by Stone, Kyla
It wasn’t selfishness. It was self-preservation. The oldest instinct known to man.
Octavia would run. Octavia would’ve already abandoned the boy. Hell, she would’ve offered him up as a sacrifice if she thought it might save her own skin.
And not just Milo. Quinn knew she’d betray her own daughter for far less than a life. She’d already done it. For a shiny new boyfriend. For her next hit.
Her mother fled from responsibility, from obligation, from family, every chance she got. If Quinn did this—if she left this child behind—she would be as bad as Octavia.
And that, she could not, would not, do.
Quinn would stay with Milo. And she would find the Bishop girls and rescue them too if she could.
She squeezed Milo’s hand, leaned in, and pressed her mouth to his ear. She risked the faintest whisper. “If they come, drop and play dead. I’ll distract them. Remember, Small Fry, don’t look at anything but me. Just me.”
He nodded.
She moved ahead of him. They crawled single-file, hardly breathing, blood rushing in their ears, the carpet scraping their palms and kneecaps.
Move, move, move. The mantra blared through her mind in garish lights the color of the blood spilled everywhere in this room, the blood staining her hands and face and clothes and soul.
Her left shoulder scuffed the shelf of hymnals lining the back of the pew.
Quinn and Milo froze. She strained her ears, expecting a grunt of surprise, waiting for the burst of automatic fire that would end them, then and there.
Nothing. No sound from the back of the sanctuary.
They kept going. They reached the aisle against the wall at the end of the row of pews and followed the wall down toward the front. Every hand or knee placed with extreme care and precision.
What if one of those monsters was sneaking up on them right now, muzzle aimed at their exposed backs? She twisted around, craning her neck to glance behind her.
Nothing. Just the bare wall. Stained-glass windows covered in blankets shredded with holes.
They reached the end of the pews at the front. Directly ahead, the raised dais with the organ, the pulpit, and the giant wooden cross.
She paused. Milo came up beside her. Behind the cover of the front pew, they rested for a moment on their hands and knees, breathing hard and listening.
Her pulse was a thunderous roar in her head. Every breath loud as an explosion. Dread coiling in her chest, her guts like water.
They had to cross several exposed feet to reach the dais steps. Climb the steps, run across the dais, swing around the organ and the potted plant to the hall hidden beyond it.
Just a few seconds.
One glance back and the masked man would see them, sound the alarm. That’s all it would take. One sound. One misstep.
Don’t overthink it. Just MOVE.
Their eyes met. She held up a finger. One, two, three.
Pushing Milo in front of her, her sweaty blood-slick hand gripping his, they rose to a crouch and darted across the wide aisle and up the steps of the dais. Bent double and keeping low, they crossed the dais, dodging the potted plant, the mangled bodies—don’t look, don’t see.
They skirted the organ and hugged the wall until they reached the back, then fled down the short hallway and halted in front of the closed door.
Her mind screamed at her to slam into it and keep running, but sound would betray them. She forced herself to turn the handle and opened it excruciatingly slowly.
She held her breath. Don’t squeak, stupid hinges. Don’t squeak.
They didn’t.
Milo slipped ahead of her like a bloodied ghost. She followed and closed the door silently behind her, wincing at the faint click.
Her legs sagged. She leaned against the door for a moment, struggling to compose herself, to breathe.
They were out of the sanctuary, but they were still trapped inside the church with at least five masked madmen armed with automatic weapons. One of them was Ray Shultz. One of them might be her own mother.
She wiped her bloody hand on her coat and slipped her free hand into her pocket. She wanted to hold the slingshot. Needed the comforting feel of it.
If it came to it, she could use it to defend them.
She wasn’t afraid of killing a man. Not if he deserved it.
She adjusted her grip on Milo’s hand. “Run!”
44
Noah
Day Seven
“How’s it going?” Noah asked. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“We’re making do, Noah,” Shen Lee said without smiling.
Lee was a slightly overweight Chinese American guy in his mid-thirties with short, gel-spiked black hair, a gap-toothed smile, and an open, friendly face. He was usually insufferably positive, but today, he looked stressed.
Lee worked as a pediatric nurse at Lakeland Hospital in Niles, but he had volunteered to run the high school emergency shelter with Annette King. With Dr. Prentice stuck somewhere in California, Lee was their primary medical expert.
Noah glanced around the high school gym. There were almost two hundred townspeople spread out on cots, blankets, and gym mats inside the gymnasium. The generator kept the heat running along with several propane heaters and battery-operated and kerosene lanterns several people had scrounged up from their basement and garage camping supplies.
The adults hunched in groups and clusters while kids ran around shouting and screaming. A bunch of little kids were crying. Most people looked stressed and tense, their hair unwashed, clothing rumpled.
More than a few were coughing and sneezing. Several looked glassy-eyed and feverish.
“Are people getting sick?”
“We’re dealing with several pneumonia and hypothermia cases,” Lee explained. “And the flu is going around. Medical supplies are getting scarce, but we’re handling it so far. As long as there’s no outbreaks of anything.”
Noah nodded, relieved.
“Mr. Vinson said the pharmacy is running low on antibiotics. Maybe we can organize a trip to Lakeland to request some aid?”
Noah knew all about the pharmacy’s low supplies. Milo had five days of pills left. Noah didn’t have the energy to explain that the other towns were already overwhelmed with their own needs and weren’t interested in sharing. “We’ll see what we can do.”
The high school shelter was the last item on his checklist before he could clock out. He’d had a long night. He was more than ready to get Milo and go home.
He was supposed to pick up Milo and Quinn two hours ago. Time had slipped away from him. There was simply too much to do and not enough qualified manpower to do it.
He missed cell phones, when communication was instantaneous, only a quick text message away. Of all the conveniences of modern life they’d just lost, phones were one of the worst.
Annette King strode over, looking frazzled. “We’re low on food. We only have another days’ worth, maybe two if we really stretch it out. We had to cut rations the last few days, and people are still hungry. A lot of people got upset. The Johnsons started yelling, knocked over some trashcans. They pushed one of my volunteers. For a minute, I thought they might actually barge into the cafeteria and start stealing the remaining supplies. Once one person starts, everything will go downhill fast.”
“Do you want me to ask them to leave?”
Annette lowered her voice. “They’ve got two kids. No fireplace and no well water. What are they going to do? We might reach that point, but not yet. I was hoping you could just warn them.”
“Of course.”
“What we need, besides more food—and toilet paper—is a security guard. Someone to keep things in check.”
Noah twisted his wedding ring, his anxiety growing. Only one week in, the shelter was clearly struggling. People were getting more and more stressed. Rosamond’s “everyone chips in” only went so far when folks had their own dwindling resources and children to feed.
“I can’t promise you a
nything, other than we’ll try to stop in more.”
Annette sighed. “Yeah, I get it.”
“Sorry, Annette,” he said. “Okay, point me to the Johnsons—”
“Sheridan, you there?” The radio crackled. “We have a problem.”
Noah unhooked the radio from his belt and moved away from Annette and Lee for privacy. “I’m here, Julian. What problem? What now?”
“Our suspects in the courthouse jail seem to have . . . disappeared.”
Noah went very still. “What do you mean?”
“One of our new recruits—Channing Harris—he was in the courthouse pulling guard duty. He admitted to dozing off upstairs sometime around five p.m. He woke around seven, but didn’t check on them to change the piss bucket until eight. They were gone.”
Noah went rigid. “What?”
“The door was open. He says the key was on the table, but now it’s gone. He thinks they jimmied the antique lock somehow. The thing’s a hundred and thirty years old.”
“Then why would they take the key?”
“How the hell should I know, Sheridan?”
“How do we know Harris didn’t let them out himself?”
“We don’t. That’s why Reynoso has him in custody until we figure out what the hell just happened.”
Noah’s gut tightened. “Could be one of the Carter lackeys just walked right past his sorry snoring ass, snatched the key, and let them out right under his nose.”
“You’re probably right. That’s what you get when you’re forced to trust civilians with crap like this, isn’t it?”
He glanced at his watch. It was already eight-thirty. They’d been out for three hours, maybe more, depending on how honest Harris was regarding his nap. “Damn it!”
“We’re going after them. No holds barred this time. To hell with Chief Briggs. I assume you’re okay with that.”
Noah strode toward the gymnasium’s front doors. “I’m coming with you.”
“We’re gearing up and headed to the Carter’s compound. Of course, they could be holed up with that second cousin of theirs, Frank Lambert, on Sanders Road near Baroda—”
“No!”
It was wrong. All wrong. Ray Shultz wouldn’t “hole up.” Not after what happened at the pantry yesterday. They’d had three hours. Plenty of time to hit their place, gather weapons, and head out.
His blood ran cold.
“Julian,” he said in a shaking voice, breaking into a run, “I know where they are.”
45
Quinn
Day Seven
Quinn gripped Milo’s hand with all her might and pulled him along behind her. They moved silently but quickly down the darkened hallway.
The Sunday school rooms were located on the right side. Along the left wall, a bank of high, narrow windows provided the faintest light. The generator was only used to power the sanctuary. Thick shadows clung to everything. She blinked to adjust her eyes.
They kept moving. This part of the church wasn’t heated. The cold sank into their bones. They were both shivering.
They passed a Bible study room, a janitor’s supply closet, a small bathroom—all empty. Quinn pushed open each door, crept inside, and waited, straining for sound or movement, every muscle in her body tensed.
She called for the girls in a raw, desperate whisper. “Chloe? Juniper?”
They never answered.
The church building was vaguely L-shaped with the sanctuary in the corner of the L. They were in the long wing of the L. The food pantry and supply rooms were located on the opposite side of the sanctuary, in the shorter wing.
She figured Ray and his cronies were all in the shorter wing, but she didn’t know for sure. They needed to be careful.
Quinn and Milo crept through the darkness. Their footsteps were soft on the carpet, but they still sounded too loud in her ears. She kept craning her neck, looking in every direction, searching for danger, half-expecting a masked attacker to lunge out of the shadows and seize her by the throat.
She paused outside the secretary’s office, listening. No sound. No hint of movement. She placed her left hand on the door handle and turned it.
The click was deafening. The door slid open.
She stepped inside, taking in the shadowy shapes of bookcases, a big wooden desk, a large copier machine in the corner.
“Juniper? Chloe? It’s me. Come out.”
With Milo glued to her side, she searched the deeper shadows in the corners, around the sides of the copier, behind the desk. She shuffled forward, hand outstretched to feel her way.
Her fingers smeared something slick and wet on the desk. She touched a soft, squishy thing that should’ve been warm but was already cooling, already waxy.
A body.
She recoiled, stepping back so abruptly that she bumped into Milo.
He stumbled and smacked his head against the copier. The thud echoed in the unnatural stillness.
Adrenaline spiking, Quinn ducked into a crouch and pulled Milo down with her. She put her finger to her lips and froze.
They’d be discovered now. One of the attackers would have heard, surely. They’d come in with their guns and their crazed, hate-filled eyes behind their ski masks and they’d do to her and Milo what they’d done in the sanctuary.
They waited, their own heartbeats and ragged breaths the only sound.
Nothing.
No one came for them. No guns blazed.
Not yet.
She rose to her feet, trembling all over, and pulled Milo up beside her. They left the body splayed across the desk and moved back to the hallway, searching for the next door.
Run, her brain screamed at her. Just run.
But those girls. Lost and scared and hiding. She was them. She’d been them. Not exactly. but close enough.
Cowering and frightened in the closet, tiny hands clasped over her ears to drown out the shouting. So scared to come out, she’d peed her pants at age seven. Or other times, waking up to the dead silence of the trailer, knowing with absolute certainty that she was all alone, that her mother had abandoned her to party somewhere far away.
Quinn wouldn’t be Octavia. She wouldn’t leave them behind.
The next door opened to the pastor’s office. It was empty.
The room after that was some sort of storage closet. Ten by ten. Shelves of large plastic totes. Dark lumps and shapes she didn’t recognize. Her fingers found racks of clothing on hangers.
At first her brain wouldn’t compute, but then she understood. Mesh strung tight over wire shaped like wings. Bathrobes and long cotton dresses. Pipe cleaners twisted around a circular wire. Kids’ costumes. Angels and Bible characters for Christmas and Easter programs.
She pushed through the clothes, expecting to touch the wall. Her hand found something warm and soft instead.
It wriggled away from her with a cry.
“Shhh! It’s me. It’s Quinn,” she whispered fiercely. “Shh.”
The little girl went still. Quinn dropped Milo’s hand and helped her out of the clothing rack. Chloe Bishop flung herself at Quinn and buried her tear-streaked face in Quinn’s stomach. Her tiny body shook violently.
Fabric rustled in the next rack, and Juniper clambered out. She was trembling, but her eyes were dry. “We heard loud bangs and scary sounds and we hid.”
“Good thinking,” Quinn whispered.
Milo hugged Juniper. “You’re safe with us.”
“What’s going on?” Juniper’s little voice was tremulous, like she was barely holding on, trying desperately to be the brave big sister.
“The bad guys are hurting people,” Milo said.
Juniper and Chloe looked to Quinn for confirmation.
Most adults lied to kids. They thought they couldn’t take it or that they were protecting them by withholding the truth. Quinn hated being lied to and patronized. She wouldn’t do it to them.
She could barely make out the shapes of them, let alone read their faces or expressions. �
��There are bad guys. They’re hurting people. Killing them.”
“What about Mama and Papa?” Juniper asked.
“They’re grown-ups. We can’t worry about them. We have to worry about ourselves.”
“What’s that smell?” Chloe asked, her nose wrinkling.
Quinn had nearly forgotten the blood and gore she’d smeared over Milo and herself. “Blood,” she answered truthfully. “We’re okay, but other people aren’t.”
“We’re escaping the bad guys,” Milo whispered. “Quinn says we’re getting the hell out of here.”
“Don’t leave us,” Juniper said, tears in her voice. “I’m so scared.”
“I won’t,” Quinn said, and she meant it. “We have to be as quiet as possible so we can get out of here and get to safety, okay?”
The girls nodded.
Beside her, Milo went rigid. He squeezed her arm.
She glanced down at him. He pointed in silence at something behind her.
Quinn whirled, her heart in her throat.
A flashlight beam played across the wall opposite the costume storage room. Someone was coming.
46
Quinn
Day Seven
Quinn pressed herself against the wall in the narrow space behind the opened door, sucking in her stomach, her head turned sideways, making herself as small as possible. She gripped the slingshot down at her side, her ammo ball already loaded.
Juniper and Chloe hid behind the clothing racks again. Milo crouched behind a stack of three plastic totes in the far corner. She urgently admonished the kids in her mind: Stay quiet. Stay invisible.
The light flashed brighter. Footsteps grew louder. Two pairs of footsteps? Or only one?
With her heart jackhammering in her ears, it was hard to tell. She willed herself not to breathe. The handle of the slingshot stuck to her palm, the blood drying tacky on her skin. Other people’s blood. Dead people’s blood.