Omega Days (An Omega Days Novel) by John L. Campbell Read Free Book Online

stopped traffic so there was room to maneuver in an emergency, cranked the wheel left and gunned the van up and over the concrete median in a tight U-turn.
    Angie saw the people in the road being pulled down by the dead.
    “Ang . . .” Her uncle’s voice was tight. She was already out of her seat and moving into the back, steadying herself as the vehicle swayed and her uncle accelerated.
    Their time slot was between a show about storage container auctions and another about pawnshops, but hers was by far the most popular. It (like the other programs) was much more scripted than most people suspected, especially the staged arguments and special guests who conveniently just happened to be available for the show (booked upward of six months in advance). A lot of it was pretty corny, but the audience loved it, the contracts paid them all ridiculous amounts, and she got to do what she loved.
    Both sides on the exterior of the black van featured the promo shot for the show, a photo of her standing in front of her husband, uncle, and father, all of them dressed in black with their arms folded, wearing serious expressions. The History channel logo was down in one corner, and above it all in big letters was
Angie’s Armory. Family = Firepower.
    The van owned by the family of professional gunsmiths was customized, filled with shelves, tool drawers and locking cases, bolted-down grinders and reloaders. Rows of assault weapons, shotguns, and hunting rifles were mounted in racks along both walls. Angie selected an evil-looking black automatic shotgun with a collapsible stock. She opened a locker and pulled out a canvas bag of heavy magazines, slamming one into the weapon as she moved back to the front. She had to climb over a long, black, hard plastic case strapped to the floor, the Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifle that they had been demonstrating during the morning’s filming.
    Bud swung the van down a side street and planted his foot on the accelerator. “Not a hoax,” he said. “We put down anything that’s a threat.”
    Angie planted the weapon between her knees and nodded, already anticipating the familiar recoil. Her thoughts were a scatter of questions, disbelief, and her daughter’s face.

FIVE
    Marin County
    San Quentin was California’s oldest prison and had the state’s only death row for male inmates, the females being shipped off to Chowchilla. “The Q” had used the gas chamber all the way up until 1996, when the little room had been shut down in favor of lethal injection. Squatting on a finger of land that jutted out into the bay, its imposing concrete walls and miles of high double fencing topped with razor wire housed 5,200 inmates, well over capacity.
    Now it was on fire.
    Bill “Carney” Carnes and his cellmate, TC Cochoran, sat next to each other inside the transport van, both wearing bright orange coveralls, both in leg and waist shackles. Carney was forty-four and rock-hard, with a severe gray crew cut. His coveralls did little to conceal his broad build but served to hide the colorful mosaic of tattoos across his back and chest and down both arms. He had seventeen years in on a twenty-five-to-life bit for double murder.
    TC had just turned thirty-one, a former meth head who had used his time away from the destructive effects of the pipe to transform his body into something even bigger and stronger than his friend. He was also covered in ink and was proud of his thick mane of blond hair. A lifetime of drugs, theft, and violence had seen him inside state walls more often than outside, and he was eight years into a life sentence for robbery-homicide after shooting a Korean convenience store clerk in the face without provocation.
    Six other inmates shared the van with them. They had all been roused early and given a chance to quickly clean up before being herded into the van for the drive to San Francisco. All had appearances in court this morning, Carney for yet another hearing in his pointless