THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE
by
JUSTINE ASHFORD
Copyright © 2015 Justine Ashford
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1519662653
ISBN-13: 978-1519662651
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
For Brian and Judy, my loving parents.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to give a special thanks to James Prell for his constant love and support throughout this entire process. Your brilliant criticisms and thoughtful suggestions transformed this story into a story worth reading. Thank you for loving this world and these characters I have created as much as I do.
I would also like to thank Anthony Buchanico for being my first reader (how you finished this book so fast is still beyond me), Teige Dougherty for always providing me with the motivation to keep writing, and everyone else who I forced to listen to my incessant overexcited rambling about this novel. Without the encouragement I received from all of you, I never would have been able to accomplish this feat.
Chapter 1
The year is 2084, and the world has gone to shit.
Let’s start this party off with a few fun facts about me: My name is Nightshade. I am nineteen years old. I am completely, utterly alone. This was not the world I was born into. Once upon a time, this was a world of relative peace and coexistence, but then the once great nations destroyed each other, leaving a heap of flaming ruins in their wake. I don’t think I’ll ever be quite sure what triggered it; I was only thirteen when the War commenced, so I was ignorant to the politics of it, but I do know—from what my father told me—that the tension had been mounting for years upon years, like a spring slowly being pulled from both ends, until finally that spring could stretch no more, and it recoiled with the force of thousands of bombs detonated in harmony. Hellfire rained from the sky for three days straight—three days was all it took to undo billions of years—and suddenly the world was a mountain of ash and humanity was dead and gone, and civilization along with it. My own mother fell victim to the carnage—her and about nine and a half billion other people. Still looking for the “fun” in these facts? Yeah, me too.
Few vestiges remain of that pre-war era. Where bustling metropolises teeming with people used to exist, there are now gaping craters devoid of life, and while some smaller communities managed to escape complete devastation, most are just as desolate. Nature was the only true survivor of the destruction; the trees of the forest still stand, defying man to attempt to take them with him to the grave. But if I had to guess I’d say they probably weren’t the target in all of this.
In this new epoch, death is a looming shadow, an omnipresent threat that lurks above the heads of its victims like a vulture. Where once there were laws to govern the conduct of men, there is nothing but savagery here. While a billion or so people were lucky enough to survive the War, about half of them died within the following year—those who could not defend themselves were slaughtered, those who could not feed themselves starved to death, and those who could not bear the horror of this post-apocalyptic hellscape removed themselves from it. My father always told me it was better that way; the weak have no place in this world, and the less of them there are to drag us down the greater chance we have of survival.
My father. An involuntary shiver runs up my spine as I sit in the empty garage I chose last night as my shelter from the oncoming storm, remembering. It’s stupid to linger on the past; it goes against everything I’ve learned—against my nature—yet a small part of me longs to embrace the memories. And since I have nothing better to do as I sit in this musty building listening to the chaotic sound of relentlessly pouring rain and the throaty growl of thunder overhead, I allow my mind to wander onto matters better left repressed.
Chapter 2
“Again, Nightshade! Again!” my father bellowed, urging me to pick myself up from where I lay on the floor, bruised and scraped to the point of bleeding.
“I need—a break,” I panted. “Please, Papá. I need—to rest.”
“You think your opponent is gonna let you have a break when you’re tired? You think they’re gonna help you up and let you catch your breath before they rob you of everything you’ve got and kill you in the road like an animal? I’m not your papá right now, Nightshade, I’m your enemy, so get off the ground—we’re going again!”
Anger seethed within me as tears welled up in my eyes. All I wanted was a moment to rest, was that really so much to ask for? We had been training for over an hour now and I felt I deserved at least a tiny break after being kicked and thrown and knocked off my feet a dozen times.
Gripping my too-large sword, I pushed myself into a standing position, wrapped both hands around the katana, and prepared myself for his attack. I had to beat him this time—maybe then he would let me rest.
“Your move,” he said, readying his own sword, mine’s counterpart.
I sprang at him, thrusting my blade at his throat with all the force of my unbridled fury, but he countered easily, brushing off my attack without the slightest exertion of effort. With an animal-like screech, I jabbed and slashed with all my might until the butt of his sword came crashing down upon my forehead, sending me tumbling backwards onto the floor. I groaned as the back of my head smacked against the hard ground, then again as I felt the cold flat side of his blade against my throat. I would never win. He was too quick, too smart, too ruthless.
“You’re letting your anger get the best of you,” he said. “I thought I taught you better than that. Emotions have no place in combat, Nightshade. You have to be tactical, not passionate. Think of it as a game of chess—moves and countermoves, nothing more. The cunning man always has the advantage in battle.”
“How do you expect me not to get angry?” I cried. “You’re hurting me!”
“What do you want me to do, eh? You want me to go easy on you, is that what you want? The people out there—out in the real world—they aren’t going to go easy on you! Don’t you understand that? They won’t care that you’re just a little girl! Their only aim is to kill you and take what you have, and you look like an easy target. I’m teaching you reality, Nightshade—this is what the world is now, and I’m teaching you to survive in it because one day . . . one day I’m not going to be there to protect you and you’re
going to have to fend for yourself.” Sighing, he removed his sword from my throat and offered his hand to help me up. “Come on, now, I think you’ve had enough for today. Go meditate while I make us some lunch, eh?”
I did as he asked, grateful to be done with training for today and happy to begin my meditation. Twice a day everyday my father would send me to meditate for half an hour, believing intense concentration was the key to purging oneself of her emotions. Emotions, he said, are what make warriors into corpses; feelings lead to stupid decisions, and stupid decisions lead to death. Pity, fear, love, compassion—they have no place in this world, and so they must be removed early on in life, before they become impossible to unlearn. After living for so long during the time before the War, my father had no hope of decontamination—his emotions had been too long instilled in him, so there was no chance of banishing them now, try as he might. I, however, was different; I was young and malleable, and so I dedicated as much time as possible to attempting to detach myself from my feelings.
For nearly two years my days were cyclical. Every morning my father would wake me up at the crack of dawn, feed me a breakfast of porridge or some imitation of cremita de maíz that was nothing like my mother’s, help me practice my knife throwing or sword handling or shooting (we almost only ever dry fired, as to not alert outsiders of our location), spar with me, order me to meditate, cook a lunch of canned beans or some kind of soup, teach me some lesson in history or science or math to keep my mind sharp, make me read or re-read one of the few books we had lying around, guide me in some strength or endurance exercise, feed me a dinner of stew made from whatever animal his traps happened to catch that day, order me to meditate again, and send me off to bed. I grew so accustomed to this routine that soon I was asking my father to find me more challenging workouts, better books, and more difficult lessons. I became quite skilled with my hands and knives, and even more so with my sword. I even began to occasionally beat him in our training matches, which pleased us both.
When I was fifteen, however, we were forced to abandon the little building we occupied because my father felt that too many looters had swarmed into the area. Fearing we would be discovered, we packed our meager belongings and got the hell out of there. For weeks on end we wandered the wasteland searching for a new place to settle down, but finding an uninhabited building that wasn’t too damaged or too close to another group of people took what felt like a lifetime.
During that period we lived off the land, hunting and trapping animals, collecting nuts and berries from the woods, and eating edible plants when we needed something to munch on. It wasn’t an awful experience—I was grateful for the things my father taught me during those days; lord knows they came in handy later. At one point we came across a grocery store and made out with a few cans of beans, some boxes of grains, a container of powdered milk, and half a dozen bottles of water. We met with trouble, though, as is often the case: my father was forced to cut down two men who made the mistake of attempting to ambush us. He dispatched them with such ease; I admired him for it, wondering if I would ever be able to kill that easily one day.
After weeks of searching, we finally came across a well-preserved building that seemed promising. Without even so much as a crack in the facade, the stone edifice was one of the most complete I had seen in years. Even the sign in front of the entrance was untouched by time’s grimy fingers. Furness Psychiatric Institute, it read. Only moderately creepy. The building had all the hints and features of abandonment—after all, who in their right mind would want to hold up in an insane asylum of all places? (Ah, the irony.) Far to the left of it stood a partially collapsed likeness which appeared to be its less fortunate sister ward.
Although there were no discernible signs of life, we entered the building with our guns at the ready, prepared to meet armed looters who had already staked a claim to the place. But boy were we in for a shock: though there were no gunman waiting for us, we did encounter six pale, haggard creatures who appeared to have once been men, some of whom stood stark naked, and none of whom appeared to have felt the sun’s rays on his skin in years. They scurried away like mice when they saw us, shrieking wildly and crying out gibberish. One pressed himself against a wall, trembling violently, and shut his eyes so tight that the veins in his temple bulged, as if not being able to see us would make us disappear. My father ridded us of them quickly. We later surmised, after we discovered the bones, that these creatures were patients who had been abandoned when the War began and had been surviving off of supplies from the kitchen, as well as rats, insects, and even—perhaps—each other. We spent an hour dragging out and burning the bodies, and then the place was ours. Home sweet home in the cuckoo’s nest.
The asylum was a dark place—the walls were a grayish white, the floors consisted of gray and black checkered tiles, the doors to the rooms were crafted from dark brown wood, and there were barely enough windows to fill the narrow hallways with light. During the daytime it was easy enough to see, but at night the place was bathed in shadows and it was impossible to navigate the halls without a flashlight. The rooms still smelled of death, decay, and piss weeks after we discarded the corpses, and because of the stench I found it difficult to stay in one spot for too long, so I made a habit of traversing the halls and wandering up and down the building’s four floors to keep myself occupied. Even our room on the third floor, which was larger than many of the others and furnished with two beds and its own bathroom, was gray and stifling.
I didn’t hate the mental institution; after all, it had a kitchen where we could store our food, real beds with mattresses and pillows, a roof to shelter us from the weather, and walls to keep us hidden from other people. But although my father claimed that this new home was our safe haven, I was still wary of the place—I use the term wary instead of fearful because by this time I had purged myself of a great deal of my fear. Something didn’t feel quite right here, and because of this I remained guarded. When I would explore the hallways, I would sometimes feel the heat of watchful eyes on my body, and though I never spotted anyone peering at me in the darkness, the sensation that there was another human presence near me remained. Occasionally, while I was in my meditative trance, I would even notice faint noises ringing through the halls. When I asked my father if he heard the sounds too, he replied in the negative and told me to dismiss them because it was probably just rats scurrying in the walls or my imagination acting up.
“These places,” he said, “they have a way of messing with people’s heads.”
I knew he was right, yet I still couldn’t shake the feeling of danger associated with this place. The more often I heard the muffled noises, the surer I became that they weren’t just my imaginings. But every time I brought them up to my father he would laugh at me and ask if I was going nuts.
“Are you hearing voices too?” he mocked. “Seriously, mija, I haven’t heard a single thing since we got here.”
“Dad, I can hear them, I swear. They’re not very loud, but they’re there.”
“Alright, alright, if it’s really bothering you I’ll do a sweep of the building. Better safe than dead, eh? You wait here, I’ll be back in a little bit.”
He returned about an hour later without having heard or encountered anyone along the way. Once again he assured me I was just imagining things, then chided me for allowing my sense of reality to slip. He was right—no one else was here; it had just been my mind playing tricks on me. After that, when he asked me if I still heard the faint noises I said no, and soon he forgot the entire thing altogether. But as I crawled into bed every night, the quiet sounds were still audible, and I began to fear that I was going mad.
Chapter 3
“Nightshade, ¡calmaté! It was just another dream!”
I awoke, drenched in a cold sweat, with the sound of my own shrill screams ringing in my ears. My father stood above me, trying desperately to shake me from my nightmare. Realizing what I had just experienced was a product of my own subconscious, I drew lo
ng, shaky breaths to slow my racing heart. This was the first time in a long time that I had felt afraid, and the feeling itself terrified me beyond measure because it was so foreign. We had been living in this asylum for over three months now and still the nightmares and the noises and the feelings of being watched had not disappeared. This place was doing strange things to me, and if it wasn’t the only safe place we knew of I would have begged my father to leave it behind.
“¿Estás bien, mija?” he asked after I had regained my composure. “What was it this time?”
“A gang got us,” I whispered. “They took our things and they tied us up and they slit your throat in front of me. I saw you die, Papá. I was so . . . so scared.”
I was certain he would reprimand me for speaking that final word, but instead he sighed and took a seat beside me. Although he was always reluctant to show affection, he placed a tentative hand on my shoulder, the warmth of which instilled a sense of calmness in me and gave me an intense urge to embrace him—but I knew he would not react kindly if I did.
“I don’t fear death, Nightshade. One day it’ll be my time to die and I’ll embrace death willingly. Dying doesn’t scare me in the least—only the thought of losing you does. I don’t want you to fear for my life, because one day it’s going to end and there’s nothing either of us can do to prevent that from happening. You need to understand that.”
“I do . . .”
“Good, now go back to sleep, mija. We both need to be well-rested and alert for tomorrow’s supply run. Goodnight.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to add something more, but evidently decided they were words better left unspoken and closed it.
“Goodnight, Papá.”
He woke me a few hours before sunup, ordering me to get dressed and grab my weapons before I even had time to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I obeyed, exchanging my sweaty pajamas for a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and combat boots. After I had changed, I snatched my sheathed katana from my bedside and slung the strap across my body so that the sword rested against my back within easy reach, fastened my knife belt to my waist, and clipped my holstered handgun to the belt. With my weapons in place, I joined my father in the bathroom to comb my curly black hair—which always seemed to be in knots—and brush my teeth while he shaved his graying beard.
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