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

by Kyla Stone

  Dakota switched the radio off. She felt sick. Numbed. The enormity of it was overwhelming. Paralyzing. It made her want to curl into a ball and block out everything—the fear, the chaos, the suffering and loss.

  “We can’t get distracted,” Logan said. “We have to focus on what’s right in front of us. That’s how we keep from becoming another statistic. That’s how we stay alive.”

  They drove past housing developments and low-rise condominiums painted in tropical yellows, oranges, and blues. Most of the streetlights weren’t working. On Dakota’s side, a canal of dark water about fifteen feet across paralleled the road. The large palms growing from the center islands dividing the east and westbound lanes rustled gently in the early evening breeze.

  “There’s a red Porsche that’s been behind us for the last several minutes,” Logan said from the back seat. “And I think I’ve seen that same orange sportscar, too. Can’t make out what it is from this distance.”

  Julio whistled. “A Porsche 911 Carrera?”

  “Can’t tell,” Logan said. “Maybe.”

  “That’s a sweet ride. Up to 690 horsepower. Top speed over one-ninety an hour. Not a lot of trunk space, though.”

  Dakota twisted around. “How far back?”

  “A hundred yards, maybe,” Logan said. “They haven’t gotten any closer. And they’re both too far away for me to make out identifying characteristics of the drivers.”

  “We’re on a main highway,” Julio said mildly. “There’s no other roads to turn off. Everyone is headed to the same place.”

  He pointed out his window as they passed a black Dodge Grand Caravan loaded to the tops of the windows with suitcases, bags, and whatever else the family could squeeze inside. A toddler in a rear-facing car seat peered out the window at them with big brown eyes.

  “Maybe,” Logan said darkly. “I still don’t like it.”

  50

  Dakota

  Red and gold streaks ribboned the sky as the sun began to set. Very few lights appeared in the shopping plazas or big box stores. They passed a Jiffy Lube, a Goodwill, a gas station that read “No Gas. No Cash. Closed.” All dark.

  “How are you doing?” Julio asked Dakota, so quietly Logan and Park couldn’t hear them in the back over the low rumble of the diesel engine. “For real?”

  “Fine,” she said automatically. She glanced across the road and watched the squat buildings of Florida International University slide past them on the left. On the right, neighborhoods crowded behind the canal.

  “I miss Shay,” Julio said with a sigh. “She was more talkative.”

  Dakota snorted. “And way too chipper.”

  “Admit it, you liked her.”

  “She might have grown on me a bit,” Dakota said with a tight smile.

  “Me, too. I understand why she stayed, but I still wish she was here with us. At least we can check in with her on Hawthorne’s phone.”

  To the right, the housing developments finally gave way to scrubby pineland, though the opposite side of the road still bristled with restaurants, grocery stores, autobody shops, and sad little houses crowded together.

  They were close to the end of civilization.

  “I hope you don’t take offense at this,” Julio said hesitantly, “but I want you to know that I wasn’t being facetious before. I do pray for you. For you and Eden. For all of us, but especially for you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You pray to Jude, the patron saint of lost causes?”

  “Very funny. And impressive. You know your saints.”

  “Only that one.” It was what Sister Rosemarie, a former nun, used to say to her back at the compound. She always had a wry smile on her wizened old face when she said it, though. I’m sending up a prayer to Jude for you, girl. You’re the queen of lost causes. And Dakota, with her smart mouth, would always retort, If you think there’s any hope for me, doesn’t that make you the lost cause?

  It was always whispered, never spoken aloud, for praying to anyone other than the Lord was an abhorrent sin, punishable via the mercy room. It remained a small secret between them, a bit of pleasant commiserating in a harsh life filled mostly with draconian rules and restrictions, hard labor, and shame—always the shame.

  Dakota ran her hand along the stock of the AR-15. That was a long time ago. A lifetime ago. And yet, it wasn’t lost on her that every mile they drew closer to Ezra, they also drew closer to the compound.

  “You still a praying man?” Dakota asked Julio. “Even after all this?”

  “I am now,” he said grimly.

  “I don’t do religion. It just causes more harm.”

  “Maybe,” he allowed. “Maybe that’s why I strayed for so long. Religion isn’t the same as God. Religion isn’t faith. It took me a long time to understand that. Religion can be a lot of rules and traditions to follow. It’s not always bad, but it’s not always good, either.”

  “You got that right.”

  “When God spared me in the blast—I knew I was here for a purpose, you know? There has to be a reason.”

  Dakota stiffened. That sounded all too familiar. “You think God caused this?”

  “No,” Julio said swiftly. “Absolutely not. God doesn’t cause evil. But God can work through something terrible to make something good come out of it. That’s what I believe. That we were put here to ease each other’s burdens, to help each other.”

  Dakota stared out the window. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Throughout time, there have been religions who’ve claimed to speak for God who instead heaped great harm and suffering upon others. But God isn’t in those people, whether they call him God or Allah or Jehovah. God is a God of love.”

  “The only God I ever heard of was a god of wrath and judgment, fire and brimstone. A god just waiting for you to mess up so He could punish you with torture and misery.”

  “That’s tragic,” Julio said softly. “And wrong. God is love. A man or woman who doesn’t show love in everything they do doesn’t know God.”

  “Maybe,” she allowed, noncommittal.

  Julio’s god seemed antithetical to the one they’d crammed down her throat at the compound. Which one was the right one? Maybe they were both wrong.

  Maybe God didn’t give a single crap about all the little humans scurrying around on planet Earth, destroying the world and each other. It sure as hell seemed that way.

  “Look at everything you’ve survived,” Julio said. “I’m smart enough to know that I don’t know the half of it. Someone up there is watching out for you, even if you don’t see it.”

  They drove quietly for a while.

  Julio removed his hand from the wheel and touched Dakota’s arm. This time, she didn’t flinch.

  “I’m asking your forgiveness in advance for butting into your business,” he said. “I’d like to say something to you, something you may not like.”

  “Spill it,” she said tightly, glancing at him. “We both know you’re going to do it, anyway.”

  A smile flickered across his face before his expression grew serious. “I sense some animosity between you and Eden. Anger and hurt feelings. Maybe some things you didn’t tell each other that you should’ve. Am I barking up the right tree?”

  She hesitated, again fighting her instinct to close up and shut everyone else out. The classic M.O. of the abandoned, defensive, bitter foster kid. Jeez. She wasn’t even original.

  It hadn’t worked so great for her so far, either.

  She sighed. “Pretty much.”

  “I don’t know what happened to you. But after our run-in with Eden’s brother, I imagine it wasn’t pleasant, whatever the details.”

  The scars crisscrossing Dakota’s back tingled and itched. She could feel every single one. Her throat tightened.

  “Seems to me, the very fact that you managed to find each other in the midst of utter chaos and destruction is a miracle in itself. You two have been through hell and back. Whatever hurts you’ve both suffered, the only thing
that’s gonna heal you is love. God’s love, and love from others. That’s all that matters.”

  “I think you missed your calling, bartender. You should’ve been a preacher.”

  Julio chuckled softly. “I should’ve been a mechanic, with my own shop. But that’s a sob story for another day. My point is, you’ve got to get over whatever’s between you. Forgive your sister.”

  “You called her my sister.”

  “How many people live their entire sad, lonely lives and never know the loyalty and love you two have for each other? I don’t care whether the same blood runs through your veins. What does that matter? When I look at both of you, all I see is family.”

  She blinked at the sudden stinging in her eyes. Julio was right. Eden was her sister, no matter what anyone else said.

  Other people only held power over your own mind when you gave it to them. They might be able to beat and brand and destroy your body, but they couldn’t steal your thoughts, your beliefs, your truths.

  Not without your consent.

  Eden was her sister. And she was Eden’s.

  They were family. And family—the family you chose—never gave up on each other.

  Dakota couldn’t remain angry at Eden for telling Maddox about Ezra. It wasn’t fair or right. She was the one who’d withheld the truth from Eden in the first place. The only one she could blame was herself.

  All she could do now was vow to be better. For Eden. But also, for herself.

  “Thank you.” She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “I mean it.”

  They drove on.

  Shortly after they passed the Seminoles’ Big Cypress bingo hall, the road narrowed to only two lanes: one westbound, one eastbound, metal guard rails bordering both sides. More abandoned cars cluttered the road, making less room to navigate. Julio slowed to fifteen miles an hour, easing carefully between the vehicles like some twisted obstacle course.

  As the sky faded to indigo, stars appeared. The lights in the review mirror seemed even brighter. Almost like pairs of eyes—harsh, searching, predatory.

  “Those same cars are still behind us.” Logan’s voice was tense. “They’ve closed the gap, maybe fifty yards now. Those two cars have stayed close together this whole time. And now there’s a third one right behind them. Looks like a blue sportscar…a Maserati. Not sure of the model.”

  Julio flicked his gaze to the review mirror. “That orange one’s a Jaguar F-TYPE SVR for sure. The red one is a Porsche 911. And a Maserati GranTurismo. Each of those retails over a hundred and fifty grand.”

  “Three expensive sportscars driving together,” Dakota said uneasily. “What are the odds?”

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she tightened her grip on the AR-15.

  Logan had good instincts. If he was worried, so was she.

  “You think we’re being followed?” Julio asked.

  “I think we’re being hunted.”

  51

  Logan

  There was nothing ahead or around them but wilderness and darkness.

  The vehicles pursuing them grew bolder. They drew closer, revving their engines, then fell back only to speed up again, tires squealing in protest as they swerved to miss random cars.

  The Porsche switched on its brights. The two cars behind it followed suit.

  “You think it’s the Blood Outlaws?” Julio asked.

  Harsh light blared into the cab. Logan squinted through the window, his adrenaline surging, his muscles tensing. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Mother Mary and Joseph,” Julio said. “Why do the bad guys get all the best cars?”

  “Take that one up with the man upstairs,” Park said. “We’ve got bigger concerns.”

  “They were searching for us,” Dakota said. “For the truck. It’s hard to miss with the front fender dented and all the bullet holes. They could’ve been lying in wait for us. Or had patrols out scouting, circling the EOC, hoping to get lucky.”

  “We obliterated twenty of their guys,” Logan said. “They want revenge. They want to make a statement. Gangbangers like these, they can’t let nothing slide. Otherwise, they look weak just when they need to solidify their domination over competing gangs. If they look like they can’t handle their business, someone else’ll take their place.”

  “It’s like King of the Mountain,” Park said, “but with machine guns.”

  “It’s exactly like that,” Logan said.

  They passed a rickety billboard advertising alligator wrestling, airboat tours, and rare snake exhibits along with a roadside food shack and concessions. Fields of stubby pine forests rose up on both sides of the road. On the right, the canal had stretched to thirty or more feet across.

  “This is just a straight road for eighty miles,” Park said. “Nothing but swamp on either side. How are we going to lose them?”

  “We stop and fight,” Dakota said.

  “Three cars packed full of crazy psychos against the two of us?” Logan said. “You are nuts, girl.”

  “We can end this thing right now,” Dakota said fiercely. “I know we can.”

  “Settle down, Rambo,” Park said.

  “I can shoot if I have to,” Julio said. “I’m not very good, but I know the basics.”

  “We need you to drive,” Logan said.

  “Okay, fine,” Park said, his voice squeaking a little. “If we’re doing this thing, let’s do it. Give me a pistol. I’ve still got one good hand.”

  “Have you ever fired a gun before?” Logan asked.

  “I have incredibly steady hands—hand, I mean. Sleight of hand is a requirement in my job. I’m good under pressure and learn fast. I know what to do: keep my finger off the trigger and don’t aim at anything I’m not prepared to kill, then point and shoot.”

  “Only if we’re desperate,” Logan said. “And we’re not there yet.”

  Dakota twisted around in her seat. He could barely make out the wide whites of her eyes in the dark. “What’s the plan?”

  She wasn’t automatically taking charge. She’d asked his opinion—like she’d actually wanted it.

  “We don’t stop,” Logan said. “Not unless we have to.”

  “We can outrun them,” Julio said.

  “Those are fast sportscars,” Dakota said, dubious. “We’ve got a beat-up truck we’re lucky even runs.”

  “We can still do it,” Julio said confidently.

  Logan raised his eyebrows. “In the dark? With all these stalled cars everywhere?”

  “It’s like the obstacle course of doom,” Park muttered.

  “Exactly,” Julio said. “Last car standing wins.”

  The realization struck him. “You want to use the cars. Get the gangbangers to crash into them.”

  Julio nodded tersely. “We don’t have to outrace these guys, just outlast them. If they’re no longer mobile, they can’t chase us anymore. We leave them in the dust.”

  Julio drove fast and steady, with precision and skill. The Ford responded like a well-trained horse under his control. Unlike Carson, whose barely contained panic had made the drive jerky and precarious, like a rickety ride at the fair.

  A car horn blasted. Twenty yards behind them, the Porsche unrolled its windows. The barrel of an assault rifle poked out.

  “Trust me,” Julio said. “I can do this.”

  Dakota and Logan exchanged another tense glance. They could crash just as easily as the gangbangers. If they were injured, they’d be unable to defend themselves. It was a risk.

  It was also the best option. Maybe the only one that gave them a legitimate chance.

  The Porsche blasted its horn again. It swerved around an SUV parked along the narrow shoulder and sped up, pulling to within thirty feet of the truck.

  The Jaguar and the Maserati roared into the oncoming lane. The Jaguar came up alongside the Porsche, honking angrily.

  Every time the truck tried to pull ahead, they ate up the distance like it was a Sunday drive in the park. Damn, they were fast. Incr
edibly fast with their jacked engines and sleek, aerodynamic forms. The Ford was a clunky junker in comparison.

  Park twisted around in his seat, gritting his teeth as the top lip of his cast caught on his seatbelt. “One of those turd-blossoms is hanging out the window. He’s aiming a gun right at us.”

  “We’re doing this,” Logan said. “You drive, we’ll shoot.”

  “Aim for the tires,” Dakota said.

  The crack of a gunshot exploded behind them.

  They were under attack.

  52

  Maddox

  Maddox stopped outside the chapel. Muffled noises echoed through the wooden door, which was only partially closed. The hairs on his neck prickled.

  Above him, the wide bowl of the sky was turning to indigo. Bats darted above the trees. Cicadas buzzed. The whole compound was quiet. It was dusk; everyone was inside the cafeteria for dinner. Everyone except for whoever was inside the chapel.

  He silently opened the door and peered inside.

  At the front of the chapel, a figure knelt before the first pew, his hands folded, his head bent. He recognized the broad, stiff back, the graying blond hair, the hard, stern profile. Solomon Cage.

  His father.

  A woman knelt next to him. Long, braided black hair and narrow, hunched shoulders. His stepmother, Solomon Cage’s second wife, was a severe, humorless woman Maddox avoided as much as possible.

  He called her Sister Hannah, not Mother. Never Mother.

  Maddox’s own mother had died here in the compound, during childbirth with Eden. No one summoned a doctor. God’s will, everyone said.

  His father was mumbling something. His voice was strange—somber, apprehensive, almost… grieved.