Point of No Return: A Post Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller (Surrender the Sun Book 3)

by A. R. Shaw

  Jax shook his head at the couple stowing them aboard the bus. They returned blank stares. Throwing his hands up, he said, “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

  Goats were not native to a frosty environment. They wouldn’t last long, in his opinion. Then again, if they made it to the underground bunker, they might survive. Stranger things had happened. I have to learn to pick my battles, he reminded himself. Plus, we could eat them. He suspected that goat meat would come sooner rather than later in his future cuisine, and he sort of liked the taste anyway. It was hard not to don the cape at times, but people were stupid, and he was there to try to get the most out of them. The humans, not the goats.

  The caravan of buses retrofitted with tracks instead of tires started up in near unison. Jax boarded the first of the buses carrying human cargo, and as they headed east on icebound Sherman Avenue, his stomach clenched. The driver, an Alaskan named Saul, wore gloves with grips. He was a former truck driver, though even that experience didn’t prepare him for what lay ahead.

  Wind blew the snow in low drifts and pushed ice sideways along the snow-packed roadway. “Maybe we should have waited another day,” the bus driver said low enough that only Jax heard.

  “It wouldn’t matter, Saul. Deal with what we’re dealt. This gets no better…not in our lifetime. Not now, not ever.”

  In resignation, the driver glanced at the rearview mirror on his way out. Jax caught the look and knew that he was checking on his wife and kids. “Hey, it’s my job to watch them. You drive.”

  Saul nodded.

  The scouts on covered snowmobiles had already radioed that the path ahead was clear. Three of them had indicated that there were residents of Coeur d’Alene standing along the roadside in a gesture of farewell. And sure enough, as they passed, torches lit their way. Men and women bundled against the elements, held up torches and waved as the buses rumbled east on Sherman Avenue, through the old town now covered in a permanent icy glaze. “Might as well be their tomb now,” Jax said as they left.

  14

  Bishop

  The irony of the situation was not lost on Donovan. Not at all. When Bishop walked into the office, Geller’s son wore a gleam of satisfaction as he leaned back in the black office chair, his lips twisted up on one side as if he were fighting a rising Joker within but losing the battle.

  “Good morning, Bishop,” Donovan said.

  Not taking the bait, Bishop diverted his attention to Cassie, sitting nearby. “Did you explain the terms of his tentative release?”

  “I did.”

  Sitting forward abruptly, Donovan said, “I understand you need my assistance. There’s no reason to give her a hard time. I have one condition.”

  He has a crush on her? Or so Bishop detected in the tone. Interesting. Yeager might find that very interesting.

  “You have no conditions, Donovan. Do what you’re told, and you’ll remain free as long as you follow the rules. Understand? It’s really quite simple.”

  Donovan understood, according to his nod. His glare told Bishop something else entirely. Clearly, the message from those orbs was “Don’t turn your back.”

  “Go ahead, Donovan. Give me a reason.”

  Clearly, Cassie felt the tension rising. She raised her hands. “Okay…let’s just get to work. Donovan was just logging in on the laptop. We should know more soon. I’ll find you later and let you know the progress we’ve made.”

  With his eyes on Donovan the whole time, Bishop nodded.

  His boots landing on the concrete with more force than before and his jaw muscles working overtime, he made his way to the control room. He didn’t like the smarmy bastard. He damn sure didn’t trust him. That little encounter told him that Donovan wasn’t only untrustworthy, but he was also a liability—one that Bishop was certain he’d have to deal with again in the near future, whether Cassie realized the cost of this or not.

  It wasn’t until he’d walked back to the first floor that he noticed the lack of noise coming from the infirmary. Backing up, he looked through the glass and saw a man holding a bundled infant, whom he assumed to be the troubled baby. The man was rocking him back and forth. He’d rarely run into the leader of Deer Trail since that first night he’d welcomed him and his people into the silo.

  When he opened the door, the man lifted his head in recognition. “Hi, Morrow. He doing okay today?”

  “Not a peep. This is my first shift,” Morrow said with a slight smile. “I don’t see what all the fuss was about. Little guy is sleeping like a baby.”

  “Ha, you should have seen him before they started dosing the poor little guy.”

  “Alyssa came in earlier and gave him a few drops in his formula. Problem is, I bet that stuff is habit forming.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right, but he needed some relief. Hell, we all did. She’ll wean him off it as soon as his eardrums heal.”

  “That’s a good idea. And it’d be best if you guys kept the existence of that drug out of the mainstream, if you get my meaning.”

  “Why is that? You have a reason for concern?”

  “It’s no better than heroin, really. Every town has problems with opiate addiction. Deer Trail was no different. I’m sure the same was true in Coeur d’Alene.”

  “Yeah, but there’s nothing like an apocalypse to serve as a reality check. Suddenly, food is the priority.”

  Morrow nodded. “Ain’t that for sure. Priorities are the one thing man has finally gotten straight. It only took an apocalypse for him to see the light.”

  Bishop liked Morrow. He was a good, no-nonsense leader for his people. His methods weren’t always civilized, but they were living in a different world now. “We haven’t had a chance to talk much since our plane went down, Morrow. We should meet once a day and see how things are going.”

  Nodding again, the quiet man said in his slow but thoughtful drawl, “I know it. I was just giving you time to take care of your business. Let me know if there’s any assistance I can offer. Hope you find them soon. It’s cold out there.”

  Those last four words, said in a deep cadence, rung true enough. Cold, indeed. “Yep, I’ll let you know, Morrow,” Bishop said. As he let the door close behind him, Bishop realized that Morrow’s message meant more than a weather update. Morrow meant that those on the Osprey likely were not alive, and any rescue mission was foolhardy, at best. In addition, the advice conveyed meant that Morrow knew that if Bishop could find the wreckage, he’d go after them anyway. So much definition in those four words, but in times like these, sometimes words were not needed at all. They were all thinking the same thing…except maybe Cassie and Alyssa, though he couldn’t blame them one bit.

  15

  Yeager

  The next morning, Yeager pulled the remaining survivors together into a closer group. He stationed a few of the more capable girls on guard and a few to keep the fires going, then he took one of them with him—the one who’d held off and stabbed the hell out of the wolf that attempted to take his life the night before. Rebecca had earned that. What he didn’t anticipate was her lyrical and quirky personality in addition to the bravery that he’d witnessed last night. He’d have died, if not for her. While she’d slashed at a wolf the night before, she’d also twirl around on her left foot, swinging her arms wide, while humming along to some tune only she heard.

  “We’ll return in a few hours. No more than that. I’ll just take a look around and see if we can find any kind of shelter nearby.”

  They’d talked about this. They’d argued about it, even. Walt insisted that Yeager scout the area. Walt was useless, for the most part. Yeager resisted leaving, but he had to do it. They wouldn’t survive even the next few nights unless they found a place to go—some kind of shelter against the threats of the night and the elements.

  The sky was grayer than in the days before, if that were even noticeable, but Yeager noticed. After packing Mylar blankets around the most vulnerable children again, one of the girls on guard said, “We can do this.
I’ll watch them. Just please find us some place to go.”

  Her bright-blue begging eyes stood out in the smoky sky. Her dark, thick, braided hair was tucked neatly under her knit hat. She was sixteen at the most, and yet to Yeager, she looked only seven…ten, maybe. Merely little girls and infants…he had to get them to safety. She was so brave to reassure him…a soldier. The responsibility for their lives weighed him down to the point that he couldn’t make the right decisions—or any decisions—though, he knew that lack of sleep did the same.

  They were Yeager’s responsibility. Walt was near death, he feared, though the man didn’t know how close to death he really was. How he was able to pull himself up to standing the night before confounded Yeager. He’d lost a lot of blood; his left femur and ankle were shattered. And when Yeager got him back into his blankets and settled down, Walt’s body shook from hypothermia and the adrenaline rush he’d endured. He was afraid that he would lose Walt sometime in the night. That incident gave him no other choice. He had to find shelter, and he had to find it now.

  So, they’d talked about Yeager going out today and finding something, anything. He knelt down before he left. “Walt, I’m leaving now. Go back to sleep. I moved Mary in with the other girls. You should sleep better that way. I’ll return as soon as I’m able. Definitely before dark.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve got them covered,” Walt said in near delirium.

  Patting Walt twice on the shoulder, he adjusted the blanket to keep him from freezing. Silently, he stood again. He guessed that Walt had twenty-four hours left but no more than that. He had to find them shelter from the relentless wind and lowering temperatures. He then surveyed the mere children still standing, guarding. He glanced at each one, holding each pure face in his heart. He and the lyrical girl, who so bravely killed the wolf the night before, set out to find safety or anything with at least three walls to defend. Three walls and something to put his back to would be enough. That would be all he could ask for in this brutal world.

  16

  Jax

  In a few hours’ time, they’d traveled along highway 90 at a speed of perhaps twelve to fifteen miles an hour. Their journey was slow, but seeing those track lines in the ice and snow behind them helped the morale of the parents on board who were missing their children. Of course, they couldn’t see the tracks for long because the blowing snow behind them covered what little distance they’d gained.

  Before long, the mood in the bus went from excitement to utter silence once again. Fear was a good thing, in Jax’s mind, and that’s exactly what he saw on the riders’ faces as they looked out the frosty windows. Perhaps this was the first time in months that they’d ventured out of town. Some of them had never served as part of the hunting parties, so this was the first time they were seeing the devastation of their once-familiar surroundings.

  Unfortunately, Cook was riding on another bus. Jax reminded himself that that was a good plan because she annoyed him to death with her arguing, suggestions, and new ideas.

  A few times, the snowmobiler scouts ahead of them circled back and provided direction to stay farther north or south on the roadway, where the packed snow was more stable. So far, they’d not come across another living soul, but they barely made traction from where they’d started.

  Wallace, Idaho, was about a forty-five-minute drive from Coeur d’Alene when you could actually drive there—not in the new ice age. Though they all knew this first leg would take them all day, it was still remarkable. Jax was extrapolating this and contemplating his new reality when his thoughts were interrupted by a woman singing cheerfully and encouraging others to join in. Somehow, this new action began figuring into the equation. Suddenly, he said, “No!” quite loudly and stood up in the aisle. “There will be no singing. Not on my bus.”

  He got blank stares.

  “I don’t think you people understand the gravity of the situation. What is the one thing you do not do in the mountains around freshly fallen snow?”

  The singing woman with the red, blunt-cut bangs raised her hand. “Make noise.”

  “And why would you refrain from making noise, Red?”

  “Avalanche risk?”

  “Yeah…that, and we need to see and hear what’s going on around us. The track and engine noises are enough to attract others to see what’s going on, and they might…just might want our supplies. Understand? Now, if they also detect happy people on board…that might make them greedier. Get my drift?”

  She nodded.

  “Voices carry farther over snow too. Do you know why?”

  This time, no one raised a hand. “When snow covers a large surface, as it does now, it actually helps to reflect sound waves, so noises travel farther and are much clearer.” He paused for effect and met several of the passengers with a stern gaze. “So, shut the hell up.”

  After he regained his seat, it was quiet on the bus, besides the engine and the noise of crunching along the snowy roadway. Jax returned to the impossible calculation of how to get the people—morons, most of them—to Deer Trail alive. He had little hope for the redhead with the blunt-cut bangs.

  That’s when he detected someone watching him. He looked up to see Saul’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Saul was chuckling to himself.

  “That wasn’t your wife, was it?”

  “No,” Saul said and shook his head with a grin. “This is going to be one interesting road trip.”

  “Yeah. That’s an understatement.”

  The bus slowed to a mere crawl as they approached the first of several long, expansive bridges over Fourth of July Pass. Even in optimal summer conditions, this bridge sent a tingle up a driver’s spine. Now with wind shear and packed snow and ice…they would take their time. It was a long way down.

  “Just take it easy, Saul,” Jax said as he leaned over the confident driver. Saul’s hands were in a death grip on the wheel, his white knuckles standing out like snowcapped mountain peaks.

  “Nah…I thought we might just run it. Don’t have to tell me twice. I might need to throw up after this.”

  “Yeah, you and me both.”

  That’s when a strong gust of wind buffeted the side of the bus. The crosswind sent them to the left side of the bridge. Gasps erupted from the frightened passengers.

  “All right, now. Shut up. Keep your excitement to yourselves and do not mess your pants,” Jax snapped.

  Once their bus was safely over the bridge, they stopped in line behind the others.

  “What the hell did they stop for?” Jax asked no one in particular.

  Then the radio beeped. Jax answered it. “What?”

  Austin’s voice was shaky. “We thought we’d nearly lost you all.”

  “Well, you didn’t. You’re not that lucky, Austin. What’s the hold up? We’re not stopping again until we get to the Cataldo Mission. It’s the only shelter we’re going to have for some time. Get moving before it gets too dark. Out.”

  An hour later, Saul pointed to the right. “Is that the mission?”

  Jax stood and glanced out the smudged door. Off in the distance was a white or yellowish building with a large porch and four columns. “That building has always reminded me of the Alamo.”

  “Why so?”

  “It’s the oldest building in Idaho, and as the Mexican army slaughtered those Texans holed up in the Alamo in a great, epic battle, the Cataldo Mission was the result of the decimation of the local Indians who lived here in a silent whisper as their culture faded away. They pretty much built this place with their bare hands, and yet when they were sentenced to reservations, this building was beyond their boundary line. Hell, even the ceiling is painted blue because it was the largest building the Indians had ever seen or walked into, and they wanted it to resemble the skies. They used local berries and dyed the ceiling to match the heavens.”

  The bus came to a stop behind the others. “And here we are again, witness to the fact that man is an utter asshole.”

  “Come on, we’re not that
bad.”

  Jax gave him a rueful look. “Speak for yourself.”

  Once everyone was off the buses, Jax noticed immediately that a few of the older boys were breaking snow, walking toward the mission. “Hey!” Jax yelled. “What are we doing here? This is not a field trip. Get those kids back here. We don’t know if there’s anyone in there.”

  “I don’t see any human tracks,” the redhead said.

  “Do horses make tracks? Do men ride horses?” As much as Jax didn’t like to sound like a rhetorical asshole, he disliked stupidity more.

  Suddenly, the kids were called back by loud and frightened parental voices.

  “What the hell is wrong with you people? There’s no shouting when you’re trying to sneak through town during a snowpocalypse. Get them back here without telling every marauder nearby, ‘Hey, we have supplies. Come and take them. Murder us, why don’t you?’”

  Jax shook his head as he headed out toward the building in hopes of finding viable shelter for the night. In an open space, picking them off one by one would be easy for a gunman. “Like leading a bunch of sheep to slaughter,” Jax said to himself, cursing as he broke through the deep snow and keeping his head on a swivel for any sign of danger. Once he reached the large wooden steps covered in snow, he looked back at the huddled group. To their credit, a few of them, men and women, stood armed and on guard, both in front and in back. “Argh…bunch of dummies,” Jax said under his breath. “Don’t even know why I’m bothering with this.”