Yellowstone: Survival: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (The Yellowstone Series Book 4)

by Bobby Akart

  “Jake, I can’t believe I’m about to do this. For all these years of studying volcanoes, I’ve never stepped into the crater. It was something like this that killed my family and has haunted me ever since. I thought watching Yellowstone erupt would wipe out those memories, but it only made me want to learn more about how these things work.”

  “We can turn back,” said Jake as he reached for her hand.

  She tugged at him instead. “No. I can do this. Come with me.”

  The beauty of a dormant volcano’s crater mostly consists of unique colorations of rock, silica, and plant life that found its way inside. Plus, in some cases, the enormous power the crater holds underneath it.

  They stood at the rim for several minutes, taking it all in. The rocky edge created an almost perfect circle that allowed them to walk around it. Jake adjusted the backpack and joined Ashby as she traversed the rocky walls leading into the inverted bowl below them. On the far western side of the crater was a clearing and a trail, which appeared to lead inside the cone.

  The vegetation inside the crater resembled the low-lying crotons on the south side of the island. Erosion from wind and rain caused the inner walls of the cone to collapse from time to time, creating rockslides that buried the plant life until it could regenerate.

  “Are you okay?” asked Jake as Ashby continued toward the western rim.

  “Yeah, actually I am. Now I’m totally intrigued about what it’s like in there.”

  Jake grimaced. He wasn’t intrigued enough to walk inside a volcano.

  “This reminds me of Haleakala on Maui, except this crater is much smaller. Haleakala is dormant and big enough that you could place the whole island of Manhattan inside its outer rim.”

  “So you’ve been in a dormant crater before?” asked Jake.

  “Yes, Haleakala, but it’s not the same. For Pete’s sake, Jake, we stood in the middle of the Yellowstone caldera a month ago, and look what happened there.”

  “Okay. I just thought you might be hesitant—”

  “—to come up here?” Ashby finished his sentence. “I am, or, um, I was. I’m over it now.” She stopped as they reached the western rim of the crater. It was just after six and the sun was making its way into the ocean. She pointed to a couple of square boulders, which gave them a view of the sunset and the volcanic crater behind them.

  Ashby climbed up on them. She sat with her legs crossed under her hips and her hands tucked around her ankles. Jake dropped the backpack and joined her.

  “Meet me where the sky touches the sea,” she mumbled as she stared out toward the ocean. “My mom used to say that to my dad. They really loved the Philippines, as did I. It was a beautiful place full of loving people. It was our home, and not just a temporary one. My parents would’ve lived there forever in that simple house at the base of Mount Pinatubo.”

  Jake draped his arm around Ashby and pulled her close to him. “Your parents would have been very proud of you and what you’ve accomplished. You have to believe they’re watching over you right now.”

  Ashby smiled and looked up at the sky before she closed her eyes. When she opened them, the sun had slipped a little further into the ocean.

  “Jake, I want to believe that we’ve finally found our home together. We’ve faced so much adversity.”

  “I know, but—”

  Ashby interrupted and continued. “Is it over? Are we safe? Will trouble start to pass us by rather than beat on our door and force its way in?”

  Jake leaned over and kissed Ashby on the cheek.

  “You know what they say. This too shall pass. It may pass like a kidney stone, but it’ll pass. For now, we wait and focus on our survival.”

  THANK YOU FOR READING YELLOWSTONE: SURVIVAL, the final installment in the Yellowstone series.

  If you enjoyed it, I’d be grateful if you’d take a moment to write a short review (just a few words are needed) and post it on Amazon. Amazon uses complicated algorithms to determine what books are recommended to readers. Sales are, of course, a factor, but so are the quantities of reviews my books get. By taking a few seconds to leave a review, you help me out and also help new readers learn about my work.

  And before you go …

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  VISIT Amazon.com/BobbyAkart, a dedicated feature page created by Amazon for his work, to view more information on his thriller fiction novels and post-apocalyptic book series, as well as his nonfiction Prepping for Tomorrow series. Visit Bobby Akart’s website for informative blog entries on preparedness, writing, and a behind-the-scenes look into his novels.

  www.BobbyAkart.com

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT from DOOMSDAY: Apocalypse, the first installment in the DOOMSDAY series.

  Bonus Excerpt from

  DOOMSDAY: Apocalypse

  The DOOMSDAY Series, Book One

  Prologue

  Monocacy Farm

  South of Frederick, Maryland

  October 31

  Any two of them rarely met in person, and only on one other occasion had they congregated as a group. Their backgrounds and ideologies were as diverse as the country in which they lived. Matters of race, gender, religion, and culture were irrelevant. Commonality of purpose was tantamount in their minds.

  If the meeting were known to the public, one day it would be deemed historic. The gathering, located at a hundred-acre farm twenty miles south of Frederick, Maryland, was not called hastily. Hushed conversations and encrypted messages, starting several months earlier, preceded the clandestine meeting.

  As fall set upon the Northeastern United States and the first Tuesday in November rapidly approached, the men and women began to feel a sense of urgency. The whispers grew louder—a meeting must be convened posthaste. October 31 was agreed upon.

  The location sitting on the banks of the Monocacy River was a given, especially in light of its historic significance. One by one, they arrived at the mansion, a beautiful antebellum structure that had been in their host’s family for generations dating back to its construction in the early nineteenth century. Sitting nearly a mile off the road, the stately home and adjacent barns were enveloped with sugar maple trees, whose leaves had mostly changed to golden yellow and brown. Interspersed around the property to maintain its privacy were enormous eastern hemlocks that managed to avoid a plague caused by the infestation of the hemlock woolly aphid, a blight upon the beautiful tree, which resulted in its slow deterioration and death.

  The heir to the farm, who concealed his ownership through a blind trust, stood on the front porch despite the cool autumn air, and greeted his guests one by one. Although it was not intended to be a festive occasion, the attendees took the rare opportunity to socialize with their comrades by enjoying hors d’oeuvres and cocktails.

  The staff who waited upon them were well trained and sworn to secrecy by more than a nondisclosure agreement that had become a worthless legal document in this day and age. No, they feared for their lives, for they presumed the tentacles of their powerful employer reached far and wide.

  For the next several hours until midnight approached, they commiserated and debated. A consensus was reached, and then arguments began about things like moral high ground and sacrifice.

  A plan was set forth to advance their goals, and countermeasures were adopted in anticipation of their enemies’ reaction. All of them envisioned a high-stakes game of chess that history would prove to be unparalleled in the modern age of geopolitical stratagems and tactics.

  As the evening drew to a conclusion, their host proposed a toast.

  “I was once confronted by a man of great political power who stood in my face and said, ‘You’re not strong enough to withstand the storm.’ Today, my friends, drawing from our collective strength and love of country, we have taken our stand. I would say to those who will condemn our actions—we are the storm!”

/>   “Hear, hear!”

  The group raised their glasses and drained them. Then their acknowledged leader stepped forward into the spacious living room that had hosted gala affairs and events over the centuries. He positioned himself in front of a massive stone fireplace containing a blaze that shot flames well up the chimney flue.

  Before he spoke, he glanced up at the emblem carved out of granite that was inset into the stone. The skull and crossbones were fitting for their Halloween gathering. The numbers three-two-two carved beneath, were shrouded in mystery just as those who attended on this cold evening.

  He slowly turned and looked around the room. “Messenger, are you ready?”

  “I am,” replied a younger, bespectacled man, who apologetically pushed his way through the group.

  Their host addressed him authoritatively. “Read it before it’s disseminated to your usual platforms.”

  The Messenger already had the screen open on the secured, data-encrypted application designed by him for this specific purpose. As the Messenger, he was responsible for communicating with other like-minded individuals around the world. He pressed the enter button, and the message was sent.

  Their demeanor solemn, the guests quietly exited and returned to their homes and families, the weight of their decision hanging over them. Their host allowed himself another drink and poured two fingers of Glenlivet single malt scotch whisky into a glass. He dismissed the staff and walked out on the veranda overlooking the Monocacy River to be alone with his thoughts.

  He gazed up at the full moon, that had taken on a somewhat bluish tint, befitting its significance. Historically, the first full moon of autumn, known as the harvest moon, allowed farmers extra time in their fields to bring in their crops. That had occurred earlier in the month of October.

  On this Halloween night, this second full moon of the month, much to the consternation of soothsayers and zealots, represented the proverbial blue moon, the second full moon in a calendar month, which rarely occurred. The unusual astronomical event was coupled with the second moon of that October being designated the hunter’s moon, so named as the next full moon following the harvest moon. The confluence of the three designations in the same month caused the cable news media outlets to take notice.

  Throughout the month of October, psychics, clairvoyants, and prophecy pundits filled the airwaves. The media countered with scientists and historians, who roundly mocked the prognosticators as crackpots. Even so, many said the rare occurrence of the harvest, hunter’s and blue moons occurring in the same month portended doom and that the apocalypse was upon us all.

  They were right.

  As if to confirm that the evening’s events were real, he pulled out his phone and read the message appearing on the screen.

  On the day of the feast of Saint Sylvester,

  Tear down locked,

  Green light burning.

  Love, MM

  And so it begins …

  New Year’s Eve

  Chapter 1

  One World Trade Center

  New York City

  It was cold in Manhattan as darkness overtook the city on New Year’s Eve. A light snow had just begun to fall on the concrete jungle, which spread out one hundred four stories below them. The rebuilt One World Trade Center boasted the tallest building in the western hemisphere and the sixth tallest on the planet. It was America’s way of giving the middle finger to the terrorists who had attacked the nation on 9/11. On this evening, a terror of a different nature was going to be unleashed on the world’s superpower. One that would lead to an upheaval not seen in more than a century.

  The SkyPod elevators carried them one hundred two stories to the One World Observatory in just forty-seven seconds. It was a remarkable ride to the top of the building that transformed the landscape with a herculean endeavor. Also known as Freedom Tower, the new World Trade Center stood proud at the heart of a forest of skyscrapers dotting the center of the world’s financial markets.

  The view from the observatory was nothing short of spectacular. As the snow fluttered from the blue-black winter sky, the visitors to the One World Observatory didn’t seem to mind their view being obscured slightly. Many pressed their faces as close to the glass as they could, longing to reach out and touch the frozen snowflakes as they fluttered past.

  The excitement of New Year’s Eve added to the jovial mood of the visitors. This was the legendary city in which the ball drops in Times Square, to the delight of millions in attendance and many millions more watching around the world. On New Year’s Eve, New York was more than a place of power for the world’s financial elite, it was a preeminent city against which all others were measured.

  Admired by most, envied and despised by others for what it represents, the Big Apple was more than a collection of tall buildings and financial brokerage houses. It was a cosmopolitan gathering of cultures, races, and ideologies—constantly in motion.

  New York City was alive as people made their way to elaborate dinners or to find a place in New York’s Times Square, four miles from the World Trade Center, in Midtown. From the observation deck, visitors could feel the surging energy throughout the island. Multitudes of office towers and apartment buildings were lit up as parties were in full swing, or revelers were readying themselves for the big night.

  Many of the visitors focused on the beautiful panoramic views. They looked intently through the telescopes located around the perimeter of the observation deck. Their focus was on what was happening outside and not the two men who leaned quietly against a wall on the inside.

  A gaunt-faced man in his fifties wore a black woolen trench coat with the collar turned up around his neck. His old, wire-rimmed spectacles contained lenses that made his eyes look larger than life. His flat cap hat resembled those worn by newsboys in the 1940s, those young street-corner newspaper sellers who helped their families make ends meet during World War II. The man was a throwback to the last century in more ways than one.

  His associate, a much younger man built like the Incredible Hulk, was more out of place than the older man. Unlike his partner and the majority of the visitors, he wore khaki pants and a short-sleeve, black polo shirt. His chest and arms bulged, threatening to tear the shirt apart at the seams. The skull and bones tattoo on his right bicep seem to come alive as his muscles flexed. The number 322 underneath fluttered like a flag atop a ship’s mast.

  The older man made casual conversation, not attempting to hide his native Irish accent. “I watched them tear it down, only to build it back up again, stronger and more powerful than before.”

  “Yeah,” the young man replied. To the casual observer who might be eavesdropping on the conversation, his method of speaking didn’t fit his stereotype. He didn’t grunt his words or puff out his chest. His words were carefully chosen and articulate, befitting his Yale education. “It’s a testament to American ingenuity and perseverance. When the new design was revealed, the architects proudly stated the structure would top off at one thousand seven hundred seventy-six feet—1776. Ironic, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It is,” replied the older man, pausing as a strong gust of snow enveloped the windows, to the delight of the tower’s visitors. He removed a gloved hand from his coat and waved it toward the windows. “I assume you’ve checked the weather for this precipitation. Will it alter your plans?”

  “The moisture is heading our way from the south, while the jet stream is pulling down cold air from Canada. There’s already snow predicted from Washington to Philly to Boston for this evening. We’ll get our share, but it doesn’t materially impact our operation. The wind is a factor, but we’ve made the necessary adjustments in our calculations.”

  “Good.” The man, who’d made a career out of killing, allowed himself a slight smile. He enjoyed the exhilaration of battle. As a young warrior, the dangers associated with combat never frightened him. He’d never admitted to anyone that war aroused him more than any woman had. The closer he got to taking another’s life,
the more enthralled he became.

  In just a few hours, he would launch the biggest and most complex attack on the United States of America since 9/11, or even Pearl Harbor. It would not necessarily be the most violent, but it would certainly be the most memorable in American history, ranking alongside the shot heard around the world at Lexington and Concord, or the firing of cannon upon Fort Sumter in South Carolina.

  A young boy interrupted his thoughts as he walked by with his mother. He pulled on her sweater sleeve and looked up to her. “Mom, is a storm coming?”

  The older man managed a chuckle as he mumbled to himself, “It sure is, young man. A storm is coming.”

  Chapter 2

  The Florida Panhandle

  The incessant ringing of the phone had awakened him from a deep sleep that New Year’s Eve. He’d had a crazy night of partying and carousing with other members of his team, blowing off steam from an operation they’d just completed in Venezuela. The handlers who employed him had plans for the Caracas regime, which had driven a once-thriving economy into the ditch. After their successes, the people of Venezuela would have a new slate of candidates to choose from while they mourned the old set.

  After he cleared the fog from his brain, he digested the orders he’d been given. On the surface it was a simple op. Two-man team, plus one man with advanced training in a specific weapon to be deployed. He recalled the conversation with his handler.

  “I’m not going to repeat this for you, so pay attention. You’re tasked with delivering the shooter from point A to point B. Nothing else. Once the mission is accomplished, you extract and leave no trace behind.”