Edge of Collapse Series (Book 1): Edge of Collapse

by Stone, Kyla

  Millions of people were stranded far from home due to the holidays. Close to a third of Americans traveled over Christmas. If they couldn’t use their stuff to survive, he could.

  He’d felt a little guilty about the car; not so much about reloading his go-bag from the cupboards of a vacant rural home and taking shelter in their barn for the night.

  He hadn’t chosen the fastest or easiest path from Chicago back to his homestead. It was the safest and most secluded. The most isolated. And isolation was what he needed now.

  He could survive the elements. His years as a Special Forces Operator had accustomed him to blistering heat and icy cold. He knew how to endure incredibly uncomfortable conditions to get the job done. He was used to hunger, thirst, and adapting to harsh environments.

  Human beings were the unknown element. You never knew what they would do, what they were capable of. He kept his head down, remained alert, and tried to avoid contact with people.

  The memory of that crazy woman flashed through his mind again. Her pale face. Her wild, fear-stricken eyes. He tried to push it away, but it only returned with a vengeance.

  He dismissed her from his mind. He had no moral obligation to help anyone. That had been his sister-in-law, Jessa. The compassionate doctor, always trying to fix people. Not him.

  His heart clenched like a fist. A sharp wave of grief welled up inside him. He pushed it down hard. He wouldn’t think of the horror of the last few days, couldn’t bear to remember the losses he’d suffered.

  He had to focus on the task at hand to keep himself from falling apart. It was what he did best.

  A white blaze on a red pine tree just ahead of him drew his attention.

  Dusk was coming. The glimpse of sky he could see through the gnarled branches twisting above him had darkened to a deep, steely gray. It was an hour before sundown.

  He unslung his pack and braced it against a tree so he could unzip one of the side pouches. He pulled out the Manistee National Forest visitor guide and trail maps he’d borrowed from a vacant ranger station he’d passed on the way up.

  He studied the various dotted trails, trailheads, and campsites. A string of five or six cabins were marked about a mile and a half off the NCT at the Bear Track Campground.

  He had no intention of spending the night out here in below zero temperatures. No reason to freeze to death in the middle of the wilderness with a perfectly good shelter nearby.

  Liam turned onto the spur trail and picked up his pace. The slog through the snow was difficult and exhausting. His back hurt. He was more tired than he’d been for a long time.

  She’s going to freeze to death.

  A voice in his head—a voice he recognized. He brushed it aside. He wasn’t responsible for that strange woman. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, wasn’t bound by any code to offer aid and protection. She’d clearly refused any help, anyway.

  She was terrified of you.

  “So what?” he said aloud.

  His words sounded harsh and loud in the stillness of the forest. Hollow and empty in his own ears.

  Sounds were muted by the snow. In spring, summer, and fall, these woods were alive with birds singing, squirrels chirping, insects whirring, a wonderland for hikers and mountain bikers, campers, fishermen, and hunters.

  In winter, it was a snowmobiler and cross-country skier’s paradise. Not this winter. Not now.

  She’s scared and completely alone.

  His only responsibility was to himself. Whatever responsibilities he’d held—and failed—to other people were gone now.

  Responsibility, connection, love—it only brought more heartbreak. And his heart was already broken.

  He glimpsed something through the trees forty yards to his left. A dark square shape that didn’t fit with the slim vertical lines of trees clustered as far as the eye could see. A cabin.

  He pushed Jessa’s voice out of his mind as he plodded toward it.

  Liam Coleman was meant to be alone. He survived alone.

  21

  Liam

  Day Three

  The small cabin was no more than three hundred square feet. Maybe a hunting cabin or a lodge that belonged to the conservation officers. He paused inside the tree line and cautiously surveyed the area.

  The building should be empty, but he always verified every assumption.

  No smoke poured from the chimney. No vehicles parked beside it. No tracks anywhere in front or the sides of the cabin that he could see. It’d been snowing for a while now. That didn’t necessarily mean no one was inside.

  The cabin was built of wood plank with a steep shingled roof covered in a thick layer of snow. A chimney, which meant a fireplace. An outhouse a few dozen yards behind the cabin.

  It wasn’t built for year-round occupancy. But it would suffice for one night.

  His heartrate increased a notch as he lifted his coat and drew his Glock 19 from his holster. Seventeen rounds in the magazine, an eighteenth round already chambered.

  Staying within the tree line, his gun in the low ready position, he silently skirted the cabin. He saw no movement in the windows. Heard no sounds. No signs of life.

  Before making a move, he studied the most concealed approach. Along the south side, the trees came within a few yards of the cabin. He circled around and closed in on the rear, using the trees for cover.

  He darted to the back wall and ducked behind a chest-high stack of firewood. Keeping low, he edged up to a window to see what lay inside. He couldn’t make out much—the window was scummy and frosted with snow. He glimpsed no movement.

  He crept along the wall to the rear door. Keeping most of his body concealed behind the wall for cover, he reached over and tried the handle. The door was locked.

  A locked door posed no problem with his skill set. He quickly jimmied the lock then immediately dropped prone. Any threat inside would likely shoot waist-high or above.

  Sighting with the Glock, he “sliced the pie,” searching carefully from 9-3 like on a watch. Seeing no one, he used the door frame to round the edge.

  It was clear. The cabin was empty.

  Inside was as he expected—a single room with plain plank floors and walls, wood cupboards and shelves for supplies along one wall, two single cots pushed against the opposite wall. Across the room, the wood-burning fireplace with a stack of dry logs ready to burn.

  The cabin was chilly inside, but without the wind and snow, it felt almost balmy. It smelled stale and dusty and woodsy.

  Once he got the fire going, it’d warm right up. He’d be able to cook a hot supper, too.

  His mouth watered—not because the MREs in his pack actually tasted good, but because he was so hungry. Thirsty, too. Hiking for miles through deep snow had taken a lot out of him.

  He sat on the nearest cot for a moment to rest his weary legs. He set the gun down on the cot next to him, shucked off his go-bag, and pulled out his water bottle. It was nearly empty. He needed to melt more snow.

  He emptied the water bottle and placed it back in the pack’s side webbing. His go-bag contained forty-eight hours of emergency supplies—MREs, high-calorie protein bars, a Lifestraw water filter, water purification tablets, a first aid kit, duct tape, a pair of goggles, two thermal survival blankets, extra wool socks and underwear, waterproof matches, a flint, and a Ziplock bag of Vaseline-coated cotton ball fire starters, sewing kit and multitool, a headlamp and flashlight, extra batteries, compass and paper maps, and three spare magazines for his Glock.

  He was nearly out of hemostatic gauze and Celox blood-clotting granules. His tourniquet had also been used back in Chicago.

  Instinctively, he thrust his hand into his pocket. Felt the soft scrap of lopsided, crooked knitting between his fingers. His only remaining connection to his past.

  He felt everything he’d lost like an immense pressure crushing his chest. Bitter regret filled him. It tasted like ash on his tongue. It tasted like death.

  He inhaled sharply, forced down the pain. Tried to t
hink about something else, anything else. Focused on his plan, on surviving.

  He tugged off his gloves and blew into his chilled hands. His ears were freezing beneath his gray knit cap. Snow melted in the fur of his parka hood and trickled down his neck.

  She’ll freeze to death out there—while you’re warm and cozy in here.

  That woman was crazy. Delirious, maybe. So small and pale, her eyes huge and frantic in her drawn face.

  He didn’t need anyone. Didn’t want them.

  He was done with that. Finished. That was the whole point.

  Get to the homestead. Get to safety. Then he could shut out the chaos and cruelty of a world he wanted nothing to do with. He could live out the rest of his life alone and miserable and haunted.

  Just like he wanted.

  Just like he deserved.

  You saw her, whispered the voice that wouldn’t leave him. A female voice, low and warm and chiding. Jessa’s voice. You saw what she is.

  He had seen. The woman had tried to hide it. Pulled her coat over her middle and angled herself away from him, trying to shield herself.

  But he’d seen it. The instant he saw her, he’d known.

  The woman was pregnant.

  22

  Hannah

  Day Three

  Hannah was freezing.

  She bent her head against the driving wind. Forced her aching legs to push through the deepening snow. It rose higher than her knees, almost to her thighs. The trees closed in all around her, pressing closer and closer.

  Her eyes burned. She was tired, so tired. Her right ankle pulsed dully. It hurt, but not as much as it had at first. Maybe that was because it was going numb.

  She cupped her hands over her face and blew into her mittens to allow her own breath to warm her stinging cheeks. It didn’t help. Her sunglasses had fogged in the extreme cold and she’d put them in her pocket a while ago.

  She didn’t need them now, anyway. Dusk had fallen. The whole world was a muddled shade of gray and growing darker by the minute. And colder.

  She should’ve found shelter an hour ago. Or built herself a snow trench or an igloo, like the Inuit.

  Every small, dragging step was a triumph. Her water was gone. She didn’t have the strength to dig in her pack for the peanut butter, the only food she had left.

  Her body was failing her. Her fumbling fingers were no longer cooperating. Her fine motor coordination had vanished.

  Soon, her capacity to think rationally would freeze up as the blood left her brain and her extremities in order to warm and protect the vital organs of her core.

  She’d survived two nights and three days out here. Could she make it a fourth?

  Mother Nature was relentless and unforgiving. No matter how much she wanted it. No matter how strong her willpower.

  The cold was a living thing, a savage and merciless predator. She’d loved the forest and winter as a child, but now it was hostile, actively aggressive.

  Hunting her.

  She realized abruptly that she didn’t know where she was. The wide path of the road had disappeared. She was in deep woods. The road must have turned in another direction and she’d simply kept walking.

  For how long? She’d been concentrating on the arduous task of putting one foot in front of the other and staying upright—she’d lost track, made a critical mistake.

  Heart thudding loud in her ears, she twisted around, peered through the thick forest pooling with shadows. She couldn’t see the road through the trees, the shadows, the blinding snow.

  She needed to head back, to follow her quickly-filling tracks until she found it again. She had to stay on the road. It would lead to civilization eventually. It had to.

  Despair bit at her. It had taken so much effort for each step, and now she had to backtrack, wasting even more precious energy. Energy she no longer had.

  A rustling came from her right. Ghost darted through the trees and underbrush.

  She blinked the snowflakes out of her eyes and searched blearily for the dog. He was nearly invisible in the gloaming.

  “Ghost!” she called weakly. Her words were ripped away by the wind.

  She took several plodding steps back in the direction she’d just come. Her boot caught on a hard chunk of snow, and she went down on her knees.

  The scarf slipped off her face. She inhaled sharply. The freezing air went into her lungs and she felt them spasm.

  She gasped. More cold air plunged down her throat and it was like her lungs were icing over and no longer functioned. It felt like drowning.

  With awkward, cold-stiffened fingers, she struggled to pull the scarf back up over her mouth and nose. She exhaled several shallow, painful breaths. Between the scarf and her skin, the air warmed before she breathed it in.

  Still, each inhalation burned her throat. Her lungs felt seared with cold.

  Her thoughts came slow and sluggish. Fatigue tugged at her.

  Maybe if she just sat down for a while. Maybe that was all she needed.

  She was so tired. Just a rest. Just for a few minutes.

  Falling asleep in the snow means death.

  A deep woof sounded to her right. Ghost appeared, shooting across the narrow path and nearly barreling into her. His plumed tail slapped her shoulder and the back of her head.

  She needed him. He knew it, somehow. He knew it and came to her aid.

  Ghost circled her, almost dancing, paws lifting high in the snow. The fur around his black-lipped jowls were stained a faint red.

  “You found a rabbit, boy?” she murmured. “Glad you found…food. You’ve got to…take care of your…self.”

  Her words were slurring. She was shivering violently; it was difficult to talk. She needed a rest. Just a few minutes more.

  The dog nudged her face. He whined anxiously deep in his throat. His breath struck her cheeks, but she couldn’t feel it.

  Numbness wasn’t good. She couldn’t feel her feet, either. Like they were two numb stumps. It was a bad sign. A sign of…but she couldn’t think of the word anymore.

  “I know, I know…I’ll get up…soon.”

  She tried to climb to her feet. Ordered her numb and frozen muscles to move. She had to keep walking, to turn around and find the road again.

  One more step. Wasn’t that what she’d promised Ghost?

  Instead, she lost her balance and toppled sideways in the snow. She rolled onto her back and gazed up at the bare branches whipping above her. The merciless wind moaning and howling. The endless swarms of snowflakes.

  Tears froze in the corners of her eyes. Ice crusting in her eyebrows and eyelashes. She could feel the little hairs in her nose freezing.

  Ghost flopped down beside her lengthwise. He pressed his long body against hers, like he was offering the warmth of his thick fur, like he knew exactly what to do.

  With the last of her strength, she turned into him and buried her face in the soft scruff of his neck. She loved him in that moment. Loved this dog fiercely and completely like her own heart.

  Movement deep in her belly. An elbow or a knee jabbing her ribs, her bladder, her lower back. She felt its weight, a swollen heaviness in her belly.

  A parasite stealing her warmth, her energy, her very life.

  Guilt pricked her, but it was too late to feel much of anything but exhaustion. And fear. She always felt the fear.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered into Ghost’s neck. “I’m so sorry...”

  If she died, her captor would win.

  She would never see her husband again, never wrap her arms around Milo or kiss his small rumpled head, inhale the sweet scent of him, laugh and sing classic rock lullabies with him.

  A vision filled her, delicious and warm and beautiful. Milo giggling as he toddled toward her across the grass on his fat little legs, a Paw Patrol band-aid over one skinned knee. Hannah bending down, arms open wide as he crashed into her, wrapped his arms around her neck.

  She stroked his black curls, kissed that soft perfe
ct olive-toned skin. You came home, Mommy, he said in his eager baby voice. You came back to me.

  Tears froze in her eyelashes. She’d never get to tell him how much she longed to hold him again. She’d never get to tell him how she’d stayed alive for him all this time.

  The darkness thickened all around her. She’d always thought of the color of cold as white, like snow, or maybe blue. But cold like this was black, the complete and utter absence of all light and color. Of life.

  Ghost growled. The hackles along his back lifted beneath her gloved fingers. He leapt to his feet and darted in front of her.

  Fear pierced the thick fog of her mind. She struggled to raise her head and search the shadows, the looming darkness.

  What did Ghost see? A coyote? Another wolf? Or something much worse?

  Something moved ahead of her. A dim shape took form—long legs, swinging arms, broad shoulders, a head covered in a gray beanie, furred hood pulled low.

  The man. He’d come back.

  Her throat seized. She couldn’t scream or yell out. Couldn’t make a sound.

  “Lady, call off your damn dog!” the man shouted above the wind. He stopped five yards away, several birch and maple trees and a thicket of bushes between them. A flashlight in his hand. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Ghost remained in front of her, a great white bear, fierce and protective. He started up his savage booming bark that struck fear into the heart of anyone who heard it.

  The man took a nervous step backward. He held up both hands, palms out. They were empty but for the flashlight. He wasn’t holding a gun or a knife.

  Didn’t mean he didn’t have one. Didn’t mean this wasn’t a trick.

  Clumsily, she stroked the dog’s back to calm him. “Shhh, boy.”

  He gave a disgruntled growl in response. But he obeyed.

  The man glared at her for a long moment without saying anything. He looked angry and resentful, like he wanted to be out here even less than she did. “I found a cabin. Less than a mile north. With a fireplace and firewood.”