The Day After Never - Nemesis (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 9) Read online

  Art nodded. “As long as you can guarantee nobody’s going to lynch them in the meantime.”

  Glenn surveyed the council before speaking. “We’re not a violent group. They’re safe in the jail, at least until tomorrow.”

  Art frowned. “I suppose that’s good enough. We won’t need your hospitality after that.”

  “I want to make it clear that we’re not happy about this, and we’ll all breathe a sigh of relief once your…army…is gone. Nothing personal,” Glenn said, eyeing Lucas. “But this isn’t what any of us signed up for when we approved Elliot’s people becoming part of our group.”

  “No offense taken,” Lucas said. “I can see how it’s been hard on everyone.” He looked to Elliot. “Is there anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Art asked.

  “Here, in town. Her people will be coming for her as soon as she’s fit to travel. Doc is wiring her jaw as best he can.” Glenn hesitated. “We may not approve of capital punishment, but I can see how at times an eye for an eye makes a whole lot of sense. She’s in pretty terrible shape.”

  “Can we see her?” Art asked.

  “Probably not a great idea,” Elliot said. “She’s still in shock. A bunch of strangers looking in on her…”

  “Fair enough,” Lucas said, and looked to Art. “We done here?”

  “I don’t have anything.”

  “Then let’s go see what we can rustle up for the girl and leave these people in peace.”

  Chapter 4

  South of Denver, Colorado

  A lone tumbleweed rolled lazily across the dusty ribbon of highway that led north to Denver. The afternoon heat was beginning to fade as high white clouds blocked the worst of the sun. A guard at the walled entrance to the truck stop that Luis had commandeered for his newest trading post called over his two-way radio, its batteries charged with a solar array during the long hot day.

  “We got incoming. Headed from the south.”

  “How many, Bret?” Luis’s voice asked from the speaker.

  Bret peered through the binoculars before setting them aside. “Looks like four. All mounted.”

  “Scavengers?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. But you never know.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute. How far out?”

  “Quarter mile. Moving slow. Take your time.”

  “Keep them in the crosshairs till I get there.”

  “Roger that.”

  Bret returned to watching the leisurely approach. The horses were plodding along the shoulder, the riders leaning forward in the saddle like trees bent by the wind. The clump of Luis’s heavy boots sounded across the parking lot, and he appeared by Bret’s side, an M16 in one hand and a semiauto twelve-gauge shotgun in the other, rounds glinting in the bandolier strung across his chest.

  Bret adjusted his M16, and they watched the quartet of riders near. When they were seventy-five yards from the steel gate, Luis cupped his hands and called out, “Something we can help you with?”

  One of the riders answered, “We could use some feed and water for the horses. Won’t take long.”

  “What do you have to trade?” Luis asked.

  “Ammo. A few small arms. Whatever it takes.”

  Luis and Bret exchanged a glance. Luis had three men working for him, all seasoned and good with a gun, but even so, they were always careful in case some enterprising scavengers decided to try a run on the trading post.

  “I suppose we could handle that,” he called back. “Fifteen minutes work for you?”

  “That’ll do.”

  “Keep your hands where we can see them and come through one by one. My men will take your weapons inside. No sudden moves and everything will be fine.”

  Luis radioed for Lindsey, another of his gunmen, who came at a run with an AK, his long hair trailing him like a cape. When he reached Luis, they exchanged a few words, and Lindsey went to open the gate while Luis and Bret kept the newcomers in their sights.

  Once they were through the gate and disarmed, Lindsey led them to a water trough, and the riders climbed from the saddle. Luis strode toward them and noted that one was a woman, late twenties to early thirties, her face caked with grime from days on the road.

  “Where you from?” Luis asked.

  “Texas,” the lead rider answered. “How much for feed and water?”

  Luis looked them over and named a low price in ammunition, to which the rider nodded. He ferreted in his saddlebags, withdrew a thirty-round magazine, and counted out sixteen rounds and handed them to Luis. Luis pocketed them with a nod.

  “Whereabouts in Texas?” he asked.

  “Down Galveston way, originally.” The rider studied Luis’s facial prison tattoos without expression.

  “That’s Crew territory, isn’t it?” Luis asked.

  “It was. Some Mexican cartel took Houston over a little while ago and booted a lot of Crew out. Now they’re in charge, and the Crew’s their bully boys.”

  “Which cartel?” Luis asked, clearly surprised.

  “Zetas. Meaner than a striped snake. The Crew was bad, but these hombres…way worse.”

  “That a fact? And the Crew just let them take over? That doesn’t sound right.”

  “All I know is one day they were there and the old guard was gone.” The rider paused to spit and reach for the canteen in his saddlebag. He lowered it into the trough and filled it with water while Luis watched. “This stuff clean?”

  Luis pointed to a windmill spinning at the top of a metal tower. “Sure. We got a well. But I’d still boil it if I were you. Never hurts.”

  The man looked at the canteen before screwing the top back on and replacing it in his saddlebag. “Fair enough.”

  “Where you headed?” Luis asked.

  “Thinking about Denver. Although I’m not sure anywhere’s going to be safe anymore.”

  Luis’s eyebrows arched. “Why’s that?”

  “The Mexicans got some of the oil wells producing again, and they’re making diesel. That’s a game changer. Means they can cross hundreds of miles in a day. So it’s just a matter of time till they get tired of holding only south Texas and move north.”

  “For real?”

  The woman nodded and spoke for the first time. “I seen it with my own eyes. That’s what convinced us to hit the road before it got any worse. They got tanks, trucks, you name it. They’d only managed a little production when we left, but the writing’s on the wall.”

  The rider grinned sadly. “Kind of ironic, Mexicans taking back what we took from them, but there you go.” He stretched his arms over his head. “How are things up in Denver?”

  Luis shrugged. “Depends on who you talk to, I guess. We keep our heads down and trade with everyone. But most of the traffic’s headed north, if that tells you anything.”

  “Small wonder. Texas is about done. Put a fork in it,” the woman said. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Luis. “Am I imagining things, or are you from there, too?”

  “The twang never goes away, does it?” Luis admitted.

  “What part?”

  “All around. San Antonio. Austin. Pecos.”

  “What brought you up here?”

  “A lot calmer than back home. Better for business. And long-term health.”

  “Been in Colorado long?” the man asked.

  “A while,” Luis answered vaguely. “Not planning on moving back anytime soon. Especially if the cartels are taking over.”

  “Not that the Crew was any picnic,” the woman spat. “But at least you knew where you stood with them. The cartel’s plain crazy.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Luis said.

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to find out.”

  Luis left the travelers to finish with their animals and instructed Kent, his third helper, to bring out a couple of bales of hay for the horses. He returned to the main building, where he kept his inventory under lock and key, and watched as the horses ate while the tra
velers spoke in low tones. Luis opened a cabinet and removed a pint bottle of dime-store rotgut whiskey, and then walked out to the water trough, bottle in hand.

  “Here you go. Sounds like you’ve had a rough ride,” Luis said, and tossed the bottle to the lead rider, who caught it, eyed the amber fluid, and nodded a thanks.

  “We’re getting pretty thin on ammo. Can’t offer much for it.”

  “On me. Got a soft spot for Texas. Enjoy it.”

  “You mind if we pitch camp outside your wall? We won’t bother you. Seems like a better idea than trying our luck on our own.”

  “Probably better to get off the highway. Maybe ride east a half mile or so. There’s nothing there, but you won’t attract any scavengers. The highway’s sketchy from here to Denver, especially at night. And you might want to give the towns on the way north a pass. Word is they range from bad to worse.”

  “Seems like that’s the norm, don’t it? How about Denver?”

  Luis’s face didn’t betray any emotion. “Depends on who you talk to. Some love it. Some don’t. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

  “No gangs running the place?”

  “More like a religious bunch. Fundamentalists. If that’s your thing, you’ll fit right in.”

  “We heard about that. Sounds like a nice spot, though.”

  “Peaceful, that’s for sure, least as far as I can tell.”

  The man hefted the bottle and nodded in thanks. “Appreciate it.”

  “Enjoy.”

  The travelers mounted up and rode to the gate, and Kent returned their weapons to them as they squeezed through the opening. Luis sat beside Brett on the lookout platform and watched as they disappeared into the heat waves rising off the highway.

  “Only a couple more hours and then we close up shop for the day,” Luis said, and Brett nodded.

  “Will do. I’ll holler if anything shows.”

  Luis carried his M16 back to the main building and set it beside the desk that held, among other things, the shortwave radio set he monitored on slow days. His brow furrowed as he considered the news of the cartel refining fuel, and he carefully rotated the radio dial until he was at the frequency he knew that Shangri-La monitored, even now that they’d made it to Provo. He didn’t know what it meant for Elliot’s group that the cartel had diesel and had co-opted at least some of the Crew, but he figured it was something that Elliot might need to know. Luis powered on the transmitter, pulled the headphones over his ears, and leaned forward toward the mic.

  “Early Bird to Papa Bird. Early Bird to Papa. Do you read? Over.”

  Chapter 5

  Near Provo, Utah

  Eric Olson paced in front of the log cabin where he and his daughter, Melanie, lived, his face a mask of tortured rage. His sister, Jessica, watched from near the well and then entered a larger, similar cabin ten yards away. Her brothers stood by the window, watching Eric, their expressions pained.

  “He’s talking crazy,” she said in a worried voice.

  “I can understand,” Henry, the oldest sibling, said.

  “But you know Eric. He’ll do something stupid.”

  “We have to let him grieve and work through it in his own way, Jess.”

  “He’s saying he’s going to kill them with his bare hands.”

  “I’m not sure I wouldn’t feel the same way.” Henry sighed. “He’ll calm down.”

  “No, not just the two who raped Melanie. All of them. The whole army.”

  Henry looked to Steve, the middle brother. “He’s not thinking straight. Nobody would be, not after what happened.”

  They were interrupted by a cry from the perimeter wall. “Wagon coming. Looks like from town.”

  Henry called out through the window, “Let ’em in.” He turned to Jessica. “They’re bringing Melanie home. Which means she’s stable. That’s some good news.”

  Steve’s expression darkened. “No good news today, Henry. Just different kinds of bad.”

  Henry eyed Jessica. “Did you prepare her bed?”

  “Of course. Eric’s a mess. He didn’t even know where the sheets were. Nothing. He just stood there cursing while I fixed things up.” She paused. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

  “Let’s go meet her.”

  The wagon entered and rolled to a stop in front of Eric’s cabin. The Provo physician was sitting on one of the buckboards, his wife beside him.

  Jessica ran to the wagon. “How is she, Dr. Leonard?”

  Dr. Leonard’s gaze fixed on Eric, who was trembling with rage by the cabin door. “She’s going to need time, Jessica. Time and care.”

  The doctor lowered himself from the wagon and moved to the rear, where a tarp enclosed the back. He lifted the rear flap, Jessica and Henry beside him. Jessica’s hand flew to her mouth at the sight of Melanie lying on a gurney. Her face was almost unrecognizable: she was covered in contusions, one eye was swollen shut, and two strips of fabric were tied at the top of her head, supporting her jaw.

  “Oh…” Jessica managed, and Melanie groaned.

  “Careful with her,” the doctor cautioned. “The bandages will hold her jaw in place till it knits, but she’ll have to take her meals through a straw for a month or so. She’s got at least five broken ribs, too, but they’ll mend as long as she stays in bed.”

  Eric moved to the side of the wagon and stared down at his daughter for several long seconds before a single tear trickled down his weathered face and fell from his chin onto the blanket that covered her. He choked back a strangled sob and turned away, his fists balled by his sides shaking like he was palsied. His brothers and Jessica helped the doctor move Melanie from the wagon bed and rolled the gurney into the cabin.

  When they’d transferred her to her bed, the doctor looked around the simple room and nodded.

  “It’s good that it’s dark. Keep it that way. She’s got a concussion, so she’ll be sensitive to light for at least a week. We’re lucky she doesn’t have intracranial bleeding after the beating she took. At least that’s something.”

  “How can you be sure?” Jessica asked.

  “Her pupils are the same size. There still might be some bleeding, but it isn’t causing enough pressure to change them. Keep an eye on her, though, and if you see one get larger, send for me. There’s an X-ray unit at the hospital we can use if we repurpose some solar panels, but they’re reluctant to do that unless absolutely necessary – it’s a lot of work.”

  Eric stepped into the room, visibly more under control, and faced the doctor. “She’ll live?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s a fighter. But there’s going to be some emotional trauma. How that heals is anyone’s guess.”

  “Can she hear us?”

  “I gave her some morphine from our emergency stores, so no, this is all like a dream right now. She’s dozing.” He handed Jessica a packet. “There are five syringes in there, with a bottle of morphine. Give her half a syringe every six hours or so, through the cannula I left in her arm. There’s enough for a couple of days. That should get her through the worst of the pain. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on her, and when she’s on firmer footing, we can remove the rig.”

  “Will do, Doctor,” Jessica said. “And thank you.”

  “No need. This is what I went to school to do.” He paused. “I’m truly sorry. For all of you. This is going to be hard. But with enough love and understanding, anything can be healed.”

  Eric grunted. “Will she…is there a risk of pregnancy?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you. There’s a small one. But given the beating she’s taken, that’s the least of your worries. She was half dead when I got to her.”

  “But there’s a chance,” Eric continued.

  “We won’t know for some time. Put it out of your head, Eric. She needs you to be strong for her,” the doctor counseled.

  The family followed the doctor out to the wagon, leaving Eric with his daughter. Melanie’s skin was so pale it appeared transparent. Her chest rose and fell
with labored, shallow breaths, and Eric stumbled to a stool in the corner and pulled it to the bedside, his eyes welling with moisture. He took her hand, the fingers so small and delicate in his, like he’d done countless times as she’d grown up. The virus had claimed her mother just before Melanie’s seventh birthday, and Eric had assumed the role of both mother and father – a job he had no experience at, and which only his sister had managed to keep him from botching, he was sure.

  “Sweetie, I’m so sorry this happened to you. I should never have let you go to town alone,” he whispered hoarsely. He squeezed her hand but felt nothing in return. He drew a rasping breath and exhaled heavily. “You’re going to be okay. The doctor says so. He’s good. You’ll mend. This won’t be the end of your world.”

  His stare hardened as he watched his only child struggle to breathe, and then he stood abruptly, knocking the stool aside in the process, and released Melanie’s hand.

  “You’ll be fine. You’ll grow up to be a good, God-fearing woman. Everything’s put in our path as a lesson or a trial, sweetheart. This is a trial, and you’ll come through it stronger than ever.”

  Eric moved into the simple living room and wiped away his tears as he made his way to the gun cabinet near the fireplace. He opened it and withdrew a lever-action Winchester .30-30 and his gun belt with a holstered Colt 1911 .45-caliber pistol. Both were loaded, and he chambered a round in each, looked around the room, and retrieved his leather cowboy hat, the exterior dark as chocolate and stained from countless days of sweating under a harsh sun.

  He waited until the doctor’s wagon had pulled away and his brothers had returned to their cabin with Jessica, and then he hurried from the cabin to the stable, where he saddled his horse in grim silence. He led the animal from the barn and swung up into the saddle, and took off at a gallop after the wagon, leaving a cloud of beige dust in his wake.

  Jessica turned toward the window at the clatter of hooves on the main path and caught a glimpse of Eric’s back as he passed through the gate. She blanched at the sight and called to her brothers.