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

by Greene, Daniel

  “We’re talking medieval Christians.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “Very uncompromising to say the least.”

  “What’s the matter with the Christians?”

  Maybe he would be better off finding them on his own.

  “Nothing is wrong with being Christian. If that’s where they find salvation, then so be it. I’m surprised they still believe in anything at this point. But these guys,” she said. She shook her head and took a drag off her joint. “These guys have taken worship to a whole new level. We’re talking about waging a holy crusade against the living and the dead. Like they think they’re some sort of army of God or something. I dunno.”

  “I’m not objecting to waging a holy war against the dead,” Steele said, his brow furrowed as if he dared her to say otherwise. “The infected have caused enough grief, and giving some of that back would be nice.”

  Thunder coughed, his beard almost seamless with his gray chest hair. “Nobody minds bashing in a few skulls more than me, Steele. The fewer of the bastards the better, but these folk are none too friendly to outsiders.”

  Pagan rubbed his short beard. “A couple that came in the other day said the crazies burnt down their house. They hid in the forest for hours before they could escape,” he said.

  Mark’s eyes widened.

  “Young couple,” Tess said, shooting him down.

  “When me and the Red Stripes first rode up this way weeks ago, we drove past several burned-out buildings along the coast. And it ain’t just a few of ’em. We seen dozens,” Thunder said.

  Mark took a deep breath. “My mother’s home was torched.”

  “Then it don’t look good,” Thunder said. His hands rested on his knees and his gut hung down the middle as if he could breathe better that way.

  When there was only a tiny prick left, Tess mashed the joint out in her ashtray.

  “Mark, you should spend the night,” Tess said. Gwen’s eyes flamed. A jealous one, huh? “You and your group can rest here, take a load off. Maybe Thunder here would be willing to loan you one of his bikes then you, Pagan, and maybe a few of the Red Stripes can scout around a bit, see what you can discover regarding your mother.”

  “I wouldn’t just loan you a bike,” Thunder boomed. He twisted his head to the side. “But Lenny’s gone now. Bugger got butchered taking a shit in the woods. I told him not to go that far.” Thunder shook his head in disgust. “You can borrow his old chopper, but don’t get any ideas about keeping it.”

  Steele sat, contemplating the overture.

  It’s a good offer, knucklehead, Tess thought, smiling at Steele and then Gwen. I’m giving him what you can’t, her eyes said to Gwen. Tess met Steele’s eyes with ease, feeling coy and mellowed out.

  “I appreciate your help.” He gave a curt nod of thanks.

  Of course you do. Her lips curved. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  STEELE

  Little Sable Point, MI

  Late morning came on slow and dragging like an infected’s leg. The sun hid behind a sheet of cloud cover, and waves splashed onto the shore as if they were reluctant to touch the land.

  Steele had been up with the roosters and had been waiting for the arrival of his reconnaissance escorts. Across the vehicle enclosure, he watched the arrival of Pagan and Thunder. They both looked over in his direction. Steele stood.

  “What do you think they’re talking about?” Gwen said. She sat cross-legged on a blanket in the sand, her M4 resting upright against an RV, almost as if she were at the beach in the summer. Ahmed leaned on the RV nearby, muscular arms crossing his chest. A bat leaned up next to him like a tired lover.

  “Probably the best way to kill me,” Steele responded, watching the men.

  He lifted his carbine sling up and over his shoulders, letting the gun hang low on his back. With a twist of his hips and a reach rearward, he could have the gun back up and ready to fire. He wouldn’t carry a pack today; it was too heavy for a recon mission on a motorcycle. Some extra mags shoved in his pockets made his pants hang low on his waist. His sidearm on one side and his tomahawk on the other were all he needed.

  “You sure you don’t want me to go with? We could ride together. I’ll watch your back,” Ahmed said, hefting his bat and holding it nonchalantly.

  Steele glanced at the man. “Not today, buddy. If we were looking for a fight, I’d bring you with. And I don’t want to give the Red Stripes the wrong idea.”

  Ahmed nodded with a grin. “Since when do you care what other people think?”

  “Since I decided to roll out with a motorcycle club I know nothing about.”

  Steele eyed the bat. Ahmed’s last one had been lost in the hills of West Virginia. “Where’d you get that?”

  “This?” Ahmed held it up. “Traded one of the kids for it.”

  “Traded them what?”

  Ahmed lifted his eyebrows. “What every kid wants. Candy.” Ahmed gestured ahead and Steele turned.

  Pagan made his way toward them walking across the shared grounds. He held an M27 IAR casually draped downward in front of his jeans and a dirty checkered long sleeve. He stopped and stood tall in front of Steele. “You ready?”

  “Yes, sir.” Leaning down, Steele kissed Gwen’s cheek. Her cheek was a cool bottle of milk beneath his lips.

  Her demeanor bothered him. Is this all we have to look forward to? Short goodbyes? Is this all we have until I fall on some soon forgotten battlefield? Her indifference made it a little easier to focus on his mission. Do I fight only to fight? Or am I actually serving a greater purpose?

  “Come back,” she commanded, green eyes pained. Her arms enclosed her stomach as if she protected it. She must feel the same way. She has to feel it. Despair. Fear. But not of death. Of the unknown. He nodded to her and Ahmed. Ahmed understood. He would watch out for her. Just like Mauser had done? Steele swallowed his worry.

  Steele joined Pagan and they walked through beach sand past the rusty-brick colored lighthouse. A thin black gun barrel stuck out of the top like a metal toothpick high in the air.

  “Everyone volunteers to take a shift up in the lighthouse,” Pagan said.

  “Everyone?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Because I know everyone here isn’t a marksman. Probably more likely to fall off the lighthouse than hit anything or anyone.”

  “We have some hunters who are pretty good shots. They don’t have the same formal training as a sniper, but you should see some of the shots these guys take. A lot of them grew up with bolt-action hunting rifles in their hands.”

  “Yeah, my dad used to hunt up here,” Steele said.

  Pagan nodded and patted Steele’s shoulder. “We’ll find them.”

  Not him. Maybe my mother.

  They approached a gang of motorcycles near the entrance to the community. Two pickup trucks parked grille to grille sealed them off from the rest of the world. Despite the lack of adequate cleaning supplies, the gang’s choppers reflected what little pieces of the sun had managed to penetrate the earth’s atmosphere. Silver exhaust pipes shined, gas tanks and fenders were polished bright, and the engines were immaculate.

  “‘Bout damn time. I was beginning to wonder if our prodigal son wasn’t going to show for his scouting trip,” Thunder said. He wore his leather motorcycle club vest over his riding leathers. The Red Stripes tag sat above another that read President on his left breast. Below that, a tag read Thunder. Just below a diamond 13 sat a skull and crossbones on his other breast with an FTW patch below that.

  Steele ground his teeth. “We can take the bikes if you don’t want to risk your neck for us.”

  The club members laughed loud and mean led by Thunder. These men weren’t the least intimidated by Steele’s presence. He had no doubt the club would gang beat him if not kill him if they had the urge. Motorcycle clubs had a strict code of honor that only a member of one could understand, and it was clear Steele was not a part of them.

  “Fucking A, you think I’d let
you take one of the bikes?” Thunder’s belly jiggled with mirth. He turned toward his men. “This guy doesn’t know shit.” He grinned at Steele and shook his head with the amusement of a father watching his toddler. “I’m going to make sure my choppers come back in one piece. Take a look at Lenny’s old bike,” Thunder thundered into a rancorous laugh.

  A motorcycle sat unmanned.

  “This is a sweet ride,” Steele said. He ran a hand along the gas tank. “May I?” he asked. His eyes darted at Thunder, seeing if the man would allow it.

  “Since you asked nicely,” Thunder said, talking down to him. “‘Cause I don’t want you doubling up with any of my guys.”

  Steele threw a leg over the seat, letting his hands rest on the handlebars.

  “Lenny spent every penny he had on Marissa. If I didn’t have my own hog, I’d snatch up this one.” It had a navy blue gas tank accented by two reflective silver exhaust pipes that were shadowed by all black wheels and tires.

  “What kind is it?”

  Thunder laughed. “I’m embarrassed for you. This bike deserves better than you. It’s a Harley Davidson Blackline.” Thunder circled the bike. “Twin Cam 103 V-Twin engine. This thing will ride. Go ahead.” He nodded at Steele.

  Steele turned the key in the ignition. He flipped the kill switch to run, kept it in neutral, and hit the starter. The engine growled to life underneath him. He let it settle on a nice hum.

  “Listen to her purr,” Thunder said with a grin. “Give her some love.”

  Steele twisted the throttle. The engine roared, showing the power of the bike.

  “She’s a beauty,” Steele said.

  “Let’s keep her in one piece,” Thunder said. “Alright lads, mount up,” Thunder called out.

  Three more Red Stripes—grizzled veterans of wars, bar fights, and gang life—saddled up.

  “I want to search north of here,” Steele said.

  Thunder nodded. “All right. Pagan, you roll with Rat-Face and Joker take the south shore. Half-Barrel, you and me are with the FNG. We’re going to have to find you a nickname if you can manage to ride with us.”

  Fucking new guy. Not the first time he’d been called one. Best to let it slide.

  Half-Barrel smiled at Steele. Everything about Half-Barrel suggested he was procreated by bowling balls. His head was the size of a basketball and his body resembled a beer keg. “This wannabe,” he snorted. “Fuckin’ pigs can’t ride. Ha,” he laughed.

  “FNG is fine with me, but let’s go,” Steele said. He added, “We’ve waited long enough.” He could care less about their MC outlaw biker code and nicknames. He wanted to be on the road. He needed to be on the road. If his mother was in danger, then minutes could be the difference between life and death.

  “We’re going to ride up the coast, cut inland, and cross back and forth. About a forty-mile circuit. We should be back by nightfall,” Thunder said.

  “We’ll find her,” Pagan said with a nod. Steele nodded his appreciation.

  “Let’s roll!” Thunder shouted, revving the throttle, and they were off.

  “Keep the rubber side down,” Half-Barrel said. He placed a skullcap atop his melon-sized head.

  “You steal your helmet from a kid?” Steele mocked.

  A disgusted look crossed Half-Barrel’s face. “You’ll be laughing a different tune when you horizontally park that hog. Then Thunder will finish off whatever’s left of you.”

  “Okay, big guy, show me how it’s done.”

  Half-Barrel rolled forward and Steele followed with a rev of his engine.

  They cut down a sidewalk to a parking lot with a single entrance leading into a forest of white pine and maple. The motorcycles glided over the roadway, winding through the trees for over a mile. They reached a green and white sign that read Lakeshore Drive. They took a left and headed north.

  Steele rode behind Thunder and Half-Barrel, feeling the freedom of the road as the wind blew through his hair. The coolness on his bare scalp combined with his wound sent a myriad of nerve sensations through his skull.

  From behind the bikers, their gang colors were clear. A black skull with its mouth slightly open was encased in a diamond of blood red. Stripes lined overtop of the skull were the same blood red color. Four small blue naval stars decorated the background. Above the center patch in red-outlined black letters was their gang name: Red Stripes.

  They sped past fields of tall grass. Forms shambled toward the motorcycle riders, but they were easily passed. The motorcycles rumbled down the road, and the two club members navigated obstacles with ease. They would use hand signals to let Steele know of upcoming obstructions in the road.

  They traveled north for miles. The road disappeared beneath their two-wheeled stallions. As they got closer to a town, they started to pass rows of old Victorian-style houses. Thunder slowed down when a cluster of buildings emerged in the distance. Short structures, which only a small town would have, were topped off with a slightly newer and taller residential structure.

  “Pentwater is up ahead. Been through there a few times. Nothing but the dead. We’ll drive around Pentwater Lake and cut back down the main highway. There are more cars over that way. You good to navigate through them and the junk that was left behind?”

  “I should be alright. My dad had one of these growing up and he taught me to ride.” A total of about two times.

  “Waxer,” Half-Barrel smirked.

  Steele had no idea what he meant.

  “That’s enough Half-Barrel. Let’s keep moving.”

  They circled around Pentwater Lake. Three-story modern condos sat along the water by a marina. An aqua-colored water tower rose up on end of the town. Only a few white boats still sat in their slips, seemingly abandoned by their comrades.

  Crossing the southernmost tip of the town, they slowed their bikes down to look for any signs of anyone living. A white utility van with a ladder on top had been driven into the storefront of a pharmacy. The blue and orange sign above read Gerkin’s Pharmacy and Shop.

  Thunder slowed his bike to a stop.

  “We should check out the pharmacy and see if they have anything useful for Little Sable.” Steele figured this would happen. How can I expect these guys to put their necks out on a limb for me and not try to find some positive in the matter?

  “I wouldn’t mind stretching the legs a bit,” Steele responded.

  “Good man. I’d rather not come back empty-handed.” Thunder gave Steele a glance to see if he had offended him.

  “I ain’t mad. I only want some answers,” Steele said, dismounting his bike and swinging his M4 to his front.

  “Half-Barrel, stay with the bikes,” Thunder commanded. Half-Barrel nodded, releasing a sawed-off shotgun from his riding holster and setting it on his lap.

  Steele and Thunder approached the van with caution. Thunder held the short 12-gauge Benelli shotgun in his hands. Guns in the low ready, they scanned the outside of the two-story brick building for anything that moved. They pointed guns at either side of the brand-new apocalypse doorway created by the van.

  Steele and Thunder locked eyes, steel blue with dark brown for a moment, and Steele gave him a slight tilt of his chin. The Vietnam vet scooted around one side of the van as quick as his tactical girth would allow and Steele followed a step behind him. A hand reached out of the driver’s side window. Fingers curled, grasping Thunder’s leather vest.

  Thunder beat down with the stock of his entry shotgun, unable to get a shot off at the infected. Steele twisted to his side behind Thunder, aiming his carbine over Thunder’s shoulder. With a squeeze of the trigger, he put a bullet into the infected’s brain. Thunder ripped his vest free from its dead hand.

  “No one touches these colors.” He hacked a loogie on the decaying body of the infected still pinned in the driver’s seat. He adjusted his vest and gave Steele a nod.

  “We’re good,” Thunder called out to Half-Barrel.

  They continued cautiously inside, step by step.

/>   The electricity was out in the small hometown pharmacy. Shadowed ramshackle shelves sat barren, raided by looters at some point since the outbreak. Black blood stained the thin hard carpet. More blood had been smeared over the carpet leading behind the counter as if someone had dragged a body that way.

  Steele’s boots crunched shards of glass and chunks of rubble alike from the destroyed wall. Flicking his tactical light on, he shined it along the walls, its beam lighting up empty packages, trash, and wrappers. He heard them before his eyes caught them. Inch by inch they stood, specters materializing from the ground up. They stood behind the counter, undead pharmacists motionless for a moment, blood causing their clothes to cling to dead gray skin.

  “Ugly cocksuckers, aren’t ya’,” Thunder said behind him. Steele sensed him taking aim and before the man could fire, he thrust his gun up, tapping the trigger on one and driving his hips, firing again into the other. Both infected collapsed onto the counter.

  Steele gave Thunder a sidelong glance. FNG. I been through enough. He held his tongue. Rounding the counter, they went to work, collecting whatever they could get their hands on.

  Steele dumped them all in his bag not caring what they were. Round disks, packs, and bottles of pills that read simvastatin, omeprazole, metformin.

  “Ain’t much here. Most the good stuff has been picked over. No oxycodone. No azithromycin. What the hell are these things?”

  Thunder held a round yellow package in his hand. Steele had recognized it as something that Gwen had in her purse all the time.

  “Birth control. Put it in. I know somebody who might want it.” She will be happy to have a fresh supply. Keep us from putting a loaf in the oven.

  “He, he, he. You kids and your pills. Back in my day, we didn’t have all that shit. There was only one method of birth control. Pulling out.”

  Steele laughed. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Worked for me.” The older man shrugged his shoulders. “I think.” He scratched at his beard and went back to cleaning out the shelves.