Hell's Encore: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (This Dark Age Book 2)

by John L. Monk

  Hell’s Encore

  This Dark Age Book Two

  John L. Monk

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  HELL’S ENCORE

  Copyright © 2017 by John L. Monk

  http://john-l-monk.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Cover Art by Yocla Designs

  Contents

  New Books

  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

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  New Books

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  Thanks!

  John

  For Dorothy

  1

  ONE YEAR AGO:

  Dylan Timmes was fourteen years old when the Sickness happened. It didn’t matter that he and his mother were completely isolated on their Texas ranch when word of the disease first broke, or that no one was allowed access in those early days when everyone was frightened and the news only got worse. His mother still got sick. His dad was alive and healthy in D.C. doing whatever he could to help the country, because he was a senator, and that’s what senators did.

  Too weak to walk more than a few feet at a time, his mother told him from her wheelchair, “You’re going to D.C. to be with your father. If anyone can figure a way out of this, he can.”

  “What about you?” he said. “Why can’t you come too?”

  She shook her head tiredly. “Your father called for you. And besides, I have Mona here to help me.”

  Mona was her assistant. Almost like family, she’d been there for as long as Dylan could remember.

  “But still,” he said, resorting to his favorite argument in times of need. An argument he always lost, and this time was no different.

  He was going to D.C.

  From an early age, Dylan had never known a moment when he wasn’t flying someplace with one of his parents. This time, he flew alone in first class—which would have been cool under other circumstances. He hoped his mother would recover soon and join them in the rental in Georgetown. She could even bring Mona.

  The flight offered a small surprise: no flight attendants. Just a single pilot, which was sort of scary. No snacks, either, and nothing to drink except what he could slurp from the lavatory sink. Another surprise: Reagan National was even more deserted than the one in Austin, which had been a virtual ghost town. Here there were no concession workers, almost no security, and very few passengers coming and going.

  A woman stood waiting for him as he exited the long line of gates and entered the baggage claim area. Though she had a sign saying “DYLAN,” she smiled in recognition and came right over. He’d never seen her before.

  “I’m Margaret,” she said and showed him her government ID. “I work for your dad. He’s busy with the … with lots of things right now, and he asked me to come get you.”

  “You mean the Sickness,” Dylan said.

  Margaret quickly corrected him, parroting the official name—Heteroplasmic Myopathy, or HM. As if giving it a name was almost a cure in itself. Clearly, she wasn’t a doctor. HM, the TV doctors said, was a placeholder for something they didn’t understand. Another doctor called it idiopathy—a disease with no cause.

  On the way to the house, through multiple checkpoints—some with actual tanks guarding the intersections—Margaret asked him questions. What was he studying? Was he looking forward to staying with his dad? Did he have any friends here? Dylan answered yes or no depending on which was less likely to result in a follow-up question. Soon she stopped talking and put on the radio.

  Just like flying alone, it would have been cool seeing all those tanks and soldiers. Now he wondered why they were there. Wasn’t like you could shoot the Sickness. Was there another nuke threat? Was someone seriously trying to invade? Or was it all show—to look busy while they waited for answers like everyone else.

  “Someone knows,” he muttered as they pulled into the driveway of a big, gated townhouse with old-fashioned architecture that reminded him a little of European castles.

  “Hmm?” Margaret said.

  “Nothing.”

  That night, he waited alone for his dad, then fell asleep on the couch around one in the morning. When he awoke, he knew his dad must have come home because there was a blanket on him that hadn’t been there the night before. Rather than comfort him, it hurt that his dad hadn’t woken him, or at least waited for him before leaving again for work. A note on the counter said there was food in the pantry. He was supposed to eat one, and one only.

  Expecting pastries or maybe tuna fish to make a sandwich—something he could eat one of and still be enough—he blinked in surprise at the plain brown box sitting on the bare, wire shelf.

  “FEMA?” he said.

  He knew about FEMA from the news—a government thing that tried to help people, and they were on every program, talking about the Sickness.

  The top of the box was open and half full. Inside was a stack of something like protein bars in white wrapping, a little larger than a king-sized Snickers. On each bar were the words “FEMA MRE” in big black letters, with “Standard Daily Ration” written underneath it. On the back was a listing of ingredients and nutritional information. FEMA bars had every vitamin known to science, apparently, as well as 2500 calories and an unpronounceable active ingredient with the words “appetite suppressant” in parenthesis.

  Dylan peeled one open and sniffed. It smelled like something, but he couldn’t quite identify it. After taking a bite, he spit it into his hand.

  “Yuck,” he said, licking his shirtsleeve to scrape off the taste: a little like cardboard with diet soda sweetness.

  He put the bar on the shelf and checked the refrigerator. Nothing there but a jug of filtered water and a nearly empty jar of mayonnaise.

  Now that he was actively thinking about food, Dylan felt hungry. With nothing else to eat, he went back for the bar. A few bites in and he decided it wasn’t as bad as he’d first thoug
ht. By the end of it—after five minutes, because it was so solid and chewy—he felt bloated and a little sick.

  But he’d eaten.

  Two days later, his dad came home looking disheveled and more tired than Dylan had ever seen him.

  “What do you say, Champ?” He pulled his son into a back-pounding embrace.

  “Hey,” Dylan said when they released, making it seem casual. In truth, he was freaked out. His dad never looked like he’d been sleeping in his suit, and he always smelled fresh—not faintly sour with a scratchy beard. Also, he’d taken up smoking again.

  An uncomfortable pause. “You talk to your mom at all?”

  Dylan shook his head. “Not since I left. The phones don’t work.” Unspoken was the opinion his dad should have known that.

  Senator Timmes nodded, staring off absently at nothing.

  “Is it curable yet?” Dylan said.

  His dad sighed raggedly and swept a hand through his thinning hair. “Let’s sit down.”

  The living room had leather couches that, though comfortable, got hot if you sat too long. Now they were covered with sheets, which helped.

  “I guess they can’t cure it,” Dylan said after they were both seated.

  His dad gazed at him as if searching for something.

  “Not yet,” he said at last. “Half of Congress is sick, and everyone knows someone who’s died already. We’re hoping some adults won’t get it, but as soon as you think you’re immune”—he punched his hand lightly—“it happens.”

  “Like mom.”

  His dad stared at the TV, which wasn’t on. Almost to himself, he said, “Makes no sense. She was isolated. You all were. I made certain of it.”

  Dylan tried to engage him more after that, but his dad answered in one word sentences, if at all. A few minutes later, he stood up, kissed his son on the head, and went to bed.

  In the morning, his dad was gone before Dylan woke up. Dylan spent the week like that, barely seeing him. Occasionally, Margaret would come by to check in, see how he was doing. She seemed genuinely concerned and not just being nice to keep her job. Because of that, and because he was so lonely, Dylan finally decided to get off his “high horse” (as his mom would say) and be nice back. Once, they even played video games, and he felt guilty for giving her “the treatment” on the ride in (as his dad would say).

  He was almost out of FEMA bars, so when Margaret’s next knock on the door came, he assumed she was bringing another box. Instead, he found her standing outside with a tragic look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, dreading the answer.

  In response, she pulled him into a desperate hug and cried, telling him “It’s gonna be okay” repeatedly until he found himself saying back, “I know it will. I know.”

  After she pulled away, he said, “It’s Mom. Isn’t it?”

  Margaret looked briefly puzzled. Then her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, honey, no … I … We don’t know how she’s doing. It’s … well. You’re gonna have to come with me now, hon. Your dad’s in the car waiting.”

  He looked past her to the black Town Car purring in the driveway. The windows were tinted, but he could see someone behind the wheel.

  When the back door opened, he smiled at his dad waiting there patiently. He became struck by the idea that the Sickness was a terrible nightmare he’d woken from. The fantasy fell away when he got a better look at the driver. Normally, it’d be someone in a suit, but this guy wore an Army uniform.

  “Hurry up, son,” his dad said. “Come on, get in. We have to go.”

  Dylan got in beside his dad and Margaret sat up front.

  He tried asking questions—what’s wrong? Why is she crying? Why is an army man driving today? His dad answered each time with an ominous, “Not now.”

  They drove out of D.C., passed by the Pentagon, and arrived at an apartment complex with a gated entry and a little booth. The gate was up and nobody was in the booth, so they sailed right through. A few turns and they stopped in front of a tall gray housing unit.

  The soldier turned around. “I’ll be a minute, Senator.”

  When his dad nodded and waved him on, Dylan tried again. “Dad, come on, what’s wrong?”

  From the front seat, Margaret started quietly crying again.

  “We’re going to the airport,” his dad said.

  “Back home?” Dylan said. “Really?”

  His dad shook his head. “Nobody’s flying anymore. It’s too dangerous. There’s nothing there anyway. No food. When they couldn’t get it out, it piled up …”

  “What food?”

  “So, you’ll have to stay there,” his dad said, continuing as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Here they come.”

  Dylan looked out the window and saw the soldier approaching with a teenage boy—a little older than himself, it looked like. The boy had a cool, mohawk hairstyle and a permanently tough expression. Later, Dylan would learn they were both the same height, but right then the newcomer seemed ten feet tall.

  The soldier opened the door and said, “Get in, Aaron.”

  The kid flopped in beside Dylan without comment, and the car filled suddenly with the faint stench of tobacco and breath freshener. Dylan almost introduced himself but held back. His dad always said, “Never put your head on a stranger’s chopping block.” Somehow, this seemed like one of those occasions.

  A short drive later and they arrived at Reagan National Airport, just outside the capital.

  “But if we’re here,” Dylan said to his dad, “why can’t we buy a ticket and go home?”

  Beside him, Aaron snorted.

  “No one’s coming to work anymore,” his dad said. “No pilots, no mechanics, so no flying.”

  “So, what are we doing here?”

  In a soft voice, his dad said, “This is where the food is.”

  Unlike last time, most of the airport entrances were blocked with metal barriers now, and the driver had to show his ID at a guard booth.

  A few minutes later, when they stopped at the passenger drop-off area, Dylan got a bigger shock when Margaret pulled a wheelchair from the trunk and eased her dying boss into it.

  2

  Jack realized it was New Year’s when Greg limped outside and proclaimed the mildly chilly morning “The coldest day this year.” Jack laughed dutifully to buoy his friend’s spirits. After all, he’d recently been shot in the leg. You wouldn’t know it from all the dumb jokes he kept telling. Something to do with his newfound fame among the Dragsters. They loved him. Kept coming by the officer’s cabin to “see if he was all right” and bringing him things he didn’t need.

  Jack watched as Larry and a few others hauled in last-minute mattresses scavenged from a mattress store. In a world full of big kids and little kids, Larry was Jack’s unofficial second-in-command, and not Greg or Lisa. The reason, he’d explained to his oldest friends, was that he didn’t want to ruin their friendship by ordering them around. The other reason—which he didn’t share—was that they were horrible at taking orders.

  Larry was something of a mystery. He was friendly. Helpful. But also quick to violence. He’d blasted Blaze’s murderer with a pistol-gripped shotgun without blinking an eye. Like it was nothing at all.

  Jack asked him about it later.

  “He was a backstabbing killer,” Larry had said matter-of-factly. “You said so yourself. Eye for an eye, like the Bible says.”

  Jack didn’t know much about the Bible. For him, it was enough that Larry didn’t seem all that ambitious.

  “Not only the coldest day this year,” Greg said cheerily, interrupting Jack’s thoughts. “It’s also the hottest. And the wettest. And the driest. And the saddest and the happiest. And the darkest and brightest and everything else. It’s like the whole future is gonna grow right out of today and all this different stuff. Cool, huh?”

  Jack smiled and tried not to let on how freaked out he was. The future might be sunshine and joy for Greg, but for Jack, it was a constant worry.


  “Yeah,” he said. “Pretty cool.”

  Greg laughed and limped back inside.

  Jack zipped his jacket and trekked through yesterday’s dusting of snow to the Jeep. He felt troubled by some things he’d read the night before in his book on raising farm animals. Specifically: vaccinations. Not so much for Freida’s cows, but for cows in general. Chickens, too. And sheep—provided they could save enough from overheating and dying when summer arrived.

  There were a lot of ways domesticated animals could die. He had another book full of diseases and maladies of every sort. Modern farm animals had to undergo vaccinations when they were born, and yet diseases still spread around—thus the need for continual vaccines. The problem, the books said, stemmed from animals being sold at auction, or shipped through the mail, like chickens. None of which applied to the present situation, but he still worried.

  Worry was his constant companion. Meat was important, but there’d always be meat of some kind. But cheese and eggs would vanish from the planet if someone didn’t do something. And since no one else seemed to care, that left him. The first thing he could do, he figured, was to read as many books on the subject as possible.

  The books said humans had domesticated animals from primitive stock thousands of years ago, changing them along the way to increase egg, wool, and milk production. All of which were now threatened. In a way, the animals were in the same boat as survivors of the Sickness—vulnerable, with no one to care for them.