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

by Kyla Stone

Boom. Boom. Boom. More gunfire—but it wasn’t the Blood Outlaws. Or at least, not these Blood Outlaws. The shots came from farther away, echoing in the still, heavy air. Boom, boom, boom.

  A bullet whistled past her head, so close she felt it like a wind in her hair.

  Three more rounds struck the pavement a few yards behind her.

  Behind her? The angle was all wrong. How could that be?

  At least ten dead bodies littered the road. Several more were alive, but barely. The rest were hidden behind the three bullet-riddled vehicles. By her count, there couldn’t be more than five gangbangers left.

  Unless there were reinforcements…

  She twisted, craning her neck, searching for movement behind her or to the left, near the Taco Bell and McDonald’s.

  More shots blasted. Closer, now. Too close.

  “Logan! What’s going on?” she cried between pops of gunfire.

  “Somehow, they’re flanking us…oh, hell.”

  “What? What is it?”

  Logan swore. “We’ve got company.”

  31

  Logan

  Logan turned to see a horde of bodies swarm out of the Publix entrance about seventy yards away—at least thirty gangbangers with assault rifles.

  The makeshift emergency aid center was long gone. The pallets and forklifts sat abandoned in the middle of the parking lot. The crowd had fled.

  A second group was coming from the west behind the restaurants. More gangbangers. But—no. That wasn’t right.

  He peered through the scope. The figures wore uniforms. Soldiers, maybe the National Guard, and a few police officers.

  They were moving fast, engaging the first group from the Publix. The gangbangers took cover behind the dozen or so abandoned vehicles spread across the parking lot.

  Somehow, their own scuffle had collided with a larger battle between law enforcement and the Blood Outlaws.

  Dakota risked a peek over the hood and ducked back down. “No one’s pointing any guns at us.”

  “They’re distracted,” Logan whispered. “We can get the hell out of here.”

  Dakota hesitated. He recognized the look on her face—stubborn determination, that wild ferocity in her eyes.

  She wanted to do something insanely stupid.

  “No way,” he said. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “There are two officers taking cover between the McDonald’s and the Taco Bell, on the Taco Bell side, near the drive-thru window,” she said. “Forty yards, maybe. At your nine o’clock.”

  He shook his head. “Hell, no.”

  She ignored him and motioned to the west. “Their backs are to us. They don’t know we’re here—or the Blood Outlaws. The gangbangers aren’t all dead, Logan. I glimpsed a few of their heads through the shattered pickup window. Five of them left. Tiger Tattoo is still out there.”

  “We need to leave while we still—”

  “Those scumbags aren’t paying attention to us anymore because they’re going after the officers. The good guys.”

  “I know,” Logan said. “That’s the point. We need to run while we still can.”

  “We will. After we end those maggots.”

  “Dakota—”

  “Logan.” Sweat dripped down her forehead, strands of her long auburn hair stuck to her cheeks. Her face was pale, her pupils too wide, her voice still raspy from the smoke.

  But her expression was as fierce as it’d ever been. “I’m doing this.”

  He saw the stubborn tilt of her jaw, the steely determination in her eyes. He resisted the urge to argue with her. He knew her well enough by now. She wouldn’t bend.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d forgiven her for her lies and deception, but he harbored no anger, either. They understood each other. Something had happened in the last few days. Something he didn’t understand.

  All he knew was that now they were in this together.

  He wasn’t going after her again.

  This time, he’d go first.

  “Fine,” he said.

  Surprise flashed across her face—then relief. “Really?”

  He shrugged. “You with the hero complex again.”

  She gave him a grim smile. “You with the bitching. You’re worse than a whiny teenage girl.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He jerked another loaded magazine from his pocket—he had two more—and handed it to her. “You need to get beneath the overpass and protect the others.”

  She ejected her spent magazine and slapped in the new one. “I’m coming with you.”

  “There’s no time. We’ve got hostiles and gunfire coming from all directions. Our people are sitting ducks. Save them.”

  She scowled. “What’re you gonna do?”

  “Exactly what you want me to do. I’ll save your guys.”

  She didn’t argue. She didn’t say anything, just gave a single sharp nod, then moved into a crouch and scurried away.

  A sickening rush of dizziness lurched through Logan. He blinked and pushed it away. He couldn’t afford to be sick. Not until he’d finished this.

  He peeked around the edge of the dump truck’s front fender, then immediately jerked back. Dakota’s intel was good. Five Blood Outlaws were left standing, including Tiger Tattoo and the runt who’d ID’d Logan—Teardrop.

  They were inching toward the dump truck along the center of the road about twenty yards away. But they weren’t coming for him. Their heads were turned to the west. They edged off the road, toward the fast food buildings.

  Five against one. And they all had M4s and AR-15s just like he did. Not great odds. He didn’t have a good angle from his position, either.

  There wasn’t time to think, to strategize a better plan. In a few seconds, they’d be off the road and headed between the palms. He’d have to get creative—and quick.

  Before he could think better of it, Logan dropped and rolled beneath the dump truck. It was tight. He couldn’t move very well, but he could do what he needed to do. Hopefully. The stench of gasoline and gunpowder singed his nostrils. He could barely hear a thing over the tinny ringing in his ears.

  He braced his arms against the asphalt and aimed low. All he could see were feet and shins. He scanned left to right. Five pairs of feet in his line of sight.

  Here we go.

  He pulled the trigger. Hit a right ankle. The thug dropped his gun and buckled with a shriek.

  Logan shifted, re-aimed. Fired. Hit a shin. A spray of red mist. Fragments of bone exploded. The man fell back onto his ass. The second bullet struck his inner thigh, blood spurting. The rifle clattered to the pavement.

  Logan didn’t pause to see what the hostile did next. He was already shifting his focus, aiming the sights at a pair of neon-yellow Nike high-tops and multicolored track pants. The third gangbanger jumped back after the first volley and took off running to the north.

  Logan fired a shot, missed, and quickly searched for another target.

  The fourth thug was close, only ten feet away. He crouched low, searching underneath the vehicle.

  Boom! Logan missed.

  The thug darted around the rear of the truck.

  “Shooter beneath the car!” he screamed, already dropping to the pavement himself, a suppressed pistol in his hand.

  Logan’s finger was damp on the trigger, the grip slipping in his palms. He fired again, missed again.

  He couldn’t twist easily to aim down the length of his body and find his target. He was too big, too bulky.

  Logan was trapped.

  32

  Logan

  Logan contorted his body. His right shoulder, arm, and side ground into the asphalt. Tiny chunks of rock and gravel jutted into his hips and ribs as he awkwardly dragged the AR-15, smacking his wrist against the undercarriage.

  He aimed down past his feet though he couldn’t see anything, hoping he didn’t shoot his own toes off. Anything to make it harder on the gangbanger at the rear of the truck.

  He fired. Boom!

  Someone
screamed. Then a thud, like a body collapsing.

  He waited a moment, every muscle tensed, straining his ears for any sounds, frantically scanning the narrow sliver of space he could see.

  The rat-a-tat of gunfire came from the west. No bullets found their mark anywhere near him.

  He shoved the AR-15 in front of him, his finger still on the trigger, and inched out from beneath the truck, worming himself up between the rear wheels so he came out head—and gun—first. Staying to the rear of the truck also gave him protection from any stray gunfire from the Publix battle.

  As he clambered carefully to his feet, then scooted into a crouched position, his knees popped in protest. The oily stench of gasoline burned his nostrils. He spat sour spittle and wiped his sweating face.

  He eased around the rear left fender, gun up and ready to fire, and took in the scene.

  One of the Blood Outlaws he’d shot in the thigh was already bleeding out. The one at the rear of the truck was crawling away with low, anguished moans, his bloody leg dragging uselessly behind him.

  Logan shot him twice in the back of the head.

  The third thug with the shattered ankle was on the ground, fumbling for the pistol at his side. Without hesitating, Logan fired off a burst of five shots. They ripped through the guy’s chest. He went down and didn’t move.

  Logan moved across the road, rifle up and ready, finger on the trigger. He stepped over the bodies of the two teenagers. The two kids he’d shot and killed in cold blood.

  They hadn’t been hardened criminals. Maybe they’d joined the Blood Outlaws out of necessity, out of desperation to survive—just like him all those years ago.

  He didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to care. They chose the wrong side.

  To save his own skin and the people with him, he’d needed their weapons. He couldn’t afford to wonder if he’d made the right choice.

  He hadn’t felt a thing when he’d killed them, when he fired lead into soft flesh and bone, ending their pathetic, pitiful lives.

  The darkness was inside him. The monster. He felt no anger, no blinding rage. The doubt was gone. The shame erased.

  His mind was clear. He was a machine. Cold, efficient. Lethal.

  He would kill anyone and anything in his way.

  Two scumbags were left. Where were they? Logan quickly swept his surroundings. Teardrop was nowhere in sight. He was the one in the neon-yellow Nikes who’d turned tail and fled, just he like had in the Old Navy store.

  Logan glimpsed movement between two palm trees on his left. He recognized the do-rag, the snarling big cat tattoo. Tiger Tattoo had his back to Logan and was headed toward the McDonald’s and the Taco Bell, intent on taking out those soldiers.

  There was a pop of gunfire. It sounded suppressed.

  Logan ducked behind a stalled car. He slunk stealthily around the side and inched around the front fender.

  A man lay on the ground. Blood stained the right shoulder of his army combat uniform. A soldier.

  Tiger Tattoo stepped over the downed soldier, grasping what looked like a Beretta M9A3 with a suppressor in both hands. He rounded the corner of Taco Bell, edging close to the wall.

  For half a second, Logan wished he’d asked Dakota to remain behind and cover him.

  Too late now. He had Tiger Tattoo in his sights. It was time to take him out.

  Logan followed in a crouch, slipping between the palm trees. He didn’t have a good shot yet. He couldn’t afford to waste the element of surprise.

  The soldier on the ground was injured—unconscious, but still breathing. Logan crept past him. A side door inset in a shallow alcove along the western wall of the building provided a bit of cover. He hid as much as he could, then anchored himself against the stucco wall, the stock firm against the tender muscles of his shoulder, and peeked around the corner.

  The soldiers were kneeling, focused on the battle in front of them. One wore an Army combat uniform; the other was dressed in khaki pants and a bulletproof vest emblazoned with “ATF Police” over a navy T-shirt.

  Twenty feet ahead of him, Tiger Tattoo planted his feet on the asphalt and aimed his weapon at the soldier’s head.

  Logan had only a second to act. He found the center of Tiger Tattoo’s skull in his sights, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger twice.

  The Blood Outlaw’s head exploded in a cloud of red vapor. He toppled onto his back. He didn’t get up.

  Both the agent and the soldier whirled at the sound of the gunshots directly behind them.

  They pointed their weapons at Logan.

  “Don’t shoot!” he shouted.

  33

  Logan

  Logan knew he looked like a gangbanger himself, with his bronze skin, hard face, and sleeves of tattoos. His only chance at remaining alive was to obey immediately—and hope they weren’t so hyped on adrenaline that they shot first, asked questions later.

  He flung the AR-15 to the ground, knelt on the pavement, and laced his hands behind his head. “I’m unarmed! I’m not one of them!”

  The soldier and the ATF agent rushed forward, guns aimed at his chest.

  “Down!” shouted the ATF agent, a tall, bald black man. “Down! Get down!”

  Logan complied. He dropped and lay prone against the road, the right side of his face scraping gravel. His pulse thundered inside his head. His ears were ringing.

  “I have a pistol in my holster,” he said. “It’s unloaded.”

  The soldier—a short, fierce woman—bent down and pulled it from his holster. “Got a Glock 19.”

  “It’s empty,” Logan said.

  “No one said you could talk!” the soldier snapped.

  Logan bit down on his cheeks in frustration. They were as stressed and hyped on adrenaline as he was. One false move and he’d be dead. No one had the time to analyze a situation—or a potential killer—in the line of fire.

  They were shaky with nerves. They’d messed up, letting a hostile get behind them. The third soldier was likely watching their six before he’d gotten shot.

  Logan remained limp and docile and let them do what they needed to do while he gritted his teeth and tried not to vomit on the soldier’s boots. She probably wouldn’t care for that.

  They were frisking him roughly when footsteps approached.

  “I’m friendly!” Dakota called. “I’m coming around the corner, now. No weapons.”

  “On your knees! Hands above your head!” the ATF agent ordered.

  “We were attacked by that gang you were fighting,” Dakota said evenly from somewhere behind Logan. “This dead gangbanger was sneaking up to kill you, along with a few others. That guy you’ve got there is my friend, Logan Garcia. He risked his life and managed to kill them first.”

  “Kinsey?” the agent said, keeping his weapon trained on Logan.

  Logan heard the soldier walking away, back toward the road. “Holy mother of…” she muttered. A radio clicked. “Mueller, I’ve got at least a dozen dead hostiles over here. Maybe two dozen. You’d better bring the team and come up.”

  Her footsteps returned. She nudged Tiger Tattoo’s dead body with her boot and rolled him over. He’d been lying on top of his M4.

  “Damn it all to hell.” She glanced at Logan, her tense expression softening. “We got surprised by an ambush. Turned into an ugly shootout. Cheung had our six—until he didn’t.”

  Her gaze flitted to the guy leaning against the wall, groaning and clutching his shoulder—hurt but alive. Another soldier was bending over him, administering first aid.

  “Tunnel vision,” she said. “It’s a real bitch.”

  “We got caught with our pants down,” the agent said.

  The soldier frowned up at him. “Speak for yourself.”

  The ATF agent held out his hand. Logan took it and rose heavily to his feet.

  Now that the battle was over, his adrenaline was fading fast, replaced by the familiar shaky, gut-wrenching nausea.

  “I guess I should thank you for saving our
bacon.” The man grinned. “Name’s Trey Hawthorne. My friends just call me Hawthorne. I’m with ATF, Miami Field Division.”

  His skin was a warm chestnut brown, his face lean and chiseled beneath a full beard. In his late twenties, Hawthorne was lanky and extremely tall, about six and a half feet. Even Logan had to crane his neck to gaze up at him.

  The female soldier looked faintly Middle Eastern. Her inky black hair cut in a tousled pixie and the dimples in her round, ruddy cheeks gave her an impish look, though the fine lines around her eyes betrayed her age as closer to forty.

  She stuck out her hand. “Captain Rachel Kinsey, National Guard.”

  Logan and Dakota introduced themselves as several other Guardsmen strode up from the Publix parking lot. They were all dressed in ACUs and gripped rifles. Two soldiers held paddle-shaped electronic devices: Geiger counter meters to detect radiation.

  “We lost three of ours,” one of them said. “Four injured. We’ve got about thirty gangbangers DOA and another fifteen escaped.”

  “Clear the area here, too,” Kinsey instructed. “And arrest any punks still alive.”

  Hawthorne ran a hand over his smooth, bald head and turned back to Logan and Dakota. “I’m serving as the Preliminary Damage Assessment Coordinator for the Joint Field Office and Recovery Emergency Operations Center. Our team was tasked with providing initial assessments of the infrastructure damage, residual fallout zones, civil unrest activity, and analyze community needs.

  “We received reports that several checkpoints were overrun last night and came to verify what we were up against before we put more boots on the ground.”

  Kinsey shook her head. “We expected some gang activity, but mostly at night. These guys are brazen as all hell. They attacked us without hesitation or provocation, in broad daylight.”

  “Same here,” Dakota said.

  “It took everything we had to fight them off,” Logan said. “And then some.”

  “You did this?” Kinsey said, her eyebrows raised as she surveyed the scene, all the dead and broken bodies.