F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero: A Repairman Jack Novel

Ground Zero

A Repairman Jack Novel

F. Paul Wilson

You hold the pen-penultimate Repairman Jack novel.

Thats right: Ive decided to end the series with numberfifteen (though Jack will make his final appearance in Nightworld ).

Ive always said this would be a closed-end series, that Iwould not run Jack into the ground, that I had a big story to tell and wouldlower the curtain after telling it.

The end of that story draws nigh. (Theres a highfalutinphrase.)

And if youve been following along, youve noticed that therecent novels do not tie up as neatly as the earlier ones. Ive always keptlonger story arcs running from book to book, but I used to be able to bringeach installment to a distinct conclusion. That, Im afraid, is no longer thecase.

As I move people and objects into place and set the stage forthe events that will tip all of humanity into Nightworld , the final chapter, this sort of incremental closure hasbecome impossible.

So I ask you to bear with me. You may have noticed that Bythe Sword began shortly after Bloodline , and Ground Zero picksup a couple of months after that.

Two more Repairman Jack novels remain, the last ending justbefore Nightworld begins. Along the waywell be reprinting the remainder of the Adversary Cycle, synching the releasesof The Touch, Reborn , and Reprisal with Jacks timeline. (See The Secret History of the Worldat the end of this book for the sequence.)

The post- Harbingers installments of Jacks tale have become what the French call a romanfleuve literally, a river novel, with one storyflowing from volume to volume. As a result, each new installment is going tofeel richer, deeper, and make more sense if youve read the ones before.

Hang in there, folks. Its been a long ride, and weve stillgot a lot of wonder, terror, and tragedy ahead. I promise youll be glad youmade the trip.

F. Paul Wilson
the Jersey shore

Thanks to the usual crew for theirefforts: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; StevenSpruill; and my agent, Albert Zuckerman. Special thanks to David J. Schow forthe guided hajj to hallowed Bronson Canyon and its infamous caves.

GROUND ZERO

Surreal,he thought as he watched the twin towers burn.

Hisrented boat rocked gently on the waters of New York harbor, a thousand feet offthe Battery. The morning sun blazed in a flawless cerulean sky. But for thesusurrus of the light breeze and the soft lapping of the waves against thehull, the world lay silent about him.

Abeautiful, beautiful day ...

... unless you were anywhere near those towers .

Hetried to imagine the pandemonium in the streets around themthe Klaxons, thesirens, the shouts, the confusion, the terror. Not a hint of that here. Thetowers belched black smoke like a couple of chimneys, but all in silence .

Hechecked his watch: nearly ten oclock. The plan was to allow an hour or so ofchaos after the Arabs completed their mission. By then, though fear and terrorwould still be running high, the initial panic would have subsided. Thesituation would be considered horrific and tragic, but manageable. The secondjet had hit at 9:03, so the hour mark was almost upon him. Time to initiate thesecond phasethe real reason for all this .

Froma pocket of his Windbreaker he pulled a pair of gray plastic boxes, each thesize of a cigarette packone marked with an S for the south tower, the otherwith an N for the north. He put the N away for later. After all, the south tower wasthe important one, the reason for this enormous undertaking .

Heextended an aerial from the S box, thenslid up a little safety cover on its front panel, revealing a black button. Hetook a breath and pressed the button, then watched and waited .

Thevast majority would blame the collapse on the crazy Arabs who hijacked theplanes and the Islamic extremists who funded themthe obvious choice. A fewwould notice inconsistencies and point fingers elsewhere, blaming thegovernment or Big Oil or some other powerful but faceless entity .

Noone, absolutely no one, would guessor be allowed to guessthe truth behind thewho and the why of this day.

Diana stared at herself in the mirror. She did that a lot.Maybe too much. No, definitely too much. But she didnt have much else to do.

She hated her life. So boring .

Mainly because she was so lonely. Not that she was alone. Sheshared this big house with three mengrown men, sworn to protect her with theirlivesbut they werent friends. She could talk to them, as in haveconversations, but couldnt really talk to them about things that mattered. She chatted online all the time, but thatwasnt the same as having another flesh-and-blood fourteen-year-old girl in thesame room.

But that flesh-and-blood girl wouldnt stay long once she got alook at Dianas eyes.

She stared at the reflection of those eyes now. With theirblack pupils, black irises, and black everything else, they looked like ebonymarbles stuck in her sockets. Sometimes she wanted to rip them out. Yeah, shedbe blind, but at least then she could go to school instead of having tutors.And shed have a true excuse for wearing wraparound sunglasses all the timeinstead of lying about a rare eye condition.

She guessed it wasnt a lie. It was rareonly a few Oculi leftaround the globeand it was definitely a condition.

So she was an Oculus. Big deal. These black eyes were supposedto allow her to see things regular eyes were blind to, warnings from Outside.

Alarms.

Shed yet to experience one.

Not that she was complaining. Shed seen her father when hedreceived Alarms and it didnt look pleasant. In fact, it looked awful.

Why was she thinking of Alarms tonight? She hadnt

Something flashed to her right. She turned to look but itflashed again, still to her right. She realized it wasnt in the room, but inher eye. A scintillating scotoma. Shed looked it up. The flashing lightsalways preceded her migraines. This wasnt the sparkle she usually saw, morelike wavy lines, but she knew the sooner she dug out her bottle of Imitrex andtook one, the better.

And then the room tilted. For an instant she thought earthquakeor tsunami, but then the pain stabbed through her headmuch, much worse than amigraineand the lights flashed brighter and longer and fused to blot out herroom as her knees gave way and she dropped to the floor.

As she lay there shaking, shuddering, writhing with the painthat suffused her, a tunnel opened through the light, revealing ...

... a man in a loincloth, standing on anold-fashioned scaffold and carving a huge block of stone more than twice hisheight into some sort of thick pillar or column ... his hammer striking thechisel again and again but making no sound ... all eerily silent ...

... the same man carving strange symbols into theside of the pillar ...

... and others ...

... and carving a cavity, perhaps three feet acrossand five feet deep, into one end of the pillar ...

... and suddenly she is grabbed from behind andbound hand and foot ...

... forced into the cavity ...

... sealed over with a stone plug, plunging her intodarkness ...

... as she struggles for air she feels the pillartilt as it slides into a deep hole in the earth and is covered over ...

... she thrashes in the small space until her airruns out and darkness claims her ...

... and then ... a spark in the distance ... growing... swelling ... to become a glowing egg