Edge of Collapse Series (Book 4): Edge of Anarchy

by Stone, Kyla

  “That’s lots of years older than me.”

  “Not that much older. Not nearly old enough,” Noah snapped. “When you both are as old as I am, then maybe you can start making the decisions. Until then, I’m the one in charge. And I’m the one who decides about safety. You got it?”

  Milo’s face fell.

  Guilt pricked him. Noah had spoken too harshly. He hadn’t intended to.

  He cared about Quinn, but she was still a kid, idealistic and naïve. She had a kid’s notions about how the world should be. Should be, not the way it was.

  In the real world, you had to make concessions and compromises. Sometimes, you even had to do things that made you dislike yourself.

  He squeezed Milo’s shoulder. “Hey. That wasn’t cool. I’m stressed out, but that was no excuse. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

  Milo nodded, relieved. He scooted up onto his elbows and buried his head against Noah’s chest. Noah wrapped his arms around his son. So small, so thin. Noah’s entire heart caught in this little boy’s body. His love for his son beat hard and fierce, aching in every cell.

  “I love you, son. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

  “I know, Daddy,” Milo said, his voice muffled. “I love you, too.”

  13

  Hannah

  Day Twenty-One

  Hannah waited.

  Ghost whined at the front door.

  Hannah wanted to give in to him, to fling the door open and send him out into the night to help Liam. But she didn’t.

  Liam’s words rang in her ears. Do not open the door for anyone but me. Keep Ghost here to protect you and Charlotte.

  He’d left over an hour ago. If it were just her, she’d release Ghost anyway, despite Liam’s order.

  But she had Charlotte to think about. Charlotte to keep safe.

  “I’m sorry, boy,” she said. “We have to wait for Liam to come back. We have to wait.”

  Ghost growled his displeasure. He glanced back at her, ears cocked, his brown eyes giving her a pleading look.

  “I hate it, too.”

  She sat in the middle of the living room facing the front door. She sat straight-backed in a kitchen chair that she’d pulled in from the dining room.

  Her Ruger American .45 lay in her lap. The safety was off.

  Charlotte slept in her drawer beside the fireplace. She’d been sleeping for an hour. She’d wake up soon, hungry again. Newborns ate a lot more than she remembered.

  In the fireplace, a log popped and whistled and settled onto its bed of coals. Small flames leapt for the flue and vanished in midair.

  Outside, the snowstorm beat at the house. Trees creaked. A branch thrashed against the roof.

  Hannah’s heart was a wild thing in her chest. She jumped at every noise, every creak and thud. Every second that Liam was gone stretched her nerves tighter and tighter.

  She fought the fear, the dread. For eight days, she’d believed Pike was dead. Now, like some sort of demon, he’d returned from the grave. A man with no soul. A man who represented evil in its purest form.

  She believed in God. Maybe belief in a god necessitated a belief in its opposite—a supernatural force bent on evil. Maybe that force was sustaining him, bequeathing him with otherworldly powers no mere mortal could possess.

  She shook those thoughts out of her head. That was ridiculous. That was her fear talking.

  Pike was a man. Just a man. He could be killed. He would be killed.

  Liam would do it this time. She had to believe that. The alternative was untenable.

  Her fingers tightened on the grip of the Ruger .45.

  A small cry came from the dresser drawer. Charlotte was awake.

  Hannah rose and carried the gun with her. She set it on the floor at her feet, squatted, and gathered the babe into her arms. She rocked her gently, lovingly, murmuring into her soft, downy scalp.

  The knit cap Liam had made had fallen off while she was sleeping. Her lower half was damp.

  Hannah changed her on the sofa—removing the soiled makeshift diaper and placing it in the small trash can they’d reserved for that purpose, washing her bottom with rags she dipped into a kitchen mixing bowl half-full of warm water, and re-swaddling her in fresh strips held in place with safety pins.

  There wasn’t a rocking chair, but rather a stuffed reading chair sat invitingly in one corner of the living room. She sat and nursed Charlotte back to sleep. Charlotte’s little eyes drifted closed, a sweet, satisfied expression on her tiny face.

  She trusted in her caregiver completely. She had no idea what was out there. The evil in the world. The things that hunted them.

  Love for the infant in her arms tightened her chest. She had been so afraid she wouldn’t be able to love her, that she would feel the same loathing and revulsion for the child as she did for the monster responsible for creating her, who shared her genes.

  What if she’d looked like Pike? What if she had his darkness, his evil? What if every time Hannah looked at her, she saw her captor reflected in her child’s eyes?

  But she didn’t. She looked like Hannah. She looked like a baby: innocent and blameless. Pike had no part in this. Her daughter was hers and hers alone.

  For all that Hannah had endured and would endure, this burden was not one of them. She loved her daughter, wholly and completely, and without reservation.

  Hannah held Charlotte. She hummed tunelessly but didn’t sing. The words, the notes—they wouldn’t come to her. Her eyes ached, but she was too anxious to sleep.

  The snowstorm outside created heavy, wavering shadows. The day was bleeding into late afternoon. She listened to the branches scraping the side of the house and the moaning wind and fought the fear creeping in.

  She felt the snow all around her, pressing down on the roof, slowly creeping up the walls, crouching beneath the windows.

  She counted the books in the bookcase—one hundred and thirty-three—the blinds over the windows—fifty-six—and the stripes on the comforter—forty-two.

  Tiny and warm, Charlotte pressed against her chest. Anchoring her, keeping her present.

  She held the baby with her good hand; with her bad hand, she dug into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and tugged out her pocketknife with the four-inch blade.

  It was difficult to grip with her misshapen fingers. They had been broken, healed crookedly, only to be broken again. Bones, like anything else, were strong—until they weren’t.

  They were crippled and ugly. Useless. Well, almost useless.

  She’d been practicing as much as she could over the last week. Learning to adjust her mangled grip so she could hold things. Working the aching joints and coaxing movement from stiff, arthritic fingers.

  The gnarled bones grated against each other. Every small movement caused pain. She didn’t stop until her crippled fingers had closed over the handle.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, relieved.

  It wasn’t something she’d ever wanted to do—to hold a knife, to wield a gun.

  It was necessary. She would do what she had to do.

  Ghost stiffened. His hackles raised. His tail stood straight out.

  He gave a savage, booming bark. The explosive sound rang in her ears. Ghost jumped up and scratched at the front door.

  Every hair on her neck stood on end. Her arms tightened around Charlotte. The baby squirmed but didn’t wake up.

  Hannah stilled, straining her ears.

  Ghost kept barking. His nails scrabbled on the wood floor as he sprinted from the front door in the living room into the kitchen.

  She heard a crashing sound as he threw his body against the door leading to the garage in the hallway nook between the kitchen and living room.

  His barking was relentless, ferocious, and terrifying. She’d heard that bark only once before.

  Terror sprang into her chest. She folded the knife, stuck it back into her sweatshirt pocket, and rose swiftly to her feet with the baby in her arms. She crossed the l
iving room, bent, and placed the sleeping infant in the dresser drawer.

  Ghost’s barking deepened. Threatening, fierce.

  Something was out there. Something that was trying to get inside.

  Not something. She knew what it was. Who it was.

  She had to hide the baby. She picked the .45 off the floor, flicked the safety back on, and slipped it into the pocket of her sweatpants. She couldn’t carry the gun and the drawer. She needed to be quick.

  Heart in her throat, she squatted, hefted the drawer with Charlotte sleeping peacefully inside, shifting so her bad hand helped balance the weight though she couldn’t grip the edge with her fingers.

  She moved swiftly from the living room to the stairs, where she turned sideways so she could press her back against the banister and see a bit better as she climbed the stairs carefully, her arms already straining from the ungainly weight.

  At the top of the stairs, she headed for the little girl’s purple bedroom on the right, just before the guest bathroom. The master was all the way at the end of the hall. The gray light from the upstairs windows was dim and shadowed, but enough to see by.

  It was cold up here. Much colder than the living room with the fire. Hopefully, she’d bundled Charlotte in enough blankets to keep her warm.

  She squatted again and set the drawer down in front of the guest room dresser. She moved to her knees, picked up the drawer again, and attempted to slide it into the empty slot.

  Her hands were shaking, and she fumbled, nearly dropping the drawer. Her stomach lurched. She couldn’t have Charlotte waking up now. She needed her quiet and hidden.

  She tried again and this time the sides caught and she slid the drawer closed with trembling fingers. She left a few inches of open space for the baby to breathe.

  If anyone were to glance into the darkened room, they would see nothing unusual. Nothing out of place. They wouldn’t notice the precious infant tucked inside the dresser.

  At least, that’s what she prayed for with a desperation that thrummed through her entire being.

  Liam wasn’t here. She knew that in her heart of hearts.

  If it was Liam out there, Ghost wouldn’t be acting like this, like he wanted to tear the entire house down to get at whoever lurked outside these walls.

  She could not think about what might have happened to Liam. Not now.

  It was up to Hannah to protect herself and her child. Hannah and Ghost.

  She seized the pistol from her pocket and looked down at her baby one last time.

  “I love you, sweet girl,” she whispered. “Sleep, and don’t wake up until it is safe. Whatever you do, don’t wake up.”

  14

  Pike

  Day Twenty-One

  Pike circled the house.

  The wind whooshed through the brittle, leafless branches. Ice crystals blew into his face like thousands of tiny pinpricks. His feet and hands were numb.

  He floundered through deep snow. He staggered and lurched, clutching his wounded side. Sluggish blood leaked between his fingers. The outside of his right thigh burned like someone had pressed a hot poker against it.

  Two bullet wounds. He’d been shot twice, but he was still going.

  Adrenaline kept the pain from overwhelming him. Sheer will power kept him on his feet.

  He didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of it. The blood would stop. The wounds would heal, just like every injury he’d suffered before this.

  Pain was nothing but a distraction—one he’d learned to conquer long ago.

  He’d barely been able to follow the tracks back to the house through the storm. Luckily, Liam’s tracks were deep. He was a big man. A dead man, now.

  It hadn’t gone down the way Pike had envisioned. The way he’d fantasized for days, for weeks.

  No matter.

  He was a hunter. Hunters were adaptable. Flexible. They adjusted on the fly, recalibrating every plan of action as needed.

  Liam was no longer a threat. That was the important part. That was what counted.

  The soldier no longer stood between Pike and the girl.

  She was in the house. Alone—but for that damned dog.

  He could hear the beast barking over the soughing of the wind and the creaking trees. It would be a problem.

  He had never wished for a gun more acutely. With his bullets gone, the Smith and Wesson was a useless chunk of metal. He’d chucked it into a snowbank.

  Pike would find a way. He always found a way.

  He continued his examination of the house. He trudged through driving snow, carefully and quietly checking every door and window on the lower level.

  The sliding glass door was nailed with plywood. The windows wouldn’t budge. The soldier had blocked them with wooden shims.

  Even if he broke the window, he wouldn’t be able to pry the frame open. And the jagged glass would make it nearly impossible to climb inside without adding more grievous injuries.

  Structurally, the garage door was the weakest part of the house. Once he got through the garage door, he could escape the brutal wind and take his time lockpicking the door to the inside.

  Earlier in the week, he’d scavenged a scrap of a two-by-four and a wire clothes hanger from one of the nearby houses and reshaped it to suit his needs. He’d straightened the hanger and formed a hook shape with one end.

  He wedged the block of wood into the space between the top of the garage door and the frame, creating a two-inch gap. He stuck the hook end of the hanger up through the slim gap between the top of the garage door and the frame and threaded it through.

  It took a minute of fishing around blindly, feeling for the tug of the hook snagging on the garage door’s emergency safety release. He felt the hook catch and pulled down steadily. The door released, free from the carriage, so that all he needed to do was grab the garage door from the bottom and slide it open.

  Even if he hadn’t been able to reach the contraption, the hook could also grab the handle at the end of the cord dangling from the lever and disengage the release that way, too.

  Less than a minute and he was in. In better weather conditions, he had gotten inside a garage in under ten seconds.

  Most garages included such a security flaw. This one was no different.

  It always surprised him how few people considered their garage security. How easily thieves could gain entry to the garage to pillage its contents or worse—have all the time in the world to pick the lock of the exterior door, unseen by neighbors or looky-loos, and get into the house.

  He kicked the snow that had drifted against the garage door, wincing at the pain spearing his side and thigh. The wind battered him, nearly knocking him off his feet. The dog’s incessant barking pounded in his ears.

  He forced open the flimsy aluminum door just enough to slide beneath it. Snow snuck beneath the neck of his coat and trickled down his back as he rolled beneath the door into the garage.

  He inhaled sharply. The air was cold and stale. The storm raged outside, not in here. He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the meager gray light spilling from the opened garage door and the single window on the left-hand side.

  He clambered to his feet more slowly than he wanted. The gunshot wounds and the exhausting trek through deep snow had depleted his energy more than he wished to admit.

  His lungs burned for a clove cigarette to settle his nerves, but he didn’t want to take the time. He was close. So close.

  He paused, taking in his surroundings. In front of him, a tan sedan and a hulking gold SUV crowded either side of the garage. Along the back wall stood a row of three tall metal shelves bristling with junk—totes and crates, shovels, rakes, toolboxes, a snowblower, and a chainsaw.

  To his right was the side entry door. A chest freezer lined the wall just past the door. A hand-push mower sat next to it.

  The dog’s frantic barking grew louder. A thudding sound. And then another. The door shuddered in its frame.

  Cursing silently, Pike moved to the shelve
s at the back. He tried the chainsaw. That would shut the stupid animal right up.

  Out of gas or rendered useless by the EMP? Either way, it didn’t start.

  He scanned the shelves, searching for something better. He settled on the gardening shovel. The handle was sturdy, the steel blade tapered to a wicked point, and the shorter length allowed him to swing it like a club.

  Shovel in hand, he strode to the side door, set it down, and examined the lock.

  The exterior door lock was a simple pin tumbler lock. It didn’t even have a deadbolt. He silently cheered his good fortune. It was about time something went his way.

  It was not difficult to pick the lock, though the frenzied dog on the other side was disconcerting, to say the least.

  It smelled Pike, sensed him just like Pike sensed Hannah’s nearness.

  Its claws scratched metal. It hurled itself against the door, shaking it in its frame.

  Pike unlocked the door and hefted the shovel. He paused. His heartbeat accelerated, his mouth dry with anticipation. Eagerness thrummed through him. A dark thrill.

  Get this right, and he was seconds from Hannah. Seconds from having all the time in the world with her.

  When the moment felt right, he twisted the handle and kicked the door inward as hard as he could. As he’d expected, the door slammed into the dog.

  The beast let out a pained whimper. It hesitated, shaking its head, momentarily stunned.

  Pike seized the shovel handle with both hands and swung it at the dog’s head.

  At the last second, the creature darted to the side. The spade of the shovel missed its skull and struck its burly shoulder instead. The impact thrummed up the shaft and knocked the handle from Pike’s hands.

  The dog fell sideways into the frame of the doorway. It was on its feet faster than Pike thought possible. It gave a ferocious growl, black jowls peeling back to reveal sharp white teeth.

  The enormous dog filled the doorway, all gleaming fangs and snarling fury. A memory slashed through him—the library, the beast looming over him, savagely snapping at his throat.