Conceived in Blood

By Linda Andrews

The end is over. The beginning is near. A civilized woman is about to meet a tribe who see her as food. In this battle for survival, will she be the winner or the dinner?
A hundred years after radiation spewed across the planet, the life on Earth is heading for extinction. And one woman is determined to stop it. This prodigal daughter leaves the safety of her home to unite the tribes of man. But the allies she finds will use her for their own selfish desires:
A raider will fight to complete his bloody mission.
A grandfather desperate to save his sick granddaughter will do anything to get her medical treatment.
A mother will make a horrible choice just to survive.
And a hoard of cannibals will jockey for their next meal.

But the deadliest enemy is closer than she imagines, and a conspiracy could spell her death or worse.

Conceived in Blood is the first installment in a post-apocalyptic trilogy. This dawn of civilization tale by Linda Andrews is action-packed, edge of your seat entertainment, and not for the feint of heart.

Purchase Conceived in Blood today and join the struggle for survival.

Warning: This books contains graphic violence, swearing, and cannibals playing with their food.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Andrews
• Release date: Apr 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301720125

Linda Andrews

Linda Andrews lives with her husband and three children in Phoenix, Arizona. While growing up in the Valley of the Sun, she spent the hot summer months (May through October) in the pool swimming with mermaids, Nile crocodiles and the occasional Atlantian folk. The summer and winter monsoons provided the perfect opportunity to experience the rarity known as rain as well as to observe the orange curtain of dust sweeping across the valley, widely believed by locals to be caused by the native fish migrating upstream.She fulfilled her lifelong dream of becoming a slightly mad scientist. After a decade of perfecting her evil laugh and furnishing her lair, she decided taking over the world was highly overrated. In 1997, she decided to purge those voices in her head by committing them to paper. She loves hearing from anyone who enjoys her stories so please visit her website at www.lindaandrews.net and drop her an email.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Serendipity Tahoma gripped the curved aluminum railing running the length of the airship's lounge. Sensors sprayed the stubby, twisted vegetation below in bursts of red, green, and white. Only the trunks, laying like twigs on the ground, told of the once lush forest.

As for the deer, elk, and other big game animals...

They had gone the way of the region's names. Colorado. Utah.

Sera, you should not be out of your cabin. Someone might see you.

Sera took a deep breath and turned to face the newcomer. Hello, Uncle Leon. You look quite handsome in your Captain’s uniform.

In his crisp blue tunic and trousers, Captain Leon Saldana moved to the bank of windows embedded in the hull. Cool air combed through his wavy salt and pepper hair. His lips quirked, deepening the good humor age had permanently etched on his face. Such a charmer, no wonder you’re a rising star in public relations.

She’d been stuck in the public relations department of the Security Forces, one of her pedigree couldn’t be placed at risk.

But one of her pedigree owed it to Dark Hope to do the right thing, no matter the personal or professional cost. Dark Hope, and the rest of the consortium of mines and caves, needed people.

The cabinet had to see that they were fast approaching a tipping point.

If everyone didn’t join together, the planet would be lost.

And if the planet was lost, everyone and everything on it would die.

I can see the Great American Desert from here. She threaded her hand through the worn denim strap of the backpack on the nearest seat. The soft fabric contrasted with the stiff climbing harness it was grafted upon. She lifted the bag. Her collection of carabiners clinked together. Packets of dried food rasped against each other. Water sloshed inside the bottle tucked in the ripped netting pocket on the side. Wadded up clothes cushioned the backpack's impact against her back.

Yes, it’s growing every year by half a kilometer. Uncle Leon didn’t glance out the window, where an orange haze lingered just above the horizon.

When the spent fuel rods had melted down, the radiation had wiped out all life within thirty degrees latitude from the equator.

Which is why I agreed to take you to Abaddon. Interviewing our citizens and those unfortunates in the Outlands might be the dynamite we need to get the Cabinet to act.

They have to act. We need everyone to replant the vegetation so the planet doesn’t become one giant dustbowl. And to stop seeing those from the Outlands——the town and villages outside the consortium——as study subjects, but people. She fingered the large black stitches holding the red, green, and blue patches over the areas where the denim was nearly worn to white threads.

Getting caught would not help your great PR crusade. Uncle Leon quirked a white eyebrow. Or help people overcome their fear that there won’t be enough food, energy, and water for everyone.

No, no it wouldn’t. She adjusted the backpack, then slid her free arm through the second strap and buckled it under her breasts. Something shifted beyond the bank of windows. Her eyes strained in the twilight. Could it have been a bird?

You just need to suffer the isolation a little while longer. Once we are in Abaddon, Dawson agreed to show you around and provide a cameraman for your documentary.

A bell chimed through the rectangular lounge. Footsteps thudded in the hallway above their heads. The guests would be coming soon, and they would have to walk through the lounge to get into the dining salon.

Sera rose on tiptoes and kissed her uncle’s weathered cheek. Thanks Uncle.

Just tell the Outlanders’ stories. He patted her shoulder. The good people of Dark Hope will see what needs to be done.

I’m counting on it. Pivoting on her heel, she strode toward the exit. Her friends from the Outlands deserved to be heard, not pandered to.

Opening the door, she stepped inside the airlock tucked under the curving metal stairway. She paused at the bottom of the staircase. To the right lay the officers' quarters, communication rooms, and access door to the gondola. But to reach it, she'd have to walk through more passenger cabins. No way could she risk being seen.

She sighed and trudged toward her cabin. Being stuck in crew quarters that reeked of bad cheese and unwashed socks was not how she thought her trip would go. Sera rubbed the back of her neck.

A loud thump echoed down the corridor in front of her. A soft scrape quickly followed.

Crap! She froze but her mind raced, turning out scenarios. Most of them life threatening.

The equipment must have broken loose.

She’d have to assess the damage before blowing her cover to alert the Captain and every passenger.

She sprinted toward the cargo hold.

Another scrape and the ship shuddered.

Her heart raced. She pumped her arms faster and the gangway bounced underfoot. Those crates could puncture the blimp's skin and then they'd be in trouble. Death by splat trouble.

She’d only had the one class in aeronautics but at least it had covered balancing loads.

Sprinting by the crew quarters, she shoved open the airlock door. The whine of the turbine engines increased when she stepped inside. Fiber-optics illuminated the Aluminum and carbon-fiber ribs and the catwalk running the length of the airship's body.

Passing the cubic ballast tanks, she shook the fuzziness from her head. She couldn’t afford to be affected by the abundance of Helium.

Pausing by the last airlock, she inspected the door. With the hinges on the other side, she might have to force it open or cut through the multi-laminate skin.

But first, she’d try the easy way.

Twisting the knob, she heard the latch retract then threw herself against the door. It sprang forward upon impact, ripping the handle out of her grip. While the door swung on an arc, momentum carried her forward. She slammed against the crate in front of the door, bounced off and collapsed to the floor.

Pain blitzed her body. Her fingers tingled; heat blazed up her arm. A wave of dizziness crashed over her. Well, crud, she'd forgotten how much full-contact sports hurt.

Is anyone in here?

Silence.

Bracing her hands at her sides, she pushed off the deck. Aches sprouted in a frenzy along her injured side. Holding her breath, she rose to her feet. Her little tussle with the crate was bound to leave a mark.

She hissed through the pain as her fingers probed her side. Thankfully nothing appeared broken, just bruised. She could still check the cargo. Limping to the door, she flicked the switch. The overhead lamps blinked on.

Cradling her sore arm against her body, she headed for the aisle behind her and turned the corner. Black straps wrapped around the oversized wooden crates and secured the seven-foot high stacks of boxes. Nothing clogged the aisle.

That's odd. She’d definitely heard something fall.

Is anyone here? She kept walking. Maybe the cargo had come loose at the end, or on the other side.

A soft swish of fabric rang above the drone of the engines.

Her stomach cramped. She paused and peered through a crack between stacks. Nothing moved in her narrow range of vision. Hello? I’m with the Security Force, please let me know if you’re hurt.

A loud thump sounded from the other side. She shook off a twinge of unease. The sound could be made from cargo slipping together. A whisper of movement shifted in the shadows. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Get a grip. A moan sounded ahead and to her right.

Her heart stuttered inside her chest. Crap! Someone was hurt. She rushed ahead, playing through her first aid training.

Just as she neared the last crate, the lights clicked off. Red, green, and white flashed through a square in the floor. Holy shit! The hatch was open. She tried to stop.

Something hit her across the shin and she pitched forward. She flapped her arms, desperate to grasp something. Anything. Fingers scraped wood, nails snapped in a pop of pain, then she hooked fibers and stopped. Her torso and arm hung over the portal. A bloody sunset painted the ground below. Far below.

OhGodOhGodOhGod. She tried to swallow. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, making it impossible. She'd nearly been splattered over the ground. Not the impression she wanted to make on the Outlands. Sweat misted her upper lip.

She swung her free arm. Her fingers brushed the netting. Missed. Dang it. She gritted her teeth and swung again for the netting. Got it!

The crate tumbled forward, pushing her through the hatch before falling after her.

Air screamed in her ears as she plummeted toward the ground.

Chapter 2

Fools never learned. Harlan Westminster focused his binoculars. Across the desert, columns of men and women traipsed behind bald-headed 'Viders. Willing victims.

Rolling onto his back, he groped for his crossbow. He squeezed his eyes closed until white spots danced in his vision. But it didn’t help. He still saw the valley below and the tributes. For a moment, the persistent humming in the air echoed the frustration roiling through him.

How many did ya count? Crouched under a low pine branch, Dennis Kramer broke the limb into bits. A tidy pyramid formed at his feet.

Thirty-two. Harlan opened his eyes. In the dark skies of the eastern horizon, red and green stars flickered in the twilight. Thirty-two men, women and children sacrificed and for what?

Dennis whistled low. Wow. That must be a prosperous town to offer so much.

It won't be enough. The Providers never got enough. Harlan tucked the binoculars into his breast pocket. And it would be his pleasure to deprive them of this lot. Let's get the men.

His band of six would liberate the offerings. Not that they'd thank him for it. Some of those idiots probably still believed they were going someplace nice —— a city stocked with clean water, abundant food and cancer cures on every corner.

They didn't get that life sucked, and then you died——usually horribly.

Dennis dropped the rest of the branch onto his pile of tinder and dusted his hands. Anyone we recognize in the bunch?

Harlan scooted down the outcropping. No.

He'd learned early on not to return the tributes to their homes. They'd just be offered again. And again. Thankfully, he'd found some folks willing to send the tributes up North, far from the Providers' reach...for a price.

He hoped the fools stayed there and spread the message.

Unfortunately, people down here didn't seem to get the news. And the Providers kept coming, kept demanding more tribute.

Any lookers among the women?

Harlan lowered his head. Dennis was a good man. A little too preoccupied with females, but then he'd heard his wife wanted a baby and was willing to look the other way to get one. The birthing cancers affected some folks that way. Why don't you use some of that gold you've acquired to buy a breeder's services?

Dennis's cheeks flushed and his hands curled into fists. I'm healthy enough not to pay for it.

Harlan fingered the web of scars on his neck, jaw, and cheek. With each passing year, the white lines showed a little more through the black tattoo. Hell, he didn't have a problem paying for it. It was a fair trade as far as he was concerned. Life was hard. He could make a few women's lives easier in exchange for a half hour or so.

It was those poor folks without females that deserved his pity. Especially when the land yielded poor crops and families still needed to be fed. Not everyone would settle for screwing a boy.

Harlan lifted his crossbow from the dirt. Counting the arrows in the quiver, he headed into the valley. Shrubs raked his sleeves as he passed.

Dennis stayed put. I want to see them first.

Harlan paused. The other man had never asked that before. Damn. Dennis must be getting desperate. Not good for a mission where they were outnumbered two to one. Maybe Dennis should guard their flank instead of attacking the Providers with Harlan’s crew.

Come on. Dennis shifted his weight from foot to foot. The sun's glow faded on the Western horizon. It'll only take a minute.

If the man hadn't accompanied him on twenty-two successful raids, Harlan wouldn't even consider the request. Instead, he reached for the binoculars. Get a bre--

A twig snapped.

Harlan spun around.

Starlight twinkled off the blade shoved under his nose. Branches rustled as a man's face appeared.

Harlan's fingers twitched. The crossbow was already loaded. More arrows were within reach.

Uh-uh.

The knife tip shifted and a cut burned across his chin.

Drop it.

Fuck. Harlan shrugged and the strap rolled down his arm. The crossbow hit the ground with a soft thud. Footsteps pounded behind him.

Arms up. The knife gestured, skimming Harlan's nose on the way.

Warm liquid trickled over his lips, flooded his mouth with a metallic taste. Harlan complied. For now. Just until he knew how many enemy surrounded him, and where Dennis stood.

Good boy. Now back up.

Clenching his teeth, Harlan took a step backward then another. He hoped the man enjoyed his short stint of giving orders.

Stop. Branches snapped when the man stepped through the shrub.

Well, fuck me. Harlan turned his head slightly, catching another stranger in his peripheral vision. These assholes weren't Providers. They wore suits. Dusty dark one-piece suits stitched from finely woven cloth. Had the Dark Hope pricks finally come down from the mountain?

He knew the bastards had to be related to the Providers. Rumors of both had appeared in his village at the same time.

Then the demands for tribute had started.

His sister had been offered first.

Two months later, the town and all its occupants had disappeared.

Now turn around.

Harlan kept the smile from his face. How nice of the idiot to order him to survey the scene. One soon-to-be dead man stood in the nine o'clock position, two burly thugs bracketed Dennis, straight up at twelve, and another at four. Easy pickings if Dennis could take out the noontime buddies. He glanced at his compatriot.

Dennis stared beyond Harlan's shoulder.

Down boy.

Something hit the back of Harlan's legs. They buckled. His teeth rattled when his knees hit the dirt. A rock dug through his pants and into his flesh. Okay, the bastard behind him needed to die first. Then the one at four o'clock. He just needed to get Dennis's attention.

Dennis pointed at Harlan. That's him. Just like I promised. Now, where is my wife?

Harlan's shoulders drooped. Well hell, that was a pisser. Guess it was time for Plan B. He had a feeling there was a cartload of pain waiting in Plan B. Fingers curled in his hair and jerked his head back.

Spittle foamed at the corners of the bastard’s mouth. This is the puke stealing our tribute?

Harlan grinned. Warm blood filtered between his teeth. At your service.

Now, I want my wife. You promised to release her if I turned him over to you.

At Dennis’s whine, a muscle twitched in Bastard’s face before his lips twisted into a sneer. Send him to her.

Really? It couldn’t be that easy. The grip on Harlan’s hair loosened and his head lowered enough to see his former compatriot.

The burly thug on the left held Dennis’s arms. The one on his right grabbed his head and twisted. Bone crackled. The smell of loosened bowels permeated the air. When the thugs let go, Dennis crumpled.

Harlan grimaced. Now he wouldn’t even have Dennis as a distraction. Plan B just got a little tougher. Good thing he was used to dealing with the impossible.

Bastard leaned down. His rancid breath washed over Harlan. We’re supposed to turn you over to the ‘Viders, but your stealing has cost us too much.

Happy to oblige. Harlan spat into Bastard’s face.

The bloody loogie oozed down his cheek while red stormed his features.

The thug buddies near Dennis’s corpse cracked their knuckles.

Bastard swiped at the moisture with his sleeve. You’re going to die, boy. You’re going to die real slow.

Chapter 3

Ho--ly shit! Sera glanced down at her dangling legs. The green light of the airship strobed over the ground a few hundred meters below. Swallowing the sour wad in her throat, she stared at the patches of vegetation. The leafy nubs didn't seem to be getting closer.

Tightening her grip on the ropes, she cut her attention upward. A bark of relief escaped her. The oversized crate was lodged in the cargo opening. Thank the good Lord! Whoever had pushed her out of the airship hadn't fully opened the bay doors. She was safe.

For now.

Swearing sounded above.

And obviously her luck would soon run out. Her would-be assassin must have realized his mistake. Muscles burned along her arms and her fingers tingled. Right. She had to act. Now would be good.

She threw her thoughts back to her training at the Security Forces Academy. Now what had she been taught? Not to be outflanked by the enemy in the first place.

Too late for that.

Although to be fair, she hadn't expected an enemy to be aboard the dirigible.

Swinging her legs, she twisted her hands until the rough wooden crate scraped her knuckles and the coarse hemp rope abraded her palms. As soon as she escaped this mess, she'd warn her Uncle Dawson.

The sound of gears grinding scratched her ears. Looked like the bad guys had found the lever to open the bay. The crate dropped an inch and she jerked to a stop. The carabiners attached to her backpack clinked together.

Her hands slipped, leaving her hanging on by her fingertips.

Fear dried her mouth, leaving her tongue stuck to her palate. On the bright side, she couldn't scream. On the dark side, she probably wouldn’t be able to hold on once the crate's parachute deployed.

The dark side always sucked.

Come on, Sera. You're the brightest in your class. Figure this out. Wood scraped metal as the crate slid lower. She had a minute tops, plus another thirty seconds before the chute unfurled.

Getting a grip was her top priority. Which meant she would have to free one hand and that one would be her non-dominant left hand. Despite months of physical therapy, her right hand still hadn't regained its full strength since she'd broken it.

Kicking with her legs, she adjusted her grip then uncurled her right hand. She swung in an arc down. Pain blazed through her left armpit, and rope cut into her palm. Tears stung her eyes. She just needed to hold on a little longer.

No way would she become a Rorschach image on the ground.

Reaching across her chest, she brushed a cold titanium carabiner. With shaking fingers, she unleashed the clasp and slid it free. Fabric whispered as the anchor runner jerked taut. Please let it be the newest one. Please let it hold.

She looked up.

Luck was still with her. The edge of the crate was wedged in the now fully open bay. Alas, the bad guy seemed to have realized her good fortune too. She detected grunting above the whirl of the airship's engines.

Gritting her teeth, she kicked with her legs. She needed to reach that bow in the rope netting before the crate fell through the bay. Once the chute opened, the rope would be snug against the wood. On the bright side, her fingers would be mashed between net and rope. On the dark side, fingers could easily be severed.

Swinging her arm up, she skimmed the cord with the top of the carabiner. Suck ass. She swayed away from her target.

The crate cleared the bay.

The parachute would deploy soon. Sweat beaded her upper lip and she kicked harder. One second passed. Then two. At three she was on the upswing. Holding her breath, she lunged for the net.

The titanium hook slipped over the top and she released the clasp. It sprang closed just as she detected the snap of fabric. Just in time. Crossing her arm over her chest, she clutched the shoulder strap of her backpack and straightened her left hand’s fingers. Her numb digits fumbled with the other strap before latching on.

The silk billowed open like a jellyfish, then the crate jolted upward.

The movement crackled down Sera's spine and the pack slid up her back. Her fingers spasmed on the harness before clamping down harder. Please don't let me slip out. Please don't let the harness break.

A moment later, she swung four feet from the bottom of the crate.

Thank God. Her head lolled against the pack and she sighed. Either the bad guy hadn't realized she was underneath the crate or its contents were more valuable than she was. Licking her dry lips, she counted to five while her heartbeat slowed. One moment more to savor her victory, then back to work.

She wasn't out of danger yet.

Shaking herself, she watched the airship putter away. No signal flare shot from the oblong gondola. No spotlight shone on her. Hell, only a handful of people knew she'd been on board.

Only two might know she was no longer aboard.

The bad guy wouldn't tell.

And her uncle didn’t expect to see her until morning.

Drawing her legs up, she peeled her right hand’s fingers off the strap. She tucked them inside her calf-high boots and pulled a knife out of the built-in pocket. Her timing must be impeccable, otherwise she'd be crushed by the very crate that had saved her life.

Shrubs grew into trees. Their twisted trunks clearly visible under the fuzz of late spring leaves. Spots of green appeared in the brown carpet. White mantles outlined boulders and run off channels. Not a level surface in sight.

Landing was going to hurt.

Not quite the glamorous life she'd pictured when she'd decided to reveal the true Outlands to the people in Dark Hope. She drifted over a stand of trees. This looked like as soft a landing as she would get. Twenty feet above the ground, she cut the rope anchoring her to the crate.

Trees rushed up to meet her. She threw her arms in front of her face. Branches smacked her arm, scratched at her clothing and yanked on her hair. The foliage's limbs snapped under her weight. Fabric ripped.

The moment her feet touched down, she tucked her chin against her chest. Her knees buckled and she pitched forward, somersaulting ass over heels, until her butt collided with another trunk.

She groaned. That was going to leave a mark. Spitting out twigs and leaves, she opened her eyes. Stars twinkled in the black velvet sky visible though the skeletal branches. The red, white, and green glow of the airship appeared on the fringes of her horizon. Holding still, she did a mental inventory. Aches and pain everywhere but her eyelashes.

Anything broken?

She wiggled her fingers and toes before moving onto larger muscle groups. Everything behaved correctly. Thank God.

Bracing her hands at her sides, she pushed into a sitting position. Mud squished between her fingers. Thin branches clattered in the breeze. Unhooking the front clasp of her harness, she shrugged off her pack then brought it around to her lap.

The slide of the zipper sounded overly loud in the quiet. Reaching inside the cold canvas, she rummaged over the slick packaging of emergency rations, the soft rasp of clothing and the hard shell of her canteen. Where is it? Her fingers walked to the side before finding the padded, inner pocket. Dipping inside, she touched the earpiece of her night-vision glasses.

Setting them on her nose, she took in her surroundings.

Shards of moonlight cut designs in the lime green foliage and glinted off her blade laying a few feet away. Her muscles twitched with the need to retrieve it. Patience. Up ahead, the crate she'd flown down on lay cracked in half over a boulder. Silver bars glistened. Her blood thrummed through her veins. That was not scientific equipment, but weapons. TSG-17s to be precise.

Someone in Dark Hope was arming Outlanders.

Were there other traitors here to collect the freight?

Ears straining, she counted time in heartbeats. Ten. Twenty. Finally, she detected a faint rustle to her left and the skitter of four legs to her right. Rats. They'd survived the apocalypse along with cockroaches and politicians.

She scanned the area around her once more, then rose to her feet. At least, there wasn't a welcoming committee. Yet. But they would arrive soon. Pain flared down her back and hamstrings when she bent over. Biting her bottom lip, she wrapped her fingers around her knife's hilt and straightened.

Tending her wounds would have to wait. She needed to neutralize those weapons then find higher ground. She took a step forward. Air hissed through her teeth as pain lanced her right thigh.

Shunting the stabbing feeling aside, she limped forward. She could walk it off, push past it, do whatever it took to reach that ridge. Soldier blood ran in her veins, practically laid camouflage in her DNA.

Upon reaching the crate, she selected the nearest stun-gun. She hoped it still held a residual charge. Wiping the dirt and leaves from the oval barrel, she kicked the rest into a pile. Once done, she aimed and fired.

The charged projectile pinged against the pile of tin and discharged. Blue light crackled across the weapons, triggering the energy from the others and frying their circuits. Now the Outlanders could have them. After blowing nonexistent smoke away from the tip, she scooped up her pack and turned toward the glow of the dirigible.

That ridge should be high enough, but she'd have to walk double time to get there before the high altitude communication drone moved out of range.

She only hoped her Uncle Dawson could receive her call. After stuffing her hands through the pack's straps, she secured the harness under her breasts, hooked the TSG-17 on a carabiner and put one foot in front of the other.

Fifteen minutes later, she huffed up the rocky summit and dropped in the grass near a boulder. The granite still radiated a soft heat from the afternoon sun. Stripping off her backpack, she removed her sweater from inside and unrolled it. Gold and silver baubles glittered against the green wool.

Useless things. Why Outlanders valued them she had no clue. Flicking them aside, she lifted her communicator's ear piece. The antenna stayed behind. Well, damn.

Her shoulders sagged as she inspected each half. The molded body split in two under her touch. She'd need more than duct tape and a paperclip to fix it. The airship shrunk on the horizon. Glancing over her shoulder, she switched her night vision to infrared. The ground turned into a patchwork of blue, red, and dots of white. Ignoring the white animal shapes, she scanned the distance for any sign of human bodies.

None.

But that didn't mean the bad guys weren’t on their way.

Knock off the doom and gloom mongering. Attitude was as important in survival as the right tools. And speaking of tools...

She tugged an antique compass from