The Way the World Ends (The Evolution Gene Book 3) Read online

  The Way the World Ends

  Book 3 of The Evolution Gene

  Aaron Hodges

  Contents

  Also by Aaron Hodges

  About the Author

  I. War

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  II. Betrayal

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  III. Vengeance

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  IV. Rebellion

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  V. Compromise

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  VI. Manipulation

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  VII. Retribution

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Epilogue

  Enjoyed This Book?

  Note from the Author

  Also by Aaron Hodges

  The Sword of Light Trilogy

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Edited by Genevieve Lerner

  Proofread by C.B. Editing

  Cover Art by Deranged Doctor Designs

  Copyright © April 2019 Aaron Hodges.

  Second Edition

  All rights reserved.

  The National Library of New Zealand

  ISBN-13: 978-09951202-42

  Also by Aaron Hodges

  The Evolution Gene

  Book 1: The Genome Project

  Book 2: The Pursuit of Truth

  Book 3: The Way the World Ends

  Legend of the Gods

  Book 1: Oathbreaker

  Book 2: Shield of Winter

  Book 3: Dawn of War

  The Sword of Light Trilogy

  Book 1: Stormwielder

  Book 2: Firestorm

  Book 3: Soul Blade

  Aaron Hodges was born in 1989 in the small town of Whakatane, New Zealand. He studied for five years at the University of Auckland, completing a Bachelor of Science in Biology and Geography, and a Masters of Environmental Engineering. After working as an environmental consultant for two years, he grew tired of the 9 to 5 and decided to quit his job to travel the world. During his travels he picked up the old draft of a novel he once wrote in High School—titled ‘The Sword of Light’—and began to rewrite the story. Six months later he published his first novel—Stormwielder.

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  Good versus Evil is not a war.

  It is a battle,

  Fought within each of us,

  Every day.

  Part 1

  War

  Prologue

  Liz sat on the edge of the rooftop, her feet dangling over empty air. Her body tensed as she looked out at the city, her gloved hands gripping tight to the concrete lip. Skyscrapers rose up around her, dwarfing the nondescript apartment building on which she sat. The first glow of the rising sun lit the horizon, but San Francisco remained in shadow, all color leached away. With strict power rations in place, there was hardly a streetlight left to cast back the gloom.

  It made the night perfect for hunting.

  Four weeks had passed since their time at the university. Hardly a day had gone that she did not curse herself for fleeing, for running away and leaving Chris to die. Never mind that there had been nothing she could have done to save him; she blamed herself anyway.

  After all, Ashley had found the courage to stay and fight. Poor, broken Ashley, who just days before had frozen at the merest sign of danger. She had been through more than any of them, had suffered alone at the hands of Doctor Halt; yet when their backs had been against the wall, it was Ashley who’d stepped up. Alone, she had fought off the Chead, and given Liz and Jasmine the chance to escape.

  Liz almost hated her for it.

  It should have been me!

  She stood suddenly, her boots balancing precariously on the thin ledge. Fists clenched, she stared down at the hundred-foot drop, her stomach swirling.

  Again she saw Chris’s face—tight with pain, his lips drawn back in a snarl, his broken wing hanging limp. Injured and outmatched, he had thrown himself between the Chead and Ashley, determined to sacrifice himself for his friend. But Ashley had remained, and the two of them had perished in the massacre that followed.

  Liz’s only comfort was that they’d died believing their sacrifice had meant something—that their deaths had allowed their friends to expose the truth about the Chead, that the government was behind the creation and spread of the deadly virus.

  Battling through their grief, Liz and Jasmine had carried the thumb drive the professor had given them back to the safe house. Tears streaming down her face, Liz had told the old woman about her grandson’s fate, and offered her the thumb drive.

  But Maria had turned away, rejecting her grandson’s sacrifice. At the time, Liz couldn’t begin to understand her reaction. Between the thumb drive and students who’d witnessed Professor McKenzie’s discovery, not even the Director of Domestic Affairs could silence the truth this time.

  Or so she had thought.

  Lost and confused, Liz had looked to her friends for an explanation. Only then had Sam told her what had happened.

  The story had hit the news before they’d even reached the safe house. “Texas” had launched a counter-attack—supposedly in retaliation for the capture of their operative—and had slaughtered hundreds of students at the University of San Francisco.

  In response, the Western Allied States had declared war on the rogue state, allowing it to enact emergency wartime legislation. The media had been censored, a nationwide curfew set between the hours of 7p.m. and 7a.m., strict rations placed over the nation’s resources, and soldiers now patrolled the streets of San Francisco.

  Worst of all, they had resumed the draft, requiring all able-bodied men and women to report to their nearest military recruitment office. One in five were to be conscripted and trained for the coming war. The process was supposed to be random, but in reality, it was rural youth they were taking.

  Or so the rumors went.

  Liz winced as pain flared in the palms of her hands. Fingers shaking, she saw the bloo
d staining her white gloves. Her nails had cut straight through the fine material and pierced her skin. Sucking in a breath, she forced herself to relax. Rage bubbled in her chest, but she refused to set it free. A cold breeze blew across the rooftop, but her long black hoody and pants kept her warm. Spring was well underway, but this was San Francisco, and the wind rarely let up.

  The massacre at the university had at least taught Liz one lesson—the President, the Director, the government, they would stop at nothing to win this war. No deed was too low for them, no act too foul. If the resistance wanted victory, they needed to be just as ruthless.

  Watching the alleyway, Liz bent her head, listening to the telltale crunch of gravel beneath boots. The soldiers were growing closer, just a few minutes away now. Liz quickly tucked her curly black hair behind her ears, readying herself. From the noise they were making, she guessed there were no more than six.

  She smiled. They didn’t stand a chance.

  Spreading her wings, Liz watched as the patrol turned the corner and started down her alleyway. The wind caught in her feathers, trying to pull her from the roof, but she crouched slightly, resisting its call. Her heart pounded in her ears as the soldiers drew closer. Dressed all in black, her wings the color of night, she was all but invisible to those below.

  Without a sound, Liz stepped out into open space. Air whistled in her ears as she fell. She only had eyes for the soldiers. She could see them clearly now. Their youthful faces scanned the shadows, their eyes nervous, movements jumpy. It was obvious most were fresh recruits. Their sun-kissed skin proved the rumors were true—that her rural countrymen were being plucked from their beds to fight the government’s war.

  The two marching at the back were different, though. They moved with confidence, their backs straight and eyes hawkish. Their rifles were held with the casual indifference of professionals, and their pale skin betrayed their urban upbringing.

  These were the men she wanted to speak with.

  By now Liz was almost on them. Ten feet above the ground, her wings snapped open. They gave a sharp crack, slowing her descent abruptly, giving her time to adjust course. The men below looked up at the sound, alerted to her presence, but it was far too late.

  As her boots struck the asphalt, Liz spun, her wings lashing out to catch the two leading recruits in the head. They dropped without a sound as those behind them screamed and lifted their rifles, but Liz was already moving. She leapt through the air and landed on the back of her next victim. Her weight drove him to his knees, and a single blow sent him face-first into the ground.

  Standing, she searched for the fourth recruit, and found her further down the alley. She couldn’t have been older than Liz’s own seventeen years. Snarling, Liz stepped towards her, and the girl dropped her gun and fled.

  Ignoring her, Liz leapt skyward as the rattle of gunfire came from behind. Bullets flashed past, tearing chips from the stone walls. Tumbling head over heels, she watched as the two soldiers tried to track her flight, but they were far too slow to catch her. Grinning, she landed between them. Her hands flashed out, catching both by their collars. She lifted them as though they weighed no more than pillows, and tossed them backwards into either wall of the alley.

  One collapsed to the ground, unconscious, but the other staggered to his feet and tried to flee. Liz was on him in an instant. Catching him again, she drove him back into the wall. Teeth bared, she pressed her face close to his.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she growled. “I thought you were looking for me?”

  The man continued to struggle, trying to break free, until she lifted him and slammed him into the wall again. Air hissed between his teeth as his lungs emptied, and he gasped like a fish out of water. When he finally caught his breath, he slumped in her grasp, apparently accepting his fate.

  “Where’s the Director?” Liz leaned forward, whispering the question in his ear.

  When she pulled back, the man cleared his throat, then spat in her face.

  Liz’s brow hardened, and without thinking, she tossed him across the alley. He flew several feet before slamming down into a pile of garbage. A can rattled along the concrete as Liz strode after him, struggling to lock her rage back in its cage. Silently, she wiped the spit from her face, then watched in amusement as the soldier tried to pull himself clear of the trash.

  When he finally staggered out, she leapt forward and grabbed him by the throat. Forcing him to his knees, she towered over him.

  “They didn’t tell you much about me, did they?” she hissed. “Now, where is she?”

  Since the massacre, neither the Director nor the President had been seen in public. Instead, they hid within the television, broadcasting their propaganda to the nation from behind locked doors. No one knew where they were hiding, only that they were well-protected. Liz didn’t care. She had only one desire now, one objective.

  To kill the woman who had taken Chris from her.

  The soldier’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Rolling her eyes, Liz loosened her grip around his throat, and waited for him to speak. He gave a muted choking sound and started to cough.

  “Go…to hell—”

  Whatever else he might have said was cut off as Liz slammed her boot into his unprotected crotch. He crumpled without a sound, his sudden convulsion tearing his throat from her grasp. Not that it mattered—he wasn’t going anywhere now. Lying on the ground, the man gave a low, almost inhuman moan as he clutched his groin.

  Liz knelt beside him. Her anger was raging again, begging to be released, and she felt a desperate need to indulge it. How satisfying would it be, to watch this man die, to feel his life slowly drain away, smothered by her touch?

  Her glove was off before she realized what she was doing. Only as she reached for his unprotected throat did she stop herself.

  “Tell me where she is,” Liz said, her voice husky, “or die in agony.”

  On his back, the man stilled. His eyes flickered up at her, then down to her naked hand. He swallowed, visibly afraid. Apparently word had spread about the awful pain and death her touch brought.

  “I don’t…” He shook his head, his voice little more than a squeak. “I don’t know.”

  Liz sighed. “That’s too bad.” She reached for his throat.

  The man flinched, raising his hands to fend her off. “Please! I’m telling the truth,” he stammered.

  Smiling, Liz nodded. “I know.”

  Before he could respond, she caught him by the throat again. His eyes bulged and he managed a strangled cry that faded to a squeak. He batted weakly at her arms, struggling to break her iron hold, but it was already too late.

  Liz watched dispassionately as purple lines spread up the man’s neck. He gaped at her as a low gurgling started in his chest. His feet beat helplessly at the concrete and his hands gripped her wrist, as though even now he might break her death grip. A wild ecstasy swept through her as she watched him, as she felt his life slowly drain away. She could almost taste his fear, his panic, as death took him.

  When he finally stilled, Liz released him and stood. There was still one soldier left to interrogate, but as she turned towards him, she heard the click of steel on concrete. She froze, catching sight of the rifle in the man’s hands, pointed straight at her chest. For a second, time seemed to stand still. She was too far away to reach him. In the narrow alleyway, he couldn’t miss.

  The soldier grinned as he pressed a finger to the trigger.

  Before he could fire, a whisper of feathers came from overhead—then an emerald-winged banshee dropped from the sky and landed on the man’s neck.

  The audible crack of the soldier’s spine breaking was still echoing through the alleyway as Jasmine settled down beside her victim. Her wings thumped one last time, scattering garbage across the alleyway, before tucking neatly behind her back. Folding her arms, she raised an eyebrow.

  “You missed one,” Jasmine commented.

  Liz eyed the other girl. At fiv
e foot five, Jasmine was taller and more muscular than her, despite Liz being one year older. Jasmine was wearing her black hair in a ponytail, giving her a more youthful, innocent look. Of course, these days none of them were anything close to innocent.

  “I was getting to him,” Liz said, a little too sharply.

  “Looks like he almost got you,” Jasmine replied with a smirk.

  Liz let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “How long were you watching?”

  “Long enough.”

  Liz glanced around at the five soldiers scattered amidst the garbage. There was no sign of the one who’d fled. The three recruits she’d dropped still seemed to be breathing. Finally, she looked back at Jasmine. “You could have given me a hand.”