by Stone, Kyla
“Good for them,” Bishop said, and sounded like he meant it, unlike the rest of the town. “Have you heard any other news? Like what happened and who did this to us?”
“No news yet,” Noah said. “Tina Gundy tinkered with Dave’s ham radio and got it working yesterday. The government’s not revealing anything at this point. It’s mostly rumors and hearsay. Most people on the radio seem to agree that it was an EMP attack, and it’s affected most of the country.
“We did find out that the National Guard is guarding the state borders. They’re working to clear the roads and re-establish supply lines. They’ve set up checkpoints along major highway arteries into and out of the bigger cities.”
“Well, that’s something, at least. What about FEMA? The governor?”
Chief Briggs had given them the report that morning. “We made contact with the governor’s office. But we couldn’t establish radio contact, we had to send our guys there physically. FEMA is working to distribute aid, but logistics are difficult. They’re focusing on the dense population centers first, then making their way out to the rural towns and villages. The governor wouldn’t tell us how long it will be before aid arrives. I doubt he even knows.
“The governor said there are reports of muggings and hijackings along all the major highways. And lots of looting, muggings, and gang violence in the cities. Our officers were ambushed on the way back along I-94. They were held at gunpoint while their weapons and snowmobiles were taken. That’s why it took so long for them to return.”
“Thank God they’re okay,” Bishop said soberly. “How are things here in town? Did you finish the census?”
Noah raised his eyebrows.
Bishop waved his hand. “People talk. It’s all I’ve heard about the last few days.”
“We just want to know who’s here so we can check up on them and make sure everyone is doing okay.” He hesitated. “Rosamond thinks that if we consolidate some of our resources, we can help more people.”
“Huh,” Bishop said, his voice not betraying his feelings on the matter.
Milo tugged on Noah’s coat. “Dad, what about Juniper and Chloe?”
Noah glanced at Daphne. “I meant to ask you if you’d be willing to watch Milo during the day when I’m on duty. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”
Daphne didn’t hesitate. “Of course! The girls will be thrilled.”
“I have a fanny pack of salty snacks, Pedialyte, and Milo’s medication.”
“We have some more electrolyte drinks here, too,” Daphne said. “I’ll dig them out for you.”
Noah smiled gratefully. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”
“I’ll take you to the girls.” Bishop grinned down at Milo. “You’ve been very patient, young man. Come on.”
Noah and Milo followed him down a narrow hallway into a second room where a handful of volunteers in coats and boots were sorting supplies on tables. Three battery-operated lanterns spread across the room provided lighting.
They were using the generator for heat only, with the thermostat set to the mid-sixties. The single window was blocked off by a blanket secured on all sides with duct tape to keep the warm air in and the cold out.
“The girls are here somewhere . . . They’re counting and separating canned veggies and fruits. Exciting, I know. But I’m pretty sure they’re also building castles out of soup cans over there in the corner when they think no one is looking.”
A little girl of about six jumped up from behind a three-foot-tall wall of green beans, corn, and olive cans. Chloe had her mother’s medium-brown skin tone and wide smile. The plastic butterfly clips in her braids clacked as she did a goofy little dance.
“Milo!” she shouted gleefully.
Bishop’s nine-year-old daughter, Juniper, poked her head around the corner of one of the shelves. She was the tomboy with dirt always under her nails, dressed in jean overalls beneath a blue-striped jacket, her wiry black hair tugged into two buns.
“Come play!” Juniper glanced at her father. “I mean, work really hard with no breaks!”
Bishop and Noah chuckled. Bishop shoved his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out an opened bag of marshmallows. He tossed them at the girls, and they shrieked with laughter and ducked behind the wall of cans.
Milo looked questioningly up at Noah, his dark eyes beseeching. “Can I?”
Noah squatted in front of him. “You feel good?”
“Dad.” Milo wrinkled his nose. “I feel great!”
“Then go for it, buddy.”
Juniper and Chloe were both sweet, energetic little girls, full of bubbling laughter and squeals of delight. They pulled solemn, serious Milo into their orbit and danced and chattered at him until he, too, was smiling and giggling.
Warmth filled Noah’s heart. With a pang, he thought of their cold, silent, too-empty house. It had been empty and silent long before the grid went down.
Milo needed more of this. More chances to just be a kid without the weight of their combined grief always weighing on his small shoulders.
Noah and Bishop left the kids to play happily and retreated down a series of hallways, through the foyer, and entered the sanctuary.
It was large but simply furnished, with two rows of wooden pews and a wide center aisle leading to the dais. The plain wooden pulpit stood in front of a life-sized cross that hung on the back wall.
Solar lanterns scattered about lit the room. Several propane heaters warmed the large space. The stained-glass windows were all covered with blankets nailed or taped to the walls.
A half-dozen families were huddled in the pews. A mother paced with a stroller, lulling her baby to sleep. In the opposite corner, a father stood, a tiny bundled lump on his chest, trying to quiet the infant’s scratchy wails.
“How could I turn them away?” Bishop said quietly. “This is our ministry. Our calling. Like Joseph and his storehouses in Egypt, we were preparing for such a time as this.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.” Noah cleared his throat, adjusted his coat over his uniform. This was the part of the visit he dreaded. “So . . . you know that Rosamond opened an emergency shelter at the high school. They’re asking local folks who have a bit more than others to donate some supplies. Just until FEMA arrives and we can figure out what to do next.”
Bishop crossed his huge arms over his chest. He said nothing, just waited.
Noah’s face heated. “We were hoping you would be willing to consolidate with us.”
“We?”
Noah shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve got to be in this together, Bishop. All of us.”
Bishop remained skeptical. “This is our ministry. Can’t say I like the idea of someone else deciding who gets what.”
Noah sighed. This was exactly what he’d worried about. Bishop had always been a stubborn, do-it-himself kind of guy. He liked to run things his way.
So did Rosamond.
“What does it matter who gives as long as the people don’t starve or freeze to death?”
Bishop laid his dark, steady gaze on Noah. “I could ask the same of her.”
Noah opened his mouth, said nothing. He had no answer to that. Not a good one anyway.
“It’s simple.” Bishop set his jaw. “Let the superintendent do her thing, and we’ll do ours.”
Noah said, “I hope it’s that simple.”
He wasn’t sure why, but a feeling of unease niggled deep in his gut.
Nothing seemed simple anymore.
31
Quinn
Day Five
Quinn stared in dismay at the red four-wheeler parked at the side of the drive leading to the Crossway Church. Apprehension torqued through her.
Ray and Octavia were here. After she and Gran had kicked them out of Gran’s house yesterday, they must have decided a church was easier pickings.
This was not good. Not at all.
Gran had asked her to bring over a few bags of canned and boxed goods. According to Gran,
you had to be careful and not let your neighbors know how much food you had, but that didn’t mean you didn’t give back to your community.
Giving through the Crossway food pantry allowed them to do good while still keeping their supplies on the down-low.
Quinn parked the Orange Julius right in the middle of the road before the church. Who was going to stop her?
She left the bags on the passenger seat. She was too worried about what Ray and Octavia might do to concern herself with canned peas.
She locked the Julius, pocketed the keys, and hurried toward the building. Quinn had been here before. Gran and Gramps had dragged her to a few services. She didn’t exactly do church.
The hard crust of snow crackled beneath her boots. The iron-gray sky hung low and ominous above the trees. The cold air stung her cheeks and ears.
The stink of exhaust still hung in the air. They must have just arrived.
A long, ragged line of about a hundred people spilled across the snow-covered parking lot. Families with kids, older couples, single folks all holding empty shopping bags or cardboard boxes waiting to be filled.
Ahead of her, she glimpsed Octavia’s tangle of dark hair and dirty yellow parka. Ray stalked beside her. They were elbowing through the crowd to get to the front of the line.
“Hey! You need to wait in line like everyone else!” a man yelled as Octavia pushed past him.
Octavia didn’t even bother to turn around. “Piss off. We’re hungry.”
“And you think we aren’t?”
Octavia ignored the man and the rumblings of complaints behind her. She reached the front of the line, reached across the counter, and ripped the bag from the volunteer’s hands.
Ray shouldered in next to her and seized his own bag. He loomed over the second volunteer—a middle-aged Korean woman—who visibly shrank back from him.
Quinn picked up her pace. She strode forward to the front of the line. “Octavia! What are you doing?”
Octavia ignored her. She glanced into the bag and sneered. “This is nothing. It’ll be gone in less than a day. Where’s the rest?”
“Only one bag per person,” the Korean lady said. She glanced nervously from Octavia to Ray. “You can come back tomorrow for more—”
“It took almost an hour just to get here!” Octavia lied. “And we’re practically out of gas. We’re not making this trek tomorrow. Hell, no. Give us more supplies.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am—”
“Get out of line!” a man yelled.
“Move on!”
“Come on! Let the next person go!”
“We’re not leaving,” Ray said through gritted teeth, “until we get what we’re due.”
He wiped shakily at his mouth with the back of his arm. His hands were trembling. His whole body was twitchy and thrumming. He was strung out on something—meth or crack.
Hot shame flooded Quinn’s cheeks. She grabbed her mother’s arm. “You’re not owed any of this. Just go already!”
Octavia shook her off. “Stay out of this, baby girl!”
“What is the problem here?” The pastor’s wife—a plump black woman—moved to the pantry window and put her arm on the volunteer’s shoulder, gently pushing her back out of the line of fire. Quinn recognized her but didn’t remember her name.
The woman smiled kindly at Ray and Octavia. “We’re giving away a little each day to make our supplies last so we can help as many of you for as long as possible. Hopefully, you are also figuring out how to barter what you have to get what you need, hunt for it, or are using your fifty-dollar allotment at the grocery store. This is only a supplement to help you get by. We do expect that you are working on finding a long-term solution.”
“You heard her,” Quinn said more forcefully. “Go. Now.”
Octavia turned and gave Quinn a vicious shove. “I said, leave me alone!”
Quinn lost her balance and fell hard on her butt in the snow. It didn’t hurt as much as it mortified her. Her ears rang with the pitying murmurs of the crowd. Her cheeks burned.
She hated their pity. Despised it. Didn’t want an ounce of it. Poor little Quinn, the troubled girl with no father and the horrid junkie for a mother.
Well, screw them. Screw them all.
Quinn pulled herself unceremoniously to her feet, turned to the waiting crowd, and raised both hands. She gave them the finger—times two.
She expected the judgmental expressions and offended glares. The self-righteous tongue-clucks and shaking heads.
She didn’t expect the gasps of surprise and shock, the faces contorted in sudden fear. Something was wrong.
Quinn whipped around.
Ray had pulled his pistol. She’d seen it a hundred times before—the Smith and Wesson 9 mm M&P Shield. Ray aimed it at the pastor’s wife.
“Nobody move, or I shoot,” he growled.
Terrified, the two volunteers shrieked and ducked.
Half the crowd scattered with shouts and screams. The other half froze in place. Shocked into stillness. Mothers and fathers pushed their children behind them, but they were afraid to defy Ray, to run and draw Ray’s attention—and a bullet—themselves.
The pastor’s wife shrank back, but she didn’t duck or cower. “This is wrong,” she said shakily. “You don’t have to do this.”
Fear lanced through Quinn. Her heart stuttered in her chest. She wanted to turn and flee,
or duck like everyone else.
She didn’t. Her legs felt liked cooked spaghetti noodles, but she managed to stand her
ground. “Octavia! Stop him!”
Octavia pretended her daughter didn’t exist. Her gaunt face hardened. She thrust her free hand at Daphne.
“Give me the damn food!” Octavia snarled. “Or I’ll tell him to shoot you myself.”
The pastor’s wife quickly obliged. She offered three filled plastic shopping bags. Octavia seized them and squeezed them greedily to her chest.
Ray gestured with the gun. “We’re taking what we want. Ain’t nobody gonna stop us.”
“I’m stopping you,” a familiar voice said.
32
Quinn
Day Five
Quinn shifted her gaze slightly to the right, unwilling to take her eyes off Ray and the gun. The side door had opened silently without anyone’s notice.
Noah Sheridan stood in the doorway, legs spread, service pistol unholstered and held in a two-handed grip, muzzle pointed at Ray.
She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or more terrified. Heart hammering in her chest, Quinn looked from Noah to Ray back to Noah. They were about twenty-five feet apart, Quinn perpendicular to them both.
Ray’s crazed, bulging eyes darted wildly. “Don’t move! Don’t move, or I shoot!”
No one moved a muscle. Tension crackled through the air.
A memory shot through her—her and Noah clinging precariously to the cable thirty feet above the ground. The fear, the cold, the snow and endless darkness. How they’d gotten down together.
Noah was smart and capable. He talked to her like she was a real person, like he valued her opinions, not like most adults—most cops—treated sullen, churlish teenagers.
She was glad he was here.
Noah stepped out of the doorway. He kept his gaze locked on Ray. “Put your weapon down, Ray Shultz. Everyone else, please walk slowly and calmly to the rear of the parking lot and safely around the church building. Ray, I’m going to need you to put that away.”
Quinn didn’t know if the crowd obeyed. For all she knew, they could’ve vanished into thin air or spontaneously combusted.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her mouth was bone-dry. Tunnel vision had taken over. Her focus had narrowed to a fine point.
She saw only Ray and the gun, and Octavia beside him. And Noah, his own weapon pointed at Ray. And by proxy, her mother.
It didn’t matter how much she despised her mother, Quinn didn’t want her dead. Her ears filled with a dull buzzing. Time seemed to slow
down, everything going blurry and slow motion.
Ray refused to put the weapon down. He backed away deeper into the parking lot, never taking the gun off the pastor’s wife. “Nah, I don’t think so. Octavia, get the four-by-four. We’re leaving.”
Octavia shuffled backward at his side, her face taut with a strange mix of fear, glee, greed, and doubt. She clutched the bags to her bony chest. Her lank black hair stuck to her chapped and reddened cheeks. Her eyes were glassy and bloodshot.
“Mom!” Quinn cried, stricken.
Octavia acted like she couldn’t even hear her. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she was too far gone. Or maybe she really didn’t care about Quinn at all.
It didn’t surprise her. It still hurt, though. Like a sucker punch to the gut.
“Don’t move, Octavia,” Noah warned. “This isn’t going to end the way you think it will.”
“It’s going to end exactly how I want it to,” Ray snarled. “You gonna fire with all these civilians present? You can’t do jack squat, Officer.”
“There’s no need for violence,” the pastor’s wife said, loud and clear and firm. “We’ve given you everything you need.”
Ray snorted. “Isn’t that a joke.”
“Believe it or not, we want to help you. Why don’t you put the weapon away? You don’t need it. We can talk.”
“Your cop friend is the one with his gun pointed at my head. Why don’t you tell him to lower his first!”
“You know I can’t do that,” Noah said evenly. “But Daphne is right. You haven’t gone too far yet. Just put the damn gun away, and we can figure this out. Everyone’s scared. Everyone’s hungry. We understand you’re afraid.”
Ray’s eyes bulged, crazed with hatred and malice. The scratch she’d left on his cheek was the same shade of pulsing red as the rest of his face. “I ain’t afraid of you, Sheridan.”