Sifters (Sifters Series Book 1)

by Shane Scollins

  SIFTERS

  Book 1

  The Undiagnosed

  By Shane Scollins

  SIFTERS

  Copyright © 2014 by Shane Scollins. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: September 2014

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1500907006

  ISBN-10: 1500907006

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  As always thanks to the team at Limitless Publishing, including my fellow authors for their social media shouts. A big thanks to my fans who continue to push me to come up with new ideas every day. And of course my family and friends for always supporting my special kind of crazy.

  Table of 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 1

  Dia snaked her fingers tightly around the club, twisting her hands on the sanded wood to assure a good grip. Confidence was the key, and she felt strong. This was a one shot deal; if she missed, he would kill her. The big scum-sack was easily twice her size. This had to be a deathblow.

  The filthy, broken mirror across the room reflected half her face. Her shoulder-length black hair was messy, her dark green tank top was too tight and her khaki cargo pants too loose on her athletic frame.

  She’d tracked this walking stink bomb for two days, across fifty ambling miles, stalking him with stealthy shadow. Over the last couple of years, she’d gotten quite good at subterfuge. For the most part these people were oblivious to someone following, since everyone was afraid of them. They didn’t think to watch their backs in these parts, because no one out here would dare screw with them out here on their turf. They were ruthless and cold, they killed for fun. If you had anything of value, they’d kill you twice, pull the bones from your corpse, and beat the next person to death with your femurs.

  His labored breathing huffed unhealthily. He was a hulking figure of at least six-foot and three-hundred pounds. The stench coming off his body was disgusting and animalistic in nature. He probably hadn’t bathed in months.

  Dia pushed her back to the wall, waiting for him to come around the corner. He would; she’d baited the trap with an orange. He wouldn’t turn down free food. No one out here did.

  As he turned the corner into clear view, he stopped to pull his pants up over his fat belly. Dia took that cue and stepped. He looked directly at her and his eyes narrowed in anger.

  She was quick, no hesitation. With a twist of her hips and a swing of her arms, she drove the club into the side of his skull. A wicked crack filled the room. He grunted in pain as the three-inch steel spikes drove into his brain. Dia looked away as his body fell to the floor with a heavy thud, not because she couldn’t bear to watch, but because she didn’t want to get dust in her eyes when he hit the wood planks.

  When the plume of soot settled, she looked down at him. She didn’t particularly like killing. Being good at it, and liking it, were two different things. A shudder passed through her as his body twitched on the dirt-covered floor. She waited a few moments, making sure he was definitely dead. He was.

  Straddling the body, she began the gruesome task of going through his many pockets. He was wearing tan military fatigues that had too many places where it could be hiding. His pockets were full of crap, candies, rocks, paperclips, shoelaces. This guy was real hardcore, part of a doomsday preppers crew who’d been waiting for this world scenario for a decade before it happened. Preppers, DPs, Scrapers, they had all sorts of names. But Preppers was most common, and they were the worst variety of Sifters.

  She was positive this was the right guy, having tracked him all the way from the annex border, never losing sight of him. The tip cost her big time, the last rare coin in her bank and one of the last original old American coins she’d seen in years, a 1976 Bi-Centennial quarter. It wasn’t worth much these days inside or outside, but it was rare enough to the old codger who cried when she handed it to him.

  Pocket by pocket she searched the old military clothes until finally she found what she was looking for in a zippered pocket on his hip. It was a white card with a silver metallic disc embedded in the center, an access passkey. It would get her into the city.

  She stuffed the card into her khaki cargo pants and decided to get the hell out of this house. These types usually had friends, and she didn’t want to wait around until they showed up.

  Treading carefully down the decaying wooden steps into the darkness of the front yard, she stopped to listen for the sound of anyone lurking. The night was silent. She looked off into the distance at the glowing city lights. Somewhere inside those walls her little brother Ray was about to lose his life. No one could save him but her. No one would want to.

  Under a haloed, full moon, Dia used a rag to wipe the blood off her club before jamming it into the elastic sling on her backpack. She threw a leg over her bike, pumped the pedals to get some speed, clicked the shifters to top gear, and drove her legs hard.

  Once out of the decayed neighborhood, she slowed her pace and settled in for the long ride. It was about thirty miles to the next safe encampment. There she could find some food and rest for the night.

  She climbed the long hill onto the old Interstate and had a clear view of the city in the distance. New York City was the largest of the United Seven Cities. The only cities that remained under civil control after the meltdown were New York, Boston, Chicago, Washington D.C., St. Louis, Dallas, and Los Angeles. There were rumors going around that Atlanta and several other southeastern cities were making a comeback, and that they were not going to be under control of the government.

  She was somewhere in Pennsylvania. The fires from the next out-town were now visible as she crested a hill. A sigh of relief washed over her. Hunger had set in, and even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t make it all the way to the New York City annex tonight.

  The night was sticky-hot, and the breeze of the bike ride was welcome. The smell of the fires up ahead started to grow. Out here in the sift there were few more welcome things than a series of burning fires lighting up the dark nights.

  Electricity wasn’t c
ommon out here and was generally reserved for heating in the winter months of a few choice places. It consisted mostly of solar power, designed and built by the supposed dumb people who had nothing to offer a civilized society.

  Dia approached the sentry with caution. He was a tall, thin man with a shaved head. His narrow face had a jagged scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to his eye.

  “State your business.” He stood in her path, rifle at the ready.

  Dia stopped her bike and touched one foot to the ground. “I’m passing through on my way into the city. I’m looking for a night’s sleep and a fresh meal.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dia Demarco.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Morristown, in old New Jersey.”

  The man cocked his head. “An old towner, huh? You don’t look that old.”

  “I’m older than I look.” Dia moved her hair out of her face.

  “If you’re from New Jersey, what’s the name of the last western annexed town?”

  Dia thought for a second. “Whippany? No, wait, Denville?”

  The man smiled, nodded. “Okay, that’s close enough. You’re on your way to the city, for what purpose?”

  She was careful not to give away the fact she had a sector card. Someone would slit her throat for that card. “I heard of some work at the annex border.”

  He turned a frown. “You’re not a hooker, are you? We don’t allow working girls here in this encampment. Now—now understand we don’t have a problem with the profession, but we have a lot of children and families here, and we just don’t want that kind of business, the element it brings. You understand.”

  “No sir, that’s not me. I work in personal security.”

  He laughed, eyed her up and down. “You don’t look like someone in that line of work.”

  “I’m tougher than I look.” She wasn’t lying. Her father had been teaching her various martial arts since she was three years old. He may have just been an auto mechanic who was not rich enough to get the golden ticket, but he was stationed in Japan while in the Navy and fell in love with the culture and a half-Japanese beauty queen. Dia was a rather indistinguishable mix of Japanese, French, Dutch, Italian, Spanish, Scottish, and Irish. She was a complete and total American mutt, which also made her a world refugee.

  After giving her a long looking over, the man finally held out his hand. “The name’s Calvin Bolton, everyone just calls me Bolt.”

  Dia shook his outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, Bolt.”

  He turned and pointed down the road. “You’ll find some of the finest food down just past the third fire, and lodging down in those colonial houses on the corners. Ask for Sabrina, she’ll take care of you.” He gave her a military-style salute. “Travel well, Dia.”

  She mounted her bicycle and rode off slowly into a typical suburban American neighborhood. Dia could imagine every one of these houses with people watching television, surfing the Internet, and playing video games. That’s how it was when she was a kid, which was not all that long ago.

  Passing by a modest white ranch house, she stopped. It reminded her of the house she’d grown up in. There was a plastic planter at the edge of the yard, broken, with dirt spilling out of the side. Her mother had one just like it in which she used to keep a bonsai tree. Many hours were spent cutting and shaping that tree. The thought was happy at first but turned sad quickly, so she pushed on.

  The world had gotten so far from where it was just a few years ago. After the solar storms that knocked out most of the power grids, the government oppression started in earnest. The economic collapse gave them all the ammunition they needed to take over in a way no one thought they would or could.

  At first they vowed to restore electricity to the entire country, city-by-city. Just when things were at their worst, the meteor showers brought a real end of the world scenario. Society was already reeling, and it was just too much to take. It degenerated far more quickly than anyone could have foreseen. No one would have believed the great American empire was so fragile.

  Dia reached the third fire and a small stand where a large mahogany-skinned woman was chopping vegetables on a table by lamplight. Chicken pieces were grilling on a large barbeque that threw off a ton of heat into the already warm night.

  After leaning her bike up against the stand, Dia fished into her pocket for some coins. “How much for a plate?”

  The woman smiled. “How much can you spare, darlin’?”

  Dia curled her lips on one side. “How about thirty cents?”

  The woman nodded. “I think we can do that.” She plucked a plastic plate off a stack and added a scoop of mixed vegetables that consisted of peas, corn, carrots, broccoli, and green beans. She took a hand-sized potato off the grill and added a chicken breast. Dia placed the money in a plastic jug on the counter and took her plate.

  “Do you know where I can find Sabrina?” Dia eased onto one of the stools at the food counter and started eating.

  The woman pointed with a spoon. “Down to the next block, you’ll see some old gas lanterns, six of them. There’s a tenement there where you can sleep. Sabrina will be outside on the sidewalk. She looks just like me, only taller. She’s my baby sister. My name is Zelda. If you need anything else, you just ask. Okay, honey?”

  “Thanks.”

  Zelda tossed another chicken piece on the fire. “So what’s your name and where you headin’ to?”

  “I’m Dia, into the city.”

  “Traveling alone?”

  Dia forked some veggies into her mouth and nodded.

  “You should be careful outside the encamps. There’s a big lot of nasty types just past us before you get into Jersey. Don’t stop on that river bridge.”

  “I’m used to dealing with them.”

  Zelda laughed. “You don’t look like you’ve crossed with those types.”

  “I’ve crossed plenty.”

  “Well, far be it from me to ever judge a book by its cover. But you understand my sentiment. I see a young girl alone out here and I worry.”

  Dia nodded. “I get it. I look like a kid, but I’m not. I’ve been around the block a few times.”

  Zelda firmed her lips. “I bet you can handle yourself just fine. You’ve got that wiry, strong look about you.”

  “I like to stay sharp.”

  Zelda smiled. “That’s admirable. I should make that more of a priority myself.” She patted her round belly. “Where’re you from, Dia?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “Oh? What brought you west?”

  Dia tore off a bite of chicken with her teeth. “I go where the work is.”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I do whatever it takes to make a buck.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s one of those evasive answers I usually get from the men who come through here, or the working girls. You’re not a working girl, are you?”

  “No ma’am. I work in personal security.”

  “That’s a tough job for a young girl.”

  “I’m not that young, I’m twenty-one.”

  Zelda huffed. “Oh child, that’s very young when you hit my age.”

  Dia looked up at her. “You don’t look that old.”

  “Well, bless your heart—and this very forgiving lighting, but I’m on the north side of sixty, so twenty-anything is very young to me.”

  Dia took a few sips of water and cleaned her plate. “Thanks, Zelda, the meal was terrific.”

  “I barbeque a mean chicken.”

  “Yeah, you do.” Dia smiled, nodded, and climbed aboard her bike.

  Zelda waved. “Travel well, Dia.”

  She rode down the block to the tenement and discussed the cost for the night’s stay. Her payment would be settled by spending at least one hour in the morning picking vegetables from the community garden, and stacking boxes of supplies that had arrived from the annex. It was a fair deal for a good night’s sleep. She was going to need it
. The days ahead were going to be long and violent.

  Chapter 2

  Tallon slid his thumb across the edge of the blade. He then moved the knife a few more times over the stone. It was as sharp as it was going to get. With practiced precision, he flicked the knife into the air. It flashed across the room and stuck into the wooden pole, inches from the other three knives. The rough oak post had no business in the clean, modern setting of this corporate environment, but then neither did he.

  He picked up the next knife and continued the process. It was meditative work, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. This room was purpose-built for quiet relaxation. He’d usurped what used to be a supply room a couple years ago and made it his nook away from the chaos. He didn’t particularly care for the city noise most of the time. If he could complete a few more side jobs, there would be enough cash in his nest egg to get out of the city altogether. Everyone outside was clamoring to get in; he just wanted to get out.

  Knowing the truth about the world outside the city kept him going. Because if he resigned himself like the rest of the automatons that the government controlled cities were the only place worth living, that disease and plague were out there waiting to attack, he might just put a bullet in his head.

  Someone pounded on his door. He didn’t flinch. A muffled voice demanded something, but whoever spoke those words was wasting their breath. He was not about to open the door until he was finished.

  He flipped the knife and started honing the other edge, carefully dragging the steel across the stone with a shnip-shnip. When that one was completed, he flicked it into the post with the others. He didn’t miss often.

  This set of throwing knives was given to him many years ago. They were his fifteenth birthday present from his father. He’ll never forget that family vacation to Florida. It was one of the few they’d ever really had. His father was always so busy with work, most of their vacations were spent on some military base.