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

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Rick steps back out into the sunshine, the stench of the teller he’d just stepped over still strong about him. He’d like to take a deep breath to freshen his senses but the stench is out here too, clinging and moist in the humid air. Backpack heavy with supplies, he’s keen to make the journey out of the city and across country to Becca and Justin’s place. They’d be happy to see him he was sure. He smiles as he imagines Justin beaming at him from the stable-style door of his farmhouse, Becca behind him, ready to put the kettle on and make him a cup of tea—her answer to any problem. End of the world? Let’s have a cup of tea. Apocalypse? Let’s have a cup of tea. He chuckles as he shifts the strap of his rucksack, making it more comfortable across his collarbone, easing the ache where he broke it in the blast. He recoils at the memory. Coulson going ahead. Not seeing the trap. Boom! Gone. And he’d been thrown back hard. Hard enough to break his bones. Losing his friend in Iraq had been tough, but this, this losing everyone, this was a different enemy that you couldn’t defeat. It picked and chose who it would slaughter and it had done it in millions, no must be tens of millions. What about if it was billions? Rick looks out at the deserted streets again. A rat scuttles across the road, the only sign of life on this stretch. He hadn’t seen anyone alive for the past three days, not anyone normal at any rate, and he didn’t count the drunk couple as normal, not anymore.

  Clack.

  His hand grips the butt of his gun.

  Clack.

  He pulls it up to eye level.

  Clack.

  What the? A woman! Blonde hair bouncing against her shoulders, legs long and tanned as she tack, tacks down the street, checking in the shop windows, over-sized bag on her arm as though she’s out for a day’s shopping, sandals crunching over shattered glass, seemingly oblivious to the death and destruction around her. And the danger! Doesn’t she realise its dangerous out here now? He takes a moment to stare at her through the sights of his rifle, the perfectly shaped, high cheekbones, the fullness of her pink lips, her delicately shaped nose, the brightness of her large blue eyes framed by dark lashes, a small beauty mark just above her lip, before he blinks and lowers it. He pulls back to the corner of the building as she flicks her hair and pulls down the sunglasses she has perched on her head.

  Clack. Clack. Clack.

  The tack of her high sandals grows louder as she approaches his position. He pulls back into the shadows and lets her pass then waits until there’s a reasonable distance between them, takes a deep breath, steps out, and follows her.

  She saunters ahead of him, arse waggling beneath the flared skirt of her fitted dress. A boom in the distance startles a flock of pigeons sitting on an overhead cable stretched between two of the older buildings and she jumps back, panicked, skittish despite the appearance of elegant calm she exudes. Stopping, she stands in front of a small grocery shop, then leans forward and pushes. He watches as she twists the handle and shakes the door then peers through the glass before walking further down the road, disappearing from view as she turns right into another street. Quickening his pace, he steps then runs, light-footed, dampening the thud of his boots, and stops at the corner, watching as she steps up into the foyer of an upmarket department store. Behind him, on the street they’ve just left, a door slams shut. He looks back but sees nothing. When he checks back she has disappeared again. He should turn back—leave the city. What good can he do for her anyway? She seems OK, knows her way around. The farm is way up north and he needs to be well on his way before nightfall and finding a car is top on his list of priorities, not chasing after some rich bit who might not even want his help.

  He turns to head back up the road. He’ll find a car then head up to the turnpike and take the fastest route up to Justin’s place. Looking out, cars sit squat and motionless and ahead a huge lorry lays jack-knifed across its lanes. He knows it’s a scene repeated throughout the city, but hopes that further out, away from the great mangle of criss-crossed streets, the roads will be clear and open. His stomach clenches as he thinks of the blonde woman and he falters. No, Carter! She’s fine. Get going. Life’s tough now and you don’t need a millstone round your neck and a woman like that, even if she is beautiful, won’t have a shred of common sense about her, won’t have one clue how to survive. He groans. No, not a single one. He turns, shifts his rucksack against his shoulder, grips his rifle, runs to the steps and follows her through the doors into the department store.

  Chapter 9

  Clayton Drive, 21 Days After Infection

  Deacon wakes to the sun streaming through the window shining down into his face. His head throbs and his belly rolls queasy as he shifts in his bed. He throws off the thin cotton cover and swings his leg over to the soft, grey carpet of the bedroom floor. Glass clinks as his foot hits the pile of empty beer bottles piled around his bed. He groans and reaches for the half-empty bottle on his bedside table. His head is dull and heavy and full of Jules. He groans again as the pain sweeps over him. His belly clenches as he remembers the hotel room. Laying her down on the rose petals, careful not to make her pain any worse, watching as her tanned and glowing skin turned ashen then a sickening greenish, and the buboes, that’s what the doctor, his eyes wide with fear, had called them, the ‘buboes’ had grown and pushed their way out around her neck. He drops his head between his shoulders and sags again at the memory, the pain in his gut stabbing at him and takes another swig of warm beer. His hand trembles as he clutches the bottle. Hah! Jules would be swearing at him right now. Nagging him to put it down.

  His stomach rolls and a cold sweat breaks out on his forehead as he lurches for the bathroom and hangs over the toilet. The face of ‘him’ breaks into his memory as his stomach churns and then he dry heaves into the bowl. Mason. No. Morgan. That’s it. He remembers now. His face is burned onto his memory. Morgan. The billionaire businessman who got way too greedy. Deacon heaves and vomit spews into the toilet pan.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ Jules!

  For a moment, he imagines that she’s back, back here with him in this room, and he stands, unsteady.

  ‘Do it for me. Be strong for me,’ her voice tells him.

  “I will,” he replies. “I’ll be strong. He’ll pay, Jules. I’ll be strong and he’ll pay. You’ll see.”

  Taking a deep breath, he reaches for his toothbrush, lines it with paste and turns on the shower. When steam fills the room, he steps beneath the too-hot spray. It stabs at his skin as he scrubs away the filth and stink of the last few weeks. The arms of his huge muscles flex as he lathers the soap over his belly and the trailing dragon tattooed across his chest. He dresses, grills the last pieces of bacon, fries the last eggs and opens the laptop to look at the photo one last time. Staring back at him from the desktop is the image of a man of about thirty-five: tall, tanned and good-looking with chiselled features, tousled hair and expertly trimmed beard. Daniel Morgan, CEO of Morgan Industries, the man who killed Jules, the man who killed the world.

  Before it went dark and all communications stopped, he’d seen the news. Plague was ravaging the world’s population, an airborne plague that nothing could stop, that killed its victims within hours. A plague that had been discovered deep in the Antarctic ice and morphed into a weapon, created in a lab by Morgan Industries and, it was rumoured, developed for sale in the arms industry. The world didn’t stand a chance. He’d watched as Morgan was mobbed outside his apartment block, watched as the billionaire’s trophy, bimbo wife had been grabbed at by the mob, and security guards had beaten them off, pulled them inside and locked the doors. In a cruel twist, they were seemingly unaffected by the virus that had taken hundreds of thousands by then. And Morgan was alive even now, Deacon knew it, could feel it in his bones. It was just a matter of finding him. He’d make it his life’s work to do just that. The light flickers as Deacon shuts down the screen. He can’t stay here in their house another night. The pain is too much. He packs his bags and grabs the keys to the garage and his motorcycle. He doesn’t know where the road will
take him. He doesn’t care, not now. He just knows that, one day, Daniel Morgan will be his.

  Chapter 10

  The department store is cool and quiet. Cassie heads straight for the steps down into the café. The lights are on, stark and bright in the basement room. Beyond the tables, chairs, and comfy velvet sofas is a chiller. She smiles as she scans the glass shelves. They’re full. She tacks the last few steps down the stairs and then runs across to them. Cling-wrapped plates sit lined up along the shelves. They look OK, perhaps a little curled under their plastic wrap. She checks the use-by date hand-written on the sticky labels. Two weeks ago, they would have been fine. Now? No. She wasn’t going to touch them. Above the shelves of cakes and sandwiches sit bottles of juice. She grabs whatever comes to hand first and stuffs it in the oversized leather bag hanging on her arm. It quickly becomes too heavy so she sets it down on the cool tile floor and reaches across for the plastic-wrapped biscotti next to the till. She reaches for one, changes her mind, picks up the whole jar, and empties it into her bag. Working quick, she grabs what unspoiled food she can find and stuffs the packets into her bag. When it’s full, she takes off her cardigan, ties knots in the ends of the sleeves, and begins to fill that too with the chocolate bars and sweets stacked at the side of the till. Job done, she grabs the packets of tea stacked neatly on the other side. Where else? The counter. Check behind the counter. A scratching noise sounds from above. She stops. Listens. Her heart taps harder, but the noise doesn’t come again. Turning her attention back to the food, she grabs the bag by the handles, clutches the cardigan-bag to her chest, walks behind the counter and bends down to open the fridge. She’s in luck. Three cartons of un-opened long-life milk sit waiting for her in its door. She grabs them and lays them at the top of her bag. On the fridge’s middle shelf is a loaf of bread. She grabs it by the plastic neck of its bag and knocks the door shut with her foot as she stands. A tack sounds on the step and she swings round. Her heart suddenly racing. Two pairs of boots stand halfway down the steps. She squats, hiding low beneath the counter. Whoever the boots belong to takes more steps down into the café. She looks at the food stuffed into the bags. They can’t have it!

  “What’s down here then?”

  “It’s a café. There might be food still.”

  “Better be. We’re running low.”

  “There will be.”

  The boots stamp onto the tiles of the floor.

  “Looks like we’ve been beaten to it.”

  “Looks like you’re right.”

  Cassie’s chest eases a little. Perhaps they’ll leave now they’ve seen the empty shelves.

  “Yeah, but they’ve left us something. Look! On the floor. Packets of biscuit or chocolate or something. You get it. I’ll check behind the counter. They always have fridges in these places. We might be lucky.”

  Cassie’s stomach clenches with fear. She has to do something, not wait for them to find her here.

  “No!” she shouts, jumping up from behind the counter.

  “What the!” a man, weeks’ old growth straggly on his chin, his hair greasy against his forehead takes a step back, eyes wide, startled as he stares at her.

  “There’s nothing here. It’s all gone,” she shouts, clutching the front of the counter.

  “It’s a fekkin’ jack-in-the-box!” a stocky man, eyes dark in the creased skin of his weathered face, retorts. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  The light glints against the skin of his balding head as he stares at Cassie. She stands tall, making her shoulders broad, remembering what Milo taught her at class. She’d fight them off. She knew how to deal with attackers. Dan had insisted she learned after the Carsons had been kidnapped.

  “Nothing, ey?”

  “That’s right,” she returns, staring straight into the taller man’s cynical green eyes, and pushing at the heavy bag with her foot. It budges little more than an inch.

  “What you pushing with your foot then? And what’s that bundle you’re trying to hide?” he asks with a sneer.

  “Nothing for you. That’s what.”

  “She’s got food, Enders.”

  “I reckon she does.”

  “Don’t’ come any closer,” Cassie replies arm raised, palm flat towards them. “I can take care of myself. I know how to fight.”

  “Hah!”

  “No need to fight, lady. Just give us what you’ve got and we’ll be on our way.”

  “No!”

  “No?” the taller man exclaims stepping behind the counter, a greedy smile on his lips as he looks down at Cassie’s feet and sees the bulging bag. He whistles.

  “No. I found it. Go and find some for yourselves. Me and Dan, we’re starving,” she replies reaching down for the bag and pulling it behind her whilst keeping her eyes on the approaching thief.

  “So are we. Now give it here.”

  “Just take it from her, Mike. There’s nothing a rich bitch like her can do to stop us.”

  She watches as they step closer, the taller one strides forward without hesitation. Cassie’s heart thuds quick and her stomach lurches queasy, but there’s no way she’s going to let them take the bag. Not without a fight anyway.

  ‘Don’t’ let them invade your personal space’

  She takes a step back as the greasy, red-haired man steps forward. “Stop where you are.”

  “Just give me the bags, love.”

  “No. I already told you. Find your own food.”

  “Just take them, Enders,” the balding man shouts wiping at his gleaming forehead, irritation rising in his voice.

  Enders steps forwards.

  ‘Front grab, Cassie,’ Milo’s voice sounds in her memory.

  She checks the red-haired Enders for any sign of a knife. Nothing. At least she’s safe on that score.

  Cassie glares at Enders, keeping her eyes locked to his as she slowly slides her feet hip-width apart, her strength centred. The man takes another step forward, determination glows in the blue-grey of his eyes, his freckled skin pallid beneath the stark light.

  ‘Abdomen and groin area, Cassie.’

  “C’mon, love. Don’t make it difficult,” he urges, a sneering grimace rising on his face.

  “I told you—you’re not having my food.”

  “For crying out loud, Enders. Get it over with.”

  “OK, OK, Mike. Keep your hair on. I’ll grab her, you grab the bags.”

  Cassie’s eyes narrow as Enders replies to Mike and she firms her thighs ready for the onslaught. She wants it over with.

  ‘They look for victims, Cassie. You’ve got to look confident—head up, shoulders back, aware of your surroundings.’

  “Touch them and you’ll regret it,” she counters, balling her fists and tensing her arms, throwing her shoulders back.

  “Hah! Stupid cow.”

  Enders lurches forward, his arms outstretched, his fingers clawed.

  ‘Go!’

  Cassie raises her arms, boxing stance, and raises her leg as Enders hurtles forward, and kicks - hard - aiming a blow at the soft area of his abdomen above his crotch. The strappy base of her sandal with its four-inch heel hits home.

  “Ugh!” he grunts, his menacing scowl shifting to disbelief as he propels backwards along the narrow area behind the counter then crashes against the jutting metal handles of the coffee machine.

  Cassie watches as he careers backwards then snaps her eyes to the left to check on Mike. His mouth hangs open as he watches Enders, then his eyes narrow to slits as he turns his attention to her.

  ‘You’ve got the advantage. Use it.’

  “You want some too,” she shouts to Mike, countering his slitted eyes with her own.

  He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t look cowed either and Enders is already picking himself up. The scowl harsher now.

  “Take her out,” Mike calls as Enders stands straight.

  He lurches forward again, bearing down on her with a closed fist ready to smash into her face.

 
‘Block punch.’

  Cassie stands firm and swipes at his raised arm with her left, swinging at it to block its path to her face. Her forearm catches hard against his and the pain is immediate, but his arm slams to the side away from her. Following with her right arm she chops at his neck. Sharp, rapid, repeated. His head knocks to the side and he steps back with each chop. Taking her advantage, she grabs his arm, raises her leg and kicks strong at his abdomen, the flat of her sandal landing heavy in the soft flesh.

  As he crashes back along the narrow space, Cassie follows him and footsteps sound on the metal steps down into the basement. She ignores the footsteps, focuses instead on Enders as he twists then tumbles onto his front. She takes her chance, powers forward and kneels heavily on his back, pulling his left arm up hard behind him.