Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) by Mike Sheridan

only the shirts on our backs.”
    Staunton scratched his head in amazement. “Jeez, guess this ‘ol square right here just don’t hang around in the right circles.”
    Steve laughed. “Better that way, Dan. Trust me.”
    “Anyone get hurt during the robbery?” Brogan pressed, staring from one brother to the other.
    Jake shook his head vehemently. “No way, man. Truth is, the truck never really got hijacked in the first place. The driver was in on it. Me and Steve never ratted him out. He was our friend.”
    “But you had guns, right?”
    “Damn straight we did!” Steve exclaimed. “Who’s going to go over to the Outzone with fifty grand worth of whiskey and no guns?”
    Brogan grinned. “Silly question.”
    Gazing around the square, he saw that everyone had dispersed. While they had been talking, some of the departing men and women had patted him on the shoulder or shook his hand as they had left. It was time to get going.
    Brogan felt comfortable with the two misguided brothers. He made his decision. Looking down at the young boy still waiting patiently beside him, he said, “Okay, kid. So what’s the name of this hotel you’re taking us to?”

Chapter 11
    Cloud Valley, The North Mountains, Outzone
     
    Bose had been hunting for several hours, so far without success. Earlier that day, he had left the Cloud Valley camp nestled in the foothills of the North Mountains and gradually made his way higher, the air growing colder as he moved stealthily through the forest.
    He checked his watch. It was late afternoon. Soon he would have to turn back. When the sun passed over the triple peaks of the Three Sirens, the temperature would drop fast. Up here, the turns in the weather were fast and vicious. A man on his own could easily get caught out; he wouldn’t be the first. And as big as he was, Bose wasn’t top of the food chain. Bears and wolves roamed these mountains, their populations growing ever larger since the war.
    Earlier he had come across fresh deer tracks in the snow, but he had yet to sight one. You needed patience to be a good hunter, and at the age of forty-seven, six of them spent in various prisons across the country, patience was something Bose had learned a whole lot about. Of course, that had all been when he was younger, taking foolish risks without a full appreciation of their consequences. He hadn’t seen the inside of a jail for over twenty years, long before the Great Global War had even begun.
    Perhaps it had been those years cooped up in a six by eight cell that made him enjoy the raw beauty of the Outzone wilderness the way he did, even on a day like this when it appeared he would return to camp empty handed. And though alert to his surroundings, eyes peeled for animal tracks or any sign of danger, Bose’s mind felt as fresh as the cold mountain air whistling around his ears, allowing him to think carefully and clearly about matters important to him.
    Now was a good time to think about the tribal meeting in two days’ time when the Black Eagles tribe, one of the five warrior chapters of the Outzone, would sit to discuss the succession and elect a new chief. The previous day their old chief, Sureshot, had died, taken away by a sudden winter fever. Over the last couple of years he had become increasingly frail after taking a bad fall from his motorbike, although his mind had remained as sharp as his shooting and riding had once been.
    For those few days, as he lay in his tent in a high fever, racked by a rasping cough that ate away at him night and day, Bose spent many hours by his bedside. During the times when the chief had some strength, the two would talk.
    “You know I’m done for,” the chief said to Bose on the fifth evening. His pale blue eyes were cloudy and strained, the gray hair at his temples soaked with sweat. “Each day I’m slipping, getting weaker. And these damned herbs the women boil up do nothing for me. Taste like shit too. Maybe that’s what’s killing