The Day After Never - Perdition (Book 6) Read online

  The Day After Never

  Perdition

  Russell Blake

  Copyright © 2017 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:

  [email protected]

  Published by

  Contents

  Books by Russell Blake

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Excerpt from A Girl Apart

  Books by Russell Blake

  Co-authored with Clive Cussler

  THE EYE OF HEAVEN

  THE SOLOMON CURSE

  Thrillers

  FATAL EXCHANGE

  FATAL DECEPTION

  THE GERONIMO BREACH

  ZERO SUM

  THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

  THE VOYNICH CYPHER

  SILVER JUSTICE

  UPON A PALE HORSE

  DEADLY CALM

  RAMSEY’S GOLD

  EMERALD BUDDHA

  THE GODDESS LEGACY

  A GIRL APART

  The Assassin Series

  KING OF SWORDS

  NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

  RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

  REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

  BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

  REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN

  RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN

  The Day After Never Series

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – BLOOD HONOR

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PURGATORY ROAD

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – COVENANT

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – RETRIBUTION

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – INSURRECTION

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PERDITION

  The JET Series

  JET

  JET II – BETRAYAL

  JET III – VENGEANCE

  JET IV – RECKONING

  JET V – LEGACY

  JET VI – JUSTICE

  JET VII – SANCTUARY

  JET VIII – SURVIVAL

  JET IX – ESCAPE

  JET X – INCARCERATION

  JET XI – FORSAKEN

  JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

  JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT

  The BLACK Series

  BLACK

  BLACK IS BACK

  BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

  BLACK TO REALITY

  BLACK IN THE BOX

  Non Fiction

  AN ANGEL WITH FUR

  HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

  (while drunk, high or incarcerated)

  About the Author

  Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, Fatal Deception, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, Rage of the Assassin The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, JET X – Incarceration, JET XI – Forsaken, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is the New Black, BLACK to Reality, BLACK in the Box, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, Emerald Buddha, The Day After Never – Blood Honor, The Day After Never – Purgatory Road, The Day After Never – Covenant, The Day After Never – Retribution, The Day After Never – Insurrection, The Day After Never – Perdition, The Goddess Legacy, and A Girl Apart.

  Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.

  Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.

  Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.

  Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:

  RussellBlake.com

  To get your free copy,

  just join my readers’ group here:

  http://bit.ly/rb-kos

  Chapter 1

  Portland, Oregon

  Black smoke belched into the midnight sky as hundreds of fires blazed out of control, and the glass and steel façades of high-rises glowed as the city burned. The churning surface of the Willamette River was an orange swatch from the reflection of flames shimmering along its banks, the raging inferno fueled by a string of wooden waterfront buildings.

  Shots rang out in the distance over the screams of rioters racing down the boulevards, baseball bats and planks in hand, destroying everything in their path. The few unbroken shop windows disintegrated in showers of glass as the mob swarmed through the crumbling entrances of buildings long ago abandoned and looted of anything of value. Hoots and bellows echoed as the throng took its frustrations out on anything it could find, including each other, like an immune system run amok, attacking its host.

  An explosion shattered the night, and the ground trembled from the force. The mob slowed at the sound, fear and unthinking fury written across dirt-smeared faces. One of the men, his clothes little more than rags, shook the axe handle he was clutching and swung around to his fellows.

  “They’re using grenades!” he yelled, the final word drowned out by another blast, this one nearer.

  “We need to head north,” another screamed, an edge of hysteria in his voice.

  “No. We should fight them. Enough of this,” the first countered.

  “With what? Clubs? Are you nuts?” a third man called from behind him. “We need to make for the bridge.”

  “I heard shooting from there,” a woman protested.

  The rioters argued loudly until another grenade exploded from t
he adjacent street, galvanizing them into motion. “The bridge!” the woman yelled, and ran up another street. The mob on her heels followed blindly, the prior frenzied energy now gone, replaced by blind panic.

  Boots thumped against the cracking pavement as scores of looters turned the corner, the air thick with smoke. The sonorous roar of a shotgun boomed from behind them, driving the crowd to greater speed. One of the men near the front stumbled and went down hard, his face striking the asphalt with a wet thwack before another runner’s boot struck his skull a glancing blow. The mob trampled the downed man in its race to escape pursuit, leaving him gasping for breath through a ruined nose, his ribs cracked and his left hand crushed underfoot. Nobody paused to help him to his feet as the herd stampeded, every man for himself.

  The woman slowed at the silhouette of the overpass that spanned the river to the Washington shore. Her mouth opened in a warning, but her cry was drowned out by the staccato chatter of assault rifles on full auto from a makeshift barrier blocking the route. Rounds snapped past her head as she ducked instinctively, and the men on either side of her were cut down by the deadly onslaught. She spun and sprinted for the cover of one of the buildings, but a volley knocked her legs from beneath her, and a bullet shattered her hip as she fell.

  Burst after burst from the gunmen sliced through the mob, slaughtering the rioters by the dozens. Moments after the firing had started, the street was awash with crimson; lakes of blood glistened in whatever starlight could penetrate the thick blanket of smoke hovering over the city.

  When the shooting stopped, the area was silent except for the moans of the dying. Three figures with muscled arms stained with prison ink and leather vests emblazoned with a motorcycle gang logo sauntered from the bridge, Kalashnikov assault rifles in hand. Their heavy boots hammered the pavement as they approached the wounded. The gunmen moved methodically among the bodies and fired into the faces of those still breathing, their expressions twisted in amusement at the fate of their victims.

  Three minutes after the massacre had begun, it was over, and the bikers returned to their position to wait for any other fools who thought they could escape their destiny. Killing came easily to them after a half decade running the city; the lives of the rebellious were of no more consequence to them than those of ants crushed inadvertently underfoot. They’d been ordered to prevent anyone from crossing the bridge with whatever force necessary, and they’d taken the assignment with relish, murder and brutality their stock in trade and their principle mechanism for keeping the population under control.

  On the southern end of the city, where a long procession of unfortunates waited in a ragged line, the skirmish was barely audible. Occasional shots continued to echo through the night, but the gunmen keeping the column in check were unfazed. Their job was to maintain order as the city’s population evacuated for Salem. The Columbia River was now poisonous as a rattler’s bite, thousands having succumbed to radiation poisoning as the reactor upriver continued to belch forth its toxic stew. It had taken a week for the first to die, the dose too low in the first days to do much besides sicken those who relied on the river’s water for drinking and bathing. However, as the cumulative effects worsened, death had overwhelmed the city, and the biker gang that controlled Portland decided it needed to relocate operations somewhere safe, the signs of illness obvious even among their ranks.

  At first they’d thought it was the new strain of virus that had arrived like the plague, and they’d blocked off affected areas in the hopes of limiting contagion. When that had failed to slow the spread of the mysterious ailment, the gang leadership made the call to abandon the city and forge a route south. By the time they decided to move, thousands were already dead or dying, reducing the available population the bikers could prey upon, and word went out that nobody would be allowed to leave Portland except as the gang’s captives – and that resistance would be dealt with in the harshest possible manner.

  What remained of the able-bodied had been given six hours that afternoon to gather what they could and assemble at the southern city limit on Highway 5, where a checkpoint had been erected years before as a disincentive to anyone attempting to leave. The bikers had taken over the city after a short but violent struggle with two other gangs, and treated the residents as their slaves, plundered and forced to labor as they saw fit. In much the same way that other warlords ruled over metropolitan areas up and down the coast, those who were the most vicious and willing to use force had prevailed against the far larger but meeker population. Portland had become a de facto prison colony, where the productivity of the many was confiscated by the predatory few, and any ideas of revolt were quickly suppressed at the barrel of a gun.

  Only the bikers were on horseback, numbering fewer than two hundred after many had succumbed to the mystery affliction, but their weapons enabled them to manage the several thousand refugees lined up in a ragged procession with their few possessions bundled in stained sacks, shivering as they awaited the order to begin the march south. At the rear of the column were the young females, the remainder a sad collection of males, their frames and faces gaunt in the dim firelight from the burning city, malnutrition and privation their reward for surviving the end of civilization.

  A rider materialized from the darkness. A black leather cowboy hat was pulled low over a prominent brow, and his leather vest and chaps stood out in stark relief against his pale horse. The nearest men stiffened at the sight of him, and a low murmur swept through the column. The rider’s handheld radio crackled, and he growled into it before holding it to his ear for a terse update. He barked orders into the two-way and then slipped it into a pocket of his vest and inspected the column dispassionately.

  He spurred his horse to the rear of the line of desperate humanity and dismounted where twenty of the top-ranking bikers were waiting with their animals. He marched toward them, his glower visible even in the gloom.

  “Bunch of them tried to make a break,” he snapped at the nearest men.

  A tall biker with a thick black beard and a soiled green bandana crowning his head grunted. “Heard the shooting.”

  Another spoke up. “Our patrols are mopping up anyone they come across.”

  The biker with the cowboy hat eyed his men. “I want to be on the road within an hour.”

  “It’s going to be slow going,” the bandana-topped biker advised.

  “I know. Two days, at least.”

  “Maybe three. Lot of this bunch look like they’re already sick.”

  “Then we’ll leave them where they fall.” The leader’s unblinking gaze swept the hardened faces of his men. “Spread the word. We move out shortly.”

  “And the others? At the bridge? The patrols?”

  “I’ve already told them. They’ll be here by the time we leave.”

  A rifle shot split the silence from down the column, and one of the bikers laughed. “A few of them have tried to sneak off. I told the boys to let ’em have a sporting chance before they cap ’em.”

  The leader nodded. “Carts all loaded?”

  “Everything we can carry. We lost most of the horses, though. So it isn’t as much as I’d have liked.”

  “Damn. Well, Salem’s fine,” the leader said. “So we’ll just get more there.”

  The gang had sent riders south to scout out the town in preparation for their exodus from Portland, and reports had come back via radio that there was no evidence of the mystery ailment that had rendered Portland uninhabitable. The men had traced the source to the Columbia, but their limited technical knowledge had stopped them from realizing what the problem was – that it was poison was enough; the source and type were unimportant. They would move and, like locusts, spread their brand of domination to Salem, which they’d left alone until now as a trading hub too distant to warrant fighting to control. Periodic raids had established their power over the town, but the gang had taken a hands-off approach, there being little of value beyond the food the locals grew.

  Which was al
l about to change, the town unaware of what was headed its way.

  “How many women left?” the leader demanded, peering at the females cowering in the gloom.

  “Maybe a hundred and fifty.”

  The leader spit to the side and shook his head. “Don’t suppose it matters. There’ll be plenty more in Salem.”

  The bandana man grinned. “Fresh meat.”

  The leader grunted and took a final look at the females before turning on his heel and making for a line of brush to relieve himself in anticipation of the long ride south.

  Chapter 2

  Astoria, Oregon

  Lucas stood with the mayor, who’d come running to the stable as Lucas was watering Ruby’s animals in preparation for his return to the subterranean base to retrieve what weapons they could. Lucas had lost track of Ray in the tent city on their way in to town to brief the council, and Lucas wished they’d arranged to hook up later – the young man was resourceful, clever, and cool under pressure, which would come in handy on the 130-mile ride to Newport. From what Lucas could tell, too many of Astoria’s best fighters had been taken out of commission by the IED and the attack on the town by the scavengers, and he didn’t like their odds going up against a trained group of Chinese – possibly thousands of them.

  Lucas didn’t know how many men could be stuffed aboard the approaching ship, but he suspected it was a substantial number. If you were going to steam halfway around the world, you would want to transport as many of your best as possible, given how scarce a resource fuel was, at least in North America. The Chinese obviously had plenty, so perhaps Chen’s account of a nation in ruin had been somewhat less than truthful.

  “I’m glad I caught you before you left,” the mayor said, huffing as he caught his breath.

  “I’m out of here as soon as Hayden and Ruby show up,” Lucas replied.

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. Ruby said to tell you that she’ll follow with Mary and Rosemary – she’s helping them with the patients.”

  Lucas frowned. “I just talked to her. She was right behind me.”