The Descendant: Baltin Trilogy (Book 1)

by Melissa Riddell

  The Descendant

  Baltin Trilogy (Book 1)

  Melissa Riddell

  Contents

  THE DESCENDANT

  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

  About the Author

  THE DESCENDANT

  BALTIN TRILOGY (BOOK 1)

  She wants her world back; he wants her heart.

  Tilly Morgan and her four-legged companion, Kodiak, are just trying to survive the alien arrival. Two years ago, the visitors unleashed devastation—a world-wide EMP followed by a deadly virus that wiped out more than half of humanity.

  Traversing the lonely landscape, she runs into an alien on patrol with one order: eradicate all human life. A mysterious, dark-haired stranger named Jareth comes to her aid, and she reluctantly allows him to join her quest to find her sister. He even persuades her to let the damaged alien tag along against her better judgment.

  As her group travels the desolate world and inches closer to her goal, she’s forced to examine her unwanted feelings for Jareth and come to terms with her heart, even if the truth threatens to destroy her and everything she’s come to believe.

  This story is dedicated to a childhood friend, Kelly Hyer. Even though you were taken away too soon, I can still recall your gentle soul and sunny smile. I wish I’d gotten the chance to know you better. May you fly above this world, unfettered and unbroken.

  THE DESCENDANT

  BALTIN TRILOGY (BOOK 1)

  Copyright©2019

  MELISSA RIDDELL

  Cover Design by Wren Taylor

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by: DLG Publishing Partners

  eBook ASIN: B07ZWHVKBP

  Print ISBN: 9781709725081

  www.DLGPublishingPartners.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  I specifically want to thank my mother, Rose Washington, and my friend, Samantha Brown, for reading this story and giving me feedback. Not only did you give me suggestions, but you also gave me confidence.

  I also want to thank my daughter for editing my earlier short stories, and giving me unbiased feedback on what worked and what didn't. I love you.

  Thanks to my husband for putting up with my obsession and always supporting my wild ideas.

  Chapter One

  An old gas station looms on the side of the road, squat and dreary in the daylight. Its gray cinderblock walls are lifeless and unwelcoming. The darkened windows serve as a sober reminder of how much the world has changed. Dull paint bubbles and peels near the back of the building.

  Across the street, in front of the store, a long, wooden sign leans at an angle. Old bullet holes pepper the letters; no doubt a favorite hangout for target practice after dark—once upon a time. Even with the weathered, vandalized wood, the writing’s still legible.

  Welcome to Denton Valley, Texas.

  Texas Living at its Finest!

  Home of the Burkett Pecan Pie Festival.

  Population 661.

  “Denton Valley, I hate to be the one to break it to you”—the tips of my fingers trace the flaking paint on the letters—“but now it’s Population 0.”

  My feet slap the pavement and disturb a layer of dust covering the dry, cracked asphalt.

  The green metal sign in front of the station draws my attention. Cursive yellow letters announce this place once belonged to a guy named “Big Al”.

  “Well, Al, I hope the inside of your store fares better than the outside.” A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me I’m in for another fruitless scavenge, though.

  A slight gust of wind sends a wadded piece of trash tumbling end over end across the empty parking lot. Big Al’s sign swings. A soft squeal creaks, sending a shiver up my spine.

  Above the gas island, a rusted canopy sags, as if it can no longer take the weight of the world. The structure, built to protect customers from rain and snow while gassing up their vehicles, now lies in wait for unsuspecting victims who venture too close.

  Under the awning, grime-coated, lifeless fuel pumps sit fifteen feet from the store’s front door. At this angle, walking up to the side of the building, my attention wanders to the entrance. Therein lies the difference between food tonight or starvation tomorrow.

  “Come on, Tilly, you can do it.” This pep talk gives me a push of courage. Yeah, I can do this.

  It’s midday, and the inside of the store, dark and forbidding without electric lights, seems to frown at my impending intrusion. With one last glance over a shoulder, I slide along the outer wall, careful to keep away from any windows. The ridges sticking out between each brick bump against the soft material of my t-shirt—tiny fingers grasping to hold me back and keep me in place. The steady whoosh of blood in my ears competes with the chattering song of birds and the loud buzz of cicadas in the trees.

  My hand strays to the little .9mm in my waistband, not to pull it out, but to reassure myself it still rests snug on my skin. The feel of the cold silver metal calms my nervous fingers.

  On the ground, near my feet, squeezed into a seam between the wall and weeds, lies a pocket-sized bible. The little book’s faux white leather, dirty and swollen from alternating bouts of heat and rain, looks like it’s seen better days. It’s the same kind of bible once left in the nightstands of motel rooms. The thought of motels causes an unpleasant memory to stir, and I freeze with fear, unable to take a breath. Squeezing my eyes shut, I fight down the wings of panic that threaten to take flight.

  No. Don’t think about that. Focus on here and now. You’re a survivor, that’s what matters.

  Eyes open, I grit my teeth, forcing the unpleasant recollection into a vault inside my mind and then lock the door.

  Water and food. That’s what’s important now.

  The fear recedes, a little, and my chest loosens to allow clean, country air into my lungs. With each cleansing breath, black tendrils of fear loosen their hold and exit my body.

  Better. I can do this. I haven’t survived the end of everything just to let fear determine my damn future.

  The end of the world didn’t happen with a l
oud boom or fanfare, but with more of a whimper. Most of humanity didn’t figure out the enormity of what had happened for a few days when it became evident the entire world collapsed.

  Two years ago, large electromagnetic pulses, EMPs, took out our technology, rendering anything with circuitry or electronics useless. With the loss of technology, civilization as we knew it was at a standstill. No ringing phones. No blaring televisions. No honking cars.

  Overnight, the planet tumbled back to the dark ages. Larger cities had made out the worst. Rioting, looting, and killing ran rampant in the large metropolises. Those of us who lived in rural areas fared better than city-dwellers because we already knew how to live off the land—at least in some small way.

  That first attack had happened right before I was to graduate High School. Before the alien arrival, the plan was to go to college, like my older sister, and become a science teacher. Now, the only career path left for me is as a scrapper—a survivor.

  Refocusing on my task and pressing a shoulder to the outside corner, I lean my head out to scope the entrance. So far, no sign of movement inside.

  My eyes scan the sky, which remains crisp and blue. Nothing but flying birds and dancing insects as far as the eye can see. No black spheres in sight.

  Wait. What is that? Damn. Not another one.

  Something dark and round hovers above the treetops farther along the road, from the direction I came. Flattening my back against the rough stone wall, I will my body to meld into the porous surface of the bricks. If I try to duck for cover, the movement will draw the sphere to my presence. The only thing to do now is to become a statue—and hope.

  Half a mile away, the orb begins to float along an unseen path while it scouts the area. Its black shadow trails along the asphalt below its smooth surface. The ebony image of the silhouette in the azure sky shoots a new tendril of fear into my body when it turns and heads in my direction.

  “Get the hell away.” My words are soft, even though anger and fear war within. Grabbing its attention would ensure a quick, painful death, and that’s the last thing I want to do right now.

  My not-so-white shirt and faded jeans should blend into the dirty, gray wall behind me. If, by some chance I could manage to outrun its weapons, even hiding in the store won’t mean safety. The orb might be too big to enter the building, but there’s nothing to stop it from waiting me out or shooting up the place. I have one option if I want to avoid its lasers—hide in plain sight and pray.

  Making this decision, I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. Desperation claws inside my brain, I’m sure its alien sensors, or whatever the hell it uses, will pick up my human presence.

  My eyes fly open again. I breathe through my nose to force tiny breaths into my lungs, keeping the rise and fall of my chest minimal. Before I can blink, the black sphere races toward the store, something piquing its attention. The orbs can move fast when they want, and something has caught its proverbial eye.

  Oh, God, don’t let it be me.

  The undulating song of the cicadas hiding in the forest stops, no doubt sensing this alien invader. All becomes still and silent. Even the occasional gust of wind stirs no longer.

  Up close, the dull orb dominates as it hovers a few feet above the road, the soft whir and zing from within its depths punctuating the silence. The ominous presence of its hidden weaponry prickles the hairs on my scalp.

  No one knows for sure what’s inside the craft since humanity has never seen its alien conquerors. The best guess, in my opinion, is they are artificially intelligent drones sent here for who knows what. Well, besides exterminating humankind.

  Afraid to turn my head, I move my gaze to track its course when it continues to follow the road past the store, out of my vision. The soft sounds become fainter while it travels farther away.

  I sigh a breath of relief. That was close, too close.

  Usually, the spheres scout at night and catch unsuspecting groups of humans when they sleep, but there are still occasional daytime sightings. I try to travel roads with plenty of foliage nearby for hiding spaces in times such as these.

  The sound of the departing sphere fades, and I swallow, mouth dry and hot.

  These guys don’t backtrack an area once they’ve performed an initial patrol, so this location will be alien-free for a while.

  I hope.

  Tension creates knots in my neck, and I rotate my shoulders to ease the discomfort. It’s time to finish what I came here to do. I palm the little pistol from the waistband of my jeans and point it at the ground.

  My legs bend into a crouch and I twist around the corner. Gulping a deep breath, I step onto the concrete sidewalk that lines the front of the building. Balancing on the balls of my feet, I reach my empty hand to the hard wall to steady my balance. The muscles of my thighs protest at this awkward, crab-like position, and strain the denim of my jeans.

  One deep breath in and I propel myself to the entrance before I chicken out.

  The buzzing song of the cicadas returns, and the cry of a lone hawk circling high above rises in competition.

  Broken shards of glass, from the front door, trail out onto the pavement. As sunlight hits the sharp edges, tiny prisms of light bathe the sidewalk in miniature rainbows of color.

  Angling my head to get a closer peek inside without exposing myself, a layer of thick, brown dust covers the floor.

  No sign of footprints. Good, there’s no one here, unless they came through the back door. Be on your guard, Tilly.

  Survivors must’ve raided this place before the virus—and I have a sneaking suspicion there’s nothing left. Hope still flares, though. It’s all I have left, hope. Fear won’t hold me back, not this time.

  The tip of my booted foot reaches out and crosses the threshold, and the other boot follows. The crunching of the glass under the rubber soles seems deafening in the silence. I’m afraid the sound will alert anyone hiding inside to my arrival, leaving me with a few precious seconds of advantage. It’s imperative to use this momentum as best I can.

  Palms slick with sweat, I release my hold on the weapon before it slips. Stuffing it close to my skin and waistband, I rub both hands over my legs to wipe away the moisture. Now dry, I position the weapon for a tighter grip. The metal handle of the door is cool to the touch, and I step toward the unknown.

  Glass grinding under my boots again causes me to cringe, but there’s no way to avoid the mess on the floor.

  In one smooth move, I raise the gun shoulder level, spread my feet, and brace myself.

  Varying degrees of darkness pepper the aisles. Near the end of a shelf to my right, close to the checkout counter, is a square sign sticking up. Black letters written with a Sharpie announce Buy One, Get One Free candy bars. Farther down the aisle, a murky round shape—that could be the head of a person or a cardboard cutout of a merchandise display—floats in the dim, cave-like store.

  I try to scan everywhere at once, praying my daylight-attuned eyes adjust to the sudden lack of light. If I’m wrong, and one of these shapes is a survivor about to take my head off, I’m providing an excellent target with the light of the parking lot outlining my silhouette.

  The soft flutter of panic stirs, and I duck to a shelf on the right. Breathe in, breathe out.

  Hair limp by the Texas summer heat, it clings to my forehead and hangs across an eye. Beads of sweat roll past my temples. I want nothing more than to turn tail and leave this dead store behind.

  Don’t be a coward. You’ve survived worse than this. You can do it. Stop being an idiot.

  A broad shelf to my left ensures better cover.

  I steady my arm and swing the gun in another arc. Unable to shake the feeling of hidden eyes following my actions, I’m certain someone, or something, will lumber out of the dark before I can cross the open space.

  In a hunch, knees almost touching the floor, I slide over.

  I cover my mouth with a free hand to quieten my breathing, which seems harsh in the stillness. Both ears strain to
filter any sound that might not belong.

  The call of cicadas and birds outside grow fainter, but other than their song, all is calm and oppressive.

  A musty, stale odor creeps into my nostrils, reminding me of old, wet basements and moldy bathrooms. Several minutes pass, but I stand rooted, listening for the tell-tale noises of someone in hiding.

  All is quiet.

  Spasms pull at the muscles in my neck, and I stretch while listening. The silence is encouraging, and I dare another peek down the closest aisle.

  A mixture of grime, dirt, and who knows what else on the old tile floor tells this store’s history, which is the same as mine: we’ve been alone for a while. No one’s been in this building for months, from either the front or back entrance, or there’d be footprints by now.

  Tipping my head in relief at the knowledge no one’s going to jump out and attack me, I let out a small sigh.

  Now that my eyes are adjusting to the dark interior, I take in the shelves. They’re bare of anything besides dust bunnies and an occasional piece of trash.

  Well, surely there’s something left to use.

  One by one, a methodical search of the nearest merchandise rack dampens my mood. Just because they appear empty, doesn’t mean it’s a certainty.

  Pressing my knees to the floor, and placing my hands on the cool tiles, I peer into the crevice between ground and shelf, hoping a treasure lies in wait.

  Sometimes, in their haste, raiders forget to check these tight, hidden spaces, where canned goods roll and get wedged.