rushed out of his bedroom into the dining area, his brown mop of hair sticking out in all directions from the night's sleep. He danced pulling on his jeans, first one leg, then the other.

  His mom sat reading the paper at the island counter in the kitchen, a cup of fresh-brewed coffee steaming beside her. She glanced up at her panicked son and smiled.

  "Relax, Turbo," she said. "We have plenty of time. Today's no different than any other. We'll leave in twenty minutes."

  "But Mom," the boy countered as he rushed strapping on his belt, then knelt to tie on his Converse tennis shoes. "It's my biology test. First period! I can't be late. I've got to be in the right mindset."

  "What do you want for breakfast, honey?" she said, changing the subject. She knew her son's quirky mood when it came to important tests. "I can make you a quick batch of oatmeal."

  He moved from the refrigerator to the counter and hurriedly poured a glass of orange juice. Some of it missed the glass and spread across the counter.

  "Easy, young man," she said, changing her tone. "Slow down. I'll fix you some breakfast. A power breakfast for that test." She paused and gave him time to settle across from her at the counter.

  "Okay," he said. "I want oatmeal."

  She quickly glanced at him as she rose from her seat.

  "Please and thank you, Mom," the boy said.

  "Acceptable." She went to the stove and put water on to boil. "Slow down and breathe. You'll do just fine on that test, mister. If I know you, which I do, you are well prepared and will set the scoring curve. Yes?"

  "I don't know," he answered. "Mr. Stendel always throws in some trick questions."

  "Yeah, but you love the challenge of that."

  "I guess you're right," the boy admitted.

  "Of course I'm right. I'm your mother."

  The boy smiled at the comment. Smiled at his mother. She was already putting the final touches on his breakfast. He loved her efficiency and ability to put together something so quickly. She brought the steaming bowl of oatmeal to the counter and slid it toward him. He caught the bowl, then jumped up and went to the fridge and retrieved the butter dish and some maple syrup.

  While he ate, his mother went back to reading the paper. She was already dressed in her nursing scrubs, ready for work. The boy knew she was enjoying the quiet of their house, a sunny morning, and coffee before the craziness of work.r />
  ~

  Later that day, the boy returned home from school. Like every other day, he took the shortcut through the woods between the bus stop and his house. He loved to wind his way through the wild area of scattered palmettos, live oaks and odd yuccas. The sandy soil revealed so much life with different tracks and sign left by the local animals. He avoided venturing through the woods after dark, however. The trees with their beards of Spanish moss looked magical during the daytime, but the dark of night made them look sinister.

  Walking along the familiar path, the boy eventually emerged onto his cul-de-sac, where his house sat alone at the end. The circle was a single track of asphalt around a small island of wildness, like the wildness he had just walked through. He always felt attracted to that little island and sometimes crossed the pavement and disappeared inside its cool stand of trees. Today, he felt the call to cross and enter it before walking into his house. His mother was still at work, anyway, so there was no need to rush.

  He threw his small backpack on the ground by a large oak in the middle of the island. There was an open area around the base of the tree, and the sand was sugar-white and cool. He sat, leaned against the tree, and lazily looked at his surroundings. He loved the trees and bushes in this place. They were familiar and comfortable. Soon, his eyes closed and he dozed.

  A noise.

  The boy awoke, startled. A car entered the cul-de-sac. It seemed early for his mom to be getting home. He dug his cell phone from a side pocket of the pack and tapped the button to check the time. He was right. She would not be home for another hour. Curious, he looked out and watched a black Suburban, newer model, slowly drive around the circle. The boy was uneasy and did not know why. The car rolled to the front of his house, then stopped. The motor idled.

  He was up now, crouching behind a small palmetto and looking between the sword-like leaves. Why had the Suburban stopped? And in front of his house? He strained to see inside the vehicle, but the glass was tinted dark. The Suburban looked like the ones in movies that secret service people or government officials used. He felt lightheaded. For some reason, he always thought those vehicles existed only in the movies. Yet here was one in front of his house.

  The Suburban moved again. Slowly continuing around the circle, it picked up speed as it left the cul-de-sac. No one emerged from the strange vehicle the whole time. Yet it stopped in front of his house and stayed there longer than someone might who was lost. To the boy's thinking, it stopped in front of his house for a reason. But what was the reason? He felt afraid and, again, did not know why. Confused, he decided to remain in the island of trees and bushes, hidden in safety.

  Fifteen minutes before his mom was due home, the boy grabbed his pack and walked across the asphalt to his house. He glanced around before closing the door. No black Suburban. Another ten minutes, and he heard the garage door open and close. His mom was home.

  "Hey honey," she said, entering through the laundry room and into the kitchen. She looked tired but glad to be home. "How did the test go today?"

  "In biology?" he asked. "Fine. I won't know my score 'til tomorrow, but I think I aced it."

  "Oh, surprise," she said and laughed. Crossing the floor to where he stood, she hugged him. "I'm proud of you, you know."

  The boy smiled and hugged her back, then went to the refrigerator to look for a cold soda. He never mentioned the black Suburban.

  Chapter 3 - Still Burning

  "Mom!"

  Startled. Awake. Head up. Straining. Off his pillow. Off his pack.

  He swears he hears the voice. Yet, in a moment he knows. It's from his head, not his throat. He's been dreaming of the gone time. New Orleans time.

  Gazing out, his eyes adjust to the deep dark of the night.

  He's on the ledge, in the desert, in the southwest.

  The landscape below is barren, with vague shapes only guessed at in the dark. Heavy air, sleepy air tries to pull him back and close his tired eyes. He does not want to return to the dream. He shifts on the hard stone, from his stomach to his side, and gazes out. The faraway city still burns in the night.

  New Orleans. Might it be burning, too?

  The black Suburban. New Orleans. Grandfather's death.

  Are they connected?

  He falls back to dreaming, in spite of his efforts to stay awake, as the faraway flashes, the man-made lightning, defile the sky.

  Orange against black night.

  Chapter 4 - The Letter

  Autumn in New Orleans. The humid heat of summer had backed off, leaving morning temperatures around 65 degrees Fahrenheit, which enticed the boy outside to work on a project. At twelve years old, he was fascinated with treehouses and decided to build his own in a large oak in the backyard.

  The boy heard the front doorbell. Someone visiting on a Sunday morning? He glanced down from his perch. He'd been trying to brace a six-foot-long, two-by-four piece of lumber from one branch to another with some rope, as support for the flooring he planned to install between three waist-thick branches that angled out from the massive trunk.

  The faint sound of the doorbell was a welcomed distraction from his awkward goal. Hardly anyone visited, his mother preferring a solitary sanctuary when she wasn't working. Which, to the boy's thinking, she did too much of anyway.

  He watched her rise from the kitchen table where she sat reading and disappear to the front of the house. It wasn't long before she returned, a letter open and clenched in her right hand. The envelope dangled precariously under the letter. His mother slumped in the chair, and the envelope fell to the floor, unnoticed by her. The boy quickly climbed down from the tree and walked across the lawn to the sliding glass doors.

  "Mom?" he said, sliding the door open. "What's wrong?"

  His mother jumped at the boy's voice, her long black hair whipping around as she turned to face him. The loose braid of hair, trailing down her back, had come undone. Silky hair framed her face. In her dark eyes, he saw pain. The boy stood at the threshold, not crossing into the house.

  "Your grandfather," she choked out. "Has died."

  "Died?" the boy questioned.

  "Yes."

  Silence.

  "The lab he worked in," she continued. "It says here there was an explosion."

  The boy did not know what to say.

  "This letter. From the company." She picked up the envelope off the floor. Her hand shook. The boy saw an official looking symbol at the top of the page. He was not sure if she was rereading the letter or just staring at it.

  "Your grandfather worked in the lab, and it caught fire. He was trapped inside."

  This time she cried freely, her face contorted in grief. The boy's eyes burned. He cried too. More at his mother's grief than his own.

  "Can we go see him?" It was all he could think to say.

  After a few moments, his mother regained her composure.

  "The fire was hot. They say, because of the chemicals, it was intense. Nothing was left of his body."

  She got up from the chair, leaving the letter on the table. "He's gone." She walked past the boy and out through the sliding glass doors.

  Under the treehouse was a wooden bench. The twisted root legs supported a sun-bleached, smoothly grooved seat of cut cypress. His mother made her way there and sat down, looking into the vibrant green woods beyond. The bench almost swallowed her petite body. Soon, her hair stopped shaking with her sobs and rested, a shiny raven-blackness, across the light blue of her robe.

  The scene burned into the boy's mind. In a moment, the world had shifted, and their peaceful routine was disrupted. Everything he looked at seemed more striking in color and sharper in detail. The clean-cut grass of the fresh-mowed yard swept like a green carpet past his mother and up to the border of the overgrown woods beyond.

  His mother, on the bench, straddled two worlds: the world of clear borders and clean lines, and the random, exploding
growth and color of the wildness beyond.

  He retreated inside the house. His mother needed space. His treehouse could wait.

  The next day, the boy's mother attempted to get more details about the accident. But details were not easy to find. The company refused to return her phone calls, and the only family contact was her uncle, the brother of her father. She did not really know the man, had only met him once when she was seven. But she knew the brothers had stayed close over the years. Her uncle said he knew only what the authorities had told him—his brother had died in a fire at the lab.

  Chapter 5 - The Lab

  The boy had never known his grandfather. He was only a story told to him by his mother. His grandfather's work involved researching emerging diseases and epidemics and required constant travel. Much of that travel was to other countries to work with local governments and health officials. He helped them battle new epidemics or outbreaks of disease. His assignments sometimes lasted for years.

  The boy's mother kept in touch through phone calls and emails. But a trip north to see him, when he was home, was not an option with so little money left after paying the bills. She had last seen her father just before the boy's birth. Now, with his death, she felt it was time to tell her son the story of that last visit.

  Before the boy was born, she told her son that night, the old man had traveled to New Orleans from Connecticut to see his daughter. He came to support her, since the boy's father had disappeared once he found out she was pregnant. The boy's grandfather had urged her to come live with him, so he could help her raise the boy. But his mother was too much like her father, fiercely independent, and chose to raise her child alone in New Orleans, where she worked as an emergency room nurse.

  Then there was the second reason for his visit, she told the boy. He carried with him a serum. The serum was a prototype, an early version of a vaccine to counteract the effects of a deadly virus. The virus originated in one of the countries he had visited. His company secretly brought back samples of the virus to experiment with and develop an antidote. Her father did not name the virus because it was so new it had not been given one. What he did say was it was a deadlier variation of an older virus belonging to the Filovirus family known as Ebola. This version had mutated, resulting in a more lethal strain. It worked by destroying human white blood cells. Once that happened, a person's body lost the ability to function and would shut down, killing itself. What was worse, the incubation period was only three days, making it extremely fast and difficult to contain. His job was to develop the serum that would counteract its destructiveness.