The End War: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (After the End Trilogy Book 3)

  The End War

  (After the End Trilogy #3)

  Mark Gillespie

  This is a work of speculative fiction. All of the events and dialogue depicted within are a product of the author’s overactive imagination. None of this stuff happened. Except maybe in a parallel universe.

  Copyright © 2019 by Mark Gillespie

  www.markgillespieauthor.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  First Printing: May 2019

  Cover by Vincent Sammy

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  The End

  Dear Reader

  The Future of London

  The Exterminators Trilogy

  WaxWorld - A Sci-fi Thriller

  GrimLog (Tales of Terror)

  Website/Social Media

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  Keep up to date with Mark Gillespie’s new book release news.

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  www.markgillespieauthor.com

  You can also follow him on Bookbub.

  Dedicated to the memory of Joan Barstad.

  1

  Eda Becker lowered the hood of her rain cloak. This tentative gesture was rewarded by a gust of damp, rancid air that smacked her hard on the face.

  “Fuck,” she whispered, putting a hand over her nose and mouth.

  Even the breeze smelled like death.

  She blinked hard and stared at what was coming her way. For the first time in several days, she wasn’t the only human being on the road. There was a large caravan of people in the distance, walking towards her at a steady pace. They took up most of the road with three large carts taking up the rear of the procession.

  Eda stopped dead in the center of the highway.

  She strained her eyes, making sure it wasn’t an urban mirage. People saw things in the emptiness, it happened. It was hard to digest anything that broke up the monotony of rotting cars, broken glass and emptiness that littered the highways of America.

  The caravan consisted of around forty people. They were close now, moving steadily forward at a conservative speed that was surely deliberate and designed for the long haul. The people at the front had noticed Eda and although they seemed wary of the lone figure on the horizon, not to mention the large dog sitting beside her, they kept coming anyway. Two women stood at the head of the caravan and they began to walk ahead of their companions, seemingly taking on the role of scouts. One of the women had an ancient, leathery face. Deeply tanned and beautiful in its own way. She looked a hundred years old and yet her bright blue eyes could have belonged to a child. Dazzling eyes, like two sky-colored jewels.

  Her long white hair was damp and tied into a ponytail.

  The woman exchanged a few hushed words with her female companion. Then she came forward alone, wrapping her long gray coat tight around her tiny, shriveled body.

  Frankie Boy’s eyes were locked onto the strangers but at least he wasn’t growling.

  “We’re not looking for trouble,” the woman said, stopping a short distance from Eda. She held both hands in the air, palms facing outwards. “We’re a peaceful people and we only wish to pass and continue our journey.”

  Eda’s eyes scoured the barren surroundings. It could easily be a trap. She was relying on Frankie Boy to pick up on any potential nasty surprises that might come from behind. She didn’t have much in the way of valuables in her bag, but Eda knew that people could make use of a woman’s body in a number of sickening ways.

  “Are you hungry child?” the old woman said.

  At this, the other woman came forward and stood beside the older one. She was a lot younger, in her middle years. Blood red dreadlocks fell down to her shoulders while a pair of crisp blue eyes hinted at a family connection between herself and the old woman.

  Behind these two scouts, the small caravan of men, women and children stood observing events in silence. Their supplies, which consisted mostly of bags, sacks and old storage chest, had been loaded onto three massive wooden carts. These were quaint looking things, the type of cart that had once been attached to the backs of vehicles or animals but nowadays acted as supply carriers for large caravans such as this one. Each cart had four massive wheels with thick black spokes in the middle. Two wooden beams extended from the cart’s body with a metal handlebar running across the top to connect them. Three large men stood behind these handlebars. They were the pushers or draggers – at least that’s what Eda remembered calling them years ago.

  As they stood there, looking at Eda and her dog, the pushers’ fat fingers still gripped the handlebar. They were apparently eager to get back to hauling their load.

  “I asked if you were hungry?” the old woman said. There was a look of concern on her face. “Can you talk? You look hungry, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  Frankie Boy began to edge ahead of Eda. Eda caught it quick and tapped the dog’s back, halting his advance.

  “I’m hungry,” Eda said.

  The old woman’s face broke into a smile. At the same time, a steady downpour began to fall from the gray, gloomy heavens. It had been coming for a while and Eda tilted her head back to the sky, letting the first drops of water land on her face. She licked her lips, devouring the moisture. Only when she’d drank a little did she realize how thirsty she was. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d stopped for a drink even though there was still plenty of water in her bag.

  “We ain’t got much,” the old woman said, pointing a thumb back at the stationary caravan. “But what we got, you’re welcome to it.”

  She took a step closer to Eda and Frankie Boy.

  Eda kept one hand on Frankie Boy’s back. The other touched the hilt of her sword.

  “My name is Louise,” the old woman said, “and this here’s my daughter Florence. As for the rest of our people here, we go by the name of Nomads. I’d introduce you to them all personally but well, it’s raining and I guess you want to keep moving like we do. Right? Are you a peaceful traveler?”

  Eda smiled. Her hand retreated from the handle of the katana hanging off her waist. She hoped the gesture would answer the old woman’s question.

  “I’m Eda,” she said. “And this is Frankie Boy.”

  “Eda,” Louise said, repeating the name slowly. “E-da. And where are you coming from Eda?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “New Jersey? See much there?”

  Eda shook her head quickly. “Nothing much.”

  Louise and Florence exchanged a brief glance. Eda observed that their side profiles, hooked nose, sharp chins, were identical. There could be little doubt now that they were blood relatives.

  “How about the road?” Florence asked. “You see anything on the road in between here and Jersey? We’d appreciate you sharing what you know.”

  Eda shrugged. “A few animal encounters from a distance,” she said. “Deer, horses, possums and other things. No people, until you that is.”

  Louise turned back to the caravan. With a thumb in the air, she signaled to someone in the group to come forward. A middle-aged man with murky
salt and pepper stubble on his face signaled back. Then he took something out of the rear cart and approached the three women and the dog. In his hands, he carried a plastic box with a lid sealed tight on top. Like the rest of the travelers, this man was wearing weatherworn rags underneath a long waterproof cloak that trailed down to his knees.

  The man greeted Eda with a blank-faced nod. Then he dropped onto one knee, opened the box and pulled out something wrapped in several layers of silver foil. Unwrapping the foil, a blackish-red object was partially revealed. It looked like the well-preserved organ of a large animal. The man cut a few slices and wrapped them up in a fresh piece of foil. Then he replaced the lid on the plastic box and stood up with a sigh. He handed the freshly cut slices over to Eda and his rugged face broke into a smile.

  “You can eat it raw,” he said in a gruff voice, “but it tastes a hell of a lot better if you cook it first.”

  Eda took the package and thanked the man.

  “It’s food,” Louise said, laughing softly. “Even if it looks like crap and smells worse it’ll keep you alive. It’s fuel. It’ll help you get to where you’re going.”

  “Thank you,” Eda said. She slid her backpack off her shoulder, pulled the zip and carefully put the foil package inside. There was plenty of room.

  Louise squinted at the young woman and her dog. “How long have you been on the road Eda?”

  Eda shook her head. “About a week I think. Maybe more.”

  The journey back east was a blur. In truth, Eda had been walking on autopilot since leaving the swamps of New Jersey, grateful just to be able to put some distance between herself and that place. The Nomads didn’t need to know about what she’d encountered there – that particular danger had been removed and Eda sure as hell didn’t want to revisit it. Now she was traveling northeast, having at first followed the road signs back to New York. Fortunately she didn’t have to go through Manhattan or anywhere near the Complex to get where she was going. Thank God for all the books she’d read over the years, especially the history books containing maps of America. It was thanks to those books and to all the hours she’d spent looking at them that she possessed enough geographical knowledge to find her way back east.

  “You’re alone?” Louise asked.

  Eda pointed to Frankie Boy. “Nope.”

  Louise smiled, showing off a set of pristine white teeth. Eda was impressed – it was rare to see anyone that old with so many teeth left. Good teeth too. Either Louise had taken care of her teeth all her life or she was hanging onto a great set of dentures, a souvenir from the old world.

  “Sorry hon,” the old woman said. “Jeez, I ain’t seen one of them big, powerful dogs in a very, very long time. Look at him would you? He’s a fierce-looking son of a bitch. Good protection I reckon. Loyal too so they say.”

  Louise looked like she wanted to get closer to Frankie Boy but something held her back. She blew him a kiss from a distance. Frankie’s ears twitched in response.

  “Yeah,” Eda said. “He’s sort of my guardian angel.”

  “And you’re his,” Louise said.

  Florence cleared her throat.

  “You two came all the way from Jersey?” she said. “That’s a long trek. What are you heading east for?”

  Eda didn’t blink. “Got my reasons.”

  She glanced behind the two scouts, her attention drifting towards the rest of the Nomads. Eda saw the fear in their eyes, even though by now they must have sensed that this encounter was unlikely to escalate into a violent confrontation. She didn’t blame them for being cautious. Strangers weren’t to be trusted and it was smart to be scared sometimes. Those women in the group who were mothers clutched young children tight to their breast. Older children who tried to get too close to Eda and especially to Frankie Boy, were restrained with a strong hand and a stern expression.

  “You’re the first caravan I’ve seen in a long time,” Eda said. “Where are you coming from?”

  “A place called Brockton,” Florence said. “You know it?”

  “Never heard of it,” Eda said.

  “Massachusetts?” Florence said. “You’ve heard of that right? Northeast state.”

  “I know it,” Eda asked.

  “Right you are. Well we’re bailing out of Massachusetts. Seeking fresh pastures.”

  Eda felt a shudder of relief inside. She was on the right road and thank God for a little confirmation. If these people were coming out of Massachusetts then she couldn’t be too far away from the city of Boston now. America was big, so damn big that it was easy to get lost and stay lost. This was the boost she needed to carry her over the finish line.

  Nearly there.

  Louise called over to a young black-skinned girl standing by the lead cart. “Bring me a few of those apples darling will you?”

  The girl, a statue just a moment ago, exploded into a flurry of activity. She rummaged around inside the nearest cart and after about a minute, pulled out three reddish-brown apples. She walked over and handed them to Eda. The girl was too shy or too frightened to look Eda in the eye.

  “Thank you,” Eda said, taking the apples and dropping them into her bag. “I wish I had something to give you in return.”

  “Forget it,” Louise said.

  Florence nodded. “We’ve got more than enough.”

  “You’ll find orchards back that way,” Louise said, pointing east along the highway. She raised her voice, her aging pipes battling to be heard over the rain. “People might have gone but the fruit’s still growing like it always did. Might be radioactive but what the hell right? Just go off road, explore some of those little towns you’ll see marked on the signposts. Nature still provides if you know where to look for her treasures. Stock up if you’re going east because it’s a concrete desert out there. That’s where you’re going right? East?”

  “Boston,” Eda said.

  Louise exhaled, a whistling noise that sounded like disapproval.

  “A ghost town,” she said. “Right Florence?”

  “Sure is,” the dreadlocked woman said. She spoke gently, as if breaking bad news to Eda. “I think it was one of the first cities to go, not surprising seeing as how the harbor was used during the war. Boston was a big target for those fighting against us.”

  “Guess so,” Eda said. “I’ll see for myself soon enough.”

  “That where you’re from?” Louise asked. The old woman stood motionless in the rain, seemingly impervious to the escalating downpour.

  “I’ve never been there before.”

  “So why the hell are you going?” Florence said.

  “I’m looking for someone,” Eda said. “A woman by the name of Pam Burton.”

  Louise fanned her face, like she was brushing a swarm of insects away. “You won’t find her, whoever she is.”

  “I have to try,” Eda said. “Finding her, that’s a bonus.”

  Louise and Florence glanced at one another. There was a brief, instant nod exchanged between them that Eda would have missed had she blinked at that moment.

  “Say why don’t you come with us?” Louise said, turning back to Eda. “We ain’t got much but we’ve got each other and we’ve got food and water and sleeping bags. Huh? Safety in numbers honey, that’s no lie in this world we’re living in.”

  Louise pointed to the empty highway over Eda’s shoulder.

  “We’re going west and then south,” she said. “If you believe the rumors, there’s some big tribes based down in New Mexico. It’s a long walk for sure, especially for my old bones, but what the hell? Northeast is dead.”

  “What do you say Eda?” Florence asked. “Will you join us?”

  Eda was tempted to say yes outright. The voice of instinct told her to accept the offer and to travel southwest with the Nomads to New Mexico. They seemed like good, genuine people. That was rare enough and it was a solid reason to turn back and go with them. Eda liked their faces too, honest and with kind eyes that didn’t probe too deeply. These weren’t the k
ind of people who’d squeeze her dry before leaving her for dead on the highway.

  Say yes, damn it.

  Eda smiled and slowly lifted her hood, pulling it tight over her head.

  “No thanks,” she said, looking at the two women standing in the rain. Louise’s electric blue eyes had dimmed a little. “It’s…it’s hard to explain. But I have to go to Boston. I have to.”

  “Well the offer stands,” Louise said, through gritted teeth. “Should you change your mind that is.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Eda said.

  They said a brief goodbye and went their separate ways under the pouring rain. Eda and Frankie Boy continued east towards the coast while the Nomads took the road west and inland. It was a long time before Eda had the nerve to look back. With a gnawing regret, she stood rooted to the spot, watching the caravan as it disappeared around a curve in the highway.

  2

  Eda and Frankie Boy arrived in Boston two days later.

  When she lived in New York, Eda always had a sense that something was there inside the emptiness – a presence, the possibility of running into some living thing on a street corner somewhere. The Big Apple was a shadow of its former self alright, but it wasn’t all the way gone. The Complex was proof of that. Boston on the other hand, was all the way gone. Eda was crawling around inside the stomach of a giant corpse in Boston. The skyscrapers were tombstones. The city was eerily silent apart from the steady pitter-patter of the rain.

  The scenery was familiar by now to anyone who’d traveled through various towns and cities of postwar America. Mounds of assorted debris were piled up on the street, abandoned cars sat on the road, reeking of rot and death. Shards of broken glass snapped underfoot with every step. Some of the buildings had come down, most likely in the war years, but some of them had probably only been damaged in the fighting, only to collapse later on.