No Sanctuary Box Set: The No Sanctuary Omnibus - Books 1-6
Page 1
NO SANCTUARY
The Complete Series
Books 1-6
By
Mike Kraus
© 2017-2018 Mike Kraus
www.MikeKrausBooks.com
hello@mikeKrausBooks.com
www.facebook.com/MikeKrausBooks
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, without the permission in writing from the author.
Table of Contents
Preface
Introduction
BOOK ONE
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
BOOK TWO
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
BOOK THREE
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
BOOK FOUR
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
BOOK FIVE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
BOOK SIX
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
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
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Special Thanks
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Preface
Frank sipped on his coffee and sighed. Twelve straight hours on the road had taken their toll on his eyes and he had to rub them several times to keep from seeing double on the menu. The small greasy spoon at which he’d stopped at was quintessentially American. He sat at the long, wrap-around bar with a view into the kitchen and there were a few other people scattered around the bar as well. A handful of couples and a trio of road workers were spread across the booths where waitresses with beehive hairdos took orders with a drawl and the frequent use of the word “hon.” If not for the chilled weather outside and the falling leaves, he would have sworn he was somewhere in Alabama or Texas instead of Maine.
Twelve hours. Frank took another sip and shook his head. I’m not cut out for this. Having been behind the wheel of a tractor-trailer for less than a month, Frank wasn’t adjusting well.
He started his life in a much different place as an accountant for a large technology company where he had managed to stay on for his entire adult life. As the economy started to tank, though, he lost his job and there were few companies looking to hire someone in their late thirties when they could pick up a college graduate at a quarter the cost.
After moving back in with his parents for a few months,
Frank managed to find the only job that was available—driving a rig cross-country. It wasn’t glamorous and the pay was terrible, but he had a clean record and had been able to get a commercial driver’s license fairly easily.
“Any dessert, hon?” Frank looked up at a face caked with far too much makeup that was smiling down at him.
“No thanks, just the check. And a coffee to go. A tall one, please.”
The waitress nodded sympathetically. “New to this, are you?”
Frank nodded. “That obvious is it?”
“Most of ‘em do speed to stay awake. Try to stay off that stuff as long as you can, okay hon?” She flipped through her order pad and tore out a page.
Frank looked at the check, glanced at his watch and sighed. He had spent less than twenty minutes at the diner, but he knew based on experience that the computer inside his truck was going haywire with alerts from his dispatcher.
Mandatory maximums for time spent behind the wheel as defined by federal and state law meant nothing to his company. They pushed their drivers for up to eighteen hours a day, six days a week since that was the optimal balance—according to their calculations—between speed and keeping the number of accidents to an “acceptable minimum.” As new as he was, Frank couldn’t risk any more long stops for a couple more days, and he was counting on the next fueling station to have some decent food to see him through.
So far the transition from an office job to unemployment to driving a truck all hours of the day and night was rough to say the least. Frank felt like he hadn’t gotten a handle on any aspects of the new job, and his body felt like it was being run through a meat grinder day in and day out.
Frank threw down a few crumpled bills and drained the last of his coffee. He met the waitress halfway to the door and took the Styrofoam cup from her and nodded in appreciation. “Thanks.”
“Stay safe out there, hon.”
As Frank pulled open the door, he glanced around the parking lot to locate his truck. As he walked towards it, a far-off sound caught his attention. It sounded—at first—like a gunshot or series of fireworks going off, though he soon discovered what it actually was.
Frank’s truck exploded in a fireball a hundred feet in front of him, the force of the explosion throwing him back against the wall of the diner. Frank’s truck wasn’t the only one to explode, though. Three other 18-wheelers in the lot exploded within seconds of his, sending pieces of metal, glass and the contents of their trailers flying through the air.
Frank sat still on the ground for several seconds, dazed and confused about what had just happened. Stunned by the blast, he fought to catch his breath and comprehend what had just happened. Just then he heard more explosions from the highway in front of the diner. A passing truck was incinerated instantly and the trailer behind it flipped up into the air before crashing back down.
Several cars and SUVs driving behind the truck and trailer smashed into it, while others further back careened off the road as they tried to avoid the crash. As much as Frank hoped that the explosions would stop, they didn’t even slow down. There were distant echoes from down the highway and on roads in the small town off to the west, though the sounds eventually faded some minutes later until they again sounded like gunshots and fireworks.
Frank struggled to his feet, bracing himself against the diner wall as he stood. His legs felt unsteady, his vision was blurry and his mind felt clouded and overwhelmed with sensory input. Inside the diner, people rushed in and out, screaming and crying and shouting. Several drivers and passengers had been in their cars when the large trucks exploded, and were instantly killed by the blasts. Others had been walking to or from the nearby gas station, the diner and their vehicles and had been injured.
Frank lurched forward instinctively, still dazed as he started towards his truck. After a few steps he felt a hand on his shoulder that turned him around. Frank blinked a few times and a concerned face came into focus. “Are you okay?” The man speaking to him had been sitting a few seats down from Frank at the bar munching on a chicken sandwich.
Frank looked down and held a hand against his head as he felt a sharp pain in response to the movement. “I… I think so.”
The man looked down at Frank’s head and shook his own. That’s a nasty wound you’ve got there. Come on, let’s get you inside and sat down.” The man put his arm around Frank’s shoulder and started guiding him back towards the diner.
Frank went along willingly, still trying to get a handle on what was going on. Just as they reached the diner steps the stranger ran off to try and help two other men pull open the door to a burning car. Smoke filled the air as Frank trudged up the steps and all he could hear was an endless array of screaming and shouting.
Inside, Frank slumped into one of the back booths, pulled out a wad of napkins from the dispenser on the table and pressed them against his head. As the destruction continued to rage outside, he looked up at the television above the bar as he tried to get his eyes to focus.
The overly chipper daytime talk show host that had been on the television earlier was now replaced by the pale face of a well-dressed reporter. The reporter sat behind a desk in a studio, shuffling through pieces of paper that the crew were running and handing to him as he tried to compose himself.
“We’ve—uh…I’m sorry. I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen. One moment please.” The reporter leaned off-camera and held a hurried, whispered conversation. “My apologies. We’re doing our best to get all the facts here. This is an active story right now and what we tell you may radically change based on new information that comes in. However, as we understand it right now there’s been a nationwide terrorist attack the likes of which we’ve never seen. We’re reporting that there have been dozens and perhaps even hundreds of explosions at key rail and air facilities around the country. We’re also receiving reports of thousands of smaller incidents that seem to involve 18-wheelers and—“ The reporter stopped mid-sentence while someone wearing a headset came on-camera and whispered in the reporter’s ear.
“What the hell is going on?” Frank mumbled to himself. He pulled the wad of blood-soaked napkins off of his head and tossed them on the table before getting a fresh handful.
The reporter nodded a few times to the person talking to him before turning back to the camera. “Folks, we’re going to be cutting to a live announcement from the White House in just a few minutes. Before that, though, we wanted to update you on an AP update that just came out with some disturbing claims from the radical terrorist organization—”
The television flickered and powered off, along with the lights in the diner. Frank looked around, then glanced outside. Several people who had been in the lot and survived the explosions were sitting on the grass nearby, talking on their phones when they all took them from their ears and glanced at the screens. Remembering his own phone, Frank reached into his pocket, only to frown as he felt nothing. He dug in another pocket and frowned again, then started patting his jacket, shirt and pants to no avail.
“What the…” Not only could Frank not find his phone, but his wallet was gone as well. He turned around to see if they had fallen out into the booth or the floor below, but couldn’t find any sign of them. As Frank stood up, he turned to look out the window and saw the man who had helped him. The man had his arm around another person and was helping them walk back to the diner. From his vantage point, though, Frank could see what else the man was doing—reaching into the other person’s pocket.
Frank lurched forward and put one knee on the booth seat while the other banged into the table, causing him to fall forward. He barely caught himself on the window with his free hand, then regained his balance and started banging on it. “Hey! Asshole! Give me my stuff back!”
The man looked up at him, his eyes wide as he saw Frank shouting at him from inside the diner. Not waiting around to find out what Frank was saying, the man took off like a shot, disappearing a moment later beyond the gas station down the road.
In
side the diner, Frank stopped banging on the window and dropped back into his seat. He shook his head and instantly regretted the movement as a wave of pain shot through his head and neck. The waitress that had served him before came running up to him, concern written on her face. “You okay, hon?”
“I… I don’t know. I’m pretty sure that guy took my phone and wallet and I think he was stealing from that lady sitting out there.” Frank pulled the napkins off of his head and touched the wound gently.
The waitress gasped at the sight and ran back behind the counter to fetch a first aid kit. She sat down next to Frank and began bandaging his head, all while looking out the window and talking to him.
“I was in the walk-in taking stock until the power went off a minute ago. What happened out there? Did a gas truck explode?
Frank winced as she scrubbed his wound with antiseptic wipes. “I don’t know. I was walking out to my truck when it exploded. Several others did, too. Then I came back in here and the news was on, talking about some terrorist attack when the power cut out.”
The waitress’s face turned white. “Terrorists? Oh God, not nine-eleven again.”
Frank shrugged. “All I heard was that this is all over the country, apparently. I was—” Frank was cut off mid-sentence by a shout from the other side of the diner.
“Lucille! You got the first aid? Get over here, quick!”
The waitress glanced at Frank’s head and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I was a nurse for a few years before the hospital closed down. You’ll be fine. Just try and stay off your feet as much as you can.” With that, the waitress was up and moving.
Frank turned away from the billowing smoke outside the diner as he realized how much noise was coming from inside. Several of the injured had been brought inside, and all of them were crying and moaning as a few others tried to tend to their wounds. Frank stood up, still unsteady, and walked down the length of the diner, unsure of where he was going. He headed outside and walked towards his truck, shielding his face from smoke and flames as he reached the parking lot.
The trailer on Frank’s truck was engulfed in flames, but the cab was still mostly intact, though it was masked by plumes of smoke. Frank broke into a run, hoping he could get up into the cab and grab some of his personal belongings before they were destroyed. When he reached the passenger door to the truck he hopped up, opened the door and ducked inside. Smoke had been leaking into the cab but it was otherwise untouched. He reached into the sleeper compartment and grabbed his backpack and threw it out onto the ground, then dug around on the floor for his spare pair of shoes and his computer.