Broken World
This
book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are
fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real
in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales
or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright
© 2014 by Kate L. Mary
Edited by Emily Teng
Cover art by
Jimmy
Gibbs
ISBN: 1500257745
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For my biggest
cheerleaders: Erin, Sarah and Tammy.
Thanks for loving Axl and Vivian as much
as I do!
Broken World
has been a long time coming. I love zombies, and thanks to the recent success
of a little show on AMC called
The Walking Dead
, they’ve become very
popular. As soon as I started writing I wanted to get a zombie story out there,
but it’s a hard sell for agents and publishers, so I put it off. When I finally
gave into the ideas swirling around in my head, three books poured out of me
along with the concept for several more. And I fell in love with these
characters.
I want to give a huge thanks to my three
good friends Erin Rose, Sarah McVay and Tammy Brewer-Moore for loving these
books and being overwhelmingly supportive. They really are the biggest
cheerleaders when it comes to Axl and Vivian.
Thanks so much to the other first
readers of this book: Jeremy Mary, Russ James and Lisa Terry. I appreciated all
your enthusiasm and critiques.
To my editor, Emily Teng, who worked so
hard on the revisions while I was still with my former publisher. I appreciate
your focus and the fact that you did your best to get answers for me. Thanks
for doing such a good job and for your professional behavior!
Of course, I have to thank Robert
Kirkman and AMC for bringing about the popularity of zombies. Anyone who knows
me at all knows I am in love with
The Walking Dead
.
And to Daryl Dixon, the zombie
apocalypse messiah who somehow manages to make women swoon while being covered
in dirt. You are amazing and I never get tired of seeing you kick some zombie
ass.
Thanks to my family and all my friends,
and every person who loves zombies as much as I do. I hope you all enjoy this
series as much as I love writing it, because I don’t plan on stopping any time
soon!
THE
CAR SPUTTERS when I maneuver it into a space, but it doesn’t die. Not yet,
anyway. The small orange light screams at me from the dashboard—
check engine
.
Ten hours, that’s how long I’ve been on the road. I didn’t really believe this
piece of shit would make it all the way to California, but I’d hoped it would
at least get me halfway there.
I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my
forehead on the steering wheel, right between my clenched fists. The orange
words dance across the back of my eyelids. Even with my eyes closed I can’t
escape them. They taunt me.
Check engine
. They may as well be
you failed.
That’s what it feels like.
I jerk the keys out of the ignition and
grab my travel papers off the dashboard, shoving them both in my purse. Leaving
the papers behind would get my car broken into for sure, plus I’ll need them if
I run into a cop. If my papers get stolen, I’ll be stranded.
The diner is the type of place I would
normally avoid. It’s nothing more than a truck stop really, probably fifty
years old or more. I’m sure the walls are coated in grease, and the bathrooms
most likely haven’t been cleaned well since the late eighties. It’s full of
truckers and white trash. People who remind me of the life I ran from. But I
don’t have a choice. I have to pee, and this is the only route open that leads
to California.
The inside is exactly the way I imagined
it. Old booths with cracked seats covered in duct tape, the walls brown and
grimy. The grease invades my pores and nostrils the second I step in. It goes
down into my lungs and coats them in a thick, oily film. I want to get in and
out of this place as fast as possible.
I’ve only taken two steps when a man
stops me. He’s big and round, and his face is red and sweaty. The pits of his
shirt are stained an ugly yellow-brown color that smells as bad as it looks.
Even over the grease and cigarettes his pungent odor burns my nostrils. He also
has a gun strapped to his chest.
“Papers.” He holds his hand out
expectantly. His face is hard.
My heart pounds as I pull the papers out
of my purse and hesitantly hand them to the man. Hopefully, he actually works
here and he’s not robbing me. I hold my breath while he slowly unfolds them,
then exhale when his eyes narrow on the fine print. His mouth is pulled into a
tight line when he nods.
He folds the papers in half, snapping
his fingers across the crease before handing them back. “Welcome.” It sounds
more like a death sentence than a welcome.
I return his tense smile and shove the
papers back in my purse. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He tilts his head to the right, but
doesn’t say a word. I nod and head in the direction he indicated, keeping my
eyes down, trying not to meet anyone’s gaze. I don’t need to look at the people
to know what expressions they wear. It’s the same everywhere. Fear,
frustration, hopelessness, and loss. It’s how things have been since martial
law was declared six weeks ago. And I’m tired of it. I have my own worries. I
don’t want to see the despair in other people’s eyes, don’t want to focus on
anyone else’s problems.
The bathroom is empty, thankfully, and
just as dirty as I imagined it would be. I squat over the toilet, trying my
best not to touch the seat. The pressure in my bladder is agonizing. I’d
started to think I was going to have to pee on the side of the road.
A sigh of relief whooshes out of me when
I’ve finally relieved myself. I pull my up skinny jeans and head out to wash my
hands. The mirror hanging above the sink is cracked and filmy. I can’t make
anything out other than my tangled blonde hair. I work my fingers through the
knots and look away from the mirror. Doesn’t matter how I look. There won’t be
anyone to impress on this trip.
I wash my hands and shake them dry
before heading back out into the diner. No way am I eating here. It would be a
waste of time. Plus, I have no desire to sit and breathe in this grease-filled
air. But coffee is a must. I want to make it at least another four hours before
pulling over for the night.
A woman in her fifties stands behind the
register. She wears the same uniform as the other waitresses: orange dress with
short sleeves and an apron that probably used to be white. The entire thing is now
splattered with food and grease, old and worn just like she is. Her hair is
short and jet black, the kind of color that only comes from a bottle, and the
creases on her face are so deep they’re probably just as full of grease as the
walls of the diner. Her arms cross over her chest and she shakes her head,
frowning at the man in front of her.
“Please, I’m begging you. I was on a
business trip when this all started. I’ve been stranded for weeks trying to get
home to my family. I’ve spent every last penny I had on my physical and a car.
I’m starving.” His voice is desperate, begging. Same story, different person.
“No credit,” the woman says. She won’t
budge. Why would she? People like her are making a killing off travelers. A few
weeks ago, she probably barely made enough money to live on. And now…well, if
this all blows over, she’ll be comfortable.
The man pleads for a bit longer and I
shift from foot to foot, waiting for him to get the point. I should have some
sympathy for him. I
should
. But if I felt bad for every person I passed
who was desperate and running out of time…if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to
keep going. I’d sit down on the floor right here in the middle of this diner
and never move again.
The television mounted on the wall
catches my eye, and I tune the man out. It’s an old tube TV and the reception
is awful, but the news is on. Maybe there will be an update on the virus.
“…travelers are advised to display their
papers at all times and to keep to approved routes. Anyone who is found
traveling on closed highways or without papers will be arrested immediately and
held until martial law has been lifted.
In local news, police are still on the
lookout for two men responsible for robbing several convenience stores in the
St. Louis area. They are described as two white males in their mid- to
late-twenties and were last seen traveling in a dark blue SUV. They are
considered armed and dangerous…”
“That’s it,” the woman at the counter
says, making me jump. She nods to the armed man at the door, then turns to me.
I guess she finally got tired of listening to the desperate man. “What can I
get you?”
Her gaze holds mine. Both of us avoid
looking at the man as he’s dragged from the diner. Neither one of us bats an
eye when he screams for mercy. Begs for help. My throat constricts, burning a
little at his cries. But I can’t give in.
“Coffee,” I say. “To go.”
She nods and turns away, not even
bothering to ask me if I have cash. She shouldn’t have to. Not with the giant
sign over the register that says
Cash Only
, and not after the screaming
man was ripped from the building.
I lean against the counter and close my
eyes for a second. My shoulders slump and my limbs feel weighed down, like
they’re made of lead. I feel a hundred years old, not twenty.
When I open my eyes, my gaze locks with
a man a few booths away. Everything about him screams redneck. From his flannel
shirt, unbuttoned to reveal his wifebeater and beer belly, to the bulge in his
lower lip. His upper lip curls and his eyes go over my pin-up body. He nods in
approval and raises an eyebrow. He’s in his thirties, probably getting close to
forty, and he’s hard. Like he’s been dealt a rough life and didn’t have an
issue giving some back. I’ve known men like him. Hell, I’ve dated men like him.
There’s another man sitting at the table
with him, but his back is to me so I can’t tell what he looks like. Probably
more of the same. The first man grins and picks up a soda can, spitting into
it. My stomach churns. He gives me the creeps.
I turn away when the waitress comes back
carrying a cup of coffee. “That’ll be five bucks.”
I dig my nails into my palms. “Five
dollars? What do you think this is, Starbucks?”
She purses her lips and both her
penciled-on eyebrows pull together. “I know this ain’t Starbucks, but I also
know there ain’t another place to get a cup of coffee for ‘bout fifty miles.
And that’s
if
you’re goin’ east. If you’re headin’ west, it’s further.”
I’m going west, of course.
I rip the cup out of her hand as
violently as I can without spilling it and slam a five-dollar bill on the
counter. “Don’t expect a tip.”
I turn on my heel and walk out of the
diner, keeping my eyes straight ahead so I don’t have to look at the redneck
again. His eyes bore into me as I go.
* * *
I make it three more hours before the
car sputters and starts to slow. That’s all. My foot slams on the gas pedal,
but nothing happens. The wheel is stiff as I turn it hard to the right and pull
to the shoulder. A car blares its horn when it flies by. I probably got the
finger, but my vision is too clouded by tears to know for sure. It’s over. This
is it.
The entire car jerks when the engine
sputters, then dies completely. I don’t even bother putting it in park. There’s
no point. It’s never moving again. I stare straight ahead. What do I do now?
There’s a sign about fifteen feet in front of me, announcing that the next
check point is twenty miles away. I can walk or I can try to hitch a ride. Both
are a risk. But then again, so is sitting here.
I grab my purse and pull out the photo,
clutching it so tight the paper crinkles. Her blue eyes stare up at me, big and
round. Innocent. Squeezing my heart and making my throat constrict. I just wanted
to see her one time before it all ended. Just once.
A horn honks and I jump, almost dropping
the picture. A car has pulled to the side of the road less than six feet behind
me. My heart pounds and every muscle in my body tightens. Good or bad? I don’t
know. No one gets out of the car, and I can’t see in.
My purse is still in my lap.
I put the picture back and pull out my
gun.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath,
then open the door and step out. It’s a dark blue Nissan Armada. A monster of a
vehicle. The windows are tinted so dark there’s no way it can be legal. The
outline of two men is barely visible through the dark windows, but I can’t tell
who they are or what they look like. And I have no idea what they’re doing.
I take two small steps toward the car
and the driver’s side door opens. The redneck from the diner steps out.
“Well, hello there!” he drawls. His
accent isn’t southern exactly, more low-class than anything else. He keeps the
door open as he steps away from the car, his own gun clutched in his right
hand. “What a surprise. Thought I’d never see you again.” He winks.
I tighten my grip on the gun and raise
it to chest level. Steadying it with both hands. Aiming at the center of his
chest. I’m a good shot.
He puts his hands up, but doesn’t release
the gun. “Hold on now, no need to point that thing at me. I just stopped to see
if you was havin’ car trouble.”
The passenger door opens, and the other
man steps out. He stays behind the open door but points another gun at me
through the gap between the door and the car.
“I think you should put that down,” he
calls. He sounds younger than the first man, but their voices are similar. Same
low-class accent.
“Just a precaution.” I keep my gun up
and my arm steady. “I’ve had lots of target practice, so don’t think I don’t
know what I’m doing.”
The first man nods and slowly bends
down, lowering the hand with the gun toward the ground. “I’m just gonna put
this down, and my brother is gonna put his down, and we’re gonna have a nice
chat. That sound good?”
His tone is condescending. Warm and
fuzzy, but in a fake way. It puts me on edge. I shouldn’t trust this man. I
know it.
“Lower your gun, Axl. Come on out where
she can see ya.”
The man behind the door pulls his gun
back and walks forward. He is younger than his brother, and taller. Where the
first man is stocky with a beer belly, Axl is broad. His muscles strain against
his flannel shirt. He’s average-looking. Not unattractive and hard like his
brother, more unassuming. Probably why his brother called him out. So I’d let
my guard down.
I’m silent as the two men put their guns
on the ground and take a step back. My eyes flit between them while I try to
decide what to do. Axl’s face is blank and he’s silent, his hands casually at
his side. His brother, on the other hand, grins at me with his hands still in
the air. His smile is fake as my boobs.
“We ain’t gonna hurt you,” Axl spits
out. His voice drips with irritation. Guess he isn’t thrilled they stopped to
help me.
“Why did you stop then?”
“I told you, darlin’,” the first man
says. “We was just checking to see if you needed help. That’s all. I’m Angus,
and this here is my brother, Axl. We’re travelin’, just like you. Thought we’d
help out.”