The Next World Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Olah, Jeff

  “Yeah, okay. But how about we go back through it one more time.”

  There was static on the radio, but there wasn’t a voice that followed. Owen instinctively brought it up to his mouth, but then waited. He looked over his shoulder at Travis, but again couldn’t make out much more than his shape.

  “You’re going to follow me out and to the right.” Travis ignored the disruption, and it appeared intentional. Maybe he was trying to keep Owen focused on what was to come next or maybe he just didn’t think it meant anything. “Once we get past the stairs, you’ll be looking for a white Ford Bronco. It’s got some damage to the passenger side—you’ll know when you see it.”

  Owen still stared at the walkie, but nodded his head. He was ready to go, had been for the last ten minutes. “Yeah okay, give me the keys.”

  Travis stepped in close, turned on a compact flashlight, and pointed it at the door. He handed Owen the keys and pulled the SIG nine millimeter from his waistband. “If there are any near the Bronco, I’ll lead them back over to the stairs. You just get it started and head toward the ramp.”

  “So—”

  “And,” Travis apparently wasn’t finished. “Make sure that the passenger door is unlocked.”

  “The others, they won’t be anywhere near the ramp when—”

  Static came through the radio once again. It was a longer burst and quickly followed by a woman’s voice. It was Natalie. “We’re ready.”

  “Okay,” Owen spoke in a hurried whisper. “We’ll meet you out there, stick to the plan.”

  He wasn’t going to wait for a response. He and his friends knew what they were doing and now just needed to act. Owen stepped back, slowly pulled open the door, and reached to his lower back for the Glock. “Let’s go.”

  Travis was quick for a man of six feet. He had the build of a professional baseball player, and it seemed the speed to match. He dipped under Owen’s arm, pointed the beam from his flashlight to the right, and began to run.

  Owen was three paces back, but spotted the Bronco right away. He also caught a quick glimpse of a half dozen Feeders crowded around the passenger side, now turning and heading toward Travis.

  He kept his voice low and his eyes on the crowd, but continued toward the older SUV. “You see them?”

  Travis didn’t answer, but slowed considerably, and had widened his path around the Bronco. There were a few seconds where it looked as though he may run straight into the group of six, although as he came to within twenty feet, he cut hard to the right and started toward the stairs.

  Out of the corner, hidden behind the stairwell, another, much larger group appeared. There were ten and then fifteen and then Owen stopped counting and sprinted to the driver’s door. He took a quick glance to his right just as Travis came back into view, squeezing between the front of the Bronco and a close group of three quicker moving Feeders.

  Travis slipped past the front bumper, made eye contact with Owen for only a fraction of a second, and then swept the beam of the flashlight across the entire garage, end to end.

  Not enough time to get a full picture, but enough to know what he was up against. The right side, and between himself and the ramp, there had to be at least another two dozen. They were more tightly packed together, one almost on top of the next.

  There was an instant where Owen blinked his eyes, thought he could burn the memory into his mind, hold on to the fading image as he drove toward the exit, and then somehow navigate the remainder of the underground lot on what little he had seen.

  But he knew that wasn’t going to be possible. Not on the best of days and especially not now. So instead, he shifted into drive, unlocked the doors, and followed Travis.

  Fifteen feet ahead, the bounding motion of the light came to a stop and again swept the garage from one side to the other. Travis was now just an obscured silhouette, frozen in place. He took a step back, quickly turned his head to the right, and ran the flashlight toward the outer stairwell. There were a few seconds where he just stared off into the darkness, and then turning back to Owen, he started to run.

  This wasn’t what they had planned. Travis was only supposed to lead them away from the ramp and then double back to the Bronco. Owen considered driving around him, although Travis was now too far ahead. Easing his foot down onto the gas, he increased his speed just enough to pull to within twenty feet, and turned on his headlights.

  He had told Travis that he wouldn’t, but hadn’t—until this very moment—understood why. Now he did. Eighty feet to the ramp and somewhere close to one hundred Feeders formed a wide circle around Travis. They originally walked the edges of the garage, but as Owen’s location became known, they turned and started toward Travis and the Bronco.

  Owen shifted into park, dropped the Glock into his lap, and lowered his window. “IT’S NOT GOING TO WORK. GET IN.”

  Travis looked back at the crowd as they continued toward him, sweeping the flashlight across the faces of the dead, and then turned to face Owen. He shook his head, dropped the flashlight into his pocket, and pulled out the SIG.

  Owen kept an eye on the crowd as Travis jogged back. There was a group of four that had come from the left and as they entered the path of Owen’s headlights, they caught Travis off guard.

  The first in the group—a tall woman in torn jeans—moved away from the others and lunged at Travis as he twisted away. Falling forward and reaching out with her badly disfigured left arm, she was able to get a handhold on his pant leg, which caused him to stumble into the front bumper of the Bronco.

  The collision rocked the large sport utility vehicle as Owen shoved open his door and stepped out. He bit into his lip, driving away the voices in his head. The ones screaming for him to get back in the driver’s seat.

  With a quick check to his left, he raised the Glock and then cornered the front of the Bronco. Travis had taken a blow to the head and was lying motionless just under the bumper. The woman who’d taken him down was on his legs clawing her way toward his chest.

  Owen racked the slide, planted his left foot, and fired one round through the side of the woman’s head. Her body torqued violently to the right and dropped at the feet of the three who were behind her.

  Backlit by the Bronco’s headlights, Owen raised the weapon and fired another three carefully placed rounds. The shots, spaced less than a second apart, eliminated the trio of male Feeders, each toppling over the one before.

  Another look over his shoulder and then straight out from the Bronco told Owen he had maybe twenty seconds to get Travis into the SUV. Stepping in and dropping to his knees, Owen pulled the younger man up by his collar and rolled him onto his back.

  With an open hand, Owen reached back and slapped Travis with about sixty percent of what he could have. There was a small jolt of movement, but nothing that told him Travis was going to get up on his own.

  Okay, this is gonna be fun.

  Owen took one last look around before slipping the Glock into his waistband, steadying his legs, and pulling Travis up onto his shoulder. In one motion, he stood and moved quickly to the passenger door.

  “Let’s go buddy, wake up.”

  Another jolt ran through Travis. This time his body stiffened and he gripped the back of Owen’s shirt. “Uh … uh … what?”

  There wasn’t time for anything but forward movement. Owen held him tighter, opened the door, and then tossed him into the cab. And as he stepped away, he again pulled the weapon from his waist and started around the rear of the Bronco.

  There were two that were close, but Owen turned the corner, hopped in behind the wheel, and slammed his door. Turning to Travis, he dropped the Glock into the console and made a point of looking at it. “What was that all about?”

  “We wouldn’t have made it.”

  “You know what, I don’t really care. We just need to get the hell out of this garage.” Owen pointed toward the ramp at the right side of the garage, the crowd beginning to thicken. “Is that where we’re going?”


  Travis rubbed at the lump beginning to form along his hairline. “Yeah, then two levels up on the left.”

  Owen shifted the Bronco back into drive and mashed his foot into the gas pedal. “Hold on.”

  Sixty seconds later, they rolled out onto the street level, and pulled alongside Lucas’s Toyota 4Runner. Owen nodded to Lucas, opened his door, and stepped out. He helped Ava and Noah climb in to the back seat and then kissed Natalie as she followed them.

  “All good?”

  Natalie looked like she had been crying, but nodded as she passed him. “We’re okay.”

  Back to Lucas at the driver’s window, Owen leaned in and gave the teen a thumbs-up. “Good job my man.”

  Lucas offered an even grin. “Thanks”

  Into the back seat of the 4Runner, Owen looked from Zeus to Kevin and finally over to Harper. “How’s our patient? He behaving himself?”

  Harper nodded. “He’s been good, but he’s stubborn. Nothing we can do about that.”

  To Cookie, now seated beside Lucas, Owen smiled. “You okay?”

  She buckled her seatbelt and tucked her hands into her lap. She looked uncomfortable, like she wanted to be anywhere else. Her voice came out low and quick. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Owen stepped back and patted Lucas on the shoulder. “Maybe an hour, maybe less, depending on what the highway looks like … you got this?”

  Lucas sat up a bit straighter. “Yes sir!”

  Back to the Bronco, Owen slipped in behind the wheel, and turned in his seat. He waited for Natalie to finish with the children and then reached for her hand. “You sure about this?”

  She nodded quickly. “If anyone knows where to find Gentry, it’s Major Daniels. This is what we have to do—it’s the only way.”

  82

  Declan had stayed behind the crowds and used the distraction Jacob created to make his way out to the street and back to the BMW. Desperately low on fuel and ready to make this part of town a distant memory, he took from the interior what he could carry and headed off around the opposite side of the building.

  The alley smelled of death and what could only be described as rotting fruit. A sweet pungency to it. The aberrant stench felt like it was somehow penetrating not only his nose, but also his eyes, his ears, and even his skin. Like it was all around him, washing over him like a churning whitewater. Nowhere and everywhere all at once.

  He stayed close to the wall of the building, slowing his pace as he moved by a city dumpster. There were a handful of motionless corpses, maybe ten, that were laid along the wall. But the situation didn’t seem to match the smell. He’d seen this before; however, it didn’t make any sense until he finally reached the end of the alley and looked out over the rear lot.

  More bodies. Had to be at least a few hundred. Now lined up and stacked along the edge of the loading dock at the rear of the building. Most looked to have been infected, although some showed no sign of decomposition. Either way, this was good. The black Mustang was now less than a hundred yards away and the sea of bodies, although repulsive, would provide him cover from those still walking the lot.

  Going wide, Declan jogged to a grouping of three medical supply vans. They sat side by side, each parked less than two feet from the other. He peered back through the windows, to the spot where Joshua had landed. He had, for the most part, forgotten about the twins, although there was something he couldn’t quite place.

  It wasn’t sympathy, it couldn’t be. That wasn’t how he was built. But there was something, and he knew he didn’t like whatever it was. For some unknown reason, he felt relieved to see that Jacob had somehow managed to get to his brother and that they had both escaped. He didn’t hate them or have any reason to—it was just that they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Declan quickly scanned the remainder of the lot and the crowd below the window he threw Joshua from. They moved away, gaining followers from the loading dock, but also sent smaller groups out toward the Mustang and street beyond.

  Time to go.

  With the Smith & Wesson M&P 9 he’d retrieved from the BMW in his right hand, Declan slung his bag over his shoulder, cinched the strap, and stepped out from behind the last van. He stayed low and moved from one forgotten vehicle to the next, never more than twenty feet or so without looking back over the lot and checking the crowd’s progress.

  At the last row, he moved in beside a blue sedan that had a rideshare sticker along the right corner of the rear window. For a moment, he tried to imagine that the world hadn’t imploded and that there was someone out there still offering rides, that he could simply pull out his phone and order a vehicle to come to him.

  Amused, he laughed at the thought, before shuffling to the opposite end of the blue sedan and lining up his path from the lot to the black Mustang.

  Over a four-foot retaining wall and moving quickly around another small group that had branched off from the main horde, Declan keyed the remote and opened the door. The Mustang was newer, had the scent of pine and granola. It was also clean, too clean. Like the twins had taken the time to wash and detail the outside as well as the inside, and not an ounce of trash anywhere, the carpeting beneath his feet clean enough to eat from.

  He sat for a minute, watching the crowd and attempting to remember his options for a route back to the high-rise complex BXF Technologies called home. He didn’t like the idea of going back with his tail tucked between his legs, but maybe he didn’t have to, maybe there was another way.

  Sliding the key into the ignition, he let the engine idle as he reached for his bag. The plastic shell of the satellite phone was cool in his hand as Declan stared at the display and thought about the details of the last conversation he’d had with the man at Headquarters. Things had changed, and until now it hadn’t dawned on him how to correct the mess that Goodwin had created.

  Now all he needed to do was drive back into the city and let them know he would be taking over. Anton may have a problem with it, and possibly a few others, but he also had a plan for that.

  Declan dropped the sat phone back into his bag, revved the engine, and shifted into drive. “It’ll be like taking candy …” He paused, his attention pulled away from the Mustang’s interior. “Oh yes.”

  A few hundred yards away, on the overpass that connected Sixth Street to the highway, was the light-colored SUV from the day before, the one driven by Mercer’s husband. It was a longshot, but something inside him said that this was going to be an eventful day.

  Declan reached into his bag once again, this time coming away with the nine millimeter he’d swiped from the BMW.

  “Okay, change of plans.”

  83

  Gentry winced as he put pressure on the brake and rolled to a stop. He had taken to reclining the driver’s seat and unbuckled his lap belt. His lower back had begun to spasm, his head felt like it was being pushed from the inside out, and his ankle was warm and wet. He knew it was one of two things, and in a matter of hours it would be confirmed one way or the other.

  There was a sign at the far side of the road. It was yellow and square, had some black text, but at the moment his vision was playing games with his mind. He remembered his way back to the city, but now doubted he’d even make it as far as the highway.

  He took a deep breath and as a wave of nausea swept over him, Gentry closed his eyes and dipped his chin to his chest. Fighting back the thoughts of what this meant, he bit into the side of his tongue until he tasted blood. The pain was palpable, but it was working.

  Once the world had stopped spinning and he was able to open his eyes, he sat forward and looked left. The road was less crowded, only a few vehicles sat frozen in the distance, but it would take him three miles out of his way. He also didn’t like the fact that it was a route he was unfamiliar with, and knew from the ride in that it was more trouble than it was worth.

  Although, if his vision were to deteriorate any further, it wouldn’t matter either way.

  One last glance into his
rearview mirror and then Gentry slowly moved his foot from the brake to the gas. He drifted into the left lane, avoiding the first vehicle parked along the sidewalk and began to increase his speed. “Here goes.”

  He nearly drove off the road when the sat phone rang from inside his pack. Coasting to an open spot along the right side of the road, he quickly dug out the phone and glanced at the display.

  It was a number he was unfamiliar with, although from the area code and the prefix, he knew it was one that belonged to BXF. Now for the million-dollar question, one that he might not want the answer to, one that could get him killed or worse.

  But one that he had to know the answer to all the same.

  Gentry tapped the talk button and held the phone to his ear. He waited for a count of three, but just as he was about to speak a voice came through over his.

  “Hello, Gentry?”

  It was a woman’s voice, one he thought he remembered. She sounded young, maybe late twenties or early thirties. She paused after saying his name and all that followed were rapid breath sounds. Exertion or anxiety, he couldn’t tell which.

  “Is this Dominic Gentry?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Madeline Fillmore, but I don’t have a lot of time. They’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He remembered the name but not much else. “Is there something—”

  “It’s Goodwin, he’s not dead.”

  He nodded as if she could see him. “Yeah, I figured.” Then thought about how to proceed, still unclear about the nature of the call. “But I’m assuming that’s not the whole reason you’ve called.”

  “No.”

  “Okay?”

  “It’s Mrs. Mercer, we know where she is.”

  His pulse shot up. “Where?”

  There was an urgency to her voice, one that seemed to increase with each word. “One of our guys came back in, Tommy Jefferson. He was with Jerome Declan and there was an incident.”