Nuclear Dawn Box Set Books 1-3: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series

by Kyla Stone

  “What?” Carson asked, blinking. “They’re letting us through! They’re—”

  “Hey!” The small, scary one with the teardrops inked on his cheeks pointed at them. “They the ones that killed Potillo!”

  “Stop!” Tiger Tattoo shouted. He spun and raised his M4. “Get them!”

  The rest of the gangbangers snapped to attention. They leapt from the cars’ hoods and jerked to their feet, immediately spreading out to block the lane between the two vehicles.

  Within two seconds, a dozen assault rifles were aimed at the truck’s windshield.

  “What happened?” Vanessa cried. “What are they doing?”

  “Reverse!” Dakota shouted. She punched the back of the driver’s seat. Going forward was suicidal. They were seconds from a rain of high-octane gunfire.

  The stalled cars along the left side of the road next to the expressway kept them from going left, while the row of palms blocked their exit on the right. They were trapped.

  “Go back! Back!”

  Dolphin and Jughead took several swift strides backward, almost tripping over their own feet. Jughead’s face turned ashen and his eyes widened. The kid could’ve shot them all dead right there, but he didn’t raise his weapon—just gripped it tighter and held it in front of his chest like a shield.

  Logan leaned across Vanessa’s frozen body and shifted into reverse. “Punch the gas!” he shouted.

  Carson blinked and obeyed. The truck jerked backward, tires slewing to the left.

  Gunfire exploded. Vanessa screamed. Beside Dakota, Shay went rigid in fear.

  “Get down!” Dakota cried.

  Shay grabbed Eden’s arm and pulled her down. Eden bent at the waist, covering her head with her hands. Shay leaned over and covered Eden’s small body with her own.

  A burst of gratitude toward Shay thrummed through Dakota. With Eden as safe as she was going to get, she focused on keeping them all alive.

  She twisted in her seat and looked behind the truck, the seatbelt rubbing against her neck.

  The Jetta was idling about fifteen yards behind them. Thirty yards behind the Jetta, the dump truck was parked at a forty-five-degree angle, blocking the entirety of the right lane. They had to get past the dump truck for cover, then they could do a U-turn and get the hell out of here.

  Gunfire and shouting erupted. While Dakota gave directions, Logan racked the bolt action and returned fire with the Remington. Boom. The crack of the rifle reverberated in the enclosed cab.

  The truck squealed backward, swerving into the left lane, then the right. Park and Julio were both lying flat in the truck bed, Park on his back, eyes squeezed shut, Julio on his stomach, his hands pressed over his head.

  Three rounds punched through the side of the truck and out the other side. She didn’t have time to see if Park and Julio were okay.

  The Jetta saw them coming and hastened into reverse. Dakota glimpsed two stricken faces—one male, one female—in the front seats.

  Pop, pop. Two holes appeared in the Jetta’s windshield. The woman driver’s

  head jerked backward. She slumped against the seat.

  The Jetta swerved left, tires squealing as it canted off the shoulder. Its backend slammed into the trunk of a palm tree. The fronds shook. The rear bumper crumpled.

  Several more rounds smashed into the Jetta’s windshield and side passenger windows. Safety glass spidered and broke into pieces. The male passenger’s mouth hung open in a red O.

  Two people dead—their only fault being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The truck careened toward the Jetta.

  “Go right!” Dakota yelled. She could barely hear her own voice over the bullets, the screaming, and her ringing ears.

  Carson jerked the wheel too far. He overcorrected and the truck lifted onto two tires. It spun as Carson slammed the brakes, tires squealing.

  A bullet pinged into the grille of the F-150. Another drilled through the rear window, six inches to the right of Dakota’s head. She ducked instinctively and popped her head up—only to watch in horror as the truck smashed into the back of the Jetta.

  29

  Dakota

  Dakota’s body was flung against the back seat. Her head smacked against the rear window, and pain flashed through her shoulder and skull.

  Everything went dark and blurry. For a second, sound seemed to fade away. She tasted blood in her mouth. She’d bitten her tongue.

  Someone was calling her name.

  “Dakota!” Logan shouted. “Dakota!”

  The rear window had shattered. Gummy shards of safety glass clung to her clothes and spilled on her lap. How had that happened? Was it from the crash? Or the bullets?

  She blinked and shook the fuzz from her brain. Fresh pain radiated from her head all the way down her neck and spine. But she could move. Nothing was broken.

  Carson had slammed on the brakes, so luckily they’d slowed significantly before striking the Jetta. She fumbled for her seatbelt and freed herself. Her gun had slipped out of her hands in the crash. She twisted and frantically searched the floor at her feet.

  More gunfire chattered from outside the truck.

  She snatched the Sig and wrestled the door open. “Eden, get out!”

  Eden sat rigid in her seat. She didn’t move. Blood dripped from a small cut on her forehead.

  “Eden!” Dakota screamed.

  Shay reached over, unbuckled Eden’s seatbelt, pushed her out, and stumbled after her.

  “Wait for cover!” Logan growled.

  Shay, Eden, and the Wilburns cowered behind the truck, their arms over their heads. On the opposite side, Logan slammed open the door and crouched behind the engine block for protection.

  Rounds screamed over their heads. Twenty yards away, five gangbangers rushed the truck. With the stock pressed firmly against his shoulder, Logan aimed and fired.

  The gangbanger on the right dropped his carbine and clutched his shoulder.

  Logan cycled the bolt action, chambering another round, and fired again.

  His second shot struck another thug in the stomach and he went down with a scream.

  Dakota forced herself to focus, exhale, and aim️ her Sig. Six bullets. She had none to waste. She fired a double tap. The middle thug’s head jerked. Red mist sprayed from his skull as he dropped.

  The next shot went wide, but it accomplished its task. Abruptly realizing they’d bitten off more than they could chew, the Blood Outlaws scrambled for cover.

  It gave the others the precious seconds they needed to escape the line of fire. Julio helped Park scramble out of the truck bed and drop to the pavement.

  “Get behind me!” Dakota cried.

  She fired off two more shots as a handful of thugs scurried from the cover of the pickup and SUV to one of the cars parked along the shoulder—and only forty feet away.

  She nailed one in the leg as he dove for cover. He screamed, fell, and dragged himself behind the car. She aimed and fired at him again but missed.

  She pulled the trigger. Nothing.

  Out of bullets, with no way to reload.

  Panic swirled in her gut as she ducked down low and shoved the useless pistol in its holster. Damn, damn, damn! What now?

  The other thugs stayed down as Logan ejected another shell, racked the load, and blasted the car. The metal frame juddered, safety glass cascading from the windows.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed her group rise and dash for the protection of the dump truck ten yards behind them.

  Thirty feet. It felt like forever.

  When she knew they were safe, she signaled to Logan.

  Logan was still crouched behind the F-150’s engine block to protect himself from oncoming fire, but he’d angled his body to the left, leveling the hunting rifle at the two gangbanger kids.

  They were standing ten feet away, slack-jawed, their hands on their weapons but not in the ready position, not aimed at anything. They must’ve run after the truck, but once they�
��d reached it, they froze, unsure what to do, hesitant to kill.

  Logan didn’t hesitate. He cycled the bolt action and blasted the heavy kid in the chest. He shifted, cycled again, and shot the one with the big ears.

  The round punched through the boy’s throat. Blood sprayed everywhere. The AR-15 clattered to the pavement as the kid sank to the ground in slow motion, clutching at his mangled neck.

  Within a few seconds, both teenagers were dead.

  “Cover me!” Logan shouted.

  Dakota darted forward, grabbed the Remington from Logan’s hands, and popped up just long enough to rack the bolt, aim, and fire at two thugs rounding the fender of the rusty red pickup. Her shot missed—she didn’t have time to aim properly—but the thugs jerked back and dove for cover.

  Logan kept low and dashed out into the open. He ran for the assault rifles, seized one, then crouched, grabbed one of the bodies by the leg, and dragged it back with him behind the truck, the AR-15 attached to the sling around the boy’s shoulder clattering after it.

  A couple of shots blasted his way, but Logan moved fast and low. They missed.

  He squeezed in beside Dakota, pressing against her side as he swiftly stripped the ammo pouches on the dead boy’s belt and stuffed two large, curved magazines in his pocket. He handed one semi-automatic AR-15 to Dakota and kept the second one for himself.

  “Thirty rounds each magazine,” he panted.

  It was a good thing. The Sig was completely out, and the Remington was nearly empty.

  “Go!” he said. “I’ll follow.”

  Bullets zipped past their heads, pinging the asphalt in front of them and the sides of the truck. Another boom cracked the air. Three feet away, the pavement erupted in an explosion of concrete shards.

  “Go!”

  She leapt to her feet, turned, and ran.

  Legs pumping, hair flying behind her, ragged breath torn from her scorched lungs—she ran with everything she had. The large, heavy rifle banged against her ribs.

  Her back was an exposed target. She expected a bullet to the spine at any second.

  She made it ten feet, then twenty, then thirty. Behind her, Logan kept the gangbangers locked down under steady fire. Boom, boom, boom.

  She sprinted around the dump truck and pressed herself against a giant wheel, her pulse a roar in her ears. She longed to stay there, to stay safe, but Logan needed help.

  She pivoted around the edge of the fender, kneeling and resting her elbows on her leg to better steady her aim. The rifle was much heavier than her pistol. She needed to keep it braced or she’d tire quickly, and her shots would fly wildly off-target.

  She flicked the safety off, quickly adjusted the stock, and wedged it tight against her shoulder. She peered through the scope.

  Thirty yards away, a head popped up behind the red pickup, preparing to shoot at Logan as he hustled toward the dump truck, facing backward, aiming and firing with every step.

  She squeezed the trigger, tensing as the recoil slammed against her shoulder. The thunderous crack boomed in her ears.

  The shot missed the thug’s head but struck the hood a foot away. She squeezed off three more shots—all missing, but close enough to scare the living crap out of her target.

  The thug ducked low, giving Logan time to reach cover.

  Logan angled himself just left of the enormous truck’s cab. He aimed in the space between the cab and the large yellow hopper.

  With Logan protected, Dakota risked a glance around her. Two feet away, Carson and Vanessa knelt, clutching each other, Carson’s arms wrapped around his wife. Julio, Park, and Shay huddled together behind the second wheel below the cab.

  Dakota’s throat constricted. “Where’s Eden?”

  30

  Dakota

  Shay’s eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no. I thought she was right behind me—”

  Dakota whirled, wanting nothing more than to run back into the line of fire to rescue Eden.

  “Wait!” Julio reached out and grabbed her arm. “It’s too dangerous!”

  Logan moved forward, took a quick peek, let off a volley of shots, then pressed himself back against the truck. “She’s under the Ford. I can see her foot.”

  Dakota couldn’t breathe. “I’m not leaving her.”

  “Of course not,” Julio said. “How do we help?”

  “Don’t get yourself killed,” Logan said.

  Julio touched his gold cross. “That’s not good enough! Let me help!”

  A bullet whizzed by and clipped the edge of the front grille. Another shot grazed the outside of the huge tire Shay and Park hid behind. Shay flinched and let out a whimper.

  “This isn’t safe enough. We’ve got to get them out of here first.” Logan craned his neck to look behind him. “When I say go, run and get behind those big concrete columns beneath the overpass. No bullets are getting through those. Dakota and I will cover you. Then we’ll go get Eden.”

  He was right, and she knew it. She had to fight off the panic, the gut-wrenching fear, and regain control. One, two, three. Breathe.

  She pulled away from Julio, forced herself not to run for Eden.

  “Dakota?” Logan asked. “You good?”

  Dakota gave him a tight nod. “Let’s do this.”

  Dakota and Logan covered them while Park got his arm around Shay’s waist. They hobbled toward the nearest concrete column. Carson seized his wife by the wrist and pulled her along. They ran past Shay and Park, who were helping each other. Park was pale but on his feet.

  “Julio, go!” Dakota said.

  “You two cover me. I’ll get Eden.”

  “Julio—"

  Julio’s soft, friendly face hardened into something Dakota didn’t recognize. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “This is the best way! There’s no time to discuss it!”

  “Listen to him.” Logan’s rifle clicked. He swung back behind cover, ejected the magazine, and pulled a fresh one out of his pocket. He slapped it in. “Dakota, you take that side. You’ve got everything right of center. I’ll take the left.”

  Fresh gunfire zipped over their heads. Dakota swore as she scurried to the right edge of the truck, knelt, adjusted the AR-15 and prepared to provide a fresh volley of covering fire. She would have to trust Julio with her sister’s life. She had no other choice.

  She settled her nerves, just like Ezra had taught her. You’re no good to anyone if you panic. Her hands stung, her palms damp with sweat and blood beneath the bandages. It made it harder to grip the rifle and keep it steady.

  Her chest and lungs still ached from the smoke inhalation. She couldn’t suck in enough oxygen. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

  She shut out the pain, the fear, the gunfire—everything but the task at hand.

  Five gangbangers had left the cover of the SUV. Two crept forward, rifles aimed at the F-150. They let fly a few shots. Bullets pinged the rear fender and punched through the driver’s side door.

  Julio was down low, scrambling on his hands and knees, only a few feet from the truck now. She focused between the sights. Took a breath. Exhaled. Squeezed the trigger. Boom!

  The recoil smacked her shoulder. She shifted an inch and adjusted her aim to the left. Exhaled again. Squeezed the trigger.

  The first thug’s head jerked back like an invisible hand had slapped him. The second man spasmed, jittering like a puppet on a string, then slumped to the ground.

  She panned for another target.

  The remaining thugs sprinted for the cover of the Taco Bell fifty feet west. They were shooting sideways as they ran, guns bobbling in their hands, rounds whizzing harmlessly over the Ford’s roof.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Julio reach the crumpled fender. He crawled past the front wheel, stretched between the undercarriage, and grasped Eden by the ankles. He gave an unceremonious yank and dragged her out.

  Eden was shaking and crying. Julio covered her body with his own and started the arduo
us crawl back to shelter. Dakota could see his lips moving but couldn’t hear a thing over the cacophony of bullets and the tinny ringing in her ears.

  She centered her sights on a tall guy in a lime-green shirt running across the grassy patch between the buildings. Sweat dripped into her eyes. She blinked and exhaled. Squeezed the trigger. Missed. Shot again, missed again.

  Her hands were shaking. The rifle was heavy, and shooting moving targets was incredibly difficult. The last few years, she’d only practiced at the range. She’d gotten rusty, and now it was going to cost her.

  Lime Shirt was almost to the cover of the building. She panned ahead of him and fired two shots. He stumbled and fell face-first to the ground. He dropped his M4 as he squealed, body contorting, and clutched his leg. She’d hit him in the thigh.

  She blinked. Took one more shot—the stock slamming against her bruised shoulder, the boom rattling her ears—and ended him.

  Julio and Eden scrambled safely around the side of the dump truck. Dakota glanced at them only long enough to check them for bullet holes.

  One side of Eden’s face was scraped from the pavement. Vomit stained her shirt and dribbled down her chin. The sour stench mingled with the stink of gunpowder. She was trembling like a leaf. But they were both unhurt.

  “Get behind the columns with the others!” Dakota scanned the area for more threats. “Go, go, go!”

  Julio wrapped his arm around Eden’s waist, and they half-ran, half-stumbled beneath the underpass to the shelter of the concrete columns.

  The chatter of gunfire ceased.

  Shell casings littered the asphalt. The F-150, the SUV, and the red pickup, and every car along the east shoulder of the road were riddled with bullet holes. The scene looked like a war-zone from a movie.

  She took a second to wipe the sweat out of her eyes. The heat drained every ounce of her energy. Her arms felt like heavy weights; she could barely hold up the rifle.

  “I think we got most of them,” she panted.

  “Maybe,” Logan allowed.

  He didn’t lower his gun. Neither did she.