12
We ate dinner like nothing had happened, feasting on a truly impressive spread of spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread, all of which Marlon had cooked on one of the many stoves in his kitchen.
“Got one that runs on electric and one that runs on gas,” he told me as he fired it up. “That way I have all my bases covered. Run out of gas? Use the electric one. Experience something that is both a solar storm and an EMP attack rolled into one and lose all access to electricity? Use the gas one. Presto.”
He cracked a smile at me, and I had to laugh at the macabre humor. We hadn’t told Angie about it—she had enough to deal with just in terms of trying to rest and heal—but we both moved with extra speed for the rest of the day, and I didn’t have to ask him to know that we both had the same thoughts: We had to get out of here before Randall showed up with his goons, we had to get to town where there would be more people to help us defend ourselves, and we had to do it without using anything that required any sort of electric current.
“Don’t suppose you have a really old car sitting around?” I’d asked him at one point. “Like one that functions on pure mechanical power, no computer or electronics included.”
He’d shaken his head regretfully. “I have a gas stove in case of emergencies, but I never thought I’d be facing anything like what we’ve seen. My vehicles are high-tech. All the goodies. All the comms devices. There’s no way they’ll work now.”
I’d stared at him for a long moment, wondering, because that was another piece of the mystery. What the hell was a self-proclaimed vet—sentenced to the wilds by some history as a doctor that he wasn’t willing to share—doing with high-tech vehicles that included things like comms?
What civilian called them comms?
But he’d started talking about dinner, then, and I’d put the mystery away for later. Yes, I thought he knew more than he was telling us. Yes, I thought he was more than he was telling us. But I was hoping that it would work out to our advantage—and as long as that happened, I didn’t much care who or what he’d been in a previous life.
If he could get Angie and me back to town, and back to Sarah, that was all I cared about. If he was some part of the intelligence community or military Special Ops, maybe it meant he had better tools than I did at the moment.
After dinner, Marlon showed us to yet another room—clean this time, and heretofore unused, as far as I knew—and told us to get to sleep.
“You need rest and recovery, young lady, and tonight is going to be your only opportunity for that, I’m afraid,” he said in a doctorly tone. Then he turned his eyes to me and they grew hard. Serious. “We leave in the morning. First thing, if we can manage it. I have some things I need to do first, but I won’t be long. I want to get out of here before any trouble finds us.”
I nodded once, completely in agreement with him, and he disappeared down the hall toward what I assumed was his own room in this gigantic house in the middle of nowhere, designed to support more than just one person.
13
MARLON
The next morning, Marlon rose before the sun, as was his custom. He’d trained himself over long, hard years of service to know exactly when the sun was going to rise, even in his sleep, and to rouse himself an hour earlier.
It had come in handy when he’d been in the field, and had to hide—or move before someone found him. And though he’d told himself time after time that he no longer needed to do it, it was a habit that he couldn’t seem to break.
He came to his feet suddenly in the darkness, the remnants of a dream drifting through his head, and he snatched at those wisps, trying to figure out what it was that had brought him so suddenly alert.
Then he remembered. Randall. His wife. The toxin in her system that shouldn’t have been there. Randall’s furious cries about Marlon himself having caused her death.
The knife glinting in the sunlight. The promise that he would be back.
He started moving toward his dresser, letting his mind work through the problem as he moved. Little wonder if he’d come awake the way he had, with his brain reminding him of that situation. Little wonder if he’d awoken with his muscles already tensed and ready to propel him forward.
He’d told the truth when he told John and Angie that he knew Randall. And he’d told the truth when he said that they needed to get out of here quickly. This house was many things, but it did not have adequate defense for what Randall and his cousins would bring. It wouldn’t give them the safety they needed. Only the presence of more people would do that. And if John and Angie were truly from Ellis Woods, where the population already knew of Randall—and how dangerous he was—it would make them even safer.
The mayor there knew what Randall had done in the past. He would spot Randall from a mile away. More than that if Angie was truly his niece.
He stepped into his warmest thermal underwear, and then his fleece-lined pants. More thermal underwear on top, a flannel shirt, a sweater, and then a sweatshirt. He’d top it off with his heaviest coat before he went out into the cold.
He was planning to come back to the house before they left for Ellis Woods. But he didn’t know whether he’d have time to change. He wanted his warmest clothing on his body before he left the structure.
One sweep across the top of his dresser and he had his compass, his watch, and two of his Swiss Army knives. The good ones. The ones with the most attachments. Yes, those knives had started as a harmless collection when he was young. Then he’d realized how useful they were—and how flexible. He’d made a habit of always keeping one on him when he went out into the field. Two, if he could manage it.
And today felt like a day when he’d need two.
Of course, he didn’t make it out of the house without waking John. And that shouldn’t have surprised him.
The man came up behind him as he was putting on his coat and reaching for his hunting rifle.
“Going somewhere?”
Marlon turned, lecturing himself about getting sloppy, and saw John standing in the hallway into the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee.
“I see you’ve figure out how to make coffee over the fire,” Marlon said by way of answer.
John gave him half a smile. “Not my first time living without electricity. Hope you don’t mind.”
Hm. Marlon put that bit away for future study—he still hadn’t figured out what exactly John had been in the military, and thought it might come in handy to know—and gave John a return half-smile.
“Not at all,” he said. “There’s bacon in the cooler next to the fridge as well, and potatoes, if you’d like to get some breakfast started.”
At that, John’s face turned serious. “I’ll start breakfast. Once you tell me where you’re going. And when you’ll be back.”
Well, he couldn’t blame the man for not trusting him. He’d had a run-in with Randall and his cousins, and didn’t know the first thing about Marlon. In fact, Marlon thought he should probably count himself lucky that John hadn’t chosen to fight him yesterday when he first woke up.
He took three steps forward and put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, gripping more firmly when John jumped in surprise at the contact.
“Out to check the traps,” he said simply. “It’s only ten miles between here and Ellis Woods, but I don’t know how long it’ll take us if another storm comes up. And I don’t want to have to stop to hunt out there if I don’t have to. Not when Randall might be after us.”
John narrowed his eyes in suspicion for a moment, but Marlon could see the wheels turning in his head, and the exact moment when he realized that Marlon was telling him the truth.
One nod, and he replied, “Fair assessment, I think. I’m glad to hear we’re that close to town. Closer than I thought. You need any help out there? Angie can take care of herself for the time being.”
Marlon shook his head. “You stay here. Get ready to head out. Build a sled for Angie. Once I return, I’ll want to leave immediately. Keep t
he door locked and bolted. Don’t open it for anyone but me. Anyone, understand? I’m not only worried about Randall. Whatever’s going on out there… Well, we just don’t know who’s a friend and who’s an enemy right now.”
He squeezed John’s shoulder one more time, then turned and walked through the door without looking back.
Marlon bypassed the barn, where he kept his snowmobile, and walked right into the woods. The vehicle would have been a nice perk—and certainly would have made the trip quicker. It also would have given him a better mode of escape if anything went wrong.
Hell, when it came down to it, the thing would have changed everything. Made their escape even easier. Given them a way to actually tow whatever sled John put together for Angie. Ensured that they were moving at 10 to 15 MPH rather than a walking pace.
Unfortunately, the EMP event—or solar storm, or both—meant that the snowmobile was down and out for the moment. As were both of his trucks. And the four-wheelers he also kept in the barn. He had a whole armada of motored vehicles in there, just in case of emergency—and in case he needed to evacuate more than one person at a time. But they were of absolutely no use to him now.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. And in the back of his mind, he had a feeling that whatever had happened up there in the atmosphere, whatever had caused this blackout, had been manufactured for exactly this sort of purpose. He just couldn’t figure out why. Or who might be responsible.
Then, in a shorter time than he’d been expecting, he found himself at the first trap and put the thought of the EMP, his vehicles, and responsibility for the attack from his mind. Now wasn’t the time to be delving into problems like that. And it certainly wasn’t his problem anymore. No, it was up to someone else to figure out.
Right now, he had his own problems. And they started with a man named Randall, a poisoned wife, and the man’s vendetta against him—and, it seemed, against the man he was now sheltering.
He dropped to the trap, finding that it had caught one snow hare, and quickly lifted the trigger to release the rabbit. It had been a clean trapping, he was glad to see, the trap having broken the animal’s neck, and he sent a quick thought of thanks up into the sky. Living in the wild meant it was necessary to kill or be killed. Hunt or starve. But he’d never been good at killing—whether they were humans or animals—and that hadn’t changed when he moved out here.
“Dear God in Heaven, Marlon, will you listen to yourself?” he hissed into the cold snow. “This is no time for philosophical discussions with yourself. Get the job done, old man.”
He shook his head at himself, then pressed forward into the snowed-in forest, already looking down at his compass and directing himself toward the next trap as he put the rabbit into the bag he carried at his side. One trap down. Fifteen to go.
And then they’d head toward civilization, and the safety he hoped it would offer them.
Marlon was on the tenth trap, his bag of game close to full, when he happened upon the men in the woods. He’d just bent down to spring the trap and collect another rabbit, his mind doing the math of how far they could get on the number of carcasses he had in his bag, when a shot rang out in the distance.
Marlon dropped to the snow without thinking about it and made himself as flat as he could, his belly crunching down into the ice underneath him. He slowed his breathing to a standstill and strained his ears, listening for anything that might tell him where the shot had come from—and where it had gone.
They hadn’t been shooting at him, he thought a moment later. There had been no telltale crash of a bullet hitting a tree behind him, or the hiss of sound bullets made when they entered snow. A quick check of his own body assured him that he hadn’t been shot, himself—he knew how it felt, and had long ago trained himself to get past the shock and detect it immediately—and no matter how hard he listened, he didn’t hear any other sound.
When he started to move, to lift his head above the level of the snow, he realized that he’d hit the ground right behind a bush. Perfect. By simple luck, he’d managed to get himself into a position where there was a bush in front of him and trees behind him.
Ahead of him, a wide-open clearing stretched for several miles.
He moved a bit, found an opening in the bush, and peered through it, his eyes on the clearing, his ears on the alert of any sound of human presence.
It didn’t take him long to find them. And they were close enough that he could actually make out their faces. Two hundred feet away, at most. The big, hulking one—the one with the gun—was unmistakably Randall. Next to him, another rifle in his hands, was Logan. The only other one in the gang who had any brains.
Beyond them, the other two cousins in the group were bending over and gazing at the ground, as if they were tracking something.
“Dammit,” he breathed to himself.
He’d been hoping to leave the area before Randall and his gang got here. Instead, they were already within a mile of his home—and moving in his direction.
14
JOHN
When Angie awoke, I was already getting ready for the day. I had most of our things packed and had taken a pencil to a piece of paper to try to sketch out something that would work as a sled for her. No matter how much she pretended otherwise, she wasn’t going to be ready for any walking anytime soon. I wouldn’t even have moved her if I didn’t have a choice.
But I didn’t have a choice. That was the problem. I’d shot a man who was trying to kill me and wounded his cousins. He would be coming after me—and I doubted that had changed his mind about wanting to use Angie as a trade with her uncle. And, as it turned out, we were also sheltering with someone who Randall blamed for his wife’s death.
Hell, if he hadn’t hated us before, he would hate us just by association.
I snorted at the thought, my humor macabre enough for me to appreciate the irony, and then bent back to my sketch.
“What are you doing?” a faint voice said from behind me.
I turned to Angie, taking in her color—slightly better this morning—and the clarity of her eyes.
“Feeling better?” I asked, moving to the side of the bed and running my hand along her forehead. No temperature. That was a good sign. I’d seen wounds like hers go bad before, and I’d been worried that we might have blood poisoning on our hands, given how long it had taken us to actually clean the wound.
“Much better,” she said, leaning into my hand. Then, as if her mind had suddenly caught up, her eyes flew open and she stared up at me. “We have to get out of here. When are we leaving?”
Right. Well, enough of her feeling better, then.
“I’ve spoken with Marlon about just that. We’re only ten miles from Ellis Woods, but they’re going to be a hard ten miles. And with you out of commission, it means I have to build you a sled. One we can tow by hand. Marlon has vehicles here but they’re not working, and we’re going to have to hoof it.”
“And in a hurry,” she said, back to her old self again and already full of plans. “How long do you think we have before Randall finds us.”
“Hopefully long enough to get the hell out of here,” I answered with a grin. “Marlon is out checking his game traps now. Once he returns, we leave.”
Her eyes slid down to the drawing in my hand. “I hate that you’re having to take care of me like this. Hate that I can’t help.”
I leaned down, pressed my nose to hers, and stared into her eyes. “Stop thinking like that. I’m your husband now. And that means it’s my job to take care of you. Right? Right?”
She sighed, but I could see her mouth quirking to the side and knew she was going to give in.
“Besides,” I continued, throwing a map into her lap and pointing at the spot I’d marked with a red pen. “I need you to handle the mapping. Far as I can tell, this is where we are. This—” I moved my finger to the left, to the circle labeled Ellis Woods. “—is where we need to go. You’re the outdoors woman here. Figure out the fastest way to get f
rom Point A to Point B. I’ll be outside building your carriage.”
I shot her a quick, tight grin, trying to make the whole thing into a joke—and knowing that I was failing—and then turned and left the room before she could reply. I had a sled to make, and I needed to do it in a hurry.
I didn’t know how far Marlon had gone or how many traps he was unloading, but I knew for certain that I didn’t want to be caught only half-ready when he returned. I had an injured wife to get to a hospital, and a kid to rescue back home. This was no time to relax.
I shot up the steps to the front door and out into the bright white of the outside world, and stood for a moment, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the glare. Then I headed for the forest, my eyes scanning the ground for branches of the right size and shape. The first one was easy, because it didn’t have to match anything else, and I found it quickly—about ten feet long, so I could build the shelter for Angie and have skis in front of and behind it, and already smoothed out by having lain in the snow for some time. There were no smaller branches stemming from it, which meant less work for me, and I was glad to see that it already had a curve to it.
Perfect. Now to find others that matched it.
I found a second branch and turned back toward the house, but then caught sight of something blue and plastic-looking sticking out of a bank of snow and dead leaves. I dropped the branches and dropped to my knees to uncover it, then almost shouted in joy.
It was a toboggan. One of those store-bought kinds that kids played with every winter. What the hell was it doing out here, in the middle of the forest? I looked up at the house, wondering, but then shook my head and started uncovering the sled. It must have been Marlon’s, I thought, and no matter how many guesses I took, I would probably never be able to figure out why he had it.
Bitter Cold Apocalypse | Book 1 | Bitter Cold Apocalypse Page 9