Captives

  Edward W. Robertson

  © 2014

  THE BREAKERS SERIES

  Breakers (Book 1)

  Melt Down (Book 2)

  Knifepoint (Book 3)

  Outcome (Novella)

  Reapers (Book 4)

  Cut Off (Book 5)

  Captives (Book 6)

  To hear when the next book is out, please sign up for my mailing list.

  To my mom and dad, who never seemed to think this was a silly idea.

  Cover art by Stephanie Mooney.

  I:

  HUNTERS

  1

  The rumble of the engine faded into the morning, taking her further from him with each moment. Walt tore his gaze from her sandy footprints and sprinted uphill toward the road.

  Though the walk from the shack to the beach was an easy and painless stretch of grass and sand, as always, he'd worn his sneakers. Carrie teased him on a weekly basis about his refusal to go barefoot. On one occasion, rather than teasing her back, he had run down the list of all the times in which he'd found himself or been actively rendered shoeless, along with the lengths he'd had to go to in order to prevent his precious feet from getting torn to shreds—wrapping them in shirts, cardboard, leather belts, and his favorite, the agave leaves.

  He found it quite impressive, personally. When he'd finished, Carrie gave him a blank look, then laughed harder than ever.

  But his shoes might be about to save her life.

  He tore through the sand, the ocean glinting to his right, the wind basting him with the smell of the kelp that heaped the shore. The sand sloped up to a swath of tough beach grass that gave way to jumbles of rock and patches of thorny flowers. He could no longer hear the engine. Rocks turned under his soles, but he kept his footing and speared into the line of firs guarding the coast.

  As soon as he was inside the treeline, the noise of the surf diminished like someone had twisted the volume knob from 8 down to 2. He dashed through dried needles, stirring the scent of the pines. He crossed the ridge and veered toward a shelf of rock looking inland over the forest. The drone of the car was as faint as a basement TV. He stopped at the edge of the cliff and stared across the dark green treetops. Should have been carrying his binoculars. Or a rifle. Or left the shack on a bike.

  And while he was at it, he should have been carrying a collapsible helicopter armed with six banks of car-seeking missiles.

  He was serious about the binoculars, though. Being able to see people from further away than they could see you—you couldn't put a price on that, and not just because there was no money anymore.

  This would be his only moment. His only chance. To his left, a crow flapped from the crown of a pine, drawing his eye. A drab green shape zipped through a gap in the trees hundreds of yards away. Bulky. A van. It disappeared down a dip, then hauled itself up the incline on the ridge across the valley. And then it was gone.

  He ran back to the beach before the tide and winds could take what little evidence had been left behind. After a few hundred feet, Carrie's barefoot tracks were joined by a pair of shoes, with at least two more sets of tracks beginning another twenty yards further down the beach; she had been approached by a lone man, his backup lingering out of sight. The tracks were regular, placid. No sign of torn-up sand or any kind of struggle. So they'd had guns. Either that or she had known them, was even expecting them, and had happily gone with them—but that was ridiculous. They never had visitors. Only a handful of people knew they existed. If Carrie had been expecting a visit from one of their very limited repertoire of guests, she would have said something.

  She had been taken.

  He explored the rocks, but found nothing along their passage to the road. He ran back into the trees and followed the path to the shack. Originally, he'd kept his shelter on the beach, but within two weeks of her arrival, they had moved it into the woods for protection from strangers and storms. The idea had been mutual, which meant it had been hers, but once they'd settled in, he'd agreed the move was a good idea.

  In the year-plus since, they'd tacked on a second room, built another shack for storage (separated from the first by a short walk to insulate them from wandering bears), added a large-scale water filter and a latrine. Prior to that, he had been a definite shit-in-the-woods type, and as for drinking water, the stream had seemed pretty clean. The way he'd seen it, if it wasn't pure, exposure to it would only make his immune system stronger. Be that as it may, he had to admit that it was nice to be able to wander around the woods without being concerned about stepping in a pile of his old shit.

  For the sake of the other end of the alimentary system, they'd scavenged a hibachi and put together a stone-lined fire pit. As a former New Yorker, where balcony grills had sometimes existed but were fully illegal, the concept of grilling continued to strike him as black magic: wonderful, but to be feared.

  The air around the shack still smelled like the previous night's crab boil. He flung open the door, grabbed his pack from inside, then ran back out and hopped on the bike he kept beneath the side awning. Its fat tires tore through the dirt and needles. He hit the access road and pedaled hard through the trees. The road climbed a steep hill, flattened out in a clearing with an irrelevantly gorgeous view of the Northern California sea battering itself into mist against the rocky shores, and connected to the highway.

  Walt zipped north along the blacktop, swerving around the cracks and potholes beginning to lay serious claim to the surface. At the very least, he was reasonably sure this wasn't about cannibalism. If you moved to the right spot, there was enough wild game and farms gone to seed that you'd only be compelled to eat another person if you were psychotic, or your untreated syphilis had grated your brain like the parmesan cheese that no longer existed.

  Somewhat more likely: it was a thrill kidnapping. Carrie was a woman, after all, and thus available as prey to a certain class (or sub-class) of survivor. Not that men were immune from being targeted, but he suspected women continued to pull more than their share of forced abductions. Even those like Carrie, who had survived on her own for the three-year interval between when her group had splintered and when she'd met Walt. Who was a better shot than him (with a human weapon, anyway) and significantly more motivated and skilled at little things like "building shelter."

  But the abduction felt a little too organized to be about one-off thrills. Anyway, life wasn't as cheap as it once had been. If he were to bet tradable goods on it, he'd go for slavery. Be it sexual, matrimonial, domestic, agrarian, or technical, there were more uses than ever for unpaid and unwilling sources of labor. The only thing stopping people from taking it was their conscience. These days, that was in as short supply as parmesan.

  Overall, then, Walt was optimistic. Not so much about the booming slavery industry. But for Carrie, whose captors likely intended to subject her to the sort of abuse that destroys you over years or even decades rather than days or hours.

  And that meant they were walking dead men.

  A mile and a half north, he cut from the highway onto a hard dirt road snaking through the trees. Banking on the probability Bob Dutton wouldn't shoot him, he pedaled straight to the man's front yard and jumped from the bike. It crashed into the unkempt grass, wheels still spinning. Tomatoes grew within cylindrical wire trellises. Beans curled through netting hung from wooden beams. A faux log cabin rested in the shade of the pines, surrounded by work benches and tarped projects.

  Walt tore past these on his way to the porch. "Don't shoot, man! I'm not as crazy as I look!"

  He pounded the door and stepped back so Bob would have a good look at him. With no answer, he jogged around the side of the cabin. Vegetables were just beginning to sprout from the planters and rows. Pines cast shade across stacks of firewood and lumber. Walt hollered Bob's name, then ran around front and pulled his bike from the grass and sped north along the highway. Ahead, the long-dead wreck of a BMW and a pickup clogged both lanes. None of the locals had bothered to move it—Ben, from tomb-like reverence for its dead; Sirita, from the desire to make the area look uninhabited; Walt, from not giving a shit—and he slowed to detour across the gravel shoulder.

  He took a long hill, the ocean glinting to his left, and paused at the top to catch his breath and listen for the van. But there were too many hills, too much surf and wind-tossed needles. He moved on.

  Like him and Carrie, Sirita lived inside the woods above the shore. When he got to her house, she was out front, a rifle crooked in her arm, watching him ride down the trail. A hoe had been flung across the dirt beside her. Massacred weeds sprinkled the churned brown earth. She wore a green sari and a light sheen of sweat.

  She lowered the tip of her gun. "A man who runs wants to get shot."

  "So do women with aphorisms. Did you see a green van go past here?"

  "I did not."

  "Carrie was down at the beach," Walt panted. "She was taken."

  Sirita lifted her chin a fraction of an inch. "A green van?"

  "At least three men. Strangers. If you know anything about them, I'd really like to kill them right now."

  "I heard the engine." She nodded to the north. "But that was twenty minutes ago."

  "That's all you've got?"

  She eyed him. "I have never understood why a woman like her bothered with you."

  "Will you knock it off?" He splayed his hands. "Resume calling me a bastard as soon as I walk away. Right now, all I need to know—"

  "I know nothing of a green van nor of its crew," she said deliberately. "But if you will stop interrupting for three
seconds, due to my respect for Carrie, I will tell you about someone who might. He's a tom."

  "Atom? What's his last name? Where's he live?"

  "Not Atom. He isn't a superhero. A tom." She raised her brows, then rolled her eyes at the blank look on his face. "A traveling storyteller. If these men are known, he will have heard of them."

  "And he's nearby? Not, you know, traveling around telling stories?"

  She waved a dismissive hand. "He doesn't like to tour until the nights get warmer. He lives in Salinas. The house of Steinbeck."

  Walt's brain hit a snag. "John Steinbeck?"

  "Rueben Steinbeck, the famous purveyor of beds and their frames. Of course John Steinbeck, are you an illiterate man?"

  "I'll have you know I'm an English major. This tom of yours—will he be willing to help me?"

  "I imagine he will be inclined." She eyed him. "He's heard the stories about you. What do you think he'll give to get them straight from the horse's mouth?"

  She rattled off directions. Walt was restless enough to have checked out Salinas on more than one occasion, and though Sirita wasn't able to provide him an exact address, her description of the section of town the tom named Dim lived within rang a bell in his memory.

  "Thanks," he said, saddling up on his bike. "If I don't come back, you can have all my stuff."

  She smiled thinly. "If you don't come back, I won't need your blessing to take what you've left."

  As soon as he got back on the highway, he drew his laser, holding it in his right hand while he rode. The morning was growing late, but the marine air remained dense and chilly, and the wind on his skin made him wish he'd brought a thicker jacket. He supposed he could steal something along the way.

  It was a long ride to Salinas, twenty or twenty-five miles. He decided to stick with the coastal highway rather than looping inward on 68, which led straight into the city—scumbag assholes of the universe generally preferred to avoid settlements, and if he stuck to the less-traveled path, there was the chance, however slight, that he'd overtake them.

  "Slight" being the operative word. They had an automobile, complete with functioning internal combustion engine, and he was pedaling around like… well, like one of the dorks who'd used to live in this part of Northern California. He doubted the kidnappers would stop until they returned to their nest.

  It still hadn't hit him yet. Not in the way he knew it would. He and Carrie had been together too long for the calmness inside him to last much longer. He'd met her shortly after the unpleasantness in L.A.—check that, the most recent unpleasantness in L.A.—and they had become a couple a few days after the morning she'd stumbled on him, half starved, and shared his fish. Once her stomach was full enough for her brain to begin functioning, she'd grown warier of him, but he'd been in a good place. Right with the world. Happy to wait. It had only been a matter of time until she'd decided she wanted a piece of that action.

  She wasn't perfect, mind. She was on the serious side (though who wasn't these days). Liked to get up too early and work too much. Thought there was a future and that they should be working toward it. Despite these flaws, he'd liked her immediately. He didn't like to think of the years ahead in the way people once had—it was all too fragile, an egg balanced on its end—but when he did allow himself to do so, he saw it with her.

  The highway rolled through Carmel, cut across a dense forest, then weaved into the Spanish-style homes of Monterey. Smoke rose from two camps along the beach; the days were warming up and the nomads were already on their way from Southern California and Mexico. He didn't know what prompted them to slog north for hundreds of miles only to head back the other way six months later. SoCal had been pretty turbulent over the years; could be they were fleeing their warm winter dens for places with more cover and fewer people.

  He could also believe there was no real purpose and they were moving around for the hell of it. Seeing what was out there. Trolling for mates or more stimulating experiences than sitting around a silent cabin darning their socks. Along with the loss of indoor plumbing, the biggest change bestowed on them by the apocalypse was the boredom. Since the war had wound down, he'd bet that curiosity had killed more people than the aliens.

  He swerved off the highway to a road leading to the beach. A paved bike trail ran along the sand and he backtracked to one of the two camps, a collection of three tents set around a central fire. Plentiful white smoke poured from the flames, dragged inland by the wind. People sat around the fire. As he neared, two of the men stood, gestured to the others, and moved forward, unslinging rifles. Walt braked to a stop, set his kickstand, and lifted a hand above his head. The two men exchanged a glance and continued toward him, lowering their weapons but keeping them in hand.

  Walt padded through the sand. He stopped twenty feet away, standard-issue "not close enough to ruin your day with a sharp object" distance, and nodded to them. "You all seen a green van come through here a few minutes ago? The driver may have resembled a human-shaped rat."

  The older of the two tipped his head fractionally. "Could be."

  "I'm sure it's easy to forget, given the traffic around here."

  "Or the fact I don't know you from Adam."

  "I wouldn't want to stick my nose into a stranger's business, either. Not unless I was looking to lose it so I could quit smelling how bad everything stinks. If you do see the van, though, you might want to keep your distance. They're kidnappers."

  The younger man took a step forward. "We heard an engine. Less than an hour ago. Didn't see what it was attached to, but it's the first time in three days I heard something humming."

  "Appreciate it." Walt turned to go.

  "Got any news?" the older man rasped.

  "Afraid that's it. You?"

  "Bit noisy down south. Hence why we're north."

  Politeness insisted Walt wait a second and a half before nodding and jogging away. He jumped on his bike and got back on the highway. On the turn toward Salinas, he called an audible and stuck to the coastal road instead, meaning to question anyone he saw while the trail remained hot. He crossed a bridge over a canal and breezed through two miles of farms so mangy with weeds he couldn't tell what they'd once grown as crops. Ahead, a dinky little town claimed a crossroads of highways. Walt stopped at its northern fringe.

  He'd seen no one and could hear nothing. There was no longer one road to follow, but two—three, if you counted the fork leading back to Salinas—and it had been at least ninety minutes since Carrie had been taken. By now, they could be fifty miles away, cruising north into San Francisco or raising a dusty roostertail down the slope of the dry mountains overlooking the vast valley to the east. There were no witnesses, just weeds and dirt. He had lost the thread.

  A year to build it, less than two hours to lose it. That, at last, was when it hit him. Shaking so hard he could barely hang on to his laser, he turned around and hit the road for Salinas.

  2

  Thom knew this much: his brother had last been seen in Los Angeles, in the company of a small band of survivors—strangers, mostly—who had accomplished nothing less than saving the species from extinction. They'd dunked the mother ship right into Santa Monica Bay. In the process, most of the band had vanished. Never to be heard from again.

  But one of the warriors was still out there. If one had survived, maybe his brother had, too.

  The obvious starting point, the city of Los Angeles, held the silent sobriety of a battlefield after both sides had left. As he searched it, the northeast hills were burning, hazing the bowl-shaped valley that enclosed the endless city, the skyscrapers at its downtown fighting to shine through the smoke and accreted dirt of the year since everything had fallen apart. Thom made his way south toward the address, following the coastal highway past glossy little malls, banks, and restaurants that had offered food from every corner of the now-lost earth.

  At the top of the high hill in Manhattan Beach, he stopped in his tracks. A greasy, gray sheet of smoke and clouds swept across the coastal cities, hemmed in by the green hills of the peninsula. The sun fought to get through but only emerged in alarming red streaks, like the veins of an infected man. Flakes of ash tumbled on the wind. The smell of fire hung in the air. Much of what lay ahead was burned, too, but the damage was months old, the embers long dashed. To his right, the Pacific was flat and gray. The dark plane of the ship angled from the surface.