by Toby Neal
Flame Road
Cash
Emily Kimelman
Toby Neal
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
Acknowledgments
SMOLDER ROAD
Copyright Notice
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
© Neal/Kimelman 2017
[email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.
Cover by Jun Ares: [email protected]
Chapter One
Woman
Panic fluttered at the edges of the woman’s mind. How did she get here?
No answer came.
She simply was, and everything hurt.
Throbbing pain radiated from her forehead as she drew her knees up to lie on her side. She blinked as bright light filtering through pine boughs stung her eyes. She raised a heavy white arm. Whose arm was it? She had no idea.
She touched the sore spot on her head. A shock of pain thundered inside her skull and darted down her neck, vibrating throughout her entire body.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting the pain pass.
Where was she?
The woman rolled onto her knees, and wet brown leaves squished beneath her. She looked around at a dense growth of mature trees surrounding her. Her gaze fell to hands riddled with scratches and scrapes, then traveled up her arms to her chest. She wore a long-sleeved, ripped white top, mottled with dirt and dried blood, probably from the wound on her head. A jagged, sharp rock marked with an oily stain of blood lay directly in front of her.
She must have fallen and hit her head.
The insight was a clue to what had happened. She could solve this mystery. Hope gave her the energy to push herself up, clinging to a nearby sapling. She rose to stand, her pulse pounding as her head swam.
Alone with amnesia in the middle of a forest.
Another insight, but this one brought fresh terror. She looked down and around her, searching for more clues.
The shirt was actually a dress. The garment’s ankle-length skirt was pockmarked with small tears, as if she’d run through the woods, the loose material catching and ripping on underbrush. The towering trees surrounding her were almost bare: late fall.
The woman looked down at her body again, but no spark of recognition ignited as she examined the full breasts and wide hips straining her ill-fitting dress. She turned her head, feeling stinging at the crown.
Raising her hand, the woman gently probed shorn hair to find a large scab, tender but healing. She traced the lines of it on the back of her head. Some kind of symbol.
Her head had recently been shaved and something carved into her scalp.
Why?
The woman looked around the forest, scanning the trees, hearing birds and the scuffling of small creatures in the leaves. The sound of bubbling water filtered through the air.
She was very thirsty.
The woman’s legs trembled, and she winced when placing weight on her left ankle. She pulled up her skirt and looked down at the milky skin of her legs, slashed with scratches that must’ve happened as she ran through the woods.
Sturdy hiking boots covered her feet. They didn’t make sense with the dress.
None of it made sense.
Thirst drove her forward. She headed toward the sound of the water, leaning on trees to support her wobbly steps.
Glimmers of light twinkled on a river glimpsed through the trees. She hurried to emerge from the forest onto a pebbly shore. Water rushed over colored pebbles under a blue sky. She stumbled to the stream’s edge, dropping to her knees and scooping the crystal clear liquid up in her hands.
It might not be safe to drink. She should boil it first.
How did she know that? No clue.
But she didn’t have the luxury of worrying about parasites.
She drank deeply, bringing the cold water to her parched mouth until it filled her stomach. She was hungry, but hunger was nothing compared to her thirst and the pain in her head.
The woman pushed up the sleeves of the dress and splashed to her elbows, rinsing away dirt and blood. She washed her face and unknown scratches stung. Dipping the hem of her skirt into the water, she gently dabbed at the wound on her forehead, hissing between her teeth at the sharp pain.
She must’ve been running from something or someone. Five dark spots marked where someone had grabbed her forearm.
She unbuttoned the dress to find large breasts cradled in a matronly bra. She peeled it down and examined the full, creamy white round with its pink nipple. Why didn’t she recognize her own body?
She lifted her skirt, exposing pale, fleshy thighs. Clearly, she had not spent much time in the sun but it felt good now, warming her as the chill water refreshed her.
The woman couldn’t see through the fog of memory loss to the clear peaks of who she was and how she got to this place. Even so, she felt certain the information existed somewhere in her mind, as solid and real as a mountain range hidden in cloud.
She scooped up another handful of sweet water, but a low growl jerked her attention upward.
On the other side of the shallow river, less than twenty yards away, stood a gray wolf. Lean, long-legged, shaggy and rough, standing as tall as the woman’s waist, the predator’s black lip lifted above razor teeth. Menace emanated from its chest.
Fear and adrenaline surged through her and froze the woman as cold as the crystal-clear water rushing over the bright stones.
The wolf’s head lowered and its ruff raised. It stalked toward her, entering the water.
She had fled from something terrible, and now she was about to die.
Chapter Two
Cash
Tiny, Cash’s big bear dog, wouldn’t get off the scent. She’d been tracking it for hours. Cash knew by the broken foliage and boot prints in the mud that the game was human: a heavy, medium-sized man. Cash didn’t share Tiny’s interest.
Since the outbreak of Scorch Flu, a lot of people had fled to the woods hoping to escape the incredibly contagious virus and the violence left in its wake as society’s structures imploded. In the weeks since Cash set out in
to the wilderness on his way to the Haven, the Luciano family’s survival compound in Idaho, he’d encountered desperate and dangerous men who’d forced Cash to protect himself.
The huge, wooly Akita stopped in front of a sharp stone, sniffing and whimpering anxiously. Cash squatted, frowning, to examine a bloodstain that marked where the man had fallen. As he stared down at the stained rock, his stomach clenched. He didn’t want to kill again.
A creek bubbled nearby, filling the air with freshness and musical sound. The hiker probably made his way to the river. Everything in the forest eventually sought water.
Cash traveled light, carrying a backpack filled with survival equipment, a compound bow, and a small collection of knives. But none of those things would stop a bullet, so caution was the best policy. Cash didn’t like guns. Wouldn’t touch them. Didn’t need them. He was plenty deadly with just his fists, blades and feet.
Cash snapped his fingers, and Tiny drew back to press against his side. Her back reached almost to his waist, even though Cash was a solid six foot three. The hundred-and-seventy-pound Akita was bred for predator hunting, her thick fur all the colors of fall, perfect for blending with the forest.
The pair advanced cautiously. The sound of the stream grew louder, and Cash felt his own thirst rising. Tiny’s panting indicated that she was also eager for a drink, but nothing would be gained by rushing forward. Cash held Tiny’s collar and peered around a huge pine on the riverbank.
A large, sturdy woman knelt by the water’s edge, clad in a filthy, blood-spattered white dress. She scooped a handful of water to her mouth.
No weapons on her person or the stony streambed.
Her skirt was tucked up around heavy, shapely, creamy white thighs, like she hadn’t seen the sun in months. Her hair was shorn, the half-inch stubble a silvery-white. A red, angry wound marred the crown.
Cash pulled his spyglass out of its loop on his belt and squinted through it.
Burned onto the woman’s scalp was the bloody shape of a swastika.
Cash’s skin crawled as he put the spyglass away. The woman was a skinhead, one of the fanatical cultists being blamed, and lauded by some, for releasing the Scorch Flu.
Tiny started forward, clearly eager to make the woman’s acquaintance, but Cash held her back. Skinheads were like cockroaches: there was never only one of them.
Cash pulled out his Filipino fighting knife. The double-bladed “butterfly” knife, against the law to carry in many states, had served him well. His decades of practice with the blade in an elemental martial arts fighting style was one of the only constants in his life. Since the devastation of Scorch Flu, he’d used those years of training to protect himself more than once. Now, he held the blade loosely, an extension of himself.
“Let’s go.” He gave Tiny’s collar a tug, pulling her back in the direction they’d come. They’d find water elsewhere.
The dog whined, clearly reluctant, and Cash frowned at her persistence. Tiny was a loyal and protective animal. Why was she so interested in this woman?
Suddenly Tiny’s ruff rose, and her whine turned to a deep rumbling growl that vibrated through Cash’s hand. A wolf had appeared, seemingly formed of mist and shadow, directly across the stream from the woman, who froze, a handful of water halfway to her mouth.
Cash read intent to attack in the wolf’s lowered head, bristling ruff, and stiff, stalking stride. The woman threw herself to the side and scrambled to her feet, prompting the wolf’s forward rush into the water.
Tiny yanked out of Cash’s hand with a snarl and barreled forward to crash into the wolf, meeting it at the center of the stream. A furious, snarling battle ensued as the animals clashed, water flying in all directions. The wolf couldn’t get a purchase on Tiny’s thick, loose ruff. The wolf broke away with Tiny in pursuit, and the two tore into the woods on the far bank.
Cash shoved his knife into its scabbard and stepped out from behind the tree. The woman ran right into Cash with a solid thump, knocking the wind out of him.
He captured the woman by her elbows and she screamed, the high thin wail of a rabbit caught in the jaws of a fox. She fought him, lashing out wildly with feet and hands, obviously terrified.
“Hey, calm down!”
The woman kneed Cash in the groin and he doubled over, nausea swamping him as she wrenched out of his grip and careened away into the forest.
Cash clutched his throbbing manhood, shaking his head ruefully. She’d used the oldest trick in the book. He’d forgotten all his training and just let her nail him, disarmed by a stunning pair of huge blue-green eyes.
Cash had seen only a glimpse of her face and he was captivated. Those eyes. That skin. Her lush pink mouth, open in a scream.
She was a terrified creature fighting for her life.
Cash watched, filled with compassion, as the woman disappeared into the trees, her footfalls pounding and heavy in the thick boots. A flutter of white skirt marked her trail, and then she was gone.
His body burned where she’d touched him.
Full breasts pressed against his chest, creamy skin under his hand, the solid feel of her wide pelvis against his.
Everywhere the woman had touched him felt branded, lit up. Need echoed through his bones, and he felt an unwelcome throb.
Crap. Cash shook his head again, straightening up cautiously.
The blow she’d struck wasn’t terminal to the future generations of misbehaving Lucianos that Cash was determined not to father. Even so, he obviously hadn’t had sex recently enough if a skinhead woman with a swastika on her scalp made such an impression. But she was gone now, and good riddance.
Cash strode forward to the stream. He put two fingers to his mouth, whistling for Tiny. The high-pitched sound sliced through the burble of water, a diamond cutting glass.
He whistled twice more before Tiny galloped out of the trees, splashed through the stream and paused to drink, her long pink tongue hanging out in excited thirst. The big dog’s round, golden-brown eyes gleamed with triumph as she rejoined her master.
Cash petted Tiny’s head, stroking her round fuzzy ears. “Good work, girl. Too bad that wolf will just come after that woman again.”
Unarmed and clearly clueless, the skinhead woman would probably be dead within a day or two. His heart squeezed as he imagined her falling, her white skin shredded by wolves, or collapsing from thirst and exposure to die alone in the forest.
Not my problem. Cash’s personal mantra had worked for a long time.
Tiny lifted her shiny black nose, nostrils flaring. She’d caught the woman’s scent, and intent lit her gleaming, intelligent eyes.
“No!” Cash bellowed, leaping for her collar, but Tiny charged through the forest like a runaway bison.
I guess she’s my problem after all.
A powerful surge of anticipation surprised him at the thought of seeing the woman again. Cash adjusted the straps of his backpack. Cinched down and tightened up, he loped after his dog into the trees with the ground-eating stride of someone who could run all day.
Chapter Three
Woman
The woman ran through the woods, pain forgotten as fear drove her forward. Branches grabbed at her skirt and struck her face, slashing more of her skin and bringing blood to the surface.
Sunlight dappled the forest, but in her panicked state it flickered, switching from day to night. Her swirling vision clouded her mind with confusion.
Night. Yelling. People chasing her: dangerous people. They wanted to hurt her. They had hurt her!
The woman tripped, landing hard on her hands and knees, her face brushing the bark of a tree. She crawled forward, panting, and got back on her feet. She stumbled, staring at the sunshine on the forest floor.
Concentrate on the light. It’s still daytime.
She was running from a man, but he hadn’t hurt her.
His dog had saved her.
The woman glanced back through the thickly wooded forest, hearing nothing but the wind in t
he leaves, the chirping of birds and the rustle of small creatures.
His giant fluffy dog had attacked the wolf threatening her life, chasing it away, allowing her to escape.
The memory flashed through her mind: two creatures rearing up onto their hind legs, snarling, chests crashing, teeth bared as water sprayed around them.
She’d turned toward the forest at a run, smashing right into the dog’s owner, a feeling like hitting a stone wall.
He was hard in all the places she was soft.
The man had tried to say something, tried to hold her and calm her down, but she’d ripped free instinctively and run for her life.
She spotted an old dead tree, hollowed out by time and rot, big enough for her to climb into and hide. The woman needed to rest, regroup and think.
Her lungs burned and her sore ankle throbbed as she ducked into the sheltered darkness. The rich scent of humus and rotting leaves, familiar and comforting, filled her nostrils.
She hunkered down, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her body shook. Sweat trickled down her back and the cut on her forehead throbbed.
Was that man one of the people she’d run from?
The woman took a deep breath, trying to calm herself and think logically. The man had not really seemed dangerous. He had dark blue eyes, almost the color of blueberries. Even when she nailed him in the balls, his expression was filled with compassion, not hate or anger. His wavy, wheat-colored hair was disheveled. She’d even spotted a twig sticking out of the tangled mop. His golden, rough-stubbled jaw had brushed her forehead as she fought him.
Another pair of eyes flashed in her mind, also blue, but hard and angry with a glint of dark pleasure in them. He enjoyed hurting her.
The woman shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to block out the memory.
Maybe she didn’t want to know who she was because it was too horrible.
Nausea turned her stomach. Even if the woman’s mind didn’t want to remember the terrible things that had happened, her body did. If she saw her attacker, slammed her body against his, she would know it. The woman would feel it in her bones.