Wildcat foreclosure of a.., p.1
Wildcat: Foreclosure of a Dream, page 1
part #12 of The Fallen World Series
Wildcat: Foreclosure of a Dream
Book Twelve of The Fallen World
By
William Joseph Roberts
PUBLISHED BY: Blood Moon Press
Copyright © 2020 William Joseph Roberts
All Rights Reserved
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License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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Cover Design by Elartwyne Estole
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Author’s Note & Dedication
I have to say, this whole writer’s journey I’ve found myself on the last few years has been exciting, mind-blowing, and stressful all at the same time. I’ve met so many amazing people, making connections, doing the whole networking thing that is, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the most important aspects to the craft, in my honest opinion. It’s one of the ways we not only learn and grow as authors, but by engaging with our peers, we have the opportunity to gain insightful knowledge of all aspects of the business.
Honestly, before LibertyCon XXX, I was just spinning my wheels, struggling along in the local writer’s groups with no real idea of how to go about the business of writing and getting published. That convention was where it all really began for me, and the fire was forever lit. At the time, I never would have imagined I’d become personally acquainted with all these great authors and the universes they’ve created, let alone get the chance to actually write something in the settings I’ve grown to love.
That being said, I’ve been a fan of post-apocalyptic settings for as long as I can remember, and a fan of the Fallout game series from way back in the ‘90s, when it all started. I couldn’t help but fall in love with Christopher Woods’ Fallen World series once I got around to actually reading it. He gave me a hardcopy of the first book a few years ago at a LibertyCon Christmas party. He was even nice enough to sign the thing while we sat around downstairs at Rich and Tish Groller’s lake house, shooting the shit and talking shop. I was so busy with life at the time that I didn’t get a chance to even crack the book open. Then, lo and behold, the audiobook was released, and a new addiction formed. Being a cubical farm nerd in an engineering office, I tend to devour audiobooks like a fat kid at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Gotta keep your mind busy somehow when your day is filled with mind-numbing monotony.
I’d barely made it halfway through the first chapter when I sent Chris a message, asking him how many hours he’d spent playing Fallout 4, because I had probably spent way too many hours playing it myself. For the longest time, playing the game was part of our family fun time, when the kids and wife would watch me play in the evenings and help figure out the minor side stories hidden away throughout the world.
As I listened through the audiobook, I could picture the ruined streets of Boston as Mathew Kade made his way through the unnamed city. Chris replied shortly after that he’d spent hundreds of hours playing, and I could believe it. It’s just one of those games with so many little nuances that draws you back in.
The funny thing was, just prior to all of this, Benjamin Tyler Smith, author of Blue Crucible, and I had been talking about how much fun it would be to write in a world like this. Then the next thing you know, we are. I punched out a short story that didn’t make the first anthology, but it did get enough attention that…well, I wrote a novel. Not only that, but the idea Ben had been tossing around landed him his first novel deal, and he’s happily pressing on with his cast of cops in the Fallen World.
Needless to say, the first dedication and thank you should go to Christopher Woods for creating the Fallen World series and allowing all of us to play in his sandbox.
The next goes to the Bunnies, my three odd, smelly, and just downright weird nerd children. The fact that they “check in on daddy” when I’m writing to make sure I’m okay, and they offer up and toss ideas around with me involving the characters and setting is just freaking amazing. And for being my copilot’s during our many hours of research while playing Fallout and feeding our addictions.
Last but never least, Meg. My heart, my rock, my loving wife. Without her support to help quell those evil mind demons, not to mention her many, many hours spent helping me edit and polish, I wouldn’t be where I am now with the craft. Thank you, Babe.
William Joseph Roberts
Chickamauga, Georgia
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Contents
Authors Note & Dedication
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
About William Joseph Roberts
Looking for the Latest in Scifi Goodness?
Excerpt from Book One of The Fallen World
Excerpt from Book One of The Devil’s Gunman
Excerpt from Book One of The Shadow Lands
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Chapter 1
You’d think the last place I’d ever want to find myself on a Friday night would be inside a church. Anyone who knows me would be surprised, without knowing the circumstances of the visit. No, I didn’t burst into flames, nor do I have a hatred of crucifixes. I’ve just never been the religious type is all. Nothing against this God guy or anything. I’m sure he’s nice enough once you get to know him, but I’d rather put my faith in myself and my own abilities.
Half a dozen candles burned, lighting the lobby of the Pigeon Creek Church of God. A thick mildewed mustiness hung heavily in the space. The warm, humid spring had caused the edges of the outdated wallpaper to curl, revealing a plastered wall beneath. Decades of paint layers peeled and flaked away in sections.
I removed my leather head wrap and tucked it into a pocket of my military green longcoat. “No sense taking a chance on pissing off the big guy, if he’s up there,” I mumbled to myself. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before opening the double doors that led into the sanctuary. The doors popped and creaked as they swung open on ancient brass hinges. I took one regular step forward into the sanctuary and casually stood at the back of the room, hands laced in front of me in plain sight for all to see.
Sunken, hollow-cheeked faces stared back at me as the congregation turned in unison to look upon the newcomer. It was sad, really. The sight of most folks these days would leave a sick, empty feeling in the pit of your stomach, because you knew there was nothing you could do. Openly showing kindness to your fellow man could mean the difference between survival or starving to death. Not to mention getting yourself killed over a bite of anything edible. Three years after the Fall, most of the old world had become a far-flung memory. Radiation sickness, famine, and unchecked illness ran rampant throughout the Appalachian Mountains.
Those who’d survived fought tooth and nail every day to keep going. Some say it’s determination that keeps a man alive. Others say it’s nothing but pure luck. I couldn’t tell you which one was right. I live by my own motto, Bad luck is better than no luck at all, because it keeps life interesting.
A light spring breeze drifted through the open doors, threatening to cast the service into near darkness. Shadows danced and torches flickered throughout the quaint little backwoods church.
“Son, please close the doors behind you,” the pastor said. “We’re trying to conduct a service here.” He motioned to an older, pot-bellied gentleman to his left, heavily bearded and possibly in his late forties, then to a young girl who might have been sixteen but not a day older, standing to his right. Coppery red hair, thick freckles, and bright blue eyes seemed to glow like a beacon in the dim torchlight of the room. Both of them wore what must have been the finest clothes they could borrow, since neither looked properly sized for them.
“Two things, Preacher. First, I am not your son,” I growled, counting off with an extended middle finger. “Secondly, I cannot in good conscience close these doors and unwillingly trap the innocents contained herein.”
The preacher
I lowered my head as if in prayer, running the possible outcomes of this scenario through my mind. The odds aren’t too horrible, I thought, then donned my head wrap once again. “I tried. I really, really tried,” I said, looking up. The confused and frightened parishioners hadn’t taken their eyes off me. “Last chance if any of y’all would like to take the babies on to the house.” I loudly sucked on a tooth as I impatiently waited.
No one moved a muscle.
“Whelp, you all had your chance,” I said. Slowly, I reached into my pocket and produced a paper the size of a note card. “My name, sir,” I said, directly addressing the pastor as I unfolded the paper, “is Leander Calloway Toler. By the power vested in me by the Governing Council of Clans and Counties of the tri-state area, I do hereby request the release of one Amelia Cline.” I pointed to the young redhead standing to the right of the pastor. “I would assume that’s you?”
She nodded with a fleeting hint of a smile.
I continued. “Where was I? Oh right, here it is,” I said, nervously shifting my weight from one foot to another. “Y’all will have to excuse me. I’m not the greatest at public speaking.” I looked back at the card and found my place once again. Clearing my throat, I continued, “Amelia Cline, of Williamson, West Virginia, a registered member of Mingo County. By the deputizing authority of Sheriff Joe Hodge, I hereby place you under the protection of the Logan Wildcats until such time as you may be returned to the Mingo County Courthouse for processing.”
A single gunshot resounded in the small space. Suddenly a burning sensation ignited on the back of my right arm. Red mist hung about a newly formed hole in the right shoulder of my longcoat. “Really? I just got this coat.” I looked up from the hole to a young parishioner who sat in the rear pew to my right. He held up a small caliber revolver that looked like something out of an ancient western. I poked at the wound with a finger to find that the bullet had only grazed my arm. I clenched my jaw, chewing on the anger that welled up. “I’ll tell you what, boy. You’re young, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Put the gun up before you do something truly stupid.”
The young man nervously holstered the gun.
“That’s better,” I said, nodding to the young man.
“You have no right or jurisdiction here, Wildcat,” an older, white-haired gentleman at the front said as he stood. “You can take yourself on back to Williamson and tell old Pos Cline that I am fully within my right, as per our written contract.”
I was afraid this would be a difficult job. You know how you just get that gut feeling about something, and no matter how hard you try to ignore it or rationalize it, it continues to linger? Well, this was one of those times.
See, old Pos Cline is one of the wealthiest men in the area. He owns hundreds of acres’ worth of hardwood and a mountainside of cattle where the Mingo County Municipal Airport once resided. The mountain itself had been fenced off before the Fall, which made it an easy conversion to a cattle ranch of sorts. After the bombs fell and the world went to shit, Appalachian society took a two hundred-ish year leap backward on a number of things. Women’s rights, for one, and the medieval practice of mixing business with marriage, another.
“Then I assume you’re Lucian Blankenship?” I asked, directing my question to the older gentlemen.
“I am.” The old man stood stoically, hands resting atop a wooden cane.
I reached into my pocket and produced an old decorative flip lighter. The type you’d find at any roadside gas station. A laughing demon skull stuck out from its brushed stainless side. I thumbed open the top and flicked the wheel. It sparkled to life.
“Let me make this clear, sir,” I said, addressing Mister Blankenship. “I’ve been assigned the task of property retrieval because a grievance has been filed with the council office in Williamson. I have the right to complete my assigned task and return Miss Amelia Cline to her father until such time as the matter can be settled in the council chambers.” I retrieved a white plastic cylinder from my coat and lit the fuse that hung from its top. I held the homemade bomb above my head so everyone could see. Three layers of sixteen-penny nails were loosely taped to the outside of the plastic pipe assembly. “I will not take no for an answer, sir,” I growled.
Shocked gasps and frightened sobs permeated the silence. “How dare you threaten these innocent people and desecrate the house of God!” the pastor shouted in his loudest preaching voice.
“Hold up there, preacher man. I ain’t done yet,” I said, pointing the homemade bomb in the pastor’s direction. “By right of the clan accords of 2069, you may also be held accountable if you continue with this unlawful ceremony.”
“On what charges?” Mister Blankenship asked.
“For aiding and abetting,” I replied to Mister Blankenship, then turned my attention back to the pastor. “You will be subject to the same charges of theft, fraud, damage to private property, and coercion that Mister Blankenship and his son currently face for the unlawful removal of Miss Amelia from her residence without Mister Cline’s explicit permission.”
The pastor gasped. Visibly shaken, he dabbed sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Y…you said you were her father,” he said accusingly to another man in the front row.
“You just mind your own business and do what you’re told!” Mister Blankenship shouted with a threatening scowl toward the pastor.
“I’d say you’re in the clear, Preacher,” I said. “If you’d please step aside, I’ll make sure to note in my report that you were unaware of the situation and under duress when I return to Williamson.”
Mister Blankenship laughed. “That’s if you make it back to Williamson.”
“He ain’t nothing but a bounty hunter,” another man in the congregation said.
“Eh, eh, eh,” I grunted. “Stay right where you are, fellow. He is not a bounty hunter, and need I remind you, he is the one holding a lit bomb.” I waved the bomb about to remind everyone of its presence. The shrinking wick caught my attention. I cleared my throat and looked back to the congregation. “Y’all had best make up your minds. Time is getting a might scarce for all of us.”
Reluctantly Mister Blankenship approached Miss Cline and forcefully grasped her by the arm. “You’d probably produce cripples and retards anyhow. I don’t know why I ever thought I could trust a damn dirty Cline.” He spat in her face, then shoved her down the aisle in my direction. She started to stumble but managed to keep her footing.
“If you would, please,” I said, motioning for her to continue in my direction.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she hurriedly stepped past me and onto the church’s small porch.
I nodded at the congregation as I backed out of the sanctuary. “I surely appreciate all the cooperation you’ve given me while serving this request from the council. Y’all have yourselves a great and wonderful evening.”
Chaos erupted among the parishioners as I tossed the bomb and closed the inner doors, barring them with a small bench that sat in the small lobby.
“But those people!” Miss Cline said in a shrill tone. “You’d kill all those people?”
“No, ma’am, I wouldn’t.” I grinned wide. “It’s full of sand.” I laughed. “As precious as gunpowder is, you think I’d waste it like that? I’m a tad bit sad about wasting all that duct tape, though, considering how hard it is to come by.” Grabbing her by the hand, I ran, the young lady in tow. A few hundred feet down the road we ducked behind a partially collapsed storage building.
Almost immediately, I was pushed to the ground by something huge and muscular. Backlit by the nearly full moon, a massive figure loomed over me. Its large snout nuzzled and sniffed at the side of my head.
