It's time!
I've been working on this book for a minute and I think it's time I share a little with you, my readers. What you are about to see/read is a first draft of my book that I've wanted to write for a long, long time. This is just a small sampling, I hope you like how it starts.
Happy reading. And... Thank you.
You're getting a sneak peak so to speak, enjoy.
Prologue
The sky churned with ominous thunderheads, each rumble louder than the last. The wind screamed through the empty parking lot, whipping sheets of rain that stung like needles against Jack’s skin. He stood alone, surrounded by towering buildings that were crumbling under the weight of the storm, their windows shattered, walls scorched, smoke rising from their ruins. A sudden flash of lightning split the sky, followed by a deafening crack of thunder that shook the ground beneath his feet, jolting him into motion.
Jack ran, but it felt like his legs were encased in concrete. The harder he tried to move, the slower he seemed to go. Panic gnawed at him as he staggered toward the only building not consumed by flames. His hand reached instinctively for his pistol, the cold metal a comfort in times like these—but his fingers closed around nothing. The holster was empty. A wave of dread washed over him. He was unarmed, exposed, utterly defenseless.
He pressed himself against the cold stone of the building, heart pounding as he crept toward the open doorway. The wind howled, whipping debris around him, but inside was a different kind of horror. The entryway was a warzone, the air thick with the acrid stench of burnt flesh and charred wood. Bodies lay scattered in grotesque heaps, their final moments frozen in twisted agony. The walls and floors bore no signs of fire damage, yet the people… they were reduced to husks. The destruction was too precise, too deliberate. What kind of monster could have done this?
Jack moved through the corridor, each step a calculated risk. The walls seemed to close in around him, the darkness tightening its grip with every footfall. He could feel the eyes of the dead on him, their silent screams echoing in his mind. He turned a corner, and the smell of rot and decay assaulted his senses, nearly bringing him to his knees. Ahead, the stairwell spiraled into shadow, the darkness impenetrable. And then, he heard it—a low, rhythmic breathing, as if the very building was alive and watching him.
His pulse raced, the sweat pouring down his face now more from fear than exertion. The air grew heavier, hotter, as if he was descending into a furnace. He forced himself up the stairs, each step an eternity. The breathing grew louder, more distinct, until it was the only sound in the world. Finally, he reached the landing and stepped onto the second floor.
What he saw froze him to the core.
In the center of the room, amidst a sea of burnt corpses, stood a figure—no, a creature—its massive frame barely human, its skin slick with a black, tar-like substance. It stood unnaturally still, arms outstretched, head tilted back as if in worship of some unseen force. The storm outside roared louder, and with a sudden, violent force, the ceiling was ripped away, exposing the fury of the tempest above.
The creature sensed him, its head snapping toward Jack with unnatural speed. Black eyes, voids of light or humanity, locked onto him, and in that instant, Jack knew he was doomed. The thing moved, impossibly fast, until it was mere inches from him, its breath hot and rancid on his face. The room seemed to warp, the heat becoming unbearable, his skin blistering under the intensity of its gaze.
The last thing Jack saw was the creature’s mouth stretching open, an abyss of darkness, as the world around him disintegrated into nothingness.
Chapter 1 - Unpleasant Mornings
Jack jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat, the damp sheets clinging to him like a shroud. The remnants of last night’s storm lingered in the air, a cold breeze slipping through the open window, chilling the sweat on his skin. He sat upright, leaning against the headboard, trying to shake off the nightmare that had torn him from sleep. The room was dim, lit only by the dull glow of city lights seeping through the blinds. Outside, the storm had left its mark—puddles on the ground, scattered branches, leaves strewn across the pavement. He glanced at the clock—3:20 AM. Yet the city outside never slept. Even at this hour, it buzzed with life, as if rush hour had simply never ended.
Jack stretched, feeling the familiar stiffness in his joints. Sleep was a distant memory now. Twisting toward the edge of the bed, he moved slowly, deliberately, each motion a reminder of how much his life had changed. He sat there for a moment, doing the usual neck stretches, trying to mentally prepare himself for the day ahead. No sense in trying to go back to sleep. His cane rested by the bed, where he always left it, a constant reminder of how far he had fallen. He grabbed it, using it to lever himself onto his feet, and shuffled toward the bathroom, flipping on the blinding lights to take his pain meds and start his day.
Just over a year ago, this man had been a decorated military veteran, a war hero in the prime of his life. But now, at 38, he felt like an old man, his body betraying him in ways he still couldn’t fully understand. The pain had started suddenly—sharp, relentless, spreading throughout his body. His legs, once powerful and sure, had weakened rapidly, leaving him struggling to walk, much less fight. Doctors had no answers, just vague theories and shrugged shoulders. The Army, his only real family, had been quick to discharge him once his condition became apparent. There was no place for the weak in Supreme Chancellor Stilven’s military.
But the worst part wasn’t the pain or the weakness. It was the abandonment. When they discharged him, they took away his insurance too, leaving him to fend for himself. Whatever was happening to him now had to be dealt with on his own dime. No more doctors, no more tests—just whatever over-the-counter meds he could afford. Living off his savings, in this dingy one-room apartment in Arlington, Texas, he was fading into obscurity, a forgotten soldier in a forgotten war. The Army had given him everything, and now, it had taken everything away.
Stilven was a name no one spoke aloud. They whispered it in fear, behind closed doors, in hushed tones. The United States had seen its share of terrible leaders, but none like Stilven. His rule was absolute, his cruelty unmatched. Challenge him, and you didn’t just risk your own life—you risked the lives of everyone you loved. No one dared to stand up to him, not anymore.
Supreme Chancellor… That’s what people started calling him. He’s not the President anymore, this went straight to his head and he demanded that his official title be changed. What a joke.
Jack shuffled from the bathroom to the large walk-in closet, his cane tapping softly against the floor, and dressed in his usual black sweatpants and white t-shirt—the kind of outfit that spoke of a man who had given up. He was pulling on a fresh shirt when the buzz of the doorbell cut through the silence, making him pause. He glanced at the clock on the microwave—4:32 AM. Who would be here at this hour?
Cautiously, Jack approached the intercom, his hand resting on the button. “Who’s there?” he asked, his voice hoarse from morning disuse. He couldn’t afford to be reckless, not anymore. Once, he would have thrown open the door without a second thought, but those days were gone.
“Master Sergeant Griffeon?” The voice on the other end was familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it. A memory tugged at the edge of his mind. He cracked the door, leaving the chain on, and peered through the gap. Recognition dawned as he saw the face on the other side.
“Byron… Sergeant Slint.” His voice trembled, emotions he hadn’t felt in a long time rising to the surface. He hadn’t seen or heard from anyone in his unit since the day they’d discharged him. He quickly unlatched the door, pulling it open wide to welcome his old friend.
Jack embraced him, a rare show of emotion. “It’s great to see you,” he said, barely holding back tears. Protocols be damned—this was someone who had shared the battlefield with him.
He led Sergeant Slint into the living room, offering him a seat. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, maybe? It seems like the right hour for it.” Slint nodded, looking weary. “That would be great. I’ve been on the road since last night.”
As Jack moved to the kitchen, his legs seemed to wake up a bit, the pain easing slightly. He didn’t need the cane as much now, which was a small victory. He busied himself with the coffee, the familiar routine calming him slightly. Folgers—cheap, bitter, but reliable. He dug out a couple of mugs, dusted them off, and poured the coffee. As he handed a cup to Slint, he took a seat opposite him, the initial excitement fading into curiosity tinged with caution.
“What are you doing here, Byron?” Jack asked, his voice steady but laced with concern. “I haven’t heard from anyone since I got the boot. Why now? Why show up at my door at 4 AM?”
2 - Old Friends
Jack hesitated a moment before unlocking the door. He didn’t know what to expect. Seeing Byron again after all these years stirred something in his chest—something he wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with.
When he finally opened the door, Byron stood there, broad as ever, his towering frame filling the doorway. Time hadn’t worn him down. If anything, he looked stronger—still built like a damn tank, still radiating that unshakable confidence. The short-cropped hair, the deep brown eyes that missed nothing, the scar above his left eyebrow—everything about him screamed discipline and control. But then, the moment Byron grinned, Jack felt something loosen in his chest.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Byron said, shaking his head. “The great Jack Griffeon. I was half convinced you were dead.”
Jack smirked. “You and me both.”
For a second, they just stood there. No words. Just two men who had been through hell together, separated by years and circumstances neither of them had chosen.
Then, Byron pulled him into a rough embrace, slapping Jack’s back like a brother who had just found his lost sibling.
Jack coughed. “Alright, alright, easy. Some of us aren’t built like a damn tank anymore.”
Byron laughed, stepping inside and looking around the apartment. Jack closed the door behind him, suddenly self-conscious of the clutter. The place wasn’t much—a dingy one-room setup with a battered couch, a kitchen counter covered in old takeout containers, and a single coffee table stacked with books and loose papers. A stark contrast to the high-class military housing they had once lived in.
Byron let out a low whistle. “Man… you really let yourself go, huh?”
Jack scoffed, hobbling toward the kitchenette to grab two mugs. “Not all of us got to keep our legs in peak condition, Sergeant Slint.”
That wiped the smirk off Byron’s face. “Shit, man. I didn’t mean—”
Jack waved him off. “I know. Just messing with you. Coffee?”
“Hell yeah. Been driving all night.”
Jack poured the cheap, bitter brew into two mugs and slid one across the counter. Byron took it without hesitation, leaning against the kitchen island, studying Jack the way a man studies an old battlefield.
“You really just disappeared,” Byron said finally. “No call. No goodbye. Nothing.”
Jack sighed, staring into his coffee. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I’m washed up, can’t even walk right anymore, got booted from the only life I ever knew—wanna grab a beer sometime?’”
Byron’s jaw tightened. “I would’ve been there, Griff.”
Jack knew that. And that made it worse.
They drank in silence for a minute before Byron set his cup down with a decisive clink. “You still got that god-awful whiskey you used to drink?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “I thought you hated that stuff.”
Byron grinned. “I do. But I figured it’d be a fitting way to celebrate finding your sorry ass alive.”
Jack chuckled, limping toward the cabinet. He pulled out an old, half-empty bottle and two chipped glasses. The first sip burned like hell, just like it always had.
Byron winced. “Yup. Still terrible.”
Jack smirked. “And yet, here you are.”
They sat in the living room, whiskey in hand, as the tension started to ease. Byron leaned back, stretching his legs out, looking like he belonged there—like no time had passed at all.
“You ever miss it?” Jack asked after a moment.
“The Army?” Byron exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Every damn day. But I don’t miss them.”
Jack nodded. He understood. The Army had been their life, but it had also turned its back on them when they needed it most.
Byron looked at him carefully. “You ever think about fighting again?”
Jack scoffed, tapping his cane against the floor. “Yeah. Every time I try to stand up too fast.”
Byron shook his head, smirking. “Still got the same attitude, I see.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a while longer, the weight of old wounds and new beginnings settling between them.
Finally, Jack set his glass down. “Alright. Enough reminiscing. Why the hell are you here at four in the morning?”
Byron’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“There’s something happening, Griff. Something big. And I need you to hear me out.”
Jack studied his friend. He knew that look—Byron wasn’t here for a casual reunion. Whatever it was, it was about to change everything.
Jack sighed. “Alright. Talk.”
More Writing to Come
Alright, that's enough for now. It might be too long of a post for some people to want to read through if I add more. I hope you enjoyed. I will be posting more updates down the road. Maybe I'll start a Patreon. I don't know. We'll see what the future holds.
Thanks for reading.
-J
Comments