Foster: Earth Resistance, #6

By Theresa Beachman

Impulsive. Dangerous. Protector.
Born with the safety off.

 

Ex-bomb squad, Lincoln Foster lost his young daughter to the Chittrix at the beginning of the invasion. He pledged to use his remaining time alive, eliminating the hated aliens, preferably in as many imaginative ways as possible. There's no space in his life for love, or the fierce woman he can't get out of his mind since he sighted her down the barrel of a gun.

Diplomatic bodyguard, Neve Bishop lives alone on the streets of Cardiff. After escaping a disturbed group with a dark connection to the Chittrix, she's convinced humanity's lost its moral compass. And she's deeply suspicious when her world collides with Foster's. Her first impression is he's no different from all the other men in this brutal future.

But as a cataclysmic chain of events forces them together in more ways than one, she sees beyond the ink and scars—to the protector who will do whatever is required to protect those he loves.

And, as their attraction tips into incendiary, so does the battle with a new generation of Chittrix on the verge of hatching.

The clock is ticking, and Foster and Neve's new found trust in each other will be tested to the limits as a subversive force attempts to thwart their plan to annihilate the alien invaders…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theresa Beachman
• Release date: Jan 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224145683

Book preview

1

Thirteen, Foster decided, was the perfect age to learn to drive at the end of the world.

No fear of death. An essential life skill.

Riley whooped beside him as wrecked buildings zipped past. A blurred procession of decay as she floored the jeep down a long stretch of derelict street. 

Cold air washed through his fingers as he held his hand out the window. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. Never got old, even if the world was lying in pieces all around them.

Riley dropped gears to cane around the sweep of the road. Ahead, the concrete ended abruptly in what had once been a T-junction. Now it was a mangled metal graveyard, a clutter of cars and a wrecked truck, the hood embedded in the shop front that bordered the intersection.

Riley, ease off now. Foster flicked his hand at the rapidly approaching car wreck.

Riley licked her lips and shot him a sideways grin, not slowing down one bit.

What the?

Foster rammed his combat boots against the jeep’s footwell as she yanked the handbrake and spun the wheel, her knuckles popping white against her skin. The aging vehicle groaned as it whipped a one-eighty, its balding tires spitting loose stones and frost-shattered concrete in a wide arc.

Riley hooted with laughter, her slim arms taut with tension as she held the spin before releasing the brake. She slammed into first gear and stamped on the gas, now accelerating in a parallel direction. A tweak of the steering and the jeep hurtled down a narrow side street. Crumbling concrete and light-sucking glass loomed above, obscuring the sky, forcing Foster to lean forward. He narrowed his eyes, scanning for leggy fuckers, but the small amount of blue visible was clear for now. Still…

Foster’s skull hit his headrest as she hard cornered around the remains of a roadside café. Rotting wicker chairs were scattered across the road, some with their legs in the air as if they’d given up and died. Riley, maybe slow down a bit. It was all he could do to make himself heard over the throttled scream of the engine. His grip on the ripped edges of the seat tightened.

Was he getting too old for this shit? He blinked against gritty air.

Riley craned her neck to look at him, and he grinned back. Nah, never.

A draft lifted Riley’s hair, exposing the delicate lines of her neck. Joy radiated from every pore of her slight, now thirteen-year-old frame. It was difficult to argue with that. A swift yank on the wheel and she skidded around another corner, clipping the curb this time.

Foster’s head collided the unpadded ceiling. Shit—

Too fast for you? She smirked, her cheeks apple-hard with delight. 

Foster grabbed the wheel, his hands weathered against her pale young skin. You’ll bring leggy f— He stalled. This watching your language shit in front of impressionable young people was fucking hard work. You’ll bring Chittrix out of the woodwork.

Mischief glinted in her eyes. "Great. We can get some real life practice instead of pretending. I am so bored of pretending."

Foster, you need some help here? Violet’s amused face appeared between the driver and passenger seat, but her hands splayed wide for grip. Or do you have full control of the birthday girl? She cocked an eyebrow, freckles shifting under the force of her grin.

No help required. He yanked the wheel, and for a second the jeep tipped rising up onto its left side, the opposite wheels spinning in the dry air.

Foster held the wheel as the jeep’s frame crashed earthward. Surprised, Riley relaxed her foot on the gas, and Foster brought the drive to a stomach-lurching halt with the hand brake. The engine sputtered, then jolted to a stop as she released the clutch.

Dust filled the cab, catching in the back of Foster’s throat. He exhaled a slow breath and cricked the tendons in his neck. A low, dull throb deep in his leg flickered on the edges of his awareness, his body still healing from the break several months ago. "Well. That was interesting."

Riley wiped her eyes and sneezed. You said I could drive. You said I needed to learn defensive driving. You said—

Foster placed two fingers on her lips, his brow rising. Clearly, I said far too much.

Violet stifled a chuckle and wriggled through the gap between the two seats. I need some air. Riley, scoot out. Riley huffed, but shoved the door open. Violet followed her, her boots crunching on the dry asphalt. She checked the sky, her hands finding her weapon instinctively.

The ache in his leg rumbled deeper and more insistently. Foster swallowed the pain as he kicked open the passenger door and levered himself out. He lifted his pulse rifle from inside the footwell, running his palm across the comfortingly smooth metal. 

Life was always better with one of his ladies in his hands.

He walked around the hood, skimming metal with his fingertips. Hot. At least we know who to call if we need a getaway driver. He crooked a smile at Riley, enjoying the pink of excitement on her cheeks. Damn, it made him happy to see her smile. Kid had been through enough, losing her mother and her entire childhood to the leggy fuckers. Anything he could do to ease the sting, he would.

Violet folded her arms and thinned her lips at him.

He straightened, forcing himself not to limp. Don’t look at me like that.

Her lips were almost bloodless in disapproval. You don’t look so good. And you’re limping.

You throw compliments to Darr like that?

Violet harrumphed. You know that’s not what I meant. Your leg is still healing from the break.

He dismissed her with a wave and ignored Violet’s reply of an annoyed snort.

Riley bounced on the balls of her feet. Can I have another go?

Maybe we should do some basic highway code on the way back home instead of the bank heist driving skills? Violet smiled at Riley.

Riley pouted. "Does that mean driving slowly? She hunched over and mimed using a walking stick, one hand pressed to the small of her back, twisting her face into an approximation of old age. I’m so olllllld…"

Not everything is about speed. It’s important to maintain control of the vehicle. Violet raised an eyebrow and holstered her gun.

Foster bit down on a chuckle and looked the other way until he’d schooled his features into serious adult mode.

When he looked back, Violet lifted a metal thermos from the rear of the jeep and unscrewed the top. A delicate diamond band circled her ring finger, reflecting the sun as she drank. Light sparkled through the diamonds, a thin band of hope, a brilliant light in the darkness that the Chittrix had wrought on the world when they piggybacked meteorites crash landing on Earth over a year and a half ago.

I can control the vehicle. Riley spread her hands wide. 

Violet wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and passed the water to Foster. Light’s getting low. I think we should head home. She angled her head at the fall afternoon, gilded golden.

Foster pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, letting the sun warm his skin. One of the few things left the fucking Chittrix had managed not to kill. Although he wouldn’t put it past them to fly up there and fuck it up.

Foster promised guns too. Riley sidled between him and Violet, her face raised to the two of them. He rubbed a hand across the soft mess of her choppy hair. She’d cut it herself with a pair of nail scissors, and now it stood up in all directions, no matter what she did with it. 

Violet swallowed, her brow creasing. Did he now?

Foster dragged a hand across his face and stared skyward. Umm… He tugged Riley toward him, her thin frame folding into his body. She wrapped her arms around him and laid her small head against the thickness of his body armor. Warmth welled through him as he cupped the back of her head. Despite the barriers he’d erected since Faith’s death, Riley had found her way into his locked down heart, awakening the fatherly instincts he’d assumed died with Faith in the first days of the Chittrix invasion. He closed his eyes for a second, the heat of her head soaking into the curve of his palm. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

He met Violet’s challenging green stare with a lopsided smile. "I might have mentioned guns…"

Lincoln Foster. Violet rolled her eyes, her hands gripping her hips.

Foster shrugged. A woman needs to know self-defense.

Violet stowed the water bottle with a smile. Devious sod. She grabbed Riley by the shoulders and steered her away from the tick of the cooling engine toward a small area of scrappy open land.

That I am. Foster flung the jeep door shut and followed Violet and Riley, rolling his shoulders back, whistling. The compliments were thick and fast tonight.

Riley jogged ahead, scooping dented empty cans from the ground into her arms. I’ll set these up. You know, like in the movies.

Torn metal glinted as the setting sun caught their edges. Mind your fingers—

Who knew you were such a worry wart deep down? Violet jogged his arm with hers.

I don’t want her getting hurt. He raised a hand to his eyes to block out the low-lying sun, scanning the hungry-looking buildings surrounding them. Nothing moved, but he wiped his hand on his thigh before finding a comfortable position on his pulse rifle again.

I like this side of you.

Foster halted. Excuse me?

We’re friends, Foster, and I love you. That’s why I know I can be straight with you. Violet slotted her arm through his. Riley, she’s brought out this side of you I’ve never seen before. I see how you dote on her and how she looks up to you. Who knew someone with such a potty mouth could be such a sweetheart?

Riley was positioning the cans on a crumbling wall fifty feet away. She took her time making sure they were evenly spaced.

Yeah, well… he cleared his throat. Maybe keep it to yourself. Don’t want Sawyer and the like becoming jealous.

Of what?

My feminine side. He winked.

But Violet wasn’t so easily derailed. She reminds you of Faith?

He looked away, swallowing the obstruction that swelled in his throat. Shit. 

I thought so. She squeezed his arm.

V—

There’s more to you than booms, Foster.

Riley stepped back from her arrangement, eyes narrowed as she assessed her work.

He found his voice again as he hid Faith in the safety of his memories. I’d do anything for that kid, but don’t let that confuse you. I see what you have with Darr, and it’s great. He turned to smile at her. But don’t go thinking it’s the same for me. It’s not. He tapped the body armor strapped across his chest. All that’s left in here is the fight. Taking out as many Chittrix bastards as I can before my time is up.

Riley was jogging back toward them now, a gray cloud trailing her heels. How much of that was the ghosts of the past? The thought consumed him more and more lately. The overwhelming blanket of death that felt like it would choke him eventually.

Violet released him and checked the clip on her handgun as Riley approached. A soft sigh escaped her as she gave him a sideways glance. I hope you’re wrong. You’re a good man, Foster. You deserve more.

No, Violet. This is exactly what I deserve.

Violet opened her mouth to reply, but Riley skidded to a halt, her cheeks rosy. 

Foster wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders and made a mental note to find her a warmer jacket. There was a chill in the air, and Riley was a skinny bean. She needed thermal clothing to keep her warm in the winter. Ready to shoot some critters?

"Yes. Yes." Riley bounced on her toes.

He gave Violet what he hoped was a reassuring smile over the top of Riley’s head. 

He was okay with his life. His daughter had died, and as her father he would spend the rest of his life making sure the Chittrix paid. There was no space for anyone else, but that was exactly as it should be.

2

Ghosts inhabited the city.

In the dirt under her feet, and in the shadows tracking her through the streets right now. Ghosts of the civilized people they had once been.

Neve Bishop pressed her back to the crumbling brickwork and swallowed the acidic tang of fear. Sweat stung her eyes, but she didn’t want to risk wiping them with her fingers. Movement would only draw attention to herself. She stared straight ahead, willing her camouflage of filthy tattered clothing to help her blend in with the building. She closed her eyes as fresh blood thundered in her ears. How had it come to this, where the remaining survivors were as much of a threat to her existence as the alien invaders?

Memories fluttered through her mind, stirred by the panic pounding through her. Snapshots of the Chittrix plummeting from the sky in a black, ravenous rain. Her ribs contracted, restricting her breathing, and her vision narrowed to a long, dark tunnel.

It’s only a memory. They can’t hurt me.

Screams from the rest of the diplomatic protection team as they opened fire resonated through her mind. Still fresh, even though it had been almost two years now. Would it ever leave her?

Behind her back she clutched her pebble, smooth and perfectly oval. She focused on the sensation, grounding herself. She’d read about it in some women’s self-help magazine she’d idly flicked through a lifetime ago. So, she fixated on it, the small reality that she could wrap her brain around while her universe spiraled out of control. Breathe, dammit. She peered around the jagged edge of exposed red brick.

Bridge’s men faced away from her as they picked their way through rubble. They spoke in low voices, stabbing at the wild grass that sprouted from cracks in the sidewalk with sharp sticks. 

She exhaled, pressed against the brick, her shoulders sagging. That was too close. She rubbed her hand around her left wrist, circling the crude tattoo of a figure eight that looped around her wrist. It was a mark of ownership, Bridge’s ownership, and no matter how much she scrubbed it, the mark was permanent.

Bastards.

She pushed off the wall, relief flowing through her as she adjusted the straps of her backpack with trembling fingers before setting off in the opposite direction of the men. That they were trampling through the area she considered hers niggled, but there was nothing to do but suck it up and look for supplies elsewhere today. The risk of getting caught was just too high. Being trapped in the community had been hellish enough the first time. She didn’t want to think what her welcome would be like if she was dragged back there after having escaped.

A quick scan left and right and she made her way down a small side street, ignoring the rumble of hunger low in her belly. Her clothes chafed at her skin, oversensitive from malnutrition and stress. She wasn’t ignorant. There was only so long you could survive on one meal a day, living in a state of constant fight or flight. And yet she could see no way out. What was there? Brutal enslavement with a bunch of wackos, or serve yourself up as hors d’oeuvres for the invading aliens. 

Neve suppressed a shiver. Self-pity would do her no good.

She headed down one of Cardiff’s back streets. Narrow eighteenth-century buildings squashed up against each other surrounded her on every side. Once it had been cafes, jewelers, small drugstores, and bookshops. Now their bay windows bulged into her path, jagged glass reminiscent of the hungry maws of the Chittrix invaders.

Just the word in her mind made her glance up. White clouds scudded above her head, oblivious to the devastation beneath. Neve paused as a shop door creaked in front of her. She froze, her heart thudding against her ribs as the door swung back inside.

The wind. It’s nothing but the wind. 

She directed her mind to the shape and form of her stone. Not the potential armor plated, giant alien insects that wanted to scythe the meat from her bones. She released a slow breath out through pursed lips and edged past the door. She’d only been out less than an hour, but already her skin itched to be hidden away, out of sight of the Chittrix invaders and human scavengers alike.

She ducked into the small store. The shelves were bare, stripped clean by the few remaining survivors. In the last few months, something had triggered an increase in Chittrix activity, she was sure of it. The patrols were fewer but more determined, as if something compelled them to make a concerted effort to wipe out the last few remnants of humanity. 

With careful steps she skirted broken glass, her boots leaving damp prints. Magazines littered the floor as she progressed deeper into the building. One stuck to her boot and she shook it off.

An article title screamed at her in bright red block print. How to Make Friends and Keep Them. Yeah, right. She allowed herself a wry smile and a shake of the head as she kicked the paper out of her way. People were the last thing she needed in her life right now. They rarely proved themselves to be worthy of her trust. Not in her posting in the diplomatic service or since the world went to hell, and it was every man or woman out for themselves. And especially not now with the Bridge wackos stalking the streets for lost souls to pick up and indoctrinate.

She slipped behind the counter and headed to the rear of the store, where she found a narrow corridor with doors leading to toilets, a filthy staff room without a window and a cleaning cupboard. She wrinkled her nose against the sour smell of decay emanating from fungal growth creeping up the walls. Some looked native, gaudy shades of ochre and lime green, but others were rubbery protuberances, bulging from damp wallpaper, turgid pods hanging like obscene Christmas baubles. Neve sidestepped past the hanging vessels, doing her damn best to ignore the flicker of alien life visibly shifting through semi-translucent skin.

Shit.

She swallowed, relieved to be past them. Sweat was damp under her arms, and she still hadn’t collected anything worth saving yet. At the bottom of the corridor, the fire escape hung open, damp early evening air drifting in from outside. The last door on her right hung askew. Ransacked. But so far she had always found something. She wouldn’t think about the day when it was no longer true, even though it was coming, hurtling toward her with increasing speed.

But not today.

Water dripped from a damaged skylight as she paused on the threshold. She faced rows of empty metal shelving. Destroyed cardboard boxes sodden from the watery ingress. Neve eased down the narrow shelves, clicking her flashlight on to scan the bare metal surfaces.

Her lips mouthed a silent chant.

Not today. Not today.

Just something to take the sharp edges off her nerves and ease the hot hammer of pain that extended from her right eye to her upper lip. She dropped to her knees and swept the beam of light across the spongy carpet. Water pooled around the soles of her boots.

There. The light beam bounced across a small green and white box tucked under the bottom shelf. She stretched, but it was too far. She straightened, damp hair sticking to her cheeks as she collected the pole used to open the skylight from the far wall. She dropped to her knees again, water soaking her threadbare jeans. A shiver raced across her lower back as she successfully hooked the small box and dragged it toward her, the brand name twisting from the force she applied. Wet paper squelched against her fingers as she ripped it open. Inside were four foil blister packs of Advil.

She rocked back on her heels and wiped her nose with her sleeve. Tears of stress or gratitude, she wasn’t sure, but she closed her eyes for a brief second of thanks. The headaches were more frequent recently, fueled by hunger and the daily grind of staying alive.

A gunshot rang out loud and clear in the still air.

Her eyes snapped open. Close. Too damn close. She stuffed the tablets into her pocket along with her pebble, and then unholstered her handgun, taking confidence in its weight in her hands as she took cautious steps out of the stockroom. Ribbons of shredded wallpaper wafted in the breeze coming from the open rear door.

Another sharp report.

Jesus. She flexed her fingers against her weapon, blinking against the pain in her right eye. She waited motionless, straining for the tell-tale rattle of Chittrix or the thrumming vibration of Scutters. Air whispered in her ears, but it wasn’t giving away any secrets. 

Dammit. She would have to go outside.

She ducked her head out of the doorway. A quick check right and left, but the street was empty. Birds rose straight ahead, scrawny, their numbers depleted but still alive. 

Neve headed straight for them, slinking along the street, hugging the overhang of buildings where she could, a shadow amongst all the others. Nothing here to see, nothing at all. 

She slowed as she neared the end of the street. Left or right, the road petered out into dereliction, but there were signs of crushed vegetation in the narrow alley straight ahead. She crossed the road, steps swift and arms locked as she marked out her route with the sweep of her gun. Left and right, she tracked the weapon, instinct and years of training taking over.

Where are you?

Voices up ahead. A woman and a man.

Her grip on her gun hardened, her pace slowing, the muscles in her thighs protesting as she bent and listened.

A red brick wall ahead. Drink cans lying scattered on the ground. 

Neve raised her gun and swung around the corner, coming face to face with the muzzle of a gun.

3

Unwavering chestnut eyes assessed Foster from under a mess of brown hair down the sight line of a Glock 26. The gun was clean and looked cared for. A loose scarf covered the back of her head so it was impossible to see if her hair was long or short.

Clouds split above his head, and sunlight illuminated irises swirled with gold. Motes danced in the air between them, around the merest shift in her weapon as she breathed, and for an instant harsh reality fell away and there was only him and the woman.

Shadows crossed the sun, obliterating the moment, and his universe tumbled back to brutal reality.

Drop it, Violet’s voice behind him commanded.

A tiny flicker of stress pulsed across the stranger’s eyes, but she didn’t back down. Her gaze remained locked on Foster, eyes narrowed in concentration. Her fingers were pale on the gun barrel, grime under chewed fingernails. She was alone. He was sure of it. A woman alone in this fucked-up world. His cheeks puffed. He still had his hard limits. 

Foster eased his cheek away from the barrel of his pulse rifle. He lifted one hand free, spreading his fingers wide to show her he meant no harm. Her gaze skipped to Violet.

Look at me. Stay with me. 

"I don’t want to hurt you. Backing