Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) Read online

  WINTER’S EDGE

  BOOK 1 IN THE OUTZONE DRIFTER SERIES

  By MIKE SHERIDAN

  Copyright © 2016 by Mike Sheridan

  WINTER’S EDGE is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Editing by Felicia Sullivan

  Proofreading by Laurel Kriegler

  Cover art by Deranged Doctor Design

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  Table of Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  APPENDIX

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  At some point you may wish to go to the appendix containing a one-page summary of the historical events preceding this story. Namely, the Great Global War, the formation of the Strata State, and the Outzone.

  METRO NEW HAVEN ENQUIRER

  PROVIDENCE, NH, (Aug 15, 2047)—Mother and daughter slain by Outzoners in double killing close to Exclusion Wall.

  Sarah Brogan (37) and Jessica Brogan (14) were brutally murdered by three Outzoners yesterday afternoon, when the vehicle they were traveling in was forced off the road along a remote stretch of the I-03 highway running close to the Outzone border. The two were on their way to the peaceful agri-town of Providence, a couple of hours’ drive south of Metro New Haven where they were planning on visiting a sick relative.

  Passing under the Exclusion Wall along a smugglers’ tunnel, the three masked men made their way to the state highway and ambushed the vehicle as it drove by. Though detected by a roving reconnaissance drone, neither Inland Border Patrol nor New Haven State Police were close enough to the vicinity to give assistance.

  An IBP source says it is believed the hijackers originally intended to hold up a truck delivering medical supplies to Providence. When the truck never materialized, they instead ambushed the next passing vehicle, and it appears from the drone footage that the two women were cold-bloodedly executed as they resisted being taken by the men back through the tunnel and into the Outzone.

  At a news conference earlier today, State Governor Janet Haskins commented on the tragedy, saying that despite the vast improvements to security across the state in recent years, isolated incidents such as this still occurred from time to time. The governor urged citizens traveling outside of the Metro New Haven area not to become complacent and to take adequate security measures.

  When questioned further, Governor Haskins went on to say the following: “As most of you are probably aware, I was never one in favor of the creation of the Outzone Territory—it was granted in his wisdom by President Lynehart. However, we must all respect its sovereign status now, and that means we cannot cross its borders, not even in the hot pursuit of murderers. Instead we must strive to fully secure our own borders, so that the honest law-abiding citizens who choose to live in this great state can live without fear, and enjoy continuing prosperity and peace.”

  The two victims are survived by husband and father, Francis Brogan. Private funeral arrangements will take place later this week.

  Three Weeks Later

  Chapter 1

  Capitol Zone, Metro New Haven

  “Are you really going through with this, Frank? You sure there’s nothing I can do to stop you?”

  New Haven Police Chief Jim Henderson sat in his chair, staring across the desk at Lieutenant Frank Brogan, a look of concern on his grizzled features.

  “I’m sure, Chief. Just sign the forms and let’s get this done.”

  The creases in Henderson’s face deepened. Two weeks ago, Brogan had put in a request to quit New Haven’s Special Reaction Force, the elite specially-trained police unit he’d served in for five years, applying for immediate discharge based on compassionate grounds. He just needed Henderson to give his application the final sign off.

  “They’ve changed the laws,” the chief said, continuing to press him. “Once you cross into the Outzone, there’s no coming back. Every day there are people begging to be let back in again. Not saying they’re as tough as you, nor do they have your training either. But this is not a trial separation, we’re talking divorce here.”

  Brogan smiled. He liked Henderson, and had gotten to know him well over the years. However, he had made up his mind. Nothing was going to change it now.

  “I know,” he said. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  The two men sat in the chief’s office on the third floor of One Police Plaza, downtown Metro New Haven, at the heart of the Capitol Zone, a heavily fortified, one square-kilometer area of the city center.

  The squat three-story building had been constructed using reinforced nano-steel beams, the offices encased by bainite armor-plated walls with four-inch-thick blast-proof windows.

  Though the city of Metro New Haven was peaceful now, during the time of the Secessionist Wars—when the police headquarters had been built—the entire country had been at the point of collapse, and the recently-formed New Haven State had provided one of the few beacons of hope in the country.

  Henderson leaned his elbows forward on the desk, clasping his hands together. “Frank, I know this is about Sarah and…”

  The chief had forgotten his daughter’s name. Brogan didn’t hold it against him. The chief was a busy man.

  “Jessica.”

  “Jessica, of course. But look, there are other ways to get over what happened. What you’re doing…well, it’s extreme.” Henderson hesitated a moment before continuing. “You know what the rest of the unit think, don’t you? They say you’ve had a breakdown or something. Think I ought to have you assessed again.”

  Brogan shifted uneasily in his seat. On his first day back at work, two weeks after the funeral, Henderson had insisted he undergo a PII, a Post-traumatic Incident Interview, with the psych doc.

  “Nothing to worry about, just protecting the department’s ass, that’s all,” the chief had told him, patting him on the shoulder that morning he’d welcomed him back. Normally a PII was reserved for officers involved in critical incidents during work, not outside. However, given the severity of what had occurred, the department needed a piece of paper to show Brogan had been fully evaluated, just in case something unfortunate occurred, like Brogan blew the wrong guy’s head off. Such things were known to happen in his line of work.

  Now the guys in the unit were saying he should go for a
nother test. That would only waste time. Right now, the only thing he cared about was Henderson signing his damned release form.

  “Chief, I’m not crazy. You know that. With Sarah and Jessica gone, though, I can’t do this anymore. Besides, I’m getting tired of all this…”

  Brogan let his voice trail off. There were things best not talked about in an officially recorded conversation. He knew there were many others who felt just like him. Sick of the rules the Strata State imposed on its citizens that each year ratcheted ever tighter. The boxed-up lives they led, numbed out on the latest VR app plugged into the back of their skulls.

  You call that entertainment?

  The apps were addictive too, physically addictive, no matter what anyone said. Brogan had brain cramps for two weeks after he’d cold-turkeyed on them. As for the nightmares, he didn’t ever want to go through that again.

  The Great Global War had changed nothing. Things were right back to where they were before. Worse, even. Now there was the Strata State, an even more restrictive society than before. Slowly yet inexorably, the apparatus of the old state had rebuilt itself into an even greater monster.

  One thing had changed, though. The Outzone. A choice too dangerous for most to consider. Not Brogan.

  “It’s okay, Frank. I understand,” Henderson said gently. “So look, what do you plan on taking with you? The State don’t allow you to take much these days. In another couple of years, they’ll most likely process folk buck naked through the Scangate.”

  Brogan was relieved the chief looked to be on board again.

  “A pair of Glocks and a rifle,” he said. “Plus enough gold to keep me going till I figure out what the hell I’m doing. State can keep the rest.”

  Digital currency was no use in the Outzone, and twenty ounces of gold or its equivalent in silver were all that was permitted to be taken during the expatriation process. Whatever other assets a person owned became property of the State. It made sure it was a stark and irrevocable decision.

  “Then what? Get affiliated? Join a tribe, a gang, a clan? Best way to survive, they say.”

  Brogan shook his head. “No. I don’t plan on staying in any one particular place long enough for that.”

  The chief studied him carefully. “A drifter, huh? Well, there’s plenty of them around, I hear.”

  “Something like that. I’ll keep moving from town to town until somebody somewhere decides to blow my head off.”

  A serious look came over Henderson’s face. “Frank, you’re one of the best in the unit, maybe the best. But there’s something about you that always seems to find trouble. Never could quite put my finger on why. You’ll need to watch out for that. The Outzone’s not a forgiving place.”

  “I know.”

  The two had been over all this before, dancing around the obvious. The chief knew full well why he was going to the Outzone, he just didn’t want to be on record acknowledging it. Henderson knew how to play politics, and he didn’t want any blowback on this.

  “Look, Chief, can we do this?”

  Henderson stared across the desk at Brogan, then leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You know I could stop this if I wanted to, don’t you? But it’s only going to delay the inevitable. We both know that. Besides, you’d hold a grudge against me forever,” he added with a wry smile.

  The chief clicked open the cyPad in front of him, flicked down a couple of screens, then slid the tablet across the desk, handing Brogan his digital pen. Barely reading what was in front of him, Brogan signed his name, pressed his index finger over a square box at the bottom of the screen, then returned the tablet to Henderson.

  The chief scrawled his name under Brogan’s signature, then tapped through a series of confirmation screens while Brogan held his breath. Finally the chief made the last click.

  Switching the cyPad off, Henderson looked up at him. “There. It’s done. You have been honorably discharged from the New Haven Special Reaction Force. I just hope you don’t regret it.”

  Brogan felt an emotion trapped deep inside him release. It surged through his body, its intensity catching him by surprise.

  “Thanks, Chief,” he said quietly.

  For a moment the two men sat there looking awkwardly at each other. There wasn’t much more to say.

  “So what’s next, the ‘brain scoop’?” Henderson asked, breaking the silence.

  “Yep. Can’t say I’m looking forward to that. Guess I’m scared of what they might find in there.”

  Henderson cracked a smile. “I think it might be more of a case of what’s missing.” He glanced over at the red LED light flashing silently on his desk phone. It was the third time it had come on since Brogan entered the office. The chief’s work was stacking up.

  The two men looked at each other once more. Standing up, Henderson stuck his hand out across the desk.

  “Well, guess that about wraps it up. So long, drifter. We’re going to miss you around here. Don’t forget to send a postcard.”

  Brogan smiled. He stood up too, reaching out his hand. “Sure, if I figure out a way to do that.”

  He had made it over to the door and pulled it open when Henderson called out to him. “Frank, you’ll never find them. You know that, don’t you?”

  Brogan turned slowly around. “Find who, Chief?”

  “The men who killed Sarah and Jessica. You got no leads, no names, no faces, nothing.”

  Finally the chief had brought it out into the open. Something about that gave Brogan a sense of satisfaction, even though he suspected Henderson had already shut off the video camera.

  “I know,” he said. “But the Outzone’s got plenty of people just like them. Maybe that will do.”

  He stepped out of the office and closed the door softly behind him. The chief was a good man. Brogan knew he would never see him again.

  Chapter 2

  By the mid-21st century, huge advances had been made in the field of neural implant technology. In 2032, a brain-machine-interface, also known as a digital cerebellum, had been developed to mimic natural neuronal activity, converting digital information into instructions the brain could understand.

  The first generation of these devices only allowed digitally-held memory to be accessed by the brain. While it was an extraordinary achievement, it was only the first step.

  Less than twenty years later, the latest generation of BMIs could program the brain for all types of neural activities: downloading learning programs, muscle memory drills, and the acceleration of real-time cognitive functions.

  All this proved useful to both the military and law enforcement, and soon all new sign-ups were compelled to have such devices fitted. It specifically said so, in minute digital ink, on the last page of the enlistment form. Brogan, for one, was damned sure he had missed it.

  ***

  These days, the “brain scoop” was a routine medical procedure, and the operation to remove Brogan’s BMI took less than thirty minutes. Its removal was a required step in his expatriation process.

  First of all, because it was State property and they wanted it back. Secondly, because in the Outzone, only deep-cover agents had such implants fitted, and there were street-made devices that could detect them. Agents were unwelcome in the Outzone. Once discovered, they rarely lived long.

  When he awoke from the anesthetic, Brogan felt a certain lightness inside his head. Like something insidious had been removed from deep within his psyche. As he lay on the bed gradually coming to full consciousness, he wondered whether that sensation was simply a reaction to the medical procedure.

  He touched the top of his skull gingerly, where under a bandage, a tiny hole had been drilled for the robotic keyhole procedure. He felt nauseous, and could sense a headache coming on. Big time.

  A short time later, Dr. Weiss, the surgeon who had presided over the operation, entered the room. He saw Brogan was awake and came over to the bed.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Great,” Brogan lied.
He swung his feet off the bed and sat up groggily. “Thanks Doc, I needed that like a hole in the head.”

  The surgeon smiled. Brogan’s crack was a running joke deep cover agents made before being sent into the Outzone.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Everything went smoothly. No complications. You may have dizzy spells, perhaps some nausea for the next couple of days, but that’s all perfectly normal.”

  “So long as my brain doesn’t start dripping out my ears, I think I can handle it.”

  “You’ll be fine. How long will you be in the Outzone?” the surgeon asked.

  “For good. I’m on a one-way ticket.”

  Dr. Weiss stared at him, a puzzled expression on his face.

  “I’m not an agent,” Brogan explained. “I’m expatriating.”

  “Expatriating?” the surgeon said, staring at him incredulously. “Your form says you’re a lieutenant in the SRF.”

  “Ex-SRF. I’ve resigned.”

  Weiss shook his head. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Only manual workers from S-1 and 2 leave for the Outzone. What on Earth led you to make a decision like that?”

  Brogan’s head was starting to pound. Too much thinking already. “Just plumb crazy, I guess,” he said as he got up from off the bed.

  The surgeon put a hand on his shoulder. “You should rest a couple more hours. Then I’ll do another quick scan, make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Sorry, Doc, can’t do that. You’re expensive and the State’s not paying for this. I am.”

  Brogan walked unsteadily over to the closet and began taking out his clothes.

  Dr. Weiss stared at him. “You know it’s the Wild West out there, don’t you?”

  Brogan had put on his pants and was fixing the buckle. He dropped both hands to his sides, then wiggled his fingers.