Island Refuge EMP | Book 2 | Escaping Chaos Read online

  Island Refuge EMP

  Escaping Conflict

  Escaping Chaos

  Escaping Capture

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, SEPTEMBER 2020

  Copyright © 2020 Relay Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. 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.

  Grace Hamilton is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Post-Apocalyptic projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.

  www.relaypub.com

  Blurb

  When the lines between friend and foe are blurred, life and death hang in the balance.

  Life at the Pasqualee island vineyard has settled into a new normal after the EMP attack. Cut off from the dangerous mainland, Elna has succeeded in securing the small group’s basic necessities in their new post-apocalyptic world. The island’s become, if not exactly a paradise, at least a safe and secure shelter where they can ride out the devastation for the foreseeable future.

  Until a vicious fall storm sends newcomers careening onto their shores.

  The sailor and his young son were on their way north to an experimental clinic for vital medication when the storm blew their sailboat off course. They need to make repairs and try again to reach it or the gravely ill boy will die. When Elna discovers her father has run out of heart medication, she volunteers to join the small group and set sail with the frantic sailor in his weakened son’s stead.

  Yet the way is treacherous by both land and sea. When the sailors are forced to abandon the boat far from their destination, their travels inland are impeded by injury—until a Good Samaritan volunteers to help protect and guide them safely to the clinic.

  But safety is out of the question when the valuable goods they hoped to trade for medicines are discovered, and it becomes a deadly fight to claim them. Now it’s a race to reach the facility before more lives are threatened. And time runs out.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  End of Escaping Chaos

  Thank you!

  About Grace Hamilton

  Sneak Peek: Escaping Capture

  Also By Grace Hamilton

  1

  Elna Pasqualee’s attention was drawn to the dark clouds gathering along the western horizon, so she didn’t realize she’d taken a bad step until Malin called her name. Her right foot hit the edge of one of the trellis support posts, and she stumbled. As she fell to her knees, she cast the pruning shears aside, tossing them a bit harder than necessary. They flew up and over the trellis, banged off the side of the aqueduct half-pipe, and landed in the dirt.

  “Whoa, who are you trying to attack with those things?” Malin asked, coming up beside her. “Or is that just a new pruning technique?”

  On this particular chilly October day, Malin Weber wore a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’d chucked the suit jackets that had once been his trademark. Malin had a strong face, with high cheekbones and bright blue eyes. Meeting his gaze, even now, was a bit intimidating, though he had the personality of a teddy bear.

  “Sorry,” Elna replied. “I didn’t want to land on the pointy end.”

  Malin offered his hand. She grabbed it, and he pulled her to her feet.

  “Is that a common on-the-job injury in the wine-making industry?” he asked.

  Elna reached up and ran her fingers along the right side of her forehead. When her fingertips found the small, jagged scar there, she felt a tingling discomfort.

  “Let’s just say, I learned the hard way not to fall with the shears in my hand,” she said.

  “Ah, I see,” Malin said. “I’ve wondered about that little scar. It seemed rude to ask. I guess the first time you trip and land on pruning shears is kind of memorable.”

  “Exactly.” The pruning shears had landed, point down, in the hard-packed dirt between the rows of vines. Elna walked over and retrieved them. “By the way, it’s not rude to ask. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not a self-conscious person. Asking questions is always a good thing in my book.”

  “I have noticed,” he replied. The strong breeze blowing across the vineyard caught his loose, blondish hair and swept it back from his forehead. “But sometimes scars have stories that people don’t like to tell.” As he said it, he held up his right arm, where a long, fairly recent scar ran from his wrist almost all the way to his elbow.

  “My worst story is not a scar,” Elna said. “My worst story is a person, and you know that story well by now. You lived it.”

  “The only part of the Rod Smith story I liked was the part where we ran across the ocean to get away from him,” Malin said with a laugh. “Oh, and the part where we dropped a couple of his goons in the water by raising a drawbridge. That was fun.”

  “Fun? I don’t know if I’d use that word.”

  Elna started to return to her work of snipping off the dead vines so the growing grapes would flourish, but her gaze returned to the clouds. They’d clustered above the distant ocean like gray fists. Not so big yet, but the wind was already picking up. She saw streaks of white on the water, signs of turmoil as the waves intensified.

  “Looks like the stormy season is here,” she said. “We’d better batten down the hatches. I don’t want to lose my entire aqueduct to an errant crosswind.”

  She turned to head for the storage shed in the middle of the vineyard. As she did, she brushed against Malin and felt a cold metal edge against her side. He had Dominic’s pistol—a compact Ruger—holstered at his hip. Sadly, they couldn’t work openly on the island, even now, not with a few hundred enemies camped just ten miles across the bay. If not for the little reminders, it might have seemed they were living on a quaint island paradise.

  They had reinforced the aluminum shed using salvaged steel bars from the abandoned military base. It could handle the storms. As Elna set the pruning shears on a shelf just inside the door, she heard footsteps coming up the path that led down the slope away from the vineyard. She turned to see Norman and Selene approaching from the tree line, the little white Bichon Frise, Sniffy, padding along at their heels.

  “That wind’s got a bite to it, don’t you think?” Norman said, wrapping his arms around his chest.

  Norman Davis was a middle-aged African-American gentleman with a broad, handsome face. As always, he wore a long-sleeve shirt and khaki pants, but today he’d pulled on some gloves as we
ll. Though he’d mostly accompanied Selene to keep her safe, the dirt on his gloves suggested he’d helped with her foraging.

  “Yep, we’re in for it,” Elna said. “I’m going to make some preparations in case it’s bad tonight. You guys can head to the guesthouse.”

  With her loose floral-print dress and Birkenstocks, her free-flowing hair dotted with bits of leaves, and her dirty hands, Selene Bondere seemed more at home on the island than anyone else. Her cheeks were sun-touched, and she was smiling. Yes, Selene was in her natural environment. Currently, she had a large burlap sack tossed over her shoulder.

  “What did you find today?” Malin asked her, gesturing at the sack.

  “Oh, my gosh, you’ll never believe it,” Selene said, pulling the sack off her shoulder with genuine excitement. She opened it up and rooted around inside. “I found a whole bunch of manzanita berries. I didn’t know they grew on this island! There’s so much more than I ever realized.”

  “Manzanita berries?” Malin replied. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of them.”

  She pulled out a fistful of shriveled red-orange berries. “I recognized the tree because it’s got red bark. Want to try one?” She thrust one of the berries at Malin.

  “Does it taste good?”

  “Raw?” Selene shrugged. “I guess it depends on your tolerance for tannins.”

  Norman shook his head vigorously. “Trust me, man. It’ll pucker your whole mouth.”

  Malin waved off the berry, and Selene, laughing, shoved it back in the sack. “They’ll make a decent cider, though. Believe me.”

  “We believe you,” Elna said. “Why don’t you take them to the kitchen?” The ongoing conversation was making her nervous. The storm clouds were rising fast. They could chat about Selene’s latest haul once the equipment was secure and all the islanders were safely inside. She considered the group all islanders now, after all they’d been through together.

  “I’ll need to cook them on low heat for a long time,” Selene said, slinging the sack back over her shoulder. “That might be tomorrow’s project.”

  With a bounce in her step, she headed toward the vineyard and the back of the guesthouse. Norman lingered.

  “What needs to be done before the storm hits?” he asked.

  “You want to check the traps at the fishing dock?” Elna asked. “Malin, how about you check the small game traps beyond the fence? Anything worth bringing back, you can take it to the kitchen. I’m going to gather some materials to shore up any weak spots on the aqueduct. I think that’s the best we can do.”

  Malin tipped her a salute. “You got it, boss.”

  He was clearly being lighthearted, but it caught Elna off guard. She’d become more confident in her leadership, but was she being too bossy? She decided not to worry about it. Someone had to coordinate things on the island, after all.

  “I hope we caught a few crabs this time,” Norman said. “I’m about filled up on shrimp.”

  “Let’s work fast, guys,” Elna said. “Get back to the house as soon as you can.”

  Malin started to head out, but he caught himself, snapped his fingers, and turned to Elna.

  “If you plan on rooting around the island, you’ll need this more than me,” he said, unclipping the holster from his belt and handing it to her. “I’m not going far.”

  “Thanks,” Elna said, taking the holster. She fumbled with it for a moment, trying to get it clipped to her belt. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with the gun—with any guns—though she fully accepted the necessity of being armed at all times.

  “Keep an eye out,” Malin said, wagging a finger at her. “I know you get all wrapped up in your own thoughts sometimes. For all we know, Dominic swam back to the island.”

  “Now would be an incredibly dumb time to attempt crossing the bay,” she said.

  “He’s a dumb guy.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, patting the handle of the gun. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything unusual.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up, then he headed into the high grass west of the vineyard. Elna turned back to the shed, opened the door, and leaned inside. She didn’t really expect to run into Dominic. The last time she’d seen the man, he’d seemed pretty content serving Rod Smith’s glorious militia. Still, Malin’s concern made her anxious.

  From inside the shed, she grabbed a backpack, a pair of binoculars, and a small crowbar. She slung the backpack over her shoulders, then headed down the slope, following the now-familiar trail that led through the overgrown parts of the island toward the old lighthouse.

  The rising wind began to sound much more violent in the trees as it whipped the branches and sent anxious animals scurrying. She spotted a small island fox racing through the underbrush, as if seeking a hiding spot. The ubiquitous loggerhead shrikes, on the other hand, had gone silent, bracing themselves deep within the branches. Bad storms were not uncommon on the island. In fact, Elna was pretty sure the occasional strong wind was one of the reasons the US Government had auctioned off the island in the drawdown after the Korean War. Her grandfather had apparently bought the place at a steal.

  The trail that led down the southwest side of the island was an old, pitted dirt road that she’d never seen prior to the EMP. Now, it felt like her own garden path, and she rather enjoyed it. Life wasn’t easy, by any means. Every day was a struggle to ensure they had enough clean desalinated water to drink and enough food to eat, but it kept her mind constantly working. Always a problem to solve. Always a better solution to pursue.

  It’s not so bad, she thought, as long as I can keep everyone alive.

  She passed the old battered shed that was halfway down the slope. She’d replaced the door, strengthened the latch, and scoured away the rust, but the shed still needed work. Elna made a mental note to do some more extensive structural improvements at a later date.

  When she reached the bottom of the slope, stepping out of the trees into the open rocky ground on the southwest corner of the island, a blast of damp, cold air nearly knocked her off her feet. She stumbled to one side but managed to keep her balance. The high military fence was straight ahead. They’d broken through some of the rusted posts to gain access, and while they’d made a few trips into the old buildings to scavenge, quite a bit of scrap remained that was either too large or too heavy to transport back to the guesthouse. They’d gathered up most of it into the guardhouse at the base of the lighthouse to come back for as needed. In particular, Elna wanted to strengthen the joints and bracings for the aqueduct in the spots where it would be exposed to the worst winds.

  As she approached the fence, however, she turned her gaze to the ocean, to the dark wall of clouds climbing into the sky, the choppy waters roiling in the distance. Something caught her eye, some dark thing riding the waves. At first, she thought it was an animal, one of the many area sharks caught in the current. Then it turned, and she caught a hint of a pale shape atop it.

  Dominic. It was the first thought that crossed her mind, but, of course, Dominic wouldn’t be approaching from the Pacific side.

  Elna pulled the binoculars off her neck and raised them to her eyes. It took a moment to get the focus right—they were an ancient pair of Army binoculars. But when she did, she spotted the tall white sail. It was ripped and flapping like a broken wing. The ship itself was a small, compact sloop. Too far away to tell the make or model, but she estimated that it was no more than twenty feet from stem to stern. The storm had already given it hell.

  She could make out two people on deck. A larger figure had an arm wrapped around the mast, the other swinging wildly in the air, as if he were trying to catch a loose object. She thought maybe it was the jib sheet, which seemed to have broken loose. The second figure was much smaller, most likely a child or small teenager. He stood on deck, clinging to ropes with both hands. The rough waters and fierce wind were driving the boat hard.

  “Now, where did you come from?” Elna muttered.

  The larger man kept flailing at the w
hipping jib sheet, as the small person behind him held on for dear life. Elna forgot all about scavenging for scraps as she climbed a low mount of stones to get a better view. They were moving fast toward the rocky western shore.

  When Elna heard footsteps on the rocks behind her, she was so caught up in the unfolding drama out at sea that she barely registered it. The approaching figure cleared his throat, and it startled her. She swung around, fumbling for the pistol, as the crowbar slipped out from under her belt and clattered loudly on the ground.

  “Traps were empty,” Malin said, arms crossed over his chest. “You need to work on your reaction time, Elna. If I’d been some creep from the mainland, I could’ve got the drop on you.”

  “If I’d reacted any faster, you might’ve gotten shot,” she replied.

  She pointed out to sea. The clouds were now like a great, gray curtain rising ever faster, and the little boat was dwarfed beneath it.

  “Is that a boat?” Malin asked. “Where did they come from?”

  “Drifted in on the storm,” she replied. “I don’t think the captain knows how to pilot his vessel. Looks like there might be a kid on board with him.”

  She handed him the binoculars, and he gazed at the boat. With a gasp, he lowered the binoculars. “They’re going to run aground on the rocks. We have to do something.”

  “Do we?” The words came out before she could think about them. When Malin turned and gave her a troubled look, she winced. “I know. I shouldn’t have said that. Of course, we should help if we can.”