The Road to Ruin: A post-apocalyptic survival series (A World Torn Down Book 1)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  THE ROAD TO RUIN

  A World Torn Down Series Book 1

  Rebecca Fernfield

  THE ROAD TO RUIN

  A WORLD TORN DOWN SERIES

  BOOK 1

  By

  Rebecca Fernfield

  Ebook first published in 2017 by REDBEGGA LIMITED

  Copyright REDBEGGA LIMITED

  The moral right of Rebecca Fernfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.rebeccafernfieldauthor.com

  rebecca@rebeccafernfieldauthor.com

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  Created with Vellum

  To Safi, Evie, Harrison, Mia and Jacob. For our future.

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  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

  Author Notes

  Also by Rebecca Fernfield

  Chapter 1

  Three Years After Breakout

  Leg hooked over the carved arm of the chair, Deacon pulls at the crotch of his blue jeans, the ridge of the sewn seam hard beneath his fingers, and slides his eyes over the woman’s khaki shirt and tightly-belted combats. He hasn’t seen one this feisty in a while. He lifts his leg from its rest over the arm and lets his scuffed boot thud to the floor. She’s looking rough these days. Dirt smears across her tear-stained cheeks and what’s left of the bright-blonde she used to be straggles at the ends of her long dark hair. That’ll be the first thing he’ll change – cut it off – tidy her up a bit.

  She’s an uptight piece for sure, but he likes his snatch with a bit of bite, it makes taking it all the more exciting.

  He stands up from the chair, pushing against its carved arms and adjusts his jeans. One thing about having to live on skank in this god-forsaken world, whatever fat he’d carried before it all turned to crap, is long gone. He steps down from the platform with a heavy thud to the floor. Dust jumps from between the worn wooden boards and dances about his ankles, whirling in the warm sun streaming through the barred windows.

  Above the stink of mildew rising up from the beer cellar, and the skank roasting in the kitchen, Deacon smells the sourness of fear. He doesn’t think it comes from her and turns his attention to her man. He’s dishevelled, gaunt beneath his unkempt beard, and a darkening bruise on his split brow narrows his eye. The past three years obviously haven’t been good to him either, but he recognises those eyes, the still arrogant scowl. Morgan. Dan Morgan. A name - a face - Deacon has scorched onto his memory.

  He watches as Morgan’s eyes flit about the room from the window to Deacon and his henchmen, his fists clenched tight, white and angular. Defensive, Morgan steps in front of the woman. She looks out at Deacon from behind the loser’s broad, but bony shoulder, her eyes wide, but he can’t tell if it’s with defiance or fear. Let them try to stop him having what he wants. He smirks as their eyes meet but she holds her ground and keeps his gaze.

  They’re blue!

  For a moment, he waivers. Her eyes, with their bright intensity, remind him of Jules. Memory pushes at him—Jules smiling, her blonde hair splayed across the pillow, holding the covers of their bed open, calling him to her warmth and then—the blood. Oh, God!

  He pushes at the memory, tries to force it back into its box as he steps towards the woman, but it won’t be stopped. He’d held Jules as she thrashed in those last agonising moments. He’d held her so tight, wanting to take her pain, told her to go, that he’d find her on the other side. He swallows hard at the memories—her terrified eyes staring into him, the stink of her fear strong in his nostrils. He’d stared back and watched as they filled with blood, thankful when her heart stopped beating.

  He clenches his jaw and blinks in the dust-laden light. Another step forward and he stares at Morgan, his face tight, his scowl grim. Focus that hate, dumbass! Now isn’t the time to be weak - get maudlin - not when he has this wretch to deal with. Losing his woman will serve him right.

  “What do you want for it then?”

  “Huh? It?” Morgan questions, his brow furrows as he looks from Deacon to the hard-faced henchmen behind. He grasps for the woman’s hand.

  “Yeah, it,” Deacon nods towards her. “Your woman. How much?” Now he’s back in control, he’s going to enjoy this game.

  “Hey!” the woman interrupts, her frown deeper than Morgan’s. “How dare you!”

  “Hah! How dare I? How dare you come onto my patch without the means to pay the crossing fee.” Deacon retorts, a smirk creasing the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m not an ‘it’! I’m a woman and I have a name.”

  He watches as she stands to her full height and shakes back her hair. The breasts pushing against her ragged khaki shirt make him want her even more. He can almost feel her long slender legs wrapping around his waist.

  “I know that, honey. Now pipe down whilst I agree a price with your man. Payment is due.”

  His smile deepens. Oh yes, this is going to be good.

  “Price? Dan! Dan, tell him I’m not for sale,” the woman urges, her voice confident, eyes searching, as she turns to her husband. Deacon smiles as he watches Dan Morgan’s face, recognising the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Tell him, Dan,” she repeats. “Tell him I’m not for sale.” Dan opens his mouth.

  “Let me tell you what’s on offer here,” Deacon interrupts. “I’ll make it real simple for you, Dan. You owe me and you need to get somewhere far, far away, somewhere no one will know you. Right?” Dan’s face drops.

  Deacon walks up to him, stands inches from his face and leans in. “I know who you are Dan,” he growls low. “And if I let everyone else know who you are they’ll be on you like a pack of wolves. There’s no one round here who wants the Exile living with them.” Dan sags. “Now,” Deacon continues stepping back, his voice loud. “You have a choice, Dan. I’ll give you two wheels and a tank of petrol in exchange for your woman. That’ll make it easy for you to get your stinking carcass away from here.” Deacon moves behind Morgan, towering over him and slides his arm around the woman’s waist. “Don’t worry,” he says spreading his fingers along her ribcage and pulling her to him. “I’ll take real good care of her.”

  “Dan!” she cries, the muscles of her belly taut beneath his fingers as
he bends to her and nuzzles against the softness of her neck. His heart thuds a little harder as she grasps his arm with her fingers, her efforts useless against his steel grip.

  Deacon watches Morgan closely. His eyes flit from the woman’s face and across to the window that looks over the yard to the high, barbed fence of the compound, then back to his own amused, questioning gaze.

  “So Dan. What do you say? Your freedom for your woman? Or are you going to stay here to face the wolves? I’ll even throw in a wrapping of skank and a quarter barrel of water.”

  “Dan! Tell him!”

  Chapter 2

  Three Years Earlier

  17:45 Morgan Industries: R&D Lab

  “Garett, have you finished with those samples yet?” Professor Simon Carlton calls to him from across the lab.

  “Sure, just locking them back up,” his assistant Dr Garett Mitchel replies, looking up for just a moment to nod his confirmation, before peering back down the lens of the microscope.

  “Right. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow then,” Carlton finishes, reaching for his raincoat. “Hopefully, the weather won’t be quite so inclement,” he says shivering as he looks out through the wide lab windows to the greyness beyond and the wind-blown rain sleeting diagonally against the huge, winter-bare elm.

  “Hah! That’s some hope,” Garett smiles, looking up again at his colleague and ... and what? Mentor? Enemy?

  “What are you doing for dinner tomorrow?” Carlton turns back to the room with a concerned frown.

  “Me? Oh, the usual—takeaway in front of the TV,” Garett answers with a wry smile. He’ll get what’s coming.

  “Sarah was right then. Listen, she’s worried about you. Will you come to ours for a proper feed?”

  “Sure,” Garett replies forcing a smile. You really shouldn’t have claimed all the glory. “I never could resist her cooking.”

  “Seven o’clock tomorrow then. I’ll let her know. Night.”

  “Night.” Yeah, night, you lying old git. You won’t be smiling when I’ve finished with you.

  Garett watches Carlton’s disappearing figure as the door swings shut then locks with a clunk. Go back to your perfect wife in your perfect home with your perfect kids. Enjoy it while you can. He pulls out his mobile from his trouser pocket, swipes to unlock and presses ‘Call’ on the unnamed number that makes his heart thud harder in his chest each time he looks at it. Well, it was about time he had some of the good life too.

  “Do you have it?” the voice asks without any effort at obligatory politeness.

  “Yes,” Garett replies monosyllabic, his mouth dry.

  “You know what to do.”

  “Ye-”

  Click!

  The mobile cuts off. Garett looks at the screen, the red ‘call ended’ symbol flashing and a pain runs across his chest as his breath catches. My turn to have the good life. My turn. He steps to the locked storeroom door of the lab and swipes his security card through the sensor. Green for go. He steps in and walks over to the tall, locked chiller, punches in the professor’s security code and reaches for the glass vials, his heart palpitating hard now. His hand trembles. The chink of glass as his hand knocks the upright cylinders makes him jump, twist his head, and take a furtive glance over his shoulder as a vial leans into its neighbours. Spooked, he takes a breath, checks the handwritten labels, then picks out two vials and slips them into a cushioned, thermal case. Still edgy, he rights the knocked cylinders, closes the glass door of the chiller and steps back out into the main office, the vials safe, protected in their metal box. He grips the handle of the case tight.

  20:30 Penthouse, Morgan Tower

  Cassie Morgan nee Scuttle slips her perfectly pedicured feet into her strappy gold stilettoes and teeters across to the mirror to take a final look at her reflection. Perfectly tousled hair sits thick across her expertly tanned shoulders, the bright blonde curls swirling over her bare breasts. The white-blonde really makes the blue of her eyes pop this time. She turns. The relentless hours at the gym have paid off. Her belly is taut, flat across her hip bones and she’s even managed to keep her curves. Hands on hips she turns from side to side, checking each inch of professionally scrubbed, pummelled and polished skin for imperfections. Nothing. Dan had better be home soon!

  She walks naked into the kitchen, the tack, tack of her glimmering heels sharp on the marble tiles, takes a large bottle of champagne from the chiller and pours the evening’s second glass. The cold surface of the door brushes against her breast sending a chill across the skin. A tingle of excitement runs through her at the thought of Dan walking through the door and finding her there, stark naked, hair shining bright and curling seductively after hours in the salon, nails perfectly painted, body scrubbed, polished, plucked, waxed and toned to perfection. He just won’t be able to get to me quick enough! She strokes the top of her streak-free thighs and takes another sip of the dry champagne. So good! Walking around the black granite top of the kitchen island, she looks through the doorway and along the hall to the front door of their apartment. She thinks she hears footsteps so walks to the side of the sparkling granite slab, and leans over, resting her elbow at the corner, positioning herself for best effect, champagne flute in hand, breasts pushed out, long legs slightly parted, arse cocked seductively, and waits for the sound of his key in the lock. Perhaps I should have put on the panties he brought me back from his last trip? Less is more after all. She giggles, takes another sip of champagne and waits for the clink of metal in the door. Nothing. No footsteps, no key in lock. She listens again. Silence. She sighs, downs the champagne from the flute, takes a swig from the bottle then strides into the bedroom.

  “Where is he?” she mutters aloud to the vast emptiness of over ten thousand square feet of lonely penthouse and picks up her mobile from the mirrored bedside table. The display reads 20:35. “Huh!” she mutters throwing the phone down onto the snow-white cotton duvet It disappears into its plump folds. She sits down heavy on the bed and looks from the joyous newly-weds gazing at each other in the photo on her table, oblivious to the rest of the world, to the woman reflected back at her from the huge mirror opposite. Tanned to perfection, she sits with legs long and slender, breasts high without any sign of sag, waist slim and free of flabby folds, and a pretty-nearly-beautiful face. Yes, pretty. Not beautiful like some of the wives, but prettier than many of them, especially the ones ravaged by time and surgery. She looks again in the mirror. The blue of her eyes seems dimmer in here and a moment of recognition makes her breath catch. Her mother’s sad, empty eyes stare back at her. She shivers and tries to push away the memory of that life-worn face. She’d escaped the grey life she was on track to inhabit—her mother had seen to that, but she doesn’t look any happier for it and still seems a prisoner of its grimness. She takes a deep breath and sighs again, feeling the grating loneliness lift for a second, then reaches back across the bed to fumble in its softness for the phone.

  “Dan?” she says when it answers to an echo and the sound of—what? Someone out of breath? “Are you running?”

  20:37 Morgan Industries – Office of Daniel Morgan, President

  “Dan!” Mel gasps as his hand slides up her inner thigh, rucking up her skirt, as he pushes her back against the huge desk.

  Dan slides his hand higher up her thigh as she leans back, her breasts push against the thin lace of the bra, visible beneath the open silk shirt. Her skin is smooth and soft and she smells of vanilla. The ache inside him grows as the tips of his fingers touch the lace edge of her panties. She gasps. The ache throbs hard as he slips his fingers beneath the fabric. He always loves the first time.

  “Oh, Dan!” she groans as his fingers find soft edges and he strokes her there, taunting her with the thrill he knows she’ll feel at his expert touch.

  “If my husband …”

  He leans over and pulls at the lace of her bra, exposes her to the warmed air. His fingers slip inside just a little more. She groans again as he takes her breast in his
mouth and his fingers push a little deeper.

  The phone rings.

  He ignores it.

  It rings again.

  “Don’t answer,” she sighs.

  He lifts his mouth from her breast and looks over at his phone.

  ‘Cassie’ it reads.

  Ignoring the call, he bends again to the woman and smiles as the ringing stops.

  Mel reaches for his belt and quickly releases him. Now it’s his turn to groan.

  The phone rings.

  ‘Cassie’

  “Bloody wives!” he mutters and grabs the mobile. His trousers slide down his legs to the floor as he accepts the call.

  “Yeah?” he murmurs, almost unable to contain his pleasure as Mel reaches for him.

  Chapter 3

  20:45 Basking Street Car Park

  Garett parks his rusting, sun-bleached red Toyota in the furthest corner of the car park, pulling up to the blacked-out windows of the gleaming Range Rover. Hah! He’d be having one of those. Order it as soon as he got off the plane. Lottie can stick her ‘we’ve changed’, along with the monthly payments, where the sun don’t shine. Serve her right for trying to bleed him dry. Thank God she never got pregnant—dried up old witch!

  The door of the Range Rover opens and Garett’s heart thuds again. Damn! Why did he have to be so nervous? Try to seem casual. A leg, clad in dark navy denim with a thick-soled black boot thuds to the gritty tarmac and the door pushes open, nearly catching the scuffed red door of his Toyota.