Breakout Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Breakout

  Copyright

  Dedications

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Corbin reached over and gripped one of her hands with his own, startling her. “You don’t need to be nervous. If I was gonna attack you, don’t you think I would have by now?”

  Monarch blanched. Of course he would bring up the elephant in the room, mannerless oaf that he was. “Why would I know that? I know absolutely nothing about you or what you are capable of. I know I don’t trust strangers.”

  “Especially strangers who are convicts, huh?” Corbin said softly, and for a moment Monarch thought she detected hurt in his voice. But then his tone shifted, becoming aggressive, raspy. “I might as well be a caveman or an ape, is that it? A male with no scruples or impulse control. One who acts on his basest sexual urges whenever he feels like it, right?”

  Breakout

  by

  Trish Arcangelo

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Breakout

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Trish Arcangelo

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2015

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0444-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedications

  This book is dedicated to my

  strong, witty, beautiful and brilliant nieces.

  You are all heroines in your own right

  and inspire me daily.

  ~*~

  It is also dedicated to my father-in-law, Ralph,

  who passed away shortly before I sold this book.

  He taught me to always be generous,

  tell a great story,

  prepare food with love,

  and remember family is everything.

  Thank you for letting me be the daughter you never had.

  Chapter 1

  Sometime in the near future…

  Monarch watched the bus crash, stunned as the first vehicle she’d seen in weeks careened off the curved road. The sounds of screeching tires and twisting metal sent a shiver of foreboding up her spine and, though she was already walking well within the shadows of the tree line, she backed further into the inky depths and picked up her pace.

  Move your ass, Winslow.

  Monarch readjusted her heavy back pack and turned to give another glance at the white bus, which had rolled and landed on its side, halfway into the ditch across the road. It sat eerily still, in stark juxtaposition to its bat-out-of-hell speed moments before. Correctional Institutions Division was printed in black block letters along the side next to a round state seal that read Texas Department of Criminal Justice.

  Those words gave her chills.

  She was less than a mile from the abandoned mobile home she’d been using the past several weeks since her car broke down. And though the close proximity to whatever potential trouble might be sitting in that overturned bus made her want to gather her meager belongings and flee as fast as possible, Monarch just couldn’t do that without a car. She wouldn’t give up her shelter and supply stash and subject herself to weeks of wandering vulnerable. No, she would stay here and continue to make her daytime journeys on foot searching for a car with a miraculous set of keys in the ignition.

  Besides, for all she knew, anyone in that bus died in the impact or were, at least, severely injured. Plus, she couldn’t know if the person or persons were escaped convicts. They could just as easily be C.I.D. employees right? Or maybe even a random someone who found a prison bus with those seemingly unattainable miracle keys in it?

  Sure, whatever.

  Her attempts at optimistic thoughts quickly faded as a disturbing one crept in. What if there was a decent person suffering, injured, in that bus right now? If that was a possibility, she should render aid, shouldn’t she? She should try to do something to help, even at her own risk, if for no other reason than to preserve her own humanity…

  She kept walking.

  Feeling like an ass for doing nothing, Monarch forced herself to keep three goals in mind: get home, keep weapons handy, and sacrifice any hope of sleep tonight.

  “How much worse can this get anyway?” Monarch muttered to herself for possibly the hundredth time since hell arrived on earth. Then she cursed herself for asking it. If she’d learned one thing, it was that there were many questions one didn’t really want the answer to.

  Her life before the P virus swept the globe was like a distant memory. It barely even seemed real, that “normal” life where her problems consisted of bad online dating experiences and too much credit card debt. What she wouldn’t give now for those stresses.

  The chaos and fear in the first weeks after the outbreak had now morphed into an existence of loneliness and despair, of eating cold Spaghettios out of a can pilfered from an abandoned gas station and taking cold baths in water she had to haul inside in buckets after collecting it in makeshift rain barrels.

  If I can just make it to Austin…

  Before radio transmissions ceased, she heard rumors of a settlement in Austin at a place called Camp Malloy, the headquarters of the Texas National Guard. Since her brother and niece lived in Austin, she still held out a shred of hope they had survived the outbreak and made it to the safety of the settlement. If she could get there she could possibly reunite with her loved ones. And live within a community that had some semblance of normalcy, maybe even a community with a plan to rebuild.

  But here she was, about a hundred miles northwest of Austin, stranded and alone with no idea what to do. Add to that a bus full of potentially murderous convicts sitting a mile from her house and what did you have?

  A real shit sandwich.

  Monarch broke into a trotting jog as the mobile home came into view, cutting across the thigh-high expanse of long-unmowed grass. She just wanted to get inside and lock the door behind her, maybe throw some furniture in front of it for good measure. The sun was setting fast and night-time always made her nervous. The world after an apocalyptic plague was a lawless place. Desperate people could be driven to do desperate things.

  She made it to the covered front porch the original owners had built on the home and burst through the door. Not for the first time she thought about the people who built that porch, the adorable little family who had made a life here, and who were most certainly all dead now. Their family portrait hung over the fireplace, two cherub-faced boys, a woman with a soccer mom haircut, and a barrel-chested man with a warm smile. The boys’ artwork from years past still covered the refrigerator, thanksgiving turkeys made out of little hands dipped in paint. Monarch wept for them that first night and many nights since, just as she wept for her family and friends.

  With the door safel
y locked she turned, set her backpack on the floor, and pushed the sofa in front of the door. Once that was done she made sure the curtains were pulled tight and went into the kitchen with her backpack so she could put away the items gathered on her excursion. The gas station down the road had been a life saver, its shelves fully stocked. She guessed she had about three weeks of food saved up, along with various other supplies. It was a good feeling. But it also made her and this house very valuable targets for any threat who might come along.

  As she set the cans of tuna and pasta on the counter, her mind wandered again to the bus wreckage. Who was on that bus? Did they survive the crash? Even now were violent men prowling the woods in search of shelter?

  For the last few weeks she had allowed herself a relaxing evening routine of a glass of wine, a couple of candles, and a few chapters from an old romance novel. Wine from a gas station wasn’t the best, but it made her feel normal, if only for a brief time. Monarch was pissed at the nameless, faceless thugs in that bus who were robbing her of the one joy she had left.

  She wasn’t the same woman she’d been before. Gone was the carefree twenty-five-year-old with a fledgling career in accounting and a trendy one-bedroom apartment in downtown Dallas. Gone were the aspirations, the hopes, the life-building. She’d spent the better part of the last six months on her own, just surviving, at first by dodging the dying and then by dodging the living, scraping together food and supplies. Her only goal now was to stay alive, if one could even call it a goal. It was really just an instinct that, in all her frailty, she couldn’t seem to shake.

  When the sun set she ate her dinner of tuna and crackers and washed it down with a bottled water. And then she took a seat in the rocking chair in front of the window, grabbed her knife, and waited.

  God, post-apocalyptic life sucked.

  ****

  Someone was outside.

  Fear made Monarch’s stomach muscles clench as she heard the footfalls on the wooden porch. What was she going to do? Yes, she’d managed to survive these months despite odds stacked against her. But one-on-one in a battle against a man, or men? Dangerous ones who might mean her harm? She would lose.

  It didn’t help that she was absolutely exhausted. She’d been awake for hours, watching, waiting, wondering. Now, probably an hour before the dawn, her greatest fear was materializing.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  She jumped as the knock at the door echoed in the silent room, loud and ominous. Monarch gripped her knife tighter, readying to fight for her life if need be.

  Bang! Bang!

  She swallowed hard and tried to peer through the crack in the curtain without being seen. It was dark, the quarter moon offering little help, but she could tell the shadowy figure was tall. And large.

  She didn’t know what to do. If this man was hurt wouldn’t he call for help? Should she stay silent and wait for him to break in and hope the element of surprise would give her the advantage? Or did she yell out and tell him the house was occupied, that she was armed, and that they needed to leave or else?

  As the seconds stretched Monarch panicked and went with the latter. “Get the hell off my porch or I will shoot!” She tried to make her voice sound strong, but it came out wobbly. “I am loaded for bear and you are trespassing on my property!”

  It seemed like an eternity went by with no response, then finally she heard shuffling as whoever it was moved to the porch steps. Were they leaving? Could it be that easy? Monarch felt light-headed as she came down from the adrenaline rush. Her hand shook so much she could barely hold the knife.

  Thump, thump, thump, BANG!

  Monarch screamed as the intruder slammed into the front door, the wood splintering and cracking as it gave way easily under the force. The sofa she had worked so hard to move in front of the door earlier was pushed aside like it was made of feathers. She turned to run, ready to flee out the back door, but before she made it two steps she was grabbed from behind.

  Monarch screamed again and struggled against the steel-like arms that wrapped around her. “Let me go!” She slashed wildly with the knife as best she could with her arm trapped against her side, until the man reached down and pried it out of her hand.

  The stranger leaned in and spoke into her ear, his voice chilly and gruff. “Lady, I’m not gonna hurt you unless you make me. Stop struggling.”

  “Screw you!” Monarch was practically hysterical and quickly growing tired from the struggles which were doing her no good at all. “Get your hands off me!” She swung her now empty fist, connecting with the man’s thigh.

  “Stop moving, goddammit!” The man yelled out, his leg buckling as they both fell to the floor. She ended up on her right side, but her landing was cushioned by the beefy arm still wrapped around her. As soon as they hit the floor she began struggling again. She freed her left arm and swung, hitting his left thigh again, earning another shout of pain from the man. Quickly realizing that his left leg must be injured, she planned to exploit it.

  But as she turned the man seemed to read her mind and shoved her beneath him, pinning her to the floor. “Not so fast, lady.”

  Her worst fears came true as her wrists were held down and she looked up to see the intruder laying over her. The man wore a bright orange C.I.D. inmate jumpsuit. He was a criminal. He was huge. And he had her right where he wanted her.

  Monarch’s eyes filled with angry tears. “Don’t hurt me!”

  “Don’t try anything and I won’t,” the man commanded through gritted teeth. Monarch studied him, hoping to glean just how evil he was by appearance alone. His hair was blond and cropped short against his head. He had an angular jaw covered by a slight beard, ice-blue eyes, and lips that were now formed into a rigid line.

  Monarch stopped struggling when he didn’t move, finally determining that if he planned to rape or kill her he was at least putting that plan on hold. For now. “What do you want?”

  “I need help,” he finally said, eyeing her suspiciously. “And if you can promise not to try to escape again I won’t hurt you.”

  “Will you let me up first?” Monarch asked, growing increasingly uncomfortable with their bodies pressed so close together. The bulge between this dangerous man’s legs was pressed much too tightly against her crotch.

  He didn’t answer but released her hands and rolled to sit, grimacing as he did so. Monarch looked down to try to see the extent of the injuries to his leg but it was too dark to get a clear picture. “I’m lighting a few candles, okay?”

  He nodded. Monarch lit the two candles on the coffee table then turned back toward him, eyeing him warily. Her knife was still laying a little bit away from her and she noted that too, wondering if she could grab it while he was preoccupied.

  “Don’t even think about it, lady.”

  Monarch’s gaze swung away from the knife and back toward him, seeing that his were trained on her face. He grabbed the knife and shoved it behind him, out of her reach.

  Dammit! This isn’t amateur hour!

  She knew she had to smarten up if she wanted to make it through this. She glanced down, finally able to see the injury to his leg, a long deep gash along his outer thigh. His jumpsuit was soaked in blood around the wound. “I take it this is what you need help with?” She pointed toward the injury.

  “You’re a fast learner,” the man bit out.

  “You don’t have to be an asshole,” Monarch fired back. “You are, after all, in my house.”

  He looked around, obviously noticing the family picture over the mantel. “Doesn’t look like it’s your house.”

  She stiffened, wishing she could reach that knife and jam it right in his face. “Well, I was here first. Which is pretty much as good as a deed in the apocalypse.”

  “Touché.” He said, his eyes meeting hers again, causing a flutter deep in Monarch’s stomach.

  Nerves.

  “My name’s Corbin.”

  “I’m Monarch.”

  “Monarch?” Corbin practically snorted. �
�What kind of name is that?”

  Monarch really didn’t like this guy. Screw him and the bus he rode in on. “My name. Not that it’s any of your damn business but my mother had a thing for royalty. My brother’s name is Duke. And I don’t really think the person in the orange jumpsuit should be throwing any stones,” she snapped, defensive of the name her mother chose so lovingly. Her mother had died of uterine cancer when Monarch was a freshman in college.

  Corbin jerked toward her and Monarch flinched, afraid that she had gone too far. What was the matter with her anyway? This wasn’t some IT programmer she was having a bad date with at Applebee’s. This was an escaped convict who had just forced his way into her house. If she didn’t keep her snarky comments to a minimum she could wind up dead.

  “I’m not gonna hit you,” he growled.

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Monarch hissed, angry because she was afraid. “Would you mind telling me what you were in prison for?”

  “Yes, I would mind.”

  Great. He was a rapist. Or a murderer. Or a murdering rapist. Monarch’s heart began to race. Her gaze moved up and down, noting just how large he appeared beneath his baggy jumpsuit. “Can you please just tell me what you want from me so we can get on with this?”

  Corbin cursed under his breath and pinned her with his stare. “Look, lady, I may be hard up. Really hard up. But I’m not a rapist.”

  Monarch scooted backward a few feet. “Do you just want me to help you with your wound?”

  “For starters, yes,” He said and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

  For the first time Monarch noticed how haggard he looked. She could well imagine he had been through hell and was probably as exhausted as she was. But that was his problem.

  “I need to stay here until this heals a bit. Get some clothes to replace this jumpsuit, some supplies, then be on my way. A week at most.”

  Monarch paled. “Do I have a choice?”

  He shook his head.

  “Fine. But then I need something in return.”

  Corbin looked at her but said nothing, waiting on her terms.