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

by Kyla Stone

  The entire country?

  It was almost too much to take in. Logan’s brain kept trying to reject the information, to deny the horror right in front of him.

  But there was no way to deny this.

  He guzzled another slug of whiskey. Warmth seeped into his belly. But it wasn’t enough. An IV of vodka mainlined straight into his veins wouldn’t be enough.

  “There must be something we can do,” Shay said, aghast.

  “What?” Logan said dully. “How?”

  Shay gnawed on her thumbnail, her eyes shiny with tears. “Go in and free the people who are trapped. Dig them out of the rubble…”

  Dakota gestured at a Starbucks across the street. The western wall had caved in. Mounds of rubble at least three feet high spilled out the front door. “With what tools? We don’t have protective suits. Every time we touch something, we’re contaminating ourselves.”

  “Every hour we stay out here, we just expose ourselves to further radiation,” Logan said. “We have to get ourselves out alive. That’s all we can do.”

  A groan from the right drew his attention.

  Only ten feet to their right, an Asian bistro’s roof had fallen in, great chunks of it cascading over the outdoor seating area, the wooden chairs and tables splintered like kindling.

  Several bodies were trapped beneath the rubble. All dead.

  A flash of movement caught his eye.

  “Someone’s alive over here!” He strode closer, his stomach churning violently. He dreaded what he would see. He forced himself to look anyway.

  A Cuban woman in her thirties lay on the brick paver patio. The roof had collapsed on top of her; her legs from the thighs down were crushed.

  Splintered bone poked from the mangled flesh, blood staining her khaki shorts and rose-pink shirt. A five-foot spear of rebar pierced her chest just above her heart, pinning her to the bricks.

  The woman managed to lift her head. Her black, curly hair spread around her like a halo. She clutched a bundle of something against the uninjured side of her chest.

  Her pain-bleary gaze met Logan’s.

  “Por favor,” she whispered.

  Behind him, Shay and Julio hobbled closer.

  Shay gasped. “She’s alive!”

  He took a step closer. Only now could he make out the object she cradled in her arms. A tiny face peeked out of the bundled cloth.

  For a split second, he let himself hope the baby still lived. Then he saw the shard of glass longer than his forearm jutting from the infant’s fragile neck.

  The baby—a boy, by the pale blue blanket wrapped around his tiny form—was dead.

  9

  Logan

  Revulsion roiled through Logan. He stumbled back in horror.

  The baby’s blank, lifeless eyes bored straight to the center of his soul.

  In the blast, the glass from all the windows and doors had transformed into weapons. Thousands of glass shards hurled like javelins, lancing into vulnerable, defenseless flesh.

  “Please,” the woman begged in a ragged whisper, her voice a ghost of itself. Her eyes were hollowed out, her face a husk, a mask of something human whose humanity had been wrung from it by suffering and grief.

  It hurt to look at her.

  A helpless, impotent rage filled him.

  His free hand balled into a fist at his side. He wanted to hurt whoever had done this, whatever monstrous rogue state or terrorist entity had so callously destroyed something so innocent as a child.

  Like you did? the voice in his head whispered.

  He shoved that thought down with brutal fury.

  It wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same.

  But that was a lie.

  He guzzled a long, frantic drink, desperate for the burn as it slid down his throat, the warm buzz in his veins, the forgetting.

  “Por favor,” the woman rasped again.

  He knew what she was asking, what she needed.

  There was no hope for her. She’d been trapped here for two days, forced to die slowly, in agony while she cradled her dead child in her arms.

  He couldn’t even begin to imagine the torment.

  Only one thing could help her now.

  Logan switched the flask to his left hand and reached beneath his shirt to unholster his Glock.

  He didn’t aim it at the woman. He couldn’t.

  Dakota turned to Logan, no doubt in her expression, no hesitation in her voice. Her eyes shone with bleak determination. “Do it.”

  “It’s murder!” Appalled, Julio crossed himself again and shook his head. “You can’t.”

  Leaning against Julio to steady herself, Shay hugged her arms around her ribcage, shivering despite the oppressive heat. “You’re not actually thinking about it, are you?”

  Dakota gestured at the woman’s shattered legs beneath the ledge of heavy roof, the spear of rebar piercing her chest. “You know as well as I do that she’s not gonna make it. She’s in unbearable agony. She could stay alive for hours, for days, suffering.”

  “No,” Shay said. “We can’t.”

  “Helping her end it is merciful, a release.”

  “I’m a nurse!” Shay cried. “The first rule is ‘Do No Harm’!”

  Dakota whirled on her. “Don’t you get it? That’s what we’re doing. We don’t have morphine drips and hospice care here!”

  “But she’s a—”

  Dakota fisted her hands on her hips. “She’s a what? A woman? A mother of a dead baby? Would you say the same if it were a man?”

  Shay’s mouth contorted. “Yes! I know things look bad now, but rescue teams could arrive at any minute!”

  “Do you see any rescuers?”

  “That doesn’t mean they aren’t coming!”

  Dakota lowered her voice. “There’s no hope for her, and you know it.”

  “As long as she’s alive, there’s still hope!”

  “As a person of medicine, you should know better than that.”

  “It’s still wrong!”

  “No.” Dakota’s whole face blazed with conviction, with a dauntless certainty Logan admired, even envied. “It’s a mercy.”

  “But—”

  “It’s her decision! Not yours!” Dakota snapped. “You don’t get to make that choice for her. You don’t. I won’t let you.”

  Finally, Shay shook her head in frustrated resignation and said nothing.

  Logan heard them as if from far away. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the dead baby, from the mother’s desolate eyes.

  A suffocating shame strangled his throat, as if he had done this terrible thing himself.

  He gulped down another slug of whiskey.

  “It’s still suicide if you ask for it,” Julio said, his face grave. “Don’t you want to be in heaven with your child?”

  Julio half-turned as he spoke to the woman, not fully looking at her. Maybe he was afraid the sight of the blood would make him faint.

  Or maybe he feared staring death in the face.

  Logan had seen death too many times, mostly by his own hand.

  He’d thought he no longer feared it. He was wrong.

  The woman didn’t respond. She only groaned, in too much pain to force out more words. She clutched the child tightly to her chest.

  “You can’t put your religion on someone else,” Dakota said fiercely. “She asked for this. We can’t help everyone. We can’t do a damn thing about anything, but we can do this. This one thing.”

  “I’d want someone to do the same for me,” Logan said quietly.

  “Then do it,” Dakota said.

  Still, he hesitated.

  He wasn’t any good at keeping promises. How many times had he promised himself he’d stop drinking, only to shadow the doorway of a bar the very next day, or wake up hung-over and miserable a week later?

  This was the only promise he’d managed to keep for four years, one month, and seventeen days. Even in prison, he’d beaten men unconscious, but never killed anyone.


  He hadn’t outright killed Blood Outlaw or his accomplice, though he should have.

  The echoes of the mother’s screams from that terrible night seared through his mind. The fear on her face—her fear of him—and the child she hid behind her, protecting him with her body, with her life.

  It hadn’t done either of them any good.

  His gut twisted, filling him with that familiar wretchedness, that nauseous cocktail of guilt, self-loathing, and regret that only relented at the bottom of a bottle.

  This was different. He knew that.

  His finger twitched on the trigger guard.

  And yet—

  Pulling the trigger still felt like a betrayal. Even this, a mercy killing, was crossing some invisible boundary that had kept him—and the darkness inside him—safely hemmed all these years.

  A heavy, helpless emptiness settled deep in his bones.

  Part of him knew he needed to do it. The other part wasn’t ready.

  He couldn’t pull the trigger.

  Instead, he knocked back another drink.

  Dakota swore under her breath. When she spoke, her voice was edged with steel. “Give it to me.”

  Relenting, he handed her the gun.

  She crouched beside the woman and carefully touched the muzzle of the pistol against the side of her bloodied head.

  Dakota’s gaze gentled. “Are you sure?”

  The woman managed a slight nod of her chin, her eyes squeezed shut as she stroked her baby’s tiny skull, his blood-matted fringe of black hair.

  Shay and Julio turned away when Dakota pulled the trigger.

  Logan didn’t.

  The crack echoed in the still, humid air.

  For a long moment, nothing moved. No one spoke. The silence closed in on them, stifling and oppressive.

  Dakota stood heavily, her face pale, her dark eyes glistening. Sweat dripped down her temples. She didn’t wipe it away.

  She’d acted so sure of herself, but she was clearly shaken.

  He wanted to tell her death left a stain on your soul—no matter who it was, no matter how noble the reasons.

  He wanted to tell her that you never forgot the faces, the wide, terrified eyes, the way the light drained out of them like a snuffed candle.

  It stayed with you forever, haunting your dreams, stalking your waking moments, just waiting to ambush you.

  You learned to live with it, like a scar or a limp.

  Or you tried to drown it with booze.

  He wanted to tell her that he understood.

  The words disintegrated to dust in his mouth. He said nothing.

  The buzz hit him then, sweet relief sliding through his veins. The tension gripping him relaxed. The world softened, the sharp edge of horror blurring.

  For some reason, he only felt worse.

  Dakota faced away from them for a long moment, her shoulders quaking. Even Shay knew to leave her in peace. She inhaled several steadying breaths before turning around.

  Her eyes were dry, her expression composed.

  Fresh shame pricked him. She was stronger than he’d given her credit for. Stronger than he was.

  The pistol still gripped in her hands, Dakota hesitated.

  He knew she wanted to keep it; he could read it all over her face. He held out his hand and waited to see what she would do.

  Slowly, as if it pained her, she handed him the pistol.

  For a moment, their gazes met. He didn’t like what he saw there—his own pathetic reflection in her dark, reproachful eyes.

  She had judged him and found him wanting.

  And rightly so.

  10

  Dakota

  The heat beat down on Dakota’s head, oppressive and unrelenting. The sun arced slowly across the sky, a white-hot circle burning a bright hole through the smoky haze.

  South Florida was suffering a drought; not even the regular afternoon thunderstorms had offered relief in nearly two weeks. Today wouldn’t break that pattern.

  Dakota licked her chapped lips, swallowing to wet her dry throat.

  She tried to conserve her water, but it was just too hot. She went through one bottle of water and started on a second.

  Weaving between cars, rubble-strewn sidewalks, and damaged buildings was harder—and took much longer—than Dakota had anticipated.

  They came across a collapsed five-story apartment that completely blocked the road. The shattered building was far too unstable to try to cross. The fires burning in the rubble had spread to nearby shops.

  After backtracking two blocks and heading north again, even more fires blocked their path. Just the sight of the flames constricted her chest. Her breath hitched, all the old memories tightening like fingers around her throat, threatening to strangle her.

  An hour passed. Then another.

  By the time they were back on track, it was already after 4:15 p.m. They still needed to get her sister and flee the hot zone within the next few hours.

  They trudged on in silence, too miserable to talk.

  Smoke billowed into the sky above them. The occasional cry or moan drifted from the buildings on either side of the street. Their despair and anguish echoed inside her skull, sank into her bones.

  Dakota longed to clamp her hands over her ears to block them out. It was like walking through Dante’s circles of Hell, like traveling through Hades itself.

  The only thing that kept her going was Eden.

  Eden was the reason she even knew about Dante’s Inferno and all the ancient Greek myths. At the compound, the women weren’t allowed to read anything but certain texts from the Bible and the writings of the Prophet.

  But Eden’s foster parents gave her books whenever she asked for them. When Eden was finished, she passed them on to Dakota during their visits.

  Dakota wanted to resent them for it—it was just another way they were buying Eden’s affection—but the books were damn good. Despite her best intentions, she enjoyed them.

  “Gotta take a piss break,” Logan muttered.

  He veered off and ducked inside a convenience store with both doors busted open.

  Dakota shook her head in disgust. Searching for booze was more like it.

  This time, she was hard-pressed to fault him for it. She’d drink a gallon of Windex to eradicate the wretched cries drilling into her brain.

  Shay swayed a bit on her feet. “We should wait for him.”

  Julio tightened his grip around her waist to steady her, his brow wrinkled in concern. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just the humidity, I think.”

  Julio pointed at a toppled wrought-iron table on the sidewalk that had crashed through the windows of the pizza joint on their left. “Shay needs a break for a few minutes. Is this safe?”

  “Our clothes will protect us from the radioactive dust,” Dakota said. “But we should still wipe it down with the alcohol wipes. And don’t touch anything with your bare skin.”

  She took out a pack of wipes and cleaned off the table and four chairs. Julio and Shay helped, Shay leaning her hip against the table for balance.

  Julio pulled his sleeves over his hands and righted the table. Dakota did the same and dragged the cleaned chairs over.

  They sat, resting their sore, exhausted legs, hardly moving in the blistering heat.

  “How’s your head?” Julio asked Shay as he pulled a couple bags of half-melted M&Ms out of his sequined bag. He opened one carefully with his sleeves still pulled over his hands, tilted his head back, and spilled them into his mouth without touching the candies themselves.

  Dakota slumped in the hard metal chair. She adjusted the strap of the M4 and settled it in her lap. She passed on the candy. She had no appetite. It was too hot.

  Shay patted her halo of tight, springy coils until she reached the shaved section on the right half of her scalp. She touched the bandage gingerly. It was still white, only the faintest blush of red seeping through. “I’m good for now. It hurts, but it’s manageable.”r />
  Sweat beaded her brown skin and trickled down her temple, though they were all sweating. Her pallor was a bit sickly, and her eyes were red. She kept blinking.

  She raised her hands toward her face like she was going to rub her eyes.

  “Don’t touch your face!” Dakota said sharply.

  Shay flinched. “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t touch your face, but especially your eyes, mouth, or nose,” Dakota warned. “Accidental contamination.”

  “Right.” Shay grimaced. She propped her clothed elbows on the table and held her hands in the air, away from her face. “It’s such a habit. I didn’t realize how often I touch my face for no reason. I don’t even think about it.”

  “Your eyes are bloodshot,” Julio said. “Is that a symptom of something?”

  “It’s my contacts. I’ve been wearing them for over almost three days now. Never thought I’d miss my glasses so much.”

  “Can you take them out?” Julio asked.

  “Yeah, but I’m practically blind without them. It’s fine.” She laughed shakily. “Nothing like getting shot in the head, right?”

  “You’re doing fine,” Julio said.

  “I’m just ready to get back to civilization. I’m sure I’ll feel better with a warm bed and a hot shower, you know?”

  Dakota ran her tongue over her fuzzy teeth. It was a toothbrush she wanted most. She should have grabbed one at the Walgreens, but it had completely slipped her mind. She’d had one in her bug out bag. Packing it seemed like a lifetime ago, now.

  “Just when do you think that’s going to happen?” she asked.

  “Soon, I hope,” Shay said.

  Dakota didn’t bother to respond. She scanned the nearby buildings and streets—for danger, a Blood Outlaw or Maddox or another threat to materialize out of thin air—or maybe for another suffering victim to crawl out of the wreckage begging for help.

  Maybe it was some of both.

  Her hands curled into fists on her lap. They were still trembling after what she’d done to help that woman.

  She couldn’t find words for the awfulness of it: to pull the trigger and feel the thrumming jolt all the way up her arms, to watch the light fade from the woman’s devastated eyes, the anguished expression etched on her face.