by T. K. Malone
Free World Apocalypse
Book 1 Fugitive
Book 2 Citizen
Book 3 Captive
Book 4 Genesis
Extras - Book Zero - Prequel
Join the struggle
Free World Apocalypse - Captive
T.K Malone
Copyright © 2017 by T.K. Malone
All rights reserved.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Join the struggle
1. Teah’s Story
2. Teah’s Story
3. Connor’s Story
4. Connor’s Story
5. Connor’s Story
6. Connor’s Story
7. Connor’s Story
8. Connor’s Story
9. Connor’s Story
10. Connor’s Story
11. Connor’s Story
12. Zac’s Story
13. Zac’s Story
14. Zac’s Story
15. Zac’s Story
16. Zac’s Story
17. Zac’s Story
18. Zac’s Story
19. Zac’s Story
20. Zac’s Story
21. Teah’s Story
Thank you for reading
Also by T.K Malone
Join the struggle
Facebook group: Black City Riders
Email list : Black City Riders
Note: Emails will be occasional with more regular updates on the Facebook page. However, just incase you miss an update, it’s a good fall back.
Don’t get left behind…
1
Teah’s Story
Strike time: plus 8 days
Location: Black City Correctional
The sun beat down, but the cattleman shaded her eyes. Her arms ached from her holding them aloft, but still no one came. The two crucified guards were stinking—what was left of them. Buzzards had gotten most of their top halves, and she guessed a wolf had scavenged a leg or two. Grizzly bastard, Cornelius Clay, she thought, no doubt about that.
She wondered where Jake and the others were watching from, or if they’d just turned around and headed back to Max’s cabin. Probably the latter, unless one of them had hung around to put a bullet in her skull should she end up an ornament like the two unfortunates on either side of her. At least, she hoped someone had.
The Black City Drone Slayer: was she truly relying on him to care about his grandson? How Zac would have laughed had he been alive, had he escaped the decimation of Black City. Then he would’ve shaken his head and raged like a grizzly, or gone into one of his morbid moods, she couldn’t decide which. She stepped forward. A shot rang out, the bullet hitting the ground about ten feet to one side. Closer than last time, but not by much—they were still paying attention.
Jake’s endgame worried her. Forging a bargain here appeared a risky gamble. Though Cornelius’ crew had superior numbers, probably firepower too, if Jake’s intel was right, most inside wouldn’t be too good at fighting. Teah knew the percentages; the vast majority of convicts who ended up in the correctional were no more than non-conformists, or folk who’d OD’ed on synthetics—smuggled drugs which had eluded the health monitors—or folk who’d voiced dissent, or those who’d pissed off Charm and his hierarchy. Hardly killers like Cornelius. But that wasn’t to say there weren’t badasses banged up in there, or who had once been banged up in there. It was still a risky play.
But it was also her last task before…before they’d promised, not just one but all of them—Max, Trip, Kelly, and Jake—to rescue her son, her Clay. Finally.
Had Jake played her to lead her to this exact spot? Was there anyone else who might have a chance of reasoning, of bargaining, with Cornelius Clay? Teah doubted it. It was part of Jake’s plan, of that she was now sure—a plan which had started with her cabin burning down and so forcing her to move in with Saggers. A move that had seen her safe during the nuclear strike on Black City, which in turn had seen her split up from Clay. Then there was Morrow—Jake’d set that up without a doubt. Could that have been the reason Briscoe had intercepted them and shot Ned? A push, but Jake had been at the camp. And now Briscoe was dead, and that had paved the way for this parlay—the parlay Jake had wanted, that he’d engineered.
“Shit, but it’s hot,” she thought. “Ain’t gonna be long before I drop to the road.”
She scoffed. So many threads; if it was a plan, he was a master manipulator.
A dark spot in the correctional’s wall seemed to move, to jerk, but she couldn’t be sure if she was imagining it. A truck, no two ways about it, a truck was headed out to her. She stepped forward again, acknowledged with another shot. Shit, it was hot. The truck neared.
It was a black pickup. The signwriting had been picked off the hood, leaving a mess of a logo, but still quite obviously one of theirs. There was only one occupant, and as he closed in farther, Teah could see his long hair flapping in the wind and an impressive beard covering most of his face. He skidded to a halt about ten yards short, got out of the truck and sat on its bonnet. Looking her up and down, he appeared a little confused. Several times, he made to speak but hesitated. Eventually, he settled on his words.
“We don’t get a lot of visitors here, specially not the female kind—well, not willingly.” He lit himself a smoke. “Specially not a fine woman like you. So why do I get the feeling I’m the one in danger?”
“Oh, I think you’ll be just fine. Truth is…”
“Wesley.”
“Truth is…Wesley, I doubt I could beat up a butterfly at the moment. In fact, I’ll bet you I couldn’t. Got next to no blood in my arms.”
“And yet you still hold ’em up.” Wesley took a long draw on his smoke.
“I can put them down?”
“Ne’er asked you to put ’em up.”
“And a smoke?” she said, cautiously lowering her arms.
“If you’ve got your own. Being in the lockup, well, that makes sharing quite the alien concept. Be a while before I’ll ever feel comfortable just giving.”
“Why bother trying?” Teah asked, lighting her own.
“Isn’t it sociable?”
“Sociable’s overrated.”
Wesley lifted his boots to the truck’s fender. “So much has changed since I got banged up. So, so much. There’s Black City: I’m told that’s gone.” He snorted. “Not something the world’ll miss. And then there’s a woman, a woman who—as bold as brass—just walks up to a pen full of no good men and women.” He pointed his smoke at her. “I’ll tell you, lady, that kinda behavior wouldn’t have happened before. That would have been frowned upon.”
His eyes bored into her.
“I got an appointment,” Teah said, taking a draw on her smoke and flexing her arms.
Wesley arched his eyebrows above a smile which held no promise of joy. “An appointment? You selling toiletries? An appointment, eh? Shoot; I’ll play. With who?”
Teah pulled the rim of the cattleman lower, shading her eyes further as she tried to ignore the growing pain of the blood flooding back into her arms. “Cornelius Clay.”
Wesley jumped off the truck’s hood but didn’t approach her. “Cornelius Clay? You got an appointment with Cornelius Clay? Now… Now I’m gonna take issue with that on the grou
nds I keep Cornelius Clay’s diary, and sure as eggs is eggs, he ain’t got no appointment today. But—” He took a couple of steps toward her and turned side on, first glancing back at the prison, then behind Teah and up into the hills. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have a sniper or two trained on me?”
“Nope.”
“No sniper…” His forehead creased. “No sniper.” He ducked his head low, looking at her legs, at her groin and chest, appearing to become more confused. “Now that’s a big old coat you’re wearing, and I suppose it could conceal a rifle or two—hell a fucking missile launcher—but I don’t reckon it does. Hanging all wrong. So, no sniper, no guns, and I know, young lady, no appointment.”
“Never said he knew about the appointment, Wesley.”
Wesley stroked his beard. “Ah,” he said, though he was clearly stifling some incredulity. “Tell me, why shouldn’t I just kill you now? And don’t say it’d be a waste of a fine body, cos I can easily live with that loss.”
“Because you don’t want to die, Wesley. Not tied to one of those things.” And she glanced at the crosses on which the two guards hung. “Not like that, Wesley. Wolves have gnawed off their legs, and I doubt they waited for the bastards to die; not quite as respectful as the buzzards, eh?”
“I…don’t…want to die? Did I just hear that right?” His forehead again creased. “Let me get this straight: you’re the one unarmed, no backup, and I’m the one who’s gonna die?” and he rested back against the truck. “Mind telling me how you’re gonna do that?”
Teah took off the cattleman and ran her fingers through her dyed-blond hair. “I’m dead, remember. Ain’t gonna be me, Wesley. No, after you kill me—which I’m a little put out about, seeing as I’ve given you no reason to do it—it’ll be Cornelius who’ll kill you. He might not want to, but he will.”
Wesley laughed. “And why would he do that?”
Teah shrugged. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe because he missed his appointment. Maybe because I know where his grandson is. Or maybe I’ve fucked this whole plan up and he won’t give a damn.” She planted the cattleman back on her head.
“His grandson? You Teah?”
She’d never met Cornelius Clay, never even looked him up, until after she’d fallen for Zac. Even then she couldn’t find out much. Though the newsfeeds at the time had hailed his arrest, everything had soon been glossed over. The Free World didn’t like to acknowledge killers, well, the capture of them; captured, they offered no fear for the populace. Teah understood that. So, the few photos of him that had existed hadn’t done him any justice, that she could now see, for he was currently standing before her, behind a stout wooden desk in a comfortable office which smelled of tea tree oil and old leather, lit by the light which angled in through a window, chopped into columns by its bars. His muscular chest was bare and his long white hair tied back in a ponytail. Teah stood and waited, waited for him at least to acknowledge her, but all he did was rub his moustache, clearly deep in thought.
“Tell me again, Wesley.” And Wesley reiterated their conversation, almost word perfect.
Cornelius rubbed some more.
“One more time,” Wesley again repeated himself.
“Whose idea?” Cornelius said, addressing Teah for the first time.
Teah considered her reply. To lie would have been foolish, and without gain. “A man called Jake.”
Cornelius glanced at Wesley, who nodded.
“A drink?” Cornelius said. “And perhaps some food. Wesley?” Wesley nodded one last time and retired from the room.
“Truth,” said Cornelius, “is a rare quality. What do you know of…Jake?” He sat, his hand outstretched, beckoning her to do the same.
Teah pulled a chair in and she too sat, taking the cattleman off and throwing it onto the threadbare carpet of the office. Even sitting, she decided, Cornelius was just plain daunting. “First time I met him he was with a man called Lester.”
She studied him further, waiting for a response. Though only slightly, he flinched at Lester’s name but said nothing.
“He didn’t hang around, though,” she continued. “Didn’t think he’d taken to me at the time.”
Wesley came back with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses. He poured out two. Cornelius beckoned him closer with his finger and whispered in his ear. “Sure,” Wesley said, and left again.
“So, Teah,” Cornelius said as he took up his whiskey and had a sip. “What does Jake want?”
“A deal. No bloodshed, free trade, and you’re the king.”
He nodded, slowly, as if chewing over her words.
“King?”
“He said, ‘Someone’s gotta be king’.”
“And what makes him think I would want such a role?”
That stumped her. Teah pulled her smokes out, lit one and pushed them over the table. “Guess he’s just assumed it.”
Cornelius inclined his head, reached out and took one of her smokes. “Funny thing about kings, there are more dead than living ones. Now, the king's advisor,” and Cornelius opened his palms and pursed his lips, his eyes full of intrigue, “he or she enjoys all the creature comforts of the king but gets the freedom the king can’t have, and gets to make nearly all the decisions. Tell me, Teah, would you be a…a queen?” He sat back and took a long draw on his smoke, waiting for her answer, patient, like a fisherman watching for his rod to jerk.
Teah stiffened. Queen: the word both Charm and Jake had used, and now Cornelius Clay. Were these three linked? How she wished her memory would come back. Cornelius began to smile, and Teah suspected, yet again, she’d become a pawn in a complicated game. “I’d be queen,” she finally said. “Fuck serving anyone.” Cornelius clapped.
“So thought the king,” he said, and emptied his glass.
Wesley returned, two bowls of pasta in hand, setting the desk as though it were a dining table. Cornelius looked down at his food, picked up his fork and pushed the pasta around. “The food here is a little bland. It’s early days, though. Black City Correctional didn’t attract any world-famous chefs, unfortunately, and the warden was tight around credit, so we’re working with scraps. Times will change, though. I hear the preppers’ fields are quite plentiful.”
“And,” Teah said, “I hear Christmas can provide the party.”
Cornelius nodded. “That it can. Please, eat.”
To her surprise, it wasn’t too bad.
“Wesley,” said Cornelius, “will think on it.”
“Wesley?”
“Yes.”
“Why Wesley?”
“Because I said. Now, to my grandson: how is Clay?”
“You know about him?”
“Him? Of course. Well, the last few days have been sketchy, but you know, things have been a bit hectic. Last I knew you were living in Aldertown.”
“Last I heard there was no Aldertown.”
“Nope, place is no more. One less town to fight over. A little too close to Christmas for comfort, if you ask me, but Grimes has deployed some niche firepower up there, so our little vice factory should be fine. Josiah Charm was very generous with the State Defense Force’s weapons.”
“Josiah Charm…” Teah muttered.
Cornelius forked a heap of pasta into his mouth, staring at her all the while he chewed. Josiah Charm, she thought, the name which kept cropping up. She briefly wondered if he and Jake were in some kind of partnership, and then decided wondering, had so far, gotten her nowhere. Only by forcing the game had she been given answers.
“Didn’t Josiah lock you up?” she asked.
He chewed and stared at her, wagging his finger as if to stay any more words.
“He did,” Cornelius finally said. “Needs some wine—whiskey’s too harsh, and fortunately the warden had this office well stocked. Quite the tippler, though very odd.”
“Odd?”
“A timid man on the surface, but ruthless underneath, cold as they come. Still, I hear they’re keeping him busy. Some form of prison concub
ine, I do believe.”
“I could drink some wine,” Teah said, trying to put the warden’s fate out of her mind.
Cornelius clicked his fingers and Wesley appeared with a bottle in hand. He served three glasses and pulled a chair up to the desk, then made to speak, but it was Cornelius who carried on the conversation.
“So, tell me, Teah, how did you lose my grandson?”
As Teah told him the story, his grin grew and grew, as did her confusion. Eventually, she had to ask: “Are you enjoying what happened to Clay?”
He seemed to pull himself out of whatever it had been that was making him smile. “Enjoy? No. It’s just funny how one man’s name keeps coming up.”
“Josiah Charm?”
“No, no, no, not him.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “Another name. Grimes brought that same name up only the other day—when was it, Wesley?”
“Four, five days ago?”
Cornelius gazed up at the high ceiling. “Well, doesn’t time fly.” He looked back at Teah. “Ethan Saggers—his name keeps coming up. Seems everyone who visits here is raving about his smokes, and there’s you, living with him.”
“In the same house, not living with—”
Cornelius held his hand up. “Not my business. Your relationship with my son is none of my business.”
“You’re talking like he’s alive.” The empty void that was Zac now surfaced in the pit of her stomach. Cornelius and Wesley swapped glances, then both turned to her, each displaying oddly engaged looks.
“Oh, how delightful,” said Wesley.
