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Pale Highway

Copyright © 2015 by Nicholas Conley. All rights reserved.

First Edition: September 2015

 

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Red Adept Publishing, LLC

104 Bugenfield Court

Garner, NC 27529

http://RedAdeptPublishing.com/

 

Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

 

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Dedicated to my father, may he rest in peace.

 

This book is also dedicated to the countless victims of Alzheimer’s, as well as their families, and all those who help them cope with their daily struggle.

 

That’s right, guys. This one is for you.

Prologue

Summer 2018

 

The patient had charcoal-black eyes, hard and cold, as if rounded chunks of volcanic rock had been shoved inside her eye sockets. Her skin possessed a sickly white pallor, as if it had been sucked dry of all its nutrients and hung up on a clothesline. Dark veins crawled over her body like wriggling snakes, pulsing with every unsteady heartbeat. Her mouth hung open, and a pockmarked grey tongue dangled uselessly over her lower lip. Her bedridden form emitted the stench of necrotic flesh.

Glenda Alvarez was sixty-three years old, young compared to the other residents. Just last week, she’d had her hair permed and her nails manicured. The virus had hit fast.

It wouldn’t be long. She was just another unlucky victim of a plague that took no prisoners. She had all the symptoms of the toxicity passing through humanity, turning live bodies into black-eyed corpses.

The Black Virus. And somehow… somehow, Gabriel Schist was supposed to stop it.

The rain had stopped, but the moonlit ground was still covered in a glimmering sheen of moisture. Grimacing, Gabriel turned away from the open bedroom window, which was his lens to Glenda’s decline. He buttoned up his coat, hesitated, halfway unbuttoned it, then buttoned it up again.

He hobbled over to the smoking gazebo and lowered himself into the seat. His legs were rickety, and a sharp pain shot through his knee. His lower back felt as if the nerves were being pinched by a steel clamp.

Are sens

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