The Zero Hour Read online

  The Zero Hour: Indigo

  Ryan Schow

  River City Pubishing

  The eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy so that you may read it with a clear conscience and not one day end up in hell over a shitty technicality. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  THE OPHIDIAN HORDE

  Copyright © 2018 Ryan Schow. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, cloned, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form, or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this eBook via the Internet or via any other means without the express written permission of the author or publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents—and their usage for storytelling purposes—are crafted for the singular purpose of fictional entertainment and no absolute truths shall be derived from the information contained within. Locales, businesses, events, government institutions and private institutions are used for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes only. Furthermore, any resemblance or reference to an actual living person is used solely for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Design by Milo at Deranged Doctor Design

  Visit the Author’s Website: www.RyanSchow.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Other Novels by This Author:

  Note to the Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  The Swann Series Novels (In Order):

  VANNIE (FREE PREQUEL)

  SWANN

  MONARCH

  CLONE

  MASOCHIST

  WEAPON

  RAVEN

  ABOMINATION

  ENIGMA

  CRUCIFIED (Spring, 2018)

  The Last War Series (In Order):

  THE LAST WAR

  THE ZERO HOUR: INDIGO

  THE OPHIDIAN HORDE

  THE INFERNAL REGIONS (March, 2018)

  NOTE TO THE READER:

  I was never a Pinterest person, but my wife is and she was on it enough for me to grow curious. When I got my own page, I found a crazy amount of inspiration for both the stories and the characters within them. I never wanted to keep this to myself, so I started a Pinterest page for every book in this series. These inspirational pictures include most of the character models, the cars and (in this case) Google Earth pictures of the real life Dirt Alley, where my character, Indigo, lives. Please stop by and take a look around by clicking or tapping HERE. Also, if you haven’t joined the closed group Facebook page for The Last War series, please click over there now as I post regularly with cool inspirational pictures and some of the real life stories that inspired this series. You can request to join this private group HERE.

  Thanks and enjoy the book!

  1

  Some people are always talking about how when you need someone, anyone, that when your friends fail you and your family abandons you and humanity plummets into a mire of its own making, at least you have God.

  But what if you need Him and all He’s got for you is closed lips and a cold shoulder? Well, the answer becomes simple: you’re on your own.

  I tell myself it’s better this way. But it’s a lie. It was a lie when the world was normal and it’s a lie now that it’s not. Every so often, when I think back to the beginning, to just before all this happened, when I think about all the drama that used to breed, gestate and grow legs not only in school but between my parents at home, I think I might actually believe in the high merits of solitude.

  At one point I might have even told myself the apocalypse would be a welcomed reprieve from real life. That if civilization fell, I’d no longer feel so alone. Surely the threat of extinction would bring us all together, not as one social group or another, but as human beings, right?

  I allowed myself the indulgence of these grand, foolish thoughts because the unthinkable had happened and I suddenly found myself grappling with a new reality, one with ragged edges and the everyday reminder of my mortality.

  The pillars of this once cultured world shuddered and disintegrated. Much to my dismay, to my absolute horror, people didn’t turn to each other the way I had hoped, rather they turned on each other with a sort of sick desperation. Now that I’m up to my teeth in it, my perspective has shifted. I am no longer that naïve girl from before. The world is different, I am different, and nothing is guaranteed, not even the survival of our species.

  My name is Indigo, and this is my story.

  2

  My dad is leaving me, and honestly, it feels like the worst time ever. This day was coming, I knew it was, and I knew it would feel like this, but still…

  “I won’t be gone long,” he says. “Two days for sure, three tops.”

  I give my father a pair of big empty eyes; I show him my most neutral face. This will be my first time at home all alone and though I’m eighteen—certainly no child—a first is a first.

  First my mother, now him.

  My mother was a different circumstance though. She fell for some high society pretty boy who pitched her the dream life, and a few months after that, she left me and my father for him. Leaving tore a gigantic hole in our life, one we’re still raw over. At least we have each other, though.

  But now he’s leaving, too. Unlike my mother, however, he’s coming back. I wish I weren’t so dependent on him, but he’s all I have, and even though I’m not very good at telling him this, I’m grateful to have him.

  “What am I going to do for the next three days?” I ask.

  He shrugs his shoulders and gives me a sheepish grin. He knows I don’t really have any friends. He also knows I’m not prone to getting into trouble, so perhaps he’s thinking that leaving me here by myself is a no-brainer. Well, it is for him. But it’s not for me, not at all. I make the face.

  “What?” he asks with a laugh.

  “I guess sometimes I just wish Mom were here,” I admit, although I know the weight behind this statement is too much to bear right now, for either of us.

  His subtle amusement fades.

  “Join the crowd, Shooter,” he says, gathering up his things—car keys, cell phone, wallet.

  My dad calls me Shooter because it sounds better than archer. Mostly I’m into archery, but I shoot guns, too, therefore, I’m a shooter.

  Shooter.

  Mom split a few years back. She’s gone now, but not all the way gone. Every so often she calls to see how I am, how school is, how life is treating me.

  “It’s amazing, Mom,” I answer, deadpan. “Just amazing.”

  She once said she loved my dry humor. I’m still not sure if she was being sarcastic, or if she was for real.

  Now when she calls, I say, “Hang on, I’ll get Dad,” to which she says, “You know I’m calling to talk to you.”


  Of course she is. She doesn’t talk to my dad. Even though he’s super chill, good looking and usually on his game, she’s avoiding him like the plague. Even I know she doesn’t want to take responsibility for what she’s done, for how badly she hurt us.

  When she first went and demolished our family for this promising new beau of hers, after a few weeks passed, she called and I asked how things were. To her, everything was fairy dust and rainbows. She was in love. Now two years later, she’s doing everything she can to hide the remorse in her voice. It’s there, though. I can hear it.

  Beneath the reflective surface of those still waters, an undercurrent of discontent is churning. It’s a restless undertow she’s desperately trying to hide. Sometimes I think when she’s done with Tad (yep, the homewrecker has a name and it’s a really dumb one!), I wonder if she’ll come crawling back to my dad. Even worse, I wonder if he’ll take her back. I hope he doesn’t. She doesn’t deserve someone like him.

  Anyway, I’m no psychologist and I’m not going to pretend I understand anything that has to do with relationships—especially marriage—but even I can see she’s not where she needs to be in life. The woman has no clue what she wants. If she hadn’t cheated on my dad the way she did, I would almost feel sorry for her. But she did, so I don’t.

  So now she lives with Tad a few miles from here, and it still feels too close. I’ve been to their home half a dozen times and I swear to God, I don’t like it. It’s too large and too ostentatious and it’s really cold inside. Not cold like the weather, or ice cream—rather it feels cold the way you describe something as empty, something devoid of a soul. That brings me to Tad.

  Oh, Lord…Tad.

  I don’t like talking about him since he pretty much stole my mom from us, but whatever. He’s a small part of my life whether I like it or not. I’d tell you all about the guy, but I don’t want to waste too much time subject of Tad because teenage angst over your mom’s new squeeze is just a tad too juvenile and annoying, even for me.

  After going to my mom’s new place for dinner for the first time, my father asked me how it was. What he was really asking for was intel, gossip, my most judgmental take on what has become enemy territory. Naturally, I embellished.

  “Tad is a bit of a douchebag with a tad more hair gel than a man his age should have and he’s a tad bit condescending when he talks to me, acting like I should be more of a girly girl like mom and not some practically flat chested tomboy who likes to shoot things and drive muscle cars.”

  The way I said it, honestly, I’ve never seen my dad squirm like that. Was I being a bit too dramatic? A tad too self-deprecating? Perhaps.

  “That kind of language is unbecoming of a woman,” my dad said, completely ignoring what I thought was a brilliant play on words.

  “Did no one ever tell you? Douchebag isn’t a bad word. It’s an adjective people like me use so we don’t have to say a-hole.”

  “Whatever,” he said, half amused. “And don’t say those things about yourself. You’re perfect the way you are.”

  The one thing not lost on me was my dad referring to me as a woman. I’m a senior in high school and ready as ever to get out of the cesspool of bullies and narcissistic cliques and over-liberal California teachers telling me how I should think rather than how to do math or science or where to properly place a dangling participle. I feel like an angsty teenage girl who doesn’t quit fit into the world around me. What I don’t feel like, however, is a woman.

  To me, a woman has a job. She has bills and credit cards and appointments with the salon and maybe even a personal shopper. She has a place of her own, a few different guys wanting to please her, and she has sex. Lots and lots of mind blowing sex.

  So no, I’m not feeling so much like a woman. But if I’ve got to start somewhere, then staying home by myself for a few days will be the next step in the evolution of yours truly. It’ll be like a trial run of growing up. And I’ll tell you this…the first thing I’m going to do is not get up at six a.m. The second thing I’m planning for is more sleep!

  Not that I’ll tell my dad any of this.

  I won’t.

  Right now the two of us are standing in the kitchen with a morning chill pressed on our windows and the outside world black and silent. I’m in my pajamas with bed head and sleep crusted eyes not wanting my dad to leave.

  “Will you let me know when you get there?” I ask, folding my arms. “Because San Diego is a long ways away.”

  He’s eating toast, skimming his itinerary one last time.

  “I will. You have a list on the counter. Alarm code. Emergency credit card. Keys to the gun safe if you need it. Plus there’s a hundred dollars in there for food and gas. And you know where all the emergency numbers are, so…”

  “Yeah,” I whisper.

  He glances up at me, gives me a look, then opens his arms and says, “Come here.” I go to him, and he pulls me into one of his amazing hugs. I won’t lie, I’m a daddy’s girl. He lets go after a minute or two, tells me he loves me then says, “Will you please, please, please make sure you go to school?”

  “I’m going to give it my best,” I say on the tail end of a long yawn, “but I can’t make any promises this early in the morning.”

  He frowns at me, but that’s because he knows I love teasing him. And right now I’m only teasing him because I don’t want him going away. I don’t want him leaving me all alone.

  “I got you a little something for when I’m gone,” he tells me.

  It’s not hard to see how much he cares about me, how much he loves to dote on me. It’s one of my favorite things about him.

  “You did?” I ask, feigning surprise.

  “It’s in my office, on the desk. I’ll call you when the conference lets out tonight, then again before it starts back up in the morning. Keep your cell phone on, okay?”

  “Ten-four,” I tell him with pouty eyes.

  Outside, he fires up his new Dodge Challenger. It’s matte black, lowered on beefy custom rims and it’s got some pretty cool headlights, specifically the blood orange halo surrounds. With the shaker hood, the hearty rumble of the Hemi engine and glowing reddish-orange eyes, this beast has a life and personality of its own. The minute we saw it, we both fell in love with it, and that’s how Dad got his new car. Of course, with him getting a new car, I couldn’t help but ask about his old one.

  “Baby,” he said, “my old car is your new car, if you want it.”

  Hell yeah I wanted it!

  Anyway, as my dad is leaving, I wave to him one last time, then stand there in my pj’s and listen to the Detroit engine grumbling its way down Dirt Alley. I won’t lie, the sound is beyond intoxicating. The second his wheels leave the packed earth and touch asphalt, Dad gets on it and that sexy black beast rips a hole in the early morning silence.

  Had I known that was the last time I was going to see him, I would have hugged him a tad bit harder and a tad bit longer.

  3

  Back inside, I start a pot of coffee, blast the heater, then turn on the shower, step inside and refuse to get out until I’ve run the hot water to cold.

  It doesn’t take long.

  Wiping the fog off the bathroom mirror, I turn on a space heater, then wrap my hair in a towel. Standing in front of a full length mirror, contemplating my figure, I cup my puny breasts, take a moment to wonder if they’ll ever finish growing, then turn and check out my butt and calves. Smiling, I can’t help thinking: at least I’ve got these.

  I’ve never had the entire house to myself before, so I walk out and get my coffee naked, feeling for the first time like a woman in her own home. Free to be how I want, do what I want, free not to worry about so many things. The cool air feels good on my warm, damp skin. The openness feels even better.

  Coffee is amazing, but it’s still early and I didn’t sleep very well, so the music goes on louder than normal. Elle King’s album Love Stuff. Now the morning feels right. Like I can get on with it without thinking I need another th
ree hours of sleep before attempting to wake up.

  If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m not one of those girls who goes heavy on the make-up. For me it’s just eye shadow, eye liner and a light lipstick. Most days I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. And when I do accessorize, it’s with a loose bracelet and a few longer necklaces just so I don’t look like I turn a wrench or shovel crap for a living. I like to think it’s a good look. Some would argue otherwise. I won’t claim to be on the cutting edge of fashion, because I’m not, but this is my style and I like it. Whatever, I’m digressing.

  Eight o’clock rolls around too soon.

  Dressed and ready for the day, I’ve got my book bag and car keys in hand and I’m nearly heading out the door when I remember the gift in my dad’s office.

  On his desk is a rectangular package and an accompanying box. Both are gift-wrapped in silver paper with muted silver bows. Very stylish. The gift wrapping looks too fancy for either me or my dad, but this might be my last joy for the day so I really take it in.

  Unceremoniously tearing open the paper, I feel a smile lifting my face. Within seconds I’m staring at two six packs of Carbon Express Maxima arrows and a box of twelve SAS screw in-field points. These arrows, they’re no joke. The tips…perfect.

  “Oh wow,” I say, mesmerized.

  So about school?