Into the Storm: (Post Apocalyptic Fiction) (Collision Course Book 1) Read online

  Into the Storm

  Collision Course Book 1

  R.K. Gold

  Laurèn Lee

  Copyright © 2018

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  STAY TUNED for more episodes…

  About R.K. Gold

  About Laurèn Lee

  Also By R.K. Gold

  Also by Laurèn Lee

  1

  He didn't enjoy killing; it was just a way of life. Death felt like an unavoidable acquaintance. Jakobe learned when he was young it was better to be on death's good side. If it ever turned on you, it was as impossible to reverse as the earth’s orbit.

  Lyo came back from scouting the area. They lived on a flat ledge a quarter of the way up the Sky Mountain. They were originally only going to stay one night, but it was so out of the way from the main road and had a river at is base that was relatively clear of contaminants, so no one wanted to leave.

  Lyo always insisted on scouting alone; he was less likely to get caught and more effective on the run. He spotted a small encampment road back up the mountain to share the news.

  "It's a soft target. Maybe one or two guns, the rest families," Lyo said. He filled the lid of his plastic bottle with purified water and sat in front of the small fire. Two lids equaled a daily ration. That way Myskin had enough time to charge his bike after running the purifier. It was a small tub that fit nicely on his handles. The contaminants in the water bubbled to the surface like foam. He slid a tray between the foam and water to separate them, then dispensed the water into everyone's canteens.

  Lyo always picked the targets, and his word was final. They wouldn’t move camp unless he said so, and no one would even scout potential targets unless Lyo instructed them to do so. There was no question Lyo was in charge. He was tall with dark brown skin and broad shoulders, and his right shoulder had a white crescent scar on it. He had chubby cheeks that made him look like a little kid when he grinned, so he tried his best not to smile often.

  When he mentioned the target, he wasn't putting it to a vote. Everyone knew they were about to raid the camp. Who was Jakobe to say no? Families weren't people who birthed you. Jakobe never knew who his actual birth parents were; he just knew the community he was supposed to be raised in. That was until Clive and the small army his father lent him raided their village and killed everyone except Jakobe.

  Families were the people who kept you alive. That was what he found when Lyo, Bronx, Forte, and Myskin saved him. Jakobe was the youngest, but they weren't sure by how much. None of them knew their exact ages or birthdays, so they all shared the same one. Just another connection they made, just another part of being in their family.

  Jakobe had light brown skin, which showed scars more clearly than Lyo's. It's why he preferred wearing long sleeves and pants. He was never good at fighting in close quarters, and anyone who saw the marks covering his arms, legs, and torso could figure that out, so he learned to take out targets from a distance. Whenever someone brought up his scars, he would always say "at least his face looked pretty," and flash them a grin. He didn't mind smiling since he was one of the only men in the group who still had all his teeth.

  "Just give it time," Myskin replied whenever Jakobe smiled. Myskin's mouth looked like a piano. His bottom teeth were all there, but his top were missing every other. He was as pale as the moon and practically skin and bone. His baggy shirt sagged down his chest and revealed a black, inverted V tattoo. His eyebrows were the only hair he had on his body, and he usually wore his gray beanie to hide his bald head. If he sat still long enough, people would think he was skeleton, especially since his eyes were so dark they looked black in anything except direct light.

  "I'm telling ya, they had cooking fires going. I can't remember the last time we had a hot meal," Lyo said.

  Living on the outskirts miles away from the main roads had some advantages. Most of the larger gangs and militia never ventured off the main roads and turned what were once vibrant cities before the contamination spread into their fortresses. However, the cities were the only connection anyone had to the west. It was where most of the food went, and the only place to find anything worth trading. It had been weeks since they came across a camp to raid, and in that time, they mostly relied on the canned reserves they snatched off a caravan heading west with Red Eye's mark on it.

  Jakobe ate the beans out of necessity, but the Red Eye mark on the side of the can made his skin crawl. Clive was Red Eye's son and Jakobe's captor. Before Lyo and his gang rescued Jakobe, Clive was going to trade him to a cannibal tribe in the west known as the Hammers. One of the many ill effects of Red Eye's path through the storm divide was making it possible for the Hammers to travel east.

  "You see what they're cooking though? What if they're Hammers?" Bronx asked. Between his wide-brimmed hat, his sunglasses, and his long brown beard, it was impossible to see his face. He sat shirtless and rested his tanned hands on his protruding stomach. No matter how long they went without eating, it seemed like his stomach never shrank. Jakobe knew better than to tease him about it. He wasn't embarrassed about the gut itself, more that people might've thought he was hoarding food for himself, which anyone who spoke to Bronx longer than two seconds would know was impossible. He would die for anyone sitting at that fire.

  "Hammers wouldn't travel this far south off the main roads. They avoid contamination; we're too close to one of the first dumping zones," Myskin said.

  Hammers usually didn't cross east of the storm divide, but no one knew exactly where they were. They were always traveling and always leaving bones in their wake. It was easy to spot a Hammer trail because they consumed every bit of flesh on the body.

  Myskin tinkered with an open circuit. He used the battery on his bike to charge their only water purifier, only breaking into their stash of batteries in times of emergency. "So hit them first thing in the morning? When they're all waking up and whoever is on guard duty is about to turn in for sleep?"

  "Makes the most sense," Forte chimed in. He was the only one not sitting in the circle by the fire, preferring to lie on his bike and look up at the stars. He folded his dark brown arms across his massive chest and picked at the scar on his left bicep. Before they found Jakobe, Forte was the new guy. They snatched him from a barn while he was protecting their well water. He was raised by a cult that deemed the plague caused by the cure as the wrath of God for man trying to oppose nature and create immortality. They preached the plague would disappear once enough people died and branded one child from every family with a “J” on their arm. They would serve as the sacrifice once they turned thirteen.

  Lyo wanted to burn the place down, but Bronx and Myskin talked him out of it. It wasn't that they were morally opposed to it, but they would only kill those in the barn, and
the cult took up an entire compound with dozens of cabins. There were too many people to fight off. They'd be lucky to escape, but he promised Forte they would return one day and make sure every last one of its leaders died.

  When Jakobe first heard the story, he thought it was strange to see Lyo grow so impassioned about something. Lyo was always focused on survival. "Any other emotions are just a waste of time," he would say, but something was different about this cult.

  There were only a few hours until sun-up and most of the group was well rested. They went to the river running from the base of the mountain and ran one last cycle through Myskin's tank. He spent most of the day filling their reserves. If they remained disciplined and avoided catastrophe, they had enough to last them a week. The reserves were important. Not just for in case of emergency, but it ensured they could travel more than a day's ride to find and take down a camp. The purifying process took close to an hour for a single person's daily rations, but Myskin usually required more time. He drained his bike's battery with each use, and he was terrified of killing it.

  "We should head back to the main road. I know it's always risky, but if we could avoid detection, I could maybe whip up something a little more portable," Myskin said.

  "We can't take the risk. Not right now," Lyo said. He was right. Though Jakobe was the only one to exclusively fight with guns, they all carried at least one just in case, and there were plenty of just in cases on the roads. They needed to resupply and refuel their bikes before they could even think about heading toward the main road.

  "Maybe we should be chomping at the bit to take one of those cities for ourselves," Forte said.

  "Not this again," Bronx added. "I'm sick of you acting like you can take on a small army all by yourself when just last week you had your hands full with an eight-year-old."

  "How was I supposed to know he could work a rifle?" Forte asked and joined the circle.

  "It's not that difficult to figure out. Point and shoot." Jakobe mimed a pistol with his hand.

  "No one asked you, Jakobe," he said. He put Jakobe in a headlock then ground his knuckles against the top of his head. Jakobe pushed himself free and raised his hands.

  "Come on, army killer, let's see what ya got!" he joked and shoved Forte back.

  "You're dead; you're so dead," Forte replied and squared off with him. At first they were both all smiles. Though it was all a joke, egos came in after the first hit. Jakobe landed a jab on Forte's nose and made him tear up.

  "He's crying!" Myskin pointed and laughed, which transformed Forte's cocky grin into a scowl. The joke was over, and he tackled Jakobe to the ground with ease. He landed two punches on his face before Lyo pulled him off and stepped between the two.

  "I can't turn my back for two seconds to have a drink without you getting into trouble." He shoved Forte then turned to Jakobe. "And you, why you gotta egg everyone on?"

  "It's what he does. Talks shit and runs away. All he cares about is keeping that face pretty." Forte pointed at Jakobe's bloody nose. Jakobe spat at his feet, and the two started at one another but Lyo managed to separate them once more. Bronx stepped in too, and the tension in the air died. His body alone was a roadblock, but if he wanted to throw his weight around, he could hold his own against anyone, even Forte.

  Jakobe returned to the fire and cleaned his three guns. Like everything he owned, all of them had the same KO mark etched into their side. He could barely hear anything but his pulse. His nails bit his palms when he squeezed his hands tightly to relieve the anger. He knew he sucked at fighting, but he hated being reminded of it.

  He started with his two revolvers, cleaning the barrels and chambers with his brush and cleaning cloth before giving them a nice shine with a pair of old socks, then he moved on to his rifle. Its earth-colored stock blended in well with his surroundings, making it perfect for him to hide in the distance and pick off targets. Any chance he got, he practiced with it, which wasn't often since ammunition ran low frequently.

  By the time Jakobe finished taking care of his weapons, he felt relaxed. Forte closed his eyes while riding his bike, stealing a few more moments of sleep before the raid. Within the hour, Lyo woke him and gave everyone a ten minute warning. "It's about an hour ride, and we got two hours to sunrise."

  2

  They parked on an overlook and saw the camp just off an abandoned road. Two four wheelers were in the center of the camp, which meant they had fuel. They never hit a big score raiding the smaller roads, but they could survive off what they found.

  "Something about this feels off," Myskin said. His hands trembled, and he kept licking his lips. His eyes shifted back and forth, searching for a comforting sign.

  "I know what you mean. Even out this far, it feels too easy," Bronx added.

  "You think they spotted you?" Forte asked.

  "No way. They just set up camp; I think they were desperate and stopped the first place they could find water," Lyo said.

  The river from the mountain ran northwest, and the camp wasn't far. Though it was relatively clean at the base of the mountain, by the time it reached a camp this far out, it picked up lingering contaminants in the ground.

  "They must have a purifier too," Myskin said.

  Jakobe kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to voice concerns about Lyo's plan, and the others already raised any problems he saw. Anytime something felt too easy to be true, it was.

  But what choice did they have? They were eating their reserves and low on fuel. It needed to work; they needed this raid as a means to survive. Besides, not everything was a trick. Some people just didn't know how to last in this.

  His first raid with Lyo targeted a group of deserters from the city. He could tell they were deserters because the two eldest still had white lines on their foreheads. It was a camp of twenty people, but most of them were children. The general rule of thumb was the further south one went, the more children became a liability. They couldn’t produce much, certainly couldn’t fight well, but could eat a week’s worth of food in minutes.

  The other reason Jakobe knew they were from the city is they took water for granted. When they raided the campsite, which was one tent for whom Jakobe assumed to be the leader, while the children slept on the ground with only their clothes for protection, they found nothing of use. They had almost no food, very little water, and a rifle that jammed more often than it fired. It was the risk of raiding those desperate enough to march toward the dumping grounds. Sometimes they would come up empty.

  Jakobe scanned the area and spotted the best place to hide: a slight elevation on the other side of the dirt road with two rocks to offer cover. By now the camp heard their bikes in the distance and were somewhat prepared, but Jakobe needed to stay quiet.

  He walked his bike down the hill and went wide around the camp, crossing the road behind the hill the rest of his gang were on and made his way to the rocks. He could offer cover and pick off threats running away or attempting to regroup.

  When he reached the two rocks, Lyo took off. They hit the camp fast. Brock and Forte went to the far side and rode toward the middle without firing a single shot. Myskin rode toward Jakobe and sliced through the camp. Lyo went right up the front where the guards were. He was the only one Jakobe struggled to keep eyes on.

  The others didn't hold back, running down anyone they could find. The only lookouts were the first to go. Lyo took down the one on duty with ease. He rode through him, pinning his body under his bike then jammed his blade into the man’s neck. Myskin chased down the guard who was relieved. He flew past Lyo and side-skitted into the man, knocking him through the nearest tent. Jakobe followed Myskin with his rifle, keeping an eye on his surroundings. Myskin dismounted his bike and walked toward the guard with the confidence of someone who knew he was being protected. He pulled a long blade from a sheath, a monstrous machete the size of his boney torso, and slashed down at the man.

  There were fewer than a dozen people in the camp and most were men, a couple women and
two children. They all had horizontal white lines painted on their foreheads. Forte and Bronx charged the camp’s flanks. On foot they both preferred clubs and blunt force, but on raids Bronx worked with Myskin to turn the front of his four wheeler into a battering ram, and the cage around his seat kept it from flipping. While Lyo had to weave through obstacles, Bronx tested his limits and drove through people. He was careful not to ride through tents. The spectacle wasn’t worth potentially destroying supplies they needed.

  Jakobe fired his first shot when most of the fight was over. Someone not much older than him grabbed one of the fallen lookout's rifles and aimed at Myskin. Myskin nodded to Jakobe and went back to taking down the tents.

  Jakobe hopped on his bike and rode into camp once it was cleared. "What's the matter, you're leaving survivors?" Forte asked.

  "I wouldn't call eight people with no food, water, or weapons survivors. They'll be dead by sunset, and I didn't wanna waste the ammo," Jakobe replied and crouched down to inspect the pile the rest of his crew put together. Lyo and Myskin loaded the fuel and went back to the loot.

  "What's that?" Jakobe pointed at the tent across from him. A map was spread on top of the ground with a dirty boot print plastered across its front.

  "It's nothing important," Bronx said and picked up a portable purifier. "I think this is what you were looking for." He tossed it to Myskin.

  "It doesn't look like nothing. What's this body of water the red arrows are pointing to?" Jakobe asked.

  "It's a map of the West, on the other side of the storm divide. You really wanna journey out there?" Lyo asked.