Frankenstorm: Severe Risk

Book 1: Frankenstorm

by Ray Garton

Genres: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

PREPARE FOR THE STORM In the first terrifying installment of Ray Garton's six-part Frankenstorm, a natural disaster of epic proportions is brewing off the coast of California—and a man-made nightmare is about to be unleashed. . . FRANKENSTORM: On the eve of the biggest storm in west coast history, virologist Fara McManus shows up at work in a secret government lab where microbiologist Dr. Jeremy Corcoran has been working on a new bioweapon, using the homeless as human guinea pigs. Concerned for the subjects, Fara decides to stay. Especially now. Between the raging storm outside and the rage-inducing chemicals in the patients, a million things could go wrong. But the last thing Fara expects to happen is an armed attack on the lab, an explosion of gunfire, and an army of men smashing the barriers. Releasing the infected. Spreading the virus. . .into the world. On a night like this, there is no shelter from the storm. PRAISE FOR RAY GARTON "Scary. . .involving. . .mature and thoughtful." —Stephen King on Dark Channel "Gripping, original, and sly." —Dean Koontz on Live Girls "Ray Garton is, and always has been, one of horror fiction's great innovators." –F. Paul Wilson "Garton never fails to go for the throat!" –Richard Laymon "Garton has a flair for taking veteran horror themes and twisting them to evocative or entertaining effect." Publishers Weekly "Razor-sharp and gut-punch brutal, Garton will scare you." --Mark Kidwell, Fangoria magazine "Garton does not even know that there is top to go over." --Rick Kleffel, The Agony Column "Ray Garton has consistently created some of the best horror ever set to print." -- Cemetery Dance magazine 15,000 Words

Release date: January 14, 2014

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 55

Sample

“They’re calling it Frankenstorm,” the boisterous male voice on the radio said, “because it’s just damned spooky. A hurricane like this on the West Coast? Get outta here. But it’s happenin’, folks, it’s happenin’ in the morning. Climate change is really kickin’ our butts! It’s created a freak set of meteorological circumstances, and the result is Hurricane Quentin, which will be dancin’ our way tomorrow morning, Saturday, to the tune of two hundred mile-per-hour winds, which means you’d better tie your butt down or kiss it good-bye. I’m not joking, kids, you’ve got to be prepared for this. Have plenty of candles ready because we’re gonna lose power. Have water and nonperishable foods on hand, and for crying out loud, stay indoors. I’m ready! I’ve got my baby-duck swim ring on and the Classic Rock 97 studio is loaded with Red Bull and Doritos, so bring it on, baby! Here’s The Doors singing about what we’re all gonna be in the next twenty-four hours, ‘Riders on the Storm.’”

Dr. Fara McManus had stopped chewing her fingernails in college, but now she couldn’t find a nail to chew on because she’d gnawed them all away. Wind raged outside and driving rain rattled against the single window in her office in what used to be the Springmeier Neuropsychiatric Hospital. Today, the office felt smaller than usual.

Fara sat at her desk, but with her chair turned around so she could look out the window. She sat with her right ankle resting on her left knee, right foot bobbing nervously. Her insides were knotted with dread. It wasn’t a new feeling. She’d been feeling that dread long before Hurricane Quentin was announced. She’d started feeling it by the end of her first week working for Corcoran. The storm only made it worse. The grey world outside her window was blurred by the windblown rain that dribbled down the glass.

Why isn’t this window boarded up yet? she wondered.

It would be if someone responsible were in charge.

A knock at her door made her jump. She swiveled the chair around as Dr. Jeremy Corcoran pushed the door open and leaned into her office.

He was a tall, lanky man in his late sixties, balding on top with a wild explosion of long, frizzy, silver hair all the way around his head, a matching goatee, and thick horn-rimmed glasses. His nose was narrow and prominent and his mouth looked too small for his face. In the white lab coat he always wore, Fara thought he looked like a mad scientist from an old movie.

He is a mad scientist.

Corcoran was the reason she had taken the job. He was also the reason she desperately wanted out of it.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything, Fara,” he said with that little chuckle that seemed to punctuate everything he said.

Fara said nothing, just waited for him to go on.

“I’m having a little gathering in my quarters this evening.” Chuckle. “Nothing special, just some drinks, some music. I thought we’d have a little party to greet the storm.” Chuckle. “Like I said before, I think it’s a good idea if everyone stays here for the duration. So I thought a little party would help everyone relax.” Chuckle.

“A party?” she said. “Is that a good idea?”

“Well . . . I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”

She stood. “Dr. Corcoran, I don’t know if liquor is wise when we’re about to get hit by a—”

“Please,” he said, still smiling as he closed his eyes in frustration for a moment. “Jeremy. I wish you’d call me Jeremy. I’ve told you, after all this time, I don’t see why you insist on being so formal when—”

“And as I have told you, Dr. Corcoran, I think we could use a little more formality around here. This is not just a storm we’re talking about, it’s a hurricane, and I’m not sure we’re prepared for it. Getting drunk doesn’t strike me as a very good idea right now when we’re about to—”

He cleared his throat loudly to i. . .