EMP Catastrophe , Hamilton, Grace [crime books to read txt] 📗

responsibilities fall squarely on Darryl’s unproven shoulders as a power-hungry politician is determined to confiscate the ranch’s resources—by any means necessary.

Danger and death await the Healy family as each group attempts to navigate this terrifying new post-apocalyptic world while the vast wilderness separates them. When deceit arises from within their ranks, they’ll face threats as lethal as the grizzly bears and mountain lions lurking in the shadows.

And in order to survive the nightmare, a deal with the devil might be their only saving grace.

Grab your copy of Survive the Fall (EMP: Return of the Wild West Book One) from

www.GraceHamiltonBooks.com

EXCERPT

Chapter One

The rotor blades kicked up such a fierce cloud of dust and debris that Greg had to shield his face with his hands. The limbs of the trees whipped wildly, and the backwash of the rotors made the cold air sharp, stinging his exposed flesh. And then the helicopter was moving away, its deafening roar shifting tones as it flew out across the valley. Greg brushed stray leaves and dirt off his shoulder and watched the bright-blue Bell 407 disappearing in the pale eastern sky. As it went, he felt civilization going with it.

Well, we’re in the wilderness now, he thought. No backing out of this.

Still, he remained frozen in place until the sound of the helicopter had completely faded. Only then did he turn, willing himself to move. The others were scattered across the clearing already against a backdrop of massive lodgepole pines, black spruce, and larch trees that dominated the mountainous area. It was raw British Columbia wilderness, just about as far from civilization as you could get without parachuting into the tundra.

All of their gear that had been unloaded from the helicopter formed an impressive pile. Greg’s father, Tuck, was already working hard to arrange the bags and boxes of tarps, ropes, blankets, and more. The leathery old man was all skin and muscle these days. Somehow Greg’s father had retained his farmer’s strength, though his flannel shirt and jeans hung loose, and he’d shriveled a bit in recent years. As Greg watched, his father grabbed a massive tent pack and heaved it off the pile like it was nothing.

Well, this is it, Greg thought. Quality time with the old man. It’s now or never. Marion wants me to make this work, so I’d better make it work.

He sighed and crossed the clearing. The pressure was on. Tuck heard him coming and turned. Greg’s father looked so much like him, it was as if someone had taken Greg’s broad face, shrink-wrapped it over his skull, and charred the skin slightly in an oven. That was an uncharitable assessment, of course, and Greg knew it.

“Hey there, Dad,” Greg said. “Can I help you out?”

Tuck was heaving the packs off the pile, carrying them over to the tents and setting them down one by one in a neat row.

“Suit yourself,” Tuck replied, in that rough voice of his. The man had a remarkable ability to make the least little comment sound like a complete and utter dismissal.

He doesn’t mean it. That’s what Marion would say. That’s also what his mother would have said. Greg’s wife and mother were thick as thieves when it came to this forced reconciliation.

Greg grabbed a big bundle of sleeping bags that had been lashed together and worked it off the stack. As he did, Tuck picked up another one of the tent packs and hoisted it up like a hay bale, carrying it over to the others.

Greg heard what sounded like distant thunder, and he glanced up at the sky. The only clouds to be seen were gathered just above the treetops to the west, but they didn’t seem threatening.

“Well, looks like we might get rain during our first night camping. A nice, chilly autumn rain. I suppose I don’t mind.”

“If it drops a few more degrees, we might get snow,” Tuck replied. “You can handle a little precipitation, I hope. The big city hasn’t coddled you that much.”

“I can handle whatever,” Greg said, struggling to lug the sleeping bags over to the tents. “I just hope it clears up by morning. I plan to hit the river tomorrow. I’d like to get some fishing in first thing in the morning.”

“I was thinking we ought to hike the area first,” Tuck replied. “It’s always best to get a lay of the land.”

Already a disagreement. Greg was caught between wanting to keep the peace and wanting to go his own way out of sheer, hateful habit. But their friendly little father-son chat was interrupted when Dad’s buddy walked over and proceeded to have one of his coughing fits.

Eustace Simpson was a former smoker whose lungs and throat had yet to fully recover. He was a huge burly chap with an impressive red beard and a massive Cro-Magnon cranium. He wore a thick, red flannel jacket that strained at the buttons, and his hands were calloused and rough. Eustace was an acquaintance of Tuck and Tabitha Healy, and he also claimed to be an avid fisherman and hunter. However, Greg had his own reasons for accepting the man’s invitation, reasons he hadn’t shared with anyone, though he wondered if the man sensed his purpose.

Eustace knows I’m an environmental lawyer, Greg thought. Surely it has crossed his mind that I have my eye on him.

“Sun’s going down,” Eustace said in his deep voice. “We’d better get these tents set up before it’s too dark.”

“I got you covered, buddy,” said Tommy Riedel, a small guy with a scruffy beard—one of Tuck’s other friends. “Let’s do this.”

“Dad.”

The last member of their camping trip was Emma, Greg’s fourteen-year-old daughter. She was a bit heavy on the eye shadow these days, and Greg thought it made her eyes look bruised, but he still saw the round-cheeked little girl she’d once been. She had her mother’s brown eyes, and wisps of blonde hair poked out of the edge of her toque.

“Dad, I want to set up my own tent,” she said,