Conceived in Blood, A Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian Novel (3 page)

She wasn't out of danger yet.

Shaking herself, she watched the airship putter away. No signal flare shot from the oblong gondola. No spotlight shone on her. Hell, only a handful of people knew she'd been on board.

Only two might know she was no longer aboard.

The bad guy wouldn't tell.

And her uncle didn’t expect to see her until morning.

Drawing her legs up, she peeled her right hand’s fingers off the strap. She tucked them inside her calf-high boots and pulled a knife out of the built-in pocket. Her timing must be impeccable, otherwise she'd be crushed by the very crate that had saved her life.

Shrubs grew into trees. Their twisted trunks clearly visible under the fuzz of late spring leaves. Spots of green appeared in the brown carpet. White mantles outlined boulders and run off channels. Not a level surface in sight.

Landing was going to hurt.

Not quite the glamorous life she'd pictured when she'd decided to reveal the true Outlands to the people in Dark Hope. She drifted over a stand of trees. This looked like as soft a landing as she would get. Twenty feet above the ground, she cut the rope anchoring her to the crate.

 Trees rushed up to meet her. She threw her arms in front of her face. Branches smacked her arm, scratched at her clothing and yanked on her hair. The foliage's limbs snapped under her weight. Fabric ripped.

The moment her feet touched down, she tucked her chin against her chest. Her knees buckled and she pitched forward, somersaulting ass over heels, until her butt collided with another trunk.

She groaned. That was going to leave a mark. Spitting out twigs and leaves, she opened her eyes. Stars twinkled in the black velvet sky visible though the skeletal branches. The red, white, and green glow of the airship appeared on the fringes of her horizon. Holding still, she did a mental inventory. Aches and pain everywhere but her eyelashes.

Anything broken?

She wiggled her fingers and toes before moving onto larger muscle groups. Everything behaved correctly. Thank God.

Bracing her hands at her sides, she pushed into a sitting position. Mud squished between her fingers. Thin branches clattered in the breeze. Unhooking the front clasp of her harness, she shrugged off her pack then brought it around to her lap.

The slide of the zipper sounded overly loud in the quiet. Reaching inside the cold canvas, she rummaged over the slick packaging of emergency rations, the soft rasp of clothing and the hard shell of her canteen. Where is it? Her fingers walked to the side before finding the padded, inner pocket. Dipping inside, she touched the earpiece of her night-vision glasses.

Setting them on her nose, she took in her surroundings.

Shards of moonlight cut designs in the lime green foliage and glinted off her blade laying a few feet away. Her muscles twitched with the need to retrieve it. Patience. Up ahead, the crate she'd flown down on lay cracked in half over a boulder. Silver bars glistened. Her blood thrummed through her veins. That was not scientific equipment, but weapons. TSG-17s to be precise.

Someone in Dark Hope was arming Outlanders.

Were there other traitors here to collect the freight?

Ears straining, she counted time in heartbeats. Ten. Twenty. Finally, she detected a faint rustle to her left and the skitter of four legs to her right. Rats. They'd survived the apocalypse along with cockroaches and politicians.

She scanned the area around her once more, then rose to her feet. At least, there wasn't a welcoming committee. Yet. But they would arrive soon. Pain flared down her back and hamstrings when she bent over. Biting her bottom lip, she wrapped her fingers around her knife's hilt and straightened.

Tending her wounds would have to wait. She needed to neutralize those weapons then find higher ground. She took a step forward. Air hissed through her teeth as pain lanced her right thigh.

Shunting the stabbing feeling aside, she limped forward. She could walk it off, push past it, do whatever it took to reach that ridge. Soldier blood ran in her veins, practically laid camouflage in her DNA.

Upon reaching the crate, she selected the nearest stun-gun. She hoped it still held a residual charge. Wiping the dirt and leaves from the oval barrel, she kicked the rest into a pile. Once done, she aimed and fired.

The charged projectile pinged against the pile of tin and discharged. Blue light crackled across the weapons, triggering the energy from the others and frying their circuits. Now the Outlanders could have them. After blowing nonexistent smoke away from the tip, she scooped up her pack and turned toward the glow of the dirigible.

That ridge should be high enough, but she'd have to walk double time to get there before the high altitude communication drone moved out of range.

She only hoped her Uncle Dawson could receive her call. After stuffing her hands through the pack's straps, she secured the harness under her breasts, hooked the TSG-17 on a carabiner and put one foot in front of the other.

Fifteen minutes later, she huffed up the rocky summit and dropped in the grass near a boulder. The granite still radiated a soft heat from the afternoon sun. Stripping off her backpack, she removed her sweater from inside and unrolled it. Gold and silver baubles glittered against the green wool.

Useless things. Why Outlanders valued them she had no clue. Flicking them aside, she lifted her communicator's ear piece. The antenna stayed behind. Well, damn.

Her shoulders sagged as she inspected each half. The molded body split in two under her touch. She'd need more than duct tape and a paperclip to fix it. The airship shrunk on the horizon. Glancing over her shoulder, she switched her night vision to infrared. The ground turned into a patchwork of blue, red, and dots of white. Ignoring the white animal shapes, she scanned the distance for any sign of human bodies.

None.

But that didn't mean the bad guys weren’t on their way.

Knock off the doom and gloom mongering. Attitude was as important in survival as the right tools. And speaking of tools...

She tugged an antique compass from another of the backpack's pocket. The needle spun, stopped at forty degrees, then pivoted to one-hundred-ninety. With the magnetic poles switching, she didn't think it would work. Of course, it could still bring her luck. Her ancestor had survived worse. Wiping the dirt off the David Dawson engraved on the lid, she returned it to her pack.

Switching back to night vision, she limped partway down the ridge. Although the going would be rougher, she was better off being high enough to see anyone approach but low enough not to be spotlighted by the full moon.

Her stomach growled and her thigh throbbed.  

One hour's walk then she’d stop and tend her body’s calls. On the bright side, she had some water, food and enough supplies to make a camp. On the dark side, no one would know she was even missing for another eight hours.

That was seven hours and fifty-nine minutes more than it took to die in the Outlands.

Chapter 4

"Everybody dies." Knees sinking in the dirt, Harlan waited for Bastard to strike, left foot jiggling in time to his racing heart. Today was Bastard's expiration date. Harlan just wished the guy would hurry it up.

"I'll cut out your tongue first." Bastard's buzzard-like fingers clawed at his side.

No doubt looking for the knife bulging in his pocket. Harlan hoped the fool looked down. He just needed a heartbeat.

"Save some for us, boss." Directly in front of him, the two thug-uglies stooped to strip the valuables off Dennis's corpse.

"Nice to know you care." Keeping his eyes locked with Bastard's, Harlan waited.  His stomach fluttered as if he'd swallowed a dying bird. Come on. Look for your pathetic knife. You know you want to.

As if hearing the thought, Bastard's attention cut to his pant leg.

Harlan flexed his forearms. A spring clicked. Movement whispered over the leather straps wrapping his skin half a second before warm metal filled his palms.

Bastard leaned to the right, catching his tongue between his teeth, and his hand disappeared in the deep pant pocket.

Harlan wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife in his left hand. With an upward thrust, he drove the blade into the soft tissue under Bastard's chin and through his palate. Blood frothed from the man's mouth, then life blinked out of his eyes.

The enemies at ten and four o'clock paused.

Oblivious, the twin thug-uglies engaged in a tug-of-war over a gold bracelet.

The enemy at four o'clock blinked. Red flooding his lean features, he bared his yellow teeth and started forward.

Nice of them to prioritize his targets. Warm liquid trickled over Harlan's fingers. Releasing the impaled head, he flipped the other knife, pinching the blade between his thumb and forefinger. He flicked his wrist. The knife landed with a watery splat in his left eye.

Shock slid over his target's face. His enemy fell to his knees before planting his face in the ground and lay still.

His target at ten o'clock shook his head and lurched forward.

Well, hell. He was all out of knives to greet the scumbag. Guess an arrow would have to do. In one smooth motion, Harlan dropped and somersaulted backward. When he came up, the dead man running was five feet away. Harlan pulled the trigger as soon as the crossbow's stock touched his shoulder.

The arrowhead pierced the man's throat, stopping halfway out the back. He gurgled and raked his neck. The black fletching on the end of the shaft quivered before he pitched forward. Upon impact, the arrow snapped in two with a loud crack.

The noise caught the thug-uglies' attention. Their beady eyes scanned the camp before targeting him.

Harlan leapt to his feet. They were too close for him to reload twice and shoot them. Besides, they might be too stupid to fall when they were hit. "Can't stop and play boys, gotta run."

Turning on his heel, he plunged into the shrubs. Branches tugged at him. Please don't follow. Please don't follow.

The thud of footfalls ended his prayers.

Obviously the thug-uglies had a death wish. Zig-zagging around scraggly bushes, he plucked an arrow from the quiver under the crossbow's curved limb. Dropped it. Shit. He reached for another.

A sapling's trunk snapped behind him.

Great, the assholes didn't need to run around the plants like ordinary folks; they could plow right through them. His fingers shook when he loaded the arrow into the flight groove. It slid home on the third try.

Branches crackled to his left and right.

Sweat beaded Harlan's upper lip. Well, wasn't that just the cherry on his day. They were trying to outflank him. Guess a few brain cells had survived a crushing death by their rolls of muscle. Now for the hard part——arming the crossbow.

Doubling over, he ducked under a low pine bough. In the darkness, he slammed his back against the trunk. Stepping on the metal cocking stirrup, he grabbed the string and pulled it into the latch. Setting his finger on the trigger, he cupped the foregrip.

Now he just needed a target.

His breath echoed in the shell of his ears. Where were the thug-uglies? They had to be close. Fractured moonlight lit the carpet of brown pine needles. But the nearby woods stood still. For such big guys, they moved quietly. Too quietly for his skin. Why couldn't they crash about like drunks soaked in potato ale?

A pop sounded to his left.

Harlan smiled. The sight of his weapon tracked his eyes’ motion. All but one shadow writhed when a gust of wind shook the trees. He aimed for the circle at the top then paused and checked his supply of arrows.

No spares. Today just wasn't his day. Killing one would not get him out of this fix. The other twin  would just hunt him down and rip him limb from limb. He needed one muscle-head incapacitated enough so his twin would stay with him.

Harlan didn't want to end this night dead.

Lowering the barrel, he aimed for the widest part of the shadow. Another twig snapped to his right. He froze, processing the sound. His heart picked up tempo. His current target was closer and still——a golden opportunity. Be a shame to waste it.

His finger tightened on the trigger. But a chest shot wouldn't stop the thug-ugly from chasing him.

The arrow hummed through the darkness before finding a home in his victim's meaty thigh.

A howl reverberated through the woods. Moments later, the darkness creeping across the ground swallowed him.

"Quinn?" Shouted the thug-ugly on his right.

Quinn? What kind of name was that for a man who could probably crush a human skull between his hands? Lowering the crossbow to his side, Harlan flattened against the pine's trunk. Bark scratched his jacket and pattered against the ground.

"Here," called the shadows on the left.

"You get him?"

Hell no! Harlan was alive and well. A situation he planned to maintain for the foreseeable future. His eyes strained in the darkness. Where was the other one?

"He got me."

"Bad?"

Harlan held his breath. Quinn crept ten feet away from him. Light sparked off the oversized curved blade in his hand. Figured the meat puppet would have a big knife. He probably needed it to compensate for something infinitely smaller——his smarts.

"Can't walk," the injured thug groaned.

Craning his neck to keep the other man in sight, Harlan eased around the trunk. He'd backtrack to the observation camp, retrieve his favorite throwing knives then rejoin his men. The meat puppets wouldn't expect that.

A cloud scuttled in front of the moon, tossing a black veil over the forest. No way could he move now. He'd most likely fall and break his neck.

Grunting and cursing followed the brothers' reunion.

"We gonna go after him?"

Harlan rolled his eyes. Good luck with that. They'd never catch him again.

"Nah." Quinn didn't bother hushing his movements as his brother hefted him to his feet. "We gotta report to the big boss. He ain't gonna be none too happy about the thief gittin’ away."

Harlan stiffened. He wasn't a damned thief. What these bastards gave wasn't theirs in the first place. Silver bars of moonlight skimmed across the forest. Harlan watched the thug-uglies walk/hop in the opposite direction of the observation camp. He loved it when the enemy cooperated with his plan.