Children of the Uprising

PRAISE FOR
CHILDREN OF PARANOIA

“A generations-long war that's claimed thousands of lives, waged in perfect secrecy beneath the clueless noses of people like me? Oh, hell yeah.
Children of Paranoia
is a claustrophobic, relentless, fascinating ride that will have you eyeballing everyone you pass in the street. I can't wait for the sequel.”

—Marcus Sakey, author of
The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes

“Trevor Shane's
Children of Paranoia
is a gripping journey into a secret war where literally anyone could kill you. Like
The Bourne Identity
turned inside out, his protagonist navigates a world where banal choices like going to the ATM have life-and-death consequences. Filled with sharp plotting and vivid action, this book will stay with you long after you've raced to the end.”

—Chris Farnsworth, author of
Blood Oath

“What keeps the reader relentlessly glued to
Children of Paranoia
are the unrelenting suspense and complex characters. It is definitely a roller-coaster ride that one won't soon forget.”

—New York Journal of Books

“Shane's work here is impressive. He certainly knows how to stage an action scene and how to ratchet up tension. If you're in the market for an exciting, propulsive read . . .
Children of Paranoia
would make an excellent choice.”

—
The Saturday Evening Post

“
Children of Paranoia
functions neatly as a surreal variant on the noir thriller where evil lurks in every shadow and happiness either remains tantalizingly just out of reach or could be snatched away in an instant.”

—Shelf Awareness

“This story is heart-stopping one moment and tear-jerking in another. Shane has created a masterpiece you will pick up and not put down until the final word and then you will say, ‘Wow,' and sit back to contemplate this story and then want to tell your friends all about it.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“An action-packed story of war, intrigue, and twists and turns.”

—
News and Sentinel
(Parkersburg, WV)

“[
Children of Paranoia
] is an interesting but poignant metaphor for the senselessness of killing, be it by rival street gangs, feuding families, or entire countries . . . a powerful story.”

—
Suspense Magazine

“Well-written and exciting . . . the plot takes some interesting and unexpected turns.”

—Geek Speak Magazine

“Fast-paced . . . a thought-provoking, enjoyable read that will stay with readers when the last page is done.”

—Monsters and Critics

“An exceptional story.”

—Fresh Fiction

“[
Children of Paranoia
] will please lovers of adventure and action.”

—Examiner.com

“
Children of Paranoia
, the first installment of a planned trilogy, never flags and kept this reader's attention rapt until its end, by which time Irene's winds had died down and the rain had long since stopped.”

—
Psychology Today

ALSO BY TREVOR SHANE

Children of Paranoia

Children of the Underground

New American Library

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

Published by New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

First Printing, October 2013

Copyright © Trevor Shane, 2013

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Shane, Trevor.

Children of the uprising: the children of paranoia series/Trevor Shane.

p. cm.—(Children of Paranoia ; Book 3)

ISBN 978-1-101-62651-1

1. Children—Fiction. 2. Paranoia—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3619.H53465C45 2013

813'.6—dc23 2013018663

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

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 actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

To my wife, Carly,

for years of inspiration, support and love and for putting up with me mumbling to myself in the middle of the night while I write.

 

And to my son, Van.

You and Leo are what gave these books meaning.

“Are you ever going to tell me how the War started?” the young girl, growing antsy, asked the old woman.

“Patience,” the old woman responded. “There's still a lot of story to tell.”

They waited until Christopher turned eighteen before they tried to kill him.

Ever since Christopher was a small child, he'd known that someone was watching him. Even though he couldn't see them, he could feel their eyes burning into his skin. He could feel people lurking in the shadows, watching his every move. They were waiting, but Christopher had no way of knowing what they were waiting for. He never told his parents that people were watching him. Christopher was trying to protect them. They knew that Christopher had problems. They knew that he wasn't a normal kid, but they assumed that everything related back to something that had happened to Christopher when he was a baby, something that he had no memory of. Christopher heard his parents whispering about it late at night when he was supposed to be asleep. Whatever had happened to him when he was young didn't matter. He wasn't afraid of his past. He was afraid of his future. Before he learned anything else, Christopher learned how to be paranoid. That was his birthright.

Since Christopher didn't know who was watching him or why, he did what he could to prepare for the unknown. He took karate lessons. He learned to box and to wrestle. He took tae kwon do classes. He took every fighting class the little town he grew up in had to offer, and then, when he got his driver's license, he took every class offered in the surrounding towns. He didn't stick to any one thing for very long. He never felt like he was learning fast enough. He'd get frustrated and quit and then try something new, each time hoping that this time he would learn fast enough. Even though he moved around, he learned. He integrated skills. He was a misfit, but he wasn't afraid of bullies or jocks or any of the kids in his town. He had other things to be afraid of. Even among the outsiders, Christopher was an outsider. Christopher had only one close friend. Even before Christopher had felt strangers' eyes watching him, Evan had been his friend. They were different. Christopher was practical. Evan was a dreamer. Evan saw something bigger in their future, something more than what their little town offered people. The other kids feared Christopher because he was different. Evan reveled in the fact that Christopher was different. That was what drew him to Christopher in the first place. Christopher was more than this small-town high school life full of jocks and nerds and cheerleaders and Evan knew it.

Maybe everything would have turned out differently had Christopher remembered the key that he received on his sixteenth birthday or the note that came with the key that he never read. He'd hidden them at the bottom of one of his dresser drawers and tried to forget them. As sure as Christopher was that he was being watched, he was just as certain that the key would unlock answers for him, but he wasn't sure he wanted answers. As afraid as he was of the people watching him, he was even more afraid of why. Sometimes Christopher did his best to pretend that he was merely imagining things. Maybe it would have been better that way. Maybe it would have been better if he was crazy and the rest of the world was sane. But he wasn't crazy. Someone was watching him. They were watching him and waiting for his eighteenth birthday.

It was the evening of Christopher's eighteenth birthday, and he was driving home from Evan's house. He was in his own car, a beat-up, rusty heap of junk that he'd bought for three thousand dollars the day he got his license. The evening was already dark. Christopher had gone to Evan's house to show Evan the gift that his parents had given him for his birthday. It was an autographed baseball bat, signed by David Ortiz. Big Papi. “The man who killed the ghost of the Bambino,” Christopher's father, a die-hard Red Sox fan, used to tell him when he was growing up. It meant little to Christopher. No matter how hard his father prodded him, Christopher couldn't find any interest in team sports. They seemed pointless to him. He had other things on his mind. Even so, his father supported the sports Christopher did play. Christopher's father went to his son's wrestling matches and karate matches and everything else. After every match, win or lose, Christopher's father always said the same thing. “Helluva of a match, kid. Just don't forget to have fun, you know.”

The bat that Christopher got from his parents was the color of wood near the knob but shifted to a dark, shiny black near the barrel. His father told him that it was exactly like the ones that Big Papi used to use in games. Christopher genuinely thanked his father. He knew that his father was giving him a piece of himself. He loved his father. He loved both his parents. Before they cut into Christopher's birthday cake, Christopher wanted to drive to Evan's house to show Evan the bat. Evan was a huge baseball fan. Evan's brain wasn't filled with the distractions that Christopher's was. “Do you know how much this thing probably cost?” Evan asked as Christopher handed him the bat.

Christopher shrugged. He had no idea. “No. Do you?”

Evan paused, running his hand up and down the polished wood. He shook his head. “I bet it cost a ton.”

“Do you want it?” Christopher asked Evan. He knew that Evan wanted it. He could see the desire in Evan's eyes. He didn't care. Having the bat wasn't important to him—not as important as making his only friend happy.

Evan stared down at the name signed in the wood on the beige part of the handle. He shook his head. “Your father would be really upset if you gave it away.” Christopher hadn't even thought of that. Evan handed the bat back to him. “Do you want to go out tonight?” he asked Christopher. “To celebrate? I can probably get Tracey to get one of her friends to come out with us.”

Christopher thought about it. Maybe he should celebrate. It was his birthday. He'd had fun with some of Tracey's friends before when he didn't scare them away too quickly. He shook his head no, though. It was a Tuesday night. He didn't want to put anybody out. Christopher looked out the window. It was getting darker. “I should go home. My mother made a cake.”

“Okay,” Evan said. “I'll make Tracey give us a rain check. How about Friday?” Evan eyed his friend, never exactly sure what was going on in Christopher's head.

“Friday,” Christopher agreed, knowing that it was the easiest way to end the conversation.

“Well, Happy Birthday, man.” Evan got up from his chair and wrapped his arms awkwardly around Christopher, patting his friend on the back with one fist.

“Thanks.”

“See you at school tomorrow,” Evan said.

“Yeah,” Christopher answered, thinking it was true when he said it.

Christopher left the house. He waved good-bye to Evan's parents on his way out the door. Evan's parents waved back, not unhappy to see their son's odd best friend go. Christopher walked across the gravel driveway toward his car. Everything seemed normal. Christopher was even relaxed. He opened the car door and threw his bat in the passenger seat. Then he sat down, started the car, and flicked on his headlights. Night came fast this far north.

Christopher looked to his left before pulling his car out onto the long, windy road. This stretch of road was free of streetlights. He would be able to see the headlights of any oncoming cars from miles away even as the light darted through the trees. Cars drove fast on this stretch of road at night, though. When Christopher looked, all he saw was miles of empty road, surrounded by trees and darkening, hollow spaces. Seeing nothing, Christopher stepped on the gas and inched the car forward onto the road. The road in front of him was as empty as the road behind him appeared. His headlights cut through the darkness, reflecting off the yellow lines in the middle of the street but otherwise being swallowed by the dense forest around him. Christopher looked in his rearview mirror again. Still nothing. He looked down to turn on the radio. He began to tune it away from the station he usually listened to, the talk radio station full of shows about UFOs and conspiracy theories where people from all over the country called in to tell strange stories about secrets hidden right in front of us. It was his eighteenth birthday. He wanted to listen to music. He found a station playing an old Bruce Springsteen song. Evan always made fun of Christopher for liking old people's music. Christopher turned up the volume and then glanced up again. The road in front of him was still empty. Then he looked in his rearview mirror again, expecting to see darkness. Instead, he saw them. They had finally come for him.

The headlights of the car chasing him were already large in the rearview mirror and they were getting bigger, bearing down on him. The car had come out of nowhere. It couldn't have come all the way down the road. Christopher would have seen the headlights—tiny specks of light in the darkness—miles before they got this close to him. The only explanation was that the car had been parked in the woods waiting for him to drive by. Christopher heard the engine of the car behind him rev as it closed the gap between them and neared his rear bumper. The moment that Christopher had feared ever since he was a child had finally arrived.

For a split second, the only emotion that Christopher felt was relief—relief that the moment was finally here, relief that the waiting was over, relief that his paranoia wasn't madness, relief that his paranoia wasn't worthless. Had he known them, Christopher's birth mother and birth father could have told him that there is no such thing as worthless paranoia. Christopher knew that well enough now. His paranoia had value. It was a currency that, if he was lucky, he could cash in to buy his life. The relief lasted only a split second. After that, the relief was chased away by the sudden feeling of inadequacy. Christopher began to question every decision he had ever made. Why hadn't he stuck with one fighting style? Why hadn't he trained harder? Then, after deeming the feeling of inadequacy to be a waste of time, he was left with only one emotion. Fear. So much fear that it drowned out everything else.

Christopher looked at the dark, empty road in front of him and did the only thing he could think to do. He slammed on the gas. The road wound back and forth through the dense forest. Even as well as Christopher knew the road, he couldn't floor it without running the risk of driving off the road and into a tree. All he could hope for was that whoever was in the car behind him didn't know the road as well as he did and would have trouble keeping up. The problem was that they didn't have to follow the road. They only needed to follow Christopher's taillights. The car behind him moved in closer. Christopher felt a heavy tap on his rear fender. It jolted him forward. Christopher began turning the steering wheel later and later as he neared oncoming turns, hoping to lose his tail. He would wait until the last possible second, then jerk the wheel to one side, barely avoiding driving into the woods. The wheels of Christopher's car skidded on the road as he turned. He held his steering wheel tightly to try to keep from losing control. Still, the car behind him stayed on his bumper. Whatever they were driving, it was faster and handled better than the piece of shit Christopher drove.

They pulled their car up beside Christopher's. Their car was dark, with tinted windows. Christopher couldn't see inside. Then they suddenly rammed their car into the side of Christopher's, and he almost lost control. As long as he was on the road, he was outmatched. Christopher knew it. He had to get off the road. It was his only chance. If he could just stay on the road a few more miles, he could get to the woods close to his house, the woods he'd virtually grown up in. If he could make it that far, he knew he'd have a chance of surviving.

The dark car bumped Christopher again, sustaining the contact this time, trying to push his car off the road and into the trees. They were going over sixty miles per hour now. Christopher clutched the steering wheel, trying to hold on, trying to keep his car from veering off into oblivion. He could feel his pulse in his hands. He could feel his tires skid sideways. Then the road bent suddenly. Christopher cut his steering wheel as the road curved. When he did, the cars separated. He heard tires screeching again, but they weren't his this time. The dark car skidded, trying to stay on the road as it almost missed the turn. Christopher stomped on the accelerator. His foot touched the floor. He only needed to make it another two miles or so. In seconds, the other car was back alongside him again, moving in to try to ram him off the road. This time Christopher had a plan. As the passenger-side door of the dark car was about to ram Christopher's door, Christopher slammed on the brakes. The dark car flew by him, going at least fifty yards in front of him before it pulled to a stop. The dark car skidded sideways as it stopped, blocking the entire road. The car was lit up by Christopher's headlights like it was being shown in a spotlight. Christopher waited, wanting to see what the people inside the car would do. He half hoped that another car would come speeding from the other direction and slam into them, but he knew that this was unlikely. People didn't often drive this road at night. He watched the car. He felt like he was watching an animal, a predator. He felt like he could see the car breathing. Then the car's passenger-side window, the window facing Christopher, began to go down. Christopher didn't wait to see what horrors the descending window would reveal. Instead, as soon as the window began to go down, he floored it again.

Christopher knew that he would have to go off the road to get around them. His wheels screeched before they caught, and then he launched his car onto the dirt on the side of the road behind the dark car. He prayed that he wouldn't hit a hole in the ground or a tree before he was able to get past the dark car. His car rattled over the unpaved ground, but it made it past the other car. When he could, Christopher turned back onto the road, without taking his foot off the accelerator. Then he heard the screeching of tires as his pursuers started up the chase again. The dark car was only seconds behind him, but seconds were all that Christopher needed. He knew where he was now. He watched the trees as he zipped past them. The other car was gaining on him again, coming right up to his rear bumper. He spotted the landmark he'd been looking for, an old felled tree, its roots sticking up into the air like the tentacles of a giant sea monster. Christopher counted the seconds. One. Two. The car behind him was about to ram him again. On three, Christopher cut the wheel hard to the left, launching himself into the darkness of the woods. He felt the wheels of his car leave the ground as he catapulted off the paved road into the wilderness. As he flew, he turned off his headlights and then he felt himself plummeting into darkness.