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

by Kyla Stone

  As far as they could see, nothing moved anywhere: no people, no birds or squirrels. Nothing living.

  “Where are all the people?” Julio whispered.

  “Those not too injured by the blast, flying debris, and car accidents must have walked out,” Dakota said.

  “Even for those people exposed to high levels of radiation, the symptoms won’t manifest for several days or weeks,” Shay Harris said. “Except in the worst cases, like the man in the theater.”

  Shay winced and touched the bandage wrapped around her head. Less than an hour ago, she’d been shot by the first survivor they’d met, a Blood Outlaw gangster defending his newly stolen turf. Luckily, the bullet had only grazed her skull.

  Even luckier, Shay was a third-year nursing student who had talked Dakota through her medical care. Sweat beaded her brown skin. Her thick, springy coils were matted with dried blood. But she was on her feet, albeit with Julio’s help.

  “If they can get medical care in time, most of them will make it,” Shay said with forced brightness.

  Dakota had her doubts, but she kept them to herself.

  They lapsed into a strained silence.

  As they walked, she studied Logan out of the corner of her eye. He was tall, lean, and muscular. A few of his tattoos peeked out beneath his new long-sleeved shirt. Though he was only in his mid-twenties, he already had a tough, weathered look to him, his dark eyes hard and alert—when he wasn’t drunk.

  He stared straight ahead. She couldn’t read his expression beneath the scarf covering the lower half of his face, but she didn’t really care. She was still furious at him.

  The idiot gangbanger had swung the M4 in the air like a toy, giving Logan his opening. A bullet to the brain would’ve dropped the thug like a rock.

  The scumbag would be dead; Shay would be fine. And without a distraction, the second gangbanger wouldn’t have escaped to give their descriptions to his gangster boss.

  All because Logan hesitated.

  And for what?

  He wasn’t a soldier after all. Then what was he, besides a liar, a drunk, and an ex-con? And what had he done hard time for?

  Did it really matter? Everyone had skeletons in their closet, baggage they didn’t want anyone else to know about. She had her own secrets to hide.

  But her secrets wouldn’t endanger the group. She had a dark, uneasy feeling that Logan’s secrets would.

  What about Maddox? a voice niggled at the back of her mind. She pushed it away. If she warned them about Maddox, she’d have to tell them the whole sordid story, and that she couldn’t bring herself to do.

  The shame and the fear were buried too deep. Even the thought of someone knowing filled her with a rush of hollow terror.

  If Maddox appeared, she could just tell Logan he was a gangster and have him shot before he could get a word out. Or maybe she’d pull the Glock from Logan’s holster and do it herself. That was the better play.

  Either way, she had the situation under control.

  She hated depending on anyone but herself. Everyone in her entire life had only let her down. Her parents had abandoned her in death. Her Aunt Ada had refused to protect her from the punishments meted out at the compound.

  Maddox had made her a hundred promises she’d been naïve enough to believe.

  Then there were the indifferent foster parents and group home leaders, either cruel, incompetent, or simply too overwhelmed to notice the terrible things happening beneath their noses.

  Only Ezra had never let her down.

  Dakota was the one who’d abandoned him.

  Depending on anyone but herself left her open and vulnerable. She despised that sickening, out-of-control feeling, that panicky tightening of her chest.

  She gripped the M4. She’d give her right arm to have a few magazines full of 5.56 mm caliber rounds right now.

  The world had still gone to hell, but at least she’d have some semblance of control.

  But the M4 was empty. All she had was her tactical knife. And the only one with a loaded gun was also half-drunk.

  At least now she knew not to trust him as far as she could throw him. But she still needed to get the truth out of him and assess the level of danger he posed to the group in general and her goals in particular.

  The sooner she rid herself of him, the better. She cursed herself for not just stealing his pistol back at the theater and leaving them all behind.

  That would’ve been the smarter move.

  But it was too late, now. All she could do was figure out what to do going forward.

  In her head, she ticked off the new plan: rescue her sister; get Shay to a hospital outside the hot zone; head west to the Tamiami Trail without being accosted by Maddox or any other desperate souls; lose Logan; make it to the cabin with Eden.

  That was it. She had no thought beyond immediate safety.

  Once they were at Ezra’s where they belonged, she’d create a new plan—one for their future.

  Dakota stopped suddenly. Her entire body stiffened. “What is that?”

  2

  Logan

  Logan Garcia already regretted his decision to leave the theater.

  The sweltering heat was nearly intolerable. His sweat-damp clothes clung to his body, and the scorched air felt like it was choking him, cutting off his breath.

  That all-too-familiar thirst burned in his throat, buzzed in his head.

  The world was too real, too harsh.

  He was far too sober. He needed to wash all this horror away.

  Keeping the pistol in his right hand, he pulled out his flask with his left and gulped down several swallows. The cheap liquor burned all the way down. At this rate, he’d need to find another store to scavenge to keep up his supply.

  They’d slowed down for Shay. Julio slung his arm through hers, helping her along as Shay leaned heavily on him. Still, they both lagged behind.

  They made an unlikely pairing—Shay tall and willowy, at least 5’10, her wild coils framing delicate features, her rich brown skin beaded with sweat, beautiful despite the heat and her head wound; and Julio, a heavy-set Cuban in his fifties, 5’8 at most, red-faced and huffing.

  “Sorry,” Julio panted. He pressed one hand over his soft, heaving belly. “I spend my days slinging bottles and concocting exotic drinks behind a bar. I’m not cut out for this.”

  “None of us are,” Dakota said darkly.

  “You’re doing your best,” Shay encouraged him. “You’re a big help.”

  Dakota half-turned and shot her a pained look, but Shay was oblivious.

  Dakota shook her head and lengthened her stride.

  “What is that?” Dakota asked abruptly.

  She strode up to a cobalt blue Ford Focus bumped over the curb at a sharp angle, both the driver and front passenger doors flung wide open. The front fender and hood were partially crushed.

  The side of the car was scraped and dented in several places, like the driver had attempted to wend his way through the obstacle course of the street, banging into other cars along the way.

  “What do you see?” Logan asked.

  She bent over the windshield and pointed. The safety glass was cracked in a spiderweb pattern, just like a thousand other cars, but this was different. The cracks radiated out from two holes puncturing the windshield on the driver’s side.

  “Bullet holes,” Dakota said what he was already thinking.

  Logan’s pulse quickened as he drew his Glock and spun around, scanning their surroundings for any potential threats. Everything looked the same. Nothing moved. The air was hot and still.

  Satisfied, he returned his attention to the car but kept his weapon drawn.

  “There’s blood,” Dakota said softly.

  Logan peered into the driver’s side window. The glass was unbroken. The car keys were gone. And a dark splotch stained the tan fabric of the driver’s seat.

  Even in the heat, his blood went cold. “It looks like this car drove into the hot zone. Otherwise
the glass would be shattered from the shockwave, right?”

  Dakota straightened. “Right.”

  Logan’s gaze dropped from the dark streak along the side of the seat to the droplets staining the pavement and sidewalk. They led into a side alley. The blood was dry. Logan didn’t follow them.

  Dakota squatted without touching anything. “And the blood stains are on top of all the dust and debris. This definitely happened after.”

  “Who would do something like this?” Julio asked, his tanned face going pale. “People should’ve been fleeing for the lives, not shooting at each other.”

  Dakota and Logan exchanged a hard glance. They were both thinking the same thing. “A robbery gone bad, maybe,” he said. “Or a turf war.”

  “That Blood Outlaw thug said they were trying to take over Miami,” Shay said, nibbling nervously on her thumbnail. “Could this be from that gang?”

  “Could be,” Logan said.

  “We need to stay alert.” Dakota narrowed her eyes at Logan. “All of us.”

  They continued on their way, all of them anxious and wary. No one wanted a repeat of Old Navy, least of all Logan.

  A few minutes later, Dakota came up beside Logan, holding onto the stock of the M4 with whitened knuckles. She eyed him warily. “We still need to talk.”

  “Can I say no?”

  Her features were taut with tension. Her long auburn waves were yanked back in a messy ponytail, and strands of damp hair clung to her forehead. “There’s something you’re not telling me. And that makes you a risk to the whole group.”

  “Nothing that’s any of your business.”

  She glanced behind them at Julio and Shay and lowered her voice. “Were you in prison because you murdered someone?”

  Irritation prickled beneath his skin. “Please see my previous response.”

  She flashed him a scathing look. “You aren’t military, but you are something.”

  “I’m confused. Do you want me to be a killer or don’t you? Because back in the store, I seem to remember a different story.”

  He felt her eyes on him, burning into him with their intensity. “Killing someone doesn’t make you an evil person. It depends on who and why.”

  He said nothing, just lengthened his stride and walked faster.

  Pushing down his annoyance, he glanced around, keeping his gaze constantly roaming, scanning the damaged buildings to either side and the street ahead, checking the cars and watching for movement, for danger.

  He wouldn’t be taken by surprise again.

  “Why were you in prison?”

  He sighed. She wouldn’t stop unless he gave her something. “Not for murder. And not for rape. Nothing like that.”

  He’d gone down for assault and battery. A six-year sentence; out in three for good behavior. He’d been out of the joint for over a year now.

  The murders—he’d gotten away with those, whether he wanted to or not.

  He peered into the shadowed interior of a barbershop. Shattered mirrors, demolished chairs. The barber pole out front looked like a half-melted candy cane.

  He felt her gaze on him, her eyes narrowed.

  “Believe me or not, it’s no skin off my back,” he muttered.

  “You didn’t kill that guy when you had the chance,” she said. “Is that because you have a moral compass? You look all tough, but inside you’re a pathetic coward? Or were you just drunk?”

  He refused to flinch, to show that she was getting to him. “You don’t pull a punch, do you?”

  “I can’t afford to. And neither can you. Not anymore.”

  He shrugged. “I try to spend as much as my life as possible at the bottom of the bottle. Analyzing the complexities of life isn’t exactly my forte.”

  “Everyone has a code. A line. I know where mine is. The question is, where’s yours?”

  A sharp bitterness welled on his tongue. He swallowed it down with a healthy swig of whiskey. “Things aren’t so black and white.”

  “Sometimes they are. So, which is it? Which way does your compass point?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out.” That, at least, was the truth.

  They passed an elementary school with all the windows blown out but the roof intact. The playground was empty, the parking lot half-filled with teachers’ cars. The owners of those cars must have abandoned everything and escaped on foot.

  It was still summer break, but the sign in front of the school advertised summer school sessions. He tried not to think about the children, how the glass must have shredded into them like knives…

  Clearly, he wasn’t drunk enough. He took another long, burning swallow.

  “Shay almost died today,” Dakota said.

  He stiffened. Regret bubbled up from somewhere inside him. He shoved it back down. “I’m well aware,” he said sharply.

  She tucked stray strands of her long hair behind her ears. “Just making sure.”

  “Exactly what point are you trying to make?”

  She hooked her thumb toward the others stumbling several yards behind them. “Shay and Julio? They’re just starting to get it. The people out there? Half of the ones still alive are sitting around waiting for the government to come and rescue them.

  “I know you understand what just happened. Whatever else you are, you’re also a survivor. I saw it in your eyes. I know I did.

  “Whoever shot those bullet holes into that car is still out there. At least a few of the Blood Outlaw thugs don’t seem to care or understand about the radiation. They’re gonna be sick, out of their minds from pain and confusion, and even more dangerous than they already are.

  “If they find out we killed one of theirs, we’ll be the ones with targets on our backs. And it’s not just the gangs. Desperate people are willing to steal and fight for what they need. So, I need to know, are we together in this?”

  The words tasted like ash on his tongue. “I’m not with anyone.”

  She snorted. “Go it alone. Fine, I don’t care. But we stand a better chance as a group, and you know it. All I’m asking is, when it all hits the fan, are you gonna have my back? Are you gonna take the shot?”

  Guilt pricked him beneath his sternum. She was right, much as he hated it.

  He’d always despised cowards, those without the balls to look life in the face without flinching.

  What was he doing now? What had he been doing for the last four years? He was out of the joint, but he acted like he was still imprisoned, still killing time until his number was up.

  Anything to keep the darkness locked up deep inside.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he growled, and meant it. “I’ll hold my own.”

  They walked in tense silence. Several blocks later, they saw the first bodies.

  3

  Eden

  Eden woke with a ragged gasp.

  She sat up fast, surrounded by complete darkness, her heart beating with frenzied wings against her ribcage. The nightmare still clawed at her mind, fear shuddering through her body.

  She blinked furiously, but the darkness didn’t fade.

  Frantically, she stretched out her hands, feeling the cool ceramic sides of the tub, the soft fabric of the cushions beneath her, the rolled, nubby towel that served as her pillow.

  Slowly and then all at once, it came back. Dakota’s warning text. The light blast, the shaking. Then the darkness and the waiting.

  She pressed her fist to her lips, holding back the broken scream that wouldn’t come anyway.

  She didn’t know which was worse: the reality or the nightmare.

  The nightmare was always the same—wading through the swamp, Dakota tugging on her arm, trying to yank her to safety as the enormous logs on the bank that weren’t logs slid into the water and glided toward them.

  And then the monster’s jaws gaping as it lunged, seizing her with teeth gleaming razor-sharp and dragging her under, where she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t make a single sound.

  Anx
iety scrabbled over her skin like spiders.

  She shivered and pushed away the remnants of the nightmare, forcing herself to focus on the here and now—and her empty belly.

  Her stomach cramped and knotted. Nausea roiled through her, acid stinging her throat. She’d been trapped in the darkness for over two days now. She had no food, no light, no way to communicate with the outside world, not even a voice to cry for help.

  Again and again, she’d resisted the temptation to open the door and tiptoe out to the kitchen to grab a box of Corn Chex or a handful of chocolate chip granola bars from the pantry.

  There was radiation outside the bathroom door. The devastating effects of the bomb. She didn’t know how bad things were.

  How long could she wait? How long did it take for the human body to eat itself? Would she starve to death in her own bathroom?

  She had a thousand questions, and not a single answer.

  Her dry, gritty mouth ached with thirst.

  At least she had access to water.

  She rose unsteadily from the tub, fighting off a wave of dizziness, and carefully stepped out.

  In the last two days, she’d fumbled her way in the dark at least forty times, feeling the edge of the tub, the toilet seat, reaching up for the counter.

  She’d scooped cool water into her mouth and prayed she wasn’t accidentally poisoning herself.

  Except this time.

  The water she’d filled was gone. While she was sleeping, the sink had drained.

  Dismayed, she sucked in her breath, fighting back a despairing sob.

  She turned the “cold” handle on and held her cupped hand beneath the faucet. Only a few dribbles splashed against the granite sink before she could catch them.

  She turned the “hot” handle.

  Still nothing.

  She should have filled the tub with water, too. But when the initial blast had shaken the house, she’d hid inside it with the cushions over her head for protection. Utterly terrified, she hadn’t dared to move for hours.

  Now, fresh panic roared through her. Helpless tears burned the backs of her eyes. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.