Former Champion (Vanderbrook Champions Book 5) Read online

  Former Champion

  Edmund Hughes

  This digital book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this title with another person, please purchase an additional copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Edmund Hughes

  Kindle Edition

  CONTENTS

  Former Champion

  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

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  The trap’s execution was flawless. Malcolm smiled as he examined it, brushing a tree branch aside and dropping to one knee in the early morning dew to get a better look at his catch. It was a fat weasel, with enough meat on it for at least a meal, along with a pelt that might have some value to the right trader.

  The unlucky creature had gone for the morsel of food he’d left at the wide end of the hollow log. Pulling it loose had triggered the rock above it to fall, which caused the panicked weasel to flee into the log. Malcolm had rigged a small, self-tightening noose to the narrow escape hole on the other end, and the weasel had wiggled into it, eventually strangling itself.

  He pulled the animal loose, carefully resetting all the elements of the trap. It reminded him of a board game he’d played when he was younger involving a marble ball and a convoluted series of tracks and widgets it would roll through. It was a memory from another time, another world, really.

  Six months had gone by since Second Wind, Malcolm’s duplicate turned demon, had begun to reign destruction and terror down on the world. Six months since Malcolm had lost his powers, his friends, and everything else that really mattered to him.

  For the first few weeks, Malcolm had expected the situation to bounce back, or at least reach an equilibrium. It hadn’t happened, and he had come to expect that it wouldn’t happen, at least not on its own.

  Chaos had regularly erupted in the streets in the time after Second Wind’s one man apocalypse, with sprytes, demons, and regular old hooligans running wild and taking what they wanted. Basic utilities like electricity and water were turned off or destroyed. The only news available came from tiny, battery powered radios, and it was always just a daily tally of Second Wind’s murderous exploits. Every major city in the world had been razed. Millions of people were dead, and most of those left lacked the modern necessities they’d come to expect in life.

  Somehow, Malcolm had held on to his faith that eventually the pendulum would begin to swing the other way. It hadn’t happened, and his deflating hope made him feel like a stock trader watching shares of a dying company slowly depreciate until there was pointlessly little value left.

  Malcolm realized that his hope had been foolish. It was surprising really, how quickly civilization had collapsed in on itself. It seemed as though it should have taken longer. Electricity, the internet, and running water were all conveniences that had been around for longer than he’d been alive. It seemed counterintuitive that they could be permanently cut off overnight, even after the fact. What was left of the oil and gasoline had been hoarded by the constantly warring gangs, at least in Vanderbrook and the surrounding area.

  Malcolm finished resetting the trap. He tucked the weasel into the length of twine that now served as his belt, and headed further into the woods. The brook was up ahead, and it had reached unseasonably high levels, making it deep enough for him to occasionally catch a fish or two.

  Malcolm had a couple of basic traps set up alongside the brook, but nothing comparable to the sophistication of his log trap. They were mostly basic twine nets designed to trap fish within little inlets he’d dug along the bank until he could arrive and collect them. They only rarely ever worked, but were easy enough to set up, and only took him a glance to check.

  Today was his lucky day. A long, silver scaled fish was in one of the traps. It looked tired from struggling against the net, and only gave a small thrash as Malcolm took it in his hands and pulled it loose. He gave it a small thwack against the rocks and carefully threaded it onto his belt.

  After making sure the traps were in place to possibly catch him more fish, he turned around and started back toward Vanderbrook. He considered, as he often did, whether it would be smarter to abandon his base in town and move into the outlying forests.

  Towns and cities were not safe places anymore. Malcolm had learned that lesson within the first couple of days after Second Wind’s ascension to demonhood. Gangs ruled the streets, some of them armed with guns, some of them backed by monsters, and most of them with nothing to lose. The gangs fought each other for territory and resources, and anyone caught in the warpath was given as much consideration as a squirrel on the highway.

  Malcolm’s gun was probably the most valuable thing he owned. The three bullets he had left were a close second. He also had a taser, useless to him now that he’d exhausted its battery, and a medium sized hunting knife. He wasn’t stupid. He avoided the gangs like everyone did, and because of that, he was still alive.

  A branch cracked just beyond the trees to his left. Malcolm froze, slowly dropping to the ground and sliding up against a large tree. He waited and listened, and then watched as a figure came into view. It was a demon, a tall one with unusually lanky limbs and deep green skin. The demon sniffed the air for a couple of seconds, stared at where Malcolm was in his hiding spot, and then headed off in another direction.

  The dip I took in the brook last night might have just saved my life. Score one for hygiene.

  It felt odd to remember that there’d been a time when Malcolm would have had the option to face off against one of the monsters. Now, he treated them like he treated the gangs, avoiding even the demons and sprytes he’d known from Terri’s Tavern. Avoiding all of them… except for Rose.

  He still looked for her, though it had been weeks since he’d had any real hope. Thinking about her, the pain he’d caused her, the intimacy they’d once shared… It hurt Malcolm in a way that few things could. It made him feel hollow and pointless, like he was past the part of his life where any real enjoyment could be derived.

  Thinking about Rose was a reminder to Malcolm that he was the kind of person who could do horrible things. He’d killed Brenden, her deranged fiancé, though it had been in a life or death struggle. He’d kept Brenden’s story to himself, the story of how Rose had accidentally killed her own daughter. He’d done it because he thought it was for the greater good, sparing Rose from a memory that could do no
thing but hurt her.

  Those had been Malcolm’s choices. In a strange way, they seemed a reflection of the widespread chaos his copy, Second Wind, had wrought upon the world. He’d taken to calling himself Zeus, though many people were too scared to speak his name openly.

  Zeus. He thinks he’s a god. And since nobody is strong enough to challenge him, why wouldn’t he?

  Malcolm waited in his hiding spot until he was sure that the demon had disappeared into the distance. Then, he slowly rose to his feet and continued on, back to what remained of his former hometown. The town he hadn’t managed to protect.

  CHAPTER 2

  The sky was choked with grey clouds overhead, and the air smelled of dust and smoke. Most of Vanderbrook’s outermost neighborhoods had been completely abandoned. The pressure of the looters had forced suburban families to run from their homes during the early days of the collapse.

  Malcolm took his time moving through the neighborhoods and toward the center of town. He was careful, and he passed by the few people he saw on the way with as much caution as he could manage. Their clothes were dirty and ripped, and though Malcolm knew his own were just as bad, he couldn’t help but attribute desperation to their appearances. And desperate people were unpredictable.

  A small, outdoor trading bazaar had sprung up on Vanderbrook’s old main street. It was ringed off by a wall of parked cars, useless for anything else without gasoline to feed their empty tanks. Here, there were a couple of armed guards, men paid by the traders in the area to “protect” them from the dangerous gangs in the areas.

  Malcolm stepped into the circle of cars and made his way over to Greg’s trading stand. Greg was one of the few local traders willing to trade in bullets, one of the common currencies after the collapse, along with rice, canned food, and other long-lasting food staples.

  Bullets were the only resource Malcolm cared about accumulating. It made him feel cold and heartless to value them so highly, but being heavily armed was now a necessary part of his survival. Especially given the amount of traveling outside of Vanderbrook he did, searching for Rose. His gun was the only hope he had at keeping himself alive.

  “Malcolm,” said Greg. “Good to see you. Plenty of food out in the woods today, I take it?”

  Malcolm nodded.

  “Take your pick,” said Malcolm. “You can have one or the other. The fish is the meatier of the two, but weasel’s pretty tasty. Tastes like chicken.”

  Greg forced a laugh.

  “I’ll take the fish,” he said. He reached down under his rough, wooden trading counter and pulled out a single bullet to set on top of it.

  Malcolm frowned at him. “Come on. One bullet?”

  “Margo’s gang had a shootout with Bicep and his guys the other day,” said Greg. “The value of bullets has gone way up. Take it or leave it.”

  Malcolm groaned. He pulled the fish loose from his belt and passed it over to Greg without meeting the man’s eye. It was necessary for him to collect all the bullets he could, even if it meant making bad trades to obtain them. And eating weasel for the night.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” said Greg, with a nod.

  “You know, I’d call you a cheap ass swindler if you weren’t so polite,” said Malcolm.

  “It’s a good business strategy, given the circumstances,” said Greg. “It’s why I have repeat customers.”

  Malcolm picked up the bullet and slipped it into his pocket. He lingered in the bazaar for a few minutes longer. The spectrum of items for sale was limited to the stuff of survival. Clothes, food, weapons, candles and fuel for those lucky enough to be able to afford them. Clean water in jugs. Malcolm got his from the brook, as did most others brave enough to venture out of Vanderbrook and into the woods.

  He listened to the gossip of the crowd. A couple of teenagers were arguing with an older man about the Europa mission. Malcolm, along with most of the rest of the town, had heard about it a few weeks earlier.

  “They’ll rescue Savior and everything will go back to normal,” said one of the teenagers.

  “You’re a fool if you think things will ever go back to normal,” said the man. “And there’s no way the mission goes off without a hitch.”

  A rocket had been launched out of desperation, taking off from one of the small corners of California where law and order still reigned. Funded by the billionaire aerospace financier Tom Willis, the mission had originally been planned to put the first humans on Mars using solar sails and an advanced reaction drive. In the wake of Second Wind’s destruction, changing the target from Mars to Europa, where many claimed Savior still lived in exile, had been an easy enough sell.

  “Things have to go back to normal!” shouted one of the teenagers. “They have to! We can’t live like this forever! Savior will come back, and he’ll kill Zeus, and, and…”

  The teenager trailed off. Malcolm empathized with his frustration. So much had been lost in such a short amount of time. For him personally, the lack of electricity or running water was just the start.

  I lost my powers. And I lost my friends.

  He refused to let himself dwell on those types of thoughts as he headed out of the bazaar. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t accomplish anything. He had food for the night, and an extra bullet for his gun. That should have been enough to content him.

  “Wind Runner!” A high pitched, mocking voice came from within a nearby alleyway. “Where are you going, Wind Runner?”

  Malcolm was still recognized by his champion identity, though it was common knowledge to those who remembered him that he’d lost his powers. It didn’t gain him anything to be Wind Runner anymore, beyond the occasional pitying glance or disappointed stare.

  Bennett, the leader of a small, poorly equipped local gang, stepped out into the street. He was a tall and beefy looking, and he had a face that seemed to be perpetually set into a sneer. He was in the habit of mugging anyone he suspected to be weaker than him and his gang, and the two thugs flanking him left no doubt in Malcolm’s mind what he intended.

  “I’m going down the street,” said Malcolm. “I’m surprised that you couldn’t work that one out yourself, Bennett. Though I’m sure you’re pretty used to having simple things explained to you.”

  Malcolm kept walking, hoping that he could shake Bennett and the thugs off with bravado alone. He had his gun on him, but the last thing he wanted to do was use it. A gun with four bullets was good as a deterrent and little else. He didn’t have the ammunition for a firefight against multiple opponents.

  “What are you going to do, Wind Runner?” called Bennett. “Fly away?”

  Malcolm gritted his teeth and pulled his gun out from where he had it tucked into the waistline of his pants. Bennett was the kind of man who he would have enjoyed fighting, back when he was a champion. He was a cocky bully, one that deserved what he had coming to him.

  “Back off,” said Malcolm. “Or I open fire.”

  “Rumor has it that you barely even have bullets for that thing.” Bennett stared at Malcolm, a slow smile creeping onto his face. His eyes darted to the side. Malcolm whirled, but not quickly enough to get completely out of the way as a hidden fourth goon swung a baseball bat into his shoulder.

  Malcolm stumbled back. He fired, and was rewarded with a cry of pain as one of Bennett’s goons took a bullet to the leg. It wasn’t enough to stop them, not now that they’d struck the first blow. Malcolm didn’t have time to take aim again before Bennett and his thugs were upon him, punching, kicking, and eventually, stripping loose his pistol.

  He let out a wordless cry of anger and hopelessness. Each time Malcolm felt like he was finally getting his footing back in the world, something else was taken from him. Would it just be his gun this time? Or would it be his life, too?

  Shouts sounded in the distance. Gunshots attracted attention in Vanderbrook, scavengers knowing that if they arrived on the scene at just the right time, they could strip a body of whatever was left on it of value. Bennett swore
under his breath and kicked Malcolm hard in the ribs.

  “You’re not even worth me wasting a bullet on you to end your life.” He kicked Malcolm again, and one of his ribs surged with pain. “Thanks for the gun, Wind Runner.”

  Something wet landed on Malcolm’s cheek, and then he heard Bennett and his thugs retreating, leaving him lying in the street. Malcolm stumbled to his knees, wiping away spit and feeling his face burning with hot shame.

  They’d even taken the dead weasel from him. Malcolm scowled, knowing it meant he’d go hungry that night. He slipped a hand into his pocket and found that they’d missed the extra bullet he’d traded the fish for.

  Maybe I can trade it for some food…

  The thought wasn’t all that comforting, given the extent of what he’d lost that day. His face was bruised and puffy. His chest ached each time he took a breath. He stumbled through the streets, trying to avoid areas that would have any people in them, not trusting that he wouldn’t get jumped a second time if he stayed out in the open.

  He’d been a champion once.

  CHAPTER 3

  Malcolm spent most of the rest of the day collecting materials to make more traps. There wasn’t much else he could do. He didn’t want to spend any more time in town than he needed to after the mugging, and aside from doing nothing, he didn’t have many other options.

  He set up one more fish trap, and scoped out a tree that he might be able to use for a rock trap before heading back to his hideaway. He made his way there along a roundabout route, not wanting to telegraph to anyone where he lived.

  He’d already given up his apartment, along with most of the remaining belongings inside of it. The section of Vanderbrook he’d once lived in was now too volatile for him to risk leaving any of his possessions on their own, and letting his guard down to sleep at night was totally out of the question.

  Malcolm’s hideout was a small, very well-hidden cellar under a simple hatch in the ground in the ruins of an old warehouse. It was cold, and had a musty smell to it, but he’d found a small, solar powered LED flashlight in the early days after the collapse to use for light.