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

by Greene, Daniel

  He watched as one tried to climb the hill. After shuffling up four feet, the infected man stumbled, crashing onto his hands and knees. Clawing his way up the sandy cliff, he tumbled backwards, rolling down like a log.

  How are we losing?

  Sand flew into the air as the infected tumbled, arms flailing. He got up again and repeated the clumsy process.

  They will never surrender. They will never give up until we are all dead. How do we continue this fight knowing our enemy will never give up? The only option is for us to never admit defeat. Go toe-to-toe with the bastards. Until we win or we all disappear. Maybe we’re the crazy ones to want to continue on in this world.

  He lowered his M4 carbine and gave a quick wave to his comrades with a quick bend of his fingers in their direction. Kevin groaned when he saw all the steps to the bottom of the beach.

  “We can’t go along the cliff?” Kevin whispered.

  “The beach is clear ahead of them,” he said. He waved down the beach. Most of the infected clustered near the steps they had gone up the night before. “Now, let’s move, soldier.”

  “I’m not a soldier,” Kevin retorted.

  “You want to read history or make it?” Steele said.

  “I prefer a more leisurely pace with fewer steps.”

  Steele gave him a grin and gentle shove. They rucked down to the beach in single file.

  Reaching the bottom, their feet sank into the loose sand of the pristine beach. Their footprints would be swept away by fresh water in the night. The weight of their packs pushed them deeper into the sand, making each step more difficult than the last, as if each tiny grain of sand wished to slow them down by crumbling and giving way beneath them.

  “Wish we would have stayed at the top,” Kevin complained.

  Steele ignored him. Within no time, sweat trickled down Steele’s back settling into his military loaned already sweat-stained ACUs.

  A plume of smoke rose in the distance, a dissipating black snake in the sky. A smoky stink hung in the air, refusing to fade away. It worried him. He knew it was from the fire they had seen the night before. Not knowing who had set it or why started to pummel his nerves. Burning bodies? He sniffed the air hard. The sickening scent of burnt human flesh was not present. Were they smoking someone out of hiding?

  Plowing forward underneath the weight of their packs and the impending dread of what they might find, the small group trekked across the sand. The clouds of billowing black smoke grew larger, warning them to stay away, but they kept moving. Idleness was death. Step-by-step, they marched closer to his mother’s lake house. Each step made his heart hammer faster, and an excited fear rose up inside him.

  Miles later, Steele halted them with a tight fist in the air. The smell of burnt timber was thick. The smoke was a visible fog enveloping the surrounding sandy cliff.

  A single dead oak tree sat upright in the sand. It had been there as long as Steele could remember. As a kid, he would throw his towel over its low-hanging branches that had been eroded by wind and rain over its decades of life. These low sun bleached-white branches had still been sturdy enough to support the weight of their beach bags and belongings, keeping them from getting sandy in the summer.

  This is my beach. That is my old oak. We’re here. He watched the beach, trying to digest the thousands of thoughts shooting through his mind.

  “What’s the matter?” Gwen asked. She hadn’t been there enough to know the difference between the miles of beach they had traversed.

  “This is my beach,” he said, voice flat. Almost as if he didn’t believe it.

  She coughed, covering her mouth from the smoke. “We’re here? I thought we were still a few miles out.”

  “So did I.”

  A lone moan floated along, gliding to their ears. Steele ignored the unhallowed voice. He was fixated on the bleached tree and the palm-like dune grass that led up his hill. One hundred and twelve wooden steps that he painted summer after summer led up the cliff to his family’s home.

  “Up those stairs is my mother’s place.” The deep lonesome moan was echoed by a second and a third.

  All of Steele’s party scanned the dunes looking for the culprits. Their carbines were held in the low ready. The undead offered nothing but more death.

  “Nothing too drastic. Stay together in a tight group. Don’t let any get behind us,” he said, tasting the smoke in the back of his throat.

  A head wobbled near his dead oak tree. That’s my tree. He made for the lakeside steps only to see the bobbing heads of more infected crossing the dunes for him. His hand found the tomahawk on his hip. It screamed for the blood of the dead, electrifying beneath his hand. He let it free and it almost hummed in anticipation.

  “Let’s keep it quiet as long as we can,” he said over his shoulder. He crested the top of the dune. The number of dead surprised him. They clustered over the dunes farther down the beach. Must be the fire drawing them in.

  Steele cut into the group of infected. He chopped down hard, his tomahawk sticking for a moment before he ripped it free again. He sliced diagonally through the air left and right, catching another infected in the face. The blade stuck in the creature’s cheekbone, and Steele felt the rotting bone shatter. A hand blurred by Steele’s face as Ahmed jabbed another under the chin, his blade running into its brain. Gwen grunted as she jammed the point of her dagger into an infected rounding the tree. She pushed the body back down. The infected knocked into the tree and collapsed.

  “Steele!” Kevin shouted, his voice low. He pointed down the beach. Infected bounded up and over grassy dunes, many more than Steele cared to get up close with.

  Steele glanced over at Gwen and then at the others. “Go hot,” he shouted, slipping the tomahawk back into his belt.

  Steele moved at the high ready, keeping his carbine pressed to his shoulder, his left hand grasping the fore grip, right hand resting on the pistol grip stock of his M4 carbine. The first infected down the dune crumpled into a pile of gutless meat, its eye disintegrated by his hot 5.56 round. Crack. Crack. His shoulder easily accepted the recoil of the piston-run long gun. His body was built for fighting. Bounding up the dune, he reached its crest with a snarl.

  “This is my beach!” he screamed at them. Dead soapy white eyes stared at him, unknowing of anything except death. Fleshless decrepit fingers spread wide for him.

  Again and again his carbine barked, followed by the pops of the rest of his group behind him. Still more came over the sandy dunes.

  “Forget it. Make for the stairs,” he shouted and they ran. “Move, move, move,” he yelled at them. He pushed them up the steps and they huffed by him. He took the rear. Press. Pause. Press. A moaning infected, its skin hanging from its chewed open jowls fell forward, feet kicking up behind it as it dropped headless to the ground.

  Feet clicked off the brown-stained wooden steps as they ran for the top. Steele checked his six a few times making sure they were not followed. His thighs quivered as he churned out step after step. Soon he caught up with the rest, everyone’s bodies exhausted by their heavy packs, dogging it up the steps.

  The last flight of stairs was shrouded in smoke like a gray funeral shroud, an acidic chemical burning their eyes and stinging their nostrils. Gwen coughed, covering her mouth with her sleeve as she walked.

  “A few more steps,” Ahmed said, breathing hard and pushing up Gwen’s pack as they crested the cliff. Steele’s heart thumped in his chest trying to get enough blood and oxygen to his muscles. His three comrades stood on the top landing waiting, all eyes preoccupied.

  Steele bent down, sighting up the infected that struggled even slower up the stairs. He exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The lead infected fell backwards, mangling the other infected in a mass of limbs as they rolled down the steps. He turned around when he heard Gwen gasp.

  “What?” Steele shouted, pounding out rest of the steps.

  Ahmed looked at Steele fast approaching with fear in his eyes.

  “What?”
he said. He took the final few steps in groups of two.

  He crested the cliff edge.

  Gwen’s hand instinctively covered her mouth. Kevin peered at the ground. Ahmed put a hand on Steele’s chest. “Steele, man. Let’s take this slow.” Steele removed his hand with more force than he would have liked, unable to take his eyes off the destruction before him.

  “Don’t,” was all Steele could squeeze out.

  The house was a charred, blackened foundation of what used to be an exquisite log cabin. Around the edge, tan, round full logs lay scorched, cracked, and broken. His childhood sanctuary lay in ruins before him. His only place of refuge. The place where he found peace. He ran forward.

  “Mom?” he said at the rubble.

  “Mark, no,” Gwen said softly. He breezed past her.

  “Mom?” he shouted louder.

  Heat emanated from the structure like he was next to a blazing fireplace. He raced around the sides of the building looking for any signs of her. The woman that had raised him. The woman that had loved him unconditionally as only a mother could. The mother that supported him when he decided to join the Division instead of playing it safe as a teacher or lawyer.

  He looked over at her neighbor Jim’s house. The large white-and-green lake house stood, still intact. Hope bubbled inside him. Maybe she’s there. Or somewhere else.

  “Mom?” he called out.

  Gwen walked near the ruins. “Mary?” Gwen called out behind him. “Kevin and Ahmed, check that house,” she said. The two men jogged off.

  No one returned his calls. The only sounds filling the air were the soft crackle of wood, the waves of the lake, and the moans of the infected at the bottom of the steps.

  He paced near the burnt down home until the two men returned, unable to comprehend the scene ahead of him. A somber Kevin shook his head no, and the bubble of hope in Steele’s chest popped. He stopped pacing and his eyes felt distant and unfocused. His M4 dropped from his hands. The sling did its job and the gun swung down at his side. His hands dug into the smoldering charred wood as he searched for anything to solve this mystery. He threw pieces to his sides, looking for something to prove him wrong, something to prove that this wasn’t his house.

  “Mom. I’m here!” he shouted. His voice was absorbed by the black hole of the ruined structure. He could hear the others shouting his mother’s name, but he ignored them. Piece after piece he tossed behind him until his hands were black and scalded, and his clothes filthy with soot.

  Exhausted, he dropped to his knees in tall grass badly in need of a cut. What happened? Where is she? Who did this?

  “Steele, check this out,” Ahmed yelled from the garage.

  Steele pushed himself up off the ground and stumbled for Ahmed. His mind was a foggy mess of confusion and questions.

  Ahmed stood near the garage next to the front lawn looking down at the ground. “Look.” Ahmed pointed at the ground. Deep tire treads lined the grass and earth, not bothering the driveway. Long ago, his father would have murdered whoever had destroyed his well-groomed lawn.

  “Over here too,” shouted Kevin. The lanky man kicked at the ground. Steele was a bloodhound on the trail, his mind a blind haze going from track to track.

  “Must be at least a dozen vehicles,” Ahmed said. Steele bent down, feeling the earth that was now a clue to finding his mother.

  “There’s some single tracks over here,” Kevin shouted.

  Steele stared at him. “Someone knows what happened here, and I will find them,” Steele muttered with bloodshot eyes. “Come on.”

  TESS

  Northern Michigan

  Squeezing her knuckles, Tess pushed them in until they popped one by one down the breadth of her hand. Faces formed a continuous crowd around her. Just outside their rowdy ring was a tall maroon-bricked lighthouse that spired for the sky. People at the top leaned over the black railing, ringing the observation deck.

  The faces around her laughed, yelled, and pushed, trying to get a view of the entertainment. Tess wiped a hand through her thin short hair, letting the grease from not bathing hold it slicked back.

  A big fat woman stood across from her. Big Bessie was a truck driver and new to the camp, bringing in a large supply of non-perishable food from the local grocery store Edmund’s in Muskegon. Her chins doubled up upon other chins. “Bring it on, you fuckin’ twat,” Big Bessie shouted at her. She raised her big bloated arms up and down beneath a crudely cut off long sleeve shirt to fire the crowd up.

  They cheered.

  “I got a can of tuna on Bessie!” shouted a man.

  “Double or nothing Bessie breaks her tiny little arm,” said another.

  Ye of little faith.

  Two gamblers shook hands on the wager.

  Tess gave Bessie an ever-so-sly smile.

  An attractive lightly-bearded man stood behind her. She turned toward him. He gave her a wide grin, his strong hands taking her slender shoulders in his hands. He massaged her like he was prepping a prize fighter for a fight.

  He leaned close to her face. “You think you can take her?” he said under his breath.

  “She’s all fat. No technique. She’s already lost,” Tess said. She wobbled her neck from side to side while he rubbed her back. Keep it loose.

  “I put a week’s worth of food on it with Randy, so I hope you are right,” he said. She looked over the crowd, locating Randy. He laughed with the rest, already celebrating his victory.

  “What a dick,” she muttered.

  Glancing down at his hands touching her shoulders, she laughed short melodic notes. “I don’t lose, Pagan.”

  “Oh look at the little baby. Needs a little back rub from her pool boy before she gets her arms ripped off,” Bessie roared at her. Bessie’s voice was deep and cracked, having been scarred by years of smoking.

  Tess raised her tattooed arms over her head, stretching. Speed, leverage, and timing were her only weapons. A hundred-and-ten-pound woman wasn’t going to stand a chance against all of Big Bessie’s weight for long. Size mattered, but it could be mitigated with proper technique.

  Tess stalked up to a table that had been set in the middle of the encampment for this single activity. Big Bessie positioned herself at one end and Tess took the other. Wedging her elbow into the table, she locked eyes with Bessie. Bessie’s eyes were the color of a fresh turd. Ugly yellow hair hung down in dirty curls around her shoulders.

  “Look at this girl here,” Bessie wheezed with a sneer. “Little mosquito bites for tits.” The crowd laughed at her insult. “I remember my first beer.”

  “Pagan,” Tess called over her shoulder. “Vodka,” she said coolly.

  Bessie thought this was hilarious and laughed uproariously with the crowd around them. Bikers and woodsmen were the loudest, but most of the people were refugees with nothing to do.

  Pagan slammed down a bottle of 150 proof Whitetail Vodka and set down two shot glasses. The harshest vodka found in the Mitten State. Better off drinking pure gasoline. He poured the vile, clear liquid in both glasses. It smelled like a blend of fuel and rubbing alcohol; it probably could be used as both in a pinch.

  Tess grasped a glass with slender fingers. Don’t think about it. She threw it back and the booze burnt the length of her throat like she had swallowed fire. Bessie reached for the other shot glass, but before she could wrap her pudgy fingers around it, Tess had scooped it up. She smiled at Bessie and tossed that one back as well. Bessie smirked.

  “So the little thing can drink a bit,” Bessie grunted.

  Tess smirked back. “Fill it up again,” Tess commanded. Her eyes never left Bessie’s round, plump face.

  “Hahaha,” Bessie chuckled. “Fill it up, pretty boy.” She made kissing noises at Pagan.

  Tess inwardly laughed at his discomfort.

  Pagan leaned close, filling them up. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I’m not sure getting drunk is going to help.” He tipped the bottle once and then twice. Bessie swatted at Pagan’s beh
ind. He tolerated her with a mild grin.

  Tess belched rancid fire. “Eyes over here, Big Bessie,” she said, pointing her index and middle fingers at Bessie then back at her own eyes. “He’s mine.” The crowd laughed.

  “Come on, Tess,” Gregor shouted. He was a broad-framed welder from a construction company in Cadillac. Long black hair hung down to his shoulders.

  “Drink it up,” added Garrett. The tall biker smiled in glee through his salt-and-pepper beard. He wore the same black leather vest as the other bikers from the Red Stripes Motorcycle Club.

  Tess threw the next shot back and tossed the glass onto the ground. Before it hit the earth, she was sucking down the next. Shaking her head like a dog, she was ready.

  “Whew,” she shook out.

  Bessie laughed. “Look at her. She can hardly sit in the chair.”

  Tess placed her elbow on the table, exhaling loudly. She glanced from her hand to Bessie and back again.

  Bessie’s elbow thumped down, shaking the table. It trembled under her weight. Her sweaty hand engulfed Tess’s, letting Tess carry the brunt of her fatty arm.

  Thunder, a grizzled gray-bearded biker, pushed his way through the crowd. His leather vest was covered in patches. The largest one was a black skull with its mouth slightly open encased in a diamond of blood-red. Stripes of the same blood-red color lined overtop of the skull. Four small blue naval stars decorated the background.

  He cleared his throat. “Ladies, and I use that term loosely.” Bessie laughed uproariously at the comment, coughed to the side, and hacked a glob of phlegm on the ground.

  “I see plenty of ’em round here,” Tess said, staring up at him. Her eyes dared him to say otherwise. Thunder’s patch-covered motorcycle club vest hung open, revealing a basketball-sized hairy belly. A red bandana held his long graying hair back behind his head.

  “We still can’t confirm if you’re a girl, Miss Tess,” he said with a grin beneath his bushy beard. “Only rules are, feet can’t leave the ground and hands must stay locked together for the entire match. Do you understand?”