The Last Orchard (Book 1): The Last Orchard

  The Last Orchard Book 1

  James Hunt

  Contents

  Prequel- The Last Orchard Book 0

  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

  About the Author

  Copyright 2018 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis.

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  Prequel- The Last Orchard Book 0

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  Charlie Decker traveled to Seattle to acquire a much needed loan for his family’s Orchard. After a dozen requests, Charlie is forced to head home empty handed. But his plans are derailed after an unexpected attack on the city renders all electronics useless. No cars. No phones. Everything about the modern world has been destroyed. And that’s when the chaos begins.

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  1

  Time stood still, and Charlie remained frozen at the end of the driveway to the rural road outside of Doc’s house. He saw the masked gunmen emerge from the woods down the street, but his mind refused to acknowledge their reality.

  “Charlie!”

  Charlie turned toward Lieutenant Dixon who was already at Doc’s front door, rifle in hand.

  “Move your ass!”

  Charlie sprinted toward the house, and then disappeared through the open doorway just before Dixon slammed the door shut behind him.

  Dixon peeked out of the curtains, keeping most of his body hidden. “Fuck.” He quickly retreated from the window. “They’ll sweep the house, then move on. Everyone needs to hide, and everyone needs to stay quiet.”

  Doc and Ellen, who still had Adelyn in her arms, stepped out of the kitchen.

  “The cellar,” Doc said. “It’s around back, and I can lock it from the inside.”

  “How many entrances does it have?” Dixon asked, checking the magazine of his rifle.

  “Just the one,” Doc answered.

  “Go.”

  “What about Liz?” Ellen asked, clutching Adelyn tighter in her arms.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Charlie said.

  Doc led the two girls toward the back, and Dixon shoved a pistol into Charlie’s hands.

  “Don’t use it unless it’s a last resort,” Dixon said. “Let’s go get Liz.”

  The weapon was heavy in Charlie’s hand, and memories of the men he’d killed back in Seattle flashed in his mind like lightning. The blood, the flash of the barrel, the screams-

  “Charlie!”

  He looked up from the pistol and found Dixon waiting outside Liz’s door in the hallway.

  “C’mon!”

  Charlie hurried down the hall, pushing the memories from his head. Liz was unconscious, and Dixon was at the window, peeking outside.

  “Shit,” Dixon said, quickly transitioning from the window to the far side of Liz’s bed. “We won’t have time to get her to the cellar before they walk inside. We need to hide her now.” Dixon gestured toward the closet. “Help me put her inside.”

  “Are you serious?” Charlie asked. “We can’t just shove her in a closet.”

  “You’ll be in there with her.” Dixon gestured to the gun. “Anyone opens the door, you shoot them.”

  “That’s not the smart play—”

  “We don’t have time, Charlie.” Dixon took a breath and gathered his thoughts. “It’s a scouting party. They won’t send more than three men inside.”

  Foreign voices brought both of their attentions toward the window. They were out of time. Charlie rushed to help Dixon lift Liz from the bed, taking the IV with them, which was thankfully short enough to pass through the closet door.

  Charlie shoved aside clothes and shoes, making room for the two of them, and they set Liz inside first, then Charlie.

  “Just stay here and keep quiet.” Dixon shut the door, and Charlie watched him scurry out of the room through the narrow slits of the closet door.

  The groan of the hinges at the front door sounded and was followed by the light patter of boots against the hardwood. The terrorists whispered to one another, their words inaudible even if Charlie understood the language.

  Boot steps echoed from all around the house, some growing louder and closer, others becoming quieter.

  Charlie positioned his body in front of Liz and aimed the pistol at the crack of the closet door, then placed his finger on the trigger.

  Hushed foreign accents whispered in the hallway, and Charlie’s heart skipped a beat when the hinges to the bedroom groaned.

  Liz moaned behind him, waking, and Charlie quickly reached around and placed his hand over her mouth, praying that the gunman didn’t hear her.

  Charlie tensed and squinted through the narrow slits of the closet door. The barrel of the gunman’s rifle penetrated the room first, followed by the pair of tan and weathered hands that held it. Despite the summer heat, the terrorist wore long sleeves and pants, with boots. The clothes were well-worn, the elbows and knees sporting holes from use.

  Only one soldier entered the room. He paced around the bed, checking underneath as he circled to the opposite side. He reached for the bottle of pills that Doc had set on the nightstand, and then pocketed them.

  Liz moaned again through Charlie’s fingers, and Charlie’s stomach twisted as the terrorist turned toward the closet.

  Charlie adjusted his aim to make it level with the terrorist’s chest, but then wondered if the gunman was wearing body armor. He’d only get one shot, maybe two the moment that door opened, and he needed to make them count.

  The gunman’s shadow grew larger, blocking out the light of the room. Charlie held his breath, using every ounce of strength and concentration to keep the pistol steady in his hands.

  Seconds would decide the fate of Charlie and Liz’s souls, and just when the gunman had his hand on the door, and Charlie was about to squeeze the trigger, a heavy thump echoed somewhere in the house.

  The terrorist released the closet door knob, and then called something out in his language before he stepped toward the hallway. He lingered for a moment, called again, then disappeared.

  Charlie exhaled, and then turned around to check on Liz. “You all right?”

  Liz nodded, but even with the limited light, Charlie saw the pained expression on her face.

  “Just hang on, because I—”

  Three quick gunshots thundered in the house, and Charlie jumped, his heart skipping a beat. Two more gunshots, then a scream.

  “Charlie!”

  He stepped out of the closet quickly, turning to catch a brief glimpse of a terrified Liz on the floor, clutching the gauze covering the wound on her stomach. “I’ll be back.” He shut the door before he saw her reaction and raised the pistol as he headed for the hallway.

  “Charlie, living room, now!” Dixon’s scream was accompanied by another hard crash, followed by grunts and groans.

  Charlie hurried down the hall, his vision tunneled at the end of the pistol. And when he finally stepped from the hallway and into the living room, he saw a dead terrorist on the floor, and another one grappling with Dixon on the rug.

  “Shoot him!” Dixon spit the words out, his face reddened as he choked the terrorist.

  Charlie squeezed the trigger, his adrenaline pumping s
o hard that he didn’t even bother aiming. The first bullet screamed from the barrel and missed wide left. He lined up another shot, then squeezed the trigger again.

  Blood spurted from the terrorist’s shoulder, and the fight ran out of him. Charlie aimed to shoot again, but Dixon bucked the masked gunman off him and brandished a knife that he sliced across the terrorist’s throat.

  Dixon stepped back as the masked enemy clawed helplessly at the blood cascading down the front of his shirt, his efforts futile as blood pooled on either side of his head on the floor.

  A few final muscle spasms and the man lay dead.

  “We need to move.” Dixon shoved Charlie back toward the hallway, then checked the front living room window. He patted down the gunmen, taking their rifles and ammunition. “C’mon, let’s grab the girl before the rest of them show up.” He gave Charlie another shove down the hall, but he stood his ground.

  “Wait.” Charlie rushed to the gunman with the slit throat, then reached into the pocket that held the stolen pills. He tried not to look at the wound but found his gaze pulled toward the gruesome sight. The wound was wide, ear to ear, and with the terrorist’s neck tilted back, the wound opened wide enough to expose bone.

  “Charlie!”

  “Yeah.” Charlie pocketed the pills, then followed Dixon down the hallway and into the room where he was already helping Liz out of the closet.

  “Do you think you can stand and walk a little?” Dixon asked, balancing the weapons he stole off the terrorist while throwing Liz’s left arm over his shoulders.

  “I think so,” Liz answered.

  Charlie swooped in on her right side and propped her up. The three of them walked down the hallway and then out toward the back door where Doc and Ellen had run.

  The burst of sunlight and warmth smacked Charlie’s face like a brick wall, and he turned left, spotting the pair of basement doors Doc had told him about.

  “Here, take her.” Dixon passed Liz fully into Charlie’s arms and then knocked on the doors. “Doc! Ellen! Open up!” It was quiet for a little bit longer, and then metal scraped on the other side of the door, and it cracked open.

  “Everyone all right?” Doc poked his head out first, alone.

  “We’re fine.” Dixon helped pass Liz to Doc, and then Charlie carried her the rest of the way.

  The inside of the basement was lined with canned foods and some of Doc’s old vet equipment. Ellen had Adelyn on some blankets, and when she saw Charlie carrying Liz, she quickly set some blankets down for her as well.

  “How is she?” Ellen asked, helping Liz onto the floor.

  “She’s in and out of it,” Charlie answered, setting her on the blanket, Liz’s eyelids fluttering as she groaned the moment she hit the pavement.

  An engine revved out front, and Charlie headed toward the stairs, finding Dixon at the corner of the back side of the house. Charlie stepped out of the basement and knelt at Dixon’s side.

  “What is it?” Charlie asked.

  “They’re taking the Humvee,” Dixon answered.

  The engine faded, heading down the road, and Charlie’s eyes bulged from the realization of where they were heading next. “The orchard.” Charlie stepped from behind the house and sprinted into the open field, praying that he could get to his parents before the terrorists.

  2

  Charlie led Dixon through the orchard, the pair concealed by the trees to the gunmen on the road. The journey back through the trees was a stark contrast from his earlier trek. Peace and tranquility had been replaced with anxiety and nerves. But the familiar terrain boosted his confidence. He knew every nook and cranny of the property.

  Sweat dripped down Charlie’s forehead and stung his eyes. He wiped the sweat on his sleeve, then glanced down to the road. While he couldn’t see all of the terrorists on their death march toward the house, he was able to hear them, along with the stolen Humvee. They’d moved the old military vehicle to the front of the pack, most likely for cover.

  Dixon grabbed Charlie’s shoulder, pulling him to a stop once the house was in view of the orchard. “How many entrance points does the house have?”

  “Just front and back,” Charlie answered.

  “All right, we’ll head through the back.” Dixon stepped forward. “You stay behind me and watch my back, got it? But do not shoot unless you’re seen. We have the element of surprise, and the moment we lose that, we lose our advantage.”

  Charlie nodded and flexed his grip on the stock and the pistol grip. He eyed the house and the surrounding trees, praying that the workers had already left to get their families.

  Charlie followed Dixon down the slope toward the house, continuing to use the trees for cover until he couldn’t use it anymore.

  Dixon paused at the orchard’s edge and knelt, holding up his hand, and Charlie mirrored the lieutenant’s motion as he dropped to a knee as well.

  “Ten o’clock.” Dixon pointed through the trees, and Charlie saw the Humvee pull into the driveway, surrounded by six armed men. “Bastards are still wearing those masks.”

  Charlie lifted the rifle in his hands, peering through the scope. He lined the crosshairs up on one of the gunmen’s chest.

  “Let’s move,” Dixon said. “Stay close.”

  They used the house as cover, staying directly behind it. Charlie struggled to keep the rifle steady in his hands on the run. He’d never been a good shot on the move.

  Dixon sidled up on the left side of the back door, and Charlie landed on the right. The rumble of the Humvee’s engine drowned out the voices of the terrorists on the front side of the house. Dixon reached for the door handle and then cracked it open, leading with the end of his rifle as he stepped inside, and Charlie followed.

  Adrenaline heightened Charlie’s senses, tensing his muscles as he entered the kitchen. It was an odd feeling, breaking into his own home.

  The front door opened before Charlie and Dixon exited the kitchen, and the pair ducked behind the wall that separated the kitchen and the front living room.

  Slowly, Dixon peered around the corner, and then just as quickly as they hid, he darted forward once the pair of terrorists moved deeper into the house, one heading down the right hallway and the other turning up the stairs.

  They kept low to avoid being seen through the front windows. Dixon positioned himself at the base of the stairs while Charlie peered through the window in the front door.

  The Humvee continued its slow procession down the road, still escorted by the terrorists marching their way farther east, spreading their shadow of death.

  Another tap on Charlie’s shoulder pulled his attention away from the window, and Dixon motioned up the staircase for himself, then hand-signaled for Charlie to follow the terrorists on the first floor.

  Dixon ascended the steps, and Charlie made his way down the first floor hallway, rifle up. He moved slowly, each step carefully placed to minimize noise.

  His parents’ bedroom door was open at the end of the hall, and he saw a shadow moving about inside. Charlie raised the rifle, approaching the door, and right before he reached the bedroom, screams erupted on the second floor.

  Charlie glanced up, and the terrorist sprinted from the room, turning Charlie’s attention back to the gunman. The pair locked eyes. Because his rifle was already aimed, Charlie fired first, sending the terrorist to the floor where he lay lifeless.

  “Charlie!” Dixon shouted from upstairs.

  Charlie hurried to the second floor, following the commotion down the tight hallway. He tensed the closer he moved toward the room where Dixon shouted for aid. He had his finger over the trigger and burst into the room.

  Dixon was on top of the gunman, both men with each other’s hands around their necks. Red-faced, Dixon glanced at Charlie. “Knock him out!”

  Charlie flipped the weapon around and butt-stroked the terrorist’s head as hard as he could, ending the masked gunman’s pathetic crawl for help. He looked up from the unconscious man and frowned in confusion a
t Dixon. “What are you doing?”

  “I want at least one of them alive,” Dixon answered, catching his breath and rubbing his neck. “They’re heading toward a location, and I want to know where.” He slung the rifle over his shoulder and then restrained the man’s ankles and wrists. “Let’s find your folks.”

  Charlie checked the rest of the hallway, finding the rooms upstairs empty. His anxiety growing, he descended to the first floor and checked the master bedroom, stepping over the dead terrorist in the hall, but found no one inside.

  Spinning in circles, Charlie shook his head. “They’re not here. I don’t—” He stopped, staring out the back door where he had a view of the barn.

  Without another word, Charlie sprinted outside, leaving Dixon behind.

  “Charlie, wait!”

  The doors to the barn were closed, and Charlie screeched to a stop, wedging himself between the narrow gap and shoving the heavy doors open. Light flooded the dirt floor, and Charlie frantically searched the darkness. “Mom? Dad?”

  Charlie lowered his rifle, the tip of the barrel scraping against the dirt. He spun around in circles, his nerves frayed.

  “Charlie.”

  The voice echoed from a darkened corner in the back left of the barn, and his father’s hulking figure emerged from the darkness, his mother close behind.

  “Thank God.” Charlie sprinted toward them, forgoing the rifle, and then flung his arms around each of them. “I was—”

  “Umjig-iji mala!”

  The foreign accent tickled the hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck and he spun around, keeping his body as a barrier between the gunman and his parents, though his father made for a big target.