The Survival Code Read online

  If you’re going through hell...keep going.

  Seventeen-year-old coder Jinx Marshall grew up spending weekends drilling with her paranoid dad for a doomsday she’s sure will never come. She’s an expert on self-heating meal rations, Krav Maga and extracting water from a barrel cactus. Now that her parents are divorced, she’s ready to relax. Her big plans include making it to level 99 in her favorite MMORPG and spending the weekend with her new stepbrother, Toby.

  isaster training comes in handy when an explosion traps her in a burning building. Stuck leading her headstrong stepsister, MacKenna, and her precocious little brother, Charles, to safety, Jinx gets them out alive only to discover the explosion is part of a pattern of violence erupting all over the country. Even worse, Jinx’s dad stands accused of triggering the chaos.

  In a desperate attempt to evade paramilitary forces and vigilantes, Jinx and her siblings find Toby and make a break for Mexico. With seemingly the whole world working against them, they’ve got to get along and search for the truth about the attacks—and about each other. But if they can survive, will there be anything left worth surviving for?

  PRAISE FOR DAY ZERO

  “A high-octane thrill ride.”

  —Laurie Forest, author of the Black Witch Chronicles

  “A fascinating, fast-paced thriller. Don’t miss this memorable, refreshing book.”

  —Adrianne Finlay, author of Your One & Only

  “Gripping, bold, and infused with real heart.”

  —Jessie Hilb, author of The Calculus of Change

  “An ambitious, caffeine-infused buzz-ride!”

  —Nancy Richardson Fischer, author of The Speed of Falling Objects

  “A riveting tale full of heart and adventure.”

  —Laura Taylor Namey, author of The Library of Lost Things

  Books by Kelly deVos

  available from Harlequin TEEN and Inkyard Press

  Fat Girl on a Plane

  Day Zero

  Kelly deVos

  DAY ZERO

  For Evelyn.

  My spark and hope for a bright future.

  Kelly deVos is from Gilbert, Arizona, where she lives with her high school sweetheart husband, teen daughter and superhero dog, Cocoa. She holds a BA in creative writing from Arizona State University. When not reading or writing, Kelly can typically be found with a mocha in hand, bingeing the latest TV shows and adding to her ever-growing sticker collection. Her debut novel, Fat Girl on a Plane, is available now wherever books are sold.

  Contents

  Tonight

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule One

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Two

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Three

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Four

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Five

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Six

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Seven

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Eight

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Nine

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Ten

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Eleven

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Twelve

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Thirteen

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Fourteen

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  Dr. Doomsday’s Guide To Ultimate Survival - Rule Fifteen

  Dr. Doomsday Says:

  No More Rules

  Everyone’s For Rosenthal

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Fat Girl on a Plane by Kelly deVos

  TONIGHT

  I will save the world.

  It’s taken months to build the perfect guild, get everyone to level ninety-nine, mine ore, forge the best armor and train for the mission. Now I’ve got a foolproof plan to kill the dragon, charge the Cataline Hills and save the Elysian Fields. I’m ready for the raid. Tonight.

  Well. Almost.

  I get out my phone as I enter the empty history classroom. Dropping my backpack on the floor near my usual desk, I notice that there’s one item on my list that doesn’t have a checkmark.

  Snacks.

  It’s not a raid without cheese puffs and Extra Jolt strawberry soda. I’ll have to stop at the store on the way home from school.

  But after that, I will save the world of Republicae. When I do, my virtual world will be happy, peaceful and predictable, which is cool because my real world is such a mess.

  A complete. Total. Mess.

  For example.

  MacKenna enters the classroom and slides into the seat next to me. “Hi, Jinx.”

  My shoulders tense at the sound of my horrible nickname.

  No one loves to call me a jinx more than my stepsister.

  She’s come from her journalism class and, as usual, carries all the electronic tablets she uses to write her stories. She dumps the stack on her desk and fiddles with a strand of her long, black hair. I reach up to touch the bun on the top of my head and confirm what I already knew.

  I, too, am a mess.

  Waving one of the e-tablets in front of my face, MacKenna says, “Look at this. The science teacher caught some jackasses called Jules and Becks making out in the chem classroom. That’s what they want me to write about.”

  I roll my eyes at the bright image on the screen. All I see is a photo of two people having a lot more fun than I am. On the wall in front of us, the cracked, oversize classroom clock ticks away. I’m waiting. For the bell to ring. This is my last class of the day.

  I’m ready for this Monday to be over.

  MacKenna keeps talking. She taps the e-tablet screen with her thumb. “Mr. Johnson killed my article about that snotty soccer mom from The Opposition who got pissed at the school secretary and threw a drink in her face at the winter banquet.” She pokes the picture again. “For this. He said we have to limit our reports to student life.”

  I pull my laptop out of my bag and position it on the small desk. A few clicks later and my digital history book stares back at me on the screen, the red, white and blue flag waving in an animated loop. “He probably wants people to focus on lab work and not locking lips. Anyway, do we really need to be so political all the time?”

  At the front of the room, the teacher’s faded red leather chair sits empty.

  And the bell doesn’t ring.

  MacKenna rearranges the e-tablets. “You been to the front office recently? The secretary is still wearing an eyepatch. An ice cube bruised the lady’s eyeball and she can’t see right. All because she wore a T-shirt from The Spark. How are we supposed to forget that The Opposition and The Spark are almost at war? Twenty years from now, people will still be talking about the election. Nobody will remembe
r that Becks put his tongue down Jules’s throat. Life is political, Jinx.”

  Her life might be political. Mine is complicated. I pretend to read my book.

  The classroom fills up and people say hi to MacKenna as they pass. After our parents got married, we moved to a new house and I changed schools. We’ve been here at Rancho Mesa High for six months, and she knows everyone in school. Meanwhile, no one remembers my name.

  It’s just as well. I’ve always been more comfortable with computers than people.

  “This is how it is,” MacKenna continues, now with an audience of several members of the debate club leaning out of their desks. “I’m going for the Most Likely to Be a Media Mogul backstory, not Pathetic Underachiever Who Overcame Adversity to Succeed Later in Life. Writing public service announcements about driving less than five miles an hour in the parking lot or what to do if your e-paper stops working in the middle of a test is not going to make that happen. You know—”

  Oh, here we go. In Boulder...

  MacKenna continues to scowl at the pictures. “—in Boulder—”

  “I think class is about to start.”

  “—we had a real newspaper. Monthly. In print. To learn how they did things in the old days. You know, real journalism. We wrote real articles. I did a big exposé on cash that was missing from the school slush fund. Then the principal hired her nephew to repave the parking lot, and I broke the story. Now thanks to...”

  MacKenna trails off midsentence as my mom breezes into the room, her long mahogany-brown hair flowing behind her. She pushes up the sleeves of her red cashmere sweater and places a stack of books neatly on the corner of her desk. As usual, she looks like a movie star playing a teacher.

  My face heats up. Mom is great, but it seems like there ought to be some kind of rule against being in a class where your mother is the teacher and your stepsister is in the next desk. But since the last round of school budget cuts, there’s only one history teacher and only one junior history class. So here we are.

  MacKenna’s glare bounces from Mom back to me. I know MacKenna hated to leave Colorado, but I don’t know why she’s so desperate to blame me for the situation we’re both in. Our parents met at some celebrity golf tournament for the bank where her dad, Jay, works. I mean, it’s not like I set them up or something. Mom married Jay over the summer, and they’re happy and that’s good. But it’s not like I love sharing a bathroom with a stepsister who spends more time doing her eyeliner than it takes me to download the latest Republicae patches.

  Mom falls into the squeaky red chair, opens her laptop and makes a few taps. The words CAUSES OF THE NEW DEPRESSION appear in green block letters on the e-chalkboard. It’s been a long time since the LED panels have been replaced, so once in a while the letters blink and disappear.

  MacKenna’s shoulders slump. “Anyway. I’m stuck here,” she whispers.

  I don’t think anyone besides me is listening, and most of the class breaks out in laughter when the board briefly reads, C US S THE N PRESS ON.

  Mom clears her throat. “All right. For the first half of class, we will begin our discussion on the historical and financial causes of the New Depression. Then we’ll start our book reports. Please flip your e-texts to page 187...”

  After making a couple more clicks on her laptop, Mom rises from the red chair. An image of a small crowd standing in the rain in front of the White House appears on the e-chalkboard.

  “As you know,” she begins, “this morning, Ammon Carver was inaugurated as the country’s next president, following a surprise victory for The Opposition in a very contentious election. The defeat of The Spark and David Rosenthal—”

  “Everyone’s for Rosenthal!” someone calls from the back.

  The class erupts into a frenzy. MacKenna unzips her hoodie to reveal a T-shirt with the words Everyone’s for Rosenthal in blue script on the front.

  Sure. Everyone’s for Rosenthal. Is class over yet?

  Mom gives us one of her annoyed teacher looks that silences everyone. She continues louder than before. “The election results are widely believed to be the result of complex feelings about the New Depression. Our discussion will help us understand today’s confusing events.”

  My whole life has been a confusing event.

  I scroll to page 187 and stare at a picture of a nearly abandoned suburban neighborhood below a headline that reads “The Dangers of a Two-Party Political System.”

  At the front of the room, Mom paces on the cheap blue carpet. “Maybe you have heard The Spark say that this is an age of moral crisis. The New Depression arose from the need to pay for and atone for injustices of the past. Or maybe you’ve heard The Opposition say that this is an era of economic crisis created by bad decisions made by The Spark over the past ten years.”

  “Or maybe those are the kinds of things people say when they don’t know what they’re talking about,” MacKenna mutters. “The kinds of things they hope aren’t actually true.”

  I tune out the rest. The fact that Ammon Carver and The Opposition spent the past couple of years successfully blaming David Rosenthal and The Spark for everything going wrong with the economy is a frequent topic of conversation around our house. If I need to know which senator signed off on the bill that quadrupled the price of bread or who increased taxes on gas, Mom will be very happy to repeat her lecture.

  Mom keeps talking and talking and talking.

  “The Spark became the party of identity politics, and their willingness to spend tax dollars on programs to secure civil rights is an important part of their platform. This means that...”

  I keep watching the clock. Tick. Tock.

  “With a powerful pool of backers, including the Carver family and First Federal Bank, The Opposition has tried to position itself as the party of rugged individualism, but its main objective has been to block attempts to levy taxes on the rich. Without a way to raise funds for...”

  I log in to the Republicae forum and post another reminder about the raid to make sure my guild knows the attack plan.

  Finally, Mom concludes with, “Okay. For tomorrow, read pages 190–205 and be ready for a quiz on Wednesday.” She clears her throat. “And now, on to book reports. Any volunteers?”

  I’m not really surprised when my stepsister’s hand shoots into the air. MacKenna Novac is always ready. She was born ready.

  Mom nods, and MacKenna heads to the front of the room.

  I smirk. Mom will take the volunteers first and then call us in alphabetical order. Which means it’ll be at least Friday before we get to me. Which is why I’ll be playing video games tonight and not writing a book report. My smirk shifts into a smile.

  The fun is short-lived though. My breath catches as MacKenna pulls a familiar orange book from her backpack and carries it in front of her with her arms outstretched dramatically. The same way that the priest carries the Bible at church.

  “This is Dr. Doomsday’s Guide to Ultimate Survival,” MacKenna says in a booming voice.

  A couple people laugh.

  It takes everything I’ve got to stop myself from groaning.

  I’m expecting Mom to do something about this. Put a stop to it. But she’s got a smile that borders on amused. She grabs her laptop and moves to a table in the back of the room.

  MacKenna connects her own laptop to the e-chalkboard as she talks. “By Dr. Maxwell Marshall.”

  A larger-than-life picture of my father’s bearded face fills the screen. MacKenna has managed to convert old news archive footage into a video loop, so every few seconds Dad squints or nods.

  Yeah. Dad.

  Here’s a little pop quiz about him. Guess which option best describes my dad:

  (A) He was a halfway-normal computer science professor until he became convinced that society was teetering on the edge of Armageddon.

  (B) He quit his job and wrote a book.
Dr. Doomsday’s Guide to Ultimate Survival. It’s illustrated and every bit as ridiculous as it sounds.

  (C) Ammon Carver was Dad’s old buddy from his army days. They stayed in touch.

  (D) All of the above.

  The correct answer is (D).

  Sigh.

  MacKenna leans on the desk. She has a few small, bright-colored note cards in her hand. “Dr. Marshall is a noted computer science professor famous for his hacker exploits, study of cryptography and the creation of complex data models at Arizona State University. Up until last year, he worked as a consultant for The Opposition and for Ammon Carver personally. Marshall’s work became the basis for The Opposition’s election victory.”

  My father’s work.

  The best-known piece of Dad’s work, D00MsD4Y, was a worm he designed to teach his students about file server vulnerability. A few years ago, someone unleashed it into the real world. The worm doubled in size every eight seconds and took down seventy-five thousand servers in less than ten minutes. Comerican, the only survivor of the airline wars, had to cancel all its flights for three days. Police precincts in seven states resorted to using notepads to keep track of emergency calls. The only reason Dad didn’t end up in jail was that the cops needed his help to stop the thing.

  I open a new window on my laptop and pull up Dad’s archive.

  His code fills the screen.

  push 6C6C642Eh ; [EBP-8]

  push 32336C65h ; [EBP-0Ch]

  push 6E72656Bh ; [EBP-10h] Push string kernel32.dll

  push ecx ; [EBP-14h]

  push 746E756Fh ; [EBP-18h] Push string GetTickCount

  push 436B6369h ; [EBP-1Ch]

  push 54746547h [EBP-20h]

  mov cx, 6C6Ch

  push ecx ; [EBP-24h]