by Kyla Stone
“A few weeks.”
He sighed heavily. “Us either. Your generators holding okay?”
Raven nodded. She caught sight of the fridge in the back containing all the medications that needed to remain cold. The doors were wrapped in chains and a large padlock. “And yours?”
“It’s lasting, so far. Things’ll get worse before they get better, mark my words.”
“You hear about all the rioting in Atlanta and Chicago?” Carl plunked the bottle down on the counter between them. His eyes glittered with something Raven couldn’t quite read. Was it smug satisfaction? Morbid excitement? “They don’t even have workers to clean up all the dead bodies in the cities. The police and National Guard are fallin’ apart at the seams, literally. Either all dead or leavin’ to protect their families. That’s what I would do. Let the government try to clean up their own damn mess for once.”
Raven just stared at him, at a loss for words. Carl was only one of the many reasons she preferred an isolated cabin in the woods to the cruel, indifferent world of people.
Phil handed her the bottle. “Find yourself a safe place and stay there, you hear me?”
“Thanks.” She took the bottle and shoved it in her pants’ pocket. “How much for this?”
“For you? No charge. Just remember this and pay it forward any way you can. I have a feeling folks are going to need all the help they can get.”
Gratitude filled her. She blinked and managed a smile. “Thank you.”
She turned for the door just as two more bikers pulled up outside. They wore semi-automatic rifles strapped to their chests. They were both tall and olive-skinned, maybe in their late twenties.
The first one had black hair yanked back in a ponytail. He was gaunt, his body long and sharp as a knife. The other moved with liquid grace, like a dancer—or a panther. Their faces were lean and hard, their eyes glinting dangerously.
Unease shivered up her spine. Her gut tightened. She’d grown up around predators. She recognized one when she saw it.
Instinct made her sidestep and shrink behind a five-foot shelf housing conditioners, shampoos, razors, and shaving cream. She peered around the corner as the two bikers swaggered in, the bell tinkling in warning. The three men already inside sauntered to the counter.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” Phil asked.
“We need all the painkillers and antibiotics you got, Pops,” said the skinny, pony-tailed one. He wore a leather vest with a skull emblazoned on the back.
“Please,” said the second guy, the one that reminded her of a panther. His coal-black hair framed a long, angular face as he gave a languid, mocking smile. He scratched his goateed chin and perused the empty shelves with a disinterested, heavy-lidded gaze.
“We’re happy to give you a few,” Phil said, still polite, his voice tight. The five thugs with guns looming over him were intimidating. He was trying unsuccessfully not to let them see his fear. “We’re rationing the supply as long as we can so more people get what they need. With the hospitals closed, this is the only medical care people can get.”
“You mistake our politeness,” said a third man, this one blond with hair shorn close to his skull. A scorpion tattoo snaked up his neck. His squinty eyes were hooded in his fleshy, shovel-shaped face. Several empty backpacks were slung across his shoulder.
He placed the backpacks on the counter. Then he lifted his rifle and set it down beside the backpacks, so it faced Phil and Carl. He stroked the barrel fondly, his lips peeling back from his teeth in a sinister smile. “As you can see, we aren’t asking.”
6
Raven crouched lower, shrinking to appear as small as possible. Her pulse throbbed against her neck. Her brain screamed at her to flee, but there was nowhere to go, no way to sneak out without drawing attention to herself.
“Now, let’s try this again,” the biker with the scorpion tattoo said. “Fill these backpacks with everything you’ve got.” He paused, a sly grin playing across his lips. “Please and thank you.”
“You can’t just take our things.” Carl scowled, his voice rising. “That’s against the law.”
Panther guy half-turned, his hand shielding his eyes as if he were looking for something. “I don’t see any law here, do you, Scorpio?”
“There are no laws now,” said Scorpio, the biker with the scorpion tattoo. “No police, no judges, no courts. Nothing. It’s all gone to hell.”
“This is a civilized society!” Carl whined.
“Oh, I assure you we are quite civilized,” Ponytail said. Slowly, with exaggerated movements, he turned and hocked a massive loogie onto the floor. Panther guy laughed darkly.
Raven tensed. They were baiting him, entertaining themselves, but Carl was too stupid to see it.
Carl’s face purpled, his jaw pulsing. “You can’t just go around stealing because you feel like it, taking a man’s livelihood right out from under him. It’s thugs like you who ruined this country in the first place!”
Several of the bikers stiffened. Panther guy’s smile dissolved. “Shut your trap and give us what we want.”
“I suggest you listen to Ryker,” Ponytail drawled.
Phil shot his son a warning look. “Carl.”
Carl ignored it. He pointed his finger in Panther guy’s—Ryker’s—face. “You won’t get away with this, you filthy son of a—”
In one swift, fluid movement, Ryker pulled a pistol from his holster and aimed it at Carl. There was no surprise in the other bikers’ faces. No hatred or even anger. Even Ryker’s expression was smooth, his black eyes dull and flinty. “I’m hungry, tired, and I’ve had a long day. Test me one more time—”
Phil stuck both hands in the air. “We mean no harm. We’ll get you what you’ve asked for.”
“No, we won’t.” Carl was shaking, his eyes bulging, but he would not shut his stupid mouth. “We’re not letting you thieving scumbags steal what’s rightfully ours.”
He didn’t understand that they were the predators, and he the prey. He didn’t understand that they wouldn’t have bothered with him if he’d stayed still and small, if he hadn’t turned aggressive himself, challenging their dominance—the one thing men like these would not let slide.
Scorpio sneered. “You little pissant.”
“You think you scare me?” Carl snarled. “You come in here with your big guns and—”
Ryker shot Carl point-blank in the face.
The blast of the gunshot exploded against Raven’s ears. She clasped both hands over her mouth to contain the whimper of shock.
Carl’s body dropped to the floor behind the counter. Blood splattered everywhere—the counter, the printed candy rack. Phil’s pristine white lab coat, his face, his mask, the white puff of hair ringing his scalp.
Phil stood frozen beside his son’s body, his arms still raised, his eyes wide and startled.
Scorpio grunted as he wiped a faint spray of blood off his face with the flap of his shirt. “Did you have to do that?”
“I did,” Ryker said, his face impassive, his gaze flat. “He offended my…honor.”
Scorpio shook his head. “Cerberus won’t be pleased.”
Ryker swiveled and pointed the gun at Phil. He sneered, his features contorting into an expression of derision, but there was something missing, something empty. His eyes were dull as lead. “We better not leave any witnesses, then.”
Raven shrank back against the shelves, bumping the lowest one with her knee. A shampoo bottle wavered. She seized it before it clattered to the tile floor.
She held her breath, her heart thumping, but no one turned around. No one but Phil knew she was there.
“I’ve got this,” said a younger guy she hadn’t noticed before. He’d hung back silently until now. Metal glinted at his lip and brow. He looked maybe twenty, tallish and lanky, with a head of short russet-red hair, a narrow, pointy face and cunning eyes, reminding her distinctly of a fox. A very handsome fox.
He lifted the rifle slung over his s
houlder and aimed it at Phil. “Get what we asked for, or I’ll blow your kneecaps, then your ankles, then your hands, one by one, and then we’ll watch you bleed out and die like a stuck pig.”
“You heard Damien.” Ryker’s lip curled in faint amusement. He holstered his own gun. “Do what he says, and maybe you’ll live to bury your son.”
Raven waited, every muscle taut, fear and adrenaline pumping through her, as Phil turned without a word. Trembling, he bagged up the remaining medications.
“Faster!” Damien snarled, gesturing with the gun.
Ryker slapped Damien on the back, grinning. “Lookie there. The young pup is coming into his own!”
Damien gave a hard little grin, his eyes unreadable. “Get the damn meds, old man.”
Minutes that felt like hours later, the bikers had what they wanted. Phil crammed the bottles and boxes into the backpack with trembling fingers. “That—that’s it.”
Damien cursed at him. The other men laughed, jeering and mocking.
Phil cowered. “Please,” he whispered over and over. “Please, please, please.”
“You’re just a pathetic old man,” Damien snarled. He jabbed the barrel of the rifle once into Phil’s chest. Raven cringed, half-expecting him to shoot Phil just for the fun of it. Phil went rigid, closing his eyes, as if he expected the same thing. Maybe a part of him wanted it, so he wouldn’t have to bear the pain of living in a shattered world without his son.
But Damien turned away with a dismissive sneer. “He’s not worth the bullet. This place stinks. Let’s go.”
The bikers strode loudly from the pharmacy, knocking the few remaining items off the shelves, bulging backpacks slung over their shoulders. Raven shrank back, heart roaring in her ears, but none of them bothered to look down.
After a minute, their motorcycles roared to life, and they peeled out of the parking lot.
Raven forced herself to stand, her legs wobbly, adrenaline still icing her veins. She rushed to the counter. On the other side, Phil squatted on the tile floor next to his son, weeping. It was a private moment, one she had no part of. She backed away to give him privacy. There was nothing she—or anyone—could do for Carl.
She swiped her dad’s SmartFlex cuff on her wrist and activated it with her thumbprint bio-signature—her dad had added her to his account so she could access the car. She forced her voice to remain calm, though she felt anything but. “Call 911.”
“Service cannot be reached,” the SmartFlex chimed.
“Try again.” She got the same answer. She tried the local police and the county sheriff. Still nothing. She swallowed hard. What had she expected?
It felt like the floor was cracking open beneath her, and she was falling, falling, falling, with no bottom in sight. It was true, then. There really was no more law, no more police. Here, at least. Maybe everywhere.
Phil stood. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. He stared at his streaked fingers, stained with his son’s blood. “You should go home. Stay there. This is no place for a girl.”
She wanted to say this was no place for anyone, but her words turned to ash in her mouth. She wanted to comfort him, but there was nothing to say, nothing that would mean a thing against this meaningless act of violence. Instead, she nodded mutely, turned, and ran from the shadows of the store into the cool, late afternoon sunlight.
She’d barely reached the car when the back of her neck prickled. Someone was watching her. She glanced down the street. At least ten motorcycles were parked at the bank. The bikers were inside—they’d smashed the glass doors—except for one.
Ryker leaned against his bike, smoking a cigarette. He lounged languid as a cat poised to strike, his gaze fixed on her. Their eyes met for a brief, electric moment. Those eyes were dull, lifeless, like hollow black pits.
She jerked the car door open, stumbled into her seat, punched the auto-drive button, and sat back with a shudder as the car pulled out of the pharmacy parking lot. The entire ride home, she couldn’t stop shivering.
The bikers were right.
The world had gone to hell.
7
By the time Raven returned to the lodge an hour later, the Toyota’s electric battery was completely drained. She plugged it into the charger, but the power was still out.
The electrified fences in the park had automatic back-up generators that would last a few more weeks. She didn’t want to turn on the one for the lodge, not unless she absolutely had to. If the power wasn’t coming back on for months, maybe longer, the generators were all she had.
She brought the tranq gun into the house but set it on the coffee table. She didn’t want it in his room, anywhere near him. The pills would help. The pills would take away his pain.
She entered the doorway to her father’s bedroom, gripping the bottle of painkillers so tightly her knuckles went white. “Dad?”
He didn’t answer.
The room was filled with heavy shadows, dusk staining the windows. She slipped the mask over her mouth and nose and went to his bedside, flipping on the solar lamp.
His chest rose and fell in jerky, uneven movements, his breathing raspy. He moaned and writhed, tangling the rumpled bedding, the sheets damp. The room stank of sweat and sickness.
But that wasn’t the worst thing. A drop of blood rimmed his outer ear. Another dot of crimson stained the hollow beneath his right eye.
Hemorrhaging from multiple orifices…the last stage before the end. Before death.
How could she not have seen it? How could he have been so sick and stayed on his feet? The fever stage burned over 105 degrees. She remembered that from the CDC health alerts. Why had he purposefully kept this from her?
“Dad,” she said. She cleared her throat. “Dad. I got it. I got you medicine.”
He groaned and opened his eyes. They were glassy and threaded with scarlet. “Raven,” he croaked.
She fumbled with the bottle and spilled three pills into her palm. She added two more, to make sure. “This will help you feel better.”
His face darkened. “I told you not to go. I told you what to do.”
She swallowed. “I’m not—I can’t do that. But I got these. They’ll ease the pain, I promise.”
She managed to slip the pills in his mouth, lifting his head, pressing a glass of water to his lips and getting him to swallow them down. His head fell back against the sweaty pillow.
He stared up at her like she was a stranger, his eyes so bloodshot they looked crimson. The fever-heat emanated off him in waves. “You start coughing, you know what to do.”
She shook her head. “Stop. Don’t talk about that.”
“There’s enough etorphine to stop your heart.”
She pressed her lips together. “I got it.”
He heaved a ragged breath. “Do the animals first. Before you do it yourself. You know where the guns are.”
Her mind revolted from the thought. “You should rest.”
“Don’t be weak.”
“I said I got it.”
He turned to the wall as he hacked up a bloody, phlegmy cough. She handed him a clean washcloth. He wiped his mouth. For several minutes, he didn’t speak. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the room.
“Dad—”
“I was weak,” he barked, his face contorting. “I was weak and let Zachariah stay. He came after you. Now you’ve got it, too.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” she said, her chest constricting. She’d never seen him like this before, never heard him talk about anything beyond lessons and instructions and orders. “And you don’t know that.”
“Don’t be stupid. I saw what I saw. So did you. I should’ve kicked him out long ago…never should’ve let him stay.”
“He was your friend.”
“He wasn’t anyone,” her father snarled. “That’s the mistake…never trust anyone…’specially the ones who call themselves friend.”
This wasn’t how she wanted things to go. He was dying. She should say s
omething important. Something that meant something. But her words failed her.
Her father groaned. She forced herself to look at him, at the mask of pain contorting his face into someone unrecognizable. But then, she’d never really known her father. No one had.
Her gaze strayed to the medal of valor sitting in a velvet box atop his dresser, gathering dust. Her mother always said he’d never been the same after he came back from the war. Back when Raven was only three, after the Hand of God terrorist group set off several suitcase nukes, he’d served as a peacekeeper in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
He was flying a chopper full of medical aid to wounded soldiers when it crashed over the Congo Basin. He survived in the jungle for ninety-seven days. He said once that he wished he’d made it to one hundred.
Her mother had insisted on displaying the medal. Her father had hated it. Once, when Raven was around ten, she’d made the mistake of admiring it. She’d called her father a hero.
He’d turned away, his hard face twisting in revulsion. “It is not a heroic thing to survive.”
She’d never figured out whether it was the award itself he found so repellent, or what he’d had to do to receive it. She knew only the barest of facts.
Four men had survived the crash deep in the Congo jungle. Only one had made it out.
Her father had returned thirty pounds lighter, gaunt and starving, an infected knife wound festering across his right bicep and no explanation for how he had suffered it. Her mother claimed he was never the same, after. Raven was too young to remember him before. Being alone like that, surviving any way you had to, it changed a person. It changed him.
“Your father thinks a man is an island,” her mom had said once, right before she left. “He wants to be an island. He’s cut everyone out for his entire life. He thinks it makes him stronger, but he’s wrong, Raven. He’s the loneliest man I ever met.”
Now there was only her dad and Raven. Soon, it would only be Raven.
Her insides twisted. Her mouth tasted of copper. Zachariah was dead. Her father was dying. And she was alone. Totally, completely alone.