Free World Apocalypse - Prequel: Free World Apocalypse Series - Book Zero

by T. K. Malone

  Free World Apocalypse

  Prequel

  Fugitive

  Citizen

  Captive

  Genesis

  Join the struggle

  Free World Apocalypse - Prequel

  T.K. Malone

  Copyright © 2017 by T.K. Malone

  All rights reserved.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Join the struggle

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Thank you for reading

  Fugitive - First Chapter

  Free World Apocalypse - Fugitive

  Join the struggle

  Facebook group: Black City Riders

  Email list : Black City Riders

  Note: Emails will be occasional with more regular updates on the Facebook page. However, just incase you miss an update, it’s a good fall back.

  Don’t get left behind…

  Chapter One

  Teah pulled her machine gun across her chest, her back pressed against the warehouse wall. Its roller shutter was partway up, the heat from inside misting as it mixed with winter’s chill. Slipping down her helmet’s visor, she muttered: “Zero-four in position,” into her mic.

  “Copy. Hold,” Jeb’s voice rang around her helmet. Way too loud, she thought, cringing, but knew no one else could hear. She was sure command turned their mics up on purpose to make them sound more important—assholes. They should try being on the ground one day, she thought and scoffed inside.

  “Check,” she said, scanning around for signs of life, but as usual the docks were deserted. Only rare shipments came into the Black City now, its much hyped goal of sustainability nearly reached, unless you counted what the smugglers brought in.

  Boz was waiting the other side of the shutter. His knee was twitching—sure sign he was nervous. Teah’s stomach cramped, a sick feeling rolling through her. “Nerves?” she thought, but dismissed it. She’d been on worse missions than this, and these had to be dumb bastards. Drones had picked up the heat emissions within days of them setting up—always get the heat shields up first, unless you’ve got friends in high places, like Zac had. She smiled at that thought. One that only confused her, just like it always did.

  “All units—you have a go,” Jeb barked.

  Her visor immediately fogged to luminous green, Boz now shrouded in an amber aura. Teah spun around, ducking under the shutter, her gun leveled instinctively. The red heat signatures of two men blooming onto her visor.

  “Two carnies ten yards, eleven o’clock, loading bay.” Boz’s voice was calm as always.

  Both were standing by a wooden crate, smokes in hand.

  “Mine!” Teah shouted, jumping from her crouch and running at them. “No sign of weapons—”

  “—Take them down!” Jeb screamed.

  Two bursts from her machine gun answered him, the first target flying back, the second flopping halfway into a crate—a cloud of glowing red mist soon settling over both.

  “Two carnies down,” Teah said, her voice devoid of emotion, all trace of the earlier nausea gone.

  “That would’ve announced us,” Boz said.

  “Check,” Teah answered. She kicked the first with her feet. Twenties, thin, drawn, probably on the shine, most carnies were.

  “Looks like the load’s been shifted,” Boz muttered, looking into the crate. “Empty apart from him. Bring the others in, Jeb.”

  “Hold that,” Teah hissed into her mic. “Got a bad feeling…”

  Beyond the loading bay, strips of heavy plastic curtained off the rest of the warehouse. Teah crouched down, signaling to Boz. “Thought I saw them move.”

  “Sure?” Boz asked.

  “As I can be. Jeb, any signs of life?”

  “I’ll move the drone closer. Not getting anything… Must have got a few shields up. Wait, yes, there’s one…no…more. Hostiles, I repeat, hostiles coming your way.”

  “How many?” Teah screamed, dropping down on one knee, gun readied. “Can you get the drone in here?”

  “Negative.”

  “Shit.” She waved Boz away. “Flank right.”

  Boz broke right, scrambling toward a pile of pallets. “Where are you…?”

  Teah jumped up and ran straight forward, her machine gun spitting death, ripping the curtains apart. Throwing herself into a roll, she burst through and came back up to a crouch. She took it all in in an instant: body right by her, truck to the left, trailer behind, ranks of pallet racking after, some sort of conveyor belt center running right toward an office area, another body draped over the belt, a third hanging out of the trailer. Not bad for having shot blind, she thought, just as she sprang up and ran further in, just as Boz started laying down fire from behind, just as the whole place erupted as it was returned with interest.

  “Multiple hostiles all around,” she said, sliding up against the truck. She looked over; Boz was against the office wall.

  “Copy,” Jeb replied. “Zero-eight is entering from the rear.”

  “But she’ll be firing straight at us.”

  “Then keep your head down.”

  “Shit, not Becca,” Teah muttered.

  “I heard that.” Becca’s voice filled Teah’s helmet. “I’ll be sure to watch for your signature.”

  “Comforting.”

  That Teah and Becca didn’t get on was well-known. Jeb was one sick bastard for arranging this, then again, he did have a twisted sense of humor—something you needed to survive in the Black City PD—or stiffs as they were affectionately known by the carnies.

  “Heads down, we’re coming in in thirty,” Becca announced, a pinch of enjoyment in her tone. Boz looked over at Teah. She saw him scooch further down and laughed. Boz knew the shit they were in now. “Time to get down,” he muttered into his mic, and pushed himself off the office wall, turning and firing right along it, drywall exploding into the air around him. Teah knew exactly what he was doing. She jumped up, spraying bullets over the conveyer belt, dashing across and toward him.

  He was by the office door now, then spun around and into it. More machine gun fire erupted inside. Teah dropped low, halfway across. The carnies were getting their act together now, bullets were slamming into the concrete all around her, ripping up the conveyer. She’d been hit once on the back of the shoulder, painful, but her armor was doing its job. Like all the bulletproof gear, though, it had its weak points; enough to make her careful, very careful.

  “Let’s light this place up,” Becca’s voice sung, and the warehouse exploded into a cacophony of tracer fire, cracks and screams. Teah squeezed herself into the tightest ball she possibly could.

  Then silence—the stench of death—the taste of cordite.

  “Zero-eight, all clear.”

  “Copy,” said Jeb.

  Teah let out a breath.

  “That’s how you do it, Teah,” Becca said, her voice full of swagger, b
ut Teah wasn’t so sure.

  “Hold on—”

  “Screw you, Teah, ain’t nobody gonna survive that.” Becca was a gridder through and through, but she liked to talk like the country folk, like the carnies, thought it made her sound tough, somehow cool.

  Looking toward the office, Teah wondered why Boz hadn’t surfaced. She rolled onto her knees then pushed herself into a crouch. Loping along the conveyer, she thought for one brief, moment that maybe Becca was right; maybe all the carnies were dead. Then the gunfire erupted again, slamming into her, throwing her sideways. She steadied herself, planting her feet and lurching for the office door like a drunk, diving inside. Boz was sitting, back against some filing cabinets, a pool of blood around his knee. He leaned to try and reach her, but she pushed his hand away and dropped down next to him.

  “Stupid bitch,” she muttered. “Leg?”

  “Bullet ricocheted up near the joint. Some luck.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Like a bitch. Just a nick though.”

  Outside, the gunfire had reached new levels.

  “Up in the racking,” Becca’s voice nervous, hushed.

  “Check,” said another voice. “Tango down.”

  “Two o’clock low,” from another member of Becca’s team, then rapid gunfire exploded from outside.

  “Pinned down!” Becca screamed. “Where are you Zero-four?”

  Teah sighed and looked at Boz. “Back in a bit. Stay tight.” She winced as she scrambled to her feet. “Them bruises are gonna hurt in the morning,” she whispered to herself.

  “Zero-four entering field, look out for my signature. Zero-two down but not out.” Teah crawled to the doorway. She spotted a carnie squatting halfway up a rack, front right, ten feet high. A short burst of fire and the carnie was down. Rushing forward, Teah kept low. The earlier furore had died down a little, a lot of bullets and courage already spent. She counted two more carnies plus three of Becca’s team—parts of their golden auras poking out from their cover. Two carnies, surely there’s more? she thought.

  “Zero-eight, how many you got? I count two.”

  “Negative Zero-four, there must be more.”

  Teah crawled under the conveyer, resting her elbow on the floor, switching the gun to single shot.

  “Lay me down some fire, Zero-eight, let’s see if I can pick out a shot.”

  “Copy,” and the fire rang out.

  Teah’s first shot slammed into one of the carnies, back of the neck, he fell, but the other didn’t react, didn’t turn. He must have thought the shot came from Becca’s position, Teah let out a relieved breath, switching to the second and squeezing off another round.

  “Two tangos down,” Teah said, her breath now even. And then the gunfire petered out. She counted to thirty—nothing—not a sound.

  “Looks like you were right Zero-four,” Becca said, and Teah saw her get up, saw her group stand, one-by-one. Out of the corner of her eye, Teah saw a flash of red.

  “Carnie,” Teah barked as she tried to twist her body around and get a shot off. She saw Becca make to crouch, but then Becca’s body flew backwards, arms out, machine gun arcing through the air. Then the carnie started jerking around, as though getting shot from all sides, and it fell silent, just Becca’s groans filled Teah’s helmet.

  Teah looked up, the gray sky sandwiched by the split in the identical black high-rises, each one an exact distance from the next forming a grid near ten miles square. The Black City wasn’t the first grid city, nor was it the largest, but it was the only one that had actively strived for self-sufficiency—each of the tower blocks clad in photovoltaic cells, most producing more power than they needed. Yet there was something sterile about the place. All the shops were Free World this or Free World that; Free World Burger Bar, The Free World Bank, black on gold, gold on black, the same—sterile. She took a breath, and a step left.

  One hundred square miles of conformity surrounded by chaos, and left behind with one stride. Teah had stepped off The Grid and into the outskirts, the black instantly changing to the gray of weathered concrete, uniformity destroyed by the randomness of decay, of what was left of the old city. From the old tower blocks that used to make up the services district, to the warehouses of the manufacturing sector, the old city hemmed in The Grid like a fraying belt. She pulled up her collar, somehow the place did that to her, gave her a chill.

  Zac’s bar was a few hundred yards down what once passed as a road. Without walking into the place she knew the types who would be drinking inside. There would be a couple of chancers, gridders out for a score, living dangerously, seeking out non-conformity. They’d soon be reconditioned, or shipped off to The Black City Pen and replaced. There was no shortage of citizens to take their places that was for sure. Others might include the odd elite gridder, one with a pass, one who was high enough to break the law without recompense, and then there’d be the carnies.

  She pushed the door open. Zac looked up from behind the bar.

  “I hear you had a busy day,” he said, before she’d even sat on one of the barstools. He looked tired, drawn, he’d probably spent another night in the tunnels, she thought.

  Teah shrugged. “Got a job to do. Think Charm thinks its funny to pitch us against each other.” She grabbed a stool and slumped at the bar, pushing her fingers through her cropped, black hair. “Days are numbered, Zac.”

  Zac smiled, faint amusement glossing over his non-committal expression. He rarely showed his feelings.

  “Them carnies ain’t got nothing to do with me. Shiners, them, sell you their souls for a few dozen pills.”

  “Afternoon, Teah,” said a man-mountain next to her.

  “Billy Flynn, nice to see someone’s got manners.”

  Billy Flynn smiled. He was one handsome dog, Teah thought. Deep blue eyes, shaggy blonde hair, yep, Billy Flynn was a hell of a good-looking man. “You got out in one piece,” he said. “That’s always a win.”

  “Yeah, one got shot up bad—don’t get on with her though, so...”

  “Live?” asked Zac.

  Teah nodded. “Charm don’t shirk on the combat gear.”

  “The others?”

  “Dozen dead, three headed for the Pen.”

  “Damn,” said Billy. “You go in hot?”

  “New orders—clear out all the smugglers—all Zac.”

  “All?” Zac turned around, picking up a bottle of whiskey. He filled a glass and pushed it over to her. “Grade A whiskey, Teah—Charm ain’t gonna shut down all the routes,” and he grinned, and his eyes lit up, and Teah wondered what he had up his sleeve.

  She pushed the drink away. “Not for me, been feeling ill all day.”

  “Connor’s upstairs, why don’t you go up? He could use the company.”

  “How’s he feeling…?”

  “Same as ever…since… distant,” was all Zac said in reply.

  Connor was sitting on the couch staring at an old television. Only the satellite channels were available off-grid, and they were just rolled-out propaganda programs—great victories against the Russians, the Eurasians, vast feats of engineering achieved within the cities, the glory of The Free World. She sat on the couch next to him. His eyes never left the screen.

  “Y’all right?” Teah asked.

  “Shush,” Connor hissed.

  Lucky for him, Zac had somehow managed to source an old DVD player and had then scoured the country towns for DVDs. It was a passion picked up from his father, Cornelius, though the less said about him the better. Teah wondered about Cornelius, but try as she might, few records still existed—which weren’t redacted, anyway.

  “What’re you watching?” She knew exactly what he was watching, most times she visited, it was the same film.

  “Terminator,” he said.

  “Is that the one—?”

  “—Shush,” and he flopped his hand over her knee and snuggled in.

  “Which one?”

  “You know.”

  Teah relaxed and sat ba
ck, her eyes following the film but taking nothing in. She knew Zac was smuggling stuff into the city, knew she was risking not only her job but her whole future just by seeing him, but somehow it just didn’t seem to matter. And that was the strange thing about it all. It didn’t matter to her; it didn’t appear to matter to her boss, or even her boss’s boss. It was as if her relationship with Zac—the carnie—didn’t exist.

  “You eaten?” she asked him.

  Connor shook his head.

  “I’ll go see what you’ve got.”

  His hand squeezed her knee. “Can’t it wait?”

  “You gotta eat.”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  She didn’t even try to win the argument. He was fourteen—he could look after himself. Fourteen, she thought, and he’s already died once.

  Chapter Two

  Boz tucked into his Free World Burger. Teah pushed hers around the plate.

  “Not hungry?” he said, through a full mouth.

  “Still not one hundred percent. Certainly not in the mood for a burger for breakfast.”

  He chewed and swallowed, wiping the red sauce away with a napkin. “What odds does it make? It’s all made of the same stuff. Burger for breakfast, pancakes for tea—it’s just a taste. You been eating rats again?”

  Teah blew over her coffee and took a sip. He was right of course, all the food was reconstituted something—on The Grid, at least. Micro farms thirty stories high, working day and night, spread evenly around the city, supplying everything to be processed into healthy food dressed up as crap. That’s where the carnies got their name. They still needed meat to survive, to eek out an existence.