by Laura Taylor
UNTIL DAWN
Laura Taylor
Copyright 2018 Laura Taylor
All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition
Print edition also available via online retailers.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Editing by Karen Crombie at Exact Editing
https://www.facebook.com/ExactEditing/
Cover design by Linda Gee
https://www.facebook.com/artbymeisarn/
Cover images used under licence from Shutterstock.com
ALSO BY LAURA TAYLOR
THE HOUSE OF SIRIUS
Book 1: Wolf’s Blood
Book 2: Wolf’s Cage
Book 3: Wolf’s Choice
Book 4: Wolf’s Guile
Book 5: Wolf’s Lie
Book 6: Wolf’s Gift coming soon
For the women.
For those who began fighting long before I was born, and for those who will continue to fight long after I’m gone. For the women who stood firm, who took up arms, who fought with words instead of steel, who refused to accept the status quo, who believed in a brighter future and whose courage made the world a better place.
For the women.
For all of us.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you Linda for your patience and amazing talent in creating the stunning cover art.
Thank you Karen. Once again, it’s been a true pleasure to work with you.
Thank you Fabien, for everything.
WARNING: This novel contains graphic violence and descriptions of rape that may be disturbing for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
CHAPTER ONE
The sound of the screams would stay with her for a long time. First, there had been the wails of the masses, cries of fear as the supermarkets ran out of food and rolling blackouts sent the neat routines of civilisation into chaos. Then there were the screams of rebellion as angry mobs took to the streets, to be cut down by bewildered soldiers as the military fought for order. It was a losing battle that was over in a matter of weeks.
Soon after that came the screams of pain and anguish as roving gangs took over the cities and towns – the first precursors of the tribes that would dominate the human world in the aftermath of civilisation’s collapse.
After that the screams had been fewer, but far more poignant; from Andrew and Lisa, the farming couple who had taken her in, as they were slaughtered by a band of raiders; a ten year old kid whose name she didn’t know, when his mother had died in his arms; Kathy, her best friend, the most recent scream of them all, when she’d leapt to her death over the railing of the bridge, not willing to live life as a sex slave to the thugs who had finally managed to capture them. That last one, in particular, was going to haunt her dreams. Her body had shattered when it hit the bottom; no longer a person, just an abandoned pile of scraps of meat and shards of bone.
Would that be her fate one day, too? Would her bones be left to bleach in the sun, grave-less and abandoned?
The screams were memorable, but nowadays, so were all the sounds; the crackle of a wood fire; the crunch of feet walking a dirt road; the rustle of wind through the trees. They were the sounds they’d all missed before, lost in the dull drone of engines and the incessant melodies of the latest songs, downloaded onto smartphones and MP3 players and piped directly into their ear canals. Was anyone writing new songs anymore, she wondered, as she focused on steadily putting one foot in front of the other. They wouldn’t be songs about the hot guy down the street or glib criticism of the politics of the day. These would be songs of death and despair, songs to grieve the breaking of the world and all those lost along the way. Or perhaps the bolder of the survivors in this brave new world would write ballads of courageous battles, the triumph of humans over adversity, war cries to celebrate their own strength and cleverness. That was more likely, a very human way to deal with one’s problems: bury your head in the sand and refuse to admit that humanity was hanging by a thread that could very well fray and rupture the next time a storm cell moved in off the Pacific Ocean and slammed them all face-first back into the dirt.
A sudden yank on the cord around her neck pulled her off balance, and she spent a moment or two stumbling about in an attempt to stay upright. With her hands tied behind her back, it was no easy task, but she succeeded, ignoring the jeers around her. Bastards, the lot of them, but there was no point in responding, either with complaints or derision. They would see any attention as a victory and use it as an excuse to torment her further.
They’d been walking for three days now, and a part of her was surprised. It wasn’t like the slavers to travel this far from their home base. But maybe they’d simply run out of farms to raid – and slaves to trade as a result – and decided they had to look further afield to secure new wares. Her little group of allies had become complacent, she realised in hindsight. Not having run across a band of raiders in the last six months, they’d been slow to respond when the attack came. Rob and Grant had been killed, two of the few remaining decent men in this new and brutal world. Clare had broken her leg and they’d stabbed her to death when it was clear she wouldn’t be walking the long trek back to their camp. And then Kathy had decided this life wasn’t for her after all…
“There’s a ute,” one of the slavers said suddenly, and the group stopped. It took a moment for her to see it through the scrub; it had slid down an embankment and landed on its side, presumably several years ago, given the amount of vegetation growing around it.
Without a word, four of the men headed off down the slope while the rest of them stood around aimlessly.
“It’s already been stripped,” one of the men reported after a few minutes. “Battery’s gone, wiring, fuel.”
“The tyres would be useful,” the leader of the group said, and it was true. Back when civilisation had been going strong, old car tyres had been difficult and costly to dispose of. Now, they were like black gold, used for everything from shoe soles, to makeshift bricks for walls, to covering the wooden wheels of the horse carts that had suddenly and urgently come back into fashion.
The man who had given the report clambered back up the slope, without the tyres. “It’s a two-day hike back to camp. Carry the fucking tyres yourself.”
She held her breath for a moment, bracing herself for the leader’s reaction to the blatant disrespect. Scenes like this usually went badly; a fight was almost inevitable. Depending on how pissed off the leader was, he might settle for roughing the guy up a bit, or he might go all the way and just kill him.
“Fuck it,” the leader said, turning back to the road. “Let’s move.”
She felt a sharp prick in her back a moment later as one of the men poked her with a makeshift spear – a knife lashed to the end of a long stick – and automatically started walking. Well, that was interesting. The ‘leader’, then, wasn’t in charge of this group based on any sense of rank or merit, hadn’t earned his way to the top through either brute strength or strategic manipulations. He’d probably been assigned to it by someone higher up the ladder who just needed someone to get a job done.
And that, in turn, meant that the rest of the men felt little to no loyalty towards their leader. That could work to her advantage...
A raucous cackle of cockatoos started up in the trees around them, and the slow trudge along t
he baking clay continued.
They camped beside a creek for the night. Judging by the banks, it had once been a fast-flowing river, twenty metres wide in parts. Now, though, there was just a shallow trickle along the middle, a stark reminder of the current drought that was trying to finish off what little of humanity was left.
They’d tied her to a tree, her feet bound, her hands secured behind her back. One of them – Connor was his name, as she’d gleaned from the scant conversation – brought her a stale lump of bread, offering to feed it to her since her hands were currently unavailable. Uninterestedly, she refused, having learned from experience that he was only going to toy with her, snatch it out of her reach each time she went to take a bite, and despite the hunger gnawing at her belly, she was in no mood to play the game. The leader of the motley group had made sure she ate at breakfast that morning – a purely practical measure to give her the strength for a day’s march – and she was prepared to take the gamble that he’d do so again tomorrow.
Denied his fun, Connor instead got his dick out and waved it at her. “How about you eat this instead?” he offered with a leer. She rolled her eyes and didn’t even bother turning away. He wouldn’t get close enough to touch her with it, and certainly wouldn’t try sticking it in her mouth, rightly wary of her biting the damn thing off.
“No? How about we have a little fun with you some other way then?” He grabbed her ankle and ran a filthy hand up her calf. She sat still, tolerating the touch until he came close enough for her to kick him in the face...
“Connor! Leave her alone!” the leader snapped, and she was almost disappointed. Lust tended to make men careless, and if Connor actually tried anything, it would give her the chance to break free and make a run for it. “No one touches her until The Wolf’s had first go.”
“I’m not going to break her,” Connor whined, stroking himself while his eyes roamed over her body. “I’m just sick of only getting the ones who lie there like a soggy cornflake. I want one with a bit of fight in her. Why should Wolfie get all the good ones?”
Another man snorted. “You want him to rip your balls off when he finds out you took what was his? Fuck, mate, you’re a braver man than me. Or just more stupid, maybe.”
For all his complaining, it seemed Connor wasn’t willing to put his money where his mouth was, and he slunk away, scowling and tucking himself back inside his pants. Okay, so she hadn’t got a chance to try and escape, but this was a reprieve of a different sort, so she wasn’t going to complain about it.
Once they got to the slavers’ camp, of course, her luck would take a turn for the worse... unless she managed to create an opportunity to escape before then. And given the stray comments she’d heard about The Wolf, the self-appointed chief of this tribe, escape was a very, very high priority.
“Jones, you’re on first watch,” the leader announced, lying down in his sleeping roll. “Wake me in two hours.”
Jones obediently stood up and began a slow stroll around the camp’s perimeter. Even among this mundane group, guard duty was taken seriously. The days were long gone when one could just pull up at a campsite, pitch a tent and catch a few hours’ sleep.
She lay back against the tree, trying to make herself as comfortable as possible, and set about waiting for the men to fall asleep. The knots that bound her hands were tight, but with a couple of hours to work at them, she should be able to get free...
On his first loop past her tree, Jones reached down and tugged at the ropes, a two-second check of the knots all that was required. Still tight. Fine. He walked on.
On the second loop he did the same, and the third. Damn it. Clearly they’d had prisoners escape before and had wised up to the need to prevent it. That vigilance didn’t bode well for her future.
CHAPTER TWO
It was morning again, and they were on the move. The day was hot; the sun wasn’t even above the tree line yet, but already it must have been at least thirty degrees. They’d filled their water bottles from the creek where they’d camped, but she’d be surprised if the water lasted until evening. More likely, they’d be forced to stop in the middle of the day to avoid giving themselves heat exhaustion.
That would be good for her, at least. Any delay in reaching the camp gave her more of an opportunity to plot her escape. Daytime was her best chance at it, she’d decided, after the rotating guards had kept up a strict regime of checking her bonds overnight. Now, at least, her legs were free, which was one less obstacle to get past, and while her hands were tied, she wasn’t bound to anything other than the inattentive grip of the guard at the end of her rope. The man walking in front of her had a short knife at his waist, and she calculated how fast she would have to move, how far she must twist to bring it within reach of her fingers. While they were walking along, there would be little chance to get her hands on it, but if the men were distracted by something...
The forest was quiet today. The heat was oppressive, the birds silent, no sign of any animals as they all sought out shade, and even the trees seemed listless, leaves dropping, not so much as a light breeze to bring relief.
So, when a flutter of movement in the undergrowth caught her eye, it was enough to get her attention. Trying to look like she was merely observing the scenery, she turned her head, eyes roaming over the bushes. Nothing. No further movement, no rustle of a wary kangaroo, no sleek goanna climbing a tree; nothing at all to indicate that anything had been there.
They walked on, five minutes passing, then ten. Just when she’d almost convinced herself it had only been her imagination, a shadow moved in the undergrowth. It was only the quickest flash, a split-second difference in the light... but it was the sort of thing that could indicate someone had just ducked into cover after observing their approach.
Back when the world had been a safer place, when there had been laws to prevent slavery and police officers to arrest those who refused to comply, she wouldn’t have even noticed the movement, let alone paid any attention to it. But in this strange and broken world, on a day when even the rocks seemed to wilt under the oppressive heat, that scant little flutter told her a wealth of information. And it confirmed that today she would be escaping from her bonds. In less than half an hour she would be claiming that knife as her own.
The trek went on. Whoever it was who was watching them wasn’t stupid. The slavers were armed and skilled in combat. The terrain was flat and uninteresting, giving no particular advantage to either side. But as time dragged on, they came to a part of the road that had been cut away through rock, forming a man-made ravine roughly three metres high; the perfect trap for an ambush.
She expected the slavers to stop, to send a scout forward or explore the bush around the top of the ravine. But either they were over-confident in their battle skills, or the heat had made them negligent. The leader trudged on, right through the gap, and the rest of them followed.
The ravine was maybe fifty metres long. They made it safely halfway along... then three quarters... As the leader came abreast with the far end, she wondered if perhaps she’d been wrong. Maybe their watchers were merely keeping an eye on them to see that they passed peacefully out of their territory, rather than planning a session of thievery and murder.
From midway along the ravine, a few metres behind the last man, a rock skittered down the cliff. As one, the men stopped, every single one of them turning around to look.
But not her. She kept her eyes ahead, half her attention on the knife, the other half on the edge of the road. Something was coming. She’d bet her life on it.
“It’s a fucking rock, you shit-heads,” the leader snapped. “Get moving!”
He turned around, and she saw the flash of movement a split second before he did. The sun blinded her momentarily, reflected off a shiny blade, then the leader’s head rolled sideways, a spray of blood shooting high in the air.
“Raiders!” one of the men shouted, as if it wasn’t already obvious, and she moved then, took three, four fast steps forward, yan
ked hard when she came to the end of her rope and took full advantage of the momentary panic of her guard. He dropped the rope, allowing her to twist sideways in a carefully choreographed movement. She compensated for the surprised reaction of the man with the knife and a moment later it was in her hand. She spun around and head-butted him before he could snatch it back.
Their attackers were well in the thick of it by now, those few seconds all that was needed to launch a full-scale attack. Ten, maybe fifteen men leapt out from their shelter behind the edge of the cliff, machetes and knives their weapons of choice. She darted over to the side of the ravine, keeping out of the way as she flipped the knife over in her hand and sawed through her own bonds. She was fairly sure she cut herself in the process, but it was a trifling thing.
A handful of men turned and ran back the way they’d come, but the attackers had planned their trap well. At the far end of the ravine, five more men stepped out of shelter, standing brazenly in the road, daring the slavers to come. They slowed to a halt, glancing back, then forward. Neither option was terribly promising.
Making a run for it was a risk, but with only her small knife to defend herself, she would certainly do worse if she tried to fight one of these men directly. She waited for a clear path to open up, then bolted, a dim thought registering in the back of her mind that none of the newcomers had tried to catch her yet.
A large body tackled her from behind, and she braced herself, landing hard. A sharp pain in her leg told her she’d just been stabbed. She twisted around, stabbing her own knife through the slaver’s neck without hesitation. She shoved his heavy body off herself and staggered to her feet. There was no one else immediately near her, so she made for the undergrowth at a fast limp. A dense patch of scrub was a welcome shelter, and she sank down, realising she’d have to see to the wound before she made good on her escape. It was bleeding freely, and if she didn’t stop it, she would lose too much blood to be able to either run or fight.