by T. K. Malone
Free World Apocalypse
Book 1 Fugitive
Book 2 Citizen
Book 3 Captive
Book 4 Genesis
Extras - Book Zero - Prequel
Free World Apocalypse - Fugitive
T.K. Malone
Copyright © 2017 by T.K. Malone
All rights reserved.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Join the struggle
1. Teah’s story
2. Teah’s story
3. Teah’s story
4. Teah’s story
5. Teah’s story
6. Teah’s story
7. Teah’s story
8. Teah’s story
9. Teah’s story
10. Teah’s story
11. Connor’s story
12. Connor’s story
13. Connor’s story
14. Connor’s story
15. Connor’s story
16. Connor’s story
17. Zac’s Story
18. Zac’s story
19. Zac’s story
20. Teah’s story
21. Teah’s story
22. Teah’s story
23. Teah’s story
Thanks for reading
Free World Apocalypse - Citizen
Join the struggle
Facebook group: Black City Riders
Email list : Black City Riders
1
Teah’s story
Strike time: minus 10 years
Location: Morton Valley, near the prepper’s compound
He wore a cattleman hat, the rain spilling in washes from its upturned rim as he tilted his head this way and that. The hat had probably been white once, long ago, but then the man might likely have smiled once, long ago when he’d been young. He wore a long, brown trench coat, the type which had once been in fashion in the grid cities, but he didn’t look the type to have been born in one of those, more the kind who’d lived the hard life outside—the old life. The only other thing of note was one of his boots. It was worn, dirty, probably once brown too but now looking as black as the shadows around him, and painful, mightily painful. But then, it was grinding her cheek into the mud of the old trail. So far, he’d not said a word, just stared at her, as though her very presence up here in the mountains, surrounded by the magnificence of the sequoia trees, somehow confused him.
The whites of his eyes were wide against his dark skin, the press of his lips lost in the black and gray patchy stubble of a chin that rested on the stock of a double-barrelled shotgun, one that was aimed fair and square straight at her stomach. He held the gun steady as he appeared to consider his next move, after what she considered had been a fairly even fight.
“Not the belly,” she muttered.
“What, girl?”
“Not the belly.”
Inclining his head, a swill of water fell from his hat’s rim, drenching her face and washing away the mud as it splashed into her eyes and open mouth. She coughed the disgusting taste out; it had the twang of oil and diesel. It briefly got her to wondering who could have driven a truck this far up the trail, but she was soon back concentrating on the man.
He looked her up and down as she lay there, no sign of hurry about him. Dusk was still an hour away, yet it was already dark. Clouds were rolling in, jostling across the heavy gray, black and mauve sky, colors that matched her captor as he stared down at her, appearing to weigh in his mind whether she should live or die.
“Why?” he eventually growled, his accent hidden at first by the clip of the word. She didn’t answer, couldn’t catch her breath. It had been a fast fight, not the sort she’d trained for. It had been a battle with no rules, one that had erupted before words had finished being spoken. One that had ended before the scream of her pain had died in her throat. It had been her first fight out here, her first loss, and so maybe her last.
“Why not the belly?” he again growled.
The rain stung her eyes, but she couldn’t stop looking, fascinated by the face of the one who would finally kill her. What type of man was he? It had to be a man, of course; she couldn’t read them, found their emotions too strange to judge. She scrabbled her boots in the mud, a feeble attempt to wriggle away, like a landed fish seeking the safety of water. Her arms were useless: one trapped under her, the other already snapped in half by the butt of his gun. And she was going into shock; probably an easier way out.
“Quit struggling,” he said, his voice a slurred lilt where the words ran together, but the meaning remained plain. “Struggle and you die right now” was what he was saying, although being more economical with his words. Economical like the way he’d fought, his eyes in tune with his hands; a viper just waiting for that one opening, the one that would count.
It had taken only those small movements of her legs to remind her about her arm, fear being a masterful anaesthetic. But it was the gun to her belly that occupied her mind.
He grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowing teeth. “Are you pregnant?” and he emphasized his question by pressing his boot harder against her face, her cheek sinking farther into the mud, hard against the rocks beneath the trail’s surface.
“Yes,” she mumbled, taking a mouthful of mire for her trouble.
“Not the belly, then,” he said, and cocked his gun.
“Thank you,” and she closed her eyes.
“Are you gonna kill her or not?” another voice cried out, a whinier one this time but with the same drawl.
Her captor said nothing, just twisted his boot around against her face a bit more, the way a child persecutes a bug when it’s getting bored with it.
“No, I don’t suppose I will. Not this afternoon, anyways,” he finally said, and she felt the pressure lift from her face, but then she screamed as he pulled her up by her busted arm. “Nor tonight. Tonight ain’t no killing night, neither.”
“So we have to keep her?”
“No, Jake, we’ll fix her up and toss her out, ‘cause that’s what we do with thieves. She’s a gridder. They’ll come looking. ‘Course we’re gonna kill her. I just haven’t the mind to do it right now.”
He pushed her ahead of him, along the trail that shimmered silver in the rain, between the dark silhouettes of the powerful sequoias that hemmed them in, sharp against the sky. Jake was the shorter of the two men, not that that was saying a lot. Even the man who’d bettered her in their fight didn’t look much like a monster now, his anger having waned. He was wary, though, keeping his distance, waving his gun at her like a shepherd does his crook at a wayward sheep. She’d put up as good a fight as her protectiveness of her stomach had allowed, but that concern for the child she carried had been her undoing, had made her too slow. Her broken arm had been her forfeit, and she’d had to yield. But why hadn’t he killed her?
Farther down the trail stood a mule and an open-backed cart. Jake jumped up onto its driver’s bench and the other man motioned her to climb on the back. Even in the gloom she could see a red tinge to the rain that spilled from it.
Despite the pain in her arm, she managed to get herself up and sat with her back against the side of the cart, as far from the carcass of a deer as she could. The man then climbed in with her.
This was how they’d clashed: two hunters and one prey. She’d got
ten close enough to stun it, but then he’d just popped up and shot it outright. What were the chances of them coming together like this, out here in the wilderness of woodland, canyon and creek? Had it been her fate? Her fate whose game of chance had turned her life upside-down without a care for fairness, for what was right and what was wrong, and certainly with no consideration for love.
It hadn’t been that deer were scarce up here in the hills, it had been a matter of principle. It was her kill. He thought it was his. He’d approached her as she’d stood over the carcass, not saying a word, finally just standing there, as though the kill had been his by right. They’d squared off, then they’d fought, fought while Jake had gotten on with loading the carcass into their cart. Mankind was like that: fighting when no fight was needed.
And the clouds continued to roll in to compound her misery. She was cold. The shock having run its course, pain now wracked her body, the day over, the fight done, a hunger gnawing at her stomach, another at her mind.
“Gridder?” he said.
“Yes,” she muttered.
He pointed to her belly. “Happen in the city?”
“Yes.”
“That why you runnin’?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, chewing his bottom lip. “Fair enough.” Reaching in his overcoat, he pulled out a small dull-silver flask and ripped the stopper out with his teeth. He offered it to her. She shook her head. He offered again, and this time she took it. “You ain’t no gridder now, so you can stop believing their bullshit.” The liquor spilled down her throat like broken glass, tearing at its sides, but when it settled in her stomach, it fought off the cold damp and took away a little of the pain in her arm, calmed her withdrawal.
“You hooked on shine?”
“Been fed something.”
“Well, yer in fer the shivers. Need t’be clean fer him,” and he pointed at her belly.
Teah nodded, but didn’t reply.
Jake drove them down the steep trail, the wheels slipping and sliding perilously close to the edge in the rain-soaked mud. She caught glimpses of the river she’d been heading for, the one where she’d hoped to make a new life, in this valley or maybe the next, or by any river in any valley. If this man let her live, she’d settle wherever she could hide, but that didn’t look likely now. Though he held it lazily, the rifle’s barrel never wavered, his finger never straying from the trigger.
“Snapped that good an’ proper,” he said, a faint grin lurking in the blackness under the rim of his hat.
“Yes.” She handed him the flask.
“Should mend better, though. Jake? You want a swig?”
“Na.”
“Then get a move on. I’ve a mind to get back before moon-up,” he said, and Jake duly snapped the reins at the ass and it trotted on a little faster.
“Jake’s pissed off I didn’t kill you,” the man then said. “Don’t think he likes girls. Don’t know, and can’t be sure, but I don’t think so. He’s the nervous type, is Jake. Maybe he’s right; maybe I should have killed you.” Taking off his hat and shaking the water from it, he ran his finger around the rim to get rid of the excess. His tight, black and gray curly hair seemed to repel water, creases across his forehead acting as a gutter to keep his thin eyebrows dry. “Should I have?”
“Yes,” she said, and reached for the flask.
He handed it to her, inclining his head as he held her gaze and brought his hand up to cover his mouth, scratching his stubbled chin. “You know, I think you may well be right.”
Whether it was the liquor, the pain or the beating he’d given her, she began to drift in and out of consciousness, the trees drifting by, black against a darkening sky, the wheels of the wagon squeaking around and around. It had been one hell of a day, but in all honesty not much different from any other recently. It was hard outside the city, no doubt about that, she told herself as her mind drifted through the pain from her arm and the fog of the liquor. A different type of hard, though. You had to stay on your toes in both places, she acknowledged, had to keep your guard up, but for wholly different reasons. The aim was the same in both, though, in the wilderness and the city: survival. But the fight was plain to see out here, more honest. At least here you knew when you’d lost.
The cart swayed from side to side, her eyes flickering as she battled to stay awake. All the while he watched her as they wound down the track from the mountain toward the river she’d thought—only a few hours before—would be her sanctuary.
“We’re here,” he muttered, at some point. Dusk had come and gone, the stars reigning supreme now the clouds had fled beyond the mountain. Jake drew the cart to a halt. She looked around, but could see little. The man jumped down, his rifle in the crook of his arm. “It’s a camp of sorts at least, with a cabin of sorts. There’s better farther down the valley, but it’s enough for tonight.” He held his arm out. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve a mind to get inside.”
For the first time since they’d met, she began to think she might live a little while longer, so she shoved her darker thoughts aside, those which told her the world would be a better place with her gone, thoughts which had forgone the future of the baby growing inside her. A tiny hope glinted there, though, a hope that she might just get to meet the troublesome kid within her, the kid whose meddling had already had repercussions.
“Thank you,” she said, and eased herself off the cart, even her soft landing jarring her arm, bringing pain crashing through her. She bent double, stifling a cry. But when she looked up, her eyes glistened in the moonlight, radiating defiance. The spikes of her short, black hair shone with a mix of silver and blue in the starlight. “You going to need a hand with that deer?” she said through clenched teeth.
He took off his hat and punched it out, shaking his head. “Name’s Lester. You got one?”
She smiled but then had to grimace before conjuring another smile. “Yeah, Teah.”
2
Teah’s story
Strike time: minus 8 years
Location: Morton Valley, near the prepper’s compound
Teah would never go back to the city, could never go back. She’d explained that to Lester that first night, or probably nearer morning. She’d passed out a few times while he’d set her arm. She’d drunk the rest of his whiskey after that.
Lester’s cabin was at the head of an old gold mine. It lay within rough terrain of sharp scree, tufts of clinging grass and shallow-rooted trees—a scruffy land. Even the rocks looked dirty, stained yellow by the minerals. A stream dribbled out of the mine’s entrance. No, she’d never go back to the city, not because she couldn’t, but because she’d already fallen in love with the way of the world outside.
The entrance to Lester’s mine was more of a hollow in the side of the mountain, a mountain surrounded by deep canyons and mighty sequoia trees. She remembered back to the black buildings of the grid, awed by how man had created such lofty structures. But these trees were something else, magnificent, powerful and godlike. They were living, breathing monuments to nature’s own scheme; one in which she’d soon felt at home.
Even the cold stream that carved its way past their camp had a power to it, but a peaceful, self-contained power. It was clear who reigned here, and it wasn’t mankind. Nature ruled this place, beautiful in summer—as she now knew—but bitterly cruel in winter, although safely away from the troubles and retributions of men, unless when fighting over a deer.
“Say that again,” Lester had said on a fine spring day, two years after they’d first met on that rainy winter’s afternoon. He was sitting on the stoop, watching over Teah’s son, Clay. The boy did little more than attempt to stand up before falling over, so it wasn’t exactly taxing work.
“I thought you must have known,” Teah repeated, looking up from skinning a rabbit.
“Why would I know what rules and the like they have in a city nowadays?”
Teah shrugged. “I’d just guessed you’d have known, is all. Ain’t a part
icularly new law. A Free World law, that’s for sure.”
“Nope.”
“It’s against the law to have kids…naturally.”
“Why?”
She was cutting harder now, peeling the skin away, her teeth gritted. “Because that’s what The Free World says is right. Supposed to be for our own safety. Supposed to protect the unborn child’s right to be born healthy.”
“Is everyone healthy in the cities?”
Pulling the pelt free, she set to work removing the guts. “I suppose.”
“Humph,” Lester grunted, like he always did when they discussed the gridders. “I’d prefer the odd fever. Isn’t natural otherwise.”
“But you don’t get a choice; sterile is sterile. Except it didn’t work with us. Clay didn’t have a choice, he had a father; he had Zac. That’s gotta be better. That’s why I ran.”
“Maybe, ‘cept he don’t see his father, anyways. What would they have done? You know, if they’d have caught you.”
“Done?” Teah looked around. “They’d have ended it, I suppose. Wasn’t supposed to be able to happen. Zac must have slipped through at his harvesting. Something must have gone wrong. I must have still been fertile. Two mighty big coincidences.”
Lester took a drink of his water. “The more I hear of what goes on in that city, the more I worry about the world. The soldiers are coming more and more often these days. Down the valley, they’re coming most months now to one village or another, hunting out the kids. Aren’t you worried about that?”
