Pod Read online

  “Absorbing … Don’t let this novel slip through your hands. Exceptional and unexpected, POD is a gem not to be missed.”

  —The Entertainer (Kennewick, WA)

  “Told from two very different—but equally harrowing—voices, POD rocks. Almost cinematic in its delivery … The story builds to a terse, high level of tension … It’s touching, it’s fast-paced, it’s terrifying, and—like the best freakin’ apocalypse novels—it’s all about flawed, real characters. I loved every second of this book, and I can only hope that Stephen Wallenfels is hard at work finishing up the trilogy. (There’s something of a cliff-hanger ending, and I need to know what happens next. IMMEDIATELY.)”

  —The Book Smugglers

  “POD is science fiction at its best: a gripping postapocalyptic novel that keeps you on the edge of your seat yet has human character and human relationships at its heart … Once you start [reading], you won’t want to put it down … The characters are fascinating and well developed.”

  —Wands and Worlds

  “The stories of Josh and Megs are plenty involving … Wallenfels’s prose is clean and straightforward, and he does a good job of giving them each a unique and believable voice … The story’s so involving and so exciting that I just need to get through one more chapter before bed, just to find out what happened, and then maybe just one more, and then before you know it I’ve been up for an hour totally absorbed in the book.”

  —Fyrefly’s Book Blog

  POD

  STEPHEN WALLENFELS

  ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL,

  England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin

  Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community

  Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive,

  Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books

  (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  POD

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with namelos, llc

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  namelos edition / November 2009

  Ace mass-market edition / May 2012

  Copyright © 2009 by Stephen Wallenfels.

  Cover photographs: aerial cityscape © Thomas Northcut/Lifesize/Getty Images;

  nebula © clearviewstock/Shutterstock; electric flash © Molodec/Shutterstock.

  Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or

  electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of

  copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-56903-0

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is

  stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the

  author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  For Teresa and Michael

  In our obsession with antagonisms of the moment, we often forget how much unites all the members of humanity. Perhaps we need some outside, universal threat to make us recognize this common bond. I occasionally think how quickly our differences worldwide would vanish if we were facing an alien threat from outside this world.

  President Ronald Reagan,

  addressing the United Nations General Assembly,

  September 21, 1987

  Table of Contents

  Day 1: Prosser, Washington: Static

  Day 1: Los Angeles, California: Flashes of Light

  Day 2: Prosser, Washington: Megaphone Man

  Day 2: Los Angeles, California: A Long, Dark Smear

  Day 3: Prosser, Washington: Dirty Laundry

  Day 3: Los Angeles, California: Soup and a Sandwich

  Day 4: Prosser, Washington: Taking out the Trash

  Day 5: Los Angeles, California: Moving Day

  Day 6: Prosser, Washington: Click

  Day 7: Los Angeles, California: Bloater

  Day 8: Prosser, Washington: Full Tank of Gas

  Day 8: Los Angeles, California: Hacker

  Day 9: Prosser, Washington: Contact

  Day 9: Los Angeles, California: Dust, Dents, and Duct Tape

  Day 10: Prosser, Washington: Lights Out

  Day 10: Los Angeles, California: Falling

  Day 11: Prosser, Washington: Bam

  Day 11: Los Angeles, California: My New Address

  Day 13: Prosser, Washington: Blue-Light Special

  Day 13: Los Angeles, California: Blinded by the Light

  Day 14: Prosser, Washington: Wicked Evil Grin

  Day 15: Los Angeles, California: My Lucky Day

  Day 16: Prosser, Washington: Filter Face

  Day 16: Los Angeles, California: The Pirate Makes a Plan

  Day 17: Prosser, Washington: Flash of Brilliance

  Day 17: Los Angeles, California: Out of the Frying Pan

  Day 18: Prosser, Washington: The Sighting

  Day 18: Los Angeles, California: The Introduction

  Day 19: Prosser, Washington: Final Answer

  Day 19: Los Angeles, California: The Whispering Women

  Day 20: Prosser, Washington: Pray for Me

  Day 20: Los Angeles, California: Poodles and Duct Tape

  Day 21: Prosser, Washington: Down the Drain

  Day 21: Los Angeles, California: Breaking Mirrors

  Day 22: Prosser, Washington: The Delivery

  Day 22: Los Angeles, California: Voices in the Dark

  Day 23: Prosser, Washington: Back to Normal

  Day 24: Los Angeles, California: Saved by the Pill

  Day 25: Prosser, Washington: The Brood

  Day 25: Los Angeles, California: Cracking the Oyster

  Day 26: Prosser, Washington: Option Three

  Day 26: Los Angeles, California: The Spiral of Life

  Day 27: Prosser, Washington: Comfortably Numb

  Day 27: Los Angeles, California: Taco Seaso
ning

  Day 28: Prosser, Washington: Bathtub Man

  Day 28: Los Angeles, California: The Gift

  About the Author

  DAY 1: PROSSER, WASHINGTON

  Static

  The screeching wakes me.

  Like metal on metal, tearing and twisting and amplified a thousand times. I spring up in bed and clamp my hands over my ears. But my brain feels like it’s being pushed from the inside out. The sound goes on and on, building and building. I stagger out of bed and collapse. I want to twist my head off, the pain is so big. There’s only one thing to do. I scream, hoping it will drown out the sound that is killing me in my room in the dark.

  And it stops.

  I tense up, ready for another blast, but it doesn’t come. A soft, deep hum fills my throbbing head. I stand, using the wall to steady my legs. Just as I’m thinking what the hell, the hall light turns on. Seconds later my door bangs open. Dad leans hard against the frame, his breathing short and fast. He’s been wearing a pacemaker since Thanks-giving. This had better not be a heart attack.

  “You okay, Josh?” he asks.

  His voice is shaky, but not like he needs CPR.

  “My head hurts,” I say.

  “Yeah. My ears are still ringing.”

  He waits, then says, “Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” I say, snagging a pair of sweatpants off the floor and sliding them over my boxers. “Just don’t trip on anything.” A sweatshirt hangs over the back of my computer chair. I put it on.

  Dad hits the lights and navigates through the minefield of clothes, burned CDs, gaming magazines, and assorted AV cables on his way to the window. He’s wearing red pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt. A wet spot with a couple of brown chunks stains the front of his shirt. Based on the smell that hits me as he walks past, I figure it’s the digested version of last night’s supper. He peers out at the dawning day and scratches his butt. I’m sure he’s calculating barometric pressure and cloud cover. To me it’s obvious—another spring morning, more wind, more rain.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  “Don’t know.”

  “A car crash?”

  Still looking out the window, he says, “No. This took too long. It was something else.”

  “Like it was inside your head?”

  He turns from the window. “Exactly.”

  “Then what the hell was it? I thought my brain was exploding.”

  “I’m thinking a furnace bearing.”

  That seems like a huge stretch. I walk to my desk and pick up the handset for the landline. No dial tone. Since our phone and Internet are bundled together, that means no web. Perfect. How will I get the rest of my homework done?

  I say, “Can furnace bearings shut down the telephone?”

  “It’s just a theory,” he says, sitting on a corner of my bed.

  Strength is returning to my legs. The ringing in my ears is almost gone. I glance at the digital clock on my nightstand.

  5:03.

  I should be sleeping for another hour. Then it’s thirty minutes of cramming for a first-period history test, but I can’t get online for the notes. This day has suck written all over it. A thought floats by, something I should catch, but my aching brain can’t reel it in.

  Dad says, “Try the radio.”

  I switch it on. Nothing but static up and down the band. And it’s a weird, wavering, screechy static. I try AM. More of the same. The sound reminds me of the big noise. I turn it off. It’s a good thing Mom’s away at a conference. Otherwise she’d be freaking out about now.

  I’m starting to feel uneasy, like I’m on the edge of something but not sure what. I track down yesterday’s jeans and dig out my cell. “How much you want to bet this doesn’t work?” I flip open the phone, dial our home number. “No service,” I say.

  “This is definitely unusual.”

  “You think?”

  He shoots me a pained look.

  “With a noise like this,” I say, “shouldn’t Dutch be barking his head off?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m going to see if he’s all right.”

  Dad stands up. “I’ll check the furnace.”

  Downstairs the house is dark, but there’s enough early morning light to see where I’m going. I walk into the living room first, look out the picture window. We live on a quiet cul-de-sac with overgrown hedges and washed-out cedar fences. At this hour the neighborhood should be mostly asleep, but it isn’t. Lights are on everywhere. The apartment building across the street is lit up like it’s dinnertime, not two hours before breakfast. I guess we aren’t the only ones with squeaky bearings.

  I walk into the kitchen. It still has the lingering smells from last night’s supper—Dad’s regrettable attempt at French onion soup. The digital clock on the microwave reads 5:05. Again that slippery thought comes to me, but this time I’m able to hold on. It’s probably been five minutes since the big noise. I wonder if it happened at exactly 5:00. I’m sure that means something, but again, the significance is just out of reach.

  Dutch is sleeping on the back deck, curled up on his rug by the patio door. A nervous, sad-eyed mutt, he barks at everything, even squirrels in a tree. I tap on the glass. He opens an eye, flips his tail a couple of times, and settles back to sleep. This feels wrong.

  Dad walks into the room and stands beside me. “I guess Dutch didn’t hear it,” he says, yawning. His tone doesn’t match the unsettled feeling in my stomach.

  “But none of the neighborhood dogs are barking.”

  Dad scratches his head.

  “How’s the furnace?”

  “Running like a champ.”

  We share a look but say nothing.

  Birds fly from branch to branch. A gust of wind sends leaves skittering across the patio floor. Storm clouds gather and darken a turbulent sky. The sun feels like it’s going down instead of up. Sirens pierce the moment. It’s an ambulance and a fire truck, somewhere close. This wakes Dutch. He sees us, jumps to his feet, presses his nose to the glass.

  I reach for the door.

  “Josh, wait!”

  The urgency in Dad’s voice stops me cold. He’s looking up. I follow his eyes.

  The air is sucked out of my lungs. My jaw hangs open, numb.

  Dropping down through the clouds, silent like a spider on a web, is a massive black sphere.

  It’s a mile away at least, but even from this distance it dwarfs the neighborhoods below. I brace myself for the horror of watching houses crushed with people inside. But it stops well above the trees, maybe five hundred feet off the ground. It hovers soundlessly.

  Dad whispers, “Sweet Jesus.”

  He points to another one, farther to the east. Then another.

  Within half a minute the entire horizon is dotted with black spheres. Dutch scratches at the glass, oblivious to the scene playing out above his head.

  The spheres begin to rotate.

  Then, as if on cue, they all start emitting jagged beams of white-blue light. The beams split off into smaller and smaller ones, like twigs off a branch, some into the air, most striking the ground. Two cars are speeding down a fire road on Horse Heaven Hills. A flash of light and they’re both gone. No explosion, no ball of flame. Just gone.

  “Dad!” I yell.

  He stares out the window, shaking his head, mumbling, “No, no, no.”

  “I’m checking out front!”

  I sprint through the kitchen and down the hall to the living room window. I scan the front yard. There’s a sphere spinning above the apartment building. It’s picking off cars parked along the curb. A dog trots by, dragging an empty leash.

  There’s a bicycle on its side in the middle of the cul-de-sac, an upside-down helmet, and rolled-up newspapers scattered around. These belong to Jamie, our newspaper girl.

  I open the front door. Search our yard, the street.

  “Jamie!”

  Nothing.

  “Jamie!”

  To my right, a whimperi
ng, crying sound. Four cars and a beat-up RV are parked at various spots in the cul-de-sac. A white Honda is closest to me. Jamie is crouched down low, using her position to shield her from the sphere. It’s a forty-yard dash to our front step.

  A flash of light and two cars are gone.

  “Jamie, now!”

  She looks at me. There’s a cut on her forehead, blood smeared on her cheek.

  Another flash. The RV disappears.

  She hesitates for a second, then stands up and runs. But something is wrong. Her left leg collapses. She regains her balance, starts running, stumbles again. I lunge to go out and help her. Two arms wrap me in a vise from behind. I’m pulled, screaming, back into the house.

  Jamie is at the end of our driveway. Her eyes lock on mine.

  She disappears, midstride, in a flash of white-blue light.

  DAY 1: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  Flashes of Light

  She’s trying to wake me. “Megs? C’mon, honey.”

  I’m trying to ignore her.

  “Megs. Wake up.”

  Ignoring Mom is like ignoring a bad itch. She shakes my sleeping bag.

  “Wake up, honey. C’mon!”

  I know she won’t stop. And if I keep it up she’ll get mad, and that’s something I definitely want to avoid. I open my eyes. “Okay, okay! I’m up already.”

  She peers at me from the front seat, her face all perfect with Cinnamon Blush lips, brown eyeliner, hair brushed and tied back like she’s been at it for hours. Her blue satin top shows more boobs than I thought she had. I sniff the air. Her flowery perfume mixes in with all the dirty laundry piled up on the floor in back.