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

by Kyla Stone

  She’d rather be out on her own, controlling her own fate.

  She glanced at Logan. He’d half-twisted to eye the bottle of Bacardi white rum sitting on the counter of the drinks bar behind them. There was a look on his face she recognized—craving and regret, mingled with a sour desperation.

  The look of an addict jonesing for a fix.

  But he didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t make a move to get out of his chair.

  She respected that. She’d known more than one drunken foster parent who never refused their baser instincts. Once sloshed, the slurred curses and sloppy punches started up, faithful as clockwork. She rubbed her jaw, recalling a long-healed bruise.

  She should try to help him. Logan needed a distraction, but she had no idea what to say or do other than insult him, or maybe kick him in the shin.

  A better diversion arrived in the form of Shay, who sauntered into the Admirals Club lounge wearing a white lab coat over her clothes, her grin tired but exuberant, as usual.

  Hawthorne trailed closely behind her. He’d spent every spare minute he wasn’t out in the field with Shay since she’d been discharged. As for Shay, she’d spent nearly every waking moment volunteering as a nursing assistant.

  The hospital was already desperately shorthanded; they were accepting anyone with medical experience. Shay being Shay, she’d jumped at the chance to help.

  Logan turned quickly, his face shuttered, his eyes flat. Whatever he’d been thinking or feeling, he’d locked it down hard.

  “Nice glasses,” Dakota said to take any attention off him.

  Shay touched the square purple frames sheepishly. “One of the nurses found them for me. I’m just glad I could finally get rid of those awful contacts. After four days of stinging eyes, I could barely see. But I’m good now.” She struck a silly pose, one hand on her jutting hip. “Is it my style?”

  She looked adorable. Shay could make anything look adorable.

  “You’re rocking it,” Hawthorne said.

  Shay ducked her chin and gave him a wide, shy smile. She might have been blushing. “Thank you.”

  “How’s your head?” Dakota asked.

  Shadows still ringed Shay’s eyes, but her gaze was bright and alert, her skin back to its rich, vibrant brown. Her familiar perky grin played across her face. The large bandage they’d wrapped around her head was gone, replaced by a small square of gauze. She’d parted her wild, wiry curls so they mostly covered the gauze—and the bald spot.

  Shay grabbed Dakota’s hand and squeezed it. “Much better, thanks to you.”

  She smacked her gum cheerfully. She was definitely back to her old enthusiastic self.

  An unmarked door behind them opened, and a man dressed in a military officer’s uniform decorated with awards and ribbons strode out. Hawthorne waved and the man walked toward them.

  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Hawthorne said with a grin. “This is my uncle, General Randall Pierce, State Coordinating Officer for the Joint Field Office and Emergency Operations Center. Basically, he’s the guy in charge of everything.”

  In his mid-fifties, General Pierce was a formidable black man with short, wiry gray hair and a hint of gray beard stubbling his square jaw. He was as tall as his nephew but at least a hundred pounds heavier, large but not fat, and solid as a slab of concrete.

  Logan shoved back his chair and stood hastily.

  Dakota followed suit. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “You must be the folks that saved my nephew’s life,” General Pierce said in a deep baritone. “I asked Hawthorne to introduce us.”

  “It was Logan and Dakota, sir,” Shay said, beaming at them. “They’ve saved my life several times now.”

  General Pierce shook their hands with a firm grip. “I can’t thank you enough. Anything that’s in my power to do for you, just let me know.”

  “Hawthorne has already helped us with anything we’ve needed,” Shay said.

  Hawthorne had gone above and beyond for them, but even though they’d saved his ass, Dakota figured it was as much for Shay’s sake as hers and Logan’s. The ATF agent could barely take his eyes off Shay. He had an obvious crush.

  “I know you had questions about the state of things,” Hawthorne said. “This is the man to ask.”

  “Who did this to us?” Logan said. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  General Pierce scratched at his stubble. “A basketful of loonies have crawled out of the woodwork to take credit. But most aren’t what we’d consider credible intelligence. Still, Homeland is sifting through every single one of the three hundred thousand reports of suspicious activity we’ve received from the alphabet-soup agencies.

  “Seems some of the chatter points toward radicalized Muslim extremists in Iraq and Syria. Other experts suggest there may be a domestic tie-in—deep cells hidden among us for years, maybe decades. Russia and China are suspects, too, of course. Or maybe some tiny rogue nation we haven’t considered. North Korea did plenty of saber-rattling, but in the end backed down.”

  “So, we still don’t have a clue,” Logan said.

  “It’s a touchy situation. Plenty of generals want to bomb the hell out of the Middle East, evidence be damned. But the new president is cautious. Some despise her prudence as weakness; others applaud it as a strength. We don’t want another Afghanistan and WMD fiasco on our hands, but the people are desperate for blood. Frankly, so am I.”

  “What about evidence?” Shay asked. “How would we even know who did it?”

  “Ground zero is buried beneath millions of tons of rubble. Even if we could excavate, anything connected to the IND—the improvised nuclear device—would already be incinerated. But we have some leads. We’re incredibly lucky that the fourteenth target—the IND in Chicago—didn’t detonate. The CIA and Homeland are chasing leads with the bomb casing, the van’s VIN registration, and the source of the highly enriched uranium. The rest is classified, I’m afraid.”

  “Understood,” Dakota said.

  The faint wrinkles lining the general’s forehead deepened into crevices as he frowned. “Make no mistake, we’ll get the bastards who did this.”

  “We have no doubt, sir,” Shay said. “What about the recovery efforts?”

  “To be blunt with you, we have a difficult slog ahead of us. We don’t have the resources or the manpower to get this vibrant city back on her feet.”

  “What about the National Guard?” Shay asked.

  “The president has federalized the National Guard across the nation. Florida has over nine thousand guardsmen and around two thousand airmen. Governor Blake begged the president to allow us ours to restore Miami, but New York, California, and D.C. are higher on the priority list. She deployed eight thousand for federal use and left us less than a thousand troops. That’s not nearly enough,” General Pierce said gravely.

  “The governor reinstated the Florida State Guard as a state defense force, the state’s own version of the National Guard, which doesn’t answer to the feds. The SDF will be trained, organized, and deployed under the direction of the Adjutant General of Florida and the state military officers within the Florida Department of Military Affairs.

  “They’re accepting recruits into an expedited training program at Camp Blanding. This is the worst crisis our nation has ever faced. We need good soldiers.” The general stared at Dakota and Logan with a level, appraising gaze. “You two fit the bill.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” Dakota said quickly, “but I’m headed to a friend of mine in the Glades. We’ll be safe there.”

  General Pierce nodded and turned to Logan. “And what about you, Mr. Garcia? I heard you have skills to spare. You’d be a solid asset to the recovery efforts.”

  Logan’s eyes went wide, like a deer trapped in headlights.

  Dakota’s gut tightened against her will. Was he going to say yes? For days, she’d been planning to ditch this guy. But now the thought of Logan abandoning her filled her with dread.
>
  Somewhere along the way, she’d started to depend on him. Trust him, even.

  He was a different person after he’d stopped drinking. Steady, strong, reliable—and a hell of a warrior. The way he’d cut down those Blood Outlaws at the checkpoint with relentless precision, no hesitation, no mercy.

  Maybe he was someone she even wanted to stick around. Who was she kidding? She did want him around.

  But whether he wanted to stay was another matter entirely.

  39

  Dakota

  Dakota felt Logan’s gaze on her. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

  He raked a hand through his unruly black hair and shook his head. “Thanks, but I made a promise. I said I’d get this girl and her sister to their safehouse. And I intend to do that.”

  She couldn’t help it—relief flooded through her veins.

  Shay caught her eye and gave her a knowing grin. Dakota turned her face away to hide the warmth heating her cheeks. Stupid body—betraying her with feelings she wasn’t even sure she wanted.

  But she knew for certain that she didn’t want him coming with her out of some misplaced sense of duty or because he owed her a favor. She didn’t need any favors. Or pity.

  She cleared her throat. “Don’t feel like you have to,” she said. “You don’t.”

  He just shrugged. “I know.”

  General Pierce nodded, clearly disappointed. “The offer is a standing one. We have hot food, hot showers, and quality accommodations. Those amenities are in short supply right now and will be for quite some time.”

  “We’ll keep it in mind, General,” Logan said.

  “What’s happening outside Florida?” Dakota asked. “Can you tell us anything?”

  “Of course,” the general said. “In short, millions of refugees have fled the attacked cities, even those not affected by the radiation. Nearby cities that initially accepted refugees with open arms are now threatening to close their borders.”

  “Why?” Shay asked, appalled.

  “For every hundred terrified families seeking shelter, there is one or two of the criminal persuasion, those without conscience or empathy, those who resent that they’ve lost everything and so take from others ruthlessly, without remorse, hesitation, or compassion. And I fear there are more of them in our society than we’d like to admit.

  “Every city that has offered sanctuary has experienced an immediate and catastrophic rise in crime against their own citizens. Not to mention the dwindling food supplies in those cities as well. Everyone is only looking out for their own.”

  “What’s going to happen with all the refugees?” Shay asked.

  The general sighed heavily. “FEMA is researching potential areas in the Midwest to relocate the refugees in massive tent cities. We have five million displaced persons across the country and nowhere to put them. For context, that’s like creating a city the size of Las Vegas overnight—times five.”

  “That’s insane,” Shay said.

  “Yes,” the general said. “Yes, it is. And that is only a portion of the problems facing us. With the rolling power outages and intermittent cell coverage, even citizens in unharmed states are panicking. The grocery store shelves in over sixty percent of cities nationwide are already bare. Our country’s supply chain system has been crippled.”

  “It was intentional, then,” Dakota said. “The terrorists hit port cities.”

  General Pierce nodded. “It appears that way. The loss of millions of lives to the blasts and radiating poisoning is devastating. But that was just the first round. What will truly devastate us is the long-term, critical disruption to the nation’s supply chain.

  “The Port of Los Angeles and the Port of Long Beach together bring in over a third of the entire country’s imports. These two ports alone handle seventy percent of the container traffic for the West Coast. Both ports are shut down due to damage and heavy radiation. Cargo can’t be relocated to Seattle; they were hit, too. Oakland doesn’t have the capacity to take the increased load.

  “And here in Florida, Miami and the Port of the Everglades bring in a third of the Southwest’s oil. Both ports were heavily radiated. They’re now too dangerous for human workers to occupy for months—possibly years.”

  “That’s why gas is thirty dollars a gallon,” Dakota said.

  “And the price will only go up, I’m afraid,” the general said. “The president enacted emergency measures requiring every single cargo container be inspected before leaving port, including every aid package delivered by foreign countries. I can’t blame her for her caution, but it’s causing even more of a slowdown in getting much-needed supplies to the people.

  “Half the port workers across the country stopped coming to work. Who could blame them? They’re terrified of another attack. There aren’t enough people to offload or inspect the cargo deliveries we do have. The movement of food, gas, and other essentials has gone from a well-oiled machine to a sluggish crawl.”

  Everyone simply stared at the general, gaping.

  For Dakota, it was a terrible confirmation. Ezra had been right. He was right about everything.

  “We’re receiving offers of significant aid from Canada, Australia, and the UK,” General Pierce said. “Even Russia, surprisingly enough. Humanitarian aid, food, hygiene, medical supplies. Canada has offered to serve as an intermediary, setting a percentage of their port availability aside for U.S. aid. We’re also diverting West Coast cargo ships to Anchorage to transport cargo by road down through Canada.

  “But with millions of displaced people, hundreds of impassable roads, and more than a dozen cities either hot zones or burning with rioting and looting, the reality of getting that aid to the people who need it is...daunting.”

  “It’s been a week,” Dakota said. “Most people don’t keep more than a week’s worth of food in their pantries. Most, even less.”

  “You’re right.” The general wiped sweat from his shiny brow. “Stores used to stock three days’ worth of goods for ‘just in time’ delivery. Now it’s even less. Which means the rioting and looting will only get worse, not better.”

  “How can that be right?” Shay asked. “We have so many farms here in the States. Indiana’s just one big cornfield.”

  “Not nearly big enough. Ninety percent of Walmart's shelves are stocked with consumables made in other countries, from China and Mexico and Brazil. What happens when our imports grind to a halt? It creates a domino effect, a systemic collapse where each falling domino affects all the others—food, transportation, energy, banking.

  “Consider this single example out of hundreds of possible ramifications: shipments of industrial materials have been delayed, causing serious problems for critical facilities, such as water treatment plants. In a short period, city water may become unsafe for citizens to drink. Our entire country will turn into Flint, Michigan.”

  “That's America's weakness,” Hawthorne said soberly. “Its Achilles’ heel. If one domino falls, it topples all the rest with it.”

  For a long moment, no one spoke. There were no words that could encompass the enormity of the disaster looming over the United States and its people.

  “While I don’t wish to cause a panic,” General Pierce said slowly, “I do believe the truth is the best resource with which to arm our citizens. And the truth is that this crisis is only beginning. It’s going to get much, much worse.”

  Dakota, Logan, and Shay looked at each other, the same fear reflected in their eyes. Dakota shivered. Her whole body went cold. It was one thing to think about a national disaster and societal collapse in the abstract.

  It was quite another to live it.

  “We can’t let this destroy us,” Shay whispered. Her dark eyes gleamed wetly. “Then they win. Whoever did this, all those people who feed on hatred and suffering.”

  “It’s fear.” The general shook his head wearily. “Fear will be what destroys us, in the end. Terrorists can’t destroy America and what it stands for. The only ones truly capa
ble of destroying America are ourselves.”

  40

  Dakota

  “We can’t lose hope,” Shay insisted. “No matter how bleak things look.”

  “Don’t mistake me,” General Pierce said. “I will never give up. Neither will the fine soldiers who defend this country with their lives. There are good people still fighting the good fight. America is too strong to be defeated by this.”

  A woman in a rumpled, sweat-dampened pantsuit hurried up to General Pierce, a tablet clutched in her hands. “Sir, another checkpoint has been attacked. And the Recovery Logistics Officer and Public Assistance Branch Director are waiting for that meeting.”

  Behind the woman, Dakota glimpsed several men in the room General Pierce had exited a few minutes before—all in expensive, tailored suits, their heads bent in grave discussion.

  Two men stood a little apart from the rest of the group. One was a short, burly white man with piggish eyes, his sharp, suspicious gaze darting around the room. The guy next to him wore a military dress uniform. He was broad and blonde, his leathery face pockmarked with acne scars. He was scowling as he gestured aggressively at a sheaf of papers scattered across the long mahogany table.

  The woman saw Dakota watching and hurriedly shut the door.

  General Pierce shook their hands again. “It was a sincere pleasure to meet all of you,” he said in his booming baritone. He turned and gazed at Shay intently, then each of them in turn. “Whatever you do, don’t give up.”

  Shay raised her chin. “No sir. We won’t.”

  After the general strode away, Hawthorne glanced around warily and lowered his voice. “There’s another reason I wanted to meet. I needed to warn you. The president’s surviving cabinet members are urging her to declare martial law. So is Governor Blake. Some of the Joint Task Force bigwigs are pushing for all refugees to be placed in FEMA camps where they can be tracked and corralled.”

  Shay nibbled anxiously on her thumbnail. “What does that mean?”