Survive The Fall | Book 4 | Total Collapse Page 4

  “True,” Russell said, the road and area for any possible threats lurking on the roadway.

  “How are you holding up?” Cathy asked, clearing her throat. “I can imagine you’re still worried about your wife.”

  Russell shrugged. “I’m holding. Doing the best I can, all things considered. Taking it one day at a time until I get back to Boston to find Sarah.”

  “I do appreciate everything you’ve done,” Cathy said. “I know I’m sounding like a broken record a lot, but you have been a massive help. Both of you have.”

  “You don’t have to keep thanking me,” Russell replied, glancing back to her. “After everything you’ve done for me, it’s the least I can do. Despite all the preparedness and survival tactics, going through an actual catastrophic event is always hard. All in all, I think we’ve done rather well handling everything.”

  Clyde drove down the spiral exit ramp to the street below, keeping a tight hold on the steering wheel and working the brake. “Agreed. I’ve been through tornados, hurricanes, and all sorts of bad crap, and thought I was prepared for anything else. It’s hard to know how you’d actually fair in a massive catastrophic event that spans the globe. Most folks aren’t ready for when people start doing stupid things and help isn’t a phone call away. Adapt or die.”

  The crackle of gunfire echoed in the distance.

  Max sat up in the seat, then looked out of the window.

  Russell reached for the Ruger, leaving the .38 Special in the center console. He skimmed the street ahead for any threats or menacing individuals lurking about.

  “That’s one thing about Philadelphia, it can keep you on your toes without the end of the world breathing down your neck,” Clyde said, merging onto the two-lane road.

  Cathy cycled a round from the Smith and Wesson she carried.

  Max sat on his haunches, peering out of the back window and growling at each gunshot that popped off in the distance.

  The intersection ahead was blocked by a number of cars and an eighteen-wheeler. The jumbled mess of contorted steel and busted fragments from the vehicles covered the pavement. Fluids from the five vehicles leaked over the roadway. A fire had started in a blue, two-door hatchback that was mashed between the large semi-truck and the beige SUV.

  Clyde drove up onto the sidewalk past the six cars that sat parked at the powerless signal in front of the wreckage. The Silverado drove half on the walkway and the road, threading its wide, bulky frame between the stationary cars and the crosswalk signal.

  The doors of the trailer sat open. Cardboard boxes laid scattered behind the long, silver enclosed transport, covering the ground. The wind thrashed the clear plastic wrap that intertwined between the mess of cardboard boxes. White packing peanuts blew from the tops of the open boxes, covering the road.

  Russell looked over the wreckage for anyone trapped within the vehicles, but spied no one.

  Clyde hugged the curb, staying close to the crosswalk signal to avoid the fragments from the wreckage that laid in the road a few feet away. The Silverado dropped down from the curb to the street and kept going down the roadway.

  The smell of smoke hung in the air and funneled through the vents of the truck. Russell’s nose crinkled from the stench. Max barked at the people walking down the sidewalk on the far side of the street. He inched closer to the window, studied the people, then growled.

  Cathy ran her fingers down his spine, but it did little to calm the German shepherd. The growls grew louder the more people he spotted.

  “It may prove a bit harder to navigate the city than we thought,” Clyde said, slowing the truck and coming to a stop in the middle of the street. “Looks like there might be another wreck ahead of us, and some folks just abandoned their cars in the middle of the road.”

  Russell nodded at the surly looking individuals standing close to the buildings–watching the idling truck. “I’m not liking the way people are staring at us. We probably need to find another way and keep moving.”

  Clyde nodded, then pointed to the east side of the street. “We’ve got an alley there we can take. Should drop us out onto the next street over.”

  “It’s worth a look,” Russell shot back, pointing at a man wearing a black hoodie who was staring at the truck. “That guy in the hoodie over there is eyeing us pretty hard.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a few more people doing the same thing near that drugstore there,” Cathy added.

  Russell peered into the sideview mirror, spotting more menacing looking folks staring their way. They inched their way to the edge of the curb.

  Clyde hit the gas and spun the steering wheel, sending the truck past the cars blocking the road toward the alley ahead of them. He maneuvered the Silverado around a police cruiser parked close to the entrance of the alleyway.

  The passenger side sat open. The window had been busted out with shards of glass littering the pavement under the door. Russell craned his neck and peered inside the squad car, fearful that he might see a dead cop. The driver and passenger side seats sat empty, though, the driver’s side window had been busted out and the windshield cracked.

  A sigh of relief escaped Russell’s lips as they plowed over the dip in the road and entered the alley. The beefy V8 engine of the Silverado grew louder in the corridor between the tall brick buildings.

  Clyde worked the steering wheel from side to side, missing bags of trash and small crates. He checked the rearview mirror, then looked ahead.

  Max paced the backseat, glancing out of the back window, then the windshield. He stepped on Cathy’s leg, causing her to grimace and move her leg from the seat.

  “Ah. Watch it, Max,” she said, clenching her jaw. “That hurt. Go on. Move.”

  Russell scanned the gaps between the buildings for any movement, then the sideview mirror, but spotted nothing.

  Clyde slowed the Silverado, nearing the street ahead. He craned his neck, trying to see past the blind corners of the brick buildings, but they weren’t close enough.

  The truck crept out of the alley and onto the street. They hooked around the curb and drove down the road. One of the buildings on the east side of the street had caught fire. The charred remains of the inside were blackened and smoldered as if it had happened not long ago. Mounds of busted brick and rubble carpeted the sidewalk and spilled out onto a portion of the street.

  “The grid going down wouldn’t have caused that sort of damage, would it?” Russell asked, looking to Clyde, then back to Cathy.

  “I don’t think so.” Cathy shrugged. “Given the way things look so far in the city, I’d say civil unrest is more than likely the cause of a lot of the destruction we’re seeing. Tension has been high in the country for some time. This could’ve been the straw that broke our backs.”

  Russell hadn’t paid too much attention to the world around him for the past year or so. Not since his daughter, Jess, was murdered and his life and marriage crumbled all around him. Alcohol had been his focus for some time, stealing his time and life from those who wanted him near.

  Clyde slammed the brakes, bringing the Silverado to a halt in the street.

  Russell jerked forward. The seat belt snapped taut against his chest.

  “What the hell?” Cathy said in a painful groan.

  Clyde pointed up the street at the swarm of people blocking the roadway, shouting and looting any vehicles and businesses close by. “We’ve got a problem.”

  A hue of red and blue flashed on the far side of the agitated mob standing in the streets. They squared off with police who tried to maintain order.

  “We’re going to have to find another way around,” Russell replied, holding the Ruger a hair tighter.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SARAH

  The squad car was on its last leg.

  The police cruiser lurched down the highway, losing power with each passing second. Thin trails of smoke vented from the engine. A loud whining noise sounded from the smashed front end. Metal grinded with each rotation of the tires.

  Sarah pumped the gas and jerked the steering wheel, hoping to squeeze a bit more life from the mangled wreckage. She checked the sideview mirror, then the rearview mirror for any suspicious vehicles.

  The two-lane road had little traffic to contend with, allowing Sarah to creep along and nurse the Boston Police Cruiser. Cars that passed going the other direction slowed and gave her peculiar stares as they went about their business.

  Her parents’ house wasn’t too far away–over the next hill and past the bend in the road. They lived in Dover, Massachusetts—far enough from Boston that Sarah figured she’d be safe long enough to catch her breath and figure out what to do next.

  The cruiser climbed the hill, sputtering and lunging forward. Sarah pressed the gas pedal to the floor, pushing the unruly beast up the incline, unsure if it would make it or not.

  A truck closed in fast, gaining on her from down the road. Sarah held a bated breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter. The bright-yellow truck pulled into the other lane and flew past her without slowing. A ballsy move on the blind hill. It cut back in front of her, missing the crumpled front end by mere inches as a sedan crested the peak.

  Sarah wrenched the steering wheel, sending the squad car into the grass growing alongside the road. The uneven terrain jolted the vehicle, rattling every nut and bolt that held it together. She gnashed her teeth and white knuckled the wheel, then pulled back onto the road.

  The yellow truck sped away, leaving the cruiser in its wake.

  Sarah shook her fist in anger at the driver. She cussed under her breath, feeling the tension and stress raging in her gut building even more.

  The squad car drove another mile or so, passing a light-blue van parked in the grass, before it finally died. It jerked, stalled, then lunge
d forward, losing power altogether.

  Smoke lifted from the hood in a large cloud. The foul smell seeped into the squad car.

  Sarah pumped the gas and turned the key, hoping for a miracle. The engine grumbled but refused to start. She tried once more, ending in the same result.

  Sarah slapped the steering wheel, then threw her head back against the padded headrest. She closed her eyes and pressed the palms of her hands to her face, battling the strained nerves and mixed emotions boiling in the pit of her stomach.

  A car flew by the broken-down cruiser, snapping Sarah out of her agitated state. She searched the squad car for anything of value, finding nothing more than the police issued 12-gauge shotgun mounted to the dash behind the computer terminal.

  Sarah removed the shotgun, checked the driver’s sideview mirror for any incoming traffic, then tossed the door open. A hissing noise met her ears along with the potent smell of the smoke seeping out from under the crumpled hood. She leaned back inside the car, removed the keys from the ignition, and made her way toward the rear of the vehicle.

  The back end of the squad car’s body had multiple dents lining the bumper. The paint had been scrapped off in spots. The trunk lid near the lock had been bent in. The left taillight sat in ruins, the red plastic busted and gone.

  Sarah set the shotgun on the ground and leaned it against the bumper. She thumbed through the keys and tested each in the damaged lock until she found the right one.

  The trunk lid creaked open. It stopped halfway up. Sarah grabbed the bottom lip and forced it up. She took stock of the gear stowed in the compartment.

  A bullet proof vest, duty bag, first aid kit, crime scene materials, and other equipment caught her eye. She rifled through the contents, opening the duty bag and rummaging through the extra ammo and handcuffs stored inside. A Glock 22 was nestled between the boxes of ammo and the end of the bag.

  Sarah pulled it out and ejected the magazine, finding it to be fully stocked. She racked the slide, secured the piece in the waistband of her jeans, then pulled her shirt over the weapon.

  The first aid kit was added to the duty bag on top—a tight fit, but Sarah made it work. She zipped the top closed, yanked it from the trunk, then slammed the lid down.

  Sarah slipped the black strap over her head and onto her shoulder. The bulk of the bag weighed her down some, but she didn’t have far to go. She retrieved the shotgun, trudged through the grass past the passenger side of the cruiser, then stopped and looked at the smoking vehicle. Leaving the car exposed on the side of the road would draw unwanted attention, more than she had already received, but she didn’t have a choice, and she couldn’t roll it anywhere.

  She left the wreckage behind, keeping to the grass and following the road past the bend. The bulk of the go bag hurt her back. Sarah adjusted the strap, feeling the strain on her battered body and tired legs. She kept her head down, eyes trained on the grass to avoid eye contact with any vehicles that rushed past her.

  The long driveway leading to her parents’ house came into view past the row of trees that lined both sides of the drive. She checked the road for any inbound traffic, then hoofed it to the other side.

  Her knees throbbed and ached. The duty bag slapped her side and jostled about. A twinge of pain lanced up her leg with each step. She clenched her jaw, battling the discomfort.

  Sarah stopped at the mailbox and leaned against it for a moment. Her hands massaged her knees to relieve the discomfort festering in both. A small portion of her parents’ house appeared through a gap within the tree line. A sense of relief washed over her.

  She continued down the gravel entrance of the driveway, moving closer to the wall of trees that lined both sides. The canopy overhead provided shade, giving her a reprieve from the sun. The slight breeze blew against her flush, sweaty skin. Birds chirped. Squirrels zipped up the trunks and over the long, thick branches, rustling the leaves.

  The duty bag grew heavier on her shoulder, increasing the discomfort already there. Her shoes shuffled through the blades of grass and gravel that covered the ground.

  The back of her hand wiped the sweat from her brow. The inside of her mouth was dry. Her stomach rumbled, begging for any source of nutrients. She hated walking the long driveway, and had bad memories of doing it from an early age to retrieve the mail or any other such requests her parents asked of her.

  The house drew closer. The light and dark-tinted brick of the home bled through the low-lying branches. The black shutters mounted on either side of windows to her folks’ bedroom caught her eye.

  A sense of relief built inside of her. Sarah looked forward to dropping the duty bag and sitting down to rest in her father’s favorite plush, brown leather recliner without having to worry about peering over her shoulder.

  The home would be quiet since her folks had gone to Europe for an extended trip to stay with close friends. Sarah wouldn’t have to deal with her parents’ complaining about how her life had spiraled from the happiness she knew since losing Jess. Despite the tension around their relationship, Sarah loved them just the same. She hoped they were safe across the pond and looked forward to seeing them again, whenever that might be.

  Sarah followed the driveway past the row of trees toward the large, single-story brick home. She bypassed the sidewalk that snaked through the tall weeds to the front door and made her way to the back of the house.

  Her father’s workshop sat in the far corner of the lot. The large steel building housed expensive equipment and his woodworking projects that he designed and made—a retirement gift to himself-to keep him occupied and out of her mother’s hair.

  The landscaping around the side of the home looked a bit worse for wear. The variety of flowers and shrubs her mother tended looked wilted and dead. She’d thought they would’ve had a close friend or neighbor swing by and maintain the property in their absence. Perhaps she thought wrong.

  Sarah walked around the back of the house toward the French doors. Her body leaned to the side, giving in to the weight of the duty bag. It wasn’t all that heavy, but being tired and sore from running and dodging the Irish Mob, Spencer, and Bryce’s men made it feel like it weighed twice as much.

  She stopped in front of the doors, lifted the strap from her shoulder and over her head, then dropped it to the ground. The bag hit the concrete with a dense thud. She set the shotgun down, then leaned it against the brick near the entrance. She noticed a portion of the square glass near the handle had been busted out.

  Sarah froze. Panic swelled inside of her. Panted breaths escaped her mouth.

  How did they find me? Sarah thought, thinking of Leatherface, the Irish mob, or even her stalker, Spencer Lasater, who all sought her out.

  She grabbed the barrel of the 12-gauge shotgun, shouldered the black tactical weapon, then turned toward the back of the property.

  The buttstock rested against her aching shoulder. She swept the grounds for movement, or anything that appeared out of place. The large rollup door and smaller entrance on the shop looked intact and free of any meddling. Everything else seemed as it should outside with no hint of danger lurking around.

  She turned toward the doors and reached for the handle. Her heart punched her chest. Her breathing escalated. She gripped the silver handle and thumbed the lever.

  The door creaked open.

  Sarah held a bated breath and pushed it against the wall.

  Glass crunched under her shoes. The noise stopped her cold. She lifted her foot and stepped over the tiny shards that covered the ceramic tile.

  Her mom and dad filled her thoughts. What if they hadn’t made it on their trip and something happened to them? A horrid scene played in her head of finding their bodies lying on the floor–bound and gagged with a slug in both their heads.

  Sarah peered over her shoulder at the driveway, then looked straight ahead down the low-lit hallway. She craned her neck, checking the blind corners of the laundry room and the spare room her parents used for storage. No sounds of any kind lurked inside. It was silent and still.

  “Mom. Dad,” Sarah said, her voice low and thick with fear. “It’s Sarah. Are you in here?”

  She stayed by the French doors, waiting and listening for a response that never came. Her hands adjusted on the fore-end of the shotgun. She continued on down the hall.