Ashley's Evolution , The Chronicles of Ashley Stone Vol.1: The NOSOI Virus Saga A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series, #1

By Ashley Stone and Ben Stone

America's deadliest bio-weapon, the NOSOI Virus, is accidentally set loose upon the world. As the virus spreads, America descends into chaos; our cities become war-zones. However, NOSOI was designed not to kill its victims. The virus turns the infected into something much worse; crazed psychopaths, super-aggressive, with heightened strength, and nearly impossible to kill. And killing them is the only answer, once infected there is no coming back….
In the small rural town of Concrete near the Cascade Mountains of Washington state, a small group of survivors fight for their lives.
Follow Ben, a former Special Forces Green Beret, and his wife; Ashley, a former MWD K9 handler along with their dog Thor as they try to save their small town. While all law and order disappear and the threads of society disintegrate; Ben and Ashley will have to use all of their military training to save those they love as well as each other. All the while, not realizing the plague victims are not their worst enemy….

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Stone
• Release date: Oct 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540191816

Ashley Stone

The real Ben and Ashley are avid competitive shooters; USPSA, 2-Gun, 3-Gun, and IDPA. They also do Schutzhund with Large breed import German Shepherds and work for a large military/LEO provider. Enjoy motorcycles and have a real sense of adventure. Past that if we told you, we would have to ___, well you know….. Feel free to contact us for gear questions or feedback. Facebook @AshleyStoneTacticalFiction [e-mail] Instagram Ashely_Stone1911 Go to our website www.nosoiproject.com and sign up for our newsletter

Book preview

PROLOGUE:

It’s brutally cold , the kind of icy cold that penetrates your skin and makes your bones ache deep within. Snow flurries danced in the air around me, glowing faintly in the dark nighttime sky. My head, face, and hands are bundled against the frost, I have waited here for what seems an eternity, with only my thoughts to keep me company, alone in the dead of night. At this time of year, the darkness comes very early. Now the witching hour approaches that magical time when life and death seem to hang in the balance before the clock starts its countdown again. The landscape is lit intermittently by the glow of the crescent moon, peaking through the cloud cover above as if locked in a deadly game of hide and seek with the shadows from the tall mountains. Tonight, it will be a deadly game indeed.  I exhale deeply, and the air glows brightly around me, my breath of air freezing into a misty, white cloud. Tonight, it is only going to get colder. Here at the base of the Cascade Mountains, it is always cold in the deep of winter, freezing winds flow through the valley leaving snow in its wake. My legs are cramping now, I have been sitting in this makeshift climbing harness for more than an hour. Waiting for the right opportunity, waiting for the chance to make my shot, my chance to start the game.

I look down into the camp from my elevated position. There is a wall that separates me from them, constructed of shipping containers. Built to protect against the threat of the infected. I’m focused on a small gap between the large metal boxes, illuminated by the light of nearby lamps, from inside the compound. A narrow area, just big enough for a man to fit through. This part is fenced with chain link, to keep the monsters out. There is only a sliver of dim light that allows me to see those passing by. On the other side, I can make out the cages, that is where the bastards keep the prisoners.

I force myself to keep watch, looking through the crystal, clear glass of the Night Force scope. Its magnification dialed down a little, so that I may see clearly and take in more of the landscape. I wish I had a night vision device, the kind that you mount in front of a high-power scope. But, we never bought one of those, they were extremely expensive, and at the time I didn’t know I would be here waiting for the shot. But the Night Force is good, the huge objective lens gathers the light and transmits it back to my eye, I can see through the gap clearly. I struggle to keep my hands from trembling, I need to be steady when the shot presents itself.

The rifle is tied off to the power pole, I steady it the best that I can, suspended in air as I am. It’s all a jury-rigged mess, my climbing skills are poor at best. I should have trained more in that area, but my military time never included a great deal of mountaineering. I should be afraid, but now, I am afraid of nothing. When you would welcome death as a grateful release, fear ebbs away from you, stealing your humanity. I check my secondary target, a small swing of the muzzle places me on that spot. I spy the front of a heavy truck in the darkness. I can’t see it clearly, but I can make out the shape of the semi-cab in the dim moonlight.

I work to clear my mind, to stay focused on the now, I must keep my mind from wandering down lost paths and keep my hands from trembling in the cold. I watch, and I wait, as quiet as a church mouse. Melding into the dark shadows cast by the mountains to my back.

Finally, I see what I’ve been waiting for, movement. I can make out the unmistakable shape of the human form. His back to me as I watch his actions from a distance. I begin the press of the trigger. But, then a thought roles across my mind.

He’s feeding them, delivering their evening meal.

I stay my finger and wait. I don’t want any of the prisoners to suffer greater hunger because of me. When I saw them during my last scouting run, they were, gaunt, starved, barely surviving, barely hanging on.

I take the time to slow my breathing, deep calming breaths. The distance is short, only 367 yards by the laser rangefinder. The zero on the rifle is set at 300 yards, I’m no sniper. But the LWRC REPR is extremely accurate, especially for a piston drive rifle. This is an easy shot for it, long as I do my part.

The target finishes his task of passing over the buckets of food and turns to face me, it seems as if he is looking right through me as if he can see me in the distance. I know he can’t, it’s too dark and too far, but now I can see him in full detail. The Night Force making his form distinguishable. No, I think to myself, it’s a her, bulky, brutish, but it’s definitely a female.  The thought doesn’t distract me for a moment. I compensate for the drop, about six inches at this distance. Holding the center of the illuminated reticle high on the chest to center the shot, I didn’t even dial it in on the turrets. I exhale, find the pause and finish the press, sending the 168gr Black Hills Match bullet to the target. Speaking to the bitch, with all the anger in my heart.

Our conversation is short, or should I say one-sided. Her reply is one that could not be faked as she slams to the ground. Like a marionette with her strings cut. There is no target to place a follow-up shot on, her body has dropped from my view. But, I’m comfortable with the shot, I know what a kill feels like now, and for a moment my heart warms a little like the feeling you get after a shot of bourbon.

I shift the rifle’s point of aim to index on my secondary target. The hanging sling acting as a swivel. I begin to pump rounds into the semi-tractor’s motor. Hoping my rounds will find the heart of the beast and destroy it. I would rob my enemy of every resource they have. The rifle is loud, ear-splitting. I can feel the weight of the suppressor that is stowed on my vest, my ears wishing it was mounted. I would normally use it for this type of work, but tonight I want to be loud and proud. I want them to hear me, to know where I am, it’s all part of the plan.

The .308 brass cascades to the ground as I pump rounds into the commercial truck in the distance. The hot brass melting the snow beneath them as they plummet earthward. I feel the rifle get lighter as my bolt locks back, the 20 round Magpul magazine expended. That should do it, I bet I have your attention now.

I change the magazine, putting a fully loaded one in place and slap the bolt release, now I’m ready for the next engagement.  Time to sling the REPR and move toward my escape. I begin to quickly work my way down the old power pole, methodically, so I don’t fall. A mistake now will surely cost me my life. I smack my elbow against the rock, hardwood as I work my descent. It sends pain shooting up my arm, numbing my hand. I lose my grip and crash to the ground below, knocking the wind from my lungs. The pain in my arm is excruciating for more than a moment.  There is a bone fragment, broken loose from the tip of my elbow, trapped there under the skin. A recent injury, one that will never heal, besides there is no one left who could remove it anyway. Even minor surgery is a thing left to the past. I lay on the ground, gasping to refill my lungs. I free myself from the roping, gain my feet and begin my sprint. It’s not far, just a little more than a football field.

I momentarily panic, what if she’s not there, what if someone found her, what if they’re waiting for me. I push the thoughts away, controlling my doubts. I’m close enough now that I can see the abandoned vehicles beside the road. An old mini-van, the kind they used to pass off as an SUV to ignorant soccer moms. It is sitting next to a U-Haul box truck, relics of the time before. I gasp for my breath as I cover the last little bit of distance, my lungs burning in my chest as I take in the cold winter air. Then I see her. I don’t know why we refer to tools of war in the feminine, but warriors always do. Apparently, I’m no different. There she is, a Suzuki street fighter, a full liter bike, one beautifully fast girl. I mount the motorcycle and insert the key. With a quick turn, the dash instrumentation lights up. I hit the ignition button, and she roars to life, my fear instantly replaced with excitement. I place the REPR in the scabbard attached to the Gixxer. I check the pistol on my thigh, ready to go, knowing if I go down, it will be all that protects me.

The bike was fast the day I bought her, but she’s faster now. She roars unbelievably loud as I pull out on to the roadway, like an angry tiger ready to pounce. The insert to the exhaust is now tied to the back of the machine. I wanted to be loud tonight, and I am. She was quiet when we pulled in to the hide, the muffler insert was installed then. I flick the stealth switch off, and the lights come on, blindingly bright, my eyes dilated from the long time spent in the darkness. It’s just a toggle that shuts off the lights on the bike. With her matte gray and black finish, she is stealthy as hell blacked out and the insert installed, now everyone can see her in the darkness.

I begin to roll slowly down the icy blacktop, slightly working my way back toward the encampment lit in the distance. Near the intersection of roadways that will allow me to flee in a different direction, back to safety. The road is deadly slick in the cold winter night. I glance at the dash, making sure my traction control is at its highest setting, betting my life that it will give me the advantage. Waiting for the hounds to come, for tonight I am the fox. Not really a fox, just a wolf in fox’s clothing.

The cold wind howls through my go-fast helmet. It’s an Ops-Core, none of that Team Wendy leftist shit for me. It’s military, not motorcycle. At the entrance to the camp, I hear the rumble of their machines and see the lights approaching. They are predictable, the bikers roar out of the gap as it is opened, married to those ridiculous machines, even in weather this cold. The rumble of the Harleys antiquated V-twin engines could be heard in the distance. We are only separated by a quarter mile, I am waiting for them in plain sight. They won’t shoot, they have to capture me alive. None of them dare face their fate should I die at their hand, I use that to my advantage.

With a small twist of my wrist I open up the throttle, and I hear the K&N airbox sucking in icy cold air for the engine. The bike launches in a burst of power, the re-flashed chip and the Power Commander’s custom fuel map making the engine run perfectly in the cold mountain conditions. Maintaining my distance from the pursuing pack is easy. I focus all my attention on the road, I can’t go down, not now. I push the limit, forcing them to the edge of their capabilities to try to keep up with me. The open road in front of me brings back bittersweet memories, I remember how we cleared these, trying to restore a sense of order from chaos after the virus changed everything.

I turn at a crossroad, making my way toward the heart of the small town. Everything is dark, ghostly, vacant. No one lives here now, the buildings are damaged and empty, the happy place it once was, now long gone. My headlight leading the way, I focus my attention back to the chase. I glance in my mirror, the pack makes the turn behind me, following hard, they took the bait that’s for sure. I see one of them go down, damn it, I curse to myself, I want them all. I work my way through the abandoned town, keeping my lead on the following pack very short, letting them think they can reach me. Come and get some, I think to myself, a cruel smile on my dry, chapped lips.

The storefronts fly by me in the darkness, broken glass glittering, briefly lit by the periphery of my headlamp. For an instant, in the entrance to the old movie theatre, I see an infected, emaciated, shod in tatters of clothing. I haven’t seen one in weeks. They used to be the enemy, now they are just the side story. Not nearly as deadly as the ones that hunt me now.

Keeping the lead precise is the key, not too far.  I have to let them in close, I have to steal all their attention. So, I slow my speed, shortening the distance of my lead. The abandoned town falls behind us, but the road is still lined with derelict cars, their debris covered windshields shining in patches from the moonlight above. My objective is close now, just ahead, I see the bridge in the distance. This is where the town is separated from the mountains, the white-water river forming the dividing line, and the erector built bridge hanging high above it.

They are right behind me, I can feel their presence, just a few car lengths back. It seems as if I can sense their talons clawing at my back. It’s an act of will not to open the throttle and leave them behind. The bike could do it in a moment, but I hold her back.

I make the ramp to the bridge. As I turn, I feel the rear wheel go, its grip lost on the icy road. I’m certain I’m going down. Fuck it, flashes across my mind, I’ll kill as many as I can before I die. Then I feel the engine soften for an instant and the Suzuki rights itself. The traction control saves me. I’m good now, the bike roaring solidly beneath me.  I punch it, crossing the bridge in a straight line. Tucking in as tight as I can, laying on the tank, as low and close as possible, not an inch to spare. My knees gripping the tank, I melt into the machine making us one.  Leaving them far behind.

I swear I can feel a twang across my skull just as I cross into the shadow of the mountain, not quite clear of the bridge. Then my Gixxer climbs the grade of the road upward, effortlessly. I’m now clear of the bridge, so I stop hard and look down on the scene below me.

I take it all in, I’ve learned to revel in moments like this, it’s what keeps me going. The bridge is lit by the moonlight, it’s beautiful. The river far below, wide and deep, with strong white-water caps glowing brightly as it crashes over the rocks, luminescing through the freezing darkness. The headlights of my pursuers approaching rapidly now, only yards away. Their quarry so close for them, I’m sure they could taste the rewards of my capture.

Then it happens, they crossed the line of the shadow of the mountain and meet my surprise. A steel cable wrapped back and forth across the roadway. I had looped it across the route three times, tight against the steel framework of the bridge. Just in the perfect spot, where they couldn’t see it in the shadows cast by the mountains. Head height, just millimeters above my slight form hunkered down on my lowered bike.

The results are devastating. It is as if seven bowling pins are met by a perfect strike. The lead of the pack is decapitated, without warning. And his followers know of their own deaths, only a moment before, unable to stop or even slow on the ice-covered bridge. They taste that instant of fear before the end, with no way to prevent the outcome. I could sense it all as if it were a smell and I breathed it in.

I focused intently on the details as my hounds are dismembered. The steel cable delivering my justice to them. The clouds clear as if by magic and I can see the pools of blood spreading across the road in the moonlight. Their death adding crimson to a black and white landscape. I savor it, holding on to the moment as long as I can. Elated over the vengeance I had brought to them, letting it warm me as if it was the sun.

It suddenly begins to snow in earnest, adding to the white blanket that already covers the earth. For a time, my small feminine form watches over the bridge. I am on point, doing this life’s work, the Angel of Death, the Valkyrie. My new purpose, delivering justice.

The sound of a diesel truck breaks my reverie, they are coming for me. Off in the distance on the far side of the river, I see them. I only have minutes to flee. I flip the stealth switch back to on, killing the lights and take a minute to install the insert, quieting the engine. I remount the bike ready to move. There is no time to savor my kills slowly, or pilfer their gear, or throw their weapons in the river. I have to go now.

I flip down my PVS-14, night vision device from my helmet, without the headlight, it will guide me through the darkness. I tap the Gixxer into gear and like a ghost, quietly leave the gruesome scene behind me, and evaporate into the misty snowfall, that covers the mountains...

They called themselves the Reapers, for they believed they were the reapers of men. These men were brutal, merciless, psychopaths. It was a name that fit them well. They, in turn, called me the Angel of Death, some of them called me the Valkyrie. For I am the one that serves justice upon them, hunting them, sending them to the dark underworld, into the blackness of hell itself.

I looked at the photo of myself and Ben from the past, mesmerized. It was taped to the mirror in our bunker, left there to remind me of happier times and so that I would never forget why I fought. I had not looked at the image in the mirror for some time.  As I looked now, I could no longer recognize the woman that stared back at me. I was no longer the young woman that I saw in the photograph. I still had the long blonde hair, but now it hung in a warrior’s braid that fell below the riggers belt at my waist. I should cut it all off. In a fight, it could cost me my life. But if I go hands on, I’m probably dead anyway. So, I keep it, it is one of the last traces of who I used to be.

I was always trim and small. But now, I am as hard as stone, just like my last name. In my other life, I was Ashley Stone, Ben’s loving wife. Now I am the Angel of Death.  For if you see me, it will be the last thing you ever see.  The name also suits who I have become, and I embraced it. I look back at the figure in the mirror, my body now hardened muscle, bound with hatred and the darkness of pure rage. The body armor that was once custom made to fit my curves was now loose, tattered, and stained with my blood and the blood of those of those I