Hardy

by Theresa Beachman

  Hardy

  Earth Resistance Book 4

  Theresa Beachman

  Copyright © 2019 by Theresa Houseman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  11th June 2019

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  Also by Theresa Beachman

  Author ramblings…

  About the Author

  1

  Two weeks before

  Ryan Hardy ignored the mental alarms clanging in his head and stepped into the derelict kitchen. He was alone. He’d ditched Darr and Foster several houses back, after spotting the flitting shadow of a scavenger out the corner of his eye. A woman. He’d had the briefest notion of hair the color of summer wheat and then she was gone. He’d followed soundlessly, not wanting to draw her attention by alerting the others. They’d find him soon enough. Besides, it was a woman; he could collar her easily.

  The house was long abandoned, its interior gutted by the weather through shattered windows. The walls were standing, but its soul had been ripped out by the arrival of the insectoid Chittrix over a year ago in a planet-wide meteor storm. Now, like everywhere else in the world, the house was silently decomposing, its inhabitants long dead.

  He eased past a refrigerator still plastered with family photographs. Two smiling boys and their dog grinned up from water-damaged photographs, their color bleached by the passage of time.

  Hardy gave the pictures only the briefest of glances. The world was a cruel place. He didn’t need the Polaroid reminders.

  A creak overhead.

  His head snapped up, the red dot of his laser rifle tracking across the water-swollen ceiling. She’s upstairs.

  He climbed the stairs at a measured pace, the sour mildew flavor of the house invading his nostrils. More family photographs lined the walls. A mother. A father. Holding their boys. Holding each other. Hardy gave the last photograph a more than cursory glance. The husband’s arms were wrapped around his wife from behind. It was impossible to tell if the man’s arms were kind or cruel as his father’s had been whenever he touched Hardy’s mother away from public view. Hardy took a breath, shaking the memories from his mind like a dog shakes off water. Distraction was going to get him killed.

  The tendons in his neck protested at the effort of keeping the pulse rifle steady against the soft rise and fall of his breathing. Finally, he stood on the shadowed landing. The roof was surprisingly intact, and the air here was undisturbed, ripe with the scent of aging paper. He held his breath, straining to spot some sign of her in the attic space, but the flashlight attached to his pulse rifle only picked out the corpses of dead spiders lying on battered removal boxes and piles of outgrown plastic toys. No woman.

  A soft clatter on the far side of the airless room drew his attention. The noise sounded low. Was there a trapdoor further along? He frowned and took a pace into the attic. Wood snapped under his soles, tiny vibrations pinging up through the rubber of his boots into his muscles and joints. Hardy froze, his stomach somersaulting.

  Shit.

  But she was here. In a snapshot, he registered honey-blonde hair scraped back from a dirty face. Cornflower-blue eyes, bright with intelligence. Her frame was slight, suggesting fragility, a contrast to the determination essential to remain alive these days. She was on the far side of the attic, pressed against the grimy wall, her face ashen in the dim light, her chest rising and falling from the merry dance she’d led him. She shifted sideways, her gaze flicking left and right. She was going to bolt again.

  Hardy tensed. No, you fucking don’t.

  He lunged, his long stride easily closing the distance between them.

  Another tremor pinged up through his boot.

  Fuck.

  The wood cracked, split and he plummeted.

  He slammed into a floor joist, his arms halting his sudden decent. He wrestled to pull himself higher onto the solidity of the timber strut, aware that the woman was sidling away and leaving him to it.

  “Hey--” He reached out to her, altering his center of balance.

  Mistake.

  The strut shuddered and he slid sideways, flailing once more, gravity a lethal whisper in his ear. Crap. He scrabbled for purchase, his breathing accelerating into hyper-drive in an instant. His fingers finally gripped, ancient splinters gouging the tender skin under his nails, but he wasn’t falling anymore. His arms protested as his legs swung free. Plaster dust drifted as he kicked hard and hooked one booted foot over the joist.

  Nearly there

  Muted voices called from below. “Hardy? Where the hell are you?”

  Foster and Darr.

  He peered into the attic. The woman was gone. The trapdoor he’d suspected was propped open in the far corner. Fan-fucking-tastic. He rested his forehead against the floorboard. “In the fucking attic.” He hooked his second foot over the damaged joist and hung, catching his breath, giving his heart the opportunity to ease back into his chest.

  Taking his time, he inched along the beam, avoiding the rusted nails that stuck out at murderous angles. “Fuckers,” he muttered as he eased past them, blood poisoning a sweet promise on each tip.

  At last, he reached the remaining edge of the floor he’d been walking on only moments before. With bloody fingers, he touched the side of the floorboards, feeling along the wrecked surface, checking for stability. Seemed stable. Yeah. But he’d thought that when he stepped into the attic. House was a total death trap.

  “Hardy?” Foster still hadn’t seen him.

  “In the floor.”

  Hardy lifted a hand, waving his fingers above the floor boards to indicate to his position. The beam shifted at his sudden movement and he gripped tight again, his pulse thumping in his temple.

  Amusement laced Lincoln Foster’s tone. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Foster.” Hardy grunted. He twisted his head. Over twelve feet below, a jagged collection of broken masonry and wooden spears had been hammered into the floor at right angles, spearing upward to pierce whoever came falling through the ceiling.

  Foster’s shaved head peered over the edge, light dancing in his eyes. “It’s a trap,” he announced.

  “No shit, Sherlock. All those years as a bomb squad prodigy weren’t wasted.”

  Foster sniffed. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”

  Hardy grimace
d, working the rigid muscles of his jaw.

  Foster’s face disappeared. “And, you’re too old for death-defying stunts”

  “Foster, quit yapping and fucking help me up.”

  “So…” Foster crouched at the edge of the ruined floor, testing its strength with tentative fingers. “Chasing someone? A woman?”

  Blood thumped against Hardy’s skull in a heavy beat.

  But Foster continued, oblivious. “I’ve told you countless times I can help with the ladies. No need to go running after random ones you spot on the street.”

  “Foster.”

  “Yes?”

  “Fucking. Shut. Up.” Hardy ground his teeth. He crossed his hands over each other to pull himself up and onto the beam. Wood slivers carved into his palm, forcing beads of blood through his skin that smeared in the dust.

  He curled upward tentatively, and a shudder thrummed through his bones. He froze, not daring to breathe.

  Wood cracked under his hip, the split reverberating through the grimy air like a gunshot.

  Shit. Hurry up.

  He twisted his pelvis, boosting up with his legs, ignoring nails that tore at his shirt and ripped his arms. He wasn’t going to make it. The beam split and he was grasping thin air.

  A hand snagged his forearm. Foster grunted, his dirty, chewed fingers digging into Hardy’s blood-slick skin. Hardy squeezed his eyes tight for a second, his stomach in free-fall. He’d rather face a Chittrix dead-on than deal with heights. He opened his eyes again, breathing in tiny rapid pants that made him lightheaded as he kicked hard, trying to gain a foothold on the damaged wall. He was getting way too old for this kind of shit.

  “Fucking hell, Hardy. How many tacos have you eaten lately?” Foster groaned and leaned backward, straining to give him enough leverage to catch the edge of the shattered floor.

  His toes bumped the wall and found purchase. Thank fuck. Hardy dug in and heaved himself up the last few inches, his heart battering his ribcage.

  From above, an extra pair of broad hands snatched his belt, dragging him up and over the edge. Grateful, Hardy rolled away from the gaping hole.

  A fist dug into his side. “Shit. Dude. You’re squashing me.”

  He pushed off Foster and sucked in a relieved breath.

  Nathan Darr was staring at him, black dust smudged across his scarred forehead. Darr wiped his mouth. “Next time you go skydiving, take a parachute.”

  “Yeah” Foster spluttered. “And make sure I’m somewhere else too.”

  * * *

  Hardy took tentative steps down the stairs, checking each tread, not trusting the rotted planks. His shoulders were on fire and his vision was blurred and gritty. Blood soaked his sleeve. Stitches were likely on the cards for him tonight.

  Stepping out of the building, he released a long slow breath.

  A squawk drew his attention, and Garrick strode round the corner, frog-marching the woman by the collar of her jacket. He’d secured her hands in front of her body with cable ties. Still, she fought him, but Garrick’s face was grim. He took his responsibilities as leader of the base seriously. He carried her backpack and battered baseball bat in his free hand.

  Loose hair obscured her face, but one look at those angry blue eyes and Hardy had no doubt she was the one who’d led him through the house. Garrick released her and she stumbled a few faltering steps. She pivoted on one foot and then her eyes fluttered and she crumpled, soundlessly.

  Hardy lunged and caught her. Thin limbs folded in his arms and her head bumped against his chest.

  Gotcha.

  2

  Georgina Haldon opened her eyes and stared straight up into the golden eyes of a lion.

  What the?

  She struggled to sit up, but strong arms held her in place.

  A deep voice rumbled from above. “Take it easy. You passed out.”

  Passed out. She took a breath, waiting for her pounding heart to slow a little. The flu had whipped her fitness into nothing and she was still paying the price. Being chased had used up her last remaining scraps of energy. Her legs were wet noodles. No wonder she’d flaked out.

  She pushed ineffectually at the large, warm hands that held her. Her wrists were still tied. “I’m okay. Let me up.”

  She’d been sloppy, allowing herself to be seen. Alone and unarmed, she survived by blending into the derelict landscape around her. Not by being spotted by men with guns. A big paw of a hand pressed between her shoulder blades and boosted her up. The soles of her boots hit grit and she wobbled back up onto her legs. Georgina pressed her hand to her stomach and shuffled to the nearest wall and leaned against it.

  Four men surrounded her. All wore sleek black protective jerkins covering their arms and chests. The fabric was faintly opalescent, reminiscent of oil on water. Military? Each man carried an elongated pulse rifle, similar to those shown on the news reports, when the government had mistakenly claimed technology would defeat the Chittrix.

  She pressed her lips together. No, not military. The military was dead.

  The tall one with steely gray eyes had collared her bolting from the house. His eyes were narrow slits of distrust, but his weapon pointed at the ground. That was a start. Maybe she could survive this.

  His voice was commanding. “Want to tell us what you were doing in that house?”

  She rotated her shoulders backwards. Stuck out her chest, aware of how scrawny she was. The last proper meal she’d eaten was a faint memory.

  Her heart raced like a trapped bird, but she wouldn’t let them see how shit scared she was. She pointed, two-handed, at the largest of the four men, the one who’d chased her through the house. The rugged mountain lion. Dark scruff shadowed his jaw but didn’t disguise the fact that he was mighty pissed. Large hands, tattoos on bloody forearms. He must have hurt himself when he fell. A twinge of remorse stung her conscience but she quashed it instantly.

  “He chased me, and…and I ran. I didn’t know the house was booby trapped.”

  She tapped her chest, aware of her bony ribs and trembling hands. “I’m on my own. Look at him.” She hesitated, as Lion-man stepped forward. His tightly muscled body was damn intimidating.

  “What was I supposed to think?” She wanted to flee again but she forced herself to stay still.

  The tall one frowned and caught Lion-man by the shoulder. They turned as one away from her, their voices a low rumble of discussion. They probably thought she’d set the trap, and she couldn’t blame them. But it had been blind bad luck. She’d run because she’d thought Lion-man was a scavenger, and she’d seen what scavengers did with women they found alone and unprotected. Fifteen months down the line, the terrifying reality was there was often little difference between facing up to the alien invaders, or your neighbors who’d abandoned the last vestiges of civilization and embraced savagery.

  Were they were scavengers? They appeared to be more intent on questioning her and trying to work out what she was doing here. Plus, the way they were dressed wasn’t government but it wasn’t crazy either. Scavengers were generally filthy and ragged. These men were organized. Hope raised its head in her heart. If they weren’t scavengers, they might let her go. Let her continue her journey to find Janie. She’d travelled so far and survived too much to die like this.

  She smiled tentatively at the remaining two men facing her, trying to minimize any threat she might present. It wasn’t hard. She was slightly built to begin with, and the flu had stripped any remaining vestiges of fat from her body.

  One of them grinned back at her, his teeth white against his grimy face, bouncing on his toes with barely restrained nervous energy. His eyes were kind, but he had a multitude of polished black packs strapped to his chest and the nose of another pulse rifle sticking out above his shoulder in addition to the one he carried. He was a walking army. The other regarded her with solemn, serious eyes, a white scar marking his forehead. God. Trigger-happy and Grumpy. She’d take being chased through abandoned houses by Lion-man any day.


  Air clouded in front of her as she breathed. It would be cold tonight, and she still hadn’t found somewhere safe to sleep. Let’s get this over and done with as soon as possible. She cleared her throat loudly, disturbing the mens’s conversation “So, it’s all been a big misunderstanding, right? I can go?”

  The talking men turned back to face her.

  The taller one regarded her with a quizzical look, one eyebrow crooked high. He inclined his head toward Lion-man. “Hardy believes we should give you the benefit the doubt. I’m Garrick.”

  Hardy. Lion-man’s name was Hardy.

  He stared at her, exacerbating the chill already seeping into her weary bones. Was that his trusting look? She suppressed a shiver. Show gratitude, Georgina. Make them like you, and then they’ll let you walk.

  Trigger-happy circled her, sniffing. God, what was with that? She recoiled, clutching her arms protectively over her chest.

  “Foster, quit freaking her out.” Lion-man, Hardy, grabbed his friend by the collar and yanked him backward. “Excuse Foster. His manners are rusty, but he means well” Hardy’s voice was a surprise, a soft Irish burr, warm and reassuring.

  Foster winked. “She’s telling the truth. She’s not a threat.”

  Georgina bristled. She could be a threat if she wanted. “Are you going to untie me?” She lifted her hands. The plastic cable tie was cutting welts into her skin. “Or do you treat all lone women you encounter like this?”