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

by Kyla Stone

  The Sig flew from his hands, pinwheeled in the air, and skittered across the pavement.

  Logan stepped close and aimed for Tank’s right shoulder to permanently disable

  him. His vision went blurry. He blinked, wavering slightly.

  Tank rolled onto his back, grabbed a handful of powdered rubble, and hurled it at Logan’s face. Logan reared back, coughing, clawing at his stinging eyes with his free hand.

  Tank nailed Logan’s gun with a well-aimed kick, striking his hand and knocking it free. Logan reached for it blindly, but it spun away.

  Tank lunged for his legs to knock him off his feet. Logan dodged out of the way, turned, and delivered a sharp kick to the man’s face.

  The back of his skull punched the pavement, stunning him. He groaned and stayed down, at least for the moment.

  Logan wiped his face furiously. He blinked hard, searching through stinging, half-lidded eyes for the tiny Glock 43 in the debris-littered parking lot.

  Tank was stronger and faster than he’d expected. He needed his gun. He needed to end this, fast.

  From the corner of his squinting eye, he saw a vague, bleary figure barreling toward him from the left. He glimpsed a slash of red.

  Bandanna, rushing at him full-tilt.

  The world swayed and blurred around him. His reaction time was too slow, too dulled. There was no time for a counter move, only a desperate, half-assed block.

  Logan half-twisted, raising his arm defensively.

  Bandanna lifted the deadly length of rebar, stabbing like a sword.

  26

  Logan

  Logan flinched, anticipating the pain of the blow.

  Out of nowhere, Dakota charged at Bandanna with the carbine in both hands, gripping it by the handguard. An instant before the hostile reached Logan, she cracked the stock across the back of the man’s skull.

  Bandanna staggered and fell, knocking against Logan’s left leg and nearly sweeping him off his feet.

  Logan flung out his arms, swaying, his stomach lurching.

  He managed to regain his balance and stepped sideways, stomping as hard as he could against the fuzzy shape of Bandanna’s outstretched hand as he reached for the fallen rebar.

  Flesh and bone crunched beneath his boot.

  The man let out an inhuman wail and curled in on himself, clutching his crushed hand to his chest.

  Through bleary eyes, Logan focused on the dark circle of Bandanna’s face. He shattered the man’s nose—and rendered him unconscious—with a solid kick.

  He took half a second to wipe the grit from his eyes and blink away the stinging tears.

  For an instant, he and Dakota made eye contact.

  Someone had gotten a good punch in. Her lip was cut. Scarlet droplets stained her shirt.

  “You okay?” he asked, already half-turning to take in the rest of the scene, searching for Tank. The man wouldn’t stay down for long.

  She grinned ferociously at him, her teeth bloody.

  A flash of movement from behind her.

  “Watch out!” he shouted.

  Blondie had abandoned her guard duties to join the fight. She screamed and rushed at Dakota, tire iron clenched in both hands.

  Dakota whipped around, using the carbine as a club. She swung at the woman’s torso and nailed her in the gut. Blondie went down, writhing, clutching her stomach and sucking in air.

  Behind her, Logan glimpsed the female responder dragging her partner back into the shadows beneath the sagging roof of the gas station, getting them both clear of the fight.

  Blondie leapt to her feet, scrambling for Dakota. Dakota stepped back and raised the carbine defensively, warding off several blows.

  Logan moved to come to her aid.

  With a shriek of fury, Hawaii rushed him from the right, swinging with the butcher knife.

  In two quick paces, Logan sidestepped and then leapt, striking Hawaii sideways. They fell together, the knife scraping his ribs. Logan barely felt it.

  Instantly up again, he whirled and kicked the fallen man on the chin as he struggled to rise. Hawaii’s teeth clacked, and blood spurted from his mouth and nose.

  The knife slid from his fingers.

  Blondie howled like a banshee and hurled herself at Dakota. She struck with the tire iron, swinging low and lifting it like a baseball bat, hitting the carbine from beneath, snagging the hanging strap and nearly breaking Dakota’s fingers.

  To save her hands, Dakota dropped the carbine and flung herself backward.

  She scrambled to her feet and came up swinging with her tactical knife.

  Dakota could take care of herself. Logan needed to focus on his own battles. He returned his attention to Hawaii.

  The fat man had climbed to his knees, searching the debris for his knife.

  Logan scooped up one of the tire irons Pinstripe had dropped, took two fast steps, and swung it at the man as hard as he could.

  It struck his freshly wounded face with a wet thud. Bone and cartilage cracked and shattered.

  Hawaii let out a stunned, agonized cry. He collapsed and stayed down.

  The hostile was no longer a threat. Logan could stop now, but he didn’t want to. He couldn’t.

  A distant roar filled his ears, savage, relentless, urging him on. He smelled his own rage like the scent of burning rubber, something dark and pungent and dangerous.

  He slammed the tire iron against the side of the man’s skull one more time. The solid, satisfying smack reverberated all the way up his arms as he felt the bone give way beneath his fury.

  He straightened, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes, searching the parking lot for the next threat, the next hostile to unleash his wrath upon.

  Three—no—four bodies down.

  Dakota gripped her knife and stood over Blondie, who cowered on the ground, curled into a fetal position and covering her bloodied face with her hands.

  She had things under control.

  He blinked to clear his vision. His ears were still ringing, his thoughts coming too slow, too jumbled.

  He was missing something. Something important.

  He turned slowly, his ribs burning, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  Where were the pistols? The Glock and Sig were somewhere nearby, skittered behind a gas pump or hidden in the rubble.

  He needed to find them. He needed—

  The fifth hostile. Tank.

  Where was he?

  Logan’s blows had been enough to stun him, but not—

  “Behind you!” Dakota screamed.

  27

  Logan

  Logan had just enough time to whip around and get his forearm up to block the tire iron as Tank plowed into him. He deflected the weapon, the man’s arm striking him with only a glancing blow.

  They rolled to the ground. Logan caught the wrist of the hand gripping the tire iron and slammed it against the asphalt hard once, twice, three times.

  Tank let out a pained shriek. His fingers released their grip. The tire iron clattered away.

  Logan attempted to push up to get to his feet, but Tank reached back to claw at the back of his head, trying to flip him.

  Logan squirmed, evading him. Gravel, glass shards, and debris scraped painfully against his back.

  Tank jerked his head back in a reverse headbutt. Logan sensed the movement and lunged to the side, but reacted a split second too slow.

  The back of the man’s skull smashed into Logan’s cheekbone. Hot pain exploded in his face, stars flashing behind his eyes. His nose spurted blood.

  This guy knew how to fight. Despite regular boxing training at the gym, Logan was slow and rusty. Exhaustion and alcohol turned his limbs to lead. His stomach sloshed with nausea. He needed to end this before the thug got the drop on him.

  It was only a matter of time.

  He sucked in lungfuls of oxygen, readying himself. Gathering every ounce of his dwindling strength, Logan twisted and leapt to his feet, seizing the man as he pivoted.

 
Leveraging his momentum, he lifted Tank with a strained grunt and slung him as hard as he could into the nearest gas station pole.

  Tank bounced off the pole. He half-fell, staggering—but not down, not unconscious. His skull hadn’t hit the pole hard enough.

  He shook himself off like a dog and pulled himself back to his feet. He bared his teeth in a growl.

  Remaining in a low crouch, Logan scanned the parking lot, searching frantically for one of the guns. Too much debris scattered everywhere. He didn’t have even a second to spare to hunt for it.

  “The gun!” he yelled to Dakota.

  Tank spun fast and low and lunged for Logan with another growl, a tactical knife suddenly clenched in his right fist.

  Logan barely had time to react to this new information. He threw himself backward, twisting away from the attack, Tank still coming at him with the knife, making short, efficient thrusts with the blade.

  Logan scrambled back, almost tripping on a large slab of drywall in a landslide of rubble, his vision wavering, everything tilting sideways.

  He regained his balance and darted around a gas pump, putting it between him and the hostile.

  Undaunted, Tank kept rushing him, relentless, stabbing and slashing with that knife. He faltered for a second, slipping on a roof shingle, but it barely slowed him down.

  This wasn’t working. He was tired and slow. He had seconds before Tank reached him. A few slashes with that blade and it would all be over.

  Logan needed to try something else.

  He faked a stumble, nearly falling. As he did, he shifted his weight to his left foot, allowing him to set up for a roundhouse kick with the right.

  Tank bought the ruse.

  With a victorious gleam in his eyes, he darted in close, swiping the knife at Logan’s face, trying to blind him.

  Logan raised his forearm, blocking the blows, and threw the kick. His shin connected with the side of the hostile’s kneecap, buckling it with a nasty crack.

  Groaning in pain and surprise, Tank collapsed to his knees.

  Logan grabbed the man’s head and jabbed his right thumb deep into his right eye socket. The soft globe rolled beneath his digging fingernail.

  Something popped wetly.

  Tank howled in agony.

  With his left hand, Logan seized the man’s right wrist, holding the knife safely away. With his right fist, he battered the guy’s head and face, punching him again and again, smashing and hammering in blind, brutal fury.

  Blood spurted from Tank’s nose and mouth, smearing Logan’s hands. Pain seared his split knuckles, his bruised ribs, his chest. He barely felt it through the pumping adrenaline, over his bucking, plunging heart.

  He thought only of beating this pathetic pissant into a bloody pulp, and then beating him some more.

  Abruptly, Tank crumpled onto his back, yanking Logan down with him.

  Logan’s grip on the man’s wrist slipped in the slick, treacherous blood.

  In one swift move, Tank twisted and flipped.

  Logan’s brain registered the action, but the synapses firing to his muscles were a fraction too slow.

  He couldn’t react in time.

  Tank leapt on top of Logan, slamming the back of his head against the concrete, forearm punched against his throat.

  Stars burst behind Logan’s eyes, his vision exploding with red and black. He tried to whip the guy off, but his limbs were suddenly sluggish. They wouldn’t obey him.

  He couldn’t get his hands up swiftly enough, couldn’t defend against the attack he

  knew was coming.

  Tank was simply too fast.

  The man’s eyes were hard little slits in his bruised and bloody face. He didn’t bother to gloat; he went straight for the kill shot.

  He raised his knife and slashed toward Logan’s chest.

  28

  Logan

  Boom!

  A small hole appeared in the side of Tank’s head.

  The knife slipped from the man’s lax hand.

  He went slack, his mouth frozen in a startled oh. His heavy body collapsed on top of Logan, limp and unmoving.

  Logan’s ears rang. He couldn’t breathe. Blood dripped onto his cheek and slid down his jaw. His ribs burned like they’d been raked with coals.

  He didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of it.

  His heart was still beating—he heard it like a roaring rush in his ears.

  He was alive.

  He was alive, and Tank was dead.

  Logan heaved two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight to the asphalt and pulled himself to his feet, brushing dust and debris from his clothes.

  He wrenched his neck as he turned quickly, scanning the area for potential threats. But there weren’t any left.

  The fight was over.

  Tank was dead. Pinstripe was still on the ground, groaning, clutching his leg. Blood leaked from both bullet holes, but Logan’s rounds hadn’t hit an artery. He would live if he got medical attention soon enough.

  Blondie slumped next to him. Her face was covered in blood. She raised her hands in surrender.

  Bandanna sagged against the nearest gas pump, his crushed hand nestled against his chest, out cold. Several feet to the left, Hawaii’s body lay at an awkward angle, a spreading puddle leaking onto the asphalt beneath his head.

  Dakota stood less than eight feet away, her legs shoulder-width apart, both hands gripping Tank’s 9mm Sig Sauer, the muzzle still pointed exactly where she’d aimed.

  Logan sucked in a sharp breath. “That was a damn hard shot.”

  Her face was leached of color, her eyes so wide he could see the whites all the way around. “I know.”

  “You could’ve killed me.”

  She lowered the gun but kept it in the ready position. “But I didn’t.”

  Most people got panicky and shaky in real life-and-death situations. The waitress could’ve easily shot him instead.

  He shook his head, marveling at how close he’d come to getting his own face blown off. “Holy hell.”

  “I guess practicing three times a week at the range finally paid off.” She gave a little shrug. “In all honesty, I wasn’t sure I could pull it off. But even if I missed and hit you, I figured you were dead anyway. I had to take the shot.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  Dakota turned and gestured at Blondie with the Sig. “I’ve got plenty of bullets left. I’d rather not waste them on you. Get out of here.”

  Without a word, Blondie helped Pinstripe to his feet. They stumbled down a side street in the opposite direction, a trail of blood splattering the road behind them.

  Logan spat sour spittle out of the corner of his mouth and wiped away the blood trickling from his nose. His eyes still stung from the handful of dust and dirt Tank had thrown at him. He blinked hard and rubbed his face.

  The rage and adrenaline drained out of him, leaving behind a hollow emptiness.

  The pain rushed in then. Nausea swept his guts. Acid surged up his throat. He bent over, spitting watery vomit. He dry-heaved several times before his stomach settled enough to straighten.

  His body always responded this way after a particularly vicious fight—especially one with a dead body or two.

  He never felt it during. Afterward, he felt everything.

  “Logan.”

  He blinked again, swaying slightly. Everything felt distant and far away, disconnected, his body still heavy and sluggish.

  “Logan!”

  He looked at Dakota. She was wiping blood from her split lip with the back of her arm. She held the Sig limply at her side. She was bruised, but alive.

  “You okay?” he managed.

  “Hell of a headache. I’ve got a bump literally the size of an egg.” She grimaced and spat more blood. “But I’ll live. I should ask you that question.”

  He went through the motions of checking himself for injuries, running his hands over his body. His ribs on his left side hurt like hell. He raised his shir
t. A nasty slash about five inches long raked his side.

  It wasn’t deep, but it hurt like a mother.

  Small cuts stung his hands and knuckles. The top of his right ear was missing a chunk of cartilage from the round that had nearly ended him. He’d also earned a split lip and probably a black eye along with several bruises, but no permanent damage.

  “I’m fine,” he lied. He wasn’t fine. It felt like he’d never be fine again. “It just…takes me a minute…after.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Dakota stooped and unstrapped the holster from Tank’s dead body and fixed it to her own belt, then tucked the Sig inside. She pulled the Glock from her waistband and handed it to him. “I found this one, too.”

  He checked it quickly and then holstered it. “Thanks.”

  He started to rub his face again.

  “Logan!” Dakota said sharply. “Don’t touch anything with your hands. You were rolling around in all that contaminated dust. You should wash out your eyes. And we need to get Shay to wipe you down.”

  “Yeah…sorry.” He let his hands fall limply at his sides. You’d think you wouldn’t forget about the radiation for a hot second, but it was more difficult than he’d thought.

  Habits died hard. Twenty-five years of doing things one way versus six hours out in this hostile, brutal hellhole.

  They should go find Shay and Julio. And check on the first responders, wherever they’d crawled off to in order to escape the fighting. He needed to wash the filth off himself. They needed to get moving, get the heck out of the hot zone.

  But he didn’t move. His legs were like lead. Nausea roiled through him. He still felt weak, like if he took a step, he might collapse.

  And if he were completely truthful with himself, he wasn’t ready to see anyone else yet, to be peppered with questions he had no desire to answer.

  None of them knew what it was like to fight for your life, to grapple with another human being, to beat someone bloody with your bare fists.

  Just one minute. One damn minute and then he’d force himself to return to the chaos. He sucked in a sharp breath. Maybe two minutes.