Burnt Road: Dante

by Neal, Toby

  Burnt Road

  Dante

  Toby Neal

  Emily Kimelman

  Contents

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  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

  Acknowledgments

  FLAME ROAD

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  Copyright Notice

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  © Neal/Kimelman 2017

  nealkimelmanpartners@gmail.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  Chapter One

  Dante

  The sound of rioting was still far off, but Dante Luciano’s sensitive ears brought it close: the crash of breaking glass, the yelling of the lawless, the rending of metal, and even the crackling of flame. He wished for the noise-canceling headphones he usually wore, but there was no shutting out the apocalypse that the Scorch Flu epidemic had unleashed.

  Dante couldn’t stay here.

  His compound could not keep the looters and rioters at bay with the power down. Purchased with money made from his gaming and programming fortune, Dante’s house in the Hollywood Hills was a fortress where he could withdraw and screen out the barrage of sensory input that drained him.

  In his living room, fine leather office chairs were positioned in front of three workstations, each with multiple monitors. A beanbag faced a huge flat screen TV that Dante used for gaming. Racks of weights and exercise equipment in the center of the large room helped him keep his body fit for the life of the mind, where he felt truly alive.

  He had to leave it all behind.

  Dante’s older brother, JT, had called to warn him of the flu’s devastation, and to ask a favor—that he bring a woman with him on his way to the Haven, JT’s secure ex-military shelter complex in Idaho.

  Dante couldn’t say no. He owed JT too much. But he didn’t have to like it. Women were messy, unpredictable, emotional and loud. They made him think of sex. And he didn’t like thinking of sex, an activity both fascinating and fraught with triggers.

  Dante and JT had expected something like Scorch Flu: something devastating, paradigm-shifting, world-ending. Dante was prepared to leave, but it still hurt to abandon his sound-deadened, low-lit, and air-conditioned perfect environment. Sun, wind, nature, and other people shredded his senses, overwhelming sensitive eyes, fine-tuned hearing, and tactile-tender skin.

  But Dante was going to pick the woman up and take her to the Haven. He’d told his brother he would.

  All of his most important programs and apps were on a small satellite-hookup laptop with a nearly indestructible case and a solar-powered charger. Dante carried a data backup as well, on a military-grade hard drive the size of a credit card. He went through the house saying a mental goodbye to the machines that had surrounded, equipped, and expressed for him, before going downstairs to the garage.

  The tricked-out Escalade he’d bought two years ago glimmered in the dim garage. Equipped with four-wheel drive, a winch, and tinted bulletproof siding and windows, Dante appreciated how it made him look like a menacing, anonymous drug lord driving around. It was a layer of protection of another kind.

  He checked the contents of the SUV against the list on his phone: enough dehydrated food for a couple of weeks. Tent. Sleeping bag. Water in stacked, square gallon jugs. Several containers of gas. First aid kit. Fire-making tools. Light and power sources. Batteries.

  Weapons were already stowed: a pair of Walther PPK pistols with extra clips, ammo, a distance rifle for hunting and sniper action, plus a shotgun.

  Dressed in black cargo pants and a slim-fitting, ribbed black T-shirt, Dante put on the belt holster that held his knife and pistol. He bent down and buckled on an ankle glove for the little Colt .22 backup, then shrugged into a shoulder rig for the Walther. He was a good shot, all the Luciano kids were, even his little sister, Lucy. Dante had continued to put in time at a firing range but never made a habit of carrying. The sensations were distracting, the rubbing of the shoulder strap under his armpit irritating, the unaccustomed weight annoying.

  And he’d never get used to the sound of the weapons firing.

  But he would have to adapt to that, and so much else.

  Bundling his shoulder-length curls into a ponytail, Dante pulled on a dark billed hat. He felt like he was dressing to play a part as he slipped on a pair of mirrored aviator glasses. It reminded him of the time he went as a guest of honor to the Mad Max Wasteland “apocalyptic” gathering outside of LA, where everyone stayed in costume all weekend. But this was real.

  Dante got into the Escalade and left the compound without a backward glance. He programmed the woman’s address into the GPS. He had paper maps stowed under the seats for when communications went down.

  The freeway was a snarled mess, and Dante took the shoulder wherever he could, weaving in and out of the congestion. Scorch Flu was wreaking havoc and bringing panic to everyone on the roads; but, inside the Escalade, with tinted windows, the AC on, and Beethoven playing in the Bose speakers, Dante could screen out the chaos.

  He navigated off the freeway toward the woman’s Malibu neighborhood.

  JT had said she had black hair. Her name was something to do with music. Dante was bad with names, though he always remembered a face. He slowed the big vehicle, approaching the woman’s apartment building. A crowd was in front of him, moving down the street.

  They were carrying bats, and a truck drove alongside of them to hold the loot as they bashed into the houses.

  The mob was between him and the woman’s address.

  As Dante slowed, heads turned to watch his progress. The Escalade was a lot of things, but not a vehicle that blended in. He was grateful for the illegally dark window tinting.

  Scanning the street for a black-haired woman, he didn’t see any females. The mob was made up of men.

  Well, Dante could tell JT he had tried. He hadn’t promised to go fetch her from her doorstep while a mob surrounded him. The woman was going to have to make it on her own.

  Chapter Two

  Melody

  Melody Parker stared out at the Pacific Ocean, shining like mercury under cloud cover. Peeling waves, arches of beauty, rose up into a wall of silver, curling over and expl
oding into white spray. It was unusual for the skies to be so gray in Malibu—seemed almost as if the weather knew what was happening below.

  Melody felt a tightness in her chest as her heart tugged toward the sea. She glanced over at her surfboard where it leaned against the wall next to her bike.

  There wouldn’t be any surfing in Idaho.

  What was she doing? Just because her best friend, Elizabeth, had said that Melody would be safe with these people didn’t make it true. This guy, Dante, Elizabeth’s friend’s brother, was supposed to pick her up and take her to some “safe” place called the Haven. The whole thing was sketchy.

  But what choice did she have? Getting out was her best chance of surviving the chaos brought on by Scorch Flu.

  One of the puppies she was fostering, Abigail, a tiny gray fluff ball, pushed her head up against Melody’s calf and whined. Picking up the little dog, Melody cradled her like a baby, scratching the puppy’s soft pink belly.

  Melody fostered animals because of their intrinsic goodness. Unlike people, animals didn’t have ulterior motives. They didn’t try to take things from Melody that she wasn’t willing to give.

  Melody checked her watch’s glowing face. She was supposed to meet this guy, Dante, at noon sharp, outside her building. Elizabeth had told her he would be driving a black, tricked-out Escalade.

  What a mess.

  And Elizabeth wasn’t even going to be at the Haven! Her best friend was staying in DC with her family. Who were these people that Melody was going to live with? Hopefully they would be nice. Elizabeth really seemed to trust JT, Dante’s brother. That meant something. Elizabeth was as cautious around men as Melody, and they both had reason to be.

  She pulled on her hiking boots and wound the laces up her ankles. They were worn, but not so old that they couldn’t take a beating. Melody usually wore her hiking boots until they fell apart. She’d owned this pair for about six months, and had only taken one trip with them. Melody had spent all her time working, finally getting some great jobs as an actor— until the Scorch Flu hit.

  Pulling the backpack onto her shoulders, she clipped the waist and chest straps. In it, she carried a small supply of water, more hiking clothes, and a few paleo granola bars she’d made herself. But she wasn’t prepared to go days without resupplying. Hopefully, this guy was better prepared and would share his resources with her.

  Melody gathered up Abigail and her brother, Barkley, carrying one under each arm. She had planned to foster them for just a few more days. They were supposed to find new homes. In fact, Abigail had been slated to be picked up tomorrow.

  What had become of the people planning to adopt Abigail? Were they sick with Scorch Flu, or even fleeing the city? Melody couldn’t wait around and hope they’d come for the puppies. She had to take them with her.

  Melody opened her apartment door and stepped into the hallway. She approached the front entrance and looked through the glass door, craning her neck to see down the block.

  A mob of men moved up the street, a truck following as they broke into houses, looting them. Melody glanced back at her own apartment door which was slowly closing, the view disappearing as the lock clicked into place.

  She should have brought a weapon. Why didn’t she own a gun? Everyone else in this country seemed to have one but her.

  Melody twirled the yellow-gold band with a speck of diamond on her right ring finger. The ring had been her mother’s engagement ring from Melody’s father. After he made his fortune lobbying in DC, he’d bought her mom a giant rock, a yellow diamond set in an intricately carved platinum band. Melody’s mom had given her the simple ring with a jaded glint in her eye.

  You can’t buy love, but you sure can buy some fun.

  After her parents’ divorce, Melody’s mom sold the yellow diamond and bought an antique Porsche, also yellow. That flashy car sat in the garage downstairs now. The Porsche only ran when it was in the mood, making it the worst possible vehicle for escape. But if this Dante didn’t show up, it was going to be Melody, Abigail, Barkley and her hiking gear in a yellow, antique Porsche, headed for Idaho.

  Holding the pups tightly, Melody stepped out of her apartment building. The rapid beat of their tiny hearts behind their ribs grounded her. She would keep them safe.

  Melody watched the crowd approach, staying hidden in the shadows of the entryway. A matte black Escalade with dark tinted windows and off-road tires pulled up behind the mob.

  That must be Dante! Her pulse sped up.

  Melody stepped out onto the street and peered through the crowd, trying to see into the vehicle, but the tint on the windows was too dark.

  Dante stopped behind the mob, then began veering around them and pulling away.

  “No, no, no!” He couldn’t leave!

  Melody headed for the SUV, trying to navigate through the mob at a run. She would just barrel right through that crowd.

  The smell of them hit her: alcohol and sweat, fear and excitement. The energy in the air was vibrating, an excited glee with a terrified undertone, like a rock concert combined with a protest merged with an after-Christmas sale. And the deals were to die for.

  Melody fixed her gaze straight ahead, keeping the Escalade in sight. She sprinted, the puppies tight against her body, backpack thumping with each stride.

  Dante must’ve seen her coming, because the big vehicle stopped. Thank God.

  She was going to make it out of here.

  An arm came out of the crowd and pulled Melody up short, circling her neck like a vice and yanking her to a stop. She struggled as a second arm encircled her waist and her breath squeezed off. Melody’s pack squashed between her back and a solid male body.

  Melody had practiced for this kind of attack. She attended self-defense class once a week and boxed regularly. She was a beautiful woman in a big city, and had not survived five years in Hollywood and a lifetime of unwanted male attention to be taken out by some scumbag on the street during a riot.

  Melody stomped on her attacker’s toe, digging the heel of her hiking boot into his soft shoe.

  The man grunted. His breath reeked of tobacco smoke. Abigail began to squawk with short, sharp barks. Melody brought her arm up, Abigail’s fur brushing her cheek, before she jammed her elbow into the man’s stomach. Another whoosh of air came from behind her, and the stink of rotten teeth mixed with that cigarette stench.

  He wasn’t letting go, and she didn’t want to drop the puppies.

  Melody jerked with surprise at the sound of gunfire nearby. Over the ringing in her ears, she heard screaming and running steps. The crowd dispersed while she concentrated on writhing loose from her attacker’s grip.

  Suddenly the man let go, and Melody lost her balance, staggering. Stars danced in her vision. She’d lost more air than she thought. Melody held onto the dogs. She wasn’t going to let them go. They needed her.

  “Melody. Come with me.” A low, flat voice. A hand on her arm. She glanced up. This had to be Dante.

  High cheekbones caught the silver light of the grey day. Dante had flawless olive skin, thick lashes hiding his eyes, and shiny black curls escaping from under a dark hat. An expression of grim determination tightened the lines of his chiseled face as he pulled Melody along, a pistol in the hand that wasn’t gripping her arm. His body was leanly muscled and elegant. There wasn’t an ounce of waste on this blade of a man.

  “Thank you,” Melody wheezed, as Dante opened the Escalade’s door and tossed her into the passenger seat. Classical music thundered from the speakers. She put the puppies on the floor and pushed her pack into the rear seat as Dante got into the driver’s side. He threw the big vehicle into gear, the tires screeching, as he pulled away and Melody slammed her door.

  Barkley wriggled up between the seats and put his tiny paws on Dante’s thigh, his curly tail wagging frantically, whining to be picked up.

  Dante looked over at Melody, making eye contact at last.

  His eyes were deep gold in color, but his glance was cold
, hard and brief. Melody felt like she’d just been scanned, and every bit of data that could be known about her from appearance extracted. His eyes flicked forward again, and she let out a breath.

  “Get this dog off of me.” Dante’s voice was the same low, flat tone he’d used when he told her to come with him.

  Uh-oh. Not nice, after all.

  Chapter Three

  Dante

  Dante glanced at Melody, then away. He had to focus on the road.

  “You don’t like puppies? Who doesn’t like puppies?” Melody’s voice went up, indicating some emotion Dante couldn’t discern. Her big green eyes, black hair and delicate face reminded him of the feral cat that used to hang around his compound. He’d tried to befriend the feline with pieces of meat, but the cat had never warmed up or let him touch her black fur.

  Melody captured both puppies and settled them on her lap. Her voice was warmer when she spoke again. “Thanks so much for picking me up and helping me back there. I’m sorry; the puppies are a bit of a pain. Abigail,” she indicated the gray puppy whose pink tongue was licking the head of the brown puppy, “was supposed to be adopted tomorrow, but the phones went out, so I couldn’t reach the new owners. I couldn’t just abandon them.” She picked up the brown pup and kissed the top of its head. “I’m sure Barkley would have found a new home, too. He is a very sweet little boy.”

  Melody’s voice was like a silk scarf; like music. Her name suited her.

  Melody was looking at Dante, studying him, trying to figure him out. He felt it when women did that; almost like they were touching him, though not as invasive as that, thank God. He’d never understood the need people had to look, to touch—all those emotions they experienced. The way Melody was stroking the puppies right now, for example. What was up with that? Was it because their fur was so soft and warm?

  Dante stared straight ahead, waiting for Melody’s interest in him to end.