The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Greene, Daniel

  “You bet we will.” They shared a laugh.

  He dragged her around a smoldering fire pit. Two men were chained to a wooden pole in the middle of the camp. On one side, a battered black and blue face looked up at her.

  “Gwwwen,” the man cried, his voice parched.

  “Ahmed?” Gwen said. She pulled back on her rope. “Ahmed?” she shrieked. His face was a puffed blackish purple. It had swollen to double its normal size. Puck yanked her chain forward, jolting her neck.

  “Come on,” he grunted.

  The other battered figure stirred. “I’ll kill you,” Mauser shouted from the other side of the pole. Gwen tried to keep him in view, twisting and turning on her rope, hands wrapped around it.

  “Mauser, help me,” she called to him. Mauser wrestled with his chains. Puck smacked her across her face. Stars appeared in her eyes.

  “No more yelling. You act out, you and your friends suffer,” he grumbled. Gwen’s cheek felt like it was on fire. An arm wrapped around her waist and he lifted her up on his shoulder.

  “Casey. You wanna quiet them down a bit?”

  “Be my pleasure,” Casey said. He turned and yelled, “Henry, get the sticks.”

  He carried her the rest of the way to the cabin. Its wooden door banged open and he turned sideways to get her inside.

  He’s going to do it now. I can’t be here. Her mind raced not allowing any true thought or purpose to emerge victorious. He set her down and a big hand guided her to a chair. Her feet unwillingly baby-stepped.

  “Sit,” he grunted. He nudged her near a faded blue wooden chair at a dingy yellow kitchen table.

  She sat, hands on her lap. She stole a glance at the photograph before bowing her head.

  The cabin was small, with only a single open room. Puck tended to a metal wood stove resting on cement pieces in the corner. On the other side of the room, sat a full-sized bed, its rusted metal frame foreboding. She averted her gaze as he moved around the room.

  A plate of food dropped in front of her and she jumped. Baked beans, some sort of mystery meat, and canned corn. She tried to resist the wonderful aroma. It had been days since she last ate. The stress, the terror, and the pain begged her to dig in. Eat up, Gwen, her mind mocked her. You don’t know when you are going to eat again. This could be your last meal. She averted her eyes away from the tantalizing food.

  Puck’s dark eyes weighed her like a grizzly bear eying a tasty grub. He lost interest and dug in. He shoveled some meat into his mouth, slurping up some juices.

  “Eat,” he said, chewing his food with his mouth open. His mouth stayed open to breathe in between chews. She stared past him, neither seeing him nor the food, using every inch of will she had to hold back. This could be my only meal from here on out. If I give in, I will be doing what he wants. Bowing down to his rule over me.

  “Eat,” he commanded.

  The food looked processed, disgusting, sweet, and delicious at the same time. The smells of beans tickled her nostrils, egging her on. She never thought a baked bean would smell so succulent. That little maroon oval-shaped mushy bean. Maybe if I eat a little to keep up my strength. No one could blame me for that.

  She poked a single bean with her fork and placed the miniature morsel of food into her mouth. Smokey barbecue flavor exploded onto her taste buds. The bean crushed on her salivating tongue and was gone.

  The temptation was too much. Her stomach roared, as she scooped up beans onto her fork, using her thumb as a backdrop. She inhaled the food. Puck smiled through his dark beard.

  “I like a woman who eats,” he drawled out.

  I could give a rat’s ass what you like. She smiled back at him, attempting to be sweeter than a cupcake. Just keep the food coming, Fatty. The food went down in huge chunks and soon she was holding out an empty plate.

  “More?” Puck laughed. “HAHAHA. You do like to eat,” he exclaimed. He rose to slop more food on her plate. She faked a smile at him as he brought her food. When I get a chance, I am going to kill you. She ate another whole plate of Hilltop Special.

  When she was done, Gwen felt hundreds of times better with food in her belly, but deep down she had a keen sense that in some way she had betrayed everyone she cared about.

  She leaned back, taking in the meager surroundings, acutely aware that she was almost naked. Folding her arms across her chest, she tried to cover her skin. Puck’s eyes licked her exposed flesh. Unlike the rest of her body, her cheeks grew hot.

  He stood up and grabbed a dirty dress that was draped across the bed. It had ruffled shoulders and a splayed-out hem with a bow in front, as if its former owner had walked off the set of a prom in a 1980s coming-of-age film.

  “Put this on. I like my girl all dressed up,” Puck said.

  “That?” she said. If it wasn’t him asking, she would have laughed.

  His face spelled evil. “Yeah,” he muttered.

  “Of course,” she hummed as sweetly as possible. Better than being half-naked, or is this a way to get me all the way naked? Gwen turned her back to him, letting her soiled nightgown fall to the floor. Goose bumps formed on her exposed skin. She slid the dress over her hips and pulled the straps onto her shoulders. Pretending to fix the dress, she tucked the rolled-up photograph into her chest. The weight of his eyes rested on her backside.

  “Let me see your front,” he growled.

  Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself. Her friends depended on it. She needed to earn his trust. Trust equals freedom. She smoothed the front of her dress and spun around, giving a winning smile with a bat of her eyelashes and a curtsy. The shoulder of her dress slipped off, and with all the grace she could muster she put it back in place. Puck’s eyes widened a little.

  “So Puck, what do you have in store for us tonight?” she asked. The dress whisked as she walked back and took a seat back at the table.

  “I’m gonna go check the fences. You get to stay here,” he said.

  Perfect. If she was alone, she could figure out some sort of escape plan.

  “You like parties?” he asked.

  “I just love parties,” she replied, playing it up. She tried to give him a genuine smile. Please don’t give me away. He rose up and moved close. His heavy body odor oppressed her. It took every ounce of her strength to not turn away in disgust.

  “Not my kind of party,” he said. His fingers wrapped around her wrist.

  “Ow. That hurts,” she complained. Her nails dug into his hand. Puck ignored her pleas. He pulled her upright. Her feet slid out from beneath her as she struggled to gain footing. He was a tsunami of mountain man driving her for the bed. No, no, she thought. This can’t be happening.

  He shoved her down onto the lumpy mattress. Its damp musty smell penetrated her nostrils. One at a time he pinned each of her wrists, his hand engulfing both of hers with ease. She kicked out at him, her foot bouncing off his side harmless. His eyes held an eerie look as if he was only doing a day’s work.

  “Stop. Stop. No!” she shouted.

  “Hold still, bitch,” he snarled. He clicked a handcuff around her wrist and another around the metal bed frame. She struck out at him again and he dodged her by stepping back. He smiled down at her and surveyed his work.

  “Lotta spunk in you.” He laughed. He leaned in close, gripping her face so she couldn’t pull away, and kissed her. A slimy tongue speared into her mouth. He held it for what seemed to be an eternity until he let her go.

  “Feels like true love,” he said and walked out. She half-sat half-laid on the bed and cried. Why did I fight so hard for this?

  STEELE

  Wilderness of West Virginia

  Steele stalked along the outside of the prefabricated house. His breath fogged in mini clouds, disappearing in the night. He ran a hand along the vinyl siding, using it to keep himself upright. Peering through the windows, he looked for any signs of life, dead or otherwise. Stalking around in the night in only my underwear, covered in blood. I might earn myself a bullet.


  Steele worked his way to the back of the building. Nothing sat in the dirt driveway. Wood was stacked in a pile near the back door. Looks like somebody was here recently. No matter, they’re probably dead now.

  Gripping his knife, he tested the sliding glass door. His hand shook. Locked. Slowly, he crept around the house, trying windows like a thief. Eventually he came to a bedroom window that was cracked open. He pushed it up with a shaky hand. He stood on his tiptoes and hauled himself through. Cologne and other trinkets tumbled from the top of a dresser he landed on. They rolled to a stop on the floor.

  Silence responded. Unnerving, dead silence. Fuck, if somebody is in here, they know I am too.

  Steele stood still and listened for movement in the next room. He expected the low scrape of the infected dragging themselves across the floor. The grind of dead feet followed by them smashing through the door. Silence. Steele lowered the window.

  In the dim light, he could make out a queen-sized bed, a TV on a stand, and a bedside table. Movie posters adorned the walls, and nothing really matched as if the owner had bought their items piecemeal. Looks like my place before Gwen.

  Steele beelined for what he hoped to be a man’s closet. He ripped open the doors and began flipped through clothes. Anything warm. Steele thumbed through shirts, trying not to screech the hangers across the metal, until he came across the thick fuzzy familiar feeling of a flannel and threw it over his filthy body. Not a bad fit. He held out his arms and the sleeves dangled long past his fingertips. He rolled them up.

  His hands patted the man’s top shelf. His fingers wrapped around a pair of pants. He kicked his boots off and slipped on the jeans and cuffed the bottoms. It will do. Better than freezing to death. He snagged a checkered blanket off the man’s bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, letting the warmth of civilized humanity embrace him. Better than you sorry bastards outside.

  Clutching his knife, he inched open the bedroom door to the living area. A simple beige pleather couch with another TV sat in the living room that was connected together with the kitchen. His eyes settled on the Holy Grail. A simple white stacked refrigerator. Food. Steele’s feet stuck to the linoleum as he walked through the kitchen. With each step, his feet quietly stuck and ripped free.

  As he got closer to potential food, his stomach rumbled violently to remind him he hadn’t eaten in what seemed like eternity.

  “Okay, okay,” he whispered to himself. He opened the fridge. Light poured forth. Steele quickly closed it. Leave it open and risk attracting the worst this area has to offer with only a knife to fight them, or find food elsewhere. He flung open cupboard doors in search of sustenance. He crouched down, and dug through a bunch of canned goods. Hundreds of cans lined the pantry. Not bad. The old canned food bachelor diet.

  Steele smiled when he came across a can with a big grizzly bear on the front. Bear’s Homestyle Chili. Not the healthiest of foods, but packed with protein and carbs. Nutrients he needed to survive. Nutrients he needed to heal. It was also packed with beans. No one but me, so I can let ’em rip.

  “There’s gotta be a can opener around here somewhere,” he whispered. He rifled through a drawer. His brow creased with agitation when he didn’t find one right away. Come on, dude, he thought. This guy has all these cans and no fucking can opener?

  “You’re holding a knife,” he said aloud. He cleaned it quick. His mind struggled. He already held a tool that could solve this problem, his razor-sharp knife that could easily cut through aluminum cans. He punched the blade through the top of the can and sawed through the metal. A spicy, meaty aroma filled his nostrils as he removed the lid, and he didn’t even bother to look for utensils. He tipped the can back and let the chili fall into his mouth.

  He chewed with his mouth open, smacking his lips with satisfaction. Wiping his face, he thought of the next rung on his survival hierarchy. A weapon. He needed something other than his knife. He tiptoed from space to space. He opened drawers, crawled into closets, looked under the man’s mattress. He was sure it was a man now. There was no way a woman had both an Xbox One and a PlayStation 4. Plenty of games, but no weapons. Nothing. Steele laughed to himself. This must be the only household in West Virginia that didn’t have a friggin’ gun in it. Can’t Molon Labe them if you don’t got them.

  In the end, Steele held a bottle of whiskey and a small flashlight for all his effort.

  He tiptoed his way to the single bathroom and rummaged through the man’s meager supplies, but only managed to find a few gauze pads, some bandages, and antiseptic spray.

  He shined his flashlight in the bathroom mirror illuminating his face in the reflection, and almost puked. One of the dead stood in his place. Gaunt, thin, and ravaged by the elements. A ghost of some forgotten battlefield. Dried black blood flaked down his face and had streaked his beard with dark shades of red. His skin was pale, his eyes were sunken, and the gash across his skull was fresh. If he was ever handsome, no one would call him that now. Disfigured at best.

  He leaned into the mirror, the flashlight glowing on his face as if he told a ghost story. The wound started at his hair line and went back at a slight angle to the left. Back and to the left. Skin and hair had been dug out to either side, leaving a divot on his head. Whiteness was exposed on top like an amateur golfer had hacked up the fairway of his head. It looks like I took a bullet to the head.

  Steele lightly touched the top of the wound and pain shot down his neck, taking his breath away. Fucking A. I got shot. He took a breath. In the head.

  I’m lucky the perpetrator wasn’t a better shot or I would be dead. Or I should be thankful that bullets do weird things sometimes after you fire them. This thick fucking skull of mine finally paid off. Gwen will get a kick out of that. The thought of her made his gut grind.

  “Please God, let them be alive,” he said to his horrible reflection. Only his destroyed face stared back. No answers, only pain in his eyes.

  “They would have taken you with them.” He looked away from his reflection. “Or at least buried me.” Unless Gwen was trying to break up with me. Damn, couldn’t have just sent a text or something?

  “They left me naked on the side of the road.” No, they wouldn’t have done that. Tears welled up in his eyes. They couldn’t have. He crushed the counter in his hands to reassure himself.

  “They are still alive. I will find them,” he muttered. No time for feelings. Can’t find them if I’m dead. He snagged a worn washcloth out of the linen closet.

  “We will get out of this shit,” he said, as he prepared himself for more pain. You are already dead, the back of his mind whispered.

  Steele cracked open the bottle of whiskey and took a few pulls. The fiery liquid singed his throat all the way down to his belly. He dabbed the washcloth with water and as tenderly as he could, cleaned the wound.

  Although a dirty scab was forming, the skin around the wound was frayed and puckered. Pain shot through his body over and over, and soon the wound leaked blood on his face. He shoved gauze into the wound, and when it was as clean as he could make it, he took a long pull of whiskey and poured a bunch over his head: the most painful pull he ever took. He puked in the toilet, water and vomit splashing. His abs contracted into small orbs of muscle over and over. The sight and smell of the chili and whiskey coming up made him retch again.

  For three horrible minutes, he stood over the toilet, about to pass out, staring down at his own filth. Not as good coming up. He composed himself and wrapped his head with the white bandages. Now he had to try and keep it clean so he didn’t die a horrible feverish death from an infection. His stomach rumbled again. So he made his way to the pantry, this time opting for a can of chicken noodle soup. He slurped the soup down. The broth eased his troubled stomach, and his body immediately fell into exhaustion.

  He made for the bedroom with only one intent. He sat on the bed. Not bad, he thought, bouncing up and down, but he didn’t really care. Anything was preferable to outside or the hard cushions of the mobile lo
unge. He crawled under the covers and snuggled in. He was out before he could think about how tired he was.

  Fevered dreams plagued him, but they weren’t dreams. They were nightmares. The dead came for him, except they were his friends. They came in waves. First, an almost unrecognizable Jarl came for him. Most the flesh from his body was gone like he was a giant bleeding heap of bones and muscle. His squad mate, who had died in their escape from Mount Eden, snapped Steele’s bones one by one like twigs. Wheeler came next, pale as a ghost. He was shirtless and his chest was collapsed on one side from where a terrorist’s knife had punctured his lung. Bandages hung off the wound as if they’d been ripped away in a crazed attack. He stuck his hands deep into Steele’s guts as if he tried to see what Steele was made of.

  Gwen, along with the other survivors, came for him at once. Gwen wore a blue prom dress, her skin the color of a porcelain doll. Her eyes showed nothing for him aside from death. She let out an unholy wail as she led the rest of his friends for him.

  They beckoned him to join the ranks of the unhallowed. They reached for him and, through tears, he fought and pushed and shoved them. Nothing he did deterred his army of undead friends. They reached with bloodied arms, smiled with crimson grins. Their decaying bodies pressed forward, and he retreated backward until he could go no further, his back against a fiery wall.

  “No. Stay back,” he screamed at the them. Haze filled his dream and all his friends were gone. A booted man in tactical gear walked closer to him. Reddish hair. Tattoos running down both his arms. A swagger that only a seasoned warrior could carry successfully.

  “Mauser,” Steele echoed. Mauser stepped closer out of the fog. His face pale. He was like a ghost.

  “Are you okay?” Steele said into the nothing. Mauser was silent and only stood, facing Steele. His eyes never left Steele’s as if his friend waited for him to say something.

  After a moment, Mauser brought a hand to his chest and his fingers revealed bright cardinal red that popped out in the cloud of gray that surrounded them. Steele blinked and when he opened his eyes, Mauser was closer. He thrust his bloodied hand into Steele’s, bloody stickiness locking the two together.