by Kyla Stone
And a special thank you to Jenny and Chris Avery for catching those last pesky errors and for lending their aviation expertise.
To my husband, who takes care of the house, the kids, and the cooking when I’m under the gun with a writing deadline. To my kids, who show me the true meaning of love every day and continually inspire me.
Thanks to God for His many blessings.
And to my loyal readers, whose support and encouragement mean everything to me. Thank you.
About the Author
I spend my days writing apocalyptic and dystopian fiction novels, exploring all the different ways the world might end.
I love writing stories exploring how ordinary people cope with extraordinary circumstances, especially situations where the normal comforts, conveniences, and rules are stripped away.
My favorite stories to read and write deal with characters struggling with inner demons who learn to face and overcome their fears, launching their transformation into the strong, brave warrior they were meant to become.
Some of my favorite books include The Road, The Passage, Hunger Games, and Ready Player One. My favorite movies are The Lord of the Rings and Gladiator.
Give me a good story in any form and I’m happy.
Oh, and add in a cool fall evening in front of a crackling fire, nestled on the couch with a fuzzy blanket, a book in one hand and a hot mocha latte in the other (or dark chocolate!): that’s my heaven.
I mean, I won’t say no to hiking to mountain waterfalls, traveling to far-flung locations, or jumping out of a plane (parachute included) either.
I love to hear from my readers! Find my books and chat with me via any of the channels below:
www.Facebook.com/KylaStoneAuthor
www.Amazon.com/author/KylaStone
Email me at [email protected]
Or join Kyla Stone’s Reader Fan Group HERE!
Sneak Peek of EDGE OF COLLAPSE
1
Hannah
Day One
The light went out. That was the first thing that alerted her.
The single lightbulb encased in wire mesh on the ceiling glared down on her continuously, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
The sudden darkness pressed against the backs of Hannah Sheridan’s closed eyelids. Her body sensed the change and woke her from her restless nightmares.
She sat up on the bare mattress on the cold cement floor. She turned her head left and right, straining her eyes.
At first, she thought she’d been plunged into complete and utter blackness.
But no, the narrow rectangle of window on the southwest side of the room allowed in the barest trickle of dim light. The window was located beneath the back deck. Very little daylight made its way to her down here, filtering through the iron bars.
She’d grown used to it.
Hannah blinked, let her eyes adjust.
Shadowy shapes appeared—the bean bag in the corner, the doorless bathroom across from her, the small fridge, the rolling cart with the microwave, the narrow counter with the sink and the cabinet where she kept her dishes along the far wall.
The silence.
That was the second thing.
She was used to quiet. But this was something else.
The rumble of the generator outside the window. The buzz of the small fridge. The cycling of air from the heating and air conditioning unit.
Everything had gone still and silent.
No sound but her own breathing. In and out. In and out.
For several long minutes, she didn’t move.
Was this another trick? A trap just waiting to spring its jaws?
She was used to tricks, too. She lived inside a trap.
The light didn’t come back on. The fridge didn’t buzz. The generator didn’t rumble back to life. She glanced at the tiny camera affixed to the ceiling above the secure metal door.
The little glowing green dot no longer glowed. The camera was blind.
The power had never gone out before. He came and checked it almost every week, made sure everything worked and remained in pristine condition—the electricity, the water, the heat, the camera, the security system.
The generator kept her alive. It also kept her trapped.
Slowly, she pushed aside her two blankets and rose from the mattress in the corner of the room. Her bare feet hit the chilly concrete floor, but she barely noticed.
Her mind spun and whirred, confused thoughts ricocheting against her skull. Nothing made sense.
Why would the power go out? Had he forgotten to refill the generator? Was it something else? A storm or a power surge? When would it come back on? Would it come on? Would he know it was out and return to check on her?
Sometimes, he came every seven days. Sometimes, two weeks passed. There was no rhythm or reason to his visits.
No way to tell how many days she’d need to survive before he returned. If he returned.
It was easy to lose track of time here. At first, tracking the days had been of crucial importance. Counting the hours. The days, weeks, months. Then the years.
Always hoping for rescue. Praying for it. Desperate for an escape that never came.
She looked at the calendar she’d made with chalk on the wall above the mattress. It was too dim to see them, but her mind conjured the images clear as day. She’d stared at those blunt marks hundreds, thousands of times.
She knew it was day by the dull gray light. But what day? What month? November? December? Or even later? When had she stopped keeping track?
Only a few weeks. No, it was longer. Maybe even months.
Her mind was clouded and foggy, like it had been stuffed with cotton. It was hard to think straight. Got harder every day that passed, every day that took her further from who she used to be and sucked her down deeper into this hell that never ended.
Fatigue gripped her and tugged at her arms and legs. Who cared what day or month it was? Nothing ever changed. Nothing ever would.
Her entire life consisted of these four cement walls. A fifteen by twenty room.
She should’ve given up long ago.
She was close now. The despair like a sucking black hole, pulling at her, threatening to drag her under once and for all. A bottomless sea of darkness closing over her head, drowning her slowly, strangling the breath from her lungs.
For almost five years, she’d fought it. Every day, an hour of calisthenics to keep her muscles from atrophying. Jumping jacks. Sit ups. Squats. Every day, writing in the journal with the crayons he allowed her. Every day, mentally practicing the guitar or the piano. Composing songs in her head.
Imagining the life she would have if—when—she ever got out of this place. Imagining the life her husband and son were living right that minute. Her family and friends and co-workers—the whole wide world continuing on without her.
But the last few months, it had become harder and harder to cling to that miniscule seed of hope. Hope was the ultimate Judas. It had betrayed her hundreds, thousands of times.
In the end, it was hope that caused the most suffering.
Hannah stared across the room at the imposing metal door and the electronic key code and lock. She stared until the shadowy shape took solid form, until her eyes ached and begged her to blink. She didn’t.
Her brain filled with the buzzing static of barely restrained panic. What if he wasn’t coming back? What if the water turned off along with the generator? She had MREs and enough supplies for another two weeks if she rationed, but no longer.
She had a single cup, a single bowl, and two pans she could fill with water. And the small sink built into the counter—she could fill the basin.
How long would that last? A few days? A week?
What about the heater? The chilly cement floor felt like it was growing colder by the minute. Even the air on her face and hands felt cooler.
She thought she was still in Michigan, though she wasn’t sure. Wherever she was, the winters wer
e brutal. Only the heater kept her from freezing to death down here.
She knew the season by the temperature drop, the coldness of the floor. When she pushed the rolling cart beneath the single window, climbed on top of it, and peered out through the bars, she could see the snow on the ground, sifted beneath the wide wooden planks of the back porch.
She would freeze to death long before she ran out of food or water.
Outside, the dog barked. He’d been quiet the last day or two. She’d never seen him, but she’d pictured him in her mind a million times. Judging by the deep menace in his bark, he was a huge German Shepherd/Wolfhound/Rottweiler mix, with vicious eyes and razor-sharp teeth.
A monster. Just like his owner.
Placed there like Cerberus guarding the gates of Hades in case anyone was stupid enough to try to get in—or out.
She’d never heard another human voice, other than his.
The man who’d put her here. The man who kept her imprisoned like a rat in a cage.
No neighbors. No visitors. Only the damn barking dog and the occasional rumble of a truck or snowmobile engine when he came to see her.
Fear crept into the corners of her mind, anxiety tangling in her belly. She padded to the center of the room and turned in a slow circle, trying to push the cobwebs from her sluggish brain, trying to think.
She wrapped her arms around her thin ribs and rubbed her arms. She wore a hunter green knit sweater that matched her eyes over a thin nightgown with a pair of long johns beneath them—the same clothes she wore every day, washed in the tiny sink once a week by hand.
How long would it take the temperature to drop to intolerable levels? How long for the human body to freeze to death inside an unheated concrete basement?
Maybe, it was nothing. She was panicking over nothing. The electricity would switch back on in an hour or a day. Everything would return to the horrible state of normal she’d endured for years.
Somehow, she knew it wouldn’t.
Maybe he’d finally tired of her and decided to let the generator run out. Decided to let her suffer slowly, to die in degrees by starvation and freezing to death.
That thought didn’t ring true. When it was time to kill her, he would do it himself. She knew that like she knew her own name.
Something had happened. He’d been killed in a crash or struck by a train or dropped by a brain aneurism. Anything was possible.
There were a thousand ways to die. A hundred ways to go missing, to suddenly disappear from your own life.
She knew that better than anyone.
As much as she longed to see him dead, he was her only link to the outside world. To life. She loathed him but depended on him for every single thing.
He’d used that to control her completely. To exert his indomitable will over every aspect of her pitiful life.
Grinning with that dead-eye smile as he keyed in the lock code each and every time he entered the room. Hurt me and you kill any chance of ever getting out of here alive.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew how lethal hope was—how powerful a weapon it could be.
She felt the door like a physical presence to her right. Looming just at the periphery of her vision.
She turned again, faced it. The cold of the floor leached through her feet. Sent chills racing up her spine. She shivered.
Nothing worked. Not the power. Not the heat. Not the little blinking camera.
What if…
She lowered her hand to her stomach, nearly touched the rounded, basketball-sized belly, but didn’t. Her hands dropped limply to her sides.
The door was always locked. A power outage wouldn’t change that.
Hannah Sheridan was just as trapped as she’d ever been.
2
Hannah
Day One
Almost without thinking, Hannah found herself moving numbly, mechanically toward the sink. She knew every inch of this room by heart. She didn’t need to see to know what she was doing.
She pulled her two pans out of the cupboard and filled them with water. She set them on the counter. Next, she filled her single cup and bowl. She plugged the small stainless-steel basin of the sink with the stopper and began to fill it.
A few days-worth of water. She wouldn’t use the water for anything but drinking, conserving as much as she could until it ran out.
But the cold…that would kill her faster than anything. She only had the two blankets and the sweater she already wore. It wouldn’t be enough.
None of it would be enough.
She would die here in this horrible prison. There wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Panic and dread swirled in her stomach. Nausea crawled up her throat, and she almost retched.
She tugged the hair tie from her wrist and pulled her thick, waist-length dark brown hair into a messy bun. She used to brush it every day. But lately…lately she could barely muster the energy to feed herself.
He made her pay for that.
He liked her pretty. He never struck her face. Never pulled out her hair.
And he liked her clean. She always had shampoo and conditioner, bodywash and deodorant, toothpaste and an electric toothbrush. He kept the cupboards and the minifridge stocked with microwavable meals, pastas and proteins and canned fruits and vegetables.
She’d learned what happened when she didn’t eat, when she didn’t keep herself clean and presentable.
She glanced at the door again. Locked. It was always locked.
Absently, she touched the mangled fingers of her left hand. They were permanently disfigured—broken one by one, again and again. The pain so excruciating, she’d passed out.
He’d woken her up with a pan of cold water dumped on her face, only to start with the next finger.
Disobedience brought pain. Defiance brought pain. Hope brought pain.
It was the first lesson he’d taught her.
She was stubborn. She never learned the first time.
She’d tried to use the razor used to shave her legs on him. It hadn’t gone well. He was fast and strong and smart.
On her second attempt, she’d unwound the metal spiral from the notebook he’d so generously provided her. She’d waited for him to get close before lunging, striking at his eye with the wire poking from her fist.
He’d jerked away at the last second. The wire scraped a deep gouge into his cheek, drawing blood and creating a scar, but no permanent damage.
He’d broken two ribs for that.
The third time, she’d rubbed the end of a metal spoon against the rough concrete floor for hours a day for days. She’d gripped the rounded spoon end in her right hand down at her side and waited. Waited until he was close but distracted, and she gathered her strength and her courage and plunged it into his neck.
She’d missed his ceratoid artery. It hadn’t gone in deep enough to incapacitate him.
He’d stomped her bare foot with his boot—breaking her big toe and spraining her ankle—and re-fractured two of her fingers. Snap, snap.
She couldn’t walk for days, could barely move, curled on the mattress in a fog of agony. She would rather die than live like this. And if she was going to die, she was determined to take him with her.
On his next visit, he’d dropped a picture onto the mattress beside her crumpled form. A photo of her three-year-old son, Milo. In the picture, her husband Noah held him, his own face drawn with grief and worry. Noah wore his deputy’s uniform and stood on the front porch of their two-story colonial house in Juniper Springs, Michigan.
She understood instantly that this photo had been taken mere days ago. That he knew her family and where they lived and could get as close as he wanted at any time.
This was a warning. A promise. The next time she tried anything, it would be the people she loved most who suffered.
She had crayons and chalk instead of pencils, plastic silverware instead of metal, clothbound notebooks instead of spiral. Those things mattered little, though. She still had the Bix razors. She
had the sharp metal edges from her canned food.
But she didn’t dare to use them. He’d broken her, and he knew it.
That was the day the fight to kill her captor had died.
But not the fight to survive.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, she’d managed to wake up each day, to continue to live, to continue to hope. To believe that she would get out some day, that she would see her son again. Milo. That was the seed she held onto, the thing that kept her clinging to sanity.
Hannah was incredibly stubborn. Always had been. But she was only human. Her captivity wore her down. The isolation, the confinement. The constant, never-ending cruelty and suffering.
Every day, more and more of her sanity slipped away. During the worst times, she went away in her head for hours at a time. Blank spaces filled up by nothing.
Each time she came back, she was still here in this prison of fear and pain and misery.
Hannah stood completely still in the darkness. The sink filled and she turned off the faucet. The last of the water drip, drip, dripped.
Instinctively, almost against her will, she turned back toward the door.
The dog had stopped barking. Complete silence enveloped her. The power was off. The generator wasn’t working. Nothing was working.
Hope was her worst enemy. If only she could give in. Killing herself would be a mercy. She’d thought about it a million times. Let the thoughts spin round and round inside her head. Plotting and planning.
It wouldn’t be hard. Not compared to this. It was far easier to give up. Easier to resign herself to her fate—a future of dying slowly, broken bone by broken bone, or a death of her choosing. It was death either way.
And yet, it hadn’t happened yet. Somehow, despite everything, she was still here.
That stubborn part of her always clinging to life, to hope. Even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
Could she bear another crushing disappointment? Even just walking across the cement floor felt like a monumental effort. All she wanted to do was lay down and go to sleep and never wake up.