by Chris Pike
Unwanted World
The EMP Survivor Series – Book 4
By Chris Pike
Unwanted World
by Chris Pike
Copyright © 2017. All Rights Reserved
Edited by Felicia A. Sullivan
Cover art by Hristo Kovatliev
Formatted by Kody Boye
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Books in the EMP Survivor Series:
Unexpected World – Book 1
Uncertain World – Book 2
Unknown World – Book 3
Unwanted World – Book 4
Undefeated World – Book 5 (coming early 2018)
Dedication
To my readers: Thank you. This story would not have been possible without you and your encouragement. Y’all are the best! And to my family who has put up with all my crazy ideas and brainstorming sessions, y’all are the best too.
—Chris
“Never, never, never, give up.”
—Winston Churchill
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Dark Water (a bonus scene)
Behind the Scenes
About the Author
Author’s Note
Unwanted World takes a turn back in time to the day the EMP struck, instead of sequentially following real time after the catastrophe. It was necessary to do this to tell the story of the two main characters—Nico Bell and Kate Chandler. In Book 5, which will be the final book of the EMP Survivor Series, Nico will play a pivotal role, so I decided he needed his own book. He’s an interesting character who will form an alliance with Kate Chandler, who is part of the sharpshooting Chandler clan. I like to think of the Chandler family as modern day Sacketts of Louis L’Amour fame. They are honest, determined, and they do what is necessary to survive.
This is also a complete book with a beginning and a logical plot leading to an ending without a cliffhanger.
There’s no rough language, vulgarities, excessively gory or graphic details, or adult situations, so this book is appropriate for all ages, although it doesn’t mean there won’t be casualties or things blowing up, because, you know, that happens in the apocalypse.
Also, this book is the longest of the series, but doesn’t contain boring descriptive minutiae leading to an inflated word count. It’s the story that matters.
As one of my readers said: Read, enjoy, learn, and save some more food.
If you’ve read the series then you know the recurring theme appearing in all the books is: Faith, Family, and Firearms…
Forever!
The Travis Letter
Commandancy of The Alamo
Bejar, Feby. 24th 1836
To the People of Texas & All Americans in the World –
Fellow Citizens & compatriots –
I am besieged, by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna – I have sustained a continual Bombardment & cannonade for 24 hours & have not lost a man – The enemy has demanded a surrender at discretion otherwise, the garrison are to be put to the sword, if the fort is taken – I have answered the demand with a cannon shot, & our flag still waves proudly from the walls – I shall never surrender or retreat. Then I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism & everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid, with all dispatch – The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily & will no doubt increase to four thousand in four or five days. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country – Victory or Death.
William Barrett Travis
Lt. Col. comdt.
--As transcribed by The Texas Heritage Society
Prologue
Current Day
Rio Grande River
Border between the United States and Mexico
Waiting was the hard part for Nico Bell, but he used it to his advantage. While hiding in the South Texas woods adjacent to the Rio Grande, he focused his ever-active mind, giving him opportunity to go over every possible approaching contingency, yet there was one possibility he hadn’t planned on, prepared for, or even remotely thought about.
Three simple letters which would change his world.
EMP.
Nikolai Belyahov, aka Nico Bell, was a tall man, standing at six feet and one half inches with the scales tipping at one hundred eighty-five lean pounds of pure determination and resolve. Whatever task he needed to complete, he did so without hesitation or indecision, and when he walked into a room both men and women gave him an appraising onceover. The men would give him a challenging look, and he’d toss it right back at them. Not a challenge, rather a promise.
They looked away first.
They always did.
The women would meet the challenge, only to be discouraged when they didn’t hold his interest.
He checked his watch and glanced at the sky. High above, a white jet contrail arced in the crystalline blue. For a brief second he thought it was too high, and it didn’t look like the normal contrails he was used to seeing. These fluffy puffs were misshapen and had an odd color to them, like they were struggling to form in the thin air. Maybe the jet had surpassed the standard cruising altitude, a fact he had learned in school. A thick contrail indicated high altitude humidity and could be an indicator of a storm, while a thin contrail formed in low humidity signified fair weather.
If science was right, they were in for a massive storm.
Later he’d realize how right he had been.
A brief thought crossed his mind that the jet was out of control and had suffered some sort of catastrophic failure. Malaysia Airlines Flight 370, which vanished in the expansive Indian Ocean, came to mind. If such was the case, there was nothing he could do, so he concentrated on his mission.
He waited.
Patience was definitely a virtue in his line of work.
He thought he heard something other than the rustling leaves of the stately mesquite where he had taken cover. If they weren’t here soon, the plan would fall through, and Nikolai Belyahov didn’t like to fail.
The October sun in South Texas beat down on the grassy banks of the R
io Grande River. A hot breeze stippled the muddy water.
A fish jumped upstream and his eyes gravitated toward the movement.
A cicada buzzed, then another, the sound reaching a crescendo until it faded away along the languid river.
A mosquito buzzed his cheek and he slapped it away. He lay hidden in a tall clump of grass under the dappled shade of the mesquite tree. Peeking through the canopy, his eyes swept over the murky river, across to the other side, then beyond into Mexico, looking for them.
Them being Jose and Emiliano. Or those were the names he had been given. He didn’t know their last names. It was just as well because no doubt they were using aliases. Drug runners tended to do the same.
He ought to know since he was using an alias too. Running with the same crowd tended to make a person nervous and paranoid, unwilling to divulge real identities. They knew him as Carlos Garcia. He passed for being of Hispanic heritage with his dark hair and eyes, tanned skin, and passable Spanish. He had a knack for languages, speaking three, though only two fluently.
Nikolai Belyahov had changed his Russian name to a more American sounding name when he came of age. He was American by birth, but also had deep ties to Russia. His father had been a Russian oil executive working for one of the world’s largest oil and gas companies, and had married an American woman during one of his overseas assignments in the States. She was a striking woman with American Indian and Spanish heritage, dark hair and soulful eyes, some might even say sad eyes, having descended from a survivor of the Trail of Tears.
Nico had inherited his mother’s mocha complexion and dark hair, traits some mistook for Hispanic. He had also inherited the DNA of her ancestors which gave him the resolve to survive. It had served him well.
Nico had learned to speak English and Russian without an accent due to his father being transferred back and forth between Russia and America. His mother spoke to him in Spanish and a few phrases of Cherokee, wanting him to continue her heritage.
Toss in Russian school on Saturdays while Nico’s family was in the States, and Nico had also learned to read his father’s native language.
As he was getting settled into whatever school he was attending, his father uprooted the family once again. Maintaining friends and long term relationships became a casualty of his early lifestyle. Except for one. And lately, he had been thinking a lot about her.
Nico wondered briefly how he had gotten himself into this profession. He was miles away from where he really belonged, a place rooted deep in Texas culture, a place where famous Texans had taken a stand against an overwhelming Mexican army. He was at ease there, standing amongst the historic site with century old oak trees, a spiritual place where one of the first Spanish missions in Texas had been established.
Brave men had died there, and when Nico first learned about the battle he made it his life’s mission to live in the same city where warriors had fought.
The Alamo. San Antonio, Texas.
He had to go back there for more reasons than one.
He was a warrior, and it’s where he had met her.
However, he had other things on his mind right now so he concentrated on controlled breathing to lower his heart rate. He had worked long and hard to finalize this meeting, and if everything went okay, he’d get what he was after.
If he could deliver, he’d be able to land a meeting with the big boss, which would lead to bigger and better things. On the other hand, it could mean him landing a meeting with the biggest boss, the upstairs boss, the last boss on the chain of bosses.
He lowered his head and said a silent prayer to the Almighty to keep him safe, to steel his jumpy nerves, to return him to what he needed to do, and to return him to her.
A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. He was thirsty. He unscrewed the lid of the thermos and took a long, cold drink of water.
The untraceable burner cell phone in his back pocket vibrated, indicating he had received a text.
He looked at it. Excellent. It was from them.
The text read: Are you ready to trade?
Nico replied: Yes. Do you have the package Santiago wants? He waited a moment.
The response: Yes. Meet in middle of river
Nico thought a moment, then tapped as fast as he could, which wasn’t all that fast. He had big hands meant for chopping wood or carrying a heavy weapon, not for fast texting on tiny buttons.
Nico: No can do. Raft no good. Has a hole in the side. You come to me. Bring the package. Nico waited for a response. A slew of Spanish profanity escaped the thick tangle of cattails.
He stared at the screen, waiting. Nothing, not even the blinking dots indicating a response was being typed.
It was hot and his back was itchy. Earlier, he had sprayed a copious amount of mosquito repellant on his back, legs, arms, and neck, but the sly little devils always found the one spot the spray missed. He curled his arm around and reached for the itchy spot out of his reach. He scratched his back anyway. What he wanted to do was to get up and scratch his back against the hard bark of the mesquite tree where he had taken cover, although that would have to wait.
Tomorrow he’d be paying the price of hiding in the grass. Red bugs. Invisible to the naked eye, they always found the tender skin around his belt line. Merely thinking about the inevitable red welts made him itchy. He scratched his lower back.
Finally, a reply: We come now
Lying flat on his stomach on the grass, which come to think of it was itchy too, Nico propped his elbows on the ground, lifting himself up. He peered through the wispy leaves of the mesquite, sweeping the ground from a low branch. The six foot tall cattails on the Mexican side of the river parted, revealing two men sliding into the river.
They each wore a hardened expression and tanned skin, darkened and lined by the South Texas sun. They put their AKs in the raft and, holding onto the side of the camouflage colored raft, the men lowered their bodies into the murky, sediment-laden water until only their heads bobbed on top. They paddled across the water, each nervously glancing around.
The men reached the invisible line dividing the United States from Mexico.
Nico thought he saw hesitation in one of the men. When they reached American waters, Nico let out a long held breath. He checked his watch and looked skyward. It was a clear day and puffy white clouds floated on a hot, silent draft. A buzzard lazily glided high overhead.
Time was running out.
Deciding to take a chance, Nico stood and emerged from his hiding place. His boots tamped down the high grass as he pushed through the tangled brush. Emerging into the open, he waved the men over.
Then he heard the sound.
A Black Hawk UH-60 chopper, flying low and fast, swooped in and hovered over its prey.
Nico muttered an obscenity.
All hell was about to break loose.
Chapter 1
A week earlier, Nico Bell had been at the Minor Hotel, located across the street from the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas. He had checked in using the name Carlos Garcia, a common enough name which he thought fit him well. Although the hotel was a hotspot for tourists, Nico was not there for pleasure, and he surely wasn’t a tourist.
He was there for three reasons.
The first reason had to do with the fact the Alamo was his favorite place in San Antonio, so whenever he had the chance to visit it he did. Standing on the sacred ground where brave men had fought brought peace to Nico. He could tune out the noise of the city and the crowds waiting in line, knowing he would have fought to the death if he had been there. He was that kind of man with deep national pride, rooted in his American Indian ancestry.
He had listened with fascination when his grandfather told him stories passed down from generation to generation about his people. Strong people who lived by their own code of bravery, a code with which Nico identified.
On Sundays, before the horde of tourists invaded the place like a swarm of locusts de
scending on a crop, he often walked inside the chapel, a quiet and spiritual place cooled by the thick walls. Visitors from all over the world recognized the sanctity of the place and the historic value it had in shaping Texas culture.
This afternoon Nico was at the hotel bar where he nursed a longneck bottle. He was taking a break from being cooped up in a second floor room where he could hear every honk, whistle, and the clomping hooves of horses carting sightseers gawking at the Alamo. He had been given instructions to wait at the hotel where his contact would find him. That was the first reason.
The second reason had to do with the pretty hotel bartender, whose name he learned after much haranguing was Kate Chandler. She was from Austin, hadn’t been home in a long while, and had two brothers who would “beat the crap” out of him if he didn’t leave her alone, or so she’d said. Her oldest brother was due back any day now after a stint overseas serving his country, while Kate explained the middle brother was also threatening.
They sounded like his kind of guys, and he hoped they’d show up so he could meet them. Not deterred by the threat of getting beaten up, Nico asked her out, but she only looked at her large dog who then took one look at him. A long, piercing look like the dog thought Nico was a competitor. Like the dog was thinking Don’t even try it again. For a moment, Nico thought he detected the dog’s lips curling into a snarl. When Kate spoke to the dog, he had gazed upon her with a longing Nico didn’t know could have existed between human and dog.
Nico spied the dog with speculation, noting the camo colored vest the dog wore. He wondered if he was a service dog, but thought those dogs wore brightly colored vests, and had the disposition of a friendly yellow lab. He also thought those dogs were the big friendly types, waiting for a pat, not this kind of dog looking like he might tear off the hand offering him a pat. Nico unconsciously rubbed his hands together making sure he still had both of them.
