Hell's Encore: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (This Dark Age Book 2)

by John L. Monk

  Ghostly mist had gathered over the pastureland, and a layer of dew soaked steadily into his blanket, weighing it down. The sky was so clear and black overhead that he could easily see the useless satellites in their nightly migration.

  On the other side of the gravel drive, Larry sat slumped against a tree, though not asleep. If Larry said he’d stay awake, he’d stay awake.

  Sometime later, four motorcycles came zooming in with their lights on—and were suddenly snatched from their seats by lengths of barbed wire stretched across the road. Their motorcycles skittered and tumbled by in a shower of sparks that briefly lit up the road.

  One of the downed riders—a girl—was screaming in pain and terror.

  Without speaking, Jack and Larry quickly made their way to the scene. Someone moved and Larry blasted him with his shotgun.

  Jack said, “We need one alive.”

  “Thought he had a gun,” Larry said.

  The screamer was still screaming, and the other two weren’t moving. Jack turned on his flashlight, shined it at the girl, and immediately wished he hadn’t. She had long blonde hair, and the left side of her face had been scraped off to the bone. It hung off the back of her head in a pulpy heap while blood spurted into the air with each beat of her heart.

  Jack glanced at Larry, who stood transfixed by the grisly sight.

  “Dude,” Larry said over her weakening screams. “We need to put her down.”

  Jack’s rifle was chambered and the safety was off. He lifted the rifle and aimed it at her … and then lowered it. The other two still hadn’t moved or given any signs they were alive.

  “In a second,” he said, and moved to the closest one. After nudging him onto his back, Jack cringed at the sight of the kid’s neck, severed to the spine.

  Behind him, the girl’s screams had morphed into shuddering sobs.

  “Jack, please!” Larry shouted.

  The next rider, also a boy, didn’t seem to have anything wrong with him, other than being obviously unconscious.

  “Okay, Larry,” Jack said. “Go ahead.”

  The blast came before the last word left his mouth, and the girl’s crying was replaced by that all too familiar ringing that made the world surreal and separate and utterly hopeless.

  After threatening the sole survivor of the night attack—a scared boy named Russell who quickly betrayed his friends—Jack radioed down the chain to Big Timber for reinforcements. An hour later, they burst into the country kids’ two-story house yelling “On the ground!” and “Move and you’re dead!” and “Freeze!” like they’d once seen on TV.

  Before the raid, Jack made it clear he wanted prisoners, and not victims, so he only allowed his people a single bullet each for the assault. To compensate for their lack of firepower, he instructed them to shout and yell a lot. Larry had groused a bit, calling it dangerous to go in with one arm tied behind his back, but the plan worked. Nobody else died, and they ended up capturing seventeen teenagers and a bunch of little kids.

  Cowing the new group was easy, as their leaders had died in the motorcycle attack. The remainders of “The Club,” as they styled themselves, were eager to please, and spilled a wealth of information about the farm animals in the area: cows, horses, goats, and even sheep. Jack asked if they’d seen any chickens, but none had.

  “What about other groups?” Jack said to Russell, who was doing his best not to give the slightest offense.

  “Uh, groups?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, “like us. Other clubs.”

  Russell nodded. “Oh, I see. Um … there’s a couple of them, but if they come around, we run them out like …”

  “Like you were trying to do to us.”

  Russell shook his head. “Not me—I was just with them. It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Did you shoot my friends?” Larry said, shoving him hard in the shoulder.

  “No, I swear!” Russell said. “It was Lyle and Katie. They did it—I swear!”

  “Which ones are they?”

  “You already killed them.”

  Jack gazed steadily at Russell, who squirmed and looked away. Then, remembering what he was doing here—building a future—he said, “Works for me.”

  Larry said, “But you can’t just—”

  “Russell’s going to work hard to make sure nothing like that ever happens again,” Jack said. “Aren’t you, Russell?”

  The boy nodded his head so fast Jack almost smiled. For the first time since finding Lisa, he actually felt upbeat. No, he didn’t like the attack on his people. But nobody was innocent anymore, and he needed manpower more than revenge.

  Jack watched Russell a little longer while the kid stood there nervous and unsure whether to look away or stare back.

  “So, who’s in charge now?” Jack said. “You?”

  “Me?” He shook his head. “No way.”

  “Russell’s too dumb to be in charge,” one of the girls said, snapping the words off with casual certainty. About Lisa’s age, she wore glasses and had long brown hair that spilled around her shoulders like a lion’s mane. “I can be in charge if you want.”

  Some of the other kids glanced between her and Jack and looked away.

  “And what’s your name?”

  “Priscilla,” she said. “I’m the smartest one here.”

  “Is that right? Let’s talk outside,” Jack said, and left without waiting to see if she followed. He walked to one of the Dragsters’ cars and sat on the hood. “So, what makes you so smart?”

  “I was a straight-A student,” Priscilla said. “I have a super memory, and I read all the time. Not just romance books. And I know how to play two instruments. Playing an instrument is a sign of intelligence.”

  “What instruments?”

  “Piano and flute. But I’m better at piano.”

  “With all that,” Jack said, “how come you aren’t already in charge?”

  “Because I’m not a boy, that’s why. Did you really kill Lyle and Katie?”

  Jack’s lips compressed ever so slightly at hearing their names again.

  “Did they have many friends?” he said.

  Priscilla sneered. “Shit no. Whoops, sorry! I cuss sometimes. I read in a magazine how smart people cuss a lot and have great senses of humor. I’m still working on my sense of humor … Anyway, don’t worry. Everyone hated them.” She shrugged helplessly. “But they had the guns, so they were in charge.”

  “Nobody else has weapons?”

  “Shit no.”

  Jack thought quietly while Priscilla watched him. She had an interesting way of talking. Forceful and certain in her sense of self. And she did seem smart. Not like Lisa, who managed brainy in a way that was scarier, yet less annoying.

  “I need someone who’s willing to work,” Jack said, “and who’s not afraid to give orders.”

  “I used to be a safety patrol, but they won’t listen to me.”

  “They’ll listen to whoever I listen to,” Jack said.

  A weird moment passed where she seemed like she wanted to say something important.

  “What?” he said.

  “Whomever is more correct.”

  Jack felt momentarily confused, then nodded in realization. “I see. Okay then.”

  32

  Jack named their house Winchester Base because the closest city was Winchester. Their group was provisionally added to Jack’s, provided they could stick to the rules.

  “Don’t kill any more farm animals in the area,” Jack told Priscilla. “No cows, no goats, no sheep. Nothing. And I want a list of all the animals you know about—where they are, how healthy they look, that kind of thing.”

  Priscilla smiled happily. “Like a census! I think that’s a really good idea, Jack.”

  Was she pulling his leg? The look in her eager eyes told him no, she was serious as a spelling bee. She wanted to help, and she needed him to know how much.

  “Good,” Jack said. “Correct answer. So, uh … I have a few questions.”


  “Okay, let me get ready,” she said and fixed her hair for some reason.

  For the next ten minutes, he peppered her with questions:

  How many groups did they know about, and were they hostile?

  How many working cars did they have? How many motorcycles?

  How much food did they have, and where were they getting it?

  Did they have any medicine?

  What special skills did they have?

  When she asked what he meant by skills, Jack told her he wanted more people who could ride horses, build stuff, hunt and fish, that sort of thing. But any skills would do.

  One by one, Priscilla answered to the best of her knowledge. She knew, for example, that there were other groups in the area, but she wasn’t sure how much contact there’d been. Jack thanked her and said he’d talk to her again tomorrow by radio, which they were setting up using Greg’s trick: two batteries in parallel to increase the amperage and range. He’d keep a van with a similar setup midway between Big Timber and Winchester to relay their words.

  “Make sure you charge the batteries every two days,” Jack told her. “Don’t let them run down or they get messed up.”

  Priscilla nodded vigorously.

  “I’ll be by tomorrow with guns,” he said. “You’re going to need to learn to shoot, and how to do it safely.”

  She nodded again and adjusted her glasses.

  Jack shook her hand and had to pry it free. A little sweaty, but he resisted the urge to wipe it so as not to hurt her feelings.

  The last thing he did before leaving was station two armed Dragsters there to ensure the new recruits stayed loyal after he’d gone. Then, having been up all night and all morning, he took Larry’s offer to drive them home.

  On arrival at the cabin, Jack quickly learned that sleep would be a while in coming. He hadn’t even reached the door before it flew open and Lisa stormed out wagging an accusing finger. There was a hollowness to her eyes that hadn’t quite vanished since her recovery. And despite the extra calories, she still looked underweight.

  “Why isn’t my brother back yet?” she shouted. “You said he’d be home by now!”

  Jack’s voice was patient but firm. “There’s still time. When it comes to sailing, you can’t keep a tight schedule. Because of weather, tides, repairs—all kinds of stuff. He’s never sailed before, so—”

  Before he finished, her lips pulled back in a snarl and she rushed him, swinging wildly in fury. It was only the sudden appearance of Brad that saved him. He grabbed her from behind while she struggled, whispering in her ear as her protests devolved into quiet crying. Then they went in.

  Jack hesitated before following them. When he finally entered, the other officers looked anywhere but him. A minute later, Brad came down from Lisa’s room, lips pursed as if tackling a thorny problem.

  “Is she okay?” Jack said.

  “She was up all night worrying.”

  “About Greg.”

  Brad shook his head. “Not only him. You too.”

  That made no sense. “Me? But she can’t stand me.”

  Brad snorted. “Someone killed our people and you’re out there doing something, risking your life, and she’s here with nothing to do but worry. You know, for such a smart guy, you’re pretty dumb sometimes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack said.

  Brad shook his head, grabbed his jacket off a hook near the door, and left.

  After a furtive glance upstairs, Jack went to the room he shared with the other male officers and curled up on his mattress.

  Sleep took a while in coming. Sometimes, when he was extra tired like that, all he could do was worry and think. This time, his thoughts wandered to the sheep he’d heard about, the horses at that one kid’s farm, and the weird girl he’d put in charge.

  Priscilla.

  Was it really wise, giving someone like that power? She’d stepped up while the others stayed cowed, and she spoke her mind. That had to be a good thing. Didn’t it?

  He wondered what they’d been eating besides the local livestock. Cookies and soda? Several of the Dragsters were complaining about toothaches now, despite Jack’s dietary orders. Because of that, Olivia was researching how to drill and fill cavities with supplies scavenged from a dentist’s office. So many worries, and too few people helping out. And the bull they’d found was still separated from the cows by a mile of fenced-off pastureland.

  His thoughts drifted further, deeper, following him into sleep—to a birthday party at a neighbor’s house where all the gifts his friend received were Jack’s old toys, and nobody would listen when he complained. Then, in the way of dreams, he found himself lost in a forest being chased by his parents. They wanted him to do something terrible, but he wasn’t sure what. All he knew was he couldn’t do it, not ever.

  “Come back …! Come back …!” echoed through the woods. And even though he knew they were his parents, their voices were those of Pete and Mandy, dead going on three months, now.

  A terrible dread stole over him. He tried to hurry but his feet tangled together, tripping him down a slope to splash into a pool of blood. He swam as fast as he could, then stopped when the way was blocked by Lisa: bloody and snarling, half her face scraped off from barbed wire stretched across the road …

  Jack bolted upright howling wordlessly in horror. Moments later, the door flew open and Steve ran in.

  “Dude, what’s wrong?”

  Jack didn’t immediately recognize him. One, two, three seconds later and his panic receded enough that he could think again.

  “Steve,” he said between heavy pants. “Hey.”

  “Hey back,” Steve said cautiously. “Was it a nightmare?”

  Jack nodded. “What time is it?”

  “Dunno. Afternoon. You scared me to death.”

  Jack fell back and threw an arm over his head. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be out later.”

  Steve left him alone, and Jack lay there thinking about his dream, already struggling to hold onto the details. The girl at the end, though—she was Lisa and she wasn’t. He knew he’d never forget that bloody face, that it would always be there when he closed his eyes. His reward for knowing what to do.

  Jack closed his eyes … and she was there. He thought of something else and she faded away. Sometime later, he pretended he was lying in his old bed from before the Sickness. Very relaxing, and he almost …

  Sudden shouting in the living room dragged him fully awake. Muttering angrily, he got up to investigate and found two Dragsters explaining something to Steve, Molly, and Olivia.

  “We been there a hundred times and it was always fine,” one of them said. Jack thought his name was Don or Dom or something like that.

  “Then they come at us with guns,” the other one said—a tough little girl around ten with short, uneven hair and a dirty face. “Said we needed to git or they’d eat us. We weren’t doing nothing but lookin’ in stores, same as ever. If you ask me, they weren’t gonna eat us or they would have. Bunch of rejects, if you ask me.”

  When they saw Jack, they both started talking at once until he shushed them.

  “You,” he said, pointing at the girl. “What happened?”

  “Hi, Jack,” she said, smiling happily. “Uh … well, actually, we was in Warrenton, and Don was driving, same as ever, and we was just lookin’ in stores, like always, just minding our business. Been there tons of times and nothing like it ever happened. Then out of nowhere these kids come and say they’ll eat us if we don’t leave now. I said we was here first and they said they don’t care. Then Don chickened out and we left and that’s why we didn’t brung nothing back. If you ask me, there’s something probably left on that big freezer in back, just like that one store in Haymarket—remember, Don? All that macaroni?”

  “What she means is we got run out,” Don said. “That’s the whole truth.”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “What I just said.�
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  Looking between the two, Jack realized they were siblings. Not uncommon among survivors, and it always left him feeling jealous.

  “Try to think back,” Jack said. “How many teenagers were there?”

  Don said twenty and his sister said five. Jack thought she’d disagree with her brother if he said it was raining, regardless of the truth.

  “Why don’t you get some rest,” Jack suggested to her. “I may have more questions for you later.”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said, and left without a backward glance.

  Don shook his head. “She’s a brat, but she’s good at finding stuff.”

  “Got it. What kind of weapons did they have?”

  The boy thought for a second. “Guns.”

  Jack bit his lip and counted to five. “Did they have pistols or rifles?”

  “They all had pistols,” Don said. “One of them had a big knife. Said he was gonna cut us up and eat us, and I believed him. He was totally crazy.”

  “Was he in charge?”

  Don said, “I don’t think so. Think it was this other guy, must have been as old as Molly. Real tough but not crazy. He was the one who let us go and said not to come back.”

  At sixteen years old, Molly was the oldest member of the group.

  “So, you didn’t see any rifles?”

  Don shook his head, no.

  “You see any little kids?”

  Again, he shook his head.

  “Thanks, man,” Jack said. He held out his hand and the younger boy looked at it in surprise, then grabbed it.

  “You gonna kill them all?” he said, shaking his hand, basking in the sudden attention. “Like you did with the poison gas?”

  Jack froze, caught off guard, and stared at the kid as the words slowly registered. He stopped shaking hands but didn’t let go.

  Don’s grin morphed into a grimace as he tried to pull away. “Ow, man, jeez. What gives?”

  Steve stepped quickly between them and pried their hands free.