The Day After Never - Purgatory Road (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 2)
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Authors: Russell Blake
The Day After Never
Purgatory Road
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2016 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
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Table of Contents
Excerpt from
The Day After Never – Covenant
Books by Russell Blake
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
THE EYE OF HEAVEN
THE SOLOMON CURSE
Thrillers
FATAL EXCHANGE
FATAL DECEPTION
THE GERONIMO BREACH
ZERO SUM
THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY
THE VOYNICH CYPHER
SILVER JUSTICE
UPON A PALE HORSE
DEADLY CALM
RAMSEY’S GOLD
EMERALD BUDDHA
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – BLOOD HONOR
THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PURGATORY ROAD
The Assassin Series
KING OF SWORDS
NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN
RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN
REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN
BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN
REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN
RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN
The JET Series
JET
JET II – BETRAYAL
JET III – VENGEANCE
JET IV – RECKONING
JET V – LEGACY
JET VI – JUSTICE
JET VII – SANCTUARY
JET VIII – SURVIVAL
JET IX – ESCAPE
JET X – INCARCERATION
JET – OPS FILES (prequel)
JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT
The BLACK Series
BLACK
BLACK IS BACK
BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
BLACK TO REALITY
BLACK IN THE BOX
Non Fiction
AN ANGEL WITH FUR
HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS
(while drunk, high or incarcerated)
About the Author
Featured in
The Wall Street Journal
,
The Times
, and
The Chicago Tribune
, Russell Blake is
The NY Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of over forty novels, including
Fatal Exchange
,
Fatal Deception
,
The Geronimo Breach
,
Zero Sum
,
King of Swords
,
Night of the Assassin
,
Revenge of the Assassin
,
Return of the Assassin
,
Blood of the Assassin
,
Requiem for the Assassin
,
Rage of the Assassin
The Delphi Chronicle
trilogy,
The Voynich Cypher
,
Silver Justice
,
JET
,
JET – Ops Files
,
JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert
,
JET II – Betrayal
,
JET III – Vengeance
,
JET IV – Reckoning
,
JET V – Legacy
,
JET VI – Justice
,
JET VII – Sanctuary
,
JET VIII – Survival
,
JET IX – Escape
,
JET X – Incarceration
,
Upon a Pale Horse
,
BLACK
,
BLACK is Back
,
BLACK is The New Black
,
BLACK to Reality
,
BLACK in the Box
,
Deadly Calm
,
Ramsey’s Gold
,
Emerald Buddha
,
The Day After Never – Blood Honor
, and
The Day After Never – Purgatory Road
.
Non-fiction includes the international bestseller
An Angel With Fur
(animal biography) and
How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time
(even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.
Blake is co-author of
The Eye of Heaven
and
The Solomon Curse
, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel
King of Swords
has been translated into German,
The Voynich Cypher
into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.
Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include
Less Than Nothing
,
More Than Anything
, and
Best Of Everything
.
Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:
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Chapter 1
Mentone, Texas
Marijuana smoke clouded the gloomy interior of the improvised saloon, and the pungent aroma blended with the acrid tang of stale perspiration, unwashed bodies, and rotgut home-brewed sour mash. Several women in ratty shifts leaned against the wall near a long plank propped atop four wooden barrels that served as the bar. Their faces were frozen in professional invitation, their eyes dead. Beside them, three heavily built gunmen with Browning shotguns lounged together, occasionally casting an eye over the forty or so customers, wary of trouble with the rough crowd. Filthy sawdust covered the floor of the tin-roofed structure in Mentone, one of a shabby scattering of buildings at a forgotten crossroads used as the home base for the group of miscreants known as the Raiders.
An emaciated dog, inured to the shouts and baying laughter from the rowdy throng, nosed around in a far corner where someone had recently vomited. Six Mohawked highwaymen sat at a circular wooden table in the rear of the room, their sweat-stained black leather vests and tattoos as menacing as a snake’s rattle, bottles of cheap rum and whiskey at their elbows. A deck of frayed cards lay facedown in front of a graying man with a long, cadaverous face and spindly fingers that lent him the appearance of a praying mantis.
The dealer pushed a small pile of chips into the center pot with a smile as inviting as a mass grave. “Well, boys, put up or shut up. Day of reckoning’s at hand,” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the bar’s clamor.
Two of the players shook their heads and tossed in their cards, unwilling to push their luck any further. The remaining three met the dealer’s raise and, once the betting was done, waited expectantly as he offered another grin, revealing pale gums marred with stubs of decaying teeth between earthworm lips.
“Full house, fellas. Just not your lucky night, I guess.” He cackled, and the rest flung their hands into the pot with resigned groans.
“Seems like most hands you walk away with the chips,” one of the larger Raiders growled. The man beside him elbowed his ribs as a caution and slid an amber bottle toward him.
The pair had been in the bar for the better part of five hours and were nearly through with their second bottle of rum. They, like the rest of the patrons, had checked their weapons at the door. The rules of the house were few, but those there were, were non-negotiable: no guns or knives inside, no fights allowed, and no credit extended. The security guards enforced compliance, and any violation meant expulsion with no appeal.
The large Raider took a pull on the bottle and winced at the burn of the cheap, harsh liquor. His meaty face was sunburned almost to the blistering point, his skin radiating heat, brow furrowed over reptilian eyes, greasy ebony Mohawk a spiked mane. The shaved sides of his head featured a collage of jailhouse art and crude gothic script, a grinning skull with a pirate’s hat cocked at a rakish angle adorning the left temple, Nazi Schutzstaffel lightning bolts emblazoning the right. Pink scars, souvenirs of past fights, spanned his scalp, and a pair of green inked tears trailed below his left eye – mute testament to a lifetime of incarceration. The teardrops were a common emblem for many of the other Raiders, whose murderous and predatory habits had been hardened by a prison ethic that knew only hunter and prey.
He slammed the bottle down and considered his remaining chips, and then leaned into his smaller companion, whose sallow complexion and gaunt frame was the polar opposite: the little man’s skin was as taut as parchment over sharp cheekbones and ropy muscles that undulated like snakes along bare tobacco-colored arms.