Nuclear Dawn Box Set Books 1-3: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series

by Kyla Stone

  Dakota slowly lowered her hands, but kept the thug in the light. “We’re leaving now, and you’re not going to stop us.”

  Julio gestured for Shay. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Shay stood there, trembling, scared and indecisive.

  “You better move,” Outlaw growled, taking an aggressive step toward them. He wavered a moment, then regained his footing, his grimace twisting into a sneer. He flailed the M4 to make his point.

  That was Logan’s chance.

  Maybe the only one he was going to get.

  Logan pushed out the darkness, the self-loathing, the blur of the booze, and the anticipation he couldn’t quite kill buzzing in the back of his brain.

  The carbine swung in slow motion, arcing toward Dakota.

  Logan steadied his hands and inched out from the right side of the rack, his aim straight and true, the sight tracking the center of the gangbanger’s skull.

  At the last instant, he angled his aim slightly down.

  Shay caught his movement.

  Her terrified gaze slid from Blood Outlaw’s carbine to Logan behind him.

  Blood Outlaw saw it. “What the hell—”

  He whirled, half-staggering, the carbine twisting with him, his finger pressing down on the trigger.

  Logan took the shot.

  38

  Logan

  Shay screamed.

  The thug’s body spun sideways from the force of the shot striking his right shoulder. He slumped against the counter with a pained grunt.

  The M4 let loose a spray of bullets as it swung, most of the shots hitting the walls and ceiling above the group’s head as they arced across the open space and shattered the heads of a family of mannequins displayed next to the fitting rooms.

  The gunshots ringing in his ears, Logan was on his feet in an instant, dodging the clothing rack and charging the counter. He put another bullet in the man’s right arm above the bicep.

  Blood Outlaw shrieked and fumbled for the carbine, blood spurting from the wound in his shoulder.

  Logan reached him in five long strides.

  The thug swung at him with his uninjured arm, but Logan was faster. He ducked the high, wild blow and drove into his torso, slamming the man’s spine against the counter behind them.

  Blood Outlaw landed a wobbly strike to the right side of his jaw.

  Logan barely felt the sting. He threw several quick, powerful jabs into the man’s left kidney with his left hand.

  Blood Outlaw could barely lift his arms to defend himself from the blows. His movements were sluggish, weak.

  After only a few brutal seconds, he stopped fighting back.

  But Logan couldn’t stop hitting him. Using the butt of his Glock, he punched him in the face, the jaw, the stomach, the vulnerable shoulder.

  Again and again, he hammered the man, flesh and bone giving way with wet thwacks beneath his rage. Blood sprayed Logan’s shirt and speckled his face.

  Blood Outlaw let out a slew of slurred curses as he slid down the front of the counter and sagged against the floor.

  He no longer posed a threat.

  Logan tucked his pistol in his waistband, bent and seized the M4, jerked the strap over the thug’s head. He flipped the carbine and smashed the stock into his nose.

  The man moaned. Half his face was a mashed, mangled mess. Blood spurted from his shoulder and arm, stained his tank top, and dripped onto the floor.

  With stinging, trembling hands, Logan set the carbine down on the counter.

  He stood over him, adrenaline pumping, breathing hard.

  He resisted the urge to kick the asshole a dozen more times, to use him as a bloody punching bag until he’d purged all the terrible emotions slashing through him.

  He flexed his hands, feeling the soreness, the sting, and the strength.

  He could kill this man.

  End his pitiful, pathetic life right now. For an instant, for a sickening, desperate moment, he wanted to.

  His stomach lurched. He felt ill—and exhilarated. The euphoria after winning a fight, after beating another man senseless with your own bare fists—it was a heady, intoxicating thing.

  Almost as addictive as booze. Maybe it was more so.

  Only one thing had been able to break the addiction.

  That night, he’d been forced to look into Hell itself, like a mirror reflecting his own rotting heart.

  He’d sworn never to go back to that life. In four years, he hadn’t used his skills to engage in a single lethal fight.

  He’d never crossed that line. He’d never wanted to.

  Until now.

  A sense of enormous power pumped through his veins. He felt more alive, more awake and invigorated than he had in years.

  But the darkness had awakened within him, too.

  A monster locked in a deep pit, hungry and waiting, always ready to strike.

  With the darkness came the desire. For vengeance, for blood. For violence, to hurt someone else until he didn’t hurt anymore.

  The past never died. The darkness was always there, the monster crouching over his shoulder.

  Who was he kidding, to think that a new city and a placid, uneventful life after prison would make it go away?

  It waited for him. Waited for that moment when he would lose control.

  Logan took a slow, deliberate step backward.

  Today wasn’t that day. Not yet.

  He’d made a promise to himself.

  He wasn’t about to break it for this pissant.

  He spat on the thug. “You’re not special. You’re a piece of trash in the garbage dump of humanity. Not even worth the energy it’d take to pull the trigger.”

  Blood Outlaw’s head lolled back with another moan.

  Something thudded in the back of the store.

  “A second hostile!” Fresh adrenaline spiking through his veins, Logan spun and swung the M4 up and around.

  He couldn’t see past the fitting rooms situated in the middle of the store between the checkout counter and the rear of the store.

  The hostile could be anywhere.

  A shadow flitted across double racks of hanging clothing along the far wall.

  There was no time to assess the risk or even to aim properly. He pulled the trigger. Click.

  The M4 was empty. Utterly useless.

  He dropped it and went for his pistol.

  In the back, a door squealed open. Fast footsteps pounded across the floor, a metal door clanging shut. The hostile was escaping out the back exit.

  Heart thudding against his ribs, he crouched low and started around the counter. “He’ll alert the rest of the gang. I’ll go after him—”

  “Logan!” Julio’s voice was strained.

  He almost kept going. But something about the frantic way Julio said his name stopped him dead in his tracks. Dread sprouted in his gut as he followed Julio’s gaze.

  A few yards away, Shay lay sprawled across the floor.

  Blood gushed from the girl’s head, drenching her hair and running in rivulets down the side of her face.

  It was everywhere. It puddled in her collarbone and leaked onto the concrete in oily black rings.

  One of the stray bullets had found its mark.

  Shay had been shot.

  39

  Logan

  Logan stared down at Shay’s crumpled body, at the red-black blood leaking in an ever-widening circle across the concrete floor. His Glock 43 hung limply at his side.

  Heavy shadows swathed the checkout counter, the clothing racks, the toppled mannequins. Dim daylight leaked through the shattered windows at the front of the store.

  Logan felt nauseous. His stomach roiled. It wasn’t from the blood. He’d seen plenty before, including his own.

  Shay was lying here because of him, because of what he hadn’t done.

  This is what happened, what always happened.

  People got hurt around him. Most of the time, people that deserved it.

  But there
had been mistakes. Like the night four years ago that still haunted his dreams…

  The darkness was in him. Even when he tried to escape it, it still managed to do harm.

  “I need to stop the bleeding!” Dakota knelt beside the girl. Her hands hovered above Shay’s bleeding head. “I don’t want to use my bare hands…Julio, grab shopping bags. They should be somewhere behind the checkout counter—in a cupboard if you can—less contamination that way.”

  Julio hurriedly brought over a handful of plastic bags. “What else?”

  Dakota slipped one over each hand. “I need shirts! The flannel ones!”

  Julio scrambled to obey. He dashed around the counter and ran toward the back of Old Navy.

  Dakota set the flashlight beside her and frantically searched Shay’s bloodied skull for the head wound. The beam limned the frantic scene in shades of black and white.

  In the harsh shadows, all Logan could make out was Shay’s matted, tightly coiled curls and more blood. Blood splotched Shay’s face and stained Dakota’s fingers.

  Shay’s eyes were closed.

  She lay still. Too still.

  Julio brought a handful of shirts and flannel sweaters and sank down beside them. “I—I grabbed them from some boxes in the storeroom. They were sealed in plastic, so they’re free of contamination.”

  Dakota grabbed a shirt and tried to soak up the blood. It just kept coming. “Help me!”

  Julio reared back on his heels, swaying a little. He looked ready to pass out. “I’m sorry—I’m not good with blood...”

  Dakota swore. “Move aside!”

  Logan pulled Julio to his feet and steadied him. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.” Julio sagged against the counter. He scraped his hands nervously through his graying black hair. His bronze skin was ashen. “Thanks, man.”

  “Julio, take the flashlight. I need to see!” Dakota said. “Logan, I need your help to stop this blood!”

  Logan turned back toward the rear exit. “What about the second hostile? I should go—”

  “It’s too late.” Dakota gave a sharp shake of her head. “If he’s going for his superiors, I bet they’re smart enough to stay out of the hot zone. Which means he won’t be returning any time soon.”

  Logan longed to go after him, but she was right.

  A good forty-five seconds had already passed.

  The second guy had fled. He could’ve turned down an alley, sought refuge in any of the businesses lining the street, disappeared into the same rat hole he’d come from.

  The gangbanger was long gone.

  Another error.

  He was rusty. Too slow to react, to act swiftly and decisively, his senses dulled by the booze. He used to be sharp and deadly as a honed blade. Used to be.

  Uneasiness lurched in Logan’s gut. He had the feeling they’d end up regretting that mistake—and badly.

  It would cost them. He just didn’t know how much yet.

  “I hope you’re right,” he said stiffly.

  “Logan!” Dakota jerked her chin at him. “Come on! Help me staunch the blood!”

  He crouched on the other side of Shay and set the M4 close beside him, the handgun next to it within easy reach. He remained on his feet, just in case.

  He turned so he was perpendicular to both the front and rear of the store, keeping an alert eye on both exits. Twenty feet in front of him, Blood Outlaw slumped, unconscious.

  Nothing and no one would take him by surprise again.

  He slipped a plastic bag over each hand and pressed the cloth to Shay’s head. “Will she make it?” he asked grimly.

  Dakota spared him a single searing glance. “How should I know?”

  Julio aimed the flashlight at Shay’s head with one hand, his other clenched around the gold cross at his neck. His mouth moved in a silent prayer.

  Logan didn’t pray. He didn’t know how. In that moment, he desperately wanted to believe in something, a higher power, hope, a miracle.

  Instead, shame and dread and horror opened up beneath him like a gaping maw.

  This is your fault, that voice whispered in his head. It’s who you are. The sooner you face it, the better for everyone else.

  He shoved that thought down deep. There wasn’t time to stew in guilt and self-pity now.

  He focused on the girl, every fiber of his being willing her to open her damn eyes.

  40

  Dakota

  Dark liquid seeped into Dakota’s pants at the knees. The puddle beneath Shay’s head widened, gleaming blackly in the flashlight beam.

  There was so much blood. It didn’t seem possible that so much could be contained within a single human body.

  But it could. She knew that well enough. An image flitted through her mind—the dead body at her feet, blood spilling everywhere.

  She should just run. Part of her wanted to get the hell out of here and forget these people.

  She wasn’t responsible for them. She didn’t owe them anything.

  Her sister was the one who needed her.

  Guilt tugged at her. What was she going to do? Just leave Shay bleeding on the ground? Abandon them when they’d put their trust in her?

  She couldn’t do that.

  Sometimes she hated that part of herself. Maybe it was a weakness, that inability to shrug off responsibility for another human being.

  It was the very thing that had kept her at the compound for so long. It would’ve been far easier to escape without Eden. Maybe the Shepherds wouldn’t have bothered hunting for her. Eden was the one they wanted.

  But Dakota had never been able to leave anyone behind.

  Not Eden, and not Shay.

  “We need to take her to a hospital,” Julio said, distraught.

  “Which one?” Dakota said tersely. “Miami North Memorial went up in flames. Aventura and North Shore are both in the hot zone, so they’ll have been evacuated. The next closest hospital is, what, a four-mile walk at least? And it’s been two days since the attack. They’ll be overwhelmed with all the bombing victims.”

  “What about an emergency FEMA camp? I could go out and search for one,” Julio said, touching his gold cross with one trembling hand. “Maybe there’s one closer.”

  Dakota rolled her eyes. “Where? Which direction? We’re still in the area affected by the EMP. Until we get at least three miles out, we’re running blind until we find a first responder, a radio, or someone who can give us information.”

  “Besides, if we try to pick her up, we could cause even more damage,” Logan said.

  He was right. Dakota stared down at the red gradually staining the teal and brown plaid shirt in her hands and chewed anxiously on her bottom lip.

  They couldn’t call 911. There were no ambulances coming with screaming sirens. No hospitals or medical centers nearby with nurses and doctors waiting, a pristine, sterilized operating room at the ready.

  It was up to her to save Shay.

  “We’ve got to stop the bleeding and get her conscious,” Dakota said, “then we’ll reassess.”

  Logan and Julio nodded tightly.

  The seconds passed with torturous slowness.

  “Come on, come on,” Dakota muttered.

  “Check her pulse,” Logan said, a line forming between his thick brows. “Maybe she—”

  Shay groaned.

  Relief flooded through Dakota’s veins.

  “Oh, thank God,” Julio said.

  Shay thrashed to life beneath their hands. More blood gushed, leaking through the layers of fabric and wetting Dakota’s fingers.

  Logan grabbed two clean shirts from the pile and tossed one to Dakota. “Stop moving!” he grunted to Shay.

  Together, they pressed the new cloth to Shay’s head. She writhed, and the shirt slipped, more blood leaking out.

  “Shay!” Dakota cried. “Hold still!”

  Shay moaned. Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes rolling wildly.

  “Stay with us, Shay. Come on!”

  She m
oaned again and twisted beneath Dakota and Logan’s hands.

  Logan dropped the shirt and gently pinned her shoulders, trying to keep her from moving. “Hold still, girl!”

  Slowly, her eyes stopped rolling back in her head.

  Her frenetic gaze focused on Logan’s and Dakota’s faces above her.

  She stilled and took several shallow, rasping breaths, her wide, stunned eyes showing the whites all the way around her irises. “My head—what…happened?”

  “You got shot,” Logan said.

  Shay’s features contorted in pain—and fear.

  At least she was lucid. That had to be a good sign.

  “Stay with us,” Dakota said. “Don’t panic. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

  “We really need your medical expertise here,” Julio said from a safe distance, panic in his voice. He leaned unsteadily against the checkout counter. “Tell us how to help you.”

  “How—how bad is it?” Shay forced out.

  Dakota pushed aside a handful of Shay’s thick, blood-drenched coils to see her scalp. Logan daubed the shirt quickly and lifted it even as fresh blood welled into the wound.

  A long, jagged gash sliced her scalp a few inches above her right ear. Beneath the gushing blood and raw, mangled flesh, Dakota glimpsed a streak of white bone.

  She let out a sharp breath. “I don’t see any holes.”

  “How sure are you?” Julio asked.

  Dakota scowled. “Do I look like a doctor to you? Not freakin’ sure at all.”

  “A tangential…gunshot wound,” Shay murmured.

  Julio blanched. “That sounds bad.”

  “Hopefully, it didn’t breach the skull…or cause…herniation of the brain.”

  “That sounds even worse,” Julio said.

  Anxiety tightened in Dakota’s gut. There was far too much blood. If they couldn’t stop it soon, it wouldn’t matter whether the bullet pierced her brain or not.

  “Mother Mary and Joseph,” Julio muttered frantically. “If we don’t do something, she’s gonna die right here.”

  “No, she’s not.” Dakota stared straight at Shay, her hands steady, her voice even. “You’re not going to die. That is not an option, do you understand? I will not let you die.”