The Day After Never
Perdition
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2017 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
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Contents
Books by Russell Blake
About the Author
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
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Excerpt from A Girl Apart
Books by Russell Blake
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
THE EYE OF HEAVEN
THE SOLOMON CURSE
Thrillers
FATAL EXCHANGE
FATAL DECEPTION
THE GERONIMO BREACH
ZERO SUM
THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY
THE VOYNICH CYPHER
SILVER JUSTICE
UPON A PALE HORSE
DEADLY CALM
RAMSEY’S GOLD
EMERALD BUDDHA
THE GODDESS LEGACY
A GIRL APART
The Assassin Series
KING OF SWORDS
NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN
RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN
REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN
BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN
REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN
RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN
The Day After Never Series
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – BLOOD HONOR
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PURGATORY ROAD
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – COVENANT
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – RETRIBUTION
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – INSURRECTION
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PERDITION
The JET Series
JET
JET II – BETRAYAL
JET III – VENGEANCE
JET IV – RECKONING
JET V – LEGACY
JET VI – JUSTICE
JET VII – SANCTUARY
JET VIII – SURVIVAL
JET IX – ESCAPE
JET X – INCARCERATION
JET XI – FORSAKEN
JET – OPS FILES (prequel)
JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT
The BLACK Series
BLACK
BLACK IS BACK
BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
BLACK TO REALITY
BLACK IN THE BOX
Non Fiction
AN ANGEL WITH FUR
HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS
(while drunk, high or incarcerated)
About the Author
Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, Fatal Deception, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, Rage of the Assassin The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, JET X – Incarceration, JET XI – Forsaken, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is the New Black, BLACK to Reality, BLACK in the Box, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, Emerald Buddha, The Day After Never – Blood Honor, The Day After Never – Purgatory Road, The Day After Never – Covenant, The Day After Never – Retribution, The Day After Never – Insurrection, The Day After Never – Perdition, The Goddess Legacy, and A Girl Apart.
Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.
Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.
Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.
Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:
RussellBlake.com
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Chapter 1
Portland, Oregon
Black smoke belched into the midnight sky as hundreds of fires blazed out of control, and the glass and steel façades of high-rises glowed as the city burned. The churning surface of the Willamette River was an orange swatch from the reflection of flames shimmering along its banks, the raging inferno fueled by a string of wooden waterfront buildings.
Shots rang out in the distance over the screams of rioters racing down the boulevards, baseball bats and planks in hand, destroying everything in their path. The few unbroken shop windows disintegrated in showers of glass as the mob swarmed through the crumbling entrances of buildings long ago abandoned and looted of anything of value. Hoots and bellows echoed as the throng took its frustrations out on anything it could find, including each other, like an immune system run amok, attacking its host.
An explosion shattered the night, and the ground trembled from the force. The mob slowed at the sound, fear and unthinking fury written across dirt-smeared faces. One of the men, his clothes little more than rags, shook the axe handle he was clutching and swung around to his fellows.
“They’re using grenades!” he yelled, the final word drowned out by another blast, this one nearer.
“We need to head north,” another screamed, an edge of hysteria in his voice.
“No. We should fight them. Enough of this,” the first countered.
“With what? Clubs? Are you nuts?” a third man called from behind him. “We need to make for the bridge.”
“I heard shooting from there,” a woman protested.
The rioters argued loudly until another grenade exploded from t
he adjacent street, galvanizing them into motion. “The bridge!” the woman yelled, and ran up another street. The mob on her heels followed blindly, the prior frenzied energy now gone, replaced by blind panic.
Boots thumped against the cracking pavement as scores of looters turned the corner, the air thick with smoke. The sonorous roar of a shotgun boomed from behind them, driving the crowd to greater speed. One of the men near the front stumbled and went down hard, his face striking the asphalt with a wet thwack before another runner’s boot struck his skull a glancing blow. The mob trampled the downed man in its race to escape pursuit, leaving him gasping for breath through a ruined nose, his ribs cracked and his left hand crushed underfoot. Nobody paused to help him to his feet as the herd stampeded, every man for himself.
The woman slowed at the silhouette of the overpass that spanned the river to the Washington shore. Her mouth opened in a warning, but her cry was drowned out by the staccato chatter of assault rifles on full auto from a makeshift barrier blocking the route. Rounds snapped past her head as she ducked instinctively, and the men on either side of her were cut down by the deadly onslaught. She spun and sprinted for the cover of one of the buildings, but a volley knocked her legs from beneath her, and a bullet shattered her hip as she fell.
Burst after burst from the gunmen sliced through the mob, slaughtering the rioters by the dozens. Moments after the firing had started, the street was awash with crimson; lakes of blood glistened in whatever starlight could penetrate the thick blanket of smoke hovering over the city.
When the shooting stopped, the area was silent except for the moans of the dying. Three figures with muscled arms stained with prison ink and leather vests emblazoned with a motorcycle gang logo sauntered from the bridge, Kalashnikov assault rifles in hand. Their heavy boots hammered the pavement as they approached the wounded. The gunmen moved methodically among the bodies and fired into the faces of those still breathing, their expressions twisted in amusement at the fate of their victims.
Three minutes after the massacre had begun, it was over, and the bikers returned to their position to wait for any other fools who thought they could escape their destiny. Killing came easily to them after a half decade running the city; the lives of the rebellious were of no more consequence to them than those of ants crushed inadvertently underfoot. They’d been ordered to prevent anyone from crossing the bridge with whatever force necessary, and they’d taken the assignment with relish, murder and brutality their stock in trade and their principle mechanism for keeping the population under control.
On the southern end of the city, where a long procession of unfortunates waited in a ragged line, the skirmish was barely audible. Occasional shots continued to echo through the night, but the gunmen keeping the column in check were unfazed. Their job was to maintain order as the city’s population evacuated for Salem. The Columbia River was now poisonous as a rattler’s bite, thousands having succumbed to radiation poisoning as the reactor upriver continued to belch forth its toxic stew. It had taken a week for the first to die, the dose too low in the first days to do much besides sicken those who relied on the river’s water for drinking and bathing. However, as the cumulative effects worsened, death had overwhelmed the city, and the biker gang that controlled Portland decided it needed to relocate operations somewhere safe, the signs of illness obvious even among their ranks.
At first they’d thought it was the new strain of virus that had arrived like the plague, and they’d blocked off affected areas in the hopes of limiting contagion. When that had failed to slow the spread of the mysterious ailment, the gang leadership made the call to abandon the city and forge a route south. By the time they decided to move, thousands were already dead or dying, reducing the available population the bikers could prey upon, and word went out that nobody would be allowed to leave Portland except as the gang’s captives – and that resistance would be dealt with in the harshest possible manner.
What remained of the able-bodied had been given six hours that afternoon to gather what they could and assemble at the southern city limit on Highway 5, where a checkpoint had been erected years before as a disincentive to anyone attempting to leave. The bikers had taken over the city after a short but violent struggle with two other gangs, and treated the residents as their slaves, plundered and forced to labor as they saw fit. In much the same way that other warlords ruled over metropolitan areas up and down the coast, those who were the most vicious and willing to use force had prevailed against the far larger but meeker population. Portland had become a de facto prison colony, where the productivity of the many was confiscated by the predatory few, and any ideas of revolt were quickly suppressed at the barrel of a gun.
Only the bikers were on horseback, numbering fewer than two hundred after many had succumbed to the mystery affliction, but their weapons enabled them to manage the several thousand refugees lined up in a ragged procession with their few possessions bundled in stained sacks, shivering as they awaited the order to begin the march south. At the rear of the column were the young females, the remainder a sad collection of males, their frames and faces gaunt in the dim firelight from the burning city, malnutrition and privation their reward for surviving the end of civilization.
A rider materialized from the darkness. A black leather cowboy hat was pulled low over a prominent brow, and his leather vest and chaps stood out in stark relief against his pale horse. The nearest men stiffened at the sight of him, and a low murmur swept through the column. The rider’s handheld radio crackled, and he growled into it before holding it to his ear for a terse update. He barked orders into the two-way and then slipped it into a pocket of his vest and inspected the column dispassionately.
He spurred his horse to the rear of the line of desperate humanity and dismounted where twenty of the top-ranking bikers were waiting with their animals. He marched toward them, his glower visible even in the gloom.
“Bunch of them tried to make a break,” he snapped at the nearest men.
A tall biker with a thick black beard and a soiled green bandana crowning his head grunted. “Heard the shooting.”
Another spoke up. “Our patrols are mopping up anyone they come across.”
The biker with the cowboy hat eyed his men. “I want to be on the road within an hour.”
“It’s going to be slow going,” the bandana-topped biker advised.
“I know. Two days, at least.”
“Maybe three. Lot of this bunch look like they’re already sick.”
“Then we’ll leave them where they fall.” The leader’s unblinking gaze swept the hardened faces of his men. “Spread the word. We move out shortly.”
“And the others? At the bridge? The patrols?”
“I’ve already told them. They’ll be here by the time we leave.”
A rifle shot split the silence from down the column, and one of the bikers laughed. “A few of them have tried to sneak off. I told the boys to let ’em have a sporting chance before they cap ’em.”
The leader nodded. “Carts all loaded?”
“Everything we can carry. We lost most of the horses, though. So it isn’t as much as I’d have liked.”
“Damn. Well, Salem’s fine,” the leader said. “So we’ll just get more there.”
The gang had sent riders south to scout out the town in preparation for their exodus from Portland, and reports had come back via radio that there was no evidence of the mystery ailment that had rendered Portland uninhabitable. The men had traced the source to the Columbia, but their limited technical knowledge had stopped them from realizing what the problem was – that it was poison was enough; the source and type were unimportant. They would move and, like locusts, spread their brand of domination to Salem, which they’d left alone until now as a trading hub too distant to warrant fighting to control. Periodic raids had established their power over the town, but the gang had taken a hands-off approach, there being little of value beyond the food the locals grew.
Which was al
l about to change, the town unaware of what was headed its way.
“How many women left?” the leader demanded, peering at the females cowering in the gloom.
“Maybe a hundred and fifty.”
The leader spit to the side and shook his head. “Don’t suppose it matters. There’ll be plenty more in Salem.”
The bandana man grinned. “Fresh meat.”
The leader grunted and took a final look at the females before turning on his heel and making for a line of brush to relieve himself in anticipation of the long ride south.
Chapter 2
Astoria, Oregon
Lucas stood with the mayor, who’d come running to the stable as Lucas was watering Ruby’s animals in preparation for his return to the subterranean base to retrieve what weapons they could. Lucas had lost track of Ray in the tent city on their way in to town to brief the council, and Lucas wished they’d arranged to hook up later – the young man was resourceful, clever, and cool under pressure, which would come in handy on the 130-mile ride to Newport. From what Lucas could tell, too many of Astoria’s best fighters had been taken out of commission by the IED and the attack on the town by the scavengers, and he didn’t like their odds going up against a trained group of Chinese – possibly thousands of them.
Lucas didn’t know how many men could be stuffed aboard the approaching ship, but he suspected it was a substantial number. If you were going to steam halfway around the world, you would want to transport as many of your best as possible, given how scarce a resource fuel was, at least in North America. The Chinese obviously had plenty, so perhaps Chen’s account of a nation in ruin had been somewhat less than truthful.
“I’m glad I caught you before you left,” the mayor said, huffing as he caught his breath.
“I’m out of here as soon as Hayden and Ruby show up,” Lucas replied.
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here. Ruby said to tell you that she’ll follow with Mary and Rosemary – she’s helping them with the patients.”
Lucas frowned. “I just talked to her. She was right behind me.”
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