Edge of Collapse Series (Book 2): Edge of Madness

by Stone, Kyla

  No, no, no! This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. It had to be a dream. A terrible nightmare she could still wake up from.

  Whatever lines or limits there were to sanity, she was past it, past anything a normal human being could endure.

  But she couldn’t crumple into a terror-stricken puddle of anguish and despair. She had to keep going, to keep pushing.

  No way in hell was she dying here today. Not her. Not Milo.

  Fury crackled through her like a forest fire. She let it burn through her, let it obliterate everything.

  With a ferocious shriek, Quinn lunged forward and seized the barrel of the AR-15.

  Octavia grunted and yanked back. The strap was still slung over her shoulder. Uncertainty flashed across her face. “What are you doing, baby girl?”

  Quinn didn’t bother to answer. She went for the gun.

  She had always been strong, her muscles strengthened by climbing trees, shoveling the driveway, and helping Gramps chop wood. The drugs seething through Octavia’s system made her strong, too.

  They struggled over the gun in a silent, frenzied battle. Each grappling for the weapon, fingers clawing at the barrel, the handgrip, the magazine and buttstock.

  It wasn’t working. Precious seconds ticked away. Every second that passed brought Billy Carter that much closer to this room, that much closer to killing her and Milo.

  Billy wouldn’t hesitate. Quinn didn’t either.

  She tensed her muscles, ducked in close, and kneed her mother as hard as she could in the gut. Blind panic fueled her.

  Octavia collapsed in on herself, doubling over with a sharp gasp. She released the rifle.

  Quinn wrestled the sling over her mother’s shoulder and freed the weapon. She wrenched it from Octavia’s grasp. Wielding it like a bat, she struck Octavia across the side of the head.

  Octavia fell back, shock and betrayal registering on her face for the briefest second. Her body dropped like a marionette with its strings cut. She didn’t get up.

  Quinn didn’t apologize. She felt no guilt. Maybe she would later. She couldn’t think about anything, couldn’t let the reality sink in or it would crush her.

  The only thing she felt now was fear—and a fierce, primal determination to survive.

  Blood pooled in the back of her throat with every swallow. It stuck tacky to her face, her hair. Her head pulsed; her nose felt broken. Adrenaline kept her on her feet.

  Milo stood next to her. He looked at her, not Octavia’s crumpled form. “Are you okay?”

  “We’re okay.” She gripped the large, unwieldy weapon the way Gramps had taught her to shoot a .22, the stock butted up against her shoulder, like the madmen had as they unleashed death and destruction on the sanctuary.

  She aimed straight ahead, her finger on the trigger guard but ready to shoot at any threat that came between her and Milo and escape.

  “Come on, Small Fry.” Quinn stepped over her mother’s unconscious body. “We have to hurry.”

  49

  Noah

  Day Seven

  Noah approached the rear entrance of Crossway Church at a crouch, his shotgun up and ready, muscles tensed, every sense on high alert.

  The air was sharp and brittle. No wind stirred the trees. Their boots crunched dully through thick snow. An owl hooted from somewhere nearby.

  He strained to listen, but the snow seemed to absorb all sound into itself. The wide, vast darkness absorbed all light and color.

  The night was pitch black. No lights from the town. No red streaks from planes overhead. No street lights. No warm glow from the windows of neighboring houses. Only the narrow beams of their tactical flashlights pierced the darkness.

  The cold penetrated straight through his department-issued coat. It seared his lungs with every frigid breath, burned every inch of his exposed skin. It was shocking in its violence. The cold was a brutal predator sapping their energy and strength, but not their resolve.

  Julian and two other officers flanked him—Oren Truitt and Clint Moll. One of their part-time officers, Samantha Perez, took up the rear and watched their six.

  Chief Briggs, Hayes, and their team were approaching the church from the front, and Reynoso and a third three-man team of volunteer officers took the emergency exit on the west side.

  All the officers wore standard body armor, which included ballistic vests. They had their department-issued Glocks holstered at their hips and carried Remington 870 12-gauge shotguns with tactical flashlights mounted on the barrels.

  Normally, the response team would include county deputies and officers from various municipalities within the county. But tonight, they were only thirteen men against however many heavily armed, deranged maniacs lurked inside.

  No backup. No choppers to call in for air support. No SWAT. No neighboring precincts to call for additional support. They didn’t even have dispatch.

  They were completely and utterly on their own.

  Noah’s stomach wound tighter and tighter with trepidation and dread. Dozens of innocent people were inside that church. One of his dearest friends and his beautiful wife and daughters.

  And Noah’s own son.

  Noah’s entire life and purpose was trapped inside those stone walls. His pulse was a roar in his ears, his mouth bone dry. What was happening in there? Was Milo okay? Was he safe?

  Or were they already too late?

  Noah couldn’t let himself think those thoughts. Couldn’t let himself think about anything but the mission ahead. He was an officer of the law. It was his job to save people.

  A whisper of doubt snaked through him. Who did he think he was? He was no superhero. He was just a small-town cop. Routine traffic stops. DUIs, tickets, spats between neighbors.

  In the six years he’d been a cop, he could count the number of times on one hand that he’d needed to draw his service weapon. One of those times was right here in this parking lot only two days ago.

  He wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t prepared.

  He had no choice.

  With everything on the line, he had to step up. Had to get the job done.

  For Milo. All of this, it was nothing if not for Milo.

  They skirted the empty parking lot and moved in on the rear exit. Crouching shadows creeping through the darkness, weapons up and ready, their breath exhaling in silent crystallized clouds.

  Noah kept his shotgun trained on the rear door. Julian would breach it, and Noah, Truitt, and Moll would rush in and secure the area. Hayes would strike with his team on the opposite side simultaneously.

  When they were still ten yards away, the rear door burst open.

  Adrenaline kicked his heart. Noah raised his weapon. Julian did the same.

  A figure stumbled through the doorway. An AR-15 in his arms.

  “Freeze!” Noah shouted. His body thrummed with tension, anxiety twisting his guts to water. His finger itchy on the trigger, ready to fire.

  “On your knees!” Julian shouted. “Hands on your head! NOW!”

  Noah’s heart jackhammered as he moved forward, the Remington aimed at the suspect. “Get down!”

  The suspect dropped to his knees and jerked his hands up. The rifle fell into the snow. The figure was covered in blood. Drenched in it.

  Movement behind the first suspect.

  His nerves raw, Noah’s finger twitched on the trigger.

  He almost fired. Almost, but didn’t.

  A second figure exited beside the first. Smaller, a child.

  “Hold your fire!” Noah screamed.

  Black curly hair matted red. A red-streaked face, the whites of the eyes showing. Huge dilated pupils contracting in the harsh flashlight beams.

  His brain computed the information slow and halting. His breath caught in his throat. His lungs constricted. The barrel of his shotgun lowered an inch. “Milo?”

  “Dad!”

  Noah didn’t think. He only reacted. He dropped his firearm, fell to his knees in the snow, and opened his arms wid
e. His son ran across the snowy parking lot and barreled into him.

  Noah wrapped Milo in his arms, relishing the warmth of him, the aliveness of him, his heart flooding with overwhelming joy and relief.

  “Stand down!” Julian shouted. “We have two civilians. Repeat, two civilian minors. Do not fire!”

  Samantha Perez spoke rapidly into her radio, contacting Briggs and Reynoso’s teams, relaying information. The other officers stood guard, their weapons up and ready.

  Noah didn’t hear a word she said. The totality of his focus was on Milo.

  He forced himself to pull Milo back at arm’s length and examine him. The coppery stench of blood and death emanated from his very pores.

  Noah’s heart stuttered. His chest was too tight. He couldn’t breathe. His child was standing right here in front of him, but there was so much blood. Too much.

  Milo was wounded, maybe mortally wounded.

  Despair welled inside Noah. He was too late. Too late to save him. He’d failed his most important job—to protect his child.

  “Show me your injuries,” he forced out. “Where are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay,” Milo said, his voice quavering. “Dad, I’m okay.”

  “Then where’s the blood coming from?”

  “It’s not his,” a young female voice said.

  Noah’s head snapped up. Quinn Riley still knelt in the snow a few yards away, her hands high in the air as Moll frisked her and Perez confiscated the AR-15.

  Noah didn’t even recognize her. Her blue hair was caked and matted to her skull. Her black eye makeup streaked her bloodied cheeks. Her clothes looked like someone had dunked her in crimson paint.

  “I did that,” Quinn said. “I covered us in blood. To play dead. To stay alive.”

  Noah’s insides turned to ice. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature settled over him. “Whose blood?”

  “The people. The people in the sanctuary.”

  “How many are dead?”

  She stared at him, hollow-eyed. “All of them.”

  50

  Noah

  Day Seven

  Reeling, Noah staggered to his feet. Nausea wrenched his guts. He nearly gagged.

  All those people staying with Bishop in the sanctuary. Families. Children. How could they all be dead? It didn’t seem real. He didn’t want any of this to be real.

  “Who did this?” He already knew the answer, but he had to ask it anyway. “Did you see?”

  “They were wearing ski masks. But I recognized their voices.” Quinn sucked in a sharp breath as she stood shakily. “Ray Shultz and his thugs. Billy Carter and his brothers. And—my mother. They have automatic weapons.”

  “How many?” Julian asked tersely. “How many suspects?”

  “Five or six from what I saw.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Quinn swallowed. “My—Octavia is . . . unconscious. Or she was.”

  “She tried to hurt us, but Quinn wouldn’t let her,” Milo said.

  Noah hugged him close. “What about Bishop? His family?”

  “Ray and Tommy had them back in the food pantry, I think. I—I don’t know if they’re . . .” Quinn’s voice trailed off.

  She couldn’t say the words out loud. None of them could.

  “We have to get in there,” Julian said. “Now.”

  Noah nodded tersely. He wanted nothing more than to hold his son tight and never let go. But he couldn’t do that. Not yet.

  This wasn’t over. It was far from over.

  “Sheridan, come in,” Hayes said on the radio. “We’ve intercepted six suspects fleeing north along Elm Valley Road on snowmobiles. They escaped before we could close the net.”

  “We’re going after them,” Reynoso said on the radio.

  Noah grabbed his radio with his free hand. “Copy. Sinclair and I will clear the church.”

  While Julian relayed their new information to Brigg’s and Reynoso’s teams on the radio, Noah turned to the kids.

  They were both shivering violently. They weren’t dressed for the bitter cold, and their blood-damp clothing made them more susceptible to hypothermia.

  They were traumatized, their pupils dilated. They needed warmth, fluids, and medical care as soon as possible.

  Noah felt Milo’s forehead, checked his pulse. His skin was cold but not clammy, his pulse fast but steady. “Are you dizzy or lightheaded? Do you feel tired? Does your stomach hurt?”

  Milo bit his lower lip and shook his head.

  “Okay. Okay, good.” Noah picked him up, gave him a fierce hug, and attempted to hand him to Oren Truitt. “Get him somewhere safe. He shouldn’t be here for this.”

  Milo clung to him, grasping at his neck. “Dad! Don’t go!”

  “I’ll be right there.” Noah’s voice cracked. “I’ll be right back, I promise. I have to help Bishop. I need to help Juniper and Chloe. Okay? You’re safe now, son. I promise.”

  With Milo still reaching for him, he forcefully placed his son in Truitt’s arms. Truitt’s face blanched, but he kept hold of Milo, tried to pat his back. “It’s okay, little dude.”

  “No!” Milo screamed. Tears streamed down his face. They left clear tracks through the blood. He stretched his hands toward his father. “Don’t go! Don’t leave me! Daddy!”

  Noah had never seen him so inconsolable. Not even after Hannah’s disappearance. His son’s despondent cries broke Noah’s heart into a thousand pieces.

  Milo had been so strong and brave to escape the church, and now that he was finally safe, his little eight-year-old body couldn’t hold it together any longer.

  Noah had never felt so torn. He longed to be there for his child, who’d just experienced a horror Noah couldn’t imagine. He also knew that his skills were desperately needed to contain a deadly situation.

  Milo was safe. Bishop wasn’t.

  This was his job. He had to do it.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat and turned to Truitt. “Take them to Rosamond Sinclair’s. Milo knows her. The superintendent will know what to do. Then find the nurse, Shen Lee. And Quinn’s grandmother needs to be notified as soon as possible.”

  “Got it,” Truitt said.

  “Daddy!” Milo cried, his voice raw with despair.

  Quinn stepped between them. She held out her hands. “Small Fry. I’m right here. I’m going with you.”

  Milo practically flung himself at her. Truitt let him go. Milo clung to her like a monkey.

  She held him as tightly as he held her.

  “The truck is parked behind the bank across the street,” Truitt said. “It’ll warm up fast, and we’ve got a first aid kit and some emergency space blankets.”

  Milo still in her arms, Quinn turned to trudge after him.

  Noah touched her shoulder. “Quinn. What you did for Milo—” His chest tightened. Tears pricked his eyes. He couldn’t speak the words aloud. They caught in his throat like stones.

  She’d saved Milo’s life. Risked her own life to protect his son. He owed her everything.

  She looked at him, her expression etched with sorrow. “I didn’t save the girls. I couldn’t save them.”

  Noah’s mouth went dry. “You did the best you could.”

  Quinn’s face hardened. She looked like a savage Viking queen fresh off the battlefield. Like she’d just walked through hell itself to bring Milo out the other side.

  “Just get the monsters who did this,” she said. “Promise me that.”

  Noah said, “We will.”

  51

  Noah

  Day Seven

  Crossway Church was a massacre. Noah had never seen anything like it.

  It looked like a battlefield. But this wasn’t Syria or Iraq. This was the United States of America. This was rural southwest Michigan.

  There were no words. No human language to communicate the horrors assaulting his senses. The sanctuary was still and utterly silent. It stank of death. Of blood and gore, bodily fluids, gasses, and huma
n excrement.

  The bodies his mind wouldn’t—couldn’t—describe.

  Noah and Julian picked their way through the carnage, weapons up, sweeping their tactical flashlights back and forth slowly, their stomachs churning, both men shaken to their core.

  They knew these people. Waved to them at restaurants or the gas station, chatted at Friday night football games and the barbershop. Coached their kids in Little League. Pulled them over for tickets.

  Tears streamed down Noah’s face. He was barely aware he was crying.

  Julian’s face contorted in outrage. His eyes were red and wet.

  There was no shame in their weeping. Only despair.

  “They should’ve let us help them!” Julian said, anguish and fury in his voice. “This never would’ve happened if we’d been here!”

  Noah’s own guilt descended upon him, stifling and oppressive. “We couldn’t have known they would escalate like this. We didn’t know.”

  Julian didn’t answer.

  They kept moving, mentally cataloging the destruction like this was just another case, just another job. It was the only thing keeping them both from falling apart.

  The overhead lights were shattered. So were the stained-glass windows, the blankets covering them pockmarked and shredded with bullet holes. More holes riddled the drywall, the pews, the organ and the pulpit. Here and there, a few overturned lanterns glowed softly.

  They had already cleared every room along the long L-wing of the church. They found the secretary collapsed across her desk in a pool of congealing blood. They discovered the costume room with splatters of blood that told a violent story they didn’t yet understand.

  If this was where Quinn had left her mother unconscious, she was gone now. Ray must have found her and taken her with them when they escaped.

  After they cleared the long L-wing and the sanctuary, they moved swiftly into the foyer. They would return later to inventory the crimes inflicted upon each poor soul, to investigate, to care for the dead and pay their respects, to mourn.