All Roads Lead to Nowhere

Acknowledgments

To the beta readers, I wanted to thank you all for taking a chance on me (yes, that’s an ABBA reference). In all seriousness, thank you for taking the time to read what I sent, but also dealing with me asking, Are you entertained? and Did you get that reference? over and over again. Your embracing of my ideas and encouragement throughout this process really helped me along this journey. 

To everyone who contributed to my IndieGoGo Campaign: Joyce Baker, Gabi Ballardo, Rohan Bhatt, Alle Cacchione, Chris Casciani, Jeff Collins, Ian Corbett, Earvin da Silva, Anthony Damore, Abel Daniel, Sami Fahid Daoud, Andrea Horvath, Autumn Inman, Eric Koester, Sarina Kong, Siobhan Lawlor, KJ Lee, Katie Luttringer, Rod and Tarik Naber, Ryan Nazari, Brandon Negranza, Ella Naylor, Nico Raymundo, Aaron Ross, John Samawi, Karam Samawi, Sam Samawi, Sana Samawi, Molly Saxelby, Theresa Simon, Greg Skikos, Ilana Skikos, Matt and Dana Skikos, Monica Skikos, Steve and Ida Skikos, Athena Snyder, Andrea Tai, Marissa Velez, Andrea Vlahos, Justin Vlahos, Mikaela Wentworth, Anne Whitaker, Dylan Yapp.

I want to shout out Athena Snyder, Andrea Horvath, and Ilana Skikos for taking the time to give detailed reports on each chapter. Your opinions were very clear and helpful. You did not hesitate to tell me if you did not like something. Anything. Even a single word. I can definitely see you all being editors in the future. 

Also, shout out to Mikaela Wentworth. You sat with me for three hours and helped create the initial design for the map of the Paradise City. Anyone who can listen to me go on about a fictional apocalypse for three hours and come out sane deserves special praise. 

But most of all, I want to thank my parents, Steve and Ida Skikos. You both have been there for me from the beginning of this journey all the way back in high school. You invested so much time into this story, listening to me ramble about what each character represents, what parts of the plot aren’t working, and how the world will end for years. You took the time to actually get to know these characters, their world, and their journey. This book is as much mine as it is yours.

NDP Staffers:

Thanks to the New Degree Press team who helped make this book a reality. Special thanks to Eric Koester for creating this program and allowing me to join it, Marketing and Revisions Editor Alan Zatkow, Acquiring Editor Lauren Sweeney, and Developmental Editor Michael Bailey for helping develop my ideas into a thorough and cohesive story, and Gjorgji Pejkovski, the greatest cover designer (and cartographer) the world has ever known.

Prologue 

President Jimmy Marshall

October 10, 2052

Where’s the spy?

I stare over the densely populated Iowa crowd. A never-ending field of tall grass encircles the mud pit my team cut for the citizens to stand in, creating an amphitheater. About 1,400 people push together in front of me, dressed in attire ranging from country and western to black tie. Some carry rifles strapped to their backs. The poor yield farmland tools: pitchforks, clubs, hoes, and others. All faces look concerned. All are sweating. Anxious. Anticipating good news. At least most are American. 

Headlights from the surrounding black SUVs circle the mud, lighting the hot, muggy night. I reach into my coat pocket and feel my mother’s deck of cards. Gripping them tightly, I take a deep breath. My legs shake behind the cheap splintering podium. My black dress shoes, scuffed from overuse, seem to melt into the poorly black-painted stage. My black slacks are filthy from the mud I had to slosh through to stand up here. 

Luckily for me, no one can see my legs—only my head. So, I take my hand out of my coat pocket and force a stoic look onto my face to calm the crowd’s anxiety. The singular camera seems to confront me as it shows my ugly reflection.

I look like a thug.

The camera is on, sir. The nation is waiting. Leonardo Santos stares at me from the bottom of the stage to my left. His usual joyous smile has transformed to a beaten-down grin, barely making a wrinkle on his pale face. His eyes look down and seem lifeless. His black suit still has some blood on it, reminding me why I need to do this. 

If we can save lives, it’s not a loss.

We lost because they knew how greedy we are. By buying off the worst of us, they won, bombing us with our own arsenal. With complete control of our arsenal, what chance did we have? All we could do was run and watch.

Where is their spy? I look around for a man dressed in stereotypical American attire (a flannel, cowboy hat, jeans, and boots) but cannot spot him in this crowd. Too many men dress like that. Maybe they’re all spies.

It’s okay, sir, Leo’s nasally voice encourages. I know they can take it.

We hid from the fires and the explosions, not because we were afraid but because we were selfish. That can no longer stand. Especially now, even if it condemns me to death.

Taking a deep breath, I begin. My fellow citizens, I stand here today humbled by your efforts to salvage this country and maintain the integrity that has allowed us to thrive for so long. You have shown, not only to me and to the others around you, but have proven to yourselves that good character triumphs over any hardship that may come our way. You have once again demonstrated to the world what it truly means to be an American. You have stepped out of your comfort zones to help neighbors through the toughest our enemies, and even Mother Nature, have thrown at us. You have reached beyond your limits to help your fellow brothers and sisters in their times of need, and for that, I adore you. 

The crowd applauds, then turns quiet as if they know what I’m about to say.

We have entered an unprecedented era in our democracy. Throughout our country’s history, never has our freedom been opposed so forcefully. Never has the conquest for power, led by our enemies to prove that democracies cannot work, been so aggressive. Well, I am here to inform you that today, I stand before you to ask you one question. What is the one thing they can’t take from us?

The crowd yells back in a wave of anger. I only make out a couple of chants.

Our lives! screams a lady.

Freedom! yells a man.

Our guns! bellows another.

I raise my hand, and the crowd quiets, and I say, No. They can’t take away our character. That’s only something we can hand them. That’s how we lose. If we give in to what the People’s Republic of Russia and China want, we will lose this war. If we give in to their threats, to their terror, to their hysteria, we are no better than them. If we lose our character, if we gift away our hope, there is no chance we can win.

I raise my chin and strain as a confident smirk tears through my cracked and dry lips.

"But this is America. This is the land of the blue-collar man. The man who pulls himself up off the ground no matter how many times he gets knocked down. This is the land of opportunity, not waited on, but seized because we know damn well if an opportunity comes knocking, it’s not coming back again. This is the land where we scratch and claw, where we get dirty because we do whatever it takes to win. This is the land where people don’t go down without a fight.

We never have, and you’re damn sure we never will. We will not give in to their pressures because it is not who we are. We are here for the long haul, ladies and gentlemen. They may believe they’ve won this war, but they should know better. Because nobody can truly beat an American."

The crowd in front of me erupts into fanatic cheers. People, even those in their formal attire, jump around in the mud, cheering as if their favorite football team has won the Super Bowl. 

How long can I maintain this noble lie? I have undoubtedly sentenced myself, and even these people, to death, but to give a little hope to such depleted … it has to be worth it. I cannot have my citizens fearing every day, especially when our end is so close. 

Despite the roaring applause and success of the speech, my legs still shake unsteadily.

This has to be worth it. 

The red record light switches off on the camera in front of me. 

Leo walks from behind and says, I apologize for my bluntness, sir, but what the hell was that? You’re not going to tell them we lost?

I stare at Leo’s pale face. His eyes dart from me to the crowd. Calmly I respond, Leo, my father once told me of this idea called the noble lie. Socrates, who I assume you know, deemed it okay to lie as a ruler if it meant the peace in the city, or in our case, the nation, is well maintained. 

But, uh sir, you just condemned all of us to death! The P.R.R.C. …

We will have to deal with what comes, Leo. And I appreciate your concern for your own well-being, but put yourself in the position of these people. Would you rather die scared, looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life in a state of misery, waiting for the inevitable bullet to catch you, or die in a peaceful ignorance? 

Leo stares at me blankly. For a man with so much passion for salvaging what is left of society, he is too blinded by his self-preservation. I’m not yet sure if he is worthy of the programming.

After a moment of silence, Leo’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket. The light of the screen shines on his face. I study his expression, looking for any reaction. The barely visible freckles above his nose come together as he studies the message.

There’s been a problem with the construction of the Paradise City.

Which one?

New York, sir. Seems like a couple of employees are quitting on us. 

Sighing heavily, I say, Ready the car. I’ll be there in a moment.

Yes, sir. Leo runs down the steps to my left and informs one of the officers. 

As I follow him, one of my guards approaches. The jet-black robot wears a traditional black police uniform and has blue-lit eyes poking out of its emotionless steel face. Something is off. The officer is walking too fluidly, more humanlike. It’s too short, maybe 5’7". Its strides are with a minor limp …

I reach for the Desert Eagle on my holster, but the man restrains me with an ironclad grip. He puts his other hand over my mouth and stuffs what feels like paper into it. He says to me in Mandarin, Nǐ shībàile. (You failed). He then pushes me back onto the stage. I stumble backward and land on my butt. 

I failed what? 

I look back down the stairs, but the man is gone. Leo and the officers didn’t notice. 

The crowd’s cheers revive as they spot me again on the stage, most likely assuming it’s an encore. Seeing this, I stand and wave to the crowd and smile, keeping my lips sealed. I don’t want that note slipping out. As I’m about to head back down the staircase, some of the high grass moves in the distance. 

My eyes are playing tricks on me. You need sleep, Jimmy. Go deal with this Paradise City obstacle, then rest. 

But as I look out again, grass, much closer to the crowd, ruffles violently. Hard thumping music emerges as a vehicle approaches. No. It can’t be. I spit out the note from my mouth and read the perfectly written notecard, 九点见我们。丹佛.

See you at 9. Denver. 

No. 

Bursting out of the high grass come the Liberators. The extremist Communist terrorists run over a group of people in their rusted garbage truck. With their loud bass-heavy music blasting, the coked-out radicals jump from their truck and fire into the crowd with their Russian-made weapons. 

Taking a step back, I watch as the terrorists shred the crowd. The majority of the armed crowd pulls out their guns. Confused as to who the enemy is, as the Liberators are dressed in similar attire as those in the crowd, some of the audience mistakenly shoot each other. The scene quickly turns into a blood bath. The mud becomes even slicker as it began to soak in the blood. 

What have I done?

Mr. President! Leo screams and pulls me out of my trance, C’mon, sir. We have to go! Now! Leo grabs my slack body and drags me into my car. He opens the door of the black Cadillac SUV and pulls me into the back seat. Drive! he yells at the officer. The car starts, and we’re gone. 

I try to turn around to see the scene, but Leo grabs my shoulder. 

It’s better not to look, sir. It makes keeping your character easier. 

Was that mockery?

Yeah, I say half-heartedly, I guess it does. 

With Leo’s hand on my shoulder, we speed off into the night, trying to get to one of the last remaining major cities in the United States before nine. The road crumbles as the heavy Cadillac rolls over it. The surrounding neighborhood looks like a horror movie. The freshly bombed concrete crunches under the twenty-six-inch rims. The crater from a defective American bomb lies next to the road. 

More gunshots behind me. 

They did not earn this. They did not earn me. Instead, they’re stuck with a President who is too scared to directly tell them we’ve lost this war. And now, I have to negotiate with people who want nothing more than to eliminate us from history to allow us to survive. 

The surrounding neighborhood units are crumbling or already eliminated from the recent carpet bombing. A couple of small fires still burn along the cracked road. 

What have I done?

Chapter 1 

I Hate Talk Show Day 

Levi O’Scandrick

December 22, 2064

Bah! Bah! Bah!

The shades open, the lights blind me. 

Oh, Jesus! Without opening my dry eyes, I smack my nightstand, trying to find my clock to turn off the screeching alarm. Instead, I hit a ceramic object. It cracks on the tile floor. 

I jump out of bed and immediately search for the seashell lamp Kaiya made me for our thirteenth anniversary. The cold brown tile designed to look like a wood floor sends a shiver up my body. Black spots blur my vision. Lightheaded, my head spins like I’m on a merry-go-round riding a horse who had four-too-many shots of tequila. Snot drips down my pasty white nose. Sore throat. A ton of bricks on my chest. After a moment, the spins go away. 

Please don’t be broken, please don’t be broken …

I examine the thin blue ceramic lamp. The six sporadically placed shells are still on the base. The white lampshade is crooked but not broken. 

Oh, thank God. My voice is hoarse. I choke on phlegm as I finish my exasperation. 

Should I go spit? No, finish fixing the mess you made, then spit. 

Bah! Bah! Bah!

I swallow and place the lamp back on the dark wooden nightstand next to a picture of Jackson dressed as a cowboy for Halloween. I smack the alarm clock next to it, and the horrible screech goes away. I scrape the rheum from my sandpapered eyes. 

I’ve got to find a new sound for the alarm. This one jolts me too much.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand. On the screen is a picture of Kaiya kissing Jackson on the cheek when he was a baby. The caller ID reads Kaiya Wandamaker (O’Scandrick). Even better, now she’s going to say, I told you, you’d get sick. You shouldn’t have swum in the community pools because they’re disgusting, Levi.

I clear my throat and try to mask my obvious sickness, and say, Yellow.

Music plays in the background of her call. Jackson yells something to his mom. 

Hey! Look who’s finally awake. Did you get your beauty rest? Kaiya’s joy-filled voice is peppy like normal. But since my head decided to hurt today, it pierces my ear like she’s stabbing me with a skewer.

Yup. 

I comb my thick brown hair to the side with my hand to tame it. I’m in my boxers, lean against the wall, and I study myself in the mirror. My hair looks electrocuted, but only half sticks out. My narrow jaw develops a five o’clock shadow, so I’ve got to shave. My slender build is more cut because of the lighting, not the workouts. My eyes seem sunken in because of the black rings, my nose dripping with snot. 

Yeah, I definitely look presentable, but I’ve recovered from worse. Ah, that’s good to hear. What time is the monorail supposed to come in again? she asks. Barely audible, I can make out Jackson saying something about a video game.

Um, I think it’s at noon. What’s he saying?

No, sweetie, she says back in her I knew you’d mess up voice, it’s at 11:47.

Yeah, but there’s also the bullet at noon. 

I yawn and stretch out my arms. Kaiya sighs disappointingly. Did she really expect anything else? Check the schedule. The noon departure’s been canceled. We talked about this last night. I take the phone off my ear and put her on speaker, with Jackson complaining to his mom. What’s he going on about?

Nothing, he just wants to play hide and seek in the middle of Norman’s.

I give up on my hair, which has now devolved into a puffy ball. I scroll to the schedule for Friday, and sure enough … Ah shit, I say, disappointed, anticipating another sassy remark from my wife. 

She pauses. I imagine her blue eyes twinkling as a smile runs across her thin, white face. What would you do without me? Kaiya says, smug. Called it.

"Be happy?" I joke. We both giggle lightly at that comment. Any other person would be offended. She’s the best.

Well, try to make sure you look presentable tonight. I hear Joe might pull a fast one and bring you on as a guest, she says mid-laugh. 

What! She was serious about going to the show? Okay. Stay calm. Remember: yelling doesn’t work. Be rational. 

Uh, no. I think I would rather die, I try to say lightheartedly, but it comes out more aggressive than I would have wished. I mean, you know how much I dislike talk shows. Nothing good ever occurs on talk show day! It’s like they intentionally ruin your morning just so they have an angered guest that would fall easily for drama triggers.

Kaiya, definitely expecting my response, gives her counterargument. "Levi, that was one time. And think of all the help it would give JJ and Aisling. I mean, it’s their first time, and you’ve been on so many—"

And I hated every second of it! I respond hastily. Remember no yelling? Do that. Plus, I continue, restraining my anger, what happened to a stroll through The Dome tonight? I was really looking forward to that.

We can do that any other day, Levi. They really need your help. Aisling even said so—

Aisling would never. I remember her explicitly telling me she didn’t need my help.

Yes, but she is also extremely stubborn and—

Which is exactly why I shouldn’t interfere. You remember what happened on Christmas. She lost her mind when I tried to make a drink that wasn’t on her preset menu.

Levi, you can overcome your fear for one night, right? People won’t bug you too much today when you’re with Jackson.

Jackson’s going? He can’t be there. It’s … uh, inappropriate.

A long pause ensues as Kaiya’s anger with my stubbornness peaks. She’s mad, but she’s not her normal arguing self. Something’s off.

I didn’t want to pull this card— she says.

Oh no.

but … 

Please don’t.

I already told Aisling you would. 

And there it is. Nail in the coffin.

What? Why would you do that?

Because I knew you’d say no, and Aisling already asked me.

Will I be on there with them?

Well, yeah, obviously. They said they’ll pull you from the audience and onto the show, so they won’t psych you out like last time.

Fine, I’ll consider it. But they owe me.

She’s too persistent. She’s got something planned.

Yay! she chirps, as if winning the lottery, I’ll let them know. Now go make yourself look good. What time does the 11:47 monorail get in?

I reopen the app and look at the schedule. It says 4:33, but knowing this system, it’s probably around 5.

Okay, well, you better hurry. It’s already 11:36. The red digital numbers on the clock on my dresser display 11:36 a.m. I turn back to the mirror and reevaluate my disgruntled appearance. How come time flies so fast when you just wake up? "Um, honey … I got to go."

Ha! Called it, she says, then laughs her childish squeal. Then, further away from the phone, Daddy messed up again.

Over the speaker, much clearer this time, Jackson gleefully yells, Ha ha, Daddy’s an idiot!

Ha ha, leverage!

Wha—what are you teaching him that for?

I didn’t teach him that! He’s been saying that all day after hearing you say it, and much worse, on your phone calls yesterday. Fell for the trap again. You would think I would have learned by now, but I guess I’m just that gullible.

"You should also take a decongestant. Jackson says you