by Stone, Kyla
He hadn’t planned on the thirty thugs rampaging through the tiny town, looting every store, pharmacy, gas station, and home they could find.
The occasional gunshot echoed in the frigid air, mingling with screams, shouts, and raucous laughter.
Most townspeople gave in quickly, cowed by the unexpected violence. Some were left alone. Others were dragged from their homes and beaten in the streets.
He’d taken up a position north of town and cased the area with binoculars until he’d gotten a good overview of what was going down.
These weren’t hardened criminals or trained soldiers. They were low-level thugs, who thought themselves bigger and badder than they really were. Likely, one was the brains of the operation, and had worked the others into a frenzy of greed, fear, and violence.
It wasn’t a bad plan. Take first before others take from you. Attack the smaller towns with few defenses and zero police presence. Strike at night in one fell swoop, and steal everything you can carry.
He might have done the same himself if he didn’t have a more pressing agenda. Gavin Pike was an expert at utilizing every situation to his own advantage. This was no exception.
He trudged through snow back to where he’d parked the ancient purple snowmobile behind some trees.
He adjusted the rifle across his back, then removed his balaclava and stuffed it in his pocket. The cold stung his face like a slap, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to look dangerous, not yet. His innocuous, placid features were one of his greater assets.
Pike affixed his goggles and started the motor. He checked the gas. Still half a tank’s worth. He’d need to find gas soon.
He drove the snowmobile into the center of town, right through main street. A few dozen abandoned cars collected snow along the curb on either side of the street, but nothing blocked or hampered his way.
Nine or ten men dressed in thick winter gear were gathered around the gas station, all working on siphoning gas from the pumps. They turned toward him as he roared up.
Several grabbed hunting rifles they’d set down nearby. A few semi-automatics. Others brandished baseball bats and crowbars, or aimed the beams of their flashlights in his face.
He squinted, irritated, but kept his expression calm and placid. He slowed and maneuvered to the edge of the parking lot, then cut the engine and sat for several moments, waiting.
It was an age-old ploy, and an affective one. Make them wait, let them get nervous and edgy, wondering what you wanted, who you were. Get them to come to you.
One of the men stepped forward. A tall, skinny Caucasian man. It was hard to tell any distinguishing details beneath the thick gray coat, hood, and scarf shielding the lower half of his face.
He held a rifle with both hands, though it was loosely aimed at the ground. For now.
“You best be moving on,” the man said gruffly. He spoke with confidence, without any hesitation or doubt. Likely, he was the leader.
“Without that Polaris, though,” said an African-American woman next to the leader. “We’re going to need that.”
“I’m sure we can work something out,” Pike said agreeably. He had no desire to get himself shot by some idiot. He was more than capable of holding his own, but he didn’t see a reason to resort to violence yet.
An idea was sprouting in his head, a way to use these fools to his own advantage.
The black woman was shorter than the man, and much heavier. She gestured at Pike with her shotgun. “Get off. Now. We’ll take your pack off your hands, too. And that rifle.”
“Wilcox will escort you through town to make sure you find your way,” the man said. “This place isn’t somewhere most folks would choose to be tonight, if you know what I mean.”
Another scream ripped through the night.
The thugs watched him, waiting to see him flinch. He didn’t. Instead, he pulled out his badge and flashed it at them.
The woman took an instinctive step backward. Several of the men gathered behind them muttered low curses.
“Officer Gavin Pike.” Pike left out the part about only being a reserve volunteer. What they didn’t know only strengthened his position. “I’m afraid you folks are breaking the law on at least a dozen counts. Probably more.”
The thugs exchanged wary glances, unsure what to do.
It’d only been a week since the blackout began. They were just getting used to the idea that the police might not control things anymore.
“My daughter has no food,” the woman said defensively. “We’re just doing what we have to.”
“Where’s the government?” whined a short, skinny guy behind the woman. “Where’s FEMA? They’ve abandoned us. Just left us behind. They’re forcing us to do this.”
“I’m not going to arrest you,” Pike said quickly to assuage their concerns.
It was best not to give them time to think anything through for themselves. Eventually, they’d realize they could kill a cop—real or fake—as easily as anyone else. Luckily, they hadn’t come to that conclusion yet.
A few of them looked relieved. The others—including the woman and the leader—still stared at him suspiciously, their fingers near their triggers.
He kept his posture easy, his shoulders loose. He loosened his hood to make sure they could see his bland face, his charismatic smile.
“Look,” he said in his friendliest voice, keeping the badge front and center. “We’re all just trying to survive these next few weeks or months, right? We’ve got families to feed. And where’s the government? Where’s FEMA? I don’t see any aid drops, do you?”
The thugs watched him, most grim-faced. A few nodded. He was speaking their language. “I’ve got no beef with you. This isn’t my jurisdiction. Isn’t my problem. Thing is, I’ve got a murder a few miles back that I’ve got to take care of. A nice little old lady killed in her own home.”
The woman stiffened. “We ain’t got nothin’ to do with that.”
“I already know who did it,” Pike said easily. “Just got to catch the bad guys, that’s all. That’s what I could use your help with, actually. I know nothing comes for free, especially now. I’ve got two thousand dollars in cash. A thousand now, a thousand after, if you happen to find the man and woman I’m looking for.”
It was a gamble to admit he had something they wanted, but he was still banking on their instinctive apprehension of the law. It worked.
“Cash?” one of the men asked.
“That’s what I said. All the banks are closed, no paychecks getting issued right now, and credit cards are just squares of plastic, but cash is always king. I’m sure you know of a few stores still open, demanding greenbacks in exchange for goods.”
A few nods. Several stares were less hostile, more greedy.
“You see the girl, you bring her to me.”
“What do they look like?” the woman asked.
“He’s tall, in his thirties, brown hair cut short, military bearing. He’ll be with the girl. Dark hair, Caucasian, skinny but pregnant. They might have a big white dog with them. Hard to miss, those two. They’ve both got packs crammed with ammo and two M16s.” That last bit was completely made up, but Pike knew how to read an audience. “I’ve got no use for the weapons and gear. They’re yours.”
Several of them exchanged looks. Semi-automatic weapons were useful in their new line of work.
“You want the man alive, too?” the woman asked.
Pike shrugged. “Let’s just say the man isn’t my concern.”
Pike never even got off the snowmobile. The leader came to him, puffing out his chest like a cocky rooster.
“And your rifle, too,” he said loudly, so the others could hear. “That’s part of the deal.”
Without a word, Pike unclipped the strap and handed the Winchester to the punk. He wasn’t worried. He would take it back shortly, and then some.
Men like these needed to feel they wielded power over others in order to let their guards down. That was what Pike needed.
Now he would watch and wait. This time, Pike would be ready for them.
This desolate, snow-laden town would be the end of the line for all of them—the girl, Soldier Boy, the mangy dog.
The only one leaving this place alive was him.
46
Hannah
Day Eight
Hannah flailed, striking out desperately with weak fists, blinded by the darkness and sheer terror.
It was him. Looming over her, ready to hurt her, to torture her, to kill her, to break every bone in her body, shattering her from within, from the inside out…
“Shhhh!” a voice whispered. “It’s me.”
She swam up through the depths of the nightmare, struggling toward reality. She wasn’t in the basement. She wasn’t dying. Her bones weren’t splintering.
Liam. Liam Coleman crouched beside her, eyes wide and white in the darkness, his features barely visible. His finger pressed against her lips.
She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep. It felt like minutes but could have been hours.
Everything came back in a rush of dread and fear and bone-chilling cold. The frigid night. The town. The screaming and shouting. She and Liam running for their lives.
They were in the library, hiding from the deranged hoodlums looting the town.
Fear shot through her. She scrambled up to a sitting position, the bean bags rustling and crackling beneath her weight. The noise loud as explosions in the tense silence.
She eased off the bean bags onto her hands and knees beside Liam.
Sounds were coming from the front entrance. The tinkling of broken glass. A thud and damp footfalls on a tile floor. A muffled curse.
The looters were inside the library. Why? For what? There wasn’t anything of value here. No gas, no food, no water, no money, and no people, as far as they knew. Unless someone had seen her or Liam.
Liam met her eyes and pointed at her, then the carpet in front of her. He pointed to himself and motioned down the aisle of books. He wanted her to stay put. He was going after the bad guys.
She nodded numbly, too scared to speak or make a sound lest she give their position away.
Still crouching, Liam moved silently between the rows of books and disappeared into the darkness.
Heart hammering, mouth bone-dry with panic, she scooched on her butt into the corner. She reached for the nearest bean bag with her bad hand but couldn’t close her fingers to pinch the fabric.
She kicked the stupid bean bag in frustration, angry tears springing to her eyes. She couldn’t even pick up a stupid bean bag.
And she was alone.
47
Liam
Day Eight
Liam stalked his targets.
It was well after midnight. His body was exhausted, but he didn’t feel it. That would come later.
He crept from shelf to shelf, always keeping a row between himself and his quarry, using the narrow space between the tops of the books and the shelf to get a bead on them.
Three men. Two with pistols. One with a rifle. The two with pistols held flashlights. They huddled in the entrance foyer, speaking quietly with each other, deciding what to do.
Whatever Liam did, he needed to do it quietly. It would only take a second for one of them to sound the alarm and draw reinforcements.
He could escape, slip out soundlessly and effortlessly without the hostiles knowing any different. But Hannah couldn’t. He could run for miles without stopping, could execute anyone who dared to pursue him with ease, but she couldn’t.
She was the weak link. She changed everything.
Liam needed to be very, very careful. He waited, assessing the situation.
Maybe they were looking for a break from the wind and snow. Maybe they didn’t realize a library wouldn’t have food. They’d simply walk out, and he wouldn’t have to do a thing.
“This sucks,” one of them grumbled.
“Why are we even doing this? Nobody’s here.”
“The guy said. They’ve got an M16. A backpack full of ammo. You know what we could do with that?”
“Can’t keep warm with it, now, can we?”
“Stop your whining and get moving.”
Liam only had one kind of luck. It wasn’t the good kind.
They weren’t leaving. Even worse, they were searching for someone specific and wouldn’t be easily dissuaded.
Adrenaline thrummed through him. His muscles tensed. Memories of his years in combat seared through his mind—bullets zinging past his head, grenades exploding, the dying screams of his fellow soldiers.
In war, every second was a life-or-death decision. Every move might be the last one you’d ever make. There was no time for indecision or second-guessing. Only action.
The library wasn’t large. Three men searching meant they’d find Hannah within a few minutes at most. If they spread out, he could eliminate them one at a time. Use his knife or snap their necks. He needed to move quickly.
The hostiles strode deeper into the library. The first one shifted left and swept the children’s area with a flashlight. The second headed straight toward the check-out counter.
The third one strode to the closed door next to the children’s area and nudged the door open with the muzzle of his pistol.
Liam had already checked it—a craft room with kid-sized tables and colorful chairs and cabinets filled with construction paper, glue, and sequins.
He slipped the gun into his coat pocket and drew his tactical knife again. The Gerber or his hands—both were quiet. The noisy Glock was a weapon of last resort.
Liam skirted the aisles in complete silence. He kept one bookshelf between himself and the two broken windows in case they had a lookout posted outside.
He reached the far wall and the half-opened craft room door. He slipped inside, a shadow among shadows.
Thug number three faced away from him, checking the space between the cabinets and the far corner, which was blocked by an oversized trash can.
Liam’s focus narrowed to a razor point. He lunged, fast and lethal. Four swift steps and he placed the point of the blade in the indent at the base of Three's skull, where the bone was thin, and slammed upward at a 45-degree angle.
The knife slid in soundlessly, scrambling the hostile’s medulla oblongata and cutting off his motor senses immediately.
Liam released the hilt, the blade still inside Three’s brain. He seized the man’s shoulders before he crashed to the floor and lowered him slowly, gently, snaking his ankle around the leg of the chair next to him, and moving it a few inches back as he laid his target down on his side.
He slid out the knife, wiped it off on the back of Three’s pant leg, and pocketed the man’s pistol. He barely glanced at the body. Three had been dead before he hit the floor.
Every sense alert, his muscles tensed, Liam moved to the left of the half-open craft room door. He hesitated.
No sounds immediately in the vicinity. A thud and a curse through the wall to his right. Thug One was still in the children’s area.
Liam moved quickly but cautiously from the craft room and scanned the area, knife held low and at the ready.
Movement to his left. A shadow out of the corner of his eye. Thug Two was headed down the third row closest to the wall of broken windows. Still five rows from Hannah’s location.
He didn’t want One still active at his back. He made a quick calculation—he had the time.
Liam turned around the corner and strolled into the children’s area. He kept his shoulders and arms loose, his posture unthreatening.
One barely looked up. He expected one of his friends to return. He wouldn’t see Liam coming until it was too late.
The thug leaned over a row of desks set up with ancient desktop computers, pistol in one hand. He’d set the flashlight on one of the desks, and the beam threw deep, quivering shadows.
Liam
glimpsed dark skin, a full beard, and a thick tattooed neck beneath the unzipped collar of the man’s coat. “I really don’t think they’re here, man. I mean—”
One finally glanced at Liam. His eyes widened in surprise.
Less than three feet away, Liam reached him before he could even open his mouth or reach for his weapon. He lashed out with the knife, stuck him in the side of his thick neck right in the carotid.
One gurgled and flailed. Blood sprayed in a dark arc.
Before Liam could grab him, One’s right arm bounced off the nearest computer monitors with a thunk. The monitor shuddered but didn’t fall.
Liam laid the man on the carpet. He pulled out the blade and slide it across the man’s jugular. One didn’t make a sound louder than a gurgle.
Blood had spattered Liam’s face and coat. He barely noticed. He pocketed the pistol, covered the dying man’s mouth with his hand, and went still, listening hard.
“You say something?” Two called from the stacks. “Ray? Mason?”
Instantly Liam was up and headed for the main room. He adjusted his grip on the knife, wet and slick with blood. His pulse quickened in concern.
By the sound of Two’s voice, he was only an aisle or two from Hannah.
48
Liam
Day Eight
Liam sprinted past the check-out counter and maneuvered between the round study tables, everything just dim shapes in the darkness.
Heart racing, he reached the stacks and quickly cleared each one, gun up. He moved to the second-to-last aisle. It was empty.
He stopped and listened, every sense on high alert.
No sounds. No movements. Even the chaos outside had fallen into a tense, muffled quiet.
Two would’ve made a noise if he’d found her. Hannah would’ve yelled or screamed a warning.
Liam couldn’t see her, but he felt her, small and terrified and shaking like a leaf. Helpless and depending on him.