The End Time Saga (Book 2): The Breaking Read online

  Moments later, she awoke in the dirt, eye smarting and her head foggy.

  “Stupid bitch. That’ll serve ya,” Casey sneered, holding Maria loosely in the crook of his arm. He put a work boot into her stomach and the wind was driven from her lungs.

  Lucia cried out, hands reaching for her child.

  “You’d shut your mouth if you knew what was good for ya.” Casey slammed the door, disappearing with the baby.

  “Dios mío ayuda me,” Lucia sobbed.

  Lucia cried out the same phrase for hours until it turned into a mere whimper. “Mi Maria. Mi Maria.”

  ***

  Hours later Casey returned with a fat man and others. They filed in, laughing and carousing with one another as they passed around an unlabeled bottle. The men, who could only be described as hillbilly trash, took turns raping Lucia on the mud floor while Gwen and the other women were forced to watch in horror.

  Gwen tried to scream, yell, and curse the monsters, and all she got for her trouble was the back of a hand. A pinprick of pain compared to Lucia’s torture. When Casey was finished, he sat down next to Gwen, holding a six-inch-long hunting knife casually in his hand.

  “Woo, that was fun, huh?” He exhaled a deep breath. Glancing at her sideways, he gave her a half-grin filled with stained brown teeth.

  “That could have been you, sweetheart,” he whispered. He ran a hand through his dirty hair that was held in place only by grease, letting his hand fall on her knee. His hand became a poisonous snake slithering up her thigh.

  “I wanted to, believe me, I did. Those legs. That ass.” His hand stopped, but his eyes confirmed what he said.

  “Butttt…the big guy wants you untouched. So, I guess she’ll have to do.”

  She turned away from him in revulsion.

  “Why the long face?” He pushed her head away playfully with his free hand and laughed. “Who knows? Maybe he won’t like ya. Then we’ll get our chance.” He gripped her thigh, fingertips pressing painfully into the meat of her leg. Then he stood up, stretched, and walked outside, latching the door behind him. The clank of chains on wood sounded out as he locked them in.

  An emptiness filled the room, an eerie quiet only punctuated by the sobs of the prisoners. Lucia lay in the dirt, eyes staring vacantly at nothing. She looked dead. Gwen knew that she was probably in shock and had internal injuries, made all the worse because Lucia’s child was most likely dead too. Lindsay squeezed her eyes closed and cried.

  Gwen tipped herself over and shouldered her way across the mud to be close to the other women. They huddled around Lucia, using each other’s body heat for warmth. Gwen closed her eyes, salty tears running down her face. Her fingers ran over the photograph, trying to feel the place in time. It was the farthest place from here. The cold glossy finish only made her heart sink lower. How could things have gone so wrong?

  STEELE

  Wilderness of West Virginia

  The land was damp under the canopy of trees; a coolness trapped between greenish leaves above and wet earth below. Green ferns and brown dead leaves were the only living things that thrived along the forest floor.

  Near a soft-needled pine he stopped his pained progress. Leaning on its trunk for support, he surveyed the area. Folding his arms across his chest, he hugged himself, trying to retain what little body heat he had left. He pushed down the constant ache inside his skull. Must keep moving. Must find shelter.

  The land seemed to be a never-ending loop of itself. Round pillars of wood worshipped the sky as far as he could see in either direction. Branchy arms decorated by leaves and needles hid Steele from any warmth from the distant sun.

  The ground curved upward, making it appear that he was surrounded by mountains. Below him, down a gradual decline, the trees dipped in close to the road as if they wanted reclaim their lost land.

  He followed the road from a distance, keeping it close enough to know it was there, but far enough away to avoid discovery from anyone watching it, or infected wandering upon it. He didn’t know the terrain well enough to veer far from it. Glimpses of asphalt beckoned him, but the dead repulsed him, forcing him to follow in the trees.

  Keeping the road on his left, he mindlessly walked. Keep moving. He used trees to help himself along. Don’t stop. As a wounded animal, he saw the threat in everything. See, don’t look. He found it impossible to track his progress, minutes turning to hours and hours to minutes. He didn’t know if he’d been out there for days or an hour.

  He racked his brain as he trudged, trying to pull some sort of explanation of his present situation from the depths of his memory. They left Nelson untouched, but I was stripped? Steele’s feet would have been chewed up into a bloody mess without the boots—cut, torn, and bruised by the underbrush, twigs and rocks from the terrain. He would never have been able to run quickly through the uneven land without them. Maybe someone was watching out for him. He took a cautious glance upward at a dusky sky through the leaves.

  The trees were in the beginning stages of changing colors here, and when they did, they would turn beautiful shades of red, yellow, orange, and brown over the next month. As a young man, he always loved seeing the forest turn in the fall.

  The season had always been special to him. His birthday was in the fall, football season was in the fall, and his family would always build fires in their family cabin, the warm smoky scent filling the air. The thought of fire did nothing to warm him. It only left him with a deep sadness. All those things were gone now. No birthdays. No football. No family. You are alone. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Why have I lived when so many others have perished? Do I even deserve to live? Better not question why you are here. There is a plan, but you may not know it yet. Hopefully.

  “Best not tempt the gods, huh, Jarl?” he said to the ghost of his sacrificial friend. He drove the ghosts from his mind with a farewell. One day we will meet again, brother.

  Uncountable chilled hours faded away beneath the sun until it began its gradual downward arc, and the temperature tumbled swiftly behind it. I must find shelter. His blood-soaked tank-top along with his boxer briefs were no match against the plummeting temperatures.

  He rubbed his arms as he walked, trying to gain warmth in his limbs through friction. Prospects were grim. With every passing minute, his survivability went down with the temperature. Any survival guru would say the same thing: Shelter was a necessity. Not only did he need shelter against the cold, but he needed shelter against the dead.

  Grimacing, he looked down at himself, and let out a bitter laugh.

  “I am the dead.” Stripped down to his underwear, his head bloody, wandering the forest. Even if he found someone friendly, they would probably try and put a bullet in his head, thinking they were doing him a favor.

  As he plodded onward, all he could think was how he wished it was summer. A hot steamy summer, but the summer also meant mosquitos. Damn it all, but maybe I should be grateful there are no mosquitos. What if the virus was spread by mosquitos like Malaria? Six one way, a half-dozen the other.

  He continued his mental anguish as he lumbered forward. He tried to recall what had happened. They had been riding in the McCone mobile lounge. They had stopped for some reason, but everything after that was a blur. Everyone was there. Gwen, Mauser, Joseph, Eddie, and Lucia with her baby, and the now-deceased Nelson. Someone put a bullet in Nelson’s head. But why?

  His brain throbbed as he remembered: Joseph had been there. The skinny doctor with glasses had glanced nervously around, but no memory followed that.

  Steele’s ears picked up the sound of the forest floor rustling. His heart rate spiked up and his head spun. Buddying up behind a tree, he steadied himself. The world leveled out around him. It sounded like he had walked into a nest of squirrels.

  From around the tree he peered out and looked hard. He let his vision focus on movement in an attempt to locate the thing that clearly did not care if it was found. Near the edge of the road, inside the forest, over twenty
infected crouched around something on the ground. On their knees, the infected humans ripped and tore at their food like a pack of ravenous wolves. Could it be one of my friends? Could it be Gwen? He wanted to be sick again.

  Steele watched them for a minute, studying their feeding behavior. As one, they crowded around the corpse. They ripped and pulled whatever they could reach. There was no hierarchy to their feeding like other pack animals such as wolves, or lions, who had an alpha that ate first. No tact. Only the singular need to consume. Best to keep moving before they start looking for more.

  He gingerly ran a hand across the top of his head. An indentation ran along his scalp like God himself had taken a divine pencil to his skull in an attempt to redraw him. It reminded him that someone knew what had happened to him. This was no mistake.

  As silently as he could, he moved away from them, heading farther up the forest road. After another hour of hiking, the sun crested the nearest mountain peak. Nighttime is coming. Do or die time.

  Steele’s teeth chattered. His hands were a pale shade of blue. This is bad. He contemplated climbing a tree to sleep for the night. Fuck, it’s cold out here. I’m going to freeze to death. I survived the outbreak of the deadliest virus known to man only to freeze to death in the fucking woods. If his luck got any better, he would probably wake up looking down at a pack of infected waiting patiently for him to climb down, starving and weak. A grisly end indeed. He flicked open his spring-loaded knife. His frozen hand curled around the handle involuntarily. No easy meals.

  Shadows grew into dusk and darkness rapidly overtook him. He found himself willing his feet one over the other. One-two. One-two. One. Two.

  “Gwen? Where are you?” he called out. Coughing, he could hardly pick up his feet. His feet weren’t even there. They were numb and cold like he walked on a bed of ice nails.

  A woman in white appeared ahead through the trees. He stopped, staring at her. He rubbed his eyes. Her hair shone gold. The curve of her body was hazy in the night. She almost glowed in the dark.

  “Gwen,” he coughed. “Wait.” He reached a hand for her. She turned and smiled. An angel. She looked through him though. He was of minor concern in her divine eyes. Gliding away, she floated into the night. He ran after her, but she was faster, and he fell behind. Moments later, she stopped, bringing a finger to her ghostly lips. Her white dress flickered and disappeared, leaving him alone again.

  “Wait,” he mumbled, voice croaking in dehydration. He stopped, half standing, half bending over. His muscles teetered on the edge of collapse. This is as good a spot as any. Quit. You’ve gone far enough.

  He wobbled and fell to the ground. Exhaustion had won. He couldn’t go on. Get up, you fool. He crawled up onto his hands and knees. The ground felt funny beneath his fingertips. Packed tight earth. Odd. Trees had been cleared away. A dirt road stretched below him.

  The path ran perpendicular to the two-lane road he was following. Grass sprouted up in the middle of two tracks. The path was used with some regularity.

  Something deep within him pulled him upright. Too cold to care, he followed the dirt driveway. If it led him to a horde of infected, at least a fight would warm him up. Brazenly, he walked down the middle.

  A quarter-mile down the path he stopped, a smile creeping over his cracked lips. A small house sat in the dark. No lights illuminated the night. No infected wandered nearby. The place looked abandoned, and Steele had never seen a finer sight.

  GWEN

  Moonshiner Camp, WV

  The unwashed women stank. The shed itself smelled worse. A combination of bodily fluids mixed together with mud created the overall odor of a swamp. Gwen had grown used to putrid smells, finding it impossible to get away from.

  She nestled in closer to Lindsay, folding her shoulder over her’s. They were all wedged against the wall, away from the middle of the shed, where it was less muddy. Lindsay stirred, adjusting her arms. The woman would shake herself awake crying, and Gwen would soothe her until she fell back asleep.

  Gwen lay there exhausted, but her mind stood in the way. Not that she wanted to sleep. When she slept, she dreamt only of horrid things. Blood. The shrill sound of bullets screaming past. People shrieking. The dead. When she was awake she couldn’t escape the nightmares either, as her mind replayed the traumatic events over and over.

  They had shot Mark from the bushes. It happened in a blink of an eye. One second, he was standing, the next he had collapsed on the ground. A second later, the mobile lounge’s front windows exploded, a million shards of sparkling glass covering them. Her breath was forced from her body as Mauser’s shoulder drove into her. She hit the ground with a whumph, as he landed on top of her. His weight protected her body, elbows shielding their faces as glass continued to rain down on them. She rolled onto her elbows and crawled down the blood-stained aisle to the rear.

  The mobile lounge had a driver’s compartment on either end like a tiller fire truck, except it faced the other direction, allowing the driver to navigate from either the front or back. If Mauser could reach the other driving compartment, maybe they had a chance to escape.

  Glass dug into her arms and knees like tiny knives. They sliced open her clothes and cut her skin. Bullets tinged and ricocheted off the metal sides, making it sound like they hid in a tin can. Mauser bulled her forward and shoved her bottom with his free arm.

  “We gotta move. We gotta move,” he kept yelling over the din. She stopped halfway and grabbed one of her packs.

  “No time,” Mauser shouted at her.

  “What about Mark?” she cried out. She turned back to get a better look at Mauser.

  “He’s fine. Keep moving.” He pushed her further ahead, self-preservation driving them. Gwen knew Mauser had just lied through his teeth, but took him at his word anyway.

  When they reached the back of the mobile lounge, the others had already congregated. Ahmed knelt down, ducking his head as rounds whizzed over him. Lindsay had her arms around Lucia. Both women were terrified. Gwen leaned back on a seat, hands covering her ears. Mauser sat low in the mobile lounge’s swivel driver’s seat, messing with the steering wheel. Cars that were stalled now roared to life and blocked their only escape. They were penned in.

  “We gotta fight our way out,” Mauser yelled, bringing his carbine to his shoulder. He pushed open the folding backdoors and fired a few rounds into a man in camouflage running for them. The man collapsed and didn’t get up.

  “Make for the woods. It’s our only shot,” Mauser said. A man emerged from the timber and Mauser tracked him with his carbine. Pop. Pop. He went down, holding his leg. Mauser flinched as a bullet thudded into the door frame next to him, bending the metal.

  “NOW,” he screamed. Gwen crawled to the edge of the vehicle and, using the ledge, hung for a moment before she jumped down. She landed in a crouch. Gunfire boomed from the woods. She shouldered her pack and looked up, seeing Lucia stare at her with Maria in her arms.

  “Give me the baby,” Gwen shouted. She waved at Lucia to drop the child. Fear etched Lucia’s face, indecision consuming her.

  “Drop her. I’ll catch her,” Gwen screamed. Lucia bent down, tentatively releasing the vulnerable small human into Gwen’s waiting arms. Catching the child like the most fragile punt return, Gwen sprinted for the trees. More men pointed guns at the mover, using cars and trees as cover.

  She ducked behind a big maple, shushing the baby. Pudgy tan cheeks shook as the baby wailed in fright, her dark eyes squinting while she cried. Gwen watched, in suspense, as Ahmed helped the others down.

  “Run,” Ahmed yelled. Each survivor took their turn at making a break for the forest.

  “Shhh,” Gwen said to the squalling babe. She bounced the child in her arms and searched for somewhere safer to hide.

  She poked her head out from behind the tree. Her vision tunneled with fear. “Be quiet, Maria,” she whispered. The baby stopped crying for a moment and gazed up at Gwen. The babe mesmerized by Gwen’s voice.

  �
��That’s a good girl,” Gwen said. A brief smile crossed her shaking lips.

  A skinny arm wrapped around Gwen’s neck, and the cold steel of a handgun pressed against the side of her head.

  “Hello, precious,” a woman said behind her.

  Rough men encircled them, shotguns, carbines, and hunting rifles all pointed in their direction. The survivors were driven into a small group in the center. Ahmed and Nelson’s hands were up. Mauser was the only one in a standoff with the ambushers.

  Gwen was driven forward with a gun to her head.

  “Drop the gun, city boy, and she won’t die,” the voice behind her shouted.

  Mauser squinted at them and took turns aiming his gun from person to person. A standoff with no way out.

  “Don’t be dumb, boy,” shouted one of the ambushers. Mauser finished his rotation of targets and lowered his carbine. He let the weapon point upright and rose a free hand. It was either that or be turned into minced meat. He made eye contact with Gwen.

  “Alright, alright, you got us,” he said, tossing down his M4.

  The woman laughed. “Of course we do, sweetie pie.” She shoved Gwen in the back and reunited her with her friends. “Round ’em up, fellas.”

  The mountain folk stripped everyone of their weapons and tied and bound the survivors. Gwen rocked on the ground and screamed at them in agony as they stripped Mark of all his possessions—weapons, ammo, vest, clothes, even his boots—pushing and pulling at him like a pack of dogs while he laid there, limp as a rag doll. His eyes rolled lifelessly into the back of his head, only the whites showing.

  A fat man in a t-shirt that was too small for him ripped Mark’s badge from his neck. Mark’s head tumbled to the side and lay still.

  “Look what I got, boys! Looks like we bagged ourselves a C-Counter,” the man stammered, trying to read the badge. A thinner man with a light beer ball cap and a filthy mustache snatched the badge from him.