Yellow Reign

D.S. Adams

Description

When a young woman living an innocent life on a farm in the American Midwest is thrown into a world of genetic hybrids and rabid humans, she is forced to fight for survival in a city destroyed by greed

Sujets

• Thriller
• Adventure
• Adventure (Guyana)

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 04 novembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785380198
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
YELLOW REIGN

A Novel by
D.S. Adams



Publisher Information
Yellow Reign
Published in 2014 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of D.S. Adams to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2014 D.S. Adams
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Special Thanks
- My Father, for his insights, knowledge, and the countless hours he spent helping me.
- Lyn, for her skills, input, and many hours of work.
- Elizabeth, for her time, kind words, and enthusiasm.
- Sarah, for her encouragement, effort, and advice.
- Nigel, for his skills, encouragement, and kindness.
- Jim for everything, thank you xxx
- My friends and family xxx
-Lorraine and Rana!



I
It Started With A Bang!
As Natasha squeezed the trigger on her final shot, she was thinking about aromas. The subject had invaded her consciousness from the mix of cordite and tuna, which she had evaluated as inferior to her own favourites, such as the harvest on a typically hot day here in the Midwest, the garlic scented air of Gilroy California, and the smell of her distant neighbour’s barbecues.
As the shot rang out, Tim, her younger brother, and Brett, her ageing uncle, jerked back in disgust exclaiming obscenities in perfectly timed stereo. In-between them, and in stark contrast to their animation, Natasha stood perfectly still in front of the raised, sun bleached porch of her family’s farmhouse, frozen in her amateur firing stance. Until that moment this had been her favourite spot during the early hours of the morning when the heat wasn’t so fierce and the perpetual westerly breeze passed over her father’s cornfield and through her hair. Her motionless, statue-like figure was then overwhelmed by an uncontrollable spasm travelling through her fingers still in contact with her brother’s Winchester rifle. She had been reluctant to take the gun in the first place.
“I don’t want to shoot,” she had said.
“Why?” Tim asked.
Tim, though a few years younger than Natasha, had aspired over recent years to become as equally caring and warm-hearted as his sister, and to some extent he had achieved it, but his own nature would always be intertwined with arrogance and selfishness.
“Got to learn how to defend yourself,” her brother said.
“From what?” she asked.
“The British!” he said foolishly.
His uncle had shaken his head at the comment, frustrated at one of Tim’s many humour-defying flaws that irritated him on every occasion - his unnecessary sarcasm.
“Idiot!” he muttered.
“Christ, you’re such a prick! And what the hell are my tuna cans doing up there?” she asked him.
“He’s an idiot!” Brett repeated.
“I’m not doing it,” she insisted, her eyes focused dead ahead where a long work bench had been placed in front of the family’s barn. Half a dozen of her tuna cans were lined across the top of it.
“I don’t like guns.”
“Never mind that, just relax,” he said, trying to reassure her and slowly raising the butt of the rifle against her shoulder, “You want to squeeze the trigger, okay, never pull it. Focus on the target and nothing else. Concentrate on slowing your breathing, and force your heart to slow.”
Natasha focussed on the first can and squeezed the trigger, wincing as the rifle jarred her shoulder. The pain was substantial and her accuracy poor. The bullet hit a scuff of dirt yards from the target and she grunted in frustration.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tim assured her, and reloaded for her, “Set your balance again and take aim.”
“It’s uncomfortable,” she complained, but he simply ignored her and adjusted her stance. During her moment of concentration, her young tabby cat had sprinted out of the nearest barn, disorientated and alarmed from the burst of gunfire. None of the family had seen it and Natasha took aim once more, firing again, this time her shot shaving the can.
“Not bad, that was closer. One more try.”
She took aim for the third time and rested her index finger calmly on the trigger. Tuna sprayed over the bench and onto the sundried dirt as the can was blown to pieces. Tim and Brett both nodded their heads in approval. Natasha’s focus remained on the spot where the can had been, a clear sense of accomplishment settling in her mind.
“Not bad, girl,” Brett told her, to which a tiny smile appeared at the corner of her mouth as she reloaded.
“We’ll have to set up some more targets around the place, proper ones, and we’ll shoot for bets,” Tim suggested.
Her cat’s pupils had been wide and its ears spiked at the sight of food that lay in the morning heat, the scent inducing hunger and excitement amongst its initial fear. Natasha took aim at the next can and slowly brought her finger over the trigger. She had grown in confidence and her open eye stayed fixed on the new target. Tim smiled at her eagerness, and as her finger had moved to squeeze the trigger, her cat sprinted toward the bench, but behind a line of barrels and vegetable crates where it was momentarily out of sight. Her focus had remained channelled on the can and nothing else, and as she squeezed the trigger, flinched in horror as the sound of gunfire and punctured flesh filled her ears. The image of feline matter strewn over the ground induced a level of shock she had never experienced before. It had made her want to vomit then and there.
“Shit!” Tim and Brett both mumbled, their faces twisted in disgust as they stared down at the bloody mess that was once Natasha’s cat.



II
Cornfields Grow in Summer Glow
The setting sun spread a glaze of golden light through the cornfield and over the high leaves slowly swaying in the gentle westerly breeze as a warm shade of orange stained the sky. Natasha’s German Sheppard was left outside and sniffed at a patch of blood on the ground where the majority of the cat’s body had briefly been. In the summer months Natasha and her mother would enjoy the view of the cornfield from the porch when she was as young as three years old. Mrs. Kayle would insist that her daughter appreciate what a wonderful gift to the earth farmland could be. She would say it was like a national park, land that city buildings could never touch. It had been years since they had shared that view together, side by side, hand in hand. However, as an adult, and the years since she had last seen her mother, her father’s land had gradually become a grave of distant memories and a birth place for many nightmares.
The house was quiet and only a few lights were on, some in the kitchen and a few upstairs. Tim quietly opened his sister’s door and peered inside to check if she was sleeping. She lay there awake on her bed staring into space, the ceiling light capturing the tears in her eyes.
“How are you?” he asked softly, but Natasha didn’t answer so he moved over to the bed and knelt down to be level with her eyes, “I’m sorry.”
Natasha jumped up from the bed and swung her arms at her brother’s chest, both fists clenched so that her knuckles would inflict as much pain as possible for all the hurt she was feeling herself, but the last few hours of crying had left her exhausted. Tim grabbed both her wrists and forced her to stop.
“Look I’m sorry, it was an accident. Damn cat is dumber than I am,” he said, and forced a hug out of her. Brett could hear everything downstairs as he stood by the kitchen sink drying his hands. Several minutes later he watched Natasha shuffle in through the side door with her arms folded and her walking boots tightly fastened. Her eyes looked sore.
“How’s it going?” he asked, but he got no reply as she left the house via the rear porch. He felt sorry for the girl, and not just for her loss, but because she had very little going for her. Most of her friends had started lives elsewhere and her pets were all she had besides her family. She was a smart girl who could have made a name for herself in the city, yet here she was stuck on a farm learning to shoot rifles.
Richard, the father, a tall and slender looking man with light brown hair and a face rough with stubble, strolled into the kitchen with a newspaper in his hand. He looked at his brother curiously.
“What’s going on?” he enquired.
“Shit, where have you been all day? Natasha shot the cat,” Brett answered.
“Say what?” he replied naively.
“Not on purpose you prick!”
Richard sat down opposite him at the kitchen table and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Is this decaf?”
“Nope,” Brett replied.
“Good,” he muttered, and took a sip before resting back in his chair, “What the hell was she doing shooting a gun anyway?”
“Tim,” Brett said under his breath.
“What did he do to upset her?”
“What? No, what the hell is wrong with you! He was teaching her to shoot and the fucking cat got in the way as she shot,” Brett explained.
“Damn, she loved that cat.”
“Hence why she’s been upstairs crying all afternoon. If you came out of that god-damn basement once in a while you’d know what’s going on around here,” said Brett, and before Richard could defend himself, his son entered the kitchen and took a b