365 Days Hunted Read online

  365 DAYS HUNTED

  by

  Nancy Isaak

  Smashwords Edition

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  EXCEPTIONS: Brief portions of this text may be quoted for reviewing purposes.

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION: This book is copyrighted material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed, or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission by its author and copyright holder. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation, or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and copyright holder’s rights, and those responsible may be held liable accordingly.

  DISCLAIMER: Further, this book is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are being used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2017 Nancy Isaak

  Cover Design: 2017 N. Isaak

  For my brother, Jack.

  A natural story-teller, a master of words.

  You’ve always deserved better than the dark world you’ve been given. That you have managed to light your own way under such difficult circumstances makes me extraordinarily proud to be your sister.

  May you always remember.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  NOVEMBER

  DECEMBER

  JANUARY

  FEBRUARY

  MARCH

  APRIL

  MAY

  JUNE

  JULY

  AUGUST

  SEPTEMBER

  OCTOBER

  About the Author

  Preview Excerpt: 365 Days At War

  Preview Excerpt: Anarchy

  End Note

  NOVEMBER

  HOW IT ALL BEGAN

  It began like a wild adventure.

  Like something straight out of the movies.

  Suddenly, it was just us guys and we were free to do whatever we wanted, however we wanted, whenever we wanted.

  Because they were all gone—adults, little kids—girls.

  In some ways it was like a dream.

  Except—it wasn’t.

  But I guess I should start at the beginning.

  So, here's what I put in my journal, starting on that very first day—the day that would forever change all of our lives.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #1

  Let’s start with the basics—and basically—I’m a pretty normal guy.

  Brown hair, blue eyes, 5’9”, 142 lbs.

  Average student, great family, good amount of friends.

  Totally normal—that’s me.

  * * * *

  My name is Jacob Gordon Riker and I am 16-years old.

  I live in Agoura Hills, which is a suburban community just outside of Los Angeles in California. I am in the 10th Grade at Agoura High, where I’m a fair-to-middling student.

  Most of my spare time is spent hiking, biking, and surfing. I’m getting pretty good on the board, actually—and have placed in a couple of the smaller surfing contests around the state.

  Guess that won’t be happening any more.

  * * * *

  I’m not exactly sure why I feel compelled to write this all down.

  Let’s face it—there’s a good chance no one will ever be reading this.

  Most likely, I will eventually die and these pages will wither and crumble—adding to the dust and decay of what I’m beginning to suspect will be a hell of a crazy new world.

  Still, one of the things my mom is always drumming into my head is—and I can hear her voice saying it right now—‘those who can must always bear witness for those who can’t’.

  You’d have to know my mom to understand what she means.

  See, before she had me and my two brothers, my mom was a reporter. She kind of specialized in traveling to poorer countries and investigating the horrible things that were happening there to women and children.

  In fact, one of her stories actually got her nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.

  It was about this fake adoption ring in Bangladesh. Children there were actually being sold to men in Denmark for disgusting reasons I’d rather not write down here. But I just wanted to mention it because I’m so extraordinarily proud of my mom.

  Because of her story, the fake adoption ring was broken up, over thirty men were arrested in five countries and—most importantly, the thing that truly mattered to my mom—dozens and dozens of children were saved.

  * * * *

  Sometimes, I think of those children.

  I imagine them remembering my mom and loving her for the courage she showed—for traveling to dangerous countries, for going head-to-head with the worst of the worst. And even though most of them have never met her, I like to imagine those children thinking of my mom as their hero.

  Because of what she wrote—because of her words.

  One time, I asked my mom why she had stopped investigative reporting when she married my dad. I mean, she had been a runner-up for the Pulitzer Prize and my mom gave it all up to get married and have kids!

  It just seemed so wrong to me.

  But that day when I asked, my mom told me that—sometimes—when you live your life ‘in the midst of chaos and inhumanity’, there finally comes a moment when you just want everything to be normal again.

  When you just want to be normal again.

  I think I’m maybe starting to get it now.

  * * * *

  Dear Mom,

  Wherever you are, please be safe and take care of dad. You know that you’re stronger than him and that he’ll need you to get him through whatever this is.

  Kieran and Rhys are with me. We’re taking care of each other.

  I love you Mom…and I love Dad.

  And I miss both of you guys.

  We all miss you.

  Love, Jacob.

  DEAD LIKE BETSY

  The world changed on November 1st—the day after Halloween.

  7:28 a.m.—the exact moment my Honda Element died.

  With my two brothers—Kieran and Rhys—I was driving back from an early morning surf session at Zuma Beach in Malibu. We had camped the previous night at Leo Carrillo State Park—Rhys in the back of the Honda, Kieran and I in our sleeping bags on the ground outside.

  Now we were tired, smelling of surf and sand—and looking forward to a shower, Dad’s waffles, and a couple of hours of shut-eye.

  It wasn’t to be.

  Coming through the westernmost canyon tunnel along Kanan-Dume Road, my Honda didn’t just cough and sputter—it simply stopped.

  Dead—immediately.

  Although it did continue to roll—straight down the hill!

  * * * *

  Kieran and Rhys started yelling; meanwhile, I frantically clicked the ignition key back and forth.

  “Dude, put it in neutral!”

  “Kieran, it doesn’t work that way,” I barked, flipping the sun visor up, so that I could see better as the car gathered speed, heading into the downward curve.

  “We’re going to crash!” screeched Rhys, from the back seat.

  “We’re not going to crash,” I said. “Just chill, you guys. We’ll slow down when the road starts curving up.”

  “Pull over now!” ordered Kieran, from beside me. He was fourteen and always thought he knew better than anyone else.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m going too fast. If I hit the gravel at this angle we might flip over. Just give Betsy (yes, that was my car’s name) a moment.”

  Sure enough, we curved into the upgrade and the Honda immediately began slowing down. When I was certain that we wouldn’t flip, I maneuvered the car onto the gravel at the side of the road.

  “A
re you far enough over?” asked Rhys, worried. “I mean, it looks like the tail end is still in the road. You’re gonna’ get us hit.”

  “We’re fine,” I said, placing the Honda in park and setting the emergency brake.

  “You probably need a new battery,” Kieran told me.

  “What I need,” I sighed, “is a car that isn’t Mom’s old tank.”

  “It never died on Mom like this,” Rhys said. “And she drove it just fine for ten years. I’ll bet you did something wrong.”

  I turned around and gave Rhys a dirty look. He was sitting in the back seat of the Honda, our surfboards jammed up near his head.

  “Just saying,” said Rhys, holding up his hands.

  Kieran leaned over to check the gas gauge. “You’re probably out of gas.”

  “I filled up yesterday. The tank’s three-quarters full.” Reaching across the dashboard, I pulled my phone out of the charging outlet.

  “Who are you going to call? Reception is bad in the canyon,” warned Rhys. “You know you probably won’t be able to get anyone.”

  Sighing, I turned around to face my youngest brother. At 11-years old, he was at that irritating stage where he truly enjoyed being a thorn in my backside. “You got anything good to say, bud?” I asked. “Because you’re kind of becoming a bit of a Debbie Downer back there.”

  “Well, I do need to take a piss,” he grinned.

  “Dude, there were crappers on the beach! You said you didn’t have to go.”

  “I didn’t then,” he shrugged. “I do now.”

  “Go for it.” I motioned to the semi-wilderness all around the car.

  Rhys looked horrified. He said just one word—“Bugs!”

  Kieran broke out in laughter. “You’re such a wuss!”

  “They’re disgusting!” Rhys said, angrily. “They poke and they bite and, if you’re not careful, they can climb up that little hole straight into your dick.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Kieran scoffed.

  “It’s not!” Rhys insisted. “I read it on the net.”

  While they continued to argue, I turned the ignition key back and forth.

  Click, click.

  “Sorry, Rhys,” I sighed, giving up. “But you’ve got no choice. It’s outside or hold it until Triple-A gets here and gives us a jump.”

  “You think it might be the battery?” Kieran asked me.

  “That would be my guess.”

  My wallet was in the side pocket of the Honda’s door. I pulled it out and turned to the sleeve that held my AAA card.

  In the back seat, meanwhile, Rhys groaned, “Kieran, come with me!”

  “We’re not girls,” said Kieran. “You can take a piss by yourself.”

  “But you can watch for bugs.”

  “Hitching a ride on your dick?! I don’t think so.” Kieran wadded up a piece of paper and threw it back at Rhys, hitting him in the face. “Just go behind those bushes there. You’ll be fine.”

  Reluctantly, Rhys got out and walked slowly toward the chaparral just in front of the car. As he passed around the other side of the bushes, Kieran waited for exactly the right moment. Then, he leaned out of the door and yelled at his younger brother. “Don’t forget about the ticks! You know those blood suckers can jump from a bush to your dick in about half a second, right?”

  Rhys practically fell over in his rush to finish and zip up his pants.

  Meanwhile, Kieran burst into hysterical laughter, turning towards me. “Man, that was too easy.”

  I wasn’t laughing, though.

  Seeing the look on my face, Kieran turned serious. “What is it?” he asked, concerned.

  I held up my phone, so he could see the empty screen. “It’s dead.”

  “Like Betsy?”

  “Exactly like Betsy.”

  “Is that even possible?” Kieran asked, frowning. “Could Betsy have maybe drained it when she died? They were both, like connected through the charger.”

  “Sure hope so,” I said.

  Because the alternative was terrifying.

  * * * *

  “Man, this is weird,” said Kieran. “We haven’t seen one car coming either way. Not even the Beach Bus and that should have passed us by now.”

  “Maybe they’ve stopped the traffic at both ends of the canyon,” I suggested. “They do that sometimes when there’s been a bad accident.”

  The three of us were walking up Kanan-Dume Road toward Agoura Hills. On either side of us were semi-arid slopes covered with chaparral and spindly trees. In the distance, we could see houses—the mini-mansions of actors and entertainment industry executives that dotted these canyons.

  “I hope our boards are okay,” fretted Rhys.

  “They’ll be fine,” I said. “They’re locked in the car.”

  Behind us, Kanan-Dume curved and angled, downward toward Point Dume and the Pacific Ocean. In front of us, the road meandered through the Santa Monica Mountains—up this hill, down that one—before it finally coiled down into the Conejo Valley and our home in Agoura Hills.

  Kanan-Dume Road—from ocean to valley, a distance of approximately twelve miles.

  And we still had almost eight miles to go—2 ½ hours walking, tops.

  * * * *

  “It’s really quiet,” added Kieran. “Have you noticed that? Like creepy-quiet. I don’t hear any traffic noises anywhere.”

  “It’s deceptive in the canyons,” I told him. “Sometimes things sound like they’re miles away, sometimes they’re right next to you.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t hear anything…nothing at all.”

  “I hear birds chirping,” said Rhys. “Lots of birds.”

  Kieran reached over and whacked him on the head. “I’m talking about cars, dumbass.”

  “It’s still early,” I suggested. “And it’s the day after Halloween. Maybe it’s just a slow day.”

  But I didn’t believe it.

  Frankly, I was just as creeped out as Kieran.

  * * * *

  “My feet hurt,” Rhys whined.

  We had just crested a hill, beginning our descent to where Mulholland Highway eventually crosses over Kanan-Dume. I could see Rocky Oak Park on one side of the intersection, across from one of the area’s many vineyards.

  “If you need the bathroom,” I suggested, “there’s a john in the park.”

  “A little late for that,” Rhys said. “But maybe if there’s a ranger there, we can use their phone to call Triple-A.”

  “We’d have a better chance just knocking on someone’s door,” said Kieran. “There’s hardly ever a ranger in that park.”

  Suddenly—we heard a loud CRASH!!

  It was followed by a tinkling noise—as if glass was being shattered.

  “What is that?” asked Rhys—his head whipping around, searching.

  “I think it came from down the hillside, on the left,” said Kieran.

  There were boulders spaced all along the edge of the road. We shimmied through them to peer down at a large gabled house in the valley below.

  A flash of orange immediately caught our attention.

  “Oh-oh,” murmured Rhys. “That doesn’t look good.”

  “Get down!” I grabbed my brothers—one by each arm—and pulled them toward the ground. We knelt there, hidden among the rocks, watching.

  “Are those guys who I think they are?” asked Kieran—keeping his voice low.

  “It looks like it,” I nodded.

  Down below, a big Hispanic guy in his late teens, picked up a rock and chucked it through one of the gabled house’s enormous front windows.

  CRASH!

  Two other guys—one white, one African-American, also in their late teens—stood nearby, laughing and cheering him on.

  “How come they’re wearing orange, Jacob?” asked Rhys. “Like even their pants are orange.”

  “They’re criminals, doofus,” hissed Kieran. “Don’t you know anything?”

  “Criminals?!” Rhys looked terrified.
<
br />   “They’re from that juvie camp, the one over where Mulholland turns into Encinal Canyon,” I explained. “They must have escaped or something.”

  “If they’re juvenile delinquents,” asked Rhys, “shouldn’t we call the cops, then?”

  “Sure, moron,” said Kieran. “With what phone?”

  “Oh,” said Rhys, in a small voice.

  “Crap!” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Look—over there. You can see them through the trees. There are more guys coming up from Mulholland.”

  * * * *

  A group of seven or eight teenage boys emerged from a strand of alders—all dressed in orange—walking toward the first three. They were laughing and pushing each other, their excited voices echoing off the canyon’s walls.

  As we watched, one of the biggest guys suddenly turned and cold-cocked a smaller kid beside him. The boy went down, staggering under the attack. Moments later, the other guys in the group surrounded the smaller boy—kicking and punching.

  “What the hell?!” cried Kieran, horrified.

  The same boy who threw the first punch suddenly pulled out a large knife. He slashed downward, again and again. From our angle and distance, we couldn’t see exactly what he was connecting with, but each time his knife rose up—it was redder and redder.

  Beside me, Rhys began to whimper.