ANOM: Awakening (The ANOM Series Book 1) Read online

  ANOM: Awakening

  by

  Jason R. James

  - Dedication -

  For Vanessa, with love.

  Prologue

  The sun was still high above Independence Hall in Philadelphia, beating down on the brick walls and sidewalks, turning Old City into an oven. It had been a hot summer already, and July 17th was no exception. The city air was thick with humidity and noise, the sound of a hundred different voices and vehicles mixing together into a single dull hum.

  A huddle of tourists gathered around a bronze statue of George Washington just in front of Independence Hall, waiting for their guided tour to begin. Across the street, another line of visitors wrapped around the outside of a long brick and glass building, waiting for their chance to see the Liberty Bell. On the opposite corner, across from Independence Hall, a small outdoor cafe served a late lunch.

  Farther down the sidewalk, just past the cafe, a young bride stepped onto a trolley, helped by her new husband. The rest of their wedding party, in their matching dresses and tuxedos, lined both sides of the walk, watching as the photographer snapped away on his camera.

  On the cobblestone street in front of Independence Hall, a dozen horse-drawn carriages clopped between cars and trucks, carrying their passengers back into the city’s past as their drivers recited facts and stories from 1776. It was an ordinary day in Old City.

  That’s why nobody cared when the white box truck turned the corner onto the cobblestones of Chestnut St. There was nothing remarkable about the truck. Nothing to set it apart. And nothing to suggest that behind those white walls, the truck carried 25 barrels of ammonium nitrate, almost twice as much as they used in Oklahoma City.

  The truck turned the corner, following a white, horse-drawn carriage. It idled over the cobblestones, rolling a few feet, stopping with traffic and then inching forward again. Finally it stopped one last time in front of the statue of Washington. Then came the explosion.

  *****

  Jeremy Cross raced down the hardwood stairs. As he neared the bottom of the staircase, he jumped over the last two steps and landed on both feet in the entryway of the house.

  Jeremy was young, only 17, and like so many of his peers he had places to go but nowhere to be. He wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a faux-vintage t-shirt, dark gray with a faded Union Jack blazoned across the front. A pair of neon blue headphones hung around the back of his neck like a yoke. His dark hair was a tangled mop, meticulously styled into disarray. His gray eyes and easy smile hinted at a good-looking future, but he was still a year away from growing into his features and leaving those awkward years of middle school behind.

  In the entryway Jeremy grabbed his shoes by the door and forced his feet inside without bothering to untie the laces. He reached for the door, ready to pull it open, but then a voice from the living room stopped him.

  “Hey, where’s the fire, bud?”

  Jeremy rolled his eyes. He was hoping to get out of the house and halfway down the block before anyone realized he was gone. Instead, he turned and walked into the living room.

  Jeremy’s father, Dr. Jonathan Cross, sat on the couch with his arms folded across his chest, his long legs stretched in front of him and his feet resting on the coffee table. He was old, but then again, at least to Jeremy, his father had always been old. Maybe his hair was a little thinner on top now and grayer than the year before, but other than that, his dad never seemed to change.

  Jonathan Cross had been watching the baseball game, although Jeremy knew from experience that the game only served as a distraction. Really his father was nodding in and out of sleep. The Phillies and Pirates played on the flat screen hanging from the wall. The volume was just loud enough so that if you really listened, you could hear the inane prattle of the broadcasters in the background.

  Emily Cross, Jeremy’s mom, sat on the couch next to her husband. She was the same age as his dad, so Jeremy knew she must be old too, but with the strategic use of highlights and makeup, she appeared several years younger. Her legs were stretched out to one side of the couch, and she held her iPad in both hands, engrossed by her trashy romance novel of the month.

  As Jeremy stepped into the living room, his dad turned away from the game. “Where are you going, bud?”

  Jeremy didn’t want to say, but it wasn’t worth a lie either; instead he compromised, “I’m going over to a friend’s.”

  His dad sat up, pulling his feet off the table. “Okay, that’s pretty cryptic. Let me try again. Who are you going to see?”

  Jeremy reached up for the back of his neck, rubbing his hand up and down over his hair. He hated this part. It wasn’t so much the questions; he could handle those. What really got to him was their reactions to his answers. There was always an undercurrent, some hidden agenda, another silent judgment. It would have been easier if he had just made it out the door. But he was already late, and he chose speed over stealth. Now he had to pay the price.

  Jeremy steeled himself for what came next. “I’m going over to Kate’s. We’re gonna watch a movie. I’ll probably just do dinner over there too.”

  His mom looked up over the top of her tablet. “You’re going to that girl’s house again?”

  Jeremy looked away at the television—anything to keep him from losing his temper, “Mom, you’ve known Kate since we were seven. She’s not ‘that girl.’”

  “Yeah, what’s the problem, Emily?” his dad chided. “Don’t you like Katie?”

  Emily looked back at her tablet, frowning. “You both know what I think about her.”

  His dad laughed. “Well, I like her. I think your son likes her too.”

  “It’s not like that, Dad. We’re just friends.”

  “Maybe.” Jonathan Cross smiled, “but there was a time when your mother and me were ‘just friends’ too.”

  Jeremy forced himself to look back at his dad. “We’re just friends. I talked to her about it. I’m sure.”

  Jonathan nodded. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, bud, it’s that things like that have a way of working themselves out. You’ll see.”

  Jeremy had to change the subject; he looked at the TV. “Who’s winning?”

  His dad squinted at the screen, “Looks like we’re all tied up. Bottom of six. You want to hang around? Watch the Phils with your old man?”

  “Not today. I’m already late.”

  “You know you’re going to be a senior this year, bud. We’re not going to get many more days like this.”

  “Yeah, I know. Maybe next weekend—”

  A resonant boom, like a single, deliberate beat on a bass drum, suddenly broke over the speakers of the television, filling the room with a sound much louder than it should have been with the volume turned down so low. It was enough to stop Jeremy mid-sentence. All three turned to look at the television, but before anyone could speak, the whole house shivered underfoot.

  Jeremy looked at his dad. “Did you feel that?”

  His mom sat up on the couch, high-pitched panic in her voice. “That was an earthquake. John, we need to get out of the house.”

  But Jonathan was already on his feet. “Quiet. Both of you.” He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned up the volume on the television. The picture on the screen showed one of the Phillies players standing in the outfield, turning around to look behind him.

  One of the announcers continued, his hurried words running together, “... what sounded like an explosion. Play on the field has stopped. People are streaming—running now out of the stands. Now the players are leaving the field as well. They are running off the field—”

  The camera panned out, and on the television scree
n, Jeremy could see the Phillies running off the field for their dugout.

  The announcer said, “We don’t know what caused the explosion, or even if it was an explosion. There was just a deafening roar. And now—now we can see smoke. We can see gray smoke rising over the right-field wall coming from what seems to be downtown Philadelphia.

  Once again the image on the screen changed as the camera turned toward the right-field wall and zoomed in on the billowing pillar of smoke starting to rise over the city.

  Before the announcer could speak again, the live video feed from the stadium cutout, replaced by a dark-blue background and the white words “Breaking News” scrolling across the screen.

  This image only lasted for a second before the video feed changed again, this time to a white-haired man in a dark suit sitting behind a news desk. “I’m Peter Miller, and this is a special news report. We have just received reports of an explosion in the city of Philadelphia. These reports indicate the explosion was somewhere in the area of Independence Hall, and from the word we’ve received, it appears to have been a massive explosion. Once again, there are unconfirmed reports of a massive explosion in the Old City section of Philadelphia, possibly in the area of Independence Hall. We are trying to get people into that area as we speak to confirm those reports. It’s obviously too early to speculate on a cause or the extent of any injuries. All that we know, and these reports are, as of yet, unconfirmed, is that there was a massive explosion near Independence Hall in Philadelphia.

  “Certainly everyone’s thoughts go immediately to terrorism, but it could also be some form of accident, possibly involving natural gas, and frankly, it’s too early to even speculate at this time. But once again, if you’re just joining us, there are unconfirmed reports of a massive explosion near Independence Hall in Philadelphia.”

  “Dad?” Jeremy’s voice trailed away, hollow, distant, but Jonathan Cross ignored it. Instead a sharp buzz from the coffee table brought all of their attention back to the living room. It was Jonathan’s pager. He picked it up, read the message, and turned to Emily, who was just now rising to her feet.

  “It’s the hospital.” His voice was taut.

  “Dad?”

  This time, Jonathan turned back to face his son, but there was no need for Jeremy to ask his question anymore; he could see the answer written on his father’s face.

  Jonathan Cross’ lips were pressed tight in a thin line, and two small creases appeared between his eyebrows. It was a look Jeremy had never seen before, at least not from his father. Was he angry? Afraid? Jeremy opened his mouth. He wanted to say something; offer some words of reassurance, but nothing came out.

  The white-haired anchor pulled their attention back to the television. “We now have word that a local news helicopter is in the air, over the blast site, and we are going to a live video feed.”

  For a brief second, the news anchor was still on the screen, raising a hand to his temple as he muttered, “Dear God,” but then the image changed.

  Now there was a picture of dark-brown dirt, a crater. It filled the screen, but after a moment the camera pulled back to reveal the full destruction. Dark-red bricks lay strewn around the outside of the crater, and in one corner of the screen they could see what seemed to be a low brick wall, broken but still standing. At the opposite corner, a modern building came into focus. All the windows on the side of the building were blown out, and a thick black smoke trailed from these open wounds into the afternoon sky. The camera pulled back again, and everywhere, at the far edges of the television screen, Jeremy could see people running.

  The sober voice of the news anchor continued, wavering as the camera panned across the chaos. “We are looking at what was, only a few moments ago, Independence Hall in Philadelphia. What was a popular tourist attraction and the birthplace of our nation…is gone.”

  Jonathan Cross spun away from the television, jammed the hospital pager deep into his pocket, and started out of the room.

  “Dad?” Jeremy could barely manage a whisper.

  Jonathan stopped in front of his son and laid his hand on his shoulder. “I want you to stay here with your mother.” And then he winked, the same wink Jeremy had seen all his life. Their own secret signal for “everything’s going to be okay.” The same wink Jeremy had seen at baseball games and family dinners and in the principal’s office more than once. And then, just like now, Jeremy could breathe again.

  Without another word, Jonathan stepped out of the living room and walked out the front door.

  *****

  Fifteen minutes later, the Cross’ black SUV raced down the long drive toward the hospital. Jonathan could see the front parking lot just across from the main building. It was already a snarl of traffic and parked vehicles.

  “Dammit,” he cursed under his breath; there was nowhere else to go.

  Jonathan turned left down the last lane of the parking lot, swerved around a silver Nissan sitting in the middle of the road, and then, as he reached the end of the row, he jerked the wheel hard to the right and jumped the curb.

  The ignition of the black SUV barely clicked off before he was out of the car. A uniformed guard, one of the hospital’s security team posted at the front door, yelled something at him. Dr. Cross ripped his ID badge from his pocket, waved it in the air in the direction of the guard, and without waiting for a response started running around the outside of the building toward the ER’s entrance.

  As he turned the corner of the building, he made himself stop and stand in place. He forced himself to take a deep breath. And another. In front of him Jonathan could see the emergency room’s parking lot. Just like the main lot, cars that didn’t belong were parked chaotically around the edges of the lot, and in the middle, backed up to the ER doors, a pair of white ambulances stood as sentinels, their red lights sweeping in quick circles overhead.

  As he stood watching, a third ambulance pulled sharply into the lot and parked at an angle to the other two. The driver’s-side door kicked open, and a medic wearing a gray, bloodstained uniform leapt from the vehicle. At the same time the back doors of the ambulance flung open, and a second medic climbed out from inside.

  Jonathan shook himself back into action and started running again down the gentle slope at his feet and toward the Emergency Room parking lot. He reached the third ambulance just as the medics pulled the stretcher from inside and the wheels of the gurney unfolded to the ground.

  Jonathan fell in alongside the stretcher as they started up the concrete ramp. The medic pushing the gurney from behind immediately started his recitation of the patient’s vitals. Jonathan Cross took in the information without ever really listening. For all the chaos and uncertainty of the day, this part was normal; he could do this in his sleep.

  He looked down at the woman on the stretcher. The first thing he noticed—that he forced himself to notice—was her triage card. A rubber band looped around the girl’s wrist held the card in place. It was red. She was critical.

  One look at her and that much was obvious. The right side of her face was smeared red with thick blood, and Jonathan could see a large cut starting at her hairline and stretching back toward the base of her skull. She had thick blonde hair, but on the right side of her head, the hair was dark and matted against her face, and the white gauze bandages that had been wrapped across her forehead and over her eye were wet and dark. From her left side, Jonathan thought she could be considered attractive. Maybe she even looked content, like she was dreaming, but her right side…the right side of her face was malformed, sagging, crushed. The girl’s shirt had been opened down the middle, and her jeans were slit up the right leg—cuts made by the medics. Jonathan counted six, eight, maybe a dozen different holes in the girl’s right side, starting from her calf and going up to her shoulder. Just like before, the square bandages used by the medics to control the bleeding were soaked through and useless.

  As they reached the top of the ramp, the emergency room doors slid open with a sharp rush of air. Inside,
people were everywhere. They sat in chairs, and when there were no more chairs, they sat on the floor against the walls. These were the lucky ones, the walking-wounded. Most had gotten to the hospital by themselves, and now they sat alone. Others sat with friends or family, or the strangers who had been there to help when they needed it. They would all have to wait.

  Behind this first crowd, deeper inside the emergency room, Jonathan could see the flurry of doctors and nurses moving between the curtained rooms. They all moved quickly, but no one was running, and when they spoke, their voices were crisp, clear, free from panic.

  Jonathan knew they had drilled on this for years, but no amount of practice could create the tension of the real thing. He could feel it pulsing in the room as soon as the doors opened. It was the same nauseating tightness he had been feeling in his stomach since he heard the blast on TV and felt the earth roll under his living room.

  “What do you got, John?”

  The question came from the man standing in front of the emergency room admission counter. He was short, with gray hair, and holding a clipboard. He wore a thick pair of glasses with heavy, dark frames. A hunter-green vest pulled over his white lab coat designated him as the ambulance triage officer, but Jonathan knew him as Robert Marks, one of the attending physicians in the ER.

  “Fractured skull. Multiple—,” Jonathan started to answer, but Marks cut him off.

  “Take her to curtain three.”

  Two nurses stepped up to the front and back of the stretcher; the nurse at the woman’s head, a big man with a shaved head and tattoo sleeves covering both arms, started to count, “One, two, three.”

  The two nurses pulled on the sheet covering the gurney, sliding it to the right so the woman moved over to the empty hospital bed. Then the medics turned and started pushing their stretcher back toward the ER doors, and the two nurses pushed the woman deeper into the emergency room.

  Jonathan fell into step with the nurses, following them back towards curtain three, but then he caught himself and turned back to Dr. Marks. “Hey Bob—”