Ashes of the Unspeakable Read online

  Ashes of the Unspeakable

  Book 2 in the Borrowed World Series

  Franklin Horton

  Ashes of the Unspeakable

  by Franklin Horton

  Copyright © 2015. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1517442958

  ISBN-10: 1517442958

  Cover art by Deranged Doctor Design

  Editing by Felicia Sullivan

  Formatting by Kody Boye

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or living dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Response to THE BORROWED WORLD has been overwhelming. It has especially been gratifying for someone who had pretty much given up on writing. I am grateful to the readers, the friends old and new, and the supportive online community who have all shared this experience with me.

  I also feel a need to thank my old friend Jim Lloyd, owner of Lloyd's Barber Shop (yes, the real one). We have been best friends since elementary school and went out for barbecue in the Fall of 2014 to catch up on our lives. Jim asked me about writing, knowing that it had been a constant in my life since I was a teenager. I gave a long rant about my disgust with the publishing system, the fact that I had written multiple novels and still couldn't get my foot in the door. I told him that I hadn't written in ten years and probably never would again. In fact, the thought of writing made me ill.

  "I thought you enjoyed writing?" Jim asked.

  "Oh, I did," I said. "It's all I've ever wanted to do."

  "Then why aren't you doing it?"

  I didn't have a good answer, so I gave it one more shot.

  It sounds simple, but it wasn't. I usually took my lunch break at work for eating (like most people) or going running (unlike most people). Instead, I started using it for writing, trying to get in three pages a day in that hour. Over the course of four months, I wrote THE BORROWED WORLD and I wrote it entirely on my daily lunch break.

  I also want to thank some of the other writers who either inspired, motivated, or encouraged me at some level to write in this genre: Steven Konkoly, William Forstchen, A. American, and S.M. Stirling. I also want to thank Steven King and Cormac McCarthy for making writing seem like a worthwhile thing to do with your life.

  There's also the team that made this series of books happen: my editor, Felicia Sullivan, who not only pares away the unessential but has been tremendously supportive and full of advice on independent publishing; the team at Deranged Doctor of Design who produce my graphics with top notch professionalism and efficiency; my coworker and proofreader, Anita Debord, who was recruited after finding every single typo in my last book; and Kody Boye, who produces the final files, always on short notice and without breaking a sweat.

  I need to thank my parents, who had their work cut out for them in raising me. I was difficult as a child and probably still am. Lastly, there are the best things that ever happened to me -- my wife Jane, my son Elliott, and my daughter Arwyn, who have continued where my parent's left off, trying to shape me into a halfway respectable and socially acceptable human being.

  Thank you all.

  PROLOGUE

  It had only been a few days since a coordinated terror attack, believed to be the work of ISIS operatives, hit the United States. Except for a few isolated pockets, America no longer had electricity. What had once been a unified national electrical grid now lay in tatters. One and two-man terrorist teams armed with explosives and mortars had destroyed massive transformers at critical junctures in the grid and it had started the fragile electrical infrastructure crumbling like the dried husk of an insect. The attacks were simple but devastating. There were only two places in the world that made replacements for those critical transformers that had been destroyed and both were an ocean away. With each transformer having to be built specifically for its location within the power grid, and with each taking up to a year to build, it was unknown how long it would take to restore power to everyone.

  Communication networks had also been designated targets. GPS worked. Cell phone reception was sporadic. Sometimes you could get texts out, but it might be hours before they went through. Or it might not go through at all. As propane generators began to run out of fuel, the remaining functional cell towers would begin dropping like flies. Then all that would remain would be the human network of rumors and stories passed from person to person.

  Other terrorists in the group destroyed weakened and neglected dams. This actually took very little effort at all on the part of the attackers. Structures that were known risks, long overdue for repair or replacement, collapsed easily under mortar attacks. Billions of gallons of water were released onto millions of unsuspecting citizens. Many homes were washed away, collapsing as they were swept off their foundations. Other homes remained intact, their frightened inhabitants watching helplessly from windows as they spun away on the dark waters. Nashville, Tennessee was only one of the major cities devastated by flood from a breached dam. The death toll was unknown, with estimates only placed at massive.

  The lack of fuel was the crippling blow. Nearly all of the major refineries had come under attack. One man with one mortar at each of those refineries, and now most people in the United States did not have access to any fuel for their vehicles or generators, nor would those who relied on oil for heating their homes be able to get it this winter. Those who sat in flooded cities awaiting rescue would be waiting for a very long time. First responders quickly discovered there was just not enough fuel remaining to do everything that needed to be done. Nor was there enough to save everyone that needed saving.

  As the magnitude of the attacks became apparent, the government issued orders to restrict fuel sales to the public. First responders, police, and the military could obtain fuel for emergency vehicles but no one else had access. Gas stations along major highways had larger underground tanks that held more fuel, so law enforcement officers were dispatched to those points to guard that supply. Shootouts erupted in this process and lives were lost on both sides. Across the country, men in business suits were breaking into strangers’ storage buildings to siphon gas from lawnmowers, simply trying to get home from work. Ordinary folks were killed either trying to get fuel or to protect their own fuel against those wanting to take it.

  Those unfortunate enough to be caught any distance from home were forced to abandon their vehicles. With no fuel and no prospects for getting more, their vehicles became useless to them. Rest areas and highway exits quickly became populated with stranded and confused travelers. With the growing crowds came crime, violence, and unrest. Nowhere on or around any highway was safe.

  In an attempt to defuse this growing refugee problem, FEMA responded by creating camps along interstate highways. They ran buses along the interstate to pick up the desperate vacationers, the starving business travelers, the long haul truckers, and anyone else just plain unlucky enough to be caught out in this disaster. Law enforcement at all levels was working to clear crowded interstate exits and force people to use the FEMA camps. It was the only way they saw to restore order. The plan was that once people were at a camp, FEMA would work toward getting those folks back home. They acknowledged it could take months to get the logistics worked out. A person might be shuttled from camp to camp, slowly getting closer to home with each relocation, but eventually they would get there. Or so it was promised.

  For some, this did not seem like much of a solution. The very idea of FEMA camps had a lot of negative implications attached
to it. Folks were concerned that they would become like internment camps and that the residents would never be allowed to leave. Those travelers legally carrying concealed weapons were afraid they’d be forced to give them up if they went to the camps. They were right.

  Although many people on the East Coast weren’t yet aware, parts of the American West were left in poisonous ruin. Mortar attacks on two nuclear power plants had led to breaches that discharged radioactive waste into the atmosphere. The scale of those disasters grew worse every day, contributing to the inability of FEMA and the government to get a handle on things. The government was crippled by the scale of the attacks. FEMA was pulled in so many directions that they were rendered ineffectual on all levels. Their intentions to help people in the eastern U.S. get home were watered down by their efforts to rescue Americans fleeing the nuclear disasters out west.

  The lack of information was one of the most psychologically devastating aspects of the disaster. Americans had grown used to a constant intravenous feed of news and information. They watched disasters unfold like sporting events, glued to the televisions or the internet, absorbing every facet of the suffering of others. They watched wars, earthquakes, elections, and movie award shows with equal fascination and equal disinterest. They’d become dependent on it. Now, the total lack of information created an ominous cloud that hung over the nation and increased the generalized anxiety experienced by each and every person.

  Everyone wanted to know what was happening.

  Of course, had everyone known what was happening at a national level, they would have found no comfort. Despite what religious groups and the paranoid thought, it was not the end of the world. This was not the doomsday event of legend and lore. It was, however, an event that would change the face of the nation. For a long time, it would be the end of the world as they knew it. The government was still there, they just couldn’t speak directly to the people. They also couldn’t do a damn thing to help them.

  Even if they had been able to speak to the citizenry, what would they say? Would they tell them that, without power, the nation faced a greater than ninety percent mortality rate over the next year? Would they warn folks in the northern cities that they would probably freeze to death over the coming winter, if starvation and disease didn’t get them first? Would they tell folks that there would probably be no more trucks of food showing up at grocery stores? Would they admit that law enforcement would have little impact on the coming waves of crime, violence, and social unrest?

  Would they tell people that they would soon turn on each other?

  Would they tell them that it had already started?

  CHAPTER 1

  Lloyd’s Barber Shop

  Crawfish, Virginia

  Jim Powell awoke, disoriented, and immediately reached for his pistol. When his hand went to his side and did not fall on his holstered weapon, there was a moment of panic and he tried to sit up and locate it. His attempt to sit up was met with a pain and stiffness so intense that it took his breath and nearly made him cry out. He bit back an agonized groan. The pain brought clarity, though, and as he gasped for the breath taken by the pain, he realized where he was. He was in his friend Lloyd’s first-floor apartment in Crawfish, Virginia. He was in a sleeping bag in the floor, scattered among a half-dozen or so other sleeping bodies. They were all people he knew.

  He was safe.

  He had awoken on this particular floor more times than he cared to admit. Usually it was after a drunken night of live acoustic music, cheap cigars, and whatever booze was at hand. Though he didn’t have a hangover this time, he was experiencing a worse type of pain. The previous day gradually came back to him, and he recalled the details of his injury. He had been clotheslined from an ATV that he was driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway. He’d nearly been decapitated by a trap sprung on him by the last survivor of a group of lowlifes he and his co-workers had encountered on the road. Had he not had his arm raised to point at a landmark, the barbed wire strand would have caught him by the neck and likely killed him. Instead, it only made him wish he was dead. His spine felt as if someone had attempted to twist him into a pretzel.

  He carefully probed his head and could feel a pronounced knot on the back of it, and a large scrape on his scalp that had scabbed over. It hurt to touch it, so the logical thing to do would have been to not touch it, but injuries are like magnets and Jim kept poking at it. The muscles of his arm, shoulder, and back were tight and very sore. He knew that beneath his shirt his upper body probably looked like an old banana – all brown, yellow, and black. He preferred not to look.

  The wire had dislocated his shoulder, forcing him to jerk it back into place by himself. He was hoping that was truly a once in a lifetime experience. It was that special. As much as he wanted to get home to his family, he was not sure if he would be able to carry a pack today with these injuries. He would have to see how his body loosened up once he got moving.

  He removed his phone from its case on his belt. He powered it up and waited for it to go through the boot process. He’d been charging it with a portable solar unit while he walked, but with no signal here at Lloyd’s, he’d turned it off last night to conserve power. He didn’t need it to make a call right now, he needed a different kind of connection.

  When the phone finished booting up, he selected the photo library and started thumbing through pictures. There was one of him in a tandem kayak with his son and daughter when they were little more than toddlers. There was another of his daughter clutching a long Northern Pike in her hands, a nervous smile on her face as she stared at its pointy teeth. There was one of his son looking sweaty and exhausted, resting on a stone bridge on the carriage roads of Acadia National Park after a long bike ride. There was another of him and his wife taken at a friend’s cookout several years ago. There were always fewer of the two of them together since they were usually the ones taking the pictures. They’d always meant to remedy that situation, but it never worked out.

  The pictures made Jim well with emotion. He was sure that this was made worse at the moment by his physical pain and sense of desperation. He needed to be at home looking out for his family. He worried constantly for their safety. He had to get home. Before he could do that, he first had to get up from the floor. He had to make himself get to his feet and restart his journey home.

  He attempted to extricate himself from his sleeping bag. It took some work with the pain hitting on all cylinders. It was more than stiff muscles. His back felt as if nerves were being ground to pulp between his vertebrae. He would have cursed but the pain took his breath and left none to spare for profanity. Once free of the sleeping bag, he finally got to his feet. That took more awkward maneuvering and he was hoping that no one was awake to watch when a cramp struck his calf muscle. He carefully hobbled around, attempting to stretch the cramped muscle and make this new pain go away. It was the icing on the cake. In this morning of suffering, he felt as far from his family as he’d ever felt.

  His backpack lay in the floor above his sleeping bag. Propped on top of it, he could see his Beretta 92 in its holster. He had started this journey home with a smaller backpack full of what he called his Get Home Gear, however, he was now carrying a larger Gregory backpack. He’d found it on the Appalachian Trail, dropped by an escaping ATV rider after one of his group had killed the man’s partner. The men had attacked Jim’s camp in the middle of the night but they’d been ready for their attackers. They suspected the pack had originally been stolen from an Appalachian Trail through-hiker. The pack and the gear inside was not of the type likely to belong to the low-life that dropped it in his escape. They assumed that the hiker who had originally owned the pack was dead. Jim was fairly certain that the men responsible for the hiker’s death were dead now, too. He suspected they were among the numerous men he’d seen die these past few days. It had been that kind of trip.

  There were only three in his group now – himself and two co-workers. They had made their way this far after being trapped in Ri
chmond, Virginia, in the aftermath of the sweeping ISIS terror attacks. Their party had been larger at the beginning of the crisis, and as the scale of the attacks became clear to them that morning in Richmond, they had decided as a group to try to make a run for it. They thought they could make it home by car, but at a travel plaza not far outside of Richmond the harsh reality of their situation came crashing down on them.

  They had turned off the interstate for fuel and a restroom break only to find a sign indicating that fuel sales were restricted to a few gallons per customer. In the moments between their arrival and their attempt to buy fuel, state troopers had arrived to halt all fuel sales and to guard the pumps. This news had been devastating to the large crowd that that had formed there waiting for their opportunity to refuel. An altercation between a disgruntled customer and a trooper quickly escalated and turned deadly. Gun shots rang out.

  When waiting customers pulled their own concealed weapons to protect themselves, rounds flew in all directions. A stray round had caught Lois, one of Jim’s coworkers, in the head, and she was dead before she hit the floor. Though he and Lois had not gotten along at all, at the same time, he’d never wished death on her.

  They were forced to abandon one of their cars there since it was blocked in by a vehicle. They’d also been forced to leave Lois’ body behind in their scramble to escape the scene without further casualties. When they attempted to exit the truck stop parking lot, they got into an altercation with another stranded traveler intent on carjacking their vehicle. The man shattered their driver’s window and was drawing back to shatter Gary’s skull with the same tire iron when Jim reacted. He flew out of his door, leveled his pocket-sized .380 concealed-carry pistol across the roof of the car, and dropped the man dead in the road.