YEAR ZERO
A POST-APOCALYPTIC SURVIVAL THRILLER
KEITH TAYLOR
Copyright © 2019 by Keith Taylor
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, 2019
CONTENTS
THIS PLACE IS A GRAVEYARD
NO BALL KICKING, OK?
ALL THE WAY DOWN HERE
48 MILES TO TRUCKEE
THE WHIRLY THING ON TOP
NOT THE SMARTEST MOVE
BRACE
ONE LAST LOOK AT THE SUN
A LEAF ON THE WIND
WHY DIAL THEM DOWN?
JUST LIKE MY FATHER
THE INCIRLIK ARSENAL
MUSSOLINI'S CORPSE
CASUS BELLI
STOP, DROP AND ROLL
PADRON FAMILY RESERVE
WORLD WAR III
SCARED OF HEIGHTS
THE LOADMASTER'S CHUTE
T MINUS 87 SECONDS
TED KRASINSKI DAY
LIKE A PIG ON A SPIT
SPECIAL DELIVERY
CAN WE GO HOME NOW?
WEATHER, THEN SPORTS
CHAPTER ONE
THIS PLACE IS A GRAVEYARD
YOU’RE STANDING IN the open air.
You can feel the sun warm your skin, its rich golden glow unbroken by cloud, and you dig your toes into the soft loam beneath your feet. A gentle breeze plays through your hair, a soothing breath of fresh, clean air that carries with it the sweet, invigorating tang of ripe mandarin oranges. All around you can hear the susurrus of dancing trees, the rustle of leaves waving in the breeze, and for a moment you simply stand where you are, entirely at peace, wishing this moment could go on forever.
After the horrors of San Francisco this feeling is beyond idyllic. The memories of the city’s ruins are still fresh in your mind, the sights and smells razor sharp. You can still feel the dust burning your skin. The stale, scorched air of the impact crater. The stench of death and the choking shroud of ash clinging to every surface, suffocating you, strangling the life from everything in sight, so fresh and vivid it’s as if you were still there. As if you were still standing in that bleak cemetery, haunted by the howling screams and frantic prayers of the dying.
As you stood amongst the bleached bones of the city you never imagined you’d see life again. You never imagined you might feel joy or peace, or even a fresh breeze on your skin. But now…
You open your eyes.
Now you see you’re standing in the midst of a lush orange grove. You take a deep draft of the citrus-edged air and look around at the long, ordered lines of neatly manicured mandarin trees that stretch out in all directions, their tops arched above you to create a labyrinth of shaded tunnels. It's cool down here. The bright sunlight dapples the ground beneath the branches, and but for the breeze playing through the trees and the slow, steady rhythm of your breath the world is silent and still.
You rise up, leaving the sweet tang of the air behind, and above the treetops the distant edge of the grove comes into view. Beyond the trees, all around you, verdant farmland stretches out flat to the horizon in an unbroken sea of brown, green and orange. It’s beautiful. It’s a landscape that seems to breathe life and hope back into the world. As you look around, though, you notice that something seems to be missing from this peaceful, entrancing Constable watercolor of a world.
There are no people here.
The small villages that cluster tightly between broad fields are deserted. Doors hang open, resting wide on their hinges as if the occupants didn't just forget to close them but didn't care. Farmhouses are empty, the crops untended, and the narrow roads that reach in ordered lines across this rural idyll are silent and still.
It takes no great insight to guess what happened to the people who lived here. As soon as you notice something amiss it seems obvious. The image shifts, a silhouette of a vase that suddenly becomes two faces, and once you’ve seen it it can’t be unseen. It was there all along.
Now... now you can sense the fear still hanging in the air, a terror so sharp, so vivid that it seems to have burned itself on the atmosphere like the afterglow that hangs on the screen of an old TV long after the picture flickers out. In your mind’s eye you can see what happened here so clearly you could be watching in real time.
Yesterday, just as the sun was beginning to set in the west, the people who called this place home saw two new suns rise in the south. Without warning twin stars exploded into life on the distant horizon, so bright that anyone who dared sneak a look was left blinking away the painful afterglow at best, flash blinded at worst, and as the dazzling brightness began to fade it was replaced by something these people had always feared, yet never expected to see beyond movie screens and their darkest nightmares.
They saw twin mushroom clouds blossom from the glow, billowing silently skyward in black, orange and red.
Most of them ran without a second thought. They piled into cars and trucks and raced further inland as fast as they could, desperate to stay ahead of the crowds they knew would soon choke up the roads. Some moved so quickly that they were already on the road before the blinding light had completely faded.
They didn’t pack. Didn’t have time to pack. They left with nothing but the clothes on their backs and watched the spectacle through their rear view mirrors, not sparing a moment’s thought to where they were going. They thought only of what they were escaping. To didn't matter when from was so terrifying.
But some… some didn’t run. Some stayed behind and watched, entranced and awestruck.
If you asked them they couldn’t tell you why they didn’t turn and run right away. They couldn’t explain why they waited until the blinding flash had faded then stood and stared as the radioactive plumes climbed high into the atmosphere above San Francisco and Sacramento. They’d fear you wouldn’t understand if they gave voice to their thoughts. They’d fear you’d think them heartless, cruel voyeurs to the apocalypse if they gave you the real reason they didn't turn and run with everyone else.
The truth was that they watched because it was beautiful. They watched because it was stunningly, heartrendingly captivating, a sight so terrible it demanded an audience. They couldn’t tear their eyes away from a display of such power, violence and brutality, all of it played out in absolute silence.
The sound of the explosions didn’t carry this far, at least not at first. The deafening roar lagged far behind the light, so they watched in frozen awe as San Francisco and Sacramento were silently erased from the earth. Open mouthed they watched as two great cities were reduced to rubble, and through tear filled eyes they witnessed their remains rise to the heavens.
By the time the expanding twin shock waves reached them they were little more than a light breeze, as soft as a lover’s kiss, but when they finally hit it was enough to break the spell among the people who stayed to watch. The gust rocked them back on their feet, and it brought with it the stench of death.
Before the shock wave reached them these people had existed in a peaceful world, a world in which life flourished and grew, but when that soft, stale breath passed by they felt as if that expanding bubble had encapsulated them, drawn them in and imprisoned them in a new and darker world, this one hostile to life and light. Hostile to hope and joy.
That’s when they started to run.
Most wouldn’t be able to articulate why if you asked, but as soon as they felt that shock wave pass every last one of them turned and ran as one, with a single purpose. It wasn’t
to escape the fallout. It wasn’t to stay ahead of the evacuating hordes. It wasn’t even out of fear that another blast might be coming their way, closer to home.
No, they ran because each and every one of them felt the desperate need to escape the bleak, hopeless bubble that was even now expanding away from them at the speed of sound. They wanted – needed, at a primal, visceral level – to get back to the other side of that shock wave, back into the world they’d known just moments ago, even though deep down they already knew that the explosions had eradicated that world forever. They knew there was no going back no matter how fast they ran, but it didn’t keep them from trying.
You look down at the deserted orange grove spread out beneath you, and now you see it for what it really is.
This place is a graveyard. It may have escaped the ravages of the nuclear blast, but just like San Francisco before it it’s still tainted by death. These ripe mandarins will never be plucked from the trees. They’ll fall and rot where they land. By the time anyone dares return to this place it will have been reclaimed by wilderness. The manicured trees and trimmed, uniform crops will have grown out like unkempt hair, spilling over boundaries, swallowing roads and blanketing villages and towns. By the time the people return this will once again be the Wild West.
But for now…
You turn to face an unexpected sound, a low rumble that seems to drift elusively on the breeze. Is that an engine?
You scan your eyes across the haunted landscape, searching for movement, and finally you catch the glistening reflection of sunlight in the distance, a mirror flash on a black ribbon. A silver car barrels down an empty, arrow straight country route, racing at a dangerous speed. It looks like it’s barely staying on the road, kicking up wild rooster tails every time it veers onto the dusty shoulder.
Wait.
You move closer, and now you see it. A half mile ahead of the car is a truck, an indistinct smudge almost lost in the heat haze, and you watch as it turns and pulls to a stop in the middle of the road, its air brakes hissing, the radiating heat of its engine searing air that's already baked by the sun. A few figures climb down to the sun baked asphalt. Soldiers in uniform, all of them armed. You move in closer still, curious, and as you draw near you see the figures take up position in readiness for the approaching car.
Even closer, and now you’re amongst the soldiers. You can feel their tension as they watch the car approach. Clipped, terse orders fly back and forth as rifles are nestled against shoulders, safeties are flipped off and fingers hover over triggers. Still the car shows no signs of slowing. No way to know if the driver has even noticed the looming roadblock ahead.
Now the car moves close enough that you can see the face of the driver. He has seen the truck. All three men in the car stare straight ahead, terrified, wide eyed and yelling, but the driver only steps harder on the gas and the car surges forward. A flicker of his eyes telegraphs his intentions. He’s going to try to drive around the roadblock, veer onto the shoulder and skid across the loose surface until he’s cleared the truck. You can see his hands grip the wheel tighter, his knuckles white as he prepares to turn.
And then the order goes up, and the soldiers open fire.
It all happens too quickly to be certain, but you’d swear you see a look of surprise on the face of the driver a moment before the windshield shatters beneath a barrage of 7.62mm bullets. The car wildly fishtails as the front tires burst, and the engine sputters and dies as a line of holes punch through the hood.
Just a few seconds after the first shot the soldiers cease fire, and before the car even rolls to a stop the men begin to approach, carefully surrounding it, their weapons still drawn. They pull open the driver’s door as the car comes to rest at the side of the road, and with swift military efficiency they reach in and check the bodies, search for weapons and rifle through the glove compartment, seat pockets and trunk. When they’re satisfied the threat has been neutralized they turn back to the truck, walking almost casually, as if killing three men in cold blood was no big deal. Just another duty.
Now the truck roars back to life. The driver shifts into gear and swings it around in a wide arc, turning back the way it came, and as he squeezes the gas he waves a hand towards the field beside the road. At first it seems empty, but as you look closer you see an answering wave rise from what looks like a few tufts of dried grass.
It’s a sentry, hidden in camouflage that blends perfectly with the tall grass around him. As the truck powers off down the road he settles in place once again, stock still, a rifle scope raised to his eye, and he patiently watches the road for anything that might approach.
΅
CHAPTER TWO
NO BALL KICKING, OK?
WE DID THIS to ourselves.
Those were the last words Valerie had spoken. The last thing she’d managed to say before the soldiers hauled her down from the truck, slipped a black bag over her head and dragged her out of sight, yelling and cursing until her voice faded into the distance.
Before Karen had time to even begin to process what she meant they’d returned for her, and by then she had bigger fish to fry. As they climbed into the back of the truck she begged them not to separate her from Emily. She pleaded with them, her words blending together into an unintelligible mess choked by tears, but they didn’t respond. They didn’t even seem to have heard her. The soldiers didn’t show so much as a flicker of emotion as they dragged Karen away from her daughter, leaving her alone, scared and confused, crying for her mom with her hands bound painfully behind her back.
Emily didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t know why the soldiers were taking her mom away and leaving her behind. She was terrified, and at the sight of her daughter’s tears Karen had felt her momma bear instincts kick in. She’d screamed herself hoarse, kicking out wildly at her captors. She’d tried to close her teeth over any arm that came within biting distance. She'd kicked out at every uniform, and she’d yelled spit-flecked threats until someone out of sight finally lost patience with the performance.
The last thing she’d heard was a stern voice giving the order to shut her up. The last thing she’d felt was the butt of a rifle hitting her in the head for the second time in an hour, and after that… nothing. She hadn’t passed out, thankfully, but the blow had been more than enough to send her tumbling to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
Once that butt slammed into her head she could carry on yelling about as easily as she could sprout wings and fly away. It took every last ounce of fight out of her. Her vision had filled with sparking white lights, and as they dragged her away by her arms she’d watched, unable to move a muscle, as a soldier lifted Emily over his shoulder and carried her down from the truck kicking and screaming.
She’d wanted to drag herself to her feet and run back to grab her from him, but her limbs just wouldn’t respond to her commands. She couldn’t so much as wiggle her toes until long after they’d dumped her in this room, cuffed her hands to the back of a chair and locked the door behind her.
We did this to ourselves.
Karen repeated the words for the millionth time as she stared at the white, featureless wall of her… cell? Is this a cell? It damned sure looked like one. The steel chair firmly bolted to the floor was the only scrap of furniture. The floor and walls were painted flat white, and on the fourth wall – visible only if she twisted painfully in her chair – a pane of mirrored glass ran the length of the room. Aside from an angry cop and a table for him to slam with his fist it looked like every police interview room she’d ever seen on TV.
What had Valerie meant?
Karen played the words out in her head yet again, as if the million and first time might be the charm, but she couldn’t seem to think clearly. Everything felt… floaty, as if she were working on her second bottle of wine and could already hear the hangover whispering threats of tomorrow. The tender, swollen knot of flesh on the back of her head throbbed just as painfully as the lump on her brow, and wit
h a sinking feeling she realized she probably had a concussion. The second in as many days.
Jesus. That can’t be good for me.
There was no way of knowing how long she’d been locked in the room. Could have been hours. Could have been just minutes, but time didn’t seem to pass in the empty cell. It wasn’t just that there was no clock on the wall, but that the walls themselves seemed to absorb time. The flat, featureless white seemed designed to muffle and soften her perception, purpose built to turn her mind to soup. Karen could feel as if ten minutes had crawled by before realizing she’d only taken a half dozen breaths.
“OK, get it together, Karen,” she whispered to herself in a scolding voice, feeling a cold sweat prick at her brow. “You have to stay strong for Emily.”
She started to sing out loud, trying to distract herself from the eerie, suffocating silence, but she quickly fell silent when the sound of her voice echoed back to her in a minor key. The song left her mouth as a soothing lullaby, something she used to sing to Robbie while he was teething, but it was a stranger’s voice that came back, a bleak funereal dirge bouncing off walls that seemed to be closing in on her inch by creeping inch.
By the time she finally heard a key turn in the lock she’d almost convinced herself that her sanity was slipping away. She was almost certain the sound was in her head until she saw the door begin to open, and that’s when the fear kicked in. She nervously gripped the chair and planted her feet wide on the ground, bracing herself for whatever was about to happen. She felt her heart begin to race in her chest, and deep down she was sure she’d never leave this room alive. Not after seeing what they’d done to the men in the Prius. Not after hearing Valerie’s warning.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop by a few degrees as a man entered, looming almost as tall as the doorway, his expression one of pure malevolence. He was a soldier, tall and well built, a sidearm strapped to his hip, and it was only when Karen noticed the swollen bruise burning at his cheek that she realized she recognized him. He’d been one of the men who dragged her from the truck, and now she got a good look at him the memories came flooding back. She’d caught him full in the face with a wild kick as he lowered her to the ground. No wonder he looked so mad.
Jack Archer (Book 3): Year Zero Page 1
