SCORCHED EARTH

by

Michelle Marquis

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2009 by Michelle Marquis

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-60313-538-2

Credits

Cover Artist: Nancy Donahue

Editor: Sara Kent

Printed in the United States of America

WHAT THEY ARE SAYING ABOUT

THE HUNGRY PLANET

"Michelle Marquis tells a powerful tale of survival and desperation. Reading The Hungry Planet takes you through the fears and desires of two people scarred by the decisions they made in life…

"But, for those willing read with an open mind, [The] Hungry Planet will be a book that moves the heart and stirs the soul."

Two Lips Reviews

Dedication

To all those who long for a better future

Chapter 1

The engine sounded sick, like a primitive beast coughing out its last few breaths before dying. It also didn’t help that the road was so damn bad it was barely drivable. Everywhere they went in this hellhole of a city the roads were full of potholes and broken pavement. Ruth heard Zoey give the vehicle a little more gas as she worked to keep the car from stalling. The brakes squealed loudly as they pulled up in front of the Handi-Mart. The noise was murder on the ears, pure metal on metal and it set Ruth’s teeth on edge.

Ruth pulled out some binoculars and scanned up and down the trash-strewn street for any sign of trouble. A few pages of yellow phone book paper floated past on a northward wind. Thank God no dogs in sight. At least that’s good. She lowered them and tried to get a gut sense for any sign of danger. She felt nothing, but she knew from experience that was usually a bad sign.

Glancing around the car, she wondered if the other two women were up for this. Zoey, a twenty-something African American woman, volunteered to be their driver today. It didn’t surprise Ruth she wanted to drive since—with her trait for sickle cell anemia—Zoey had the most to lose out of all of them on this mission. One body scan from a copperhead and she’d be smoked on the spot. At least as their driver, she had a good chance of getting away if the group ran into trouble.

Jazz was today’s second volunteer. She was a moody, smart, Hispanic woman with a hard attitude and a lot of ghosts in her closet. Most of the time she wore her black hair in a tight braid that ran halfway down her back. Jazz had that quiet fury that told anyone the minute they met her that something very bad had happened to her and she was never going to let it happen again.

Ruth took a deep breath and fingered the button on her radio. Anything, Bonnie?

The radio crackled. "Nothing, Bonnie replied, her voice partially garbled by static. Some stray dogs in the area but no large packs. Just keep your radio close."

Dogs were the common slang for men. But the term didn’t apply to every man, only those who’d checked their humanity at the door after the strike. Most of the time they roamed alone but sometimes they packed together. At the last government census two years ago, men outnumbered women on the planet ten to one. One of the women at the bunker had started calling them dogs and the nickname stuck because that’s what they were, stray dogs looking for a bone.

Their prey of choice was women. Sometimes they hunted alone, other times in packs. They were always dangerous not only because they could take a woman as a sex slave if they got their hands on one, but because if a pack of them got a woman, she’d be servicing them all.

Not a happy prospect for any female.

Will do, Ruth said. She clipped the radio to her utility belt and grabbed the silver door handle. Pulling it all the way out she shoved her boot into the center of the car door and pushed with all her strength. The hinge groaned and the door popped open. Ready, Jazz? she said, glancing at the other woman as she slid across the seat to exit.

Jazz held up some bolt cutters and winked. Her dark eyes were intense. Ready, she replied. They both exited the car and froze, listening for any movement.

Ruth stared up at the sky and felt her tension rise. Some thick, dark, orange clouds moved across the sun and the temperature went down about ten degrees. Just like that. After five years the weather was just starting to stabilize from months of devastating floods and unpredictable droughts. Ruth could hardly believe all this destruction came from just one meteor strike. But at least there were signs things were starting to get better. Sometimes the clouds would part and a hint of blue sky would peak through. It was a good thing too because it was hard enough to survive on this scorched earth without also having to deal with the constant violent weather.

Another relentless headache was the government’s gene police—the copperheads. Technically they were men too but they had a very different agenda. Bred from embryos in carefully monitored labs, these biological monsters killed everything impure they came in contact with. Men—women—none of it mattered to a copperhead. If a person had a genetic flaw they’d shoot them down like a rabid coon in the street. Ruth wanted to hate them for it but they were only doing what they’d been bred and trained to do. For them it was natural selection. But over the past two years, things had been changing and Ruth suspected it was because of the scarcity of women. Copperheads were much less likely to shoot first if a woman was involved. Now they asked lots of stupid questions before wasting one.

All of it was just plain crazy.

She heard Jazz swear in Spanish as she walked up to the heavily chained front doors of the Handi-Mart. What’s the matter? Ruth asked.

Fuckers have a least three chains on this thing, man, Jazz said, grabbing the chain and flinging it down in disgust.

Just do the best you can, Ruth said. She was starting to feel that old nausea creeping into her belly. This is taking way too long. We should abort.

The car finally stalled and Zoey pumped the gas and turned the key several times trying to get it restarted. It cranked but refused to turn over. Ruth leaned in the passenger window. Take it easy, Zoe, she said. Don’t flood it. We’re okay, just take your time.

Zoey nodded and took a breath so deep it lifted her shoulders. She looked so young against Ruth’s forty-two years. She’s still just a kid. I should have insisted on someone older. Then Zoey resumed trying to get the engine started.

Ruth came over to see how Jazz was doing with the chains. She’d cut away the first two and was busy working on the third. I almost got it, she said between clenched teeth.

Ruth’s radio crackled and she grabbed it off her hip. Bonnie said something but it was heavily garbled and Ruth couldn’t make out a word. Jazz stopped working on the chain and fixed Ruth with her dark brown eyes. Ruth depressed the button. Repeat, Bonnie, she said. I didn’t hear a word you just said.

"I said I have movement!" Bonnie’s voice barked in a broken message.

Zoey, who hadn’t heard Bonnie’s message, finally got the car started. She leaned across the driver’s seat and shouted, I got it! out the window.

"Shut the fuck up, Zoey!" Jazz said, moving closer to Ruth to hear what Bonnie was saying. Zoey scowled as if she’d just drank a glass full of vinegar. She got out of the car