The Unlikely: Unlikely Survivors, #1

By Amanda Blackwood

"A see-saw of emotions runs through reading this apocalyptic adventure, but excitement rules the day." Philip Zossaro, Reedsy

 

Escaping Los Angeles for a weekend is hard enough. Escaping Los Angeles during an apocalypse? That's next to impossible.
When there's nobody left to care, when civilization has turned on itself, when your friends and family are dead or gone, who do you have left to depend on? What if you never learned to depend on someone? In a catastrophic event, your life might just depend on it. Dragging along a police officer, a car thief and a disabled military veteran can prove to be even more of a challenge than someone like she could ever have imagined, but the challenges keep piling up. From a murder in a park to an attack in a hospital, the story never stops moving. She's a determined, bull headed, independent woman who's been on her own since childhood. She's seen the worst of humanity her entire life. Living through an apocalypse would be nothing new. Depending on others is another story all together. Book one of a three part series, "The Unlikely" is sure to grab your attention from start to finish and leave you wanting more.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Blackwood
• Release date: Aug 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201548360

Book preview

Dedication

To all those struggling to survive against the odds. 

Remember you’re never alone, and there is strength to be found in numbers. 

CHAPTER GUIDE

Chapter 1 - The Last Stand

Chapter 2 - Forget Fashion

Chapter 3 - Take What You Need

Chapter 4 - Animal Instinct

Chapter 5 - Keep Water Handy

Chapter 6 - Take the High Road

Chapter 7 - Be Harder Than Glass

Chapter 8 - Listen Well

Chapter 9 - Never Sleep Where You Eat

Chapter 10 - Stay in Shape

Chapter 11 - Trust No One

Chapter 12 - Tackle Isn’t Just for Fishing

Chapter 13 - Keep Cool Under Pressure

Chapter 14 - Be Patient

Chapter 15 - Trust Someone, Not Completely

Chapter 16 - Pay Attention to Allergies

Chapter 17 - Keep Moving

Chapter 18 - Aim High

Chapter 19 - Keep Calm

Chapter 20 - Never Fall in Love

Chapter 21 - Whenever Possible, Rest.

Chapter 22 - When All Else Fails, RUN.

Chapter 23 - Take Time to Reflect

Chapter 24 - Stand For Something

Chapter 25 - Change Gears As Necessary

Chapter 26 - Be Observant

Chapter 27 - Avoid Hitchhikers

Chapter 28 - Know the Road

Chapter 29 - Getting and Going

Chapter 30 - Pack Your Trunks Wisely

Chapter 31 - Sticks and Stones

Chapter 32 - Standing for Something

Chapter 33 - Take a Shot

Chapter 34 - Trust Someone. Completely.

Chapter 1

The Last Stand

I hated myself for it.  How many times had I been there, laying in a hotel bed next to someone whose name was a mystery to me?  How often had I told myself that it would be the last time? How many times did I pocket the cash, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be? I truly hated myself for it. 

This latest one was nothing new; just another nameless face in my never-ending quest to pay the rent and keep my head above water.  Even if I had known his name I wouldn’t have remembered it.  There was nothing special about him.  Pushing sixty, mostly bald with horrific table manners, at least I got a good meal out of this one. 

I didn’t exactly market myself as a hooker or prostitute.  In fact, there was really no marketing done at all.  I had no pimp or agent, and actually didn’t consider myself to be a prostitute though I was considered a victim of human trafficking. I was trafficking myself.  It gave me the false illusion of being in charge.  Even hookers had a price scale.  I only had brutal honesty and deeply deceptive and misleading information at my disposal.  I couldn’t even be one hundred percent honest with myself. 

People do strange things for money.  Money corrupts even the incorruptible.  You can get anything you want with enough money.  All I wanted was a roof over my head right then, and as the man next to me snored deeply, I wondered how much closer to my goal I would be once he woke up. 

Politicians sell their souls for enough money to win elections.  Prostitutes sell their bodies.  Some people sell images of feet to foot fetish websites.  Thieves and pickpockets run rampant in the streets, often learning at early ages how to remove a wristwatch during a handshake.  In some countries, families will sell their children to the highest bidder in some of the most deplorable acts of humanity imaginable.  All of this is done for profit.  People will do almost anything for money. 

So misguided are the opinions of people in the sex trade worldwide.  While some prostitutes fit the irrefutable stereotype of being on drugs and making bad choices, most of them aren’t put there because that’s where they want to be.  Often they’re forced into the trade to begin with, and the majority by someone they know, trust, and love.  The drug addictions often come afterward, because it’s the only way some of these gals can get from one day to the next without blowing their own brains out.  It’s a gritty, nasty world out there in the sex trade, not at all the glamorous life Hollywood made it out to be.  Some actually are the rare cliche we know and love, the prostitute with the heart of gold, but for the most part, they’re broken people with wounded souls and damaged lives who think there is no other way to survive. Some are severe addicts or young people who failed to become famous actors after moving to Los Angeles for fortune and glory, and they learned all too quickly how to sell themselves for the next bit part which lead way down the dark path of prostitution. Later on, it would be to keep the food from disappearing just like the bit parts in Hollywood did.  Almost all of them have some history of sexual abuse at some point in their lives. I’m no exception to that myself, though I didn’t remember my own past trauma until a few years ago when I made the mistake of trusting the wrong man.  I nearly lost my soul and my life along the way.  I’m not entirely convinced I didn’t lose my soul, or a large piece of it anyway. 

Nameless in the bed stirred.  His intermittent rattling snore ceased. I watched him, dreading what might come next.  I was already sick to my stomach just watching his bulbous paunch expanding with each inhale. 

Hey Baby, he murmured.  Oh good, I thought.  He doesn’t remember the name I gave him.  Neither did I for that matter.  Baby, come here.  Leaning closer I whispered to him. 

I have to go soon.

But we’re going to spend the night.  I paid for the room for the whole night. 

I can’t, Lover.  I have to work in the morning.  I fought back my gag reflex.

Work?

That’s right.  I have a real job.  I have an honest job that I receive a weekly paycheck for.  It’s even a full-time  job, but it doesn’t pay the bills very well.  I have no addictions other than cigarettes and I’m good at what I do.  But it doesn’t pay the bills.  It’s getting harder and harder to find a paying gig willing to put up with my hours at my daytime job.  Doing what I do at least has that benefit going for it.  I even tried waitressing for a bit, and to be perfectly honest I had to fight off the handsy bastards far more often at that job than at the side gig I chose for myself. 

Yes, Darling, I kissed his forehead.  I really hoped he didn’t ask me what I did for a living.  My answer for that always matched the name I gave. That way when they called me by name I could always instantaneously remember the backstory that went with it.  Each name had its own backstory and I was damn good at covering my own tracks that way.  A shrink would have had a field day trying to analyze my brain. 

You didn’t tell me you had a job, Baby.  What do you do?

In expedited mental image clips, I reviewed the entire evening searching for the moment I had given him my name.  He had talked all evening about how wealthy his family was. I had forgotten my own name. It was incredibly sloppy of me and completely unlike how I would normally operate.  He’d just been so incredibly dull I glazed through the entire night. I needed an easier way to remember.

His voice echoed out of the distance over and over.

Baby... Baby?  Baby, you okay?  Tiffany?

BINGO.  Jackpot. 

Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night only to discover you’re terrified that you may just keep on living?  Damn it.  He remembered my name and I didn’t know his. 

Sorry, Sweetie.  I zoned out a minute.

I noticed.

I work as an office assistant for Dr. Sterling, the psychologist. Of course, I didn’t. 

And you have trouble paying your rent?

It’s not the famous Dr. Sterling in Beverly Hills. Dr. Sterling’s office is in Lomita.  Now for the gut punch, I thought to myself.  So she doesn’t make much money and can’t afford to pay me for another two weeks right now. That had to be good for another couple hundred dollars at least. 

Alright, Baby, He threw back the cheap hotel comforter, exposing his oversized gut and undersized phallus.  Mentally I gagged. We sorted through the clothes strewn on the floor, his with passionate abandon, mine with careless monotony.  He really was nothing special. 

I expected him to hand me the money.  That’s the way these things were usually done.  It was rare that I would ever leave even a half-hour situation with less than a thousand dollars.  These men were willing to pay for quality and I always brought my A-game.  This guy though... what a piece of work.  He removed cash from his jeans pocket in the dark.  He didn’t even touch his wallet.  That meant that this was a predetermined amount he was about to give me; nothing more and nothing less.  No actual thought was going into his monetary gift to help with the rent. I could have given the greatest sob story of my life and it wouldn’t have changed things at all.  Mr. Rolly Polly figured out how much I was worth to him before he ever even met me.  Thank God for condoms. 

He slid his hand down my dress and tucked the money into my bra like I was a common stripper. If I had seen how much it was, I could have determined then and there if I should have spat in his face or caused an atomic bomb to detonate in the general vicinity of his sausage and meatballs.  As it was, I opted for neither.  I was perfectly capable of deciding on my own never to use him again. I just had to leave first.

Thanks, I grumbled and turned to walk to my car. 

No kiss goodbye?

Nope.  I barely turned my head to answer and I’m not entirely sure he heard me.  I didn’t care.  I was done with him.

The money was causing mild skin irritation in my bra but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me dig it out. Once seated in my car I slid under the dash a bit to fish it out.  I started the little red convertible’s motor and let it purr for a moment while I counted the bills.

Eight grand.  That was the best yet.  Maybe I should have been a little nicer to the prick, I thought to myself. Then again, he was pretty slimy.  I scratched at the irritated skin.  I smirked.  Eight grand.  I hated myself for it.  And I put it straight back into my bra.

Chapter 2

Forget Fashion

Sometimes there’s just no feeling in the world quite like coming home to some ratty old tennis shoes and a pair of beat-up old sweats.  As I drove home that night, at first it seemed to be the only thing on my mind.  Soon I would be shoving my newly acquired and well-earned  eight grand into my hollowed-out  copy of Treasure Island I thought to myself.  Then I’d be throwing off my evening wear, taking a long, hot shower, and dressing down for the night.  I wasn’t quite expecting to end up having to walk home eventually.  Life is what happens when something else is planned I guess. 

Out of nowhere, he broadsided me.  My little sports car was no match for the pickup truck. Like a top, I spun out of control, careening into the oncoming traffic.  Something else was going on; something seemed unusual amid the spinning. I couldn’t place it as I continued to spin wildly, listening to the squealing of cars trying desperately to avoid me and one another. Again and again, they slammed into me as though no longer in control of their cars.  I was suddenly aware of a stabbing pain in my thigh, but a blow to the head prevented me from investigating.  As my eyes began to lose focus, I remember only one last sight.

A tall Hispanic man asked me if I was okay, trying to pry the driver’s side door open to my mangled car.  His eyes were drawn to my cleavage.  Suddenly he thrust his hand down my dress and seized the cash I had only just acquired. My eyes flickered and went black.

I finally woke up after what felt like hours, but could only have been a matter of minutes.  I was able to see around me finally.  Shocked, I quickly discovered that my car was parked in the front yard of a small atomic ranch-style home, my bumper completely submerged into the wall.  The sharp pain in my thigh had been caused by an apparent collision on the driver’s side door causing my leg to become pinched between the door and the steering wheel.  I had hit my head on the window, I assumed, based on the outward spiral of broken glass still bubbled in place. A chunk of my hair seemed to still be attached to it.  I felt a lump on my head.

Head wounds bleed a lot.  I learned that at a fairly young age after my mother had cracked her head open one too many times on a bookshelf hanging from the wall.  Still, that didn’t stop me from feeling a mild panic at the volume of warm, sticky blood filling my hair to the ends.  I needed a compress and I needed to free my leg. 

I had a habit of always keeping a small bag in the trunk of my car filled with a change of clothes.  I liked to imagine myself as being prepared for almost anything.  Yet I had no idea how I was going to free my leg in order to escape the car and fetch the bag.  I almost let panic take over until I remembered my own simple rules of life and recited them to myself as I often did in moments of extreme stress.  Rule number thirteen for my life was to always keep cool under pressure.  There was always a solution, I just needed to find it. 

Lit by the moonlight alone I stared up at the face of this broad fifty-year-old piece of artful architecture.  Normally I would admire it for the beauty, but this time I was simply looking for answers.  My eyes lifted to where an American flag was still hanging from a flagpole protruding from the building directly above my head.  I needed leverage to pry the steering wheel and the door apart from one another to release my leg.  That flag pole would do the trick, I figured, but I couldn’t reach that far up.  My vinyl convertible top was retractable by a push-button  but my motor was choked on brick and wouldn’t turn over.  I couldn’t put the top down.

They say necessity is the mother of all inventions.  If that were true then surely Mother Necessity was married to an engineering genius.  I knew what I needed, I just needed a bit of inspiration to achieve it.  I dug through my handbag for something I could use, but all I came up with was a pair of sewing scissors, some chewing gum, and a peppermint. I traveled light on evenings out.  Still, I knew that was enough to get me out of this sticky situation.  I just needed to take a moment and think clearly, through the throbs of intense pain.

First, I cut the vinyl roof out of my car with the scissors.  I pulled my seatbelt out in front of me as far as I could get it to go and cut it free from the restraint.  I did the same with the shoulder portion, harvesting as much of the seatbelt in hand as possible.  Then I reached over as far as I could and did the same with the passenger seat.  I tied the two together at one end and threw the length of homemade rope over the flagpole.  From there I tied one end to the steering wheel. With every ounce of strength I had in me, I pulled on the seatbelt.  It wouldn’t budge one bit. Again and again, I pulled. Panic began to settle over me, as the darkness began to crowd the night.  Where were the lights?  This was Los Angeles. Where were the city lights and the headlights of the traffic?  Where were the people who owned the house I’d crashed into?  There was nobody around and I couldn’t hear any sounds of life. 

I shook my head and tried to clear the fog from my brain.  My blood-soaked hair slapped in a