by K. A. Gandy
Reign
Populations Crumble, Book 3
K. A. Gandy
Thigpen-Gandy Publishing
Copyright © 2021 K. A. Gandy
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-956423-00-6
Cover design by: K. A. Gandy
Editor: Lia Huntington
To you,
For coming along on this journey with me.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Alligator Spit
Lock and Key
Breakfast of Champions
Calivada
A Princess in the Streets
War Room
High Water
The Fallout
Impending
Oxygen
Go Time
Reverberate
Troubled Waters
Impact
Drawing Board
Med Check
Egress
Zanetti
The People Under the Hill
Merry
Mouse, Meet Cheese
Splat
Mommy Dearest
Apparent
Epilogue—Unraveled
Bonus Epilogue
Easter Eggs
Books By This Author
About The Author
Alligator Spit
The gentle sweep of my thumb across the back of Patrick’s hand is a constant, anchoring me in the moment. The steady droning of the aircraft has faded now, and my worldview has shrunk to here, now. I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been here in this dark room, surrounded by welded metal paneling—waiting, watching—hoping he wakes soon. Back, and forth. Back, and forth. After a small eternity, he emits a low groan, and the pendulum motion of my thumb freezes in the same heartbeat. Eyes riveted to his battered face, I’m still as a deer in the forest at dawn.
He winces, and on instinct I reach up and smooth back the dark hairs clinging to his clammy forehead. Stilling under my touch, he turns almost imperceptibly into my palm, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. It won’t be much longer, now. The waiting is the worst.
Ever so slowly, his eyelids peel upward, but he quickly slams them shut again and winces. “Mhh—" he stops, clears his throat, the harsh sound breaking the pensive quiet. “My head is killing me,” he says, in a shadow of a whisper.
“Patrick,” I say, his name a benediction. “Thank the Lord you’re okay.” I force myself to be still, not to tackle him or hug him or any of the ten ways I’d like to get closer and jostle him, while keeping my grip on his hand calm, relaxed.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a wry smirk as he cracks his eyelids open again. “If you think I’m letting anyone or anything get between you and me, you’re dead wrong.” He slowly lifts his hand and brushes my cheek with his thumb. The tender stroke is my undoing, and the dam breaks, allowing my worry and fear to come pouring out of me in sudden, wracking sobs.
“Hey . . . hey—" His voice gives out again, but he wrestles himself up onto his elbows, and pulls my shoulders down towards him so I’m hugged against his solid chest. There in the shelter of his arms, I let it all out. After a few moments I begin to still to the firm stroking of his palm up and down my back. As the tears slow to a stop, I can finally hear his soothing, whispered words. “S’okay, Sadie, I’m here. You’re not alone.”
Wiping my salty tears away, I give him one final squeeze and then ease back so I can take him in. Frankly, he looks like death warmed over. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to break down. You’ve been out for so long; it was starting to feel like you were never going to wake up. And then you smiled at me, and I felt so relieved that I lost it . . .” I trail off as my wandering gaze lands on the plastic cup of water I’d brought in for him.
“Here, drink some of this! I know your throat must be sore.” I snatch up the cup, nearly spilling it in my haste to give it to him.
With uncharacteristic slowness that belies his damaged state, he rests his hand on my forearm. “Sadie, it’s okay. Give me a few minutes, half hour tops, and I’ll be up on my feet. This isn’t the first scrape I’ve been in. Thank you for the water, my throat feels like it’s made of sandpaper.” He finally takes the proffered cup, and drinks it down.
His eyes close for a moment in bliss as the cool liquid eases down his throat. “Much better, thank you. Now, the last thing I remember, we were all trying to get out of the bus. Clearly, we’re no longer there, but I have no idea where we are. And what’s that noise?” He looks around at the black-paneled room, the metal walls not giving anything away.
“Well, it’s a long story,” I say, not sure how to even explain all of the messed-up things that have transpired since the bus back from the beautiful little farm.
He gestures down his prone form, with a sarcastic tilt to his lips. “I think we’ve got a little time before I’m up and moving, and nobody’s in here trying to rip out my fingernails, so I assume the kidnappers didn’t get us. Lay it on me,” he says, shifting positions in the bed so he’s turned a smidge closer in my direction.
I run a hand over my braid, anxious without something better to occupy with my hands. “The bus wasn’t that long ago. There was an explosion—you might remember that—that threw the bus sideways onto the shoulder of the road. So, the four of us were making a run for it, when an aircraft dropped a whole bunch of kidnappers right on top of us . . .” He stiffens, a hard glint returning to his eyes as the memory resurfaces.
“That’s right, we were fighting, Peter had at least four guys on him, and I was almost to you when somebody grabbed me by the throat.” His free hand reaches up and rubs absently at the bruised ring around his neck.
“Right,” I confirm. “They jabbed you in the neck with some drug, which knocked you out.”
His eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead. “Wait, if they captured us. Where the heck are we? Is Peter here?” He scoots further up on the bed, scanning our surroundings with a much more critical eye. He starts to swing his legs over, but I reach up and stop him.
“Patrick, please stay in bed for a little while longer. You had quite an ordeal, and we don't know how long it will take for the drugs to be fully out of your system. Plus, I don’t think it will be much longer before we get there, and then you’ll have to be up and moving. And no, Peter isn’t here.” Worry drags at my conscience, and I hate that we don't have any information about what state he was left in. He can’t be dead. Please, don’t let him be dead!
He acquiesces and leans back against the cold wall with a grimace, his thin t-shirt not doing much to protect him from the chill. He doesn’t relax, but remains on high alert despite his injuries.
“Anyways, I don’t know where we are exactly. We’re still in the air, and I have no idea how long we’ve been in the air. I woke up next to you a little while ago, but we were already flying.” I take a deep breath, bolstering myself for the next bit. “Atlas and Nell are here, too. I snuck down the hall trying to find out who had us, and found them in a meeting room with our captors. Apparently . . . there’s a resistance group, and that’s who snatched us.”
His deep, denim-blue eyes turned icy in an instant. “What do you mean, a resistance group? The Resistance, or someone else? And how are Nell and Atlas here? Wai
t, did Atlas—was he in on this?” His spine stiffens, and he lurches forward on the bed, anger simmering.
Raising both hands in a calming gesture, I try to console him, “I don’t really know yet. Atlas admitted to knowing them, but I don’t know how far it goes. If he’s part of the uprising, or if they’re just the tool he used to get us away from the resort . . . but I have to say, my gut says we should be wary. Especially if he didn’t tell you, either.” The last sentence leaves my mouth barely above a whisper, as I gauge his reaction carefully. I hate to think that Patrick would have kept another major secret from me, but, I have to acknowledge that it’s possible he knew about Atlas’s plan.
His lips press together in an angry line, and his eyebrows drop. “Sadie, do you really think I would keep something like this from you? I learned my lesson the first time. What I know, you know. And Atlas is going to have some serious explaining to do, because no way am I okay with cozying up to some far-out nut job Resistance against my father. No way.” Once again, he tries to rise from the bed. I have both hands on his shoulders, trying to reason with him when the tempo of the aircraft’s engines changes, and my stomach flies up into my throat. The sudden plunging sensation causes me to lurch forward and land on top of Patrick in a heap.
I try to right myself after a few seconds of detangling our limbs, but our sudden, sharp descent halts abruptly before I can make it back to my seat, once again dumping me atop him. The jarring landing is followed by deafening silence as the engines are cut. Sitting back in the chair, I rub my ear. The sound of the flight had been so constant—like a bumblebee directly out of sight—that my ears feel strange now that it’s finally stopped.
Patrick lurches to his feet, taking advantage of my distraction, and quickly scans the room. “I’m guessing they didn’t leave my pistol, did they?” he asks wryly.
“Uh, well, I didn’t think to check,” I admit sheepishly. “I was so focused on you and where we were, that I didn’t even look for our things.” I stand and rifle through a few of the cabinets lining the far wall, and find a heap of our belongings at the bottom. Sifting through them, I see fresh clothes and a few small personal items, but no weapons of any kind. Before I can report my findings, the door swings open with a sigh, and I spin on my heel to find Patrick between me and the door, already in a defensive stance.
His adrenalin must have burned off the last of the sedatives because he is steady as a rock in front of me. Nell strides into the room a moment later, only to stop and slowly raise her palms.
“Hey, Patrick, it’s just me. Are you okay? I was worried about you,” she says in her usual rambling-yet-rushed way.
Patrick’s tension visibly drains away, and he sways on his feet. I step up to his side and thread his arm over my shoulders for support.
“Well, uh, we’re here.” Nell says, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb.
“Where’s here?” Patrick says in a no-nonsense tone.
“They didn’t tell me, but I think we’re somewhere in Missiana. From the glimpse I caught of the landscape, it kind of looks like we’re in a swamp. Or near a swamp. I don’t know, I just don’t want to be eaten by an alligator before I even turn eighteen, you know?” She reaches up and pushes a lock of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear.
“I doubt they’d have kept us alive this long just to feed us to an alligator,” I find myself reassuring her, even though we’re on shaky ground right now.
“I hope you’re right because that seems like a bad way to go. I remember learning about them in school, and supposedly the infection from their saliva kills you if you live long enough. Usually, they drown you before then.” She shudders, wrapped up in the memory.
“Well, that’s a delightful thing to know,” I mutter under my breath. Just add it to the list of things after us—crazy kidnapping cabal? Check. NLC doctors who want to sedate and impregnate us? Check. Infected alligator spit? Double check.
On the heels of that delightful thought, we trailed out of the room behind Nell to find out our fate.
Lock and Key
We follow behind Nell, Patrick leaning heavily into my shoulders, as we exit the aircraft. The gunmetal-black interior gleams dully before we step out into the dark, and walk down a metal grate gangplank. The heavy heat and humidity are a slap to the face as we reach the bottom of the grating, and I stop to drag in a lungful of air. It’s so humid that it actually feels thick in my lungs, a disconcerting sensation. Glancing over at Patrick, I see that, instead of making internal observations of the weather, he’s actively scanning our surroundings for danger.
You should probably be paying more attention to that yourself, Sadie. Alligators and all. I force myself to tear my eyes away from Patrick, and try to make out details about where we’ve landed. The aircraft is giving off very little light, and all I can really make out is dense underbrush and towering trees looming around the small clearing we’re standing in.
A tired sigh directly behind us makes me jump, and Patrick winces at the sudden movement.
“Y’all planning to stand here all night, or are we gone’ get some rest at some point? This thing ain’t gone’ fly itself outta here and even the Maverick can’t fly in her sleep, y’hear me?” The woman’s thick drawl is more resigned than angry. In the dim light it’s hard to tell much about her, but I can make out a short, curvy figure in what appears to be a leather jacket.
“Sleep sounds amazing, but we seem to be facing a real shortage of beds at the moment,” Nell says in a wry tone, and gestures to the wild surroundings.
“Pssh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Follow me.” She brushes past us, and walks off towards the thick undergrowth. After a beat of awkward indecision, the three of us follow quickly, since she’s already fading into the soupy night.
The woman—excuse me—the Maverick . . . walks ahead of us with her hands jammed into her pockets, seemingly without a care in the world. After a minute or two, we reach the edge of the clearing and what appeared to be a solid wall of foliage gives way to a miniscule footpath.
“Stay tight with me. Y’all wander into this hea’ swamp, the Ol’ Man be using your bones for toothpicks before sunup,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Err . . . Maverick . . . who’s the Old Man?” I dare to ask, the only deviation I can allow myself from keeping my eyeballs trained to the faint sight of her heels on the path ahead of us. Patrick gives my shoulders a light squeeze, and then lurches away from me, to support himself.
“Call me Mav, honey, everybody else does. And shoo’ yeah, the Ol’ Man. This is his territory. Helena might think she’s queen bee, but Ol’ Man was here before us, and he’ll be here after us. Gators don’t mind bees, queen or not. They got tough hide.”
Patrick’s only response to her astute observation is a snort.
The short interlude gives way to quiet, and then again the sounds of the unseen life teeming around us rise up. Insect chirps fill the air first, followed by some sort of call I can’t identify, and finally a high-pitched, repetitive noise that causes Maverick to pause and hold up a hand. For a moment we all swat at the cloud of mosquitoes dogging us while Maverick listens carefully to the unfamiliar sound. I snake a hand backwards, and entwine my fingers with Patrick’s. His warm grip grounds me in this bizarre situation. How many more of these are we going to endure before we get to live our lives in peace?
“Ol’ Lady must have hatched a late set this year. Whoo, she gon’ be mad we’re in her territory.” With that ominous comment, she takes off at a faster clip, and we stumble along behind her, the knobby roots causing me to trip more than once into trees with bark that seems to be peeling away under my brief touches.
After a few more minutes of rushed winding along the footpath, the ground seems to smooth out and the path widens, onto a lawn with grasses waving at knee-high. But as we exit the swamp, it’s not the grass that pulls my eyes like magnets. Up ahead is the most beautiful old plantation house I’ve ever seen, its porch lights calling to me with old-worl
d charm.
Along the echoes of an ancient driveway, tall mossy oaks stand proud sentry to our approach, swaying in the night breeze. Stately white columns support a double wrap-around porch, and lights gleam in nearly every burnished window. The sight nearly takes my breath away with relief. No matter who we’re with, I know there’s a bed in there with my name on it.
Patrick gives my hand a gentle squeeze, and I hastily start forward down the front walk, the ancient trees waving above us in the hot night breeze.
We clamber up the front porch, and a trickle of relief floods my veins at being out of alligator territory, but then a wave of anger follows hot on its heels. I exchange a meaningful glance with Patrick, his jaw set in a hard line as we cross the threshold into the ancient home. We might be out of the swamp, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any predators.
Nell crowds close to my other side, and we all scan the interior in silence. Before we have time to make it past the foyer, Atlas rounds a corner and strides up to embrace Nell. She sinks into him, and returns the hug.
“I think we need to talk,” he says lightly, making eye contact over Nell’s dishwater-blonde head.
“Yes, we certainly do,” Patrick says coldly.
Atlas jerks his head towards a staircase, and we all follow soundlessly, our footsteps on the creaking stair treads loud in the night. Looking back over my shoulder, I see the Maverick clearly for the first time as she steps across the threshold into the house. She seems to shudder in that moment, before shaking it off and crossing the room with no spare steps. My first impression of her was accurate, as the light reveals a short, curvy black woman with close-cropped kinky curls, and a deep red bomber jacket with a fleece collar.
We arrive at the top of the landing, and Atlas cuts left down a hallway. I don’t see another soul up here, and the antique sconces on the wall cast shadows along the wood floors. They gleam as if recently polished, and I wonder for the hundredth time since we landed how this safe house came to be.
