by Hunt, Jack
ESCAPE THE BREAKDOWN
A Powerless World Book One
Jack Hunt
Direct Response Publishing
Copyright © 2021 by Jack Hunt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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ESCAPE THE BREAKDOWN: A Powerless World Book One is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For my Family
Contents
Also by Jack Hunt
Prologue
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
Epilogue
A Plea
Readers Team
About the Author
Also by Jack Hunt
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Outlaws of the Midwest series
Chaos Erupts
Panic Ensues
Havoc Endures
The Cyber Apocalypse series
As Our World Ends
As Our World Falls
As Our World Burns
The Agora Virus series
Phobia
Anxiety
Strain
The War Buds series
War Buds 1
War Buds 2
War Buds 3
Camp Zero series
State of Panic
State of Shock
State of Decay
Renegades series
The Renegades
The Renegades Book 2: Aftermath
The Renegades Book 3: Fortress
The Renegades Book 4: Colony
The Renegades Book 5: United
The Wild Ones Duology
The Wild Ones Book 1
The Wild Ones Book 2
The EMP Survival series
Days of Panic
Days of Chaos
Days of Danger
Days of Terror
Against All Odds Duology
As We Fall
As We Break
The Amygdala Syndrome Duology
Unstable
Unhinged
Survival Rules series
Rules of Survival
Rules of Conflict
Rules of Darkness
Rules of Engagement
Lone Survivor series
All That Remains
All That Survives
All That Escapes
All That Rises
Mavericks series
Mavericks: Hunters Moon
Time Agents series
Killing Time
Single Novels
Blackout
Defiant
Darkest Hour
Final Impact
The Year Without Summer
The Last Storm
The Last Magician
The Lookout
Class of 1989
Out of the Wild
Prologue
Humboldt County, California
Day before the Event
Some said the Strickland and Riker feud was as old as the ancient redwoods straddling the windswept hills of the Pacific Coast. Two rural families, bitter rivals, born out of the Green Rush, generations of greed, illicit behavior, drenched in loyalty as thick as blood. Good folk to some, animals to others. Their disputes were legendary. Others called it horseshit, exaggerated folklore, nothing but a tall tale passed from one mouth to the next.
But they didn’t know. How could they?
The same dismissive people hadn’t dared venture into the hills to find out.
No, it was true — most, that is — the hatred, the violence, and the bodies buried in shallow graves. Up in those hills, they were a law unto themselves, an untouchable group that dished out a unique form of justice, and threatened any who challenged their way of life.
Truth and lies had blurred over time but he knew.
The 9mm pressed against Bruce Riker’s forehead didn’t lie, its steely barrel ready to deliver death at a squeeze of the trigger. Down on his knees, sinking into waterlogged soil, headlights from 4 x 4 trucks, ATVs, and UTVs shone bright, blinding his eyes.
Armed men, toughened by the mountain and the black market, surrounded him, just waiting for the word to end another life. It meant very little out there.
Blood trickled down the side of his face, warm, sticky, the result of being pistol-whipped one too many times. The beating had lasted for close to twenty minutes. Heavy blows, breaking one rib after another, trampling him underfoot. When he’d passed out, he was brought back with a splash of frigid water.
Even then he refused to relent.
They struck him as he defiantly called them cowards.
You see, he wasn’t afraid to die.
And this sure as hell wasn’t his first rodeo.
Sixty-three years of age, he’d looked the grim reaper in the eye more times than he could count but that didn’t mean he was ready to go. His eyes scanned the woods, hoping, praying that his kin would come, come as they always did. But there was no one, no sign of his own.
He was leader of a large clan of dozens: sons, daughters, cousins, they were a force to be reckoned with. Spread throughout the county, they were a close-knit crew, loyal to their roots, never straying farther than Alderpoint, Garberville, and Eureka. They were all there, at his beck and call, barring two that were dead, and one that had moved on.
Colby.
His thoughts shifted to his wayward son.
The arguments, that final night, his leaving the county.
They hadn’t spoken since. Ten years had passed.
He’d never told him that he respected his decision, his gumption, his gall, or that he wished he could have done the same when he was younger.
Now he figured he would never get to tell him.
Someone came up behind Bruce and tore at his clothes with a blade. Droplets of rain wormed over scars on his back, a back that resembled a dry lake bed, his body a map of the past — forty-plus years, every run-in, every deal gone bad. Beatings, stabbings, gunshot wounds, layer upon layer, story upon story, many of which he’d shared with his own, some he would take to the gr
ave.
A rumbling engine, an approaching truck winding its way up a one-lane dirt road marked his end.
Bruce knew who was coming, and why he was here, and how it would play out, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Twenty miles from the nearest town. It was as remote as could be. Scream, holler, it was pointless, no one heard a damn thing out here. Communication? Well, that was laughable. There was poor reception and many homeowners were off the grid on the mountain. That’s the way they liked it, it had served them well back in the ’70s, at the height of the Vietnam war, at a time when his hippie family had lived through Nixon’s war on drugs, navigating marijuana prohibition and hiding from raids by federal officials.
An additional set of headlights joined the group as the truck swerved in and came to a stop. Doors opened and slammed, boots sloshed through mud as two men approached. Without even seeing him, Bruce spoke, “You going to kill me, Hank?”
He lifted his eyes to the silhouette of a huge frame cutting into the headlights. He couldn’t make out his aging features but he knew his face by memory. Sixty-two, ex-military, Hank Strickland led the only other family on the mountain that could match their resilience and defiance.
“Why even ask?” Hank asked.
“Because you know deep down it wasn’t us. There are others in these hills, it’s not like the old days. We know better than that, so do you.”
“Bullshit. Tell me which one was responsible and you’ll go home.”
Bruce spat a glob of blood on the ground. “We both know that’s not happening.”
Blood for blood. It had been the way ever since their two families had crossed paths with one another in the late seventies. Whether it was a cut lip or a bullet through the head, no bad deed went unpunished.
“There was a witness, Bruce.”
“Then why are you even asking who was responsible?”
“Because I want to hear it from you. I want to know why.”
“No, you don’t. You and I both know what this is about and it has nothing to do with your brother. You were just biding your time. The only question that remains is are you going to squeeze the trigger or will your pussy son do it?” Pistol whipped again, Bruce caught the tail of a stern warning given to Hank’s son. They were young, still learning the ropes of how things worked. There was a system, rules that governed them. Even in murder, there was respect. It was the only way they could operate out here.
Hank crouched to eye level. “Forty years. Where have they gone?”
Bruce looked at him, studying his features now they were lit by the flashlight in his hand. He chuckled, spitting more blood. “Do you remember back in the day, stealing that first crop?”
“I do.” A strained smile formed.
Bruce sighed. “Hank, it doesn’t have to be this way.”
“You’re telling me?”
“These sons of yours. They can be shown different, a better way.”
“You know there isn’t another way.”
“We didn’t kill Ryland. Think about it. What would we have to gain?”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself.”
“Hank. Listen to me.”
He wasn’t pleading for his life. He wouldn’t do that. He had more self-respect than to show weakness. “There are others. Newcomers. They don’t know the rules. But you and I do. We’ve abided by them and lived in peace for over ten years, think about it, why would I change that now?”
“So you’re saying my boys are liars?”
“I’m saying that you need to look closer. There is a bad element that has spread into these hills and they would give anything to see us tear each other apart.”
Hank stared at him. Bruce could tell he was considering it. It made sense. Years of facing the same threat from the law and living in each other’s shadow had taught them it was better to co-exist than to fight one another. Those outlaw days had ended back in ’96 when California legalized medical marijuana in a new referendum. They’d had to change, adapt, pool their resources at times.
“The newcomers haven’t come close to us.”
“They don’t need to.”
There was no point going to war against founding families when they knew the foothills better than anyone. Many had tried before and come up short only to find their way onto missing flyers tacked around the town of Garberville. No, it was easier to light a match to fuel that had once burned strong and let it burn both families. “I don’t want to kill you, Bruce, so give me a name?”
This was it. His moment. His way out. His one opportunity to stay alive.
“I can’t. I don’t know.”
Hank nodded, then rose over him. “Then you give me no other choice.” He extended his hand and one of his boys gave him a 9mm. Bruce smiled, admiring at least the decision to do it himself. His generation was from a different time, an era when they didn’t shy away from getting their hands dirty. Unlike the pussies of today that paid others to do it. Not them. He almost saw it as a privilege to have his life extinguished by someone who at one time had been a close friend.
Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to leave him without a warning.
“Hank, don’t do it. You squeeze that trigger and you will bring hell down upon you, yours, and this mountain. Are you prepared for that?”
A moment of hesitation.
Bruce didn’t close his eyes, instead, he shifted his thoughts to his wife, his family, Colby. He continued. “You’ll look over your shoulder for the rest of your life.”
“I never stopped.”
Hank raised the gun.
A single crack echoed on the mountain.
ONE
Colby
Los Angeles, California
Day of Event
Humanity was ready to break long before the power grid bit the dust.
December 31, New Year’s Eve — a gaudy celebration, a toast for the rich, a kick in the gut for the poor. A time when the world was meant to unite, kiss loved ones, dance around in a drunken stupor. The world should have been staring up into a darkened L.A. skyline to watch the country’s tax dollars explode in multicolor — instead, they were out in large numbers to protest.
BLM, election outcry, defying citywide pandemic curfews, the county was a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode. Add a smidgen of pure anarchy from those eager to see a country burn and you had yourself a buffet, a free-for-all, a Pick ’n’ Mix catering to the outraged, offended and rebellious.
The noise in the city was deafening.
Someone’s finger was stuck on an airhorn.
A wall of protesters surged down the street like a tidal wave.
Thousands cried to be heard, demanding respect.
Multiple police officers stemmed the flow while others redirected traffic at an intersection, a somber expression on their faces, a clear indication that they weren’t getting paid enough to deal with this.
Colby Riker’s black SUV crept along the streets, inconspicuous, no vehicle graphics on the side, no declaration of who he was or his intentions. Flamboyance was for the cowboys, those who cared more about how they looked and how others viewed them than the task at hand. All he gave a damn about was getting paid. While others in his industry bellyached about the regulations, he saw them as helpful. He knew the disadvantage of rolling up in full tactical gear, siren wailing, and lights flashing. Not him, he welcomed the anonymity. It made his job easier. They didn’t see him coming and often didn’t know the situation had changed until they were in cuffs.
No, he kept it casual, leather jacket, cargo pants, a ballistic vest hidden beneath his shirt, a Taser and a handgun concealed but at the ready. Communication was key in his line of work. He’d talked many a fugitive down from the ledge. This wasn’t like the old days when all they saw was a uniform, a threat.
Colby veered away from the crowded downtown, heading into south-central L.A., through some of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the county. Beset by poverty and economic neglec
t, it was gang turf, home to the downtrodden, a haven for those looking to fly under the radar.
It made sense that she would come here. Still, a risky choice.
Rolling past graffiti-marred apartments, he eyed those loitering, recognized the telltale signs of drug dealers, prostitutes pinching dollars, and tourists who’d wandered too far from the Hollywood sign. If they didn’t know the town, he’d always advised folks to stay west of Broadway or north of 2nd Street.
God forbid you took a wrong turn.
Colby eyed a fight between two Latinos. Fists flying. Alcohol-fueled bar hoppers laughed at the scuffle. The instinct to stop was still there but those days were behind him.
Pulling off Compton Avenue onto a street that cut through the neighborhood of Central Alameda, he eyed the line of homes. Compared to the downtown protests, he noticed how quiet it was here. How long it would remain that way was anyone’s guess. The sidewalk was empty barring a stray dog that trotted by only to stop and sniff an overturned garbage can. He pulled into a spot beside the curb, broken glass crackling beneath his tires as he eased off the gas and let the engine idle.
He stared at a two-story pink flamingo slum across the street before reaching for the Bail Bonds and Booking Information paperwork on the passenger seat. He’d already notified the local PD, routine. They required a heads-up no more than six hours before an apprehension — you know, the who, where, what, and when.
They didn’t want to get a call of an armed man wrestling someone to the ground.
With the booking info in hand, her mugshot, and five dirty digits before him, he scanned the stats.
