Broken Ties (Broken Nature Book 2) Read online

  BROKEN TIES

  By David Meyer

  Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  Broken Ties Copyright © 2021 by David Meyer

  Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

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

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher and author. Your support of the author’s rights is greatly appreciated.

  First Edition – February 2021

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  Table of Contents

  Guerrilla Explorer Publishing

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  David’s Journal

  Ready for More?

  Broken People Excerpt

  Behemoth Excerpt

  About the Author

  Books by David Meyer

  Acknowledgements

  Averaging less than a book per year, I’ve never been a prolific writer. Or a particularly happy one, for that matter. Plagued by a nasty inner critic, my books have often felt like wars to be won, rather than experiences to be enjoyed. Because of that, I’m especially pleased to say that the book you hold in your hands was a joy to write.

  Thank you to a whole bunch of academics, artists, and authors, none of whom I know personally, but whose works helped me to understand and pacify my inner critic. Vital Mind Psychology, PyschAlive, The School of Life, Dr. Robert Glover, and Dean Wesley Smith come immediately to mind.

  Chapter 1

  They’re here.

  Spine tingling, Titus Foster flung himself onto the auburn sand. Ignoring the scorching heat, he slipped off his face covering. Turtling up his neck, he used the folds of his loose-fitting cloak to wipe sweat from his russet-colored face. Eyes ablaze, he looked northward.

  The ancient, dilapidated building towered above the flat, dusty landscape. Known as Station One, it was one of four such buildings located throughout the hinterlands.

  Its façade featured smooth walls, gentle curves, and rounded angles. Rectangular holes pockmarked the two walls visible from his vantage point. A tall tower, constructed from welded metal beams, rose above the station’s roof, stabbing a hole into the crisp, blue sky.

  Lower down, on ground level, he saw an ornate alcove, decorated with carvings of weird, long-extinct animals. The alcove contained a pair of heavy doors, both closed.

  He swept his eyes across the structure, searching for them. The Banished. He didn’t see a single soul. But lingering body odor, coupled with the stench of feces and urine, told him they were there.

  Nearby, Titus sensed his fellow Naticans. Their gaunt bodies were plastered against the sand. Their hard, flinty eyes studied the building. Numbering two-hundred and forty strong, they constituted half of Natica’s total population.

  Once upon a time, Natica’s total population had stood at six-hundred. About one-hundred and twenty people had served in the Natica Army. But the events of six months ago—the ill-fated expedition along with the horrific battle that followed it—had changed everything. Now, everyone served in the army. A few were full-time. But most performed soldierly duties every other day, working jobs in their off-hours.

  Private Lunit Stanner, a full-timer, crawled to Titus’ side. He was well-muscled and sported a pair of strong, calloused hands. He never talked about his past. But his unbreakable loyalty to Titus spoke volumes. Titus was loyal to him in return, treating him as an unofficial second-in-command.

  Stanner flattened himself on the ground. Shielding his gaze, he studied the building. “How shall we proceed, Sir?”

  Titus checked the holes, the alcove, and the building’s glancing shadow. He looked at nearby sandbanks as well, just in case their quarry had laid some kind of trap for them.

  Coming up empty, he rubbed his jaw, then glanced at the sky. It was clear, like always. The brutal sun showed no mercy, blanketing them with endless heat, enough to drive temperatures to the 150-degree Fahrenheit mark. They’d already spent a good two hours under the punishing elements. Any longer and they’d start to melt. “Head for the west wall,” he replied. “Rendezvous in the shadow.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Stanner crawled away to relay the order.

  Titus reached inside of his cloak. Carefully, he pulled out a canteen. He uncorked it, lifted it to his lips. A bit of water drizzled out and he greedily sucked it down. It helped, but only a little. He still had that constant, gnawing thirst. That awful feeling that he was slowly, endlessly drying out.

  Recorking the canteen, he slithered across the hot sand. He’d gotten quite good at moving this way and before long he reached the building’s shadow. Sliding into its cool embrace was a welcome relief. Instantly, the sand became a bit more tolerable. His pores oozed a little less sweat.

  He gave the building a quick look. Like the other stations, it was perched above an underground pool of unknown size. These pools held the last of Earth’s once-mighty water reserves.

  Titus had recently learned of a fifth pool, one that resided within a mountain facility known as the Shell. But he had yet to confirm its existence.

  Keeping low, he crawled to the west wall. Then he unsheathed his sword. Rising to his knees, he chanced a look through one of the rectangular holes.

  He saw rotting furniture, drenched with rays of sunshine. Torn, threadbare carpet, covered
with copious amounts of sand. Deteriorated tables and desks, their ancient contents spilled to the floor.

  Twisting away from the hole, he put his back up against the wall. Stanner and the other Naticans appeared, silently crawling into the shadow. Quickly, they divided into small teams. Then, taking their cue from him, they took up position around the various holes.

  Remaining absolutely still, Titus took a deep breath. What would they find inside the building? The Banished, at long last? Or just a few stragglers?

  Silently, he tossed a leg through the opening. He found his footing on a pile of sand, then hoisted the rest of himself through the hole. The Naticans, now armed with swords and daggers, followed suit.

  Once inside, he perked his ears. The wind whispered softly. Sand vibrated with gentle rhythm. And all the while, the aging station creaked and groaned.

  He sniffed the air. The combination of body odor and human waste wafted into his nostrils. Glancing to his left, he saw Stanner. The man gave him a knowing look. He’d smelled it, too.

  Yup, Titus thought. Someone’s here, alright.

  Six months ago, Titus and his fellow Naticans had received the shock of their lives. The people they’d banished to the hinterlands—ones guilty of violating Natica’s Code of Conduct—had survived. Led by Titus’ brother, Dargon Foster, they’d formed a society of sorts called the Banished.

  Unfortunately, the Banished weren’t interested in peace. Gripped by the belief that humanity was fatally flawed, they’d set out to end the species, once and for all.

  Waging war on Natica, they’d sought to raze the fort to the ground. Their effort had failed, but not before many of them had escaped into the night.

  Afterward, Titus had begun leading the Naticans into the hinterlands, mapping much of it, all in an effort to finish off their enemy. They’d chased the Banished from station to station, from ruin to ruin. So far, they’d only found stragglers. People who’d fallen sick or taken injury. That didn’t make them easy targets, though. Indeed, the stragglers had proven to be quite vicious.

  What would they find in Station One? All of the Banished, at long last? Or just more stragglers? Titus hoped for the former. Regardless, he wouldn’t rest until they were dead. Dead and buried and forgotten in the sands of time. Only then would Natica be safe.

  Clutching his sword, he stared straight ahead, letting his eyes adjust to the weak light. Soon, shapes began to materialize. Large pots, broken and shattered. Old ceiling fixtures, dashed to the floor.

  Exhaling, he started forward, stepping carefully through the maze of debris, rubble, and sand. His people did the same, going slow, doing their best not to alert their quarry.

  Their general transformation was a marvel to see. Before the attack, they’d been soft, weak. Only the soldiers knew how to fight, and certainly not to the death. As such, the Banished had handled them with relative ease.

  But six months of brutal treks into the hinterlands had toughened them up. Now, looking at his people, he didn’t see a trace of fear or weakness. He saw hardened, battle-ready Naticans. Men and women who’d been pushed to their physical brink, only to find they had more to give.

  After a short hike, they reached an interior wall, broken up by a couple of hallways. Still in groups, most of the Naticans set off down the various corridors.

  Others, led by Titus, ventured around the wall. Soon, they came across the entryway.

  Titus nodded at Stanner. The private, in turn, approached the double doors.

  He held his breath. A few weeks ago, they’d tracked the Banished to Station Two. A couple of Naticans had tried the front doors, only to have them blow up in their faces. Turned out a straggler had boobytrapped them with explosives.

  Stanner inspected the doors, paying close attention to their edges. Then he cracked both open. Twisting around, he offered Titus a thumbs-up.

  A stiff breeze whistled through the open doors as Stanner pulled them shut. Titus arched an eyebrow as the wind ruffled the folds of his cloak. He didn’t like it. It felt like the harbinger of a drystorm.

  Worried, he led his group past the entryway. The floor was littered with all sorts of barely-visible objects. Little metal spheres, depicting carved faces and etched with unreadable words. Scorched metal carts with missing wheels. Three-pronged tools, about the size of a knife. Shovel-like tools, also the size of a knife. And so on and so forth.

  Seeing these remnants from the past creeped him out. People like him had once walked this very floor. They’d sat on chairs, worked at desks. They’d ventured down the hallways, gone to the bathrooms. They’d talked to each other, helped each other, loved each other. And now? Ghosts. All of them, for centuries. Swept up in an instant by the Broken, the mysterious phenomenon that had robbed Earth of its precious surface water. That had dried up the skywater. That had turned this once-vibrant planet into a cold, dead husk.

  The breeze grew stronger, racing through the many rectangular holes. Titus strained his ears, but he couldn’t hear any signs of life. Heck, he could barely hear himself breathe.

  He switched gears, focusing on his other senses. Unfortunately, the wind swept away the scents and blocked his taste buds. Airborne sand choked out some of the sunshine, reducing his line of vision.

  The threadbare carpet shifted under his feet. His eyes focused as he felt an almost-imperceptible change in his balance.

  He leapt to his right. His torso crashed into somebody and he wrapped his arms around a woman. She yelped as he dragged her to the floor.

  Still clutching his sword, he mounted the woman. His other hand wrapped around her throat. Squinting, he got a good look at her face.

  It was Lokla Evans, a former reservoir worker. Four years ago, she’d been banished from Natica for a series of penny-ante thefts. A cloak here, extra rascos there. Small stuff, really. But enough to violate the Code of Conduct’s three strikes clause.

  Glaring at him, she lifted a long dagger. With blazing fast reflexes, she stabbed it at him.

  He angled his sword, catching her blade. She lost her grip and the dagger flew into a nearby column.

  Titus stared at her skeletal face. He saw her wild brown eyes, her chapped lips, her scratched-up cheeks.

  She gasped. “Can’t … breathe …”

  His fingers tightened around her neck. “Who else is here?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Where’s Dargon?”

  “Screw you, grassback,” she managed.

  Grassback was an insult, a term used for a person who lived in the past. A person who couldn’t evolve.

  He squeezed even harder.

  Her face turned blue. “Can’t talk … if I’m dead.”

  “Answer the question.”

  She took deep breaths, trying to fill her starving lungs. “It’s just me.”

  He gave her a quick look and noticed her leg was heavily bandaged. The skin looked dark purple.

  His heart sank. Clearly, she was a straggler. But he gave his group a glance anyway. “Keep looking,” he said.

  Soft footsteps struck the floor. Fanning out, Titus’ group—save Stanner—glided along the sun-drenched eastern wall. At the corner, they turned left and passed out of view.

  “Any last words?” he asked, glancing back at Lokla.

  Her visage turned triumphant. “You’ll never find them, grass—”

  He plunged his sword into her belly. As the blade pierced the flesh, her mouth opened a fragment of an inch. A guttural sound escaped her lips.

  Pulling the sword from her corpse, he wiped the blade on the carpet. Then he rose to his feet.

  He didn’t like killing people. With every death, he felt like a piece of his soul was being ripped away. But he had no choice. The Banished wanted to kill every last person on Earth. Even themselves, eventually.

  “Sir.” Stanner cleared his throat. “Do you think she was telling the truth?”

  “Yes.” His gaze went to one of the rectangular openings. Through the airborne particles, he s
aw a long stretch of uninterrupted sand. Once again, they’d arrived too late.

  Dargon and the Banished were gone.

  Chapter 2

  Walking slowly, face streaked with sweat, Titus studied Natica. A long, curving wall, one-hundred feet in height, enclosed it. A massive gate, equally-tall, served as the only way in or out.

  The fort had seen better days. Using a refurbished tank from ancient times, Dargon had blown a sizable chunk out of the west wall. The breach was high up and not easily accessed. Even so, Titus took no chances, stationing a rotating guard shift to watch it at all times.

  He continued forward, leading the army. Directly overhead, the dying vestiges of sunlight gave way to a brilliant moon. As he reflected on it, he found himself thirsting for water. With some difficulty, he ignored the urge to imbibe. His canteen was running low and he hoped to have a few sips left by bedtime.

  “Drystorm,” Private Norsen Lang called out. “To the northwest.”

  The announcement shook Titus out of his mental space. Following the private’s gaze, he saw a swirling mass, punctuated by occasional flashes of light. High above, the sky looked extra foreboding.

  A deep roar of thunder rippled through the air. A distant streak of purplish lightning zigzagged down from the sky, striking the desert. Newly kicked up sand was tossed to and fro by the swirling winds.

  “Pick up the pace,” Titus shouted.

  Twisting around again, he doubled his speed. Through the gate’s sparking metal bars, he could see the usual concrete structures and buildings. The galley, the solar farm, even the recently-excavated school. Plus, entrances to underground sheds, the warehouse, and apartments.

  Six months ago, the fort’s interior had lay in ruins. But Natica had come together to fix things up. For weeks, residents had hauled rubble, erected new windmills, stabilized buildings, and cremated the deceased. The results were impressive. Natica would never go back to way it had been. But at least it was livable now.

  Flanked by his people, Titus halted in front of the gate. He gave a wary glance backward. The drystorm had indeed grown larger. It was impossible to be certain, but it looked like it was heading toward Natica.