The Day After Never Bundle (First 4 novels)

by Russell Blake

  Lucas slid into the three-man tent and zipped the entry flap closed, his mind on the young woman only a few yards away. His body signaled his interest with a stirring he hadn’t felt for years.

  “Eyes on the prize,” Lucas whispered, pushing thoughts of Sierra out of his mind before they kept him awake the rest of the night. He would need to deal with the situation at some point, but this wasn’t the time or place, and he closed his eyes and resolved to save the drama for another day.

  Chapter 3

  The lights of Houston’s Crew-occupied downtown illuminated the night horizon. Huge refinery tanks behind a chain-link fence topped with coils of gleaming razor wire towered like monoliths against the backlit metro area. Once an oil traffic hub, the area was now all but abandoned, with only a few guards manning the outpost that protected the last of the viable diesel fuel in the Crew’s possession.

  The stainless steel of a single ten-thousand-gallon tanker truck gleamed beside one of the storage containers, dwarfed by the four-story tank. Around it a hodgepodge of empty crates and fifty-gallon drums littered the parking lot where they’d been emptied long ago during the looting that accompanied the collapse. Much of the chaos had been desperation, the wanton and haphazard destruction of a population as it starved and died. Between disease and pervasive violence, over ninety-five percent of the metropolis had perished before Magnus and the Crew had established order – of a kind.

  Roving gangs of armed thugs had been assimilated into the Crew or executed without mercy. Some tried to escape conscription into the gang, but were hunted down; Magnus was savvy enough to be wary of their reappearance at a later date. His message had been clear and unequivocal – his was now the only law of the land, and you played by his rules…or died.

  The surviving residents had been given the option of paying for protection or leaving to never return. Most stayed, there being no place better to go; the stories of the outlying areas were as grim as the piles of the dead that clogged the streets.

  It was in this vision of hell that Magnus had set up court, doling out favors to his inner circle and arbitrarily punishing transgressions in mass executions that had taken on a grim pageantry, attended by the masses with the enthusiasm of gladiator matches in ancient Rome, ultimately cheered as the bloodthirsty spectacles became routine entertainment.

  But as Magnus’s grip on the territory tightened, resistance had organized. Determined men and women saw his reign as that of the anti-Christ – not much of a leap, as every form of atrocity, degradation, and perversion was pursued by the former inmates who’d been handpicked to be his lieutenants. Pedophilia, bestiality, slavery, torture, dark rituals with Satanic overtones and occult symbolism – nothing was off-limits in Magnus’s vision of a brave new world, and the population lived in constant terror of their doors being kicked down and their sons and daughters dragged screaming into the streets, never to be seen again.

  The resistance had grown organically, in cells with no connection to each other except through anonymous cutouts, but even with the secrecy many had perished when discovered. But that hadn’t deterred the committed, and tonight, one of the oldest cells was planning a sabotage mission that had been developed over months of clandestine surveillance.

  The fuel truck was Magnus’s treasure – the last of the usable diesel in his possession. His technical staff had been working to bring a refinery back on line but so far had failed, with both the parts required to maintain the equipment and the technical know-how lacking. Fuel was his Achilles’ heel, and if the cell could destroy it, the blow to the Crew could be severe enough to cause it to fragment as its members realized they weren’t impervious to harm. Regardless, the Crew would lose its most precious commodity, which would hamper its dominance. It was widely known that Magnus had a substantial cache of fuel in reserve in case of an uprising and could transport hundreds of men to the farthest corners of his territory in a matter of days. That served as an effective deterrent, but if word spread that he was out of gas…resistance in other areas might be emboldened.

  Five black-clad figures ran toward the fence, one with bolt cutters clutched to his chest. The moonless night had been chosen by their leader from an almanac, and they were practically invisible in the darkness. When they reached the barrier, they spread out, weapons raised, while the cutter went to work. Three minutes later, a gap large enough to slip through opened, and they eased through.

  Once inside the refinery yard, they jogged toward the truck, using the discarded barrels and crates for cover. The guard post was distant enough that they wouldn’t be seen, but they were taking no chances. They moved in fits and starts, pausing at strategic spots as they crossed the open asphalt.

  They had nearly reached the truck when spotlights mounted to the roof of a darkened vehicle blinked to life, blinding them in the glare. A voice called out over a megaphone, “Freeze or we’ll gun you down. No second warning. Drop your weapons, or you’re history.”

  The team leader made a hand signal and threw himself to the side, trying to reach one of the crates for cover. A heavy machine gun opened up from the vehicle, peppering the pavement around the assault force. The cell gunmen fired in return using their assault rifles, but it was no contest, and the big .50-caliber machine gun shredded through their cover like tissue.

  Thirty seconds later, all lay dead or wounded, their plate carriers having proved useless against the large-caliber rounds. The machine gun fell silent, and a tall, gaunt man stepped from the vehicle. Gothic script tattooed on his shaved head proclaimed his moniker to be “Snake.” Below the name was the eye of Providence tattoo that paid homage to Magnus’s fascination with the Illuminati, along with a pentagram. Six Crew fighters followed him from the big truck to the bodies.

  Snake paused at the first corpse and kicked the man’s chest with a steel-toed boot. The gunman beside him chuckled.

  “Deader than my ex on Saturday night,” Snake said with a grin.

  Snake was one of Magnus’s top men, in charge of security for the greater Houston area and one of his anointed successors in the event of his death. Snake took his job as seriously as though he were already running the Crew and took a personal interest in the attack on the fuel depot he’d gotten wind of from an informant.

  One of the injured cell gunmen groaned, and Snake pointed his Desert Eagle at him and snapped an order to his group. “If he’s not fatally wounded, patch him up so I can interrogate him. Same for the others.”

  In the end, three of the attackers had been killed and two wounded, both seriously, but not so badly they would die within the hour. It didn’t matter to Snake – he only needed them breathing long enough to confirm what he knew about the cell so he could follow the chain of command to the person directing the attacks. He suspected an insider – someone within Magnus’s organization with privileged knowledge – but he hadn’t made his suspicions known yet, wanting to gather more information before he said anything.

  But the attack on the truck had been too close for comfort. Its whereabouts were closely guarded, and this was its fourth home in five years. Nobody was allowed within a mile of the site, and it was shielded from view from the city.

  Magnus had a leak. Of that Snake was certain.

  And perhaps tonight he would learn something to point him in the direction of the traitor.

  Chapter 4

  Cano stared at the bloated corpses on the truck stop floor in stony silence. He moved to the front door and looked outside, where the outlines of Roswell’s buildings glowed in the near distance as the sun’s first rays reflected off their glass.

  Luis approached, his boots crunching on the debris underfoot, and joined the Crew boss at the doorway. Pools of water from the rain that had only stopped an hour earlier quivered in the light breeze, and the air smelled heavy and damp.

  “What’s the plan?” Luis asked, his voice low.

  Cano turned his head slightly. “We see if we can find someone who can identify these two. And we locate a radio
and call for reinforcements.”

  “From where?”

  “Pecos, obviously.”

  Luis’s expression hardened. “We have barely enough men to secure the town.”

  “That’s not my problem. I don’t care whether the natives get restless in our absence or not. I’ll deal with any insurrection when we return.”

  “What about Lubbock? Isn’t it about the same distance from here?”

  Cano stepped outside, ignoring Luis, who followed him out. The two remaining Crew gunmen carried their saddles from the depths of the building. Luis rubbed his eyes with a tired hand and tried again. “How are we going to get the locals to cooperate?”

  Cano scowled at him as though every question was annoying him further. “Let me worry about that.”

  “They have a reputation…”

  Cano sneered, revealing several gold teeth. “So do I.”

  The men strapped their gear on their horses and set off toward town at a slow walk, the humidity stifling as dawn broke over the valley. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a guard post manned by three civilians in camouflage fatigues and armed with AKs, the highway blocked by a cart loaded with bails of wet hay.

  “That’s far enough,” one of the guards warned, weapon trained on Cano and his men.

  “We’re no threat. We need to do some bartering,” Cano said.

  “You don’t look like traders,” the lead guard said, his gun unwavering on the heavily muscled and tattooed Crew boss.

  “Didn’t say we were. Who runs this place? I want to talk to him.”

  “Who are you?” the guard demanded.

  “My name’s Cano. I represent the Crew.”

  The guard’s face changed, and a tic twitched his left eye twice. Cano held his stare.

  “What do you mean you represent the Crew?” another guard asked.

  “It means you either take me to whoever runs this dump, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  A tense silence stretched between the two groups, and then Luis coaxed his horse forward a few steps. “Look. We need to find a radio, and we’re looking for some help in identifying a couple of men who were killed out at the truck stop. We have no beef with you, and we don’t want trouble. We’ll pay for what we need and be on our way.”

  The guard studied Luis. “There’s a trading post in town. Well marked. But you so much as look at your guns, you’ll end the day in a box.”

  “Again, we’re not here to cause any problems. Does the trading post have a radio?”

  “No, but they can tell you who does.” The man looked Cano up and down. “You have anything to do with the gunfight out at the lake? Early reports are saying there were a lot of guys that look like you.”

  “That’s right,” Luis answered before Cano could snap at the man. “We’re after a group that stole Crew property.”

  “No trouble. Is that clear?” the lead gunman reiterated.

  “Absolutely,” Luis agreed. Cano remained silent.

  The guard turned and gestured toward the town. “Head down the main street here. You’ll find the trading post on the left about a half mile.”

  “Much obliged.”

  The guards moved the barrier out of the way, and Cano led his group through the gap. A few curious heads poked out from doors and windows as they made their way along the paved road, their horses’ hooves echoing off the façades as they pushed deeper into Roswell. They passed the gutted remains of a fast-food restaurant that had been styled as a flying saucer, and Luis smiled slightly at the reminder of innocent times. Had it really been only five years since the world had collapsed? He felt decades older.

  The approach to the trading post was lined with rusting vehicles, their tires flat and brittle from the sun, long since stripped of everything useful. The buildings were in decent shape compared to many cities, only a few with obvious scars from gun battles; most of the windows were boarded up or gaping like silent screams from a Munch painting. A pall of wood smoke from cooking fires hung over the street, and rivers of muddy water coursed down the gutters on both sides of the road. The bloated carcass of a mangy dog lay paws up in salute to the rising sun; a toddler sat nearby, poking it with a stick, laughing with another child at the unexpected entertainment.

  When they reached the trading post, they dismounted and tied their horses to a lamppost that had been bent toward the ground at shoulder level. A painted sign for Tucker’s Trading hung over one of the steel-barred windows, but the post was closed. Cano noted the heavy chain securing the entrance and sniffed the air, searching the street for the source of the smell.

  “Eggs,” he growled to Luis, who nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  Cano walked to the end of the block, where several plastic tables had been set up on the crumbling sidewalk. A woman with skin the color of saddle leather nodded to them as they sat.

  “That’s the menu,” she said, pointing at a blackboard leaning against the wall with a few items scrawled across it. “Prices negotiable, depending on what you got.”

  “Ammo,” Cano said. “We want four of the biggest farmhand breakfasts you can manage.”

  She sized him up and named a price in ammunition.

  Cano nodded and counted out the shells. “That do it?”

  “Be back in a few with your food,” she said, scooping the ammo into her apron and disappearing into the storefront.

  Ten minutes later they were feasting on eggs swimming in grease, accompanied by a small mountain of fresh potatoes slathered with a pungent gravy. They ate like it was their last meal, cleaning their plates in no time. The woman returned to collect the empties and offered a grudging smile. “Anything else?”

  “What time does the trading post open?”

  “Oh, probably in about half an hour. Never know with Tucker.”

  “Can we get more water?”

  “For another two rounds, you can drink as much as you like.”

  Twenty minutes later a short man with a small potbelly shuffled up to the trading post on foot, accompanied by three gunmen with the casual swagger of professional fighters. The man unlocked the chain, pushed the doors open, and disappeared inside.

  Cano and Luis strode to the entrance while the two Crew thugs remained at the makeshift diner.

  “You open?” Luis called into the dark space.

  “Yeah. What you want?” a voice replied.

  Cano stepped into the building, with Luis on his tail. The interior was bigger than it looked from the outside – a former auto parts store, based on the configuration. They approached a long counter and considered the steel racks of merchandise stretching into the gloom behind. The small man looked them over, a practiced half smile in place. “Help you with something?”

  “We need supplies. Jerky, dry goods, water purification tablets. And information,” Cano said.

  “Got the first three,” the man said. “Depends what you’re after on the last bit.”

  “Couple of dead men north of here in a truck stop. I need to know who they are.”

  The little man shrugged. “First I heard of it.”

  “And we need a radio. Shortwave. Good antenna, not handheld.”

  “Don’t have one. Sorry. How much jerky you want?”

  “Enough for four men for…a week.”

  “Same with the rest?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Won’t be cheap.”

  “Wasn’t expecting a bargain.” Cano paused. “What about the radio? Someone around here have one?”

  “Over by city hall. Guy charges an arm and a leg, but it works. Look for the antenna. Can’t miss it.”

  Several other men entered the trading post while one of Tucker’s helpers was collecting the provisions, and Luis engaged with them, letting them know that they were looking for someone who could help identify the two dead men. The new arrivals seemed interested at the mention of pay, but balked when Luis told them where the bodies were – apparently nobody was willing to go north, out
side the city limits, to check, no matter how attractive the offer.

  Cano paid for the supplies with one of the AK-47s he’d retrieved from his fallen men, along with two STANAG magazines with sixty rounds in them – an exorbitant price, to be sure, but immaterial at the moment. He wanted the trader to know he meant business and wasn’t playing cheap.

  “You run into anyone who can help identify those two, I’d be grateful,” Cano said.

  “And how would that gratitude manifest itself?” the little man asked.

  “Another AK, at least, for you. Same for whoever helps us.”

  The trader’s eyes widened. “That’s…grateful indeed.”

  “Spread the word. My men are at the corner breakfast place. Just have ’em ask for Cano, mention you sent them, and I’ll take care of you.”

  The helper reappeared with his arm muscles bulging under the weight of the supplies. “Where you want it?” he asked.

  “Horses are outside.” Cano looked to the trader a final time. “Remember – money for nothing if you find someone to help me.”

  “Got it.”

  Luis and Cano led the helper to the horses. The young man set the bundles down and leaned into Cano. “I got a break for lunch. I ain’t afraid to go look at no dead guys. You serious about the pay?”

  Cano grinned. “Lightly used AK, all yours if you can identify them.”

  “If they were from around here, I can. I know everyone.”

  Luis sized up the man and estimated his age at somewhere around twenty. “We’ll be over at the diner.”

  “I want two AKs. One for me…and the one you woulda given Tucker.”

  Cano and Luis exchanged a look, and the Crew boss nodded slowly. “That’s reasonable. Same to me either way. You said you get off around noon? Can’t slip away now?”

  The man shook his head. “No way.”

  “All right. You know where to find us.”

  Luis and Cano watched as the young man headed back to the shop, and Cano began packing the goods into his saddlebags. “That’s one problem solved.”