The Day After Never
Purgatory Road
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2016 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
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Table of Contents
Books by Russell Blake
About the Author
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
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Excerpt from The Day After Never – Covenant
Books by Russell Blake
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
THE EYE OF HEAVEN
THE SOLOMON CURSE
Thrillers
FATAL EXCHANGE
FATAL DECEPTION
THE GERONIMO BREACH
ZERO SUM
THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY
THE VOYNICH CYPHER
SILVER JUSTICE
UPON A PALE HORSE
DEADLY CALM
RAMSEY’S GOLD
EMERALD BUDDHA
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – BLOOD HONOR
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PURGATORY ROAD
The Assassin Series
KING OF SWORDS
NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN
RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN
REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN
BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN
REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN
RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN
The JET Series
JET
JET II – BETRAYAL
JET III – VENGEANCE
JET IV – RECKONING
JET V – LEGACY
JET VI – JUSTICE
JET VII – SANCTUARY
JET VIII – SURVIVAL
JET IX – ESCAPE
JET X – INCARCERATION
JET – OPS FILES (prequel)
JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT
The BLACK Series
BLACK
BLACK IS BACK
BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
BLACK TO REALITY
BLACK IN THE BOX
Non Fiction
AN ANGEL WITH FUR
HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS
(while drunk, high or incarcerated)
About the Author
Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, Fatal Deception, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, Rage of the Assassin The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, JET X – Incarceration, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is The New Black, BLACK to Reality, BLACK in the Box, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, Emerald Buddha, The Day After Never – Blood Honor, and The Day After Never – Purgatory Road.
Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.
Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.
Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.
Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:
RussellBlake.com
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http://bit.ly/rb-jet
Chapter 1
Mentone, Texas
Marijuana smoke clouded the gloomy interior of the improvised saloon, and the pungent aroma blended with the acrid tang of stale perspiration, unwashed bodies, and rotgut home-brewed sour mash. Several women in ratty shifts leaned against the wall near a long plank propped atop four wooden barrels that served as the bar. Their faces were frozen in professional invitation, their eyes dead. Beside them, three heavily built gunmen with Browning shotguns lounged together, occasionally casting an eye over the forty or so customers, wary of trouble with the rough crowd. Filthy sawdust covered the floor of the tin-roofed structure in Mentone, one of a shabby scattering of buildings at a forgotten crossroads used as the home base for the group of miscreants known as the Raiders.
An emaciated dog, inured to the shouts and baying laughter from the rowdy throng, nosed around in a far corner where someone had recently vomited. Six Mohawked highwaymen sat at a circular wooden table in the rear of the room, their sweat-stained black leather vests and tattoos as menacing as a snake’s rattle, bottles of cheap rum and whiskey at their elbows. A deck of frayed cards lay facedown in front of a graying man with a long, cadaverous face and spindly fingers that lent him the appearance of a praying mantis.
The dealer pushed a small pile of chips into the center pot with a smile as inviting as a mass grave. “Well, boys, put up or shut up. Day of reckoning’s at hand,” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the bar’s clamor.
Two of the players shook their heads and tossed in their cards, unwilling to push their luck any further. The remaining three met the dealer’s raise and, once the betting was done, waited expectantly as he offered another grin, revealing pale gums marred with stubs of decaying teeth between earthworm lips.
“Full house, fellas. Just not your lucky night, I guess.” He cackled, and the rest flung their hands into the pot with resigned groans.
“
Seems like most hands you walk away with the chips,” one of the larger Raiders growled. The man beside him elbowed his ribs as a caution and slid an amber bottle toward him.
The pair had been in the bar for the better part of five hours and were nearly through with their second bottle of rum. They, like the rest of the patrons, had checked their weapons at the door. The rules of the house were few, but those there were, were non-negotiable: no guns or knives inside, no fights allowed, and no credit extended. The security guards enforced compliance, and any violation meant expulsion with no appeal.
The large Raider took a pull on the bottle and winced at the burn of the cheap, harsh liquor. His meaty face was sunburned almost to the blistering point, his skin radiating heat, brow furrowed over reptilian eyes, greasy ebony Mohawk a spiked mane. The shaved sides of his head featured a collage of jailhouse art and crude gothic script, a grinning skull with a pirate’s hat cocked at a rakish angle adorning the left temple, Nazi Schutzstaffel lightning bolts emblazoning the right. Pink scars, souvenirs of past fights, spanned his scalp, and a pair of green inked tears trailed below his left eye – mute testament to a lifetime of incarceration. The teardrops were a common emblem for many of the other Raiders, whose murderous and predatory habits had been hardened by a prison ethic that knew only hunter and prey.
He slammed the bottle down and considered his remaining chips, and then leaned into his smaller companion, whose sallow complexion and gaunt frame was the polar opposite: the little man’s skin was as taut as parchment over sharp cheekbones and ropy muscles that undulated like snakes along bare tobacco-colored arms.
“Bastard’s a cheat, Holt. I been watching him.”
Holt glanced at the dealer with weasel eyes and shook his head. “Nah, Kurt, he ain’t. Maybe we just been at the table too long, you know?”
“Gonna win it back.”
The little Raider took a swig of the firewater and exhaled loudly. “Easy come, right?”
The dealer ignored the exchange, seemingly oblivious to anything but counting his chips. One of the players scraped his chair back and stood unsteadily. “I’m hitting it,” he declared with a yawn.
“See you next time,” the dealer said.
The playing resumed, and within half an hour Holt and Kurt were out of chips. Holt shrugged and rose. “Looks like that’s it for tonight, man,” he said.
Kurt’s hand gripped his forearm with the force of a vise. “No. We’re not done.”
The dealer eyed them. “Don’t see any chips.”
“Shut your piehole. We’ll get more,” Kurt snarled.
The dealer’s stare shifted to the smaller man, then back to Kurt. “Ain’t going nowhere.”
“Not with our loot, you aren’t,” the big Raider countered, and then lumbered over to a steel door.
Two of the guards moved in fast and blocked his way. Kurt glared at them. “I wanna see the man.”
“Kind of late, don’t you think?” one of the gunmen asked, his tone neutral.
“Place open for business, or isn’t it?”
The pair exchanged a glance and the taller one shrugged. He knocked on the door, and twenty seconds later it opened and a fleshy Raider with a body like a sumo wrestler eyed Kurt with an impassive expression. “What?”
“I want more chips.”
“You know how it works. What you got?”
“Couple of AR-15s. Another AK. Dozen mags.”
The proprietor, a trader known among the Raiders as “the mayor,” did a quick calculation. “Sounds like a couple hundred chips. Where’s it at?”
“Your man outside is watching the horses. It’s in my saddlebags.”
The mayor’s eyes moved to one of the guards. “Go with him and bring me the gear.” He curled his lip at Kurt. “Chips will be waiting if it’s all there.”
The exchange took five minutes, and after inspecting the weapons and ammo, the mayor’s door slammed shut with the finality of a gunshot. Kurt staggered back to the playing table with his trove of chips and sat heavily, piling them in front of him and then organizing them into stacks of twenty. When he was done, he pushed two into the center of the table and scowled.
“Maybe we should come back tomorrow,” Holt suggested in a whisper.
Kurt waved him off. “No, Holt. We need to get our stuff back.”
“All I’m saying is that after some sleep, maybe we’ll do better.”
The big Raider’s nostrils flared. “You hard of hearing? I told you, we do this now.”
The dealer appeared to just realize Kurt had returned. “Ready for another spanking?” he taunted.
“You want to keep what teeth you got left in that fool head of yours, best keep your trap shut and play cards.”
The remaining two Raiders stayed in for a few hands and then took their chips and left.
An hour later the dealer yawned and considered Kurt and Holt, their chips now his. “Well, boys, been a pleasure, but it’s getting late and I need my beauty rest,” he said, scooping the tokens into a canvas sack and rising. “Maybe you’ll have better luck next time.”
Kurt threw back the remainder of his rum and tossed the bottle onto the scarred table. “You robbed us, plain and simple,” he slurred, his voice dangerously soft.
“Nah, I done it fair and square. You shoulda quit while you was ahead. Nobody held no gun to your head,” the dealer counted. His tone remained agreeable, but the warmth never reached his eyes. He turned to one of the guards behind him. “Time to settle up with the mayor.”
“I won’t forget this,” Kurt threatened.
The guard regarded the two Raiders, his expression darkening, and his unblinking stare locked on Holt. “Best get your buddy out of here. Nobody wants no trouble – but you bring it, we’ll finish it,” he warned, fingering the safety of his Browning.
The dealer reached into his bag and tossed a few chips onto the table. “Come on, boys. No hard feelings. Have yourselves a bottle on me, and we’ll see how things go some other night.”
Kurt swiped the chips away and spun clumsily from the table. “Don’t want no charity.”
The dealer’s eyebrows rose, and Holt stooped to retrieve the chips from the floor with a resigned look. When the big Raider was out of earshot, he leaned toward the dealer. “Sorry. Been a rough patch.”
“We all been there,” the dealer agreed.
Holt converted the chips into an unlabeled bottle of whiskey with a stained cork half stuffed into the top – one of the local concoctions that could kill you just as often as not. He wended his way to the exit and stepped out into the gloom. The accompanying wind carried with it the scent of desiccated rot from the latrine trench by the Raiders’ camp area. Most only spent a few days at a time in the sad little hamlet to resupply and reshoe their horses, tend to any wounds, trade, gamble, and whore, and prepare for another few weeks on the road, where they would waylay any travelers they came across.
“Hey. Look what I found,” Holt called to Kurt, who was stalking away, his movements uncertain in the spectral moonlight. “Come on, man. Wait up.”
The pair found a welcoming spot beside an abandoned building – the remnants of a fifties-era gas station that had gone out of business decades before the collapse – and passed the bottle back and forth. An amorous owl hooted somewhere in the darkness, covered by the bellows of drunken laughter drifting from the bar. As the level of the bottle sank, more Raiders emptied out of the watering hole to stagger back to their tents with paid company in tow, leaving the two men to watch the night wind down.
“Damn mayor’s in on it,” Kurt grumbled. “It’s a hustle. Whole thing. A con. Dealer, mayor, all of it.”
Holt shook his head. “I don’t think so…”
“They know we got to bring our stuff here – nobody else will trade with us. So they got us by the balls, and then they screw us every chance they get. Pay what they want for our booty, then cheat us out of our chips – and for what?” Kurt spit into the mud by his side and then burpe
d loudly. “We take all the risk, and they walk off with the reward. I’m sick of it. Bet they’re in there laughing it up at how stupid we are for doing it again and again.”
Holt rubbed his face with a grimy hand. “Let’s go sleep it off. I’m beat.”
Kurt forced himself to his feet with a grunt and set off in the direction of the bar. Holt scrambled up and tailed him, leaving the empty bottle behind. When they got to where their horses were hitched beside a water trough, Kurt stood still for a moment as though in a trance, and then pulled his Kalashnikov AK-47 free from its saddle scabbard and pocketed two spare thirty-round magazines. Holt backed away and shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, dude, no…”
The big Raider’s backhand slap caught Holt by surprise, and the little man’s head jerked back from the force of it. His eyes welled as a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and his fingers flew to his jaw. “Jesus–”
“Best keep your mouth shut,” Kurt snarled.
Holt shook off the blow. “This ain’t the way.”
“You got a better idea? I’m not letting ’em steal a month’s work.”
Holt nervously eyed the building façade. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
“Not if I take them first.”
“You got no chance.”
“You gonna help me, or I do this alone?”
Holt shook his head. “No way. You’re talking crazy. Just put down the gun, and let’s clear out of here.”
The big Raider moved surprisingly fast for his size and level of inebriation. The wood stock of the Kalashnikov caught Holt in the side of the head, dropping the smaller man like a sack of rocks. Kurt stood over him, breathing hard, but then blinked away the blurring vision from his bloodshot eyes and turned toward the saloon entrance.
Kurt pushed through the door and spotted the dealer sitting with the mayor at the card table. A half-full bottle sat between them, from behind which a curl of smoke from a pipe in a black plastic ashtray spiraled toward the ceiling. Both men looked up in surprise, and then Kurt’s AK barked death at the lone guard holding up the back wall, who jerked like a marionette as slugs chewed through the ceramic plate of his plate carrier, his body armor insufficient to stop an entire full auto 7.62mm burst at point-blank range. The gunman slumped to the floor, and the dealer slowly stood, hands raised in front of him, shaking his head.
The Day After Never - Purgatory Road (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 2) Page 1
