The Survivors: Book One by Angela White, Kim Fillmore, Lanae Morris Read Free Book Online
burning. She grabbed a bag of treasures from the home: blankets, a man’s heavy trench coat, a pair of shoes, and a loaf of bread with only a little mold on it. Tempted to stay and enjoy some of the old comforts, she made her feet take her instead to the small tool shed behind the house. Being a girl scout had saved her life more than once in the days since the War had come and blown away everything she knew.
The shed held a small, green riding mower and three bales of inviting hay, and after putting her things inside, she opened the window and went back out into the cold. It was a struggle to close the door and lock it, the gusting wind pulling it from her numb fingers, and she tried to hurry, looking over her shoulder before climbing back into the window. Enough time had gone by for Melvin to have gotten free and started after her, and he would have his rage to drive him through the storm.
Sam closed the window, hanging her wet shirt over it, and wasn’t afraid of the pitch-blackness or the unfamiliar room. Her terror walked on two legs and she was very glad to be out of sight. She planned to lay low for a few days, then continue her solitary journey south, the Cheyenne Mountain complex housing NORAD now her goal. There was no way the compound had been breached. That bunker housed the President, the Joint Chiefs, and of course, all the records of those with a pass. All she had to do was get there.
Sam made a bed in the warm, scratchy hay and after two peanut butter sandwiches and the icy Diet Coke, she dozed. Covered in blankets and stiff garden bedding, she held a long kitchen knife tight in her grip.
4
Melvin didn’t find a knife, hadn’t thought to check his dead brother’s boots, and the wind-blown snow covered him in a very short time. His body temperature dropped steadily.
Just before dawn, as death arrived, the painter was dreaming of falling into the icy pond behind their childhood home in southern Michigan. The frigid water was suffocating, no Henry there to pull him out this time, and as his heart stopped beating in the dream, Melvin went into cardiac arrest under six inches of drifting snow. He never woke, getting off easier than he deserve. During sleep was one of the kinder ways to die in this harsh new world.
Chapter Three
January 6 th , 2013
Outside Williamsburg, New Mexico
1
“Who’s in here?"
The call held equal amounts of control and command, and it carried easily to the 14-year-old boy huddled miserably under the far bunk of the abandoned barracks. The teenager had been here since the War and the evacuations, and to him, it seemed like a very long time.
Moving cautiously, the Lance Corporal stepped into the oval, dorm-style room, sharp eyes going over empty footlockers, their contents scattered. Someone had been looking for food. Had he found any?
Stopping near the middle of the 30-bunk aisle, the Marine saw grit and sand, but no footprints or signs of recent life. Was he too late then? The base was mostly empty, looted. Only a few had been left behind, overlooked, or escaped being dragged below ground. He had seen some of those and was hoping the boy was one of them.
“Come on out. That’s an order!"
LC Kenn Harrison winced as the sharp tones bounced back at him from the thin walls, and his hand dropped to the nine-mill on his hip. Instinct said he wasn’t alone in the barracks.
“Charlie?” Kenn called the name as if they were at home, ignoring the gunshots still going on outside the base, and was rewarded with a small shuffling noise that made him tighten the control over his emotions. He had been sure the boy would be gone - had been forced onto one of the evacuation choppers.
The Marine slowly moved to the end of the aisle, preparing himself to react, as he read the heavy waves of the person. Desperation… and fear.
“Come on out." Kenn forced himself to be patient. He would not have been in the past, couldn’t, but the War had already begun to
The shed held a small, green riding mower and three bales of inviting hay, and after putting her things inside, she opened the window and went back out into the cold. It was a struggle to close the door and lock it, the gusting wind pulling it from her numb fingers, and she tried to hurry, looking over her shoulder before climbing back into the window. Enough time had gone by for Melvin to have gotten free and started after her, and he would have his rage to drive him through the storm.
Sam closed the window, hanging her wet shirt over it, and wasn’t afraid of the pitch-blackness or the unfamiliar room. Her terror walked on two legs and she was very glad to be out of sight. She planned to lay low for a few days, then continue her solitary journey south, the Cheyenne Mountain complex housing NORAD now her goal. There was no way the compound had been breached. That bunker housed the President, the Joint Chiefs, and of course, all the records of those with a pass. All she had to do was get there.
Sam made a bed in the warm, scratchy hay and after two peanut butter sandwiches and the icy Diet Coke, she dozed. Covered in blankets and stiff garden bedding, she held a long kitchen knife tight in her grip.
4
Melvin didn’t find a knife, hadn’t thought to check his dead brother’s boots, and the wind-blown snow covered him in a very short time. His body temperature dropped steadily.
Just before dawn, as death arrived, the painter was dreaming of falling into the icy pond behind their childhood home in southern Michigan. The frigid water was suffocating, no Henry there to pull him out this time, and as his heart stopped beating in the dream, Melvin went into cardiac arrest under six inches of drifting snow. He never woke, getting off easier than he deserve. During sleep was one of the kinder ways to die in this harsh new world.
Chapter Three
January 6 th , 2013
Outside Williamsburg, New Mexico
1
“Who’s in here?"
The call held equal amounts of control and command, and it carried easily to the 14-year-old boy huddled miserably under the far bunk of the abandoned barracks. The teenager had been here since the War and the evacuations, and to him, it seemed like a very long time.
Moving cautiously, the Lance Corporal stepped into the oval, dorm-style room, sharp eyes going over empty footlockers, their contents scattered. Someone had been looking for food. Had he found any?
Stopping near the middle of the 30-bunk aisle, the Marine saw grit and sand, but no footprints or signs of recent life. Was he too late then? The base was mostly empty, looted. Only a few had been left behind, overlooked, or escaped being dragged below ground. He had seen some of those and was hoping the boy was one of them.
“Come on out. That’s an order!"
LC Kenn Harrison winced as the sharp tones bounced back at him from the thin walls, and his hand dropped to the nine-mill on his hip. Instinct said he wasn’t alone in the barracks.
“Charlie?” Kenn called the name as if they were at home, ignoring the gunshots still going on outside the base, and was rewarded with a small shuffling noise that made him tighten the control over his emotions. He had been sure the boy would be gone - had been forced onto one of the evacuation choppers.
The Marine slowly moved to the end of the aisle, preparing himself to react, as he read the heavy waves of the person. Desperation… and fear.
“Come on out." Kenn forced himself to be patient. He would not have been in the past, couldn’t, but the War had already begun to
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