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Cover image and design:
Orianne Alexander
To
Orianne
:
my first beta reader,
my first editor,
my first cover designer,
and my first born…
Not only are you brilliant, you give me strength and courage.
And to
Andavea
:
for your incredible
will-power,
dedication,
discipline,
and kick-ass muscles…
You are my inspiration for the heroines in all my stories.
I love and respect you both more than words could ever express.
Chapter 1
Cael
I was old enough to die for my country, but not to buy beer. The government didn't trust me to drink responsibly, but they entrusted me with the defense of our country. They had a warped understanding of responsibility. They’d drafted me into the Army, but the only draft I was interested in came out of a keg.
I didn't know much about their war. North Korea was crazy, Russia sold weapons to anyone with money, ISIS had taken control of most of the oil refineries the Middle East, and China's army outnumbered us two to one. That was about all I'd gotten out of NYU’s current events class. Hell, the election was yesterday and I hadn't even voted. My parents had been disappointed, insisting that making any kind of choice was better than doing nothing. To them, choosing any candidate was far better than not caring. But I wasn't interested in choosing the best of the worst to run this country.
I called Cody while stuffing clothes into my back pack. “You ready?”
There was a pause and a cough. “Ready for what?”
His words were sluggish. "This is a bad time to be high, Cody.”
"It's
never
a bad time to be high."
"We're leaving."
There was a loud crash, Cody hollered at someone to turn down the music, and then he asked, “We’re leaving? Now? It’s time
now
?”
“Yes. Grab your pack and meet me at the Memorial.” I reached into the air conditioning vent in my room to retrieve a zip lock bag full of cash.
“No more school?” he asked.
I smiled. “No more school.” I guess he’d missed the announcement that the campus was shutting down at the end of the week.
“Fuck yeah! Screw NYU!”
I picked up a picture from my desk, thinking I looked so happy standing at the railing of a cruise ship with my arms around my mom's shoulders and my dad's waist. They’d taken me to the Bahamas for my eighteenth birthday. I’d been confident in the direction of my future, and it showed in the set of my shoulders and in my cocky grin. But that was two years ago, and everything had changed.
I whacked the frame on the shelf and shook off the broken glass. Then I folded the picture and stuffed it into the back pocket of my jeans. "Cody. You understand that you're trading your dorm room on the NYU campus for a pig farm in a prepper community?"
"Preppy people aren't so bad. I can handle the khakis and Polo shirts.”
"I'm not talking about
preps
. I said p
reppers
. Remember? My aunt who believes the world is out to get her? We talked about this."
"Oh. You're talking about the chick who grows organic food and has a shit load of guns in her basement?"
"Right. And speaking of guns, don't forget to bring your revolver,” I reminded, digging between my mattress and box spring to pull out my 9mm.
He cleared his throat. “Uh, I sold it.”
"What! The world is falling apart and you sold your gun for a few hours of weed kiting on your ratty-ass sofa?" I ran a hand through my hair. “What about the semi-automatic?”
“Yeah! I’ve got that one.”
“Well, load it and keep it handy.”
“Seriously? What’s going on out there?”
“Don’t you ever watch the news? Haven’t your parents called to warn you?”
“Are you referring to the sperm and egg donors listed on my birth certificate? They haven’t called in almost a year. Why do you think I spend all the holidays with you guys?”
I walked to window in the living room, pushing the sheers aside to scan the streets twenty-six stories below while shrugging into both backpack straps. Beyond plumes of smoke, it looked like someone had kicked over an ant hill. People were flooding out of stores and running in all directions. The corner market I often shopped at was on fire, flames flicking through the picture window and up the walls toward the apartments above. A man burst through the doorway carrying armfuls of stolen goods. He made it about fifty feet before he was gunned down. His body smacked into the pavement and packages of food and small electronics spewed into the street. People swarmed him, snatching up his loot before disappearing into the smoke and leaving behind the useless body.
Cody was saying something, but I interrupted to snap, "I'll meet you at the Memorial. Hurry up, okay? And be careful."
My roommates had already abandoned ship, so I flipped the switches on the circuit breaker panel and closed all the blinds. I shouldn’t have been the last one to leave. It was stupid to have waited for the election results. I’d known it was going to be like this. My parents had called every day for the past two weeks to warn me, but I'd only argued with them and made excuses to hang up. Mom had begged me to get to her sister's farm because they were isolated and safe. But we'd spent the last six years ignoring Aunt Kim and her family, so how could she change her mind after all that time? Aunt Kim was still the same crazy woman who'd spent the last ten years hoarding food and spouting crap about government oppression and economic collapse. Her zealous behavior had driven our families apart years ago, but mom had been talking to her more and more over the past six months, so I'd thought maybe my mom had contracted her sister's wild beliefs. That's why my mother had started hinting about conspiracies and secret government task forces lately. But how could she believe that and still work for the government?
Maybe Aunt Kim had brainwashed her over the telephone. Crazy was contagious. The news always showed stories of craziness spreading across the world like a global plague, killing millions with suicide bombs and automatic weapons. The crazies killed people who made fun of their religion. They killed girls who wanted to go to school. They killed people who disagreed with political policy. They killed women and children just to prove they could. Crazies were fueled by hate, by judgment, by impatience, by intolerance, and by misunderstanding. I didn't want to be infected like them. I didn't want my mom to be a zealot like Aunt Kim. I didn't want to go back to the farm where I used to spend every Christmas and summer vacation.
But I couldn't stay here with my gun aimed at the door, alone and with no plan to survive, waiting for someone to break in. My parents had already left for the farm in Georgia, so there was no point in going home. My only choice was to take my best friend down south with me and hope we could tolerate living with a bunch of preppers.
I locked my apartment door and shoved the key into my pocket. Down the hall, a door flung open and two people crashed into the hallway, arguing and yanking suitcases toward the elevators. My heart pounded, anticipating having to defend myself. I’d taken mixed martial arts classes for eight years. I was an expert marksman. I could throw knives. But I’d never used weapons beyond indoor practice ranges. I’d never practiced MMA outside of the competition ring, and defending myself against a real attack would be far different than competing for an award. I wasn't one of those guys who'd been tough and dangerous in high school. I'd never been in a real fight, and I felt like a coward for hoping I never would be.
As I stood outside beneath the portico, my back against the wall, fear crawled up my spine and transmitted into every nerve like high-speed data through fiber optic cables. I double checked the safety on my Taurus and eyed every person and shadow. Smoke stung my eyes and burned the inside of my nose. Someone screamed in the distance — a deep, throat clawing sound that was abruptly cut off. I wished the scream had come from a woman. My mom screamed when she saw spiders in the house. My last girlfriend had screamed bloody murder when she'd seen a roach in her bathroom. I could handle that. But the screams of men were truly terrifying.
Get out
.
I darted down the sidewalk, inhaling lungfuls of smoke and trying to dodge pedestrians. I plowed into a man and knocked him down. I mumbled ‘sorry’ and reached a hand out to help him up, but he scrambled to his feet and continued on without even looking at me. I turned the corner to see several men siphoning gas out of some cars parked along the street despite the symphony of alarms. They kept an eye on me as I passed, but they didn’t pull out weapons. I looked away and picked up my pace, grateful when I turned another corner and could breathe better.
I passed another market whose windows were busted. People inside were yelling, and then there was a moment of silence before gunshots rang out. I pounded across the shards of glass, putting one foot in front of the other until I realized I there was a traffic accident blocking the intersection up ahead. Hundreds of people were shoving at each other, trying to get across the street with their suitcases and pet cages, purses and children. They were climbing over cars, yelling and fight with drivers and then continuing past to pile up and become the wall that blocked the entire street. I didn’t see any way around. At six foot two with a broad build, I thought I had a chance at pushing my way through the masses. But the harder I jammed against them, the more solidified the wall became — bodies so densely packed that a fly couldn’t have penetrated. People slammed into my back, becoming the mortar that sealed the bricks of our human wall together. If I didn’t get away now, I’d be cemented in. I turned and shoved the people behind me, deciding to backtrack and find a different cross street.
A loud firecracker sound sent me lunging right, my ears ringing. I careened around a corner and then took another right, which led me down another another street where I could cross. But though I had traveled a block away, I still wasn't able to get through. This intersection was as packed as the last one. Car horns blared. A car hit someone, sending the rag doll body across the hood. People smashed windshields while screaming and baring their teeth like wild animals. An explosion burst glass and people onto the street not ten feet from me. The city’s emergency sirens activated, an ear-piercing crescendo-decrescendo that made everyone shout louder. People jumped on cars to throw themselves on top of the crowd. It might have worked in a mosh pit, but all it did here was crush people into the ground where they were trampled by a human tidal wave. I found myself unable to move forward or turn back.
