Escape the Fall (Nuclear Survival: Southern Grit Book 2)

by Harley Tate

  “Ain’t no way I can fix it, Rhonda. It’s broke!”

  “Is not!”

  “Is too!”

  Leah blinked. The sound she had ignored was an argument. She scanned the street. A handful of houses in varying degrees of disrepair sat across the street. Not a single person on any porch. Leah scooted back into the grass of the yard behind her as the voices picked up again.

  “If you don’t fix it, I’m gonna throw it out in the street!”

  Leah craned her neck to peer at the houses on her side. Maybe the couple arguing would help her. Maybe she could ask them for water and a clean towel to tend to her wound.

  “You do that and the next thing you see’ll be my fist in your face!”

  Or maybe not. Leah scooted between two bushes, dragging her duffel along behind her. She couldn’t risk being discovered. If the man yelling was willing to smack a woman around for throwing out a broken cooler, what would he do for a duffel full of Gatorade, power bars, and an air rifle?

  Leah glanced down at the weapon. Paul said the air rifle wouldn’t kill more than a squirrel or a rabbit, but a shot would still hurt like hell. If she had to, she could use it. She clutched the gun to her chest and eased further behind the shrub line.

  The fighting couple traded insults, lobbing curse words back and forth like kids playing catch. Leah didn’t know what to do. The longer the pair argued, the rowdier the insults became. The man shouted from somewhere outside, his voice rising with every word. Would they keep at it all afternoon?

  Surely they would give up at some point. No one could fight forever. But what if it took hours? Maybe she should risk walking past or going around to a side street.

  She shook her head. One look at her bloody face and clothes and a guy like that would see her as an easy target.

  Leah brought her legs up underneath her. Waiting it out was the only solution. As she sat there, her eyes grew heavy. It didn’t take much for the toll of the accident to catch up with her. She nodded off, the shouts and accusations no match for the weight of her eyelids.

  “Meeoooww.”

  Leah jerked awake.

  “Meeoooww.”

  A tabby cat paced back and forth in front of Leah’s duffel bag, nose up in the air, sniffing. Leah reached for it, but it darted away.

  “Meeoooww.”

  “Shush. Be quiet.”

  The cat ignored her request and howled again.

  “You hear that, Rhonda? I swear that cat of yours is always getting into trouble! I told you to keep her in the house!”

  “She won’t stay. Every time I open the door, she runs right out. And I don’t blame her!”

  The cat yowled again and Leah shushed it. “If you don’t be quiet, we’re both going to be in trouble.”

  “If I find it, I’m gonna string it up on the back porch by its tail and watch it try to get out of that one.”

  “Howie Grunell, you will do no such thing.” A screen door slammed. Feet thudded on a porch.

  Leah reached for the cat. She scooped it up and ran a hand over its back. Its fur rumpled and a low rumble echoed from deep in its throat. “Shush, now. Just sit here and be quiet, and we’ll both be all right.”

  The cat wriggled on her lap. Leah tried to hold it tighter. It arched and squirmed and the fur on its tail puffed up. As Leah tried to gain purchase, the cat twisted around and hissed in her face. Claws dug into her thighs and Leah gasped.

  “All right. Where ya at? I’m comin’ for ya.”

  Leah let go of the cat and it leapt straight for her face, hissing and clawing in an attempt to free itself. A paw connected with Leah’s cheek and four claws drew blood. Leah fell back, a muffled cry all she could manage. The cat dove under the nearest branch and disappeared in a flurry of fur.

  The slash marks on Leah’s face burned and she brought her hand up to wipe at the fresh blood. Cats carried diseases. She needed to clean the wounds. At this rate, if she didn’t get to the hospital and pump herself full of antibiotics, she was risking a lot more than a scar.

  The bushes in front of Leah trembled and shook and the branches spread apart. A pair of dirty work boots appeared in the gap, followed by grease-stained jeans, a grubby T-shirt, and the face of a man who had too much liquor and time on his hands.

  He smiled and a missing tooth pocked his grin. “Well what do you know. That damn cat might be useful after all.”

  Chapter Three

  GRANT

  2078 Rose Valley Lane

  Smyrna, Georgia

  Thursday, 9:00 a.m.

  Is that a baby? Grant rolled over, half expecting his wife to be lying there, cradling an infant they didn’t have. Something cold and wet jabbed his cheek.

  He jerked into consciousness.

  A scrappy little mutt of a thing whined an inch from his ear and the horror of reality barreled into his brain like a runaway train. The EMP. The nuclear bombs. Millions of people dead.

  His wife missing.

  Grant scrubbed a hand down his face and sat up. It wasn’t a dream or a bad memory he could shake with a cold shower and a hot cup of a coffee. The United States was about to fall apart, if it hadn’t already.

  Was the federal government functional? Did anyone even survive? Television shows made fun of secret presidential bunkers, but were they real? Grant didn’t have a clue. For all he knew, the White House and the Capitol were smoldering craters in the ground with nothing but ash left to remember people by.

  If all twenty-five bombs went off, were the rest of the states any better? Most of Georgia’s government buildings were gone. With the legislature in session, that meant every representative and probably the governor, too. Who was left to call up the National Guard? Who could organize statewide relief efforts?

  The dog whined again and Grant dragged himself out of a sea of fear. The poor thing turned around in a circle on the bed and stared at him. “Need to go, huh?” Grant sighed and dragged himself off the bed.

  Stumbling down the stairs, he escorted the dog to the back door. As he pulled it open, cold air contracted his pupils and sent a shiver straight to his bones. Without electricity, the frigid nights would be one hell of an issue. At least Atlanta didn’t sink below freezing very often.

  As soon as the dog rushed back past his legs for the relative warmth of the house, Grant shut the door. From the angle of the sun and the sound of birds chirping, it had to be mid-morning. He pinched the back of his neck and squinted into the dark kitchen. It still smelled like the dumpster outside his office when the trash service forgot to pick up.

  Part of him had hoped against all odds that Leah would show up in the night. He’d dreamt of her slender but strong arms slipping around his waist. Her tender kisses full of longing and hope. But she didn’t come home.

  He didn’t even know if she was still alive. Finding Leah was priority number one, but what if she came home while he was gone? One look at the slick of rotting liquid expanding into the hall and she would believe the worst. No. He couldn’t leave without getting his house in order.

  Leah needed somewhere safe to come home to. Somewhere they could try and survive together.

  The dog sat bedside him, staring up with blue eyes full of hunger. Grant nodded at the dog. “Let’s hit the kitchen, huh? There’s got to be something still edible besides tuna.”

  After a single tail wag, the dog stood up. Grant reached down to pet it, but it shied away. He exhaled. “Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to let me pet you or this deal is off.”

  He headed to the kitchen and stopped at the entrance. With daylight filtering in through the windows, the place didn’t seem so bad. Black bananas on the counter. Moldy bread beside the stove. The refrigerator hid the worst of it. Grant reached under the sink and pulled out a trash bag and a pair of gloves.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he opened the fridge door. The smell turned his stomach and Grant recoiled. He didn’t even want to know what used to be in the vegetable drawer. After four trash bags and a morni
ng of steady work, the fridge gleamed like the shiny stainless and plastic cabinet it had now become.

  Never again would it keep a beer cold and a steak fresh. Grant set a still-good bag of oranges on the counter and shut the door. Besides the fruit, he’d managed to save three cans of Coke, an unopened box of chicken broth, and a container of baking soda. The rest was trash.

  After mopping the floor, hauling out the trash, and sucking down a bottle of water, he opened another can of tuna for the dog and dumped it on top of a week-old takeout box of white rice. He toed the bowl toward the dog. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  The dog snarfed it down in under a minute.

  Grant scratched his stubble. He didn’t want a dog. The furry thing was a complication in this new life. But he couldn’t ignore it, either. Without Grant, it would struggle. With Grant, it might struggle less. And Grant had to admit, the company was a bonus.

  He held out his hand and the dirty thing sniffed it before slinking away. “You need a bath, too. A good brushing and a bath.” Grant smiled. “It’ll happen. You watch.”

  The dog loped to the front door and sat with a view of the street, and Grant turned back to the kitchen. With the crackers, cereal, canned goods, and other odds and ends in his cabinets, he had enough food for maybe nine days if he stretched it thin. Half that if his wife came home.

  Not nearly enough.

  Grant closed his eyes. The house would provide shelter. For now, the taps still ran. He could fill up the tubs upstairs and any containers or buckets. That left food and weapons.

  He glanced at the dog still standing guard at the front door and took the stairs two at a time. After filling the tubs, he unlocked the safe in the closet and pulled out the only gun he owned, an M&P 9 Shield, and two full boxes of cartridges. 200 rounds.

  While many of his former military friends subscribed to the basement-full-of-guns-and-ammo plan, Grant had always been a know-one-gun-and-know-it-well type of guy. But he’d also assumed the police would arrive with a single phone call and all Grant had to do was defend his home or person until they got there.

  He hadn’t planned on riding off into the Wild West or fighting for survival with no one to watch his back. It would take more than a pair of eight-round magazines and a couple boxes of ammo to build a stash and fortify his home.

  Weapons and gas were his two biggest priorities, with food and water following right behind. Before he could set off in search of Leah, he would need to be prepared. Grant picked up the handgun and brought it into the bathroom.

  Even a man on a mission could stop for a shower.

  Half an hour later, with clean clothes and eyes wide awake from the icy water, Grant holstered the Shield and headed back downstairs. As he hit the last step, the dog’s ears flattened and a low, menacing growl slipped from its throat.

  Grant eased forward. The dog focused on something in the street. Grant stopped in front of the plantation shutters of his dining room and peered out. He didn’t see anything.

  The dog growled again.

  Grant frowned. “Is it a person? An animal? I need more than a growl to go on, here.”

  The dog flattened down into a crouch and bared its teeth. Whatever was out there, the dog saw it as a threat. Grant checked his gun was safely tucked into his holster and pulled his shirt down to hide the grip.

  He eased toward the door. “If I don’t come back, the rest of the food is yours.”

  The dog glanced up at him, but didn’t relax.

  “Stay here.” Grant unlocked the door and slipped out into the street.

  The sound of screaming sent goosebumps across his skin.

  Chapter Four

  GRANT

  Rose Valley Lane

  Smyrna, Georgia

  Thursday, 2:00 p.m.

  Blood. Shouts. A man staggering in the street. It could have been the middle of a riot. A war zone after a bomb ripped the neighborhood apart.

  But it was just Stan from three houses down, staggering like an extra from The Walking Dead. Grant took a step forward off his porch and onto his driveway.

  His neighbor, once young and fit and full of life, stumbled every other step. Bloody patches of his scalp showed where vibrant blond hair used to be. His chin dribbled with vomit and the sticky pale mess coated his shirt and stained his jeans.

  A woman came running across the street, brown hair waving in the wind. Debbie, Stan’s wife.

  “Stan! Stop, you don’t know where you’re going!” She flailed her arms, struggling to catch up to her dying husband.

  Stan collapsed to his knees and Debbie stuttered to a stop. She spun around, eyes wild and unfocused. “Help! Someone help us!” Tears streamed down her face. Exhaustion deepened the lines around her mouth.

  Had she cared for him all this time? Did no one offer to help?

  Grant swallowed back a wave of regret. No amount of care would help Stan now. Grant eased down the driveway, cognizant of doors opening and closing up and down the street. Shadows of onlookers, one after the other, appeared in his peripheral vision.

  Jackie and Charlie.

  Rebecca and John.

  Kimberly, Steve, and their teenage sons Grant could never tell apart.

  Every shout brought more and more neighbors. Gawkers and spectators, the lot of them. Grant strode forward, his arms outstretched.

  Someone across the street shouted. “Stay back! It could be a virus!”

  Grant shook his head.

  “It could be Ebola! We could all die!”

  Debbie spun around in a circle. “I’m not sick. If it were a virus, I would be sick!”

  “It’s not worth the risk!”

  “Can anyone make a call? We need an ambulance!”

  “There aren’t any ambulances, you moron!”

  Grant didn’t try to place the voices with the people standing about. He focused on Debbie and Stan. The man heaved, hands on his thighs as he struggled to breathe. The bald patches on his head grew redder, swelling almost like tomatoes in the sun.

  Part of Grant wanted to turn around and pretend he didn’t see any of it, focus on finding Leah and moving forward. But the other part of him thought about his wife and her never-ending need to help others. It’s what made her who she was; not just a good person, but a fantastic nurse. A woman willing to sacrifice her own health and welfare to keep someone else alive.

  Grant knew what she would do. She would already be at Stan’s side, comforting him and Debbie. Leah would help until Stan took his last breath.

  I have to. For her. I can’t watch Stan die.

  Grant thought about the neighborhood parties where he clinked beer glasses with Stan and talked about the upcoming Braves’ season and if it would finally be their year. The man didn’t deserve to die on the street like a pariah with neighbors too afraid and weak to help.

  None of them did.

  Grant shoved his lingering doubt to the side and walked forward. He tuned out the shouts and warnings, all hollow and untrue. He held up a hand and shouted to no one in particular. “It’s okay. I know what’s going on.”

  He knelt beside Debbie and tried to smile. “Hey, there. Looks like you could use some help.”

  The woman’s breath came in shallow bursts, in-in, out-out, seconds away from full-blown terror. Grant reached for her hand. He gripped it and squeezed. “It’s okay, Debbie. I’m here and I’m listening.”

  She nodded between sobs.

  “Try to calm yourself. Nice slow and deep breaths.”

  She struggled with his request, breathing in and out twenty times instead of one or two.

  “You’ll be no good to your husband if you can’t breathe.”

  Debbie tried again, focusing on Stan’s hunched-over form in the street. At last, she managed to suck in enough air to speak. “You shouldn’t be here. We could be sick.”

  Grant smiled. “You said it yourself. If Stan had a contagious illness, you’d be sick already.”

  Debbie’s brows knit together and
she reached for her husband. When her hand touched his shoulder, he shuddered.

  “How long has he been this way?”

  “Since yesterday. He’s been tired since he came home, and he said he had a headache, but I thought it was stress.”

  Grant counted back. The nuclear bomb detonated Saturday evening. Five days since the blast. From what the truckers shared while Grant waited out the radiation plume, a severe dose of radiation poisoning might take a few days to manifest. Moderate exposure would take even longer.

  He swallowed. There was no easy way to ask what he needed to know. “Do you know about the bomb?”

  Debbie nodded. “A few of us caught the news on Eric’s portable radio after the EMP. We didn’t believe it was real until the blast.”

  “What was Stan doing when the bomb went off?”

  She closed her eyes. “He was out for a drive.”

  Grant blinked. “His car still worked?”

  “Motorcycle. It’s a vintage Triumph. His pride and joy.”

  Grant nodded. “Do you know where he was?”

  She shook her head. “But I know he saw the blast. He said he couldn’t see very well because spots swam before his eyes, so he pulled over and waited until he thought it was safe enough to ride home.”

  Grant squeezed her hand. In an effort to stay safe, Stan poisoned himself. While his vision cleared, invisible particles of radiation landed on Stan’s skin and clothes, killing him slowly. If he’d driven blind, he might not be dying in the middle of the street.

  What a cruel way to go.

  “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

  “I think it’s radiation sickness.”

  Debbie leaned back in shock. “From the bomb? But he wasn’t downtown!”

  Grant stared at Stan. The man couldn’t speak or think or even make eye contact. He sat in a crumpled heap on the ground, bent over at the waist, clutching his middle. His head barely hung off the ground.

  “The bomb vaporizes particles of debris and they get sent high up into the atmosphere. In the hour after the explosion, they fall back to earth, full of radiation. These tiny particles—so small you can’t see them—land on your skin. If you get exposed to enough, it’s lethal within an hour.”