Conceived in Blood, A Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian Novel

by Linda Andrews

  Conceived in Blood

  By

  Linda Andrews

  Conceived in Blood

  Copyright 2013 Linda Andrews

  Published by Linda Andrews

  Cover Design Copyright 2013 Linda Andrews

  Photos by Alexei Novikov and Kolaczan

  Edited by TheAuthorsRedRoom.com

  Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  A special thank you to Dan, Kimberly, Evvere, Tracey, Vijaya, Beth and my mother for reading the novel through its many incarnations.

  To my husband for not flinching when I talked about cannibals and for not telling me to keep my voice down when I mentioned them in public:-)

  And especially folks like Kim A, Sandy F., Hugh K., Susan J, Barrie H., Terri M., and Mike D. (and many, many others) who've written to tell me how much you've enjoyed the Redaction novels. Your words keep me typing.

  Enjoy!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Other Books available:

  Author's Note:

  About the Author:

  I do not know how the Third World War will be fought, but I can tell you what they will use in the Fourth — rocks!

  ——Albert Einstein

  1949

  The futuristic weapons of WW3 are unknown, but WW4 will be fought with stones and spears.

  —an earlier version

  attributed to an unnamed army lieutenant

  after the atomic bomb testing at Bikini Atoll

  1946

  One hundred years ago a series of disasters called the Redaction spread radioactive particles around the globe and nearly wiped out life on Earth.

  A lucky few were led to safety by the last remnants of the government and military. Thanks to the careful planning of their leaders, these survivors kept much of the technology of the old world and have been able to build upon it. At the heart of this confederation of mines and caves are the citizens of Dark Hope.

  Others were not so fortunate.

  Stranded on the road during the worst of the Redaction, many survivors banded together to forge new societies.

  Some kept to the ideals of the old world in isolated, agrarian villages.

  A few individuals saw opportunity and subjugated many survivors under their authority. In Abaddon, the warlords regulate everything from social status to who is allowed to breed.

  Stranded in the toxic lands, the last band of survivors watched the land sour and all animal life die off. Pushed to the edge of extinction, they were left with one food source to provide for their families. Now these 'Viders are hunting for their next meal.

  Three distinct cultures on a collision course.

  In this post-Redaction world, humanity's next chapter will be written in blood.

  Chapter 1

  Serendipity Tahoma gripped the curved aluminum railing running the length of the airship's lounge. Sensors sprayed the stubby, twisted vegetation below in bursts of red, green, and white. Only the trunks, laying like twigs on the ground, told of the once lush forest.

  As for the deer, elk, and other big game animals...

  They had gone the way of the region's names. Colorado. Utah.

  "Sera, you should not be out of your cabin. Someone might see you."

  Sera took a deep breath and turned to face the newcomer. "Hello, Uncle Leon. You look quite handsome in your Captain’s uniform."

  In his crisp blue tunic and trousers, Captain Leon Saldana moved to the bank of windows embedded in the hull. Cool air combed through his wavy salt and pepper hair. His lips quirked, deepening the good humor age had permanently etched on his face. “Such a charmer, no wonder you’re a rising star in public relations.”

  She’d been stuck in the public relations department of the Security Forces, one of her pedigree couldn’t be placed at risk.

  But one of her pedigree owed it to Dark Hope to do the right thing, no matter the personal or professional cost. Dark Hope, and the rest of the consortium of mines and caves, needed people.

  The cabinet had to see that they were fast approaching a tipping point.

  If everyone didn’t join together, the planet would be lost.

  And if the planet was lost, everyone and everything on it would die.

  “I can see the Great American Desert from here.” She threaded her hand through the worn denim strap of the backpack on the nearest seat. The soft fabric contrasted with the stiff climbing harness it was grafted upon. She lifted the bag. Her collection of carabiners clinked together. Packets of dried food rasped against each other. Water sloshed inside the bottle tucked in the ripped netting pocket on the side. Wadded up clothes cushioned the backpack's impact against her back.

  "Yes, it’s growing every year by half a kilometer.” Uncle Leon didn’t glance out the window, where an orange haze lingered just above the horizon.

  When the spent fuel rods had melted down, the radiation had wiped out all life within thirty degrees latitude from the equator.

  “Which is why I agreed to take you to Abaddon. Interviewing our citizens and those unfortunates in the Outlands might be the dynamite we need to get the Cabinet to act.”

  “They have to act. We need everyone to replant the vegetation so the planet doesn’t become one giant dustbowl.
” And to stop seeing those from the Outlands——the town and villages outside the consortium——as study subjects, but people. She fingered the large black stitches holding the red, green, and blue patches over the areas where the denim was nearly worn to white threads.

  “Getting caught would not help your great PR crusade." Uncle Leon quirked a white eyebrow. “Or help people overcome their fear that there won’t be enough food, energy, and water for everyone.”

  “No, no it wouldn’t.” She adjusted the backpack, then slid her free arm through the second strap and buckled it under her breasts. Something shifted beyond the bank of windows. Her eyes strained in the twilight. Could it have been a bird?

  "You just need to suffer the isolation a little while longer. Once we are in Abaddon, Dawson agreed to show you around and provide a cameraman for your documentary."

  A bell chimed through the rectangular lounge. Footsteps thudded in the hallway above their heads. The guests would be coming soon, and they would have to walk through the lounge to get into the dining salon.

  Sera rose on tiptoes and kissed her uncle’s weathered cheek. “Thanks Uncle.”

  “Just tell the Outlanders’ stories.” He patted her shoulder. “The good people of Dark Hope will see what needs to be done.”

  “I’m counting on it.” Pivoting on her heel, she strode toward the exit. Her friends from the Outlands deserved to be heard, not pandered to.

  Opening the door, she stepped inside the airlock tucked under the curving metal stairway. She paused at the bottom of the staircase. To the right lay the officers' quarters, communication rooms, and access door to the gondola. But to reach it, she'd have to walk through more passenger cabins. No way could she risk being seen.

  She sighed and trudged toward her cabin. Being stuck in crew quarters that reeked of bad cheese and unwashed socks was not how she thought her trip would go. Sera rubbed the back of her neck.

  A loud thump echoed down the corridor in front of her. A soft scrape quickly followed.

  Crap! She froze but her mind raced, turning out scenarios. Most of them life threatening.

  The equipment must have broken loose.

  She’d have to assess the damage before blowing her cover to alert the Captain and every passenger.

  She sprinted toward the cargo hold.

  Another scrape and the ship shuddered.

  Her heart raced. She pumped her arms faster and the gangway bounced underfoot. Those crates could puncture the blimp's skin and then they'd be in trouble. Death by splat trouble.

  She’d only had the one class in aeronautics but at least it had covered balancing loads.

  Sprinting by the crew quarters, she shoved open the airlock door. The whine of the turbine engines increased when she stepped inside. Fiber-optics illuminated the Aluminum and carbon-fiber ribs and the catwalk running the length of the airship's body.

  Passing the cubic ballast tanks, she shook the fuzziness from her head. She couldn’t afford to be affected by the abundance of Helium.

  Pausing by the last airlock, she inspected the door. With the hinges on the other side, she might have to force it open or cut through the multi-laminate skin.

  But first, she’d try the easy way.

  Twisting the knob, she heard the latch retract then threw herself against the door. It sprang forward upon impact, ripping the handle out of her grip. While the door swung on an arc, momentum carried her forward. She slammed against the crate in front of the door, bounced off and collapsed to the floor.

  Pain blitzed her body. Her fingers tingled; heat blazed up her arm. A wave of dizziness crashed over her. Well, crud, she'd forgotten how much full-contact sports hurt.

  “Is anyone in here?”

  Silence.

  Bracing her hands at her sides, she pushed off the deck. Aches sprouted in a frenzy along her injured side. Holding her breath, she rose to her feet. Her little tussle with the crate was bound to leave a mark.

  She hissed through the pain as her fingers probed her side. Thankfully nothing appeared broken, just bruised. She could still check the cargo. Limping to the door, she flicked the switch. The overhead lamps blinked on.

  Cradling her sore arm against her body, she headed for the aisle behind her and turned the corner. Black straps wrapped around the oversized wooden crates and secured the seven-foot high stacks of boxes. Nothing clogged the aisle.

  That's odd. She’d definitely heard something fall.

  "Is anyone here?" She kept walking. Maybe the cargo had come loose at the end, or on the other side.

  A soft swish of fabric rang above the drone of the engines.

  Her stomach cramped. She paused and peered through a crack between stacks. Nothing moved in her narrow range of vision. "Hello? I’m with the Security Force, please let me know if you’re hurt."

  A loud thump sounded from the other side. She shook off a twinge of unease. The sound could be made from cargo slipping together. A whisper of movement shifted in the shadows. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Get a grip. A moan sounded ahead and to her right.

  Her heart stuttered inside her chest. Crap! Someone was hurt. She rushed ahead, playing through her first aid training.

  Just as she neared the last crate, the lights clicked off. Red, green, and white flashed through a square in the floor. Holy shit! The hatch was open. She tried to stop.

  Something hit her across the shin and she pitched forward. She flapped her arms, desperate to grasp something. Anything. Fingers scraped wood, nails snapped in a pop of pain, then she hooked fibers and stopped. Her torso and arm hung over the portal. A bloody sunset painted the ground below. Far below.

  OhGodOhGodOhGod. She tried to swallow. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, making it impossible. She'd nearly been splattered over the ground. Not the impression she wanted to make on the Outlands. Sweat misted her upper lip.

  She swung her free arm. Her fingers brushed the netting. Missed. Dang it. She gritted her teeth and swung again for the netting. Got it!

  The crate tumbled forward, pushing her through the hatch before falling after her.

  Air screamed in her ears as she plummeted toward the ground.

  Chapter 2

  Fools never learned. Harlan Westminster focused his binoculars. Across the desert, columns of men and women traipsed behind bald-headed 'Viders. Willing victims.

  Rolling onto his back, he groped for his crossbow. He squeezed his eyes closed until white spots danced in his vision. But it didn’t help. He still saw the valley below and the tributes. For a moment, the persistent humming in the air echoed the frustration roiling through him.

  "How many did ya count?" Crouched under a low pine branch, Dennis Kramer broke the limb into bits. A tidy pyramid formed at his feet.

  "Thirty-two." Harlan opened his eyes. In the dark skies of the eastern horizon, red and green stars flickered in the twilight. Thirty-two men, women and children sacrificed and for what?

  Dennis whistled low. "Wow. That must be a prosperous town to offer so much."

  "It won't be enough." The Providers never got enough. Harlan tucked the binoculars into his breast pocket. And it would be his pleasure to deprive them of this lot. "Let's get the men."

  His band of six would liberate the offerings. Not that they'd thank him for it. Some of those idiots probably still believed they were going someplace nice —— a city stocked with clean water, abundant food and cancer cures on every corner.

  They didn't get that life sucked, and then you died——usually horribly.

  Dennis dropped the rest of the branch onto his pile of tinder and dusted his hands. "Anyone we recognize in the bunch?"

  Harlan scooted down the outcropping. "No."

  He'd learned early on not to return the tributes to their homes. They'd just be offered again. And again. Thankfully, he'd found some folks willing to send the tributes up North, far from the Providers' reach...for a price.

  He hoped the fools stayed there and spread the message.

/>   Unfortunately, people down here didn't seem to get the news. And the Providers kept coming, kept demanding more tribute.

  "Any lookers among the women?"

  Harlan lowered his head. Dennis was a good man. A little too preoccupied with females, but then he'd heard his wife wanted a baby and was willing to look the other way to get one. The birthing cancers affected some folks that way. "Why don't you use some of that gold you've acquired to buy a breeder's services?"

  Dennis's cheeks flushed and his hands curled into fists. "I'm healthy enough not to pay for it."

  Harlan fingered the web of scars on his neck, jaw, and cheek. With each passing year, the white lines showed a little more through the black tattoo. Hell, he didn't have a problem paying for it. It was a fair trade as far as he was concerned. Life was hard. He could make a few women's lives easier in exchange for a half hour or so.

  It was those poor folks without females that deserved his pity. Especially when the land yielded poor crops and families still needed to be fed. Not everyone would settle for screwing a boy.

  Harlan lifted his crossbow from the dirt. Counting the arrows in the quiver, he headed into the valley. Shrubs raked his sleeves as he passed.

  Dennis stayed put. "I want to see them first."

  Harlan paused. The other man had never asked that before. Damn. Dennis must be getting desperate. Not good for a mission where they were outnumbered two to one. Maybe Dennis should guard their flank instead of attacking the Providers with Harlan’s crew.

  "Come on." Dennis shifted his weight from foot to foot. The sun's glow faded on the Western horizon. "It'll only take a minute."

  If the man hadn't accompanied him on twenty-two successful raids, Harlan wouldn't even consider the request. Instead, he reached for the binoculars. "Get a bre--"

  A twig snapped.

  Harlan spun around.

  Starlight twinkled off the blade shoved under his nose. Branches rustled as a man's face appeared.

  Harlan's fingers twitched. The crossbow was already loaded. More arrows were within reach.