Undefeated World: A Post ApocalypticDystopian Survival Fiction Series (The EMP Survivor Series Book 5) (The EMP Survivor Series (5 Book series) 1) by Chris Pike

Author:Chris Pike [Pike, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-02-14T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

For the past thirty minutes or so, Petya Ruslan had stood outside in the dark, hidden in the shadows of a massive pine tree in the dense East Texas woods near the town of Hemphill. His pupils became large and black as his eyes became accustomed to the low light. Though he had a working flashlight in his pocket, flicking it on would have alerted someone to his presence.

Darkened clouds floated across the moon, casting an eerie midnight blue light upon the land. Something scurried in the brush and Ruslan’s eyes flicked to the movement. A raccoon waddled along a path, stopped, and lifted its nose at the odd odor of the man. The nocturnal animal couldn’t see the statue of a man, but sensed his presence and the danger. The animal hastily chose another path.

Ruslan slunk away from the cover of the night, following the path he had carefully chosen the day before. Satisfied he hadn’t been seen, he sprinted to the building. Ruslan removed a lock picking case from his inside pocket, and using the specialty tools he knew so well, he clicked open the locked door. The room was dark and smelled of several days of uninhabited human use. His eyes swept over the room and took in its contents. Nothing had been moved since the first time he had made a visit. The room was furnished with a table, a few chairs, a filing cabinet. Pictures hung askew on the walls. An LED lantern sat dark on the table.

He eased the door shut without making a sound. Hugging the wall, he slid to the window and glanced outside. It was dark and there was no movement. Not even a dog barked.

Good.

He hadn’t been followed.

Taking the tilt wand of the blinds between his thumb and index finger, he twisted the flimsy plastic slats shut. The clacking of plastic on the window echoed in the sparsely furnished room. He stilled, listening for any movement or indication he had been heard.

Spying a chair, he picked it up and set it in a corner where the shadows were thick and heavy. His black clothes melted into the shadows.

The only fresh air the room had seen was when Ruslan opened the door and slid in without making a sound. A cat couldn’t have made less noise. Once, when he had been in Mexico, the locals had nicknamed him el gato–the cat–for his ability to watch and wait unseen.

He waited.

Ruslan was good at waiting. The thrill of knowing his prey would be scared witless once he made his presence known excited him. Even more exciting was the knife he carried. His hand went to it and he felt the outline of it in the scabbard. Satisfied he was alone, he practiced withdrawing it and making mock plunges into soft flesh.

He estimated he had been waiting for over an hour. His ears searched the nighttime sounds for a clue his contact had appeared. Footsteps, a cough, or crickets suddenly quieting.

All normal.

Crickets chirped their nightly calls, a dog barked, then others joined in.

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