by N A Broadley
Trail of Misery
Post-Apocalyptic Thriller
Apocalypse Trail
– Book 1-
N.A. Broadley
Angry Eagle Publishing
Dedication:
To Christine, my side-kick sista, who has always believed in me. I love you.
To my husband, Michael. Your endless patience as I worked on this novel.
Acknowledgments:
Wow. So many people have helped me with this book, and my list of thanks is long. It is amazing to me how many jumped in and helped me create this dream and turn it into a reality.
Dorene Stalter and D.J. Cooper, I love you ladies. For your help, your patience with my endless questions, and for your inspiration. You are both great mentors and authors, and I can only strive to one day be as wonderful a writer as both of you. Thank you for not allowing me to give up on this book. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Truth Seekers, and you know who you are, thank you. For the endless questions, you’ve answered and the many times you’ve read through the slush words as I bounced ideas off of all of you. The inspiration you’ve all given me to continue with this story…you are my peeps, my brotha’s and sista’s of the soul. Every one of you has taken a very special place in my heart, and I will forever love all of you.
To Roger Boyenga, thank you, my dearest friend. Thank you for the endless hours of reading as you slogged through the first of many rough drafts. For the words: “Keep going,” even as I doubted my own storytelling ability. I am so honored that you were the first to read this evolving story and hung in with me as it went through the many changes it had. Hugs, my friend.
Copyright © 2019 by N.A. Broadley All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2019
ISBN 978-1-7326212-2-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This is a work of fiction. No techniques are recommended without proper instruction or safety measures and training. The author nor publisher assumes no liability for any action presumed from this book.
Editorial, cover, and formatting provided through Angry Eagle Publishing.
https://angryeaglepublishing.com
Trail of Misery
Post-Apocalyptic Thriller
Apocalypse Trail
– Book 1-
N.A. Broadley
Angry Eagle Publishing
Chapter One:
Chapter Two:
Chapter Three:
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Day One:
A sickening warmth spread through her stomach, causing her to gag...the stench of blood filled her nose as she bent and wiped the mess up with a wad of paper towels. Another sob caught in the back of her throat, and she swallowed hard. 'I can't cry, I won't cry!' she moaned to the empty room.
Shards of glass lay scattered across the bloody white, tiled floor. The lighter that had been only moments ago held against her skin, lay on the floor. The sight of it made her wince as she examined the blisters that dotted her arms. The blackened skin where the flame burned deeper and deeper, she screamed in pain when he'd held the lighter against her. The smell of her own burnt flesh was still clogging her nose and throat.
She didn't remember grabbing the knife from the counter, didn't remember plunging it into him over and over and over. But the result was there in front of her — blood, body, lighter, glass. Her hands, slippery and sticky with blood as she brushed a stray hair from across her face leaving behind a bright swathe of red.
Once done mopping up the blood, she grabbed the broom and ever so gently swept the glass shards into a gray dustpan. Her favorite coffee mug...shattered and dumped in pieces into the trash. So much of her innocence along with it.
She winced as a shard pierced the end of her finger, and she instinctively held the wound to her mouth and tasted the metallic saltiness of it. She sank to her knees and sobbed, her breath hitching as her chest exploded with a pain so intense that she felt it in every cell. She should never have opened the door. She should’ve never peeked out the window; then her neighbor wouldn't have known she was there, and this wouldn't have happened.
She’d known him. Questions raced through her mind. Had he always been a monster? Or was it the event that changed him?
Moving to the doorway that separated the living room from the kitchen, she paused and ran her hand along the door casing feeling the cold wood against her fingers. Momentarily she paused as it passed over the tiny slash marks mapping her daughter’s growth over the years. A sigh, that came from the very depths of her broken soul, wracked her body. Warm tears flowed from her eyes, and she impatiently wiped them away. She’d cried enough and was amazed that she had any tears left.
The virus. The flu. The world had waited too long, had not paid attention as they should have. The News reports stating it was just a virulent strain. It struck just before Christmas. Just as quickly as the softly fallen snow that buried everything, the virus spread. And people started dying, by the dozens then tens of dozens. And then it was too late.
Daily she glued herself to the television, unwashed hair, ratty clothes, mesmerized she watched as town after town, state after state fell to the virus.
Images flashing across the television screen showed the southern states in panic as thousands fled. Abandoned cars littered the highways. Hordes of refugees looking for a place of safety. The body count soared.
It was then she went out and purchased two guns, a small handgun for her hip and a long gun to sling over her shoulder. She didn’t know much about using either of them, but she felt safer just having them. She practiced until she was more comfortable. Her aim wasn’t bad, not good, but not horrible. Could she disassemble either gun and put it back together? Hell no. But she could hit what she was aiming at most times.
Reports of chaos made the headlines each day, looting, riots, inner cities being destroyed by fires and destruction as people screamed for answers, begged for a cure, while watching their loved ones die.
In the northern states, people holed up in their homes. Barricading themselves in, away from the virus, away from winter’s fury. Then the power went out and never came back on.
Mitch, her husband, had been the first to get sick, he began to show symptoms just before the start of Christmas break. His body wasting away as the virus wreaked havoc. The smell of his vomit permeating every room in the house, the diarrhea that left him spent and panting for breat
h. He lasted just three days, by January he was dead but not before he vomited so hard that he ruptured something inside and the blood began leaking from every orifice on his body.
It hit her daughter, Sarah, in January, and she suffered the same fate as Mitch. Beth had held her all the while crying and praying that she would heal. Her prayers though fell on deaf ears. Sarah succumbed just as quickly as her father had. This home, the only sanctuary Beth had ever known, was now a death house. It stank of urine, vomit, and feces. No matter how frantically Beth scrubbed, the odor was forever embedded in the wood and the mortar. First her family, now this man lying sprawled on her kitchen floor. Walking over to the sink, she poured water from a bottle sitting on the counter. With a vegetable brush, she scrubbed furiously at her hands. Concentrating on her fingernails where blood had embedded in the cuticles.
Numbly she moved into the living room and grabbed the flashlight that she kept in a side pocket of her backpack. Flicking the switch, cast the room into a soft glow.
Sitting on the floor, she shrugged her shoulders into the backpack, and struggling against the weight; stood up. She felt like a Pack Mule. That is what she’d become. Her backpack contained everything she thought was key to her survival. Herbs and medicines, food, lighters, and stick matches, a camp stove, tent, sleeping bag, and one extra set of clothes, all stuffed haphazardly into her pack. Every pocket was jam-packed with items.
It was funny how when the chips were down those things you thought were important for survival, were not that important. The bookshelves in her house contained books; knickknacks adorned the tabletops, bric-a-brac everywhere. None of it mattered for her survival. What mattered was what was in her backpack.
Satisfied that the flashlight was working she made her way back into the kitchen and stepping lightly over the body, she turned the knobs on the gas stove to high and blew out the flame. A hiss filled her ears as invisible gas flowed out. Smiling she stepped back and waited a few moments for the invisible gas to fill the kitchen before she backed into the living room, lit a magazine on fire, and carelessly tossed it onto the couch. She felt a calmness, and let herself out into the night where she could once again find solace in the darkness. Without a word she disappeared.
The darkness stole her identity as she walked silently down the desolate avenue. A cloak that hid her yet couldn’t hide the pain that seared in her heart.
She knew nothing. Nothing other than what she had read in the many books.
The authors had taught her through their stories. Not that she’d ever had to practice the skills. But now, regardless of the non-practice, their voices whispered into her ear….Dorene Stalter, keep low, stay silent, blend in, and never go into a gunfight with a knife. DJ Cooper, move quickly and wear good walking boots. Only carry on your back what you will need, and keep your head on a swivel. Expect the unexpected. Just a few of her favorite authors among the many. Dorene Stalter, it is okay to be afraid, and DJ Cooper, think, plan, and execute.
The avenue turned left onto the highway where she haunted the side of the road — a ghost in the night. Her feet stung from the cold snow that came over the top of her boots and soaked her socks. Cold feet were the least of her problems.
She moved closer to the woods in case she had to bolt to safety. She was used to the woods. It was where she felt the safest. The night loomed before her, the darkness swallowing her into the shadows that flitted in and out from the trees.
Her arms hurt. The burns were screaming and pulsing as her long- sleeved sweat jacket rubbed ever so lightly against them. She should have taken the time to bandage them, but the ghosts had chased her from the house. Sarah, Mitch, her neighbor, all drifting in the shadows of every room. Looming, threatening, begging for her to stay.
She was running. Where? South. She knew that if she had any chance of surviving, she would have to leave the cold north of her home state and look for warmer climates.
The winter had been too hard. She had run out of food, run out of ways to keep her house warm. And run out of being alone. She needed others. She needed those who were more prepared, smarter, more skilled than she was. She had no clue what she was doing. And no idea of how to survive in these times. She was living day to day off of little more than gut reaction.
Were there any places left that would be safe? Could she find other survivors that would maybe let her join them? She’d learned from the authors she’d loved reading that there was a better chance of survival when the numbers were larger. As a loner, she didn’t feel comfortable looking for a larger group, but the realist in her knew, her chances of surviving in this new world would be slim to none without the help of others.
She walked with purpose. Her stride strong, her head down against the gusty April wind that had blown in. Snow drifted gently down onto her shoulders. Her hair, tied up into a ponytail, dripped cold drops of melted snow down into her collar sending chills down her back.
She set out for the woods, for the trails that would bring her away from the towns and cities and deep into the mountain ranges. Her mind drifted as memories ghosted her every step.
She had always loved to hike and even went as far as planning a cross country trek along the Appalachian Trail, known to seasoned hikers as the AT.
Her heart ached with sadness as the memory of sitting atop the bed with a map spread out before her and her husband, Mitch’s arms cradling her, watching as she plotted her dream course. How his warm breath tickled her neck as he leaned into her. She remembered the excitement of purchasing her new backpack, a bright red one, and slowly adding piece by piece of the gear she would need.
Mitch laughed at her when she started freeze drying meals, researching jump off points along the trail where he would meet up with her and resupply her with foods, gear, and what other things she may need. It had been a dream, which now became a necessity.
The authors were a split camp on what was better, woods or highways, and each had valid reasons for what they suggested she do. Highways would be easier traveling, especially on foot. But it would also leave her vulnerable to other humans. Vulnerable to the dangers of those with violent intentions. Woods and trail hiking would be more difficult but less traveled. The AT terrain was known for some tough hiking, but she would meet fewer people, be almost invisible in the deep woods, and it was just plain safer.
Arguing with the authors had become a part of her thought process. DJ Cooper, was a tough, no-nonsense kind of woman, whereas Dorene Stalter had a softer approach, one that guided her gently but toughly through the mind traps that plagued her. They both gave her situational awareness and a take no shit attitude.
“One step more, then another, and another.” This was her mantra through the darkness. Her steps making soft thuds on the tar as she wove her way through stalled vehicles. She closed her eyes to the horror in front of her. The dead bodies of those who chose to wait for help inside of their cars. All were bloated and had the vacant hollow stares that almost beckoned the passerby to look, to really look. She avoided looking at them. To look would allow the fear that was already choking her to come to the front and paralyze her. Averting their gaze, she stared straight ahead.
The bodies of those who chose to walk and succumbed to the violence of others, dehydration, starvation, or sickness. The bodies that now littered the highway and the grassy banks on the side of the road were bloated, ravaged, and mangled. “One step more, then another,” she moaned softly and plodded on.
Dawn brought its first rays of light cascading over the inky black sky. Her feet were sore and her boots, the ones Mitch had helped her pick out at the local REI store, were pinching uncomfortably against her baby toes.
The large, green and white sign in front of her, told her that she’d made ten miles through the night and that Gorham NH was a mere twelve more miles away. To her, it felt like it might as well be a thousand as her body screamed with fatigue. Numb fingers grasped the silver guard rail to steady her as she hopped over. She made her way down an embankment
and into the woods. She’d find a natural shelter for the day. Somewhere that she could crawl into and hide. Somewhere away from the perils of the highway above her.
Gazing out over the woods, she spied a deer path and tiredly made her way toward it. Sleep called to her softly as she pushed through the high grass that wet the legs of her pants. She didn’t think she’d ever been this tired in her entire life. And hungry. How many hours ago had she last eaten? She struggled through the fatigue in her mind to remember. It had been yesterday morning or perhaps the night before? She ticked off the food items she had stored in her pack. Enough for twenty meals. If she was careful and only ate half portions, she could stretch that twenty to forty.
A fallen tree surrounded by brush gave her the shelter she was looking for, and tiredly she crawled under it. The ground was damp, and the smell of rotted leaves filled her nose, making her sneeze. At least it was too early in the season for her to have to worry about the creepy crawling things that often nested under this rot.
The morning was warm, unusual for early spring in NH, so rather than pull out her sleeping bag, she chose instead to slip on an extra jacket. Curling herself into a ball, she closed her eyes and let the waves of sleep wash over her.
Chapter One:
Life is a living nightmare
A scream choked her as she woke with a start. Nightmares. With a shaking hand, she wiped the film of sweat off of her face. She’d been having a lot of nightmares lately.
She scrambled across the leafy floor of the shelter, her knees screamed with pain. She froze, and her breath caught in the back of her throat. Standing there, not two feet from her, was a large German shepherd. Two more feet away from her was her backpack, where of course, she had stashed her gun. Muttering, she kept her eye on the dog.