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

by Greene, Daniel

  Once inside, he closed the door, sitting down at his desk. I must keep the fire of the Lord hot or we will lose this battle for his Kingdom is small and the devil’s great.

  Shuffling some papers, he glanced over maps of the area. They’re here somewhere. A group of survivors had been evading him for weeks. They hid somewhere along the coast. He would annex them, and God’s Kingdom would grow. Fresh recruits to swell his ranks, or if they were evildoers, they would be purged and their supplies commandeered for his warriors of God. After thirty minutes of outlining the area where he had sent his scouting parties, he let his eyes close for a moment in silent prayer. Give strength to this old body, O’ Lord. Lend me your wisdom. Lend me your power.

  A light rapping on the door forced him to open his eyes. “You may enter.”

  A broad man with a curly blond hair entered, bowing his head a bit.

  “Peter, how can I be of service to you, my son?”

  “It’s one of the scouting parties.” Peter eyed the floor, wringing his hands together as if he were eight years old and caught stealing a cookie.

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “Luke’s party found some people.” The pastor leaned forward Peter receiving all his attention. They can’t evade me forever.

  Peter’s eyes darted back and forth. “Well, actually only one person. The others received purification.”

  The pastor intertwined his fingers in front of him, considering the information.”I see. I do hope Brother Luke remembers my edict regarding the purification of nonbelievers.”

  Little beads of sweat formed on Peter’s forehead. “I believe Brother Luke does. The nonbelievers were hostile. Brother Mathias and Brother John were killed.” Hostile.

  “This is sad news, but God sends us good with the bad. Remember that, Peter. There is always a blessing in bad news.” The pastor stood, a black-clad wraith.

  “Show me our captive. Then I would like you to give extra rations to Brother Mathias’s wife and to Brother John’s mother. You will ensure that they are provided for. God cares for all members of his community.”

  “It will be done.” Peter bowed his head.

  “Now, take me to the prisoner.”

  They cut through tents, sleeping bags, and makeshift privacy shelters, flanked on all sides by dull gray piping connecting and curving up and down the walls. They burnt only a small amount of coal, barely turning one of four heavy turbines with the water they heated to steam by the furnace, creating enough electricity for the plant. They would not go cold this winter on the harsh Michigan lakeshore. He had seen to that.

  The pastor’s shoes scuffed down the corridor with a whisk whisk as he walked. Peter’s boots thudded along behind. At the end of the corridor, near the coal fire furnace, was a room. Brothers Luke and Anthony stood outside the room conversing in hushed tones.

  “Pastor. I’m pleased that you’ve come,” Luke said with a mean smile.

  “You are pleased to present me with one captive that could’ve been three?” the pastor said, mouth flat.

  “The unbelievers were rough, uncouth men. I could see no redemption inside them,” Luke said, wiping long strands of black hair out of his face, a thin chin jutting from his jaw.

  “That is not for you to decide. Only God knows the true hearts of men.”

  “But-,” Luke said.

  “You must exercise some prudence in the field, Brother Luke. Show me the captive.” Luke physically struggled, holding in his anger. If he wasn’t so devout, I would banish him from God’s Kingdom or purify him in God’s name.

  The pastor rested a fatherly hand on Luke. “You did well, Brother Luke.”

  Luke smiled, his canines a few millimeters too long. “Thank you, Pastor,” he said, putting a hand on the straight bar handle, lifting the piece of metal upward.

  It was dark. A man sat in a lone chair at the center of the room. The captive’s head was bowed, and his hands were tied behind his back. The pastor walked into the room, letting his steps fall with authority. The man let his head rise. Blood glistened on his stubbly brown beard, leaking from the corner of his mouth.

  “What’s your name, child?” the pastor’s voice came out hushed.

  The man’s lips twitched into a smile, blood staining his teeth as if he already bore the hated mark of the beast. The man’s smile grew as the pastor stepped closer. His smile is off-putting; he may be insane. Not the first person who has seen the devil’s work and had it break their mind.

  “The pastor asked your name, heathen,” Luke spat.

  The man’s eyes darted toward Luke with disgust, but he kept the smile on his face.

  “We will not hurt you anymore, child. Some of our brothers offer less tact than others. Peter bring him water.”

  Peter brought in a glass, holding it to the man’s mouth. He drank greedily.

  “What is your name, son? All men have names. Even God’s lowest of followers. Speak freely; your soul is at stake.” The pastor loomed over him, an angel of judgment in black.

  The captive man spit blood on the floor and lifted his head back to the pastor, grinning outrightly now.

  “He’s broken.” He will not be the last. The pastor turned toward Luke. “Make an example out of him. He has nothing to offer God’s Kingdom,” he said with a wave of his hand. Luke loosened a long knife from his belt and licked his lips.

  “I’m not broken, Pastor,” the man said from behind. His voice was hoarse.

  The pastor turned, clasping his hands in front of his body. It was his turn to smile.

  “That is good, my son. Perhaps we can help each other. But you must have a name?” The captive’s cheek swelled on one side, puffing out like a golf ball.

  “My name is Pagan.”

  The pastor smiled. “Of course it is.”

  TESS

  Northern Michigan

  Dark white pine lined the sandy ridge stunted by the barren soil of sand and clay. They followed a white-tailed deer trail that ran along the top of the almost dune. Sticking her thumbs through her pack, she followed behind this broad-backed man she barely knew, a man she had joined forces with on the mere feeling in the back of her spine that she had done the right thing.

  He stalked ahead, a leader and protector, putting himself in harm’s way first. She had made relations with men like him in the past, but he was different. He carried a weight on his shoulders that would have broken weaker men, and she couldn’t tell if it was a general weariness from exhaustion or his thoughts and responsibilities that wore him down. Waving a hand, he silently called her to join him near a short fat pine. I wonder if he could fit those hands all the way around my waist.

  “What is it?” she asked. He crouched down, gesturing for her to join him.

  “How well do you know this area?” he said, voice low.

  “Not well, only what we’ve scouted through. Why?”

  “You aren’t from here?” he said, eyes bouncing down to her lips if only for a moment.

  “Cadillac, Battle Creek, Kalamazoo. Grand Rapids was my latest stomping ground. Then the outbreak forced me here.”

  He scanned the forest. “I haven’t summered up here in years, but I was thinking. If Pentwater is north of here, isn’t there a power plant nearby?”

  “Do I look like someone who would care about where a polluting energy company resided? Now, if you asked about where a craft brewery is around here, I could definitely point you in the right direction.” She let her eyes graze past his, avoiding full contact. “Fetch Brewery is only about twenty-five minutes from here. Damn good place.”

  “You like beer?” Steele said, bewildered.

  “Like it? I used to brew it. I was the brewmaster at First Eagle Brewery,” she said.

  “No shit. What kind of beer did you brew?”

  “I had few favorites. IPAs are my specialty but I also make a mean Dunkel.”

  “Well, hot damn. You got any back at the camp?” His beard ruffled with the wind, a glimmer of a smile emerging from u
nderneath.

  “I wish. If you get me the right ingredients and tools, I could prolly whip up a batch that isn’t too far off the original recipe.”

  “Do the Red Stripes know this? Because I’m sure they would love some fresh brew.”

  “Never really talked about it, ya know, with the whole dead rising from the grave thing.”

  “I’m pretty sure you don’t understand. Beer is a necessity. Especially in a time like this. They would ride far and wide for ingredients.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, soldier boy.”

  “I already told you. I’m not military,” he said. “And you don’t know anything about a power plant nearby?”

  “No. Why do you keep jabbering on about this stupid power plant?” she said, giving him a bit of lip biting. Can’t hurt to keep him interested. It should keep him in my pocket.

  As he talked, he became more and more excited as if he could literally envision his power plant base and the future. “Because what if we can get it running? You know. Have electricity. We could control the supply of power along the lakeshore. We could use it to trade. Not to mention we could secure the facility and not live out in the open because winter is almost here.”

  “Slow down, cowboy. First, we have to find this mythical power plant. Second, we have to convince all our people that this is in our best interest.”

  “What bad could happen?” he asked.

  “Are you serious? When you have a resource, people will want it.” She folded her hands across her chest. “What about the infected? What if it attracts them?”

  His mouth flattened. “Having what other people want brings them to the table.”

  “Or brings them at night with blood on their minds.”

  “True. We’ll need to provide a common defense or others will take it. That’s where those volunteers come into play. Even if I can only get them started, Pagan can train them.”

  She could practically see the wheels in his head churning out idea after idea. Looking at him, her stomach fluttered a bit. This is not me. I don’t swoon like a school girl over some Neanderthal with a big gun and a scraggly beard. He had something that made her trust him in a world where trust was hard to come by.

  “Let’s go, Wyatt Earp. My Pagan won’t find himself.”

  The duo walked over the sandy hills through a sparse forest. The stunted trees struggled to hold on to the sand, roots gripping the loose soil in an effort to stay upright. Green dune grass swished, an army of thin bright green spear points swaying in the waves of the wind.

  The tracks, oval-shaped divots, were easy to see in the sand, and it seemed as if a thousand feet had traversed the path. A blind man could follow these tracks. This is not the action of someone who is in hiding.

  “Hey, Wild Bill,” she called up to him.

  “What?”

  “What if we are only following a huge pack of infected?”

  “Then we are going to have a long run back to Red Rhonda.”

  “Ha,” she belted. “What? You aren’t going to single-handedly defeat them all? I would have to say I’m a little disappointed.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, still walking. “Nope. I’m going to run my ass off.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the man I joined forces with.”

  His head stayed forward. “This is him.”

  “Geez, you aren’t getting all butthurt are you?” she teased.

  She could tell by the sound of his voice that he was smiling as he trekked.

  “I assure you, my manliness is not determined by whether or not I can defeat a thousand infected at once. In fact, running shows a bit of maturity,” he finished, sounding a bit pleased with himself.

  “More brains than balls, huh? First man I ever met like that.” She laughed loud enough to make sure he heard her.

  His shoulders leaned one way and then the other with each step of his feet. His pack groaned, gravity compressing it upon his spine.

  “We shall see,” he said.

  Yes, we shall, Mark Steele.

  After thirty minutes of trekking, they struggled up a large ridge. Cresting the top of it, they stopped.

  Sprawled out below them lay a large industrial facility sitting next to a canal. Two large smokestacks jutted skyward. The white concrete stacks were encircled by blood red stripes and rose hundreds of feet into the air. A massive pile of black coal sat stacked up near the waterway, a large conveyor belt running from the coal pile to the water. It was as if someone had shoveled a giant pile of snow and dyed it the color of night.

  “Wow,” she said. “You were right.”

  She felt his hand on her back shoving her downward to the sand. The miniature gold granules sped for her face, and she barely got her hands underneath her before she was crushed into the ground. The sand gave way beneath her. She squirmed onto her back, and at the same time, her hand instinctively went to her shoulder harness-holstered 1911. Her fingers clawed for her gun, trying to create enough space to release the weapon.

  “Get the fuck off me,” she growled. His fingers locked around her wrist, pressing it into her body. He held it close, pinning it to her chest. His ironclad fingers dug into her wrist, crushing it. She struggled and tried to wiggle free.

  “Shhh. Be quiet,” he said. His eyes stared out, scanning the area. She read him, letting her eyes dance back and forth. His eyes weren’t wild and frantic like those of a man waging an attack, but calm and concerned, even worried. He glanced back down at her. Kindness lurked there somewhere.

  “There are people down there,” he uttered.

  “Infected?” she hushed.

  “No. People, people.” As she relaxed, he gradually let her go and crawled onto his stomach. His elbows dug into the ground as he crawled to the top of the ridge, his long gun laying across his biceps and forearms.

  She inched up next to him, peeking over the ridge with hesitant expectation.

  Semis, buses, pickups, and cars sat parked near the plant. People walked to and fro, busy with duties and chores that could only be related to the operation of a base camp. Some shoveled coal. Others hauled it away, buckets swaying back and forth as they carried the heavy loads.

  “Looks like somebody stole your power plant idea,” she said softly.

  “Yes, it does. Look at all of them.”

  “The most live people I’ve seen since the outbreak,” she said.

  “Too many people,” he said under his breath.

  He brought his carbine optic up to his face and carefully scanned the plant and the surroundings.

  “I count at least at fifty people working outside. Two snipers there above the entrance. And another two on that corner over there.”

  Tess squinted, attempting to make out the blurry miniature men sitting still atop the building.

  “You aren’t worried about them?” she asked, feeling a little nervous about the idea that someone could be lining up their sights on her head as she spoke.

  “No. They aren’t looking for us necessarily.”

  “What should we do?”

  “There.” He pointed to the coal pile. “There’s our huckleberry.” He handed her his M4 carbine. “The guy digging by the pile with the two guards.”

  She held the optic close to her eye. Everything zoomed forward. The people were dirty and haggard as if they had trudged along on their mental willpower alone.

  A lightly bearded man marched back to the coal power plant, a bucket of coal resting on his shoulder.

  “Pagan,” she whispered, her heart speeding up. “He’s alive.”

  “Finding him was the easy part,” Steele said.

  “Breaking him out is going to be a bitch,” she replied.

  GWEN

  Little Sable Point, MI

  The ring of vehicles did little to protect her from the wind. Her baggy ACUs did only enough to keep the cool air from biting at her skin. Tracing her footsteps in the sand, she stepped lightly, arms crossed over her body. Her blonde hair whipped
back and forth, and she did nothing to stop it from tussling about.

  Gwen had passed everything inside the small enclosure at least a half-dozen times. The back of a tractor-trailer sat open, and a fat woman sat on the edge of the trailer with a couple of the Red Stripes. Patrons and visitors of the small community would come and go, presenting something of value for packages of food. Families sat inside their RVs and campers while others camped in blue, red, and green tents outside of cars and hatchbacks. A few kids ran through the tents, playing hide and seek.

  On her seventh pass, a man hollered at her from in front of his camper.

  “You trying to drill to China, darling?” the older man said. His skin hung off his face, folding over his white turtleneck shirt looking like he lost so much weight that he was trying to keep his skin in tight with his clothes.

  Gwen’s lips spread in a weak smile. “No, sir. Just thinking.” The pills burned in her pocket as if they knew she thought of them. They wanted to be found. They wanted to be taken. They begged her to do it. If I take enough, it will just go away. How can I do it?

  “My father always told me to avoid a woman when she was thinking too much.” He paused and waited for a response. She stared at him with dark eyes.

  He wrinkled his nose at her. “I never listened to much he said anyway.” He waved her over. “Are you hungry?”

  A navy sport coat drooped over his shoulders, the limp fabric searching for a body to fill it out. Anything to keep my mind off this predicament. She plodded over to him.

  “Cashews?” he asked. He thrust a package of cashews in her direction, shaking them a bit like he was calling a dog with a treat. She cupped her hands and he shook some of the oblong nuts onto her palms.

  He grinned, showing yellowish teeth. “Where are my manners?” He put a hand to his chest. “My name is Dr. George Thatcher. Before you ask, I’m not that kind of doctor.”