Turning Point_Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series

  TURNING

  POINT

  Darkness Rising Series

  Book 6

  By

  Justin Bell

  Mike Kraus

  © 2018 Muonic Press Inc

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  www.JustinBellAuthor.com

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, without the permission in writing from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

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  Special Thanks

  Special thanks to my awesome beta team, without whom this book wouldn’t be nearly as great. Thank you to Al, Glenda, James, John, Jonna, Julie, Karen, Laurel, Kynnette, Mark, Marlys, Robin, Sarah, Scarlett and Shari!

  Chapter One

  It had been the longest three months of her life, of that she was certain. It seemed foolish to think of it that way considering she’d spent those three months in the relative safety of the Northeast, far away from most of the nuclear detonations, and even relatively far from the disruption that had more or less torn apart the Midwest.

  Chicago was consumed by rival gangs, turning their streets into a war zone. If Chicago was a theoretical war zone, then Toledo was an actual one with missile strikes, gunfire, and consistent armed conflict literally tearing the entire city apart. Cleveland had remained more or less unscathed, mostly because so many of the troops were dependent on the Cleveland Clinic, but skirmishes had still been reported there as well. Ambushes on military patrols, hardware stolen, some soldiers shot dead in the streets.

  Then there was Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh was a little too close for comfort. It seemed like every day Agent Julie Swift heard of another clash in another city, and each report that came through brought the battle even closer to her doorstep. How far away was Pittsburgh? A three-hour drive from where she was currently stationed in Philadelphia? Less? Even Philly felt like a long way from Boston, where Swift had first helped form the Task Force in charge of investigating the nuclear incident. So many names and faces had passed through those doors, some of them quick, some of them lingering, but almost all of them now gone. Either dead or reassigned, the task force had withered away to nothing. Agent Swift wasn’t sure why.

  It was evident that there was still a need. The United States’ infrastructure was in shambles, the areas of the country not destroyed by the nuclear weapons were still without power, without connectivity and were hotbeds for civil unrest with firefights raging in the streets, buildings burning and complete and utter chaos. Enough evidence had been gathered to point the finger squarely at North Korea and that was the working theory, but the only problem was that the government was so decimated they couldn’t launch any counter measures. Or if they had, she hadn’t heard. That was the worst thing about the situation the nation was in; after a decade of instant communication from any place in the country to any other place on the planet, to be so in the dark felt devastating, like everyone was completely lost without that always-on connection. They had been thrust back into the stone ages.

  Things were improving. Slowly. Here in Philadelphia, Agent Swift had been in the loop on several things happening. The president of the United States and a large percentage of the working government were all still intact. Still living and breathing, still working to reassemble an infrastructure to get parts of the country talking to each other. One of the first actions they’d taken was to build up the barricades to try to isolate the victimized portions of the country, at least for a short period of time, so they could rebuild the epicenter of the nation. Create a foundation before spreading outward.

  Of course the folks west of the barricade didn’t see it that way. They thought they were being abandoned. Cast off, ignored, and thrown to the wolves hiding within the radioactive clouds.

  In a way, they probably were, but the country’s leadership had to solve the problem in bite-sized chunks. That’s where the First National Summit came in.

  As the days went on and time grew closer to implementing the First National Summit, Agent Swift’s life became more and more hectic. The purpose of the Summit was simple—gather as many state representatives together as possible to start developing a plan to rebuild the country. Start drafting new laws and a new constitution, lay the groundwork for this next generation of the United States so they could prepare to rise above the crisis. It was a good idea, if a risky one. How would citizens in the West react to these unilateral decisions being made in the Northeast? How would those folks in the South, still recovering from the destruction of Galveston Bay react to directives being handed down from above? Would this new plan help put the foundation in place, or only serve to drive a harder, sharper wedge between regions?

  In Swift’s mind, it didn’t matter. They had to do something, and they were doing something. Like it or not, the majority of the Western states were now a radioactive wasteland, a desolate wreckage, ruined and off limits to human habitation. Galveston’s destruction had resulted in radiation travelling out into the Gulf of Mexico, causing any number of horrific side effects to the ocean waters and the coastal communities of the southeastern United States. The apocalypse was not a one and done situation, it was a constant, ongoing battle, and one they would be fighting perpetually.

  They had to be able to fight it. Some sort of system had to be put in place to allow the right people access to the right services so the country could rebuild, and if that hurt some people’s feelings, they’d just have to live with it. It’s not like Agent Swift enjoyed working eighteen-hour days, six days a week, or looked forward to the work ahead and rebuilding the security and law enforcement divisions of this new iteration of the United States.

  But here they were.

  Here she was. Underneath the murky depths of the late-night sky, off-white buckshot stars glaring down at her from above the dimmed streetlights. She clutched a narrow, metal mag light in her left hand as she strode down the narrow alley, shining the pale beam in the corners and along the edges of the tall, brick buildings. Nothing stood out to her as she walked, keeping to side streets and back roads as she traversed downtown Philadelphia. Cities gave her the willies, especially now, and her preference was not to deal with them at all. Not that she had a choice.

  A deep quiet settled around her in this new world, this new urban center which would have normally been a hub of lights and sounds, but was now nothing but darkness and silence. The utter lack of noise and light was something she hadn’t gotten used to, even after three months, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to it. Bringing power and electricity back online was priority number one at the First National Summit, and that was one checkbox she was very
eager to see checked off.

  Swift halted for a moment, letting her light drift down, listening for stray noises. She heard nothing but the soft breeze. This wasn’t where she wanted to be right now, but it was where she had to be so she swallowed her nervous breath and continued forward, her light facing down the mouth of the alley. As she walked, her hand moved to her hip and thumbed the latch on her holster, so she could slip out the Glock pistol she was carrying. She was still getting used to the Glock 19 G5, a new service pistol awarded to the FBI just a year or so ago, this one chambered in nine millimeter at a more compact size than the sidearm she’d carried before.

  Fingers curling around the grooved handle of the pistol, she lifted it free from the holster and held it pointed toward the dirt covered concrete. She splashed a wave of light up on the street sign ahead of her and moved her way right, heading toward her destination.

  “Don’t move,” a voice hissed and she froze in place, her pistol raised and light pointed toward the entrance to the side street she’d been directed to walk to.

  “You a friend?” she asked quietly.

  “Not many friends these days,” a second voice said, this one from her left.

  She pulled her mouth into a narrow scowl. Somehow two men had snuck up on her while she was walking. Rookie move.

  “Don’t beat yourself up too bad,” the voice to her left said. “We’re trained for this.”

  In the street ahead, Agent Swift saw a shadow flitter through the white cone of light, then move toward her, forming into a human being. She couldn’t quite make out his face, but he wore a thickly padded tactical vest over military khakis and held a submachine gun in his hand, what looked to Swift like a B & T APC9, far from standard issue for any law enforcement or government agency that she knew.

  “Nice hardware,” she whispered.

  “Thanks,” the man replied. He took another two steps forward. “You Agent Swift?”

  She nodded, the blonde ponytail bobbing softly against her back.

  His eyes scanned her over in the crossbeam of two flashlights shone by the men who had flanked her. “You come alone?”

  “I’ve got nobody to bring,” she replied. “My friends are either gone or dead.”

  “We can relate,” he said. “Some nasty stuff going on out there.”

  “Some people think there’s even more nasty stuff going on over here.”

  “Is that what you’re hoping to find out?”

  Swift shrugged. “I’m just looking for someone I knew. I’ve been asking around, someone said you could help.”

  The man shook his head. “I can’t help, I’m sorry.”

  “Then what are we doing this for?” Swift asked.

  “Because you used a name. A name I hadn’t heard for a long time. It made me interested.”

  “Why? Did you know him?” Swift asked.

  “Who? Brandon Liu?” the man replied.

  “Yeah. Brandon Liu. He served on the task force with us until he didn’t. He was telling me about some weird connections he was making, then suddenly, he’s gone.”

  The man nodded. “Yeah, I know him. My name’s Jacques. I used to be in charge of border crossing at the Chicago barricade until we got overrun. I barely escaped with my life, most of my men weren’t so lucky.”

  “This is a long way from Chicago,” Swift said.

  “Boston, too.”

  “Fair point.” Agent Swift’s eyes fixated on the ACP9 submachine gun, which was still pointed toward the concrete. “So you talk to Brandon recently?”

  Jacques hesitated for a moment, then nodded, as if checking internally to make sure he was supposed to say what he was going to say. “Yeah. He asked for entrance into Chicago. I let him and a family go through. That was the last I saw of him.”

  “Did he say why he was heading to Chicago?”

  Jacques nodded. “Yeah, something about a manufacturing company there. He thought they might have some connection to all this nuclear stuff going on.”

  “And what did the family have to do with it?”

  “No clue. He said they’d helped him out, so he was helping them out. They were looking for their daughter or something. I don’t really know. It was a fifteen minute interaction.”

  “So you’ve heard nothing from him since?”

  “Nope.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Swift’s weapon was lowered and she eased her head back, looking up toward the stars as if expecting answers.

  “You think maybe he got whacked?”

  “I hope not. But it’s seeming more and more likely.”

  “You think he was on to something?”

  “At the time? Nah. At the time I thought he was paranoid and crazy. But now? After the last three months? Yeah, I’m thinking maybe he was on to something.”

  “So what do we do about it?” Jacques asked. “Finish what he started?”

  “I have no clue what he started.”

  The Customs and Border Patrol agent took another step toward her, the two men flanking her falling into a group with him. “Listen,” he said. “There is something going on. I think it might be something big.”

  The night exploded. From nowhere and everywhere, staccato sparks and chattering weapons fire split the darkness with strobing punches of blinding white. Just to Swift’s right, dull thuds echoed and a muffled grunt of pain threw one of Jacques’ men to the ground. As she spun away from him, she felt a damp mist arc across her face and heard another wet thump to her left.

  “Ambush!” screamed Jacques and moved at once, reaching out to grab Swift’s arm, then pulling back, sending her stumbling toward the alley he’d just vacated. A millisecond later, the ACP9 was up in two hands and rattling off return fire, first ahead of him, then halting and shifting forty-five degrees. Swift lifted her Glock and moved to his flank, twisting and firing into the darkness where she was seeing the pale afterglow of gunfire. Sparks danced along the brick wall, then she heard a muffled scream of pain. More weapons fire exploded to her right and she back pedaled toward the alley, feeling a sharp sting of pain lace up her left arm.

  “Ow!” she shouted, stumbling and toppling backwards into the alley as chunks of brick and concrete exploded around her, spraying her with hot rock.

  “Go go go!” shouted Jacques as he stepped backwards into the alley, his waist swiveling as he let bursts of gunfire fly. “Just run!”

  “Not without you!” Swift replied, her left arm hanging limp at her side as she held the pistol one-handed, firing over his right shoulder toward the mouth of the alley. There was a brief hiatus of gunfire and Jacques turned toward her.

  “We gotta move now!” he half pushed her and half lifted her, turning her around, helping her down the alley as more gunfire ripped through the night behind them. They ran, angling left down a secondary alley before veering right toward another side street, running alongside rows of track housing. A subway bridge passed over them as they ran and they ducked behind a house, heading toward a tall, wooden fence blocking some railroad tracks.

  Swift could hear the scattering footfalls of running men in pursuit on the street they’d just come from.

  “Can you get over?” Jacques asked and even as Julie was nodding, she’d jumped up and hooked her good arm over the top. She hefted herself up as the Customs agent grabbed the top of the fence with both hands and swung his legs over, both of them crashing to the tracks on the other side of the fence. Even as they moved south along the tracks, they could hear footsteps echoing in the other direction and they knew, at least for the moment, that they were safe.

  ***

  It was a foolish sentiment and she knew it, but ten years of habit were difficult to overcome. The long-cut power suit skirt clung tightly to Rita Kramer’s legs as she paced back and forth against the far wall of the small office. For small snatches of time, life seemed almost normal, the corporate political structure contained within this small space filling the desk drawers, the filing cabinet and even scrawls all over the wh
ite board screwed to the wall. By all appearances, Kramer’s Philadelphia office had been transplanted from the time before the nuclear explosions and, for better or worse, she liked it that way. It gave her a sense of normalcy among all of the chaos.

  Just like her power suits. There was nobody here to impress, and anyone who was left had long since given up the idea that expensive tailored clothing was a sign of any sort of success, yet her habits carried her forward. Kramer continued wearing the outfits, continued ironing them every morning, and continued commuting to her office—though her commute these days meant a brisk walk through ashen, empty streets with guards by her side and not on a busy subway or chauffeured vehicle.

  Homeland Security was still her job, her primary function remained the same now, over three months since the country was thrown asunder, but her daily duties were considerably different.

  As was her idea of homeland security.

  She stopped pacing for a moment and looked toward the door to the hallway, trying to ignore the men standing on each side of it. Secret Service personnel were a valuable commodity these days, and she’d earned two of them, something that spoke volumes about her importance to this quickly shifting society.

  Or did it just speak volumes about society as a whole? The persistent, unexpected outbreak of violence was a real and tangible thing. It was no longer considered something that happened in other countries; there was now irrefutable evidence that it happened here too. It had happened, and it continued to happen, day after day.

  In those early days of the Task Force, Director Kramer had wondered what the point was. The damage had been done, the country had been ravaged, its core infrastructure shattered, and even if the effect wasn’t instantaneous, it was clear that the United States was a dead man walking, a slow, consistent bleed threatening to kill it slowly, but kill it just the same. A deep, arterial gut wound instead of a shot to the heart, but the end result would remain the same.