Epicenter Johnny (The J·O·H·N Series Book 2) Read online

  EPICENTER JOHNNY

  a novel by Eddie Vander

  previously published under the pseudonym

  John Fitz

  Copyright © 2002, 2014 by Eddie Vander

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by P. S. Fitz

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  (Warning: This novel is not suitable for anyone under 18 years of age due to explicit language, strong violence and sexual content.)

  Other J·O·H·N series books by Eddie Vander:

  Baby Jonathan

  Beware Johnette

  To my mother Laurie,

  my greatest critic and friend,

  thanks for believing

  All my love...

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  PART ONE – TREMORS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  PART TWO – FAULTS

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  PART THREE – SHOCKWAVE

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  PART FOUR – RAPTURE

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  1

  The first tremor came when the baby shifted.

  The hospital walls shuddered, equivalent to that of a sonic boom. Windows vibrated. Lights flickered. Underfoot, the tile floor seemed to swell.

  Carrying her quickly through the ER, Jane Doe's water broke.

  The entire building shook.

  She howled in her convulsion, kicking.

  And the structure shook again. Hard.

  “Earthquake!” someone screamed inside the ward.

  The doctor concentrated on the task at hand. Under his breath, “We don't have quakes in South Florida.”

  They burst through the delivery room doors, laying her on the table.

  They spread her legs, holding her ankles. She screamed, her pain timed with each new shudder of the building.

  “Come on, girl!” the doc pleaded, assuming his position before her. “Help me push!”

  Within her belly, the unborn became reluctant, too. Caught in the cord, crowning. Frail and without conscious thought, the newborn kicked and his anger augmented.

  The hospital shook hard, pictures slid off the walls. Other patients reacted, scared. Lights flashed on and off. The doctor's assistant stayed at her post, frantic to aid him.

  With one last, slippery suction of air, the doctor pulled the infant out, clearing the cord and freezing momentarily, as if bitten, then he smacked the newborn's behind with a swift snap of his gloved fingers.

  If all the shudders before the birth seemed drastic, the final shaking seemed to last forever. Electricity cut off. Panic reigned.

  The baby screamed, shaking with cold and anger.

  “Nurse! Get under there! Under the table! Fast!”

  Holding the baby firm, the doctor slid below the examining table, followed by his assistant, not wanting to ignore the newborn's mother, but adhering to basic human instinct: Protect the child. Plaster and cement fell; glass shattered. The world seemed to be coming to an end.

  The baby's cries intensified, as did the shaking.

  2

  The world at last stood still.

  Standing with the infant in his arms, bloody and fatally wounded, the doctor collapsed to the floor, releasing the newborn to the cold tile. The doctor, his assistant, and several others were dead, marked with wounds, and half-buried under the rubble. Wet and vulnerable, the infant began to crawl, needful of his mother, instinctively seeking her out.

  Above him, she lay dying.

  Naked and exposed, Jane Doe was fading. Her bloody limbs hung dangling over the sides of the exam table, several fingers twitching. Bubbles of blood gurgled in her throat, followed by a deep internal groan, then air as it left her body. She slumped, wasted.

  Squarely atop her unseen face was a hunk of ceiling plaster. Her crushed skull still pulsed. The brain drifted, looking for purchase, coming up empty.

  The baby stretched up weakly from its crawl stance, looking up at his mother, and a distant, low rumble was heard reverberating throughout the hospital.

  The plaster slid off the mother to hit the shiny floor and settle with a cloud of white, lazy dust.

  Reflexes played a final tune through Jane Doe's limbs, then they were silent.

  The baby giggled.

  The mother died.

  And the hospital was quiet at last.

  3

  STRANGE INCIDENT AT LOCAL HOSPITAL

  (AP)

  ...this reporter's knowledge that at 2:35 Eastern Time, South Florida's Dade County experienced an earthquake, measuring a solid 6.5 magnitude on the Richter Scale at the Seismograph Station at the University of Florida...

  ...the hardest hit city structure was Hatlink Memorial Clinic, seemingly the epicenter for this strange occurrence...costly damage, and several fatalities...

  ...and a miraculous birth during the ordeal, a strong and healthy baby boy, 8 lbs., 10 ounces...

  PART ONE - TREMORS

  CHAPTER 1

  He sat in the park, staring at children at play.

  He was going to prove himself this day.

  To them.

  To the world.

  He held a small hand-held tape recorder. He spoke into it, almost bashfully: “Here's your destiny.”

  He placed both feet squarely on the earth, readying himself. A taste is what they wanted. A taste he had agreed to.

  He smiled deeply, almost a lunatic's sneer. He didn't want to hurt anyone. And he wouldn't.

  He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, wishing he had canceled the appointment altogether. But it was too late. Much too late.

  A taste.

  They wanted a taste. A taste to test him, to giv
e them proof of his talent.

  His Richter moment was soon arriving.

  A wind had started up briskly, making the park patrons run for cover.

  Richter felt none of it. It whipped through his clothes, over his skin, past his face. His eyelids fluttered, the cool comforting. He kept his feet planted on the earth.

  He studied the park.

  A small boy was climbing precariously on the jungle gym, making Richter worry. The child was laughing. And why not? Beautiful day, singing cardinals, playing children. Why wasn't it Heaven on earth?

  Why couldn't it be?

  Why shouldn't it be?

  He wished he knew.

  He remembered back.

  He saw himself as a Saint. Trouble was, he knew it wasn't true.

  Children noticed the man sitting on the park bench all alone, planted like a mannequin,concentrating with his eyes closed. He wasn't particularly scary. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and windbreaker. He was barefoot. That was the odd thing. That was what many of the children recognized as not particularly scary, just strange and not ordinary. The day itself was not exactly cold, but it wasn't hot either. Handsome, a youthful thirties. Features cropped and coined. Yes, the children noticed the strange barefoot man. But they didn't fear him. He looked friendly. Sad, but friendly. Before long, their attention was altogether diverted.

  The ground beneath their feet began to shake.

  The rumble was soundless. It was the screams that were heard.

  The children grew frightened, scurrying on the earth. Dirt rose in clouds, trees lost their foliage. A groan reverberated from the ground.

  A single line of blood slid slowly from his left nostril, unnoticed by him.

  He allowed himself a modest 6.1. Still, its impact was no less greater than if he had leveled the city.

  Somewhere close a power line snapped, spitting sparks. A car skidded into the back of another. Everyone in the park heard the outcome. Skyscrapers bowed, weathering the shock wave without damage. Horns blared. Countless car alarms triggered, whooping all over town. People ran from inside their offices and homes, vulnerable on the streets, but safer, too.

  It lasted no more than twenty seconds.

  The quake grew to a climatic jolt, similar to that of airborne turbulence, rattling the nearby structures before calming. Several park goers fall to the ground after valiant attempts to ride it out on their feet. A newspaper machine tipped over. One end of an awning gave way, swinging to shatter on the sidewalk below. A small fire erupted at a hotdog stand, quickly extinguished. And in reverent closure, a single fire hydrant exploded, sending a cruciform shower of spray over an entire city block.

  Johnny Richter relaxed. For the most part, nothing had changed. The surface layer was spared a full retaliation, only moderately wounded. Structures held with only minor damage. Civilians were mildly disheveled, more psychological than physical. He would learn later that no lives were lost. He would be eternally grateful.

  His feet hurt, like arthritis pulsing. Richter pulled it back, feeling his release of blood. It tapered down gradually, like an engine ticking. Still hot, still working, just powerless. His talent was dissipating, growing weaker.

  Done, Richter sat back, looking around frantically. He wiped at his bloody nose. No one seemed to notice him, due to their own emotional plights. Breathing deeply, he allowed his heart to normalize, his pulse to slow.

  Children found their parents, crying, scared. That upset the man. How dare they made him do it?

  The city returned to normal, its routine obvious and unscathed. Funny, he always thought. How quickly society could accept its losses. And move on.

  Yes, funny.

  Even with quakes. A little cleanup, a little healing.

  Payment came in many forms. Only fools guessed money.

  He watched everyone else in the park, frantic and unnerved. Pure fear feed them, kept them humble.

  He remembered his childhood, the good and the bad. Birds began to sing again in the trees, no longer scared of Mother Nature.

  He spoke into the recorder: “Lesson's end, gentlemen. Ten million as requested. Unmarked bills. Four days. L.A. survives.” He replaced the recorder on the bench beside him.

  He stood slowly, stretching, cracking his joints. Man, it was a beautiful day.

  He smiled, walked out of the park, selfishly enjoying the fear in all those around him, discussing the quake.

  In essence, discussing him and his talent.

  After all, he was a mass murdering virgin.

  He was saving himself for the big one.

  CHAPTER 2

  The baby cried, longing for its mother.

  Naked and wet, she put him screaming in an open dumpster in San Bernardino, leaving him there, her behavior irrational. She was a regular of the street; the father could be anyone of a hundred. She nestled him in between boxes and common trash, covering him loosely with a small garbage bag full of shredded office papers. His blood was already beginning to dry in the humid heat of the night, his umbilical draped across his tummy like a dead and bloodied snake. There were no words. She left him then, coughing, most assuredly bleeding and exposed to the elements herself. Giving birth in the shadows of a dark alleyway gave way to many hazards, for both mother and child.

  The newborn continued to scream.

  His wailing would go unnoticed, or purposely ignored. Either way, the child was on his own. As if Heaven sent, thunder suddenly rumbled overhead and the first thick drops of rain began to fall. Before long, it became a downpour.

  He stopped crying.

  Rain splattered the garbage inside, splattered him.

  The newborn waited. The rain water washed him clean, his mother's blood disappearing. He opened his tiny hands.

  He opened his eyes.

  He stared up at the night sky, letting the water baptize him.

  Before long, the rain stopped. Stars appeared overhead, the storm clouds moving on. A beautiful silver dollar moon lit the night, illuminating the dumpster's interior.

  The newborn smiled. Then it spoke, the words as crisp and audible as a scholar: “Thank you, God.”

  Strength found him, accompanied by initiative. He stood and breathed deep, clearing his airway of blood and mucus. He spat several times. He stretched.

  He jumped upward, small hands clasping the dumpster's rusty side, and using his tiny feet, pulled himself up to sit along the box's edge. Due to the shower, the night became suddenly cool, but not to him. He studied his immediate surroundings.

  The buildings were a ghetto, the residences a slum. Loud music pulsed in the distant.

  Naked and vulnerable, the newborn leaped down without fear, landing squarely on his feet. The road was slick and cratered. He paid it no mind.

  Violence was nearby.

  His tiny ears could detect it.

  A physical dispute, one with the sounds of death.

  A car drove past, its occupants narrowly missed spotting him.

  Walking across the street, he spotted her. His mother. Laying in an alleyway, her jeans spotty with the blood of his birth, propped up against a wall. Dead. She had not made it far. No one able to help her. No one willing.

  He studied her, admiring her tattoo of Jesus on her exposed

  stomach, repulsed by the needle marks on her inner forearms. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “God speed,” he said to her, his voice clear and sorrowful and sure.

  On new, meaty legs, the infant disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER 3

  1

  The California coastline snaked treacherously to the north, its rocky beach and surf warranting public postings along the beach head. DANGEROUS SURF! BEWARE THE ROCKS! SWIM AT OWN RISK!

  Richter stood in the sand, naked from head to toe.

  He listened to the surf, blotting out the traffic noise well above him on the rocky, winding cliffs. It was midnight. A bloated moon winked high above through moving clouds, illuminating the beachhead in bright,
intermittent shadows.

  He was controlling his temper.

  “I can make earthquakes happen,” he said to the night. The statement sounded childish, but it was true. He used to say it a lot in his youth, a way of making it real, making it right, justifying it within his adolescent conscience. He knew it was wrong. He knew it wasn't a toy. But yet, it presented itself. He was proud that it was not used often. That alone gave him solace.

  Richter walked deliberately into the surf, letting the water's cool sensation wash through him. The memories were bad now. Flooding him with a deep desire to destroy.

  Earthquakes were simple. Even the waves. Although it hurt him, both physical and mentally, the true trauma came from his memories. Deep down. The fights. The bad thing when he was a boy. The bad man behind it all. The seeding anger. His being a freak and all. If they tested him, he would have to use it.

  He would teach them.

  He would teach them all.

  Especially him.

  Richter kept walking further out until the water was up to his waist, feeling the sandy bottom between his toes. The water grew warmer with each advancing step. He stopped, closing his eyes. A fish swam into his leg, then darted away.

  Waves pushed past him, rolling up the beach to retreat back into surf. The sound it made was soothing, repetitious. The current pulled fruitlessly at him, but he was planted, his feet solid on the bottom. He was unmovable.

  You bastard, he thought angrily, replaying the terrible episode in his head. How vivid the images, as if it had only been the day prior. How violated he was. You changed my entire world, you bastard. You did this. You're to blame.

  The waves started to roll in with a stronger vengeance, sliding up the beach further and further. Was it him? Was he tempting the ocean around him? Perhaps.