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

by Kyla Stone

  Eden banged angrily on the faucet, suddenly furious at it for so utterly failing her.

  Her fists thudded against the cool metal. One punch missed, and her hand scraped the sharp lip of the faucet and slammed into the granite counter.

  Pain stung her knuckles and sliced the side of her palm.

  She clutched her hand to her heaving chest and stood in the darkness, surrounded by silence, completely alone.

  Fresh sobs clawed up the back of her throat. She gasped shallow, frightened breaths, fighting back the panic threatening to swallow her whole.

  No water.

  She couldn’t survive without it; she knew that much.

  What was she supposed to do now?

  4

  Maddox

  The ash continued to fall from the sky. Or maybe it traveled on the wind, wafting from one raging fire to the next. It was hard to tell.

  It gathered in Maddox Cage’s eyelashes, accumulated on his head and shoulders. It wasn’t like the fine-grained particles filming the ground, the cars, the road, covering everything everywhere he looked.

  He knew that stuff was dangerous, infused with deadly radiation. He touched it as little as possible, but some things couldn’t be helped.

  He almost stuck out his tongue, the ash swirling temptingly like flakes of pure snow.

  But this ash was anything but pure.

  If he dared to taste it, the ash would sear his lips, scorch his throat.

  This, too, was part of the judgment.

  He’d been sitting for hours, slumped on the curb, his back resting against a parking meter as he drifted in and out of awareness.

  Gradually, the piercing pain in his head lessened. The bruising ache along his ribs faded. His stomach hurt, nausea surging through his belly in waves, but he ignored it.

  As he stared up at the ash, his mind finally began to clear.

  He remembered who he was and where he came from. He understood everything that was happening, and why.

  The holy words of the Prophet had come to pass. The Shepherds of Mercy, his father among them, were right. They had always been right.

  He did not worry about the wellbeing of his father or his cousin Reuben. His father was back at the compound, far from the blast. Rueben, too, would be spared.

  Reuben had known, though, hadn’t he? As the Prophet’s own son and one of the chosen Shepherds, he’d known about the bomb, just as he’d known Maddox was in Miami.

  Reuben had sent Maddox the warning, though it hadn’t come in time.

  Had his father known what was coming and when?

  The Prophet surely did.

  Had they sent him into the danger zone to retrieve the girls anyway? Had they wanted him to fail? Was this his father’s way of getting rid of him?

  A flare of rage rose up in him, burning bright and painful in his chest. He stifled it swiftly.

  Did it really matter?

  Whatever he must suffer, he would suffer. Whatever his duty, he would do it without qualm or question.

  The consequences of straying from The Way were high. Maddox had the scars to prove it.

  Only suffering led to purity, to obedience. There must be death of selfishness, arrogance, and pride. There must be punishment.

  The country had become polluted. Contaminated. Sickened with a cancer that couldn’t be killed without cutting it out with brutal efficiency.

  To save something, sometimes you must destroy it.

  Only out of the ashes could something new and pure arise.

  The chosen.

  The Shepherds would lead the chosen in the truth, in The Way. Only then would God bless the land, returning it to abundance and prosperity, to a new Eden on Earth.

  The Shepherds were selected by God Himself, angels clothed in human form, destined to be the hands and feet of the Lord to enact judgment on His behalf.

  They would bring about the new Earth. They would create the paradise that God had intended. This was the Shepherds’ holy mission.

  Maddox himself was not chosen to be a Shepherd. He had not deserved to be chosen.

  Dakota and Eden had escaped because of him. Not once, but twice. He’d failed his father, failed the Prophet.

  He knew what they would say, could see his father’s rigid jaw and furious, sparking gaze in his mind’s eye.

  If he could not be trusted with small tasks, how could he be trusted to carry out the judgment?

  Once, Maddox would’ve burned with fury and bitterness.

  He’d always been the second-best son, the black sheep, the undisciplined one, the disappointment. His father had made that clear to him every day of his life. The prodigal son, his father had called him. I’d rather you rotted in a pigsty than carry my name, the man had said to him once. Your brother will be the one who stands at my side. And you? Where will you be?

  Maddox cringed at the memory. He had hated his brother for stealing his rightful place as firstborn. Despised him for his perfect, undoubting obedience, the faith and devotion that came so easily to him, and so hard to Maddox.

  But his brother was gone now. Jacob was dead. There was no bringing him back.

  And Maddox had learned. He would be better. He was worthy, and he would prove it to them all. But especially, he would prove it to his father.

  He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t jealous or vindictive.

  He was resolved, resolute, unwavering.

  Maddox rose to his feet and began to walk.

  Now more than ever, he knew he must remain faithful. The Prophet knew the will of God. And his father, Solomon Cage, was the Prophet’s own brother.

  The Prophet wanted the girls. His father wanted the girls.

  The task had been given to Maddox. His mission had not changed. The will of God did not change.

  He could not let Dakota Sloane escape judgment. He must get Eden and bring her home.

  Once he did, he would be welcomed back with open arms.

  The Shepherds were merciful and forgiving.

  His back bore the scars of their mercy.

  Maybe he could still earn himself a place within the Shepherds of Mercy. He could still be one of them, could still bring honor to the Prophet.

  Most of all, he could still make his father proud.

  All was not lost.

  With a fresh sense of purpose, Maddox climbed a pile of rubble and squatted before a street sign half-buried in broken concrete. North Miami Ave.

  He knew this street. He could take it north almost to his destination.

  The phone in his pocket was a dead hunk of metal, unusable, but he had memorized the address his father had given him.

  Before the blast, he’d looked up the house on Google Earth, zeroing in as close as possible.

  His target was a large, stately tan stucco home with a sparkling pool and sprawling lanai, powder-blue shutters in front, with a manicured yard fringed with elephant palms and a single bright pink flamingo stuck in the mulch—likely a concession to the girl the owners had taken in as their own.

  The girl who did not belong to them.

  He was less than four miles away, less than four miles from completing his mission.

  He passed throngs of wretches begging for help, for redemption. He did not stop for them. He did not spare them an ounce of mercy.

  These tortured souls were beyond redemption.

  He knew how to find his own.

  He was bruised, battered, beset with hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. His stomach churned, the headache returning.

  But it didn’t matter.

  He was no stranger to pain.

  Maddox staggered on.

  5

  Dakota

  The scarf didn’t block the fetid, repugnant stink from infecting Dakota’s nostrils. She could taste it on the back of her tongue. Her eyes watered. She tried not to choke, her stomach nauseous.

  Just outside a silver Toyota Highlander, a woman and a man covered in blood lay collapsed in the middle of the street. The hood, grill, and
front bumper were a crumpled wreck of twisted metal. Flies buzzed everywhere, the noxious stench of death and decay bleeding into the air.

  Shay and Julio coughed and covered their mouths.

  “God help them,” Julio said.

  “They’re beyond help,” Dakota said.

  “Not their souls. We can keep praying for their souls.”

  Dakota stared at the bodies without blinking. She wanted to turn away, to hide from the carnage, but she refused.

  These people died in the same blast she’d been lucky enough to escape. The least she could do was pay her respects to the dead by bearing witness.

  It mattered somehow. She believed that with every fiber of her being.

  They trudged on.

  As she walked, Dakota shut out the ugliness around her and concentrated on the small, cozy cabin, well-protected in the middle of the swamp, imagined her and Eden sitting at the scarred wooden table, warm and happy and safe.

  How she missed that place.

  It didn’t matter that it wasn’t large or fancy. Or that it didn’t have a TV or even a microwave. Or even that they had to cut their own firewood and grow and cook their food from scratch.

  She recalled old Ezra’s grizzled face, his gruff smile; the way he would scowl intently whenever he was bent in concentration over his guns or ham radio, or when he instructed them in the art of survival.

  She focused on the memories to push out the fear and dread prickling the back of her neck. She’d been afraid that first night, too, absolutely terrified of the crazy old survivalist that Maddox and Jacob had taught her to fear.

  Ezra Burrows was not a nice man; neither was he unkind. He wasn’t cruel, but he wasn’t safe, either. He was plenty dangerous.

  The night she and Eden had escaped the compound, they’d stolen the airboat and stumbled onto Ezra’s private property.

  Hungry and parched, with Eden bleeding profusely from the gash in her throat, Dakota had been desperate enough to do something stupid.

  She figured the old man had a stash of supplies they could break into. Grab some food and water, maybe something for Eden’s neck, then make it the rest of the way into town.

  Before she’d given her the key to the exterior gates, Sister Rosemarie had pressed a wad of cash into her hands—almost a thousand dollars.

  Dakota could find a cheap hotel for them, then figure out their next move. She had a vague plan to walk or hitch a ride to Everglades City. Find a payphone and call her only living relative, a grandfather on her father’s side somewhere in Kentucky.

  She hadn’t heard from him or seen him since her parents’ funeral almost seven years before. After her parents’ death, her estranged aunt on her mother’s side had grudgingly accepted custody, and that had been that.

  Dakota barely left the compound, and certainly not to visit heathen family members. The Prophet taught that outside influences bred wickedness. And Dakota’s aunt believed every word he spoke.

  Aunt Ada was a severe, dour woman whose religious fervor was only surpassed by her worship of the Prophet and his grave, doom-filled prophecies.

  She adored every aspect of homesteading life at the compound, equating godliness with grueling physical labor. The harder you worked, the less tempted you were to sin.

  It hadn’t succeeded with Dakota.

  Dakota hesitated at the edge of the property, letting her eyes further adjust to the night, the darkness and the swamp at her back. There were no trees or even shrubs to hide behind.

  Within four acres of the main house, the entire area had been cleared except for three smaller buildings, probably for the very reason she needed them: concealment.

  Maddox had said the owner was a paranoid old fool. He’d probably shoot them on sight. Her shoulders hunched, her body tensing, half-expecting a bullet to the spine.

  This was a mistake.

  But her throat burned with thirst. Dizziness washed over her in waves.

  Eden was making low, mangled sounds in the back of her throat, sounding more like a wounded animal than a human.

  Chills darted up her spine. Something was very, very wrong.

  Eden just needed a little food and water in her. Then she’d be fine. She had to be fine.

  Dakota refused to accept any other alternative. If anything happened to Eden, it would be Dakota’s fault.

  “We’re gonna make a mad dash for that shed to get some cover. If there’s nothing we can use in there, then I guess we’ll try the house.”

  That was an awful idea. She was smart enough to know it.

  It was dangerous to sneak around back and try to break into the house.

  More dangerous still to go directly to the front door and beg for mercy. The old man would be more likely to turn them in to the Shepherds at the compound—or shoot them—than turn them away.

  No. They couldn’t allow themselves to be found.

  The only threat worse than getting shot was returning to the compound.

  Dakota would rather die.

  With that bleak thought, she grasped Eden’s arm and hoisted her more firmly over her shoulder. She flinched against the spasm of pain rippling across her back.

  The new burn—a dime of scorched flesh—blazed with agony as Eden’s weight rubbed against it. Tears sprang into her eyes. She blinked them away.

  She scanned the yard one last time, peering carefully at the overgrown grass and weeds in the shadows cast by the moon.

  Would a paranoid crazy guy really plant booby traps in his own yard? She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to find out.

  An irregularity caught her eye. Some of the blades of grass were broken, slightly tramped down. Not by much; you’d only see it if you were really looking.

  She could barely make out the faintest, shadowy line between the shed and the fence near where she stood.

  Paranoid or not, it was the safest option. She took off for the shed, teeth gritted against the pain searing her upper back, half-dragging Eden’s considerable weight as shin-high weeds snagged her dress and scratched her legs.

  An owl hooted nearby. An explosion of wings nearly gave her a heart attack as a feathered body swooped over her head with a rush of wind.

  She ducked with a startled gasp.

  Her heart thudded so loud in her chest she wouldn’t have heard a herd of charging wild boars.

  Eden groaned.

  “Almost there,” she whispered.

  When they were still fifty yards away, a bright light switched on, bathing the yard in a harsh, white glow. Motion sensor lights.

  Sweat popped out on her forehead and congealed beneath her armpits. Every hair on her arms and neck stood on end.

  Should they turn back? No, it was too late now. They’d either been spotted, or they hadn’t.

  They needed supplies. They were desperate. She had no choice.

  Feeling vulnerable and exposed, she picked up her pace, hobbling with Eden, too terrified to breathe until they reached the west flank of the shed.

  Up close, it was much larger than she’d thought. Two stories of corrugated metal with four small, square windows and a set of metal doors, the handles bound with chains and a padlock.

  The windows were high and too small for a body to fit through.

  Carefully, she eased Eden down in the grass. Her sister slumped against the wall, barely conscious.

  As the motion sensor light blared down on them, Dakota cupped her hands and peered through the small window, catching a dim glimpse of cinder block walls lined with shelves neatly stacked with containers, bins, and bags of food, water, and other supplies.

  Just as Maddox and Jacob had said.

  She felt around in the weeds for a rock, found one the size of her fist, and hurled it at the light fixture above her head.

  It struck with a solid thwack.

  The light didn’t break. It was shatter-proof.

  She cursed and glared up at the roof. A small red light glowered down at her from a black device anchored to the eaves b
eside the light.

  A camera.

  6

  Dakota

  Terror had zapped through Dakota. It felt like biting into a live wire.

  She stiffened, anticipating the blaring alarms, the savage bark of salivating guard dogs ready to tear them limb from limb, the tell-tale click of a shotgun being cocked.

  The seconds turned into a minute.

  Nothing happened.

  Maybe he wasn’t home. Or maybe his little fortress wasn’t as well defended as everyone at the compound believed.

  It was a wild and desperate hope, but it was all she had.

  She had to focus, to act. One, two, three. Breathe.

  Steeling herself, she seized the rock with shaking hands and slammed it against the padlock again and again, each crack a cannon blast in the stillness.

  She cringed but forced herself to continue.

  She was committed now. Out of options.

  She struck the lock again. Sparks flashed off the metal.

  On the next try, her hand slipped and scraped painfully against the metal chains.

  “Come on, come on, you stupid piece of—”

  The padlock was open.

  Dazed, she blinked back the sweat dripping into her eyes. She stared down at the padlock dumbly for several seconds, her arms already pulled back for the next blow.

  Had it just snapped open? Or had it never been locked in the first place?

  Hell, she was losing it.

  She hadn’t stopped shaking since it happened—hours ago now.

  She was exhausted and scared. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the body, the blood, the gaping mouth and empty eyes.

  And then Eden, falling as if in slow motion, blood spilling from her throat like a silk ribbon.

  Maybe this unlocked door was a trap. Maybe it was a gift.

  Eden would say it was God looking out for them.

  In that moment, Dakota didn’t care.

  She fumbled with the padlock and ripped off the chains. They fell into the weeds with a dull thud.

  “Come on.” She squatted, got her arms beneath Eden’s armpits, and lifted her as much as she could, the girl’s legs hanging limp as Dakota lugged her into the shed.