The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

  “You don’t know what he did.”

  “I know exactly what his kind does, and who they do it to.”

  “He murdered my friend.” The words were like barbed wire in his mouth. The memories seared through him—cradling Nadira in his arms, her body impossibly light and fragile, the blood spreading across her chest, her head nestled against his chest like she was only sleeping.

  Sometimes, we get what we don’t deserve, she had whispered, blood bubbling from her lips. Sometimes, we don’t get what we deserve.

  She had thrown herself in front of the bullet intended for Gabriel. A bullet shot by Cerberus. That moment had broken Gabriel’s heart wide open. That moment he would give almost anything to do over, to switch places, to take the punishment he’d deserved.

  That choice had been taken from him. But Cerberus was still here. Still living and breathing in a world where Nadira wasn’t. Out of all the injustices plaguing the world, this was something he could—he would—do something about.

  Cleo blew out an icy circle of smoke. “You think I don’t understand. I do. But you need to put your revenge aside. For now.”

  “We’ve found the Phantom. Cerberus served his purpose. He’s dead weight now.”

  “He’s not. He has hundreds of armed, trained fighters. He’s a skilled, organized leader. His lot would fall apart if we tried to take him out and lead them ourselves. It doesn’t matter how much you hate him—we need him to fight the true enemy.” She pointed into the valley with her cigar. “Look.”

  Gabriel followed her gaze. A cluster of buildings huddled in the center of the valley—three large farmhouses, several barns and storage sheds, with fenced areas for farm animals. Except for a large metal garage, the buildings were blackened husks. Something—or someone—had burned this place to the ground.

  “Use your scope,” she said, her voice husky.

  He swung his rifle by its strap, set the butt against his shoulder, adjusted the scope, and peered through the glass. Scattered here and there across the muddy ground were blackened skeletons. Two large ones together, with two small ones in-between. A family. Children.

  There were other bodies—some charred skeletons, others badly burned but still recognizable as human. A flutter of auburn hair. An apple-green dress rippling in the breeze. A tiny arm flung out, an ash-covered stuffed bear lying next to outstretched fingers.

  He staggered back, revulsion roiling in his gut. Acid burned the back of his throat. He was sickened, horrified. “What the hell happened here?”

  “These people weren’t infected. This was a safe zone. The Sanctuary killed them anyway. Our government committed this atrocity and a thousand others like it. They act in fear—destroying anything and everything they view as a potential threat to their power and control.”

  Gabriel’s outrage burned white-hot. His whole body went rigid. His hands balled into fists. He wanted to fight, to destroy something, to rip this depraved and rotting world apart with his bare hands.

  “You think I don’t have compassion or empathy or whatever,” Cleo said. “I see it in your eyes whenever you look at me. But you’re wrong. I have compassion for them.” She jabbed her finger at the valley, at the charred and blackened skeletons. “I knew them. We gave them food a few times, lent them one of our extra generators. I tried to get the daughter to convince her parents to join us. But they wouldn’t. They wanted peace, freedom. They didn’t get it.”

  She paused for a moment, her jaw working, the cigar clamped between her teeth. “President Sloane and the rest of the Coalition did this. They saved their own and left the rest of us to die. They are the true enemy. The only enemy. Do you understand?”

  His insides were full of cut glass. He felt shredded. “This has to end.”

  “Then help me end it.” She turned to him, her eyes smoldering coals. “You don’t like me. Maybe you even hate me. I don’t care. You hate the New Patriots. I don’t care. You hate the Headhunters. I don’t care.

  “What I need is your help, not your adoration. You’re skilled. You’re smart. You did what needed to be done on the Grand Voyager. You have what it takes to lead, to fight.”

  He spat out the words. “And Cerberus?”

  “We use him as long as he’s useful. After we’ve taken the Sanctuary, you can have your revenge. On the Headhunters. Kill them all if you want. I’ll even help you.”

  “You promised him peace.”

  She shrugged. “I lied. It’s called strategy, Rivera.”

  “You lied to me, too.” He kept his gaze on the terrible scene below him. He refused to allow himself to look away. “About your plans to attack the Sanctuary.”

  “I owe you nothing,” she scoffed. “Not a damn thing.”

  He wasn’t so naive as to believe she wasn’t using him just as she was using the Headhunters, just as she used the Pyros. When she was done with him, would she discard him and his friends just as easily?

  Was there someone worth redeeming within all of that anger? Someone fierce and loyal and brave as hell? He wanted to believe there was. “If we’re allies, if we’re going to work together, then we have to trust each other.”

  She tapped ash from her cigar and scowled. Her gaze drifted back to the scene below them, to the apple-green dress fluttering in the breeze. “Fine. You have my trust. Do I have yours?”

  He hesitated. Cleo and the New Patriots were offering him everything he’d been denied before—vengeance, justice, the promise of creating a new and better world—but the cost was still as high as ever.

  She tossed her cigar on a rock and ground it out with her boot. “You have a choice to make, Rivera. The question is, which side are you on?”

  14

  Willow

  “What are you going to do?” Willow asked Celeste, hardly daring to breathe.

  Celeste rolled her eyes. “You’re as bad as Silas sometimes, you know that?”

  Willow frowned. “Thank you?”

  “You’re off to do something brave and heroic, right?”

  “Or incredibly stupid,” Willow said.

  “It’s too soon to tell,” Finn said brightly.

  “I don’t need details.” Celeste sidled up next to Finn and lowered her voice. “It’s probably better if you don’t tell me. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you need to bypass those bozos over there.”

  “You have any ideas?” Finn asked.

  “Yeah, actually.” Celeste turned and pointed to a spot about twenty yards past the fence where a rocky outcropping and a thick copse of pine trees would provide good cover. “You just need a minute of distraction to get through the gate and make it over the open ground to those trees.”

  “And how are we going to do that?” Willow asked, still feeling sour and prickly.

  Celeste crossed her long, lean legs. She flipped her mass of tightly coiled curls over her shoulder and winked seductively at Willow. “Why, with the art of flirting, of course.”

  Willow flushed. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t flirt.”

  Celeste’s bright laugh rang out in the cold winter air. Both guards glanced over at them. “I didn’t mean you. I mean me. I’ll do it. I’ll distract them with my scintillating charm, and you three will scurry into the woods and disappear.”

  “You can distract them for that long?” Willow asked, still dubious.

  Celeste tsked. She cocked one hip coquettishly. “Oh darling, you’ve never seen me at my best.”

  “What about opening the gate? It’s locked.”

  Celeste’s simpering expression dropped from her face like a mask. She spun in a slow circle, pretending to look at everything but focusing on the fence, the guards, the gate, and checking for any other Patriots nearby. Willow watched her, stunned.

  Celeste turned to Willow, suddenly serious and determined. “I’ll get it done. You just be ready to go.”

  Shame skewered Willow. How petty she’d just been. Acting snotty, jealous of Celeste’s beauty, wallowing in her own self-p
ity—it was pathetic. A ridiculous thing to be worried about at the end of the world, with life and death and everything she cared about hanging in the balance.

  It was a flaw she just couldn’t seem to get rid of—no matter how much she despised herself for it. And here was Celeste, doing her best to change, to be a better person. To help them.

  “Thank you, Celeste. I mean that.”

  Celeste’s smile was dazzling. “You’re welcome.”

  Willow huffed her bangs out of her eyes. If Celeste could be a better person, so could she. The words weren’t easy to say, but she forced them out. “Do—do you want to come with us?”

  Celeste shook her head with a laugh and fluttered her fingers again, her scarlet nails flashing blood-red in the sun. “I cannot handle one more day in the wild. Been there, done that. It royally sucked. No, I’ll stay here and keep an eye on things. Keep Gabriel on the up and up, take care of Amelia’s mom, and help the Patriots with whatever they need.”

  Gratefulness overwhelmed her. She resisted the sudden urge to hug Celeste. That would be entirely too awkward. “Be careful.”

  “You, too. I want to see you guys again. We belong together—our group, I mean.” She paused, daintily biting her lower lip, careful not to smear her lipstick. She glanced at Willow again. “It feels like a family.”

  “We are a family,” Willow said, and meant it. “We’ll be back. I promise.”

  “I’m going to hold you to it.” Celeste looked between Finn and Willow. “Are you ready?”

  Willow looked over at the garden, where the kids were still happily digging in the red Georgia clay. She caught Benjie’s eye, lowered her hand to her thigh, and flashed the secret hand signal they’d devised last night. He wiped orangey-red clay smears on his already stained pant legs and gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be,” she said.

  “Well then, stand back and prepare to be amazed.” Celeste spun elegantly and flounced across the grounds, swaying her hips. Not enough to look weird or unnatural. Just enough to be alluring, tantalizing. She knew what she was doing.

  The first guard turned from his post by the fence. Celeste waved as she approached them. Willow couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Celeste was speaking animatedly, pointing outside the fence at something. The other guard laughed. The guards were both young, in their early twenties; one red-haired and bearded, the other a good-looking Asian guy with a low ponytail. Celeste tilted her head, leaned in, and said something softly.

  Willow tensed. She kept her head turned toward Benjie, but watched Celeste out of the corner of her eye. The kids were distracted, and there were no other adults nearby. She wiped her damp palms on her pant legs and held her breath.

  Celeste asked a question. The bearded guard shook his head. She leaned in, her fingers barely grazing his arm as she flashed him an enchanting smile. He noticed. She pointed again at something beyond the fence. This time, the ponytailed guard nodded. He actually moved to the gate, swiped a passcode into the padlock, and opened it.

  “I want her magical powers,” Willow said under her breath to Finn, who was pretending to be engrossed in some sort of ridiculous stretching exercise. “I think she just cast a spell on them.”

  The guards looked like they were going to stay at the fence line. Just as the bearded guy was about to relock the gate, Celeste grazed his elbow again, gently chiding him with a giggle and a toss of her hair. This time, they both followed her, lock forgotten, entranced.

  Celeste led them toward a grouping of boulders about fifty yards to the northwest, where Willow could just make out a small thicket of bright purple violets poking through a bare patch of earth.

  Celeste had done it. The gate was open. The guards’ backs were turned. And they were plenty distracted, attracted to Celeste like moths to a flame.

  “Now,” Willow said.

  They sprang into action—but without running, so they wouldn’t attract undue attention. It was one of the most excruciating minutes of Willow’s life. Despite the chilly air, sweat dripped down her spine. She walked stiffly to Benjie and thrust out her hand. “Can I borrow you for a minute, buddy?”

  Finn strode behind the shed, hauled one pack over his good shoulder and gripped the straps of the second pack, lifting it easily. He met Willow and Benjie at the fence. They slipped through the opened gate. Willow paused to click the lock back into place. The guards would forget they had left it open.

  She glanced back at the kids playing in the dirt. None of them were watching. The voices of the guards drifted through the air. Celeste’s clear voice rang out in a peal of girlish laughter.

  “Go!” Willow hissed.

  They sprinted up the steep hill behind the compound. There were twenty yards of open ground before they reached the tree line. The hairs on the back of Willow’s neck prickled. She felt vulnerable, exposed. She half-expected to hear a shout or even a gunshot behind her.

  Finn reached the tall rock outcropping first, ducking low behind it. Benjie’s foot struck a small stone. It tumbled down the hill. Willow seized the back of his jacket and lunged for the outcropping, diving behind it with Benjie in tow. She landed on top of her brother with a grunt.

  “Ouch!” he gasped, but in a whisper.

  Good boy.

  She scrambled to her hands and knees on the cold, uneven ground, rocks and twigs digging painfully into her kneecaps, her heart surging in her chest. She held one finger to her lips. Benjie nodded, eyes wide.

  In the pine tree beside them, a bird chirped. The breeze rustled the pine needles. Celeste’s voice carried, high and bright. She sounded happy. Willow risked a peek over the side of the rock.

  Below them, Celeste was leading the guards back to the fence. She clutched a handful of the delicate purple flowers, holding them to her nose and gushing over their beauty. Both guards were nodding, enthralled by her every word.

  “She’s talented, no doubt about that,” Finn whispered.

  “Are we starting our epic quest now, Mister Finn?” Benjie asked.

  “You bet, Sir Benjie.” Finn rubbed his numb right arm. “Let us not tarry a moment longer.”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” Willow said, rolling her eyes at the irony of the phrase. “Stay on your hands and knees and crawl right behind me, okay? The trees are thick here and should cover us, but just in case. We’re going to get a safe distance, then skirt around the compound in a big circle before heading southeast.”

  So began their quest.

  Whether it ended in glory or disaster remained to be seen.

  15

  Gabriel

  Cleo and Gabriel stood in the compound’s garage, a huge warehouse with ten garage bays and room for more than a hundred vehicles. They were still waiting for General Reaver’s test results. Cleo hadn’t stopped scowling in two days, her entire body vibrating with the tension.

  “We have three hoverchoppers and two tanks, but no airjets.” Cleo gestured with her cigar toward several rows of Humvees, Jeeps, a few trucks, and ATVs. “The Settlement has plenty, but we have no way to get them.”

  “Who exactly are these people?” Gabriel asked.

  “They call themselves the Settlement. They’re not the most creative. We call them Undergrounders. Moles. They live in an underground bunker. Which makes them idiots, but well-fortified idiots. Rumor is they have their own aircraft armada. The bunker is an ancient abandoned air force base. The government knows about them, but they’re pacificists, harmless crazy hippies spouting love and peace and some such crap.”

  “Pacifists?” Gabriel asked, thinking of Finn. “With an armada?”

  “They want to be left alone, but they’ll defend themselves.” She grunted and blew out a puff of smoke. “We learned that the hard way.”

  “Did you try talking to them?”

  Cleo gave him a scathing look. “Until we were blue in the face. Then we tried stealing an airjet. We lost seventeen good soldiers. Trust me. They won’t help
us.”

  “What if they knew about the cure?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Forget about them. They’re a non-starter.”

  “Captain Reaver.” A Patriot stood in the opened garage doorway. “There’s news.”

  Cleo stiffened. “What are you waiting for, Nguyen? Out with it.”

  Bao Nguyen stepped inside, shuffling his feet nervously, refusing to meet Cleo’s gaze. He was Vietnamese, with a wide, round face and the stubble of a beard ghosting his weak chin. He was a New Patriots’ foot soldier in his early thirties, but his hesitant, uncertain manner made him seem much younger.

  Nguyen cleared his throat nervously. In a slow, halting voice, he told them the news. It wasn’t good. The Patriots’ blood test needed seventy-two hours to detect sufficient virus levels in human blood, but rodents were quicker.

  The results were in. The rat was sick.

  Even then, if the rat’s claws had scratched the general rather than its teeth, Cleo’s mother might still have escaped, since the virus was passed through bodily fluids.

  But the test results didn’t matter now. General Reaver had begun to cough.

  She was infected with the Hydra virus.

  Cleo’s face turned ashen. Her fingers clenched the hilt of her knife. She yanked it from the sheath at her hip, whirled, and hurled it at the wall. The knife spun through the air at an incredible speed, flying end over end before nailing the wall a hairs-breadth above Nguyen’s head.

  Nguyen ducked with a curse.

  The blade lodged three inches deep into the drywall, vibrating from the power of her throw.

  “Get out!” she screamed at him.

  Nguyen fled, running his hands over his hair as he ran, checking to make sure it was still there.

  “What a pussy,” she snapped. “It wasn’t even close.”

  “I think our definitions of ‘close’ differ,” Gabriel said.

  “Colonel Reid and Colonel Willis are probably thrilled,” she said, ignoring him. She paced in a tight circle. Her face was carved in stone, expressionless. Only her eyes burned with a desperate, helpless fury, emotions Gabriel knew all too well. “They’ve been vying for command for years. With them grappling for power and fighting among each other, it will be chaos.”