Final Collapse | Book 2 | Breaking Night Read online

  BREAKING

  NIGHT

  Final Collapse Series

  Book 2

  By

  KD Downs

  Mike Kraus

  © 2021 Muonic Press Inc

  www.muonic.com

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  www.kddowns.com

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  www.MikeKrausBooks.com

  [email protected]

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, without the permission in writing from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

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  Special Thanks

  Special thanks to my awesome beta team, without whom this book wouldn’t be nearly as great.

  Thank you!

  Final Collapse Book 3

  Available Here

  Prologue

  When Ed Bixler and Xavier Zavala’s solution to mass famine in a post-bee world results in global geophysical disasters and immeasurable loss of life and property, the partners find themselves at odds in a fight for survival. Massive sinkholes, landslides, and wildfires wipe out billions of innocents around the world in an endless nightmare the genius inventors are at a loss to explain and powerless to stop. While Bixler commits himself to saving his name and his brainchild from a public relations nightmare, Zavala sets off on a campaign to find the woman he loves and save their small family from certain death.

  Annie Bixler can’t manage the responsibility of a garden party, much less face the apocalypse with a baby and a preschooler alone. But when her husband’s self-interest puts her and the girls in jeopardy, Annie is forced to shatter the façade of her very public marriage and beg, borrow, steal, and even kill to keep her young daughters alive as they flee disaster in search of safer ground. But the longer she fights, the clearer it becomes the greatest threat to their survival is Annie herself.

  When artist Ben Glazier returns to his hometown after three decades away, all he wants to do is sell off his half of his deceased father’s blueberry empire and get back to his family more than a thousand miles away. Before he can deposit the Bixler Corporation’s check, however, he’s sucked into one of the first major cataclysmic events on US soil attributed to the very company he’s just sold thousands of acres of farmland to. Trapped by sinkholes and flooding with his older brother on the farm they grew up on, Ben’s survival requires him to tap into skills he’d long ago forgotten and face off with the monster of his youth he’s been running from his entire adult life. Fighting his way back to civilization, Ben discovers the disaster is far greater than he'd ever dreamed, the check he’d sold the family farm for is worthless, and there’s no clear road back to his wife and daughter in Sarasota, Florida.

  Chapter 1

  Berryfield, Maine

  Working the loose cobblestone free from the edge of the sidewalk with his raw, bleeding fingers, Ben raised it over his head and charged back into the alcove of Mansir’s Electric with a primitive warrior’s cry. He slammed the weathered rock down on the ATM and grinned at the glowing screen’s satisfying crack, but nothing came out of the ravenous slot that had inhaled the multi-million-dollar cashier’s check.

  “Give me my money!” Hoisting the stone up, he smashed it down again, breaking the screen, which went dark with a flash and a snap. The machine made a promising whir like a motor was turning inside but stopped before anything came out. Lifting the rough hunk of granite again, he filled his lungs and belted out every last bit of rage trapped inside him. “Give it back!”

  Hammering the rock down a third time, he tensed as headlights flooded the deserted night and a rumbling engine approached. A black Mercedes pulled up along the curb, and when its passenger door opened, Ben let the cobblestone fall to the ground. Turning toward the car, he squinted in the high beams and hid the demolished ATM behind his back.

  “Mr. Glazier.” A man in a blue suit with silver-streaked hair, roughly Ben’s age, stepped out of the car and approached him with a friendly smile. “I’m glad we caught you.”

  “I didn’t do it.” Glancing over his shoulder at the deposit slot, frustration overtook him, and Ben turned and gave the machine one more good, hard whack. “It took my check, and it won’t give it back!”

  The man stood on his toes and nodded at the battered money machine. “I’m real sorry about that. I’d like to help you get it out, but there’s nothing we can do about it here. If you take a ride with us, I’m sure we’ll get it all straightened out with a few phone calls back at the office.”

  Looking the man over from his clean shave to his polished leather shoes, Ben inched in reverse until his back hit the machine. “Who are you?”

  “Agent Lindsey Cook.” He reached into his slacks pocket, but instead of a badge, he pulled out a pack of gum. The well-dressed man tore the pack open, and spearmint kissed the inside of Ben’s nose, making his blood pump faster and his mouth water. Cook held a stick out to him. “Care for a piece?”

  Ben snatched the gum and tore half the foil off before shoving the stick in his mouth. He chewed the stick into a wad, but flavor and hunger overwhelmed him, and he swallowed it down to his empty stomach. Already missing the feel of something in his mouth, he eyed the pack in Cook’s hand until the agent slid another piece out. Showing more restraint than the first time, Ben unwrapped it thoroughly and slid it into his mouth, closing his eyes to focus on the impossible task of not swallowing the delicious gum again.

  “You must be hungry.”

  “Starving.” Ben kept his distance. “You’re with the FBI?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stomach roaring, Ben looked past Cook to the sedan idling at the curb. “Do you have real food?”

  “My lunch is in the car.” Cook pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m happy to share it with you.” An almost embarrassed smile spread across his face. “If peanut butter and honey on rye doesn’t sound good to you, we can—”

  “Peanut butter and honey on rye is my favorite.” Pushing past Cook, Ben limped to the sedan, every muscle in his overworked legs aching. He opened the front passenger door but stopped short of climbing in when a man already sitting behind the wheel smiled at him. “Do I go in the front or the back?”

  “Wherever you’re comfortable.” Strolling toward the car, Cook slid his hands in his pockets. “But Agent Barker drives.”

  Ben dropped into the seat and
scooped a blue fabric lunchbox from the floor as Cook climbed in behind him. Throwing the lid back, his heart warmed at what could have been his own lunchbox on any day of the week. Same sandwich and strawberry Pop-Tarts. A foil-sealed cup of apple sauce to quiet his wife’s otherwise never-ending lectures on aging and nutrition. Forgotten spoon. Bottle of water. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought Diane had packed it herself. A sudden longing for home, his wife, and his daughter eclipsed his hunger, but only for a moment.

  Swallowing the second piece of gum, Ben tore the lid off the sandwich box and stuffed half the PB & H on rye in his mouth in a single bite. Gulping down too much too soon, the sandwich caught in his throat, and he hurried to get the cap off the water and wash it all down. As soon as his throat was clear, he picked up the second half of the sandwich and made the same mistake again.

  Ripping the wrapper off the Pop-Tarts as the car pulled away from the curb, Ben’s eyes stayed on the ATM with his guts in a knot as the machine drifted from view. “You’ll get my check back?”

  “I’ll get on it as soon as we’re back at the office.” Cook’s voice was cool, confident—the exact opposite of everything Ben had been living the last two days. Rather than comforting, the difference rattled his nerves as they turned onto Route One and drove back the way he’d come.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “The mobile office. Sorry if driving by your father’s hill makes you nervous. It’s the only road in and out of Berryfield that isn’t currently under water.”

  As much as he wanted to say he was alright with it, the dark, lifeless hill set Ben’s teeth on edge. Water rushed through a moat at the bottom, crashing and churning with broken branches and dead beasts. The towering ghost of a prison he’d been lucky to escape, he’d hoped he’d never have to lay eyes on it again. “Why aren’t we in a helicopter?”

  “Nowhere to land a helicopter on Main Street.”

  Bringing the Pop-Tart halfway to his mouth, Ben paused. “If you’re not here about the ATM, what are you arresting me for?”

  “We’re not arresting you—we’re rescuing you. You made it off the hill, but there’s still a few hundred miles between you and what’s passing for solid ground these days.”

  “These days?” The digital clock on the dash glowed 12:15 a.m., but Ben had hit the wall hours ago. Days ago? How many? “What day is this?”

  “Just turned Monday.”

  Ben lowered the Pop-Tart and did the math. “I was only up there for a day and a half?”

  “Not even.”

  “How could so much awful happen in such a short time?” Starting with the Blueberry Festival, Ben lost count of how many traumas he’d endured in that short time. There was a fire—no—two. Chuck burned the house down, and Ben torched Chuck’s beloved truck. Chuck threw himself off the cliff. It all blurred together, and every horrific recollection brought with it another. “How did I survive my childhood there?”

  “I say that every holiday back at my parent’s.” Agent Cook laughed alone. “I’m sorry about your brother, Mr. Glazier. I understand he was a fine, upstanding member of the community.”

  Ben turned in his seat, surprised Cook had said it with a straight face. “If you’re FBI, you know that’s not true.”

  “I do know that.” Lines creased the corner of the agent’s smile. “But I have another bad guy to talk to you about.”

  “Bixler?” Ben faced forward again as the ruins of Berryfield passed beyond the raindrops on his window. “He’s responsible for all this, isn’t he?”

  “We’re still working to determine what happened. We were hoping you could help.”

  Ben’s stomach a ravenous pit, he bit off another chunk of Pop-Tart. “I don’t know anything about the science, but I can tell you he got a call right before the ground caved in at the Blueberry Festival. Something about floods. Bixler’s face went white, and he and his friends took off running. If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is.”

  “Very suspicious.” Cook’s voice crept closer to Ben’s ear. “Do you remember what he said exactly?”

  Ben wracked his brain. “Something like… why should he care about Chittoor and Nebraska.”

  “Chittoor and Nebraska. Well, I’d say that’s downright damning. Would you be willing to testify to that under oath?”

  Ben stuffed the last of the Pop-Tart into his mouth. “You bet I would.”

  Like they were old friends, Agent Cook slapped Ben’s arm. “Agent Barker, would you please?”

  The car veered right onto the pitch-black shoulder, where there was nothing but a deep ditch and trees for miles. With what little adrenaline he had left in his body, Ben dropped the lunchbox and grabbed the door’s arm rest. “What’s going on? Why are we stopping here?”

  Without a word, Cook opened his door and stepped out into the darkness. A moment later, the passenger door opened, and he yanked Ben out by the arm.

  “Hey!” Ben’s feet twisted beneath him, and he crashed to the hard ground and rolled down the steep slope, grabbing at the grass to stop his rapid descent. A gunshot rang out. Then another, and he could have sworn he’d been hit in the shoulder with a sledgehammer. It didn’t hurt, but it knocked the fight right out of him. Ben quit flailing and let himself roll. When he finally stopped, he was somewhere between the top and bottom of that grassy slope, lying on his back like a deflated balloon. Up on the road, a door shut, and the gentle purring of the black sedan’s engine drifted away.

  Alone, Ben lay on his back under the warm rain, unable to move. He swallowed, but traces of peanut butter still clung to his throat, making the dryness even worse. Wishing he’d been holding the water bottle when Agent Cook yanked him from the car, he opened his mouth and let the raindrops in, but there weren’t enough to quench his thirst. As he teetered between consciousness and peace, something rattled on the road above.

  The sputtering engine drew near to a point, then stayed put as a squeaky old door opened. Something stirred the wet grass in a straight descent toward him, and Ben didn’t much care if it was man, beast, or rabid fox. Someone grumbled, and strong hands grabbed Ben’s ankles. With a grunt, they pulled him by the legs back up the slope.

  “Hey… wait…” The stars blurred before Ben’s eyes, which shut despite every effort to keep them open. “My check...”

  Chapter 2

  Lake Stark, New Hampshire

  Xavier and Anne locked themselves and the girls in the cabin’s loft bedroom and spent the night in darkness, afraid even a candle would draw the wrong attention. The last thing Xavier wanted was concerned or curious neighbors stopping by for a welfare check on the owner, whom Anne had left at a quarry with a bullet in his neck.

  The man whose head Xavier had cracked with a crowbar still lay out in the driveway, covered only with loose pine branches he’d found lying around the unkempt property. From a distance in the dark night, the dead guy looked like another random heap of lawn debris. It wouldn’t hide a thing up close in daylight, but Xavier planned to be gone by sunrise if he could find their way off the lake.

  The ground beneath them had shifted and trembled off and on all night. It was only a matter of time before it caved in, and according to the bubbles rising around the water’s receding edge, not much time. Somewhere, deep under the muck at the bottom of the pond, an empty cavern was in the throes of a slow collapse, all thanks to Buzz. Carried on a gentle summer breeze, the golden synthetic pollen had probably covered every tree in the dense woods, triggering an anabolic explosion of root growth and a monstrous thirst an entire aquifer couldn’t slake. Draining it dry, the roots would have left massive hollows deep in the earth, empty shells with countless tons of dirt and water sitting right on top. All those bubbles meant the shell had cracked, and the lake was draining down into the empty space. The more water found its way back into the aquifer, the more air it forced up through the layers of dirt. The growing bubbles meant the cracks were growing, too. Soon they’d crumble entirely, and the gr
ound would fall in, taking the lake, the trees, the houses, and Anne and the girls with it. The clock in the back of Xavier’s head ticked louder with every passing moment.

  They were too deep in the woods to walk to safety with the girls, and the dead man’s Durango wasn’t going anywhere. He’d jacked up the truck and retrieved the spare tire from under the cargo area, only to find it didn’t match the others. The spare was original, but the owner had installed a lift kit. The new tires were 4 inches taller than the spare. Xavier had changed the flat tire, but they would have been lucky to get out the driveway with the mismatched wheels. Anne and the girls wouldn’t fit with him on the little Honda crotch-rocket he’d rode in, and since the aged 4-wheeler in the driveway was almost as dead as its driver, Xavier needed another escape.

  He stood by the picture window while Anne and the girls slept cuddled together on the bed. He could have done with some rest, too, but he’d always found ransacking easier done in the night. People revealed themselves carelessly in the darkness. Lamps. Candles. Flashlights. If one was patient, waited long enough for their eyes to adjust, a sliver of moonlight would light their way. Xavier’s eyes had been adjusting for hours, and when incandescent light shined from the windows of a sprawling cabin across the water, he was ready.

  He armed himself with his two Glock 17s. It was too hot for his black hoodie, but it would help him blend with the shadows and keep the guns hidden on the off chance he was detected. Taking his backpack with him, he slipped out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen. There he stashed his backpack and the little wooden bee box with the queen and her attendants to keep them safe. Whatever happened out there in the darkness, he wasn’t going to lose her, and nothing short of death could have kept him from coming back for the three people asleep upstairs.