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

by Stone, Kyla

  These victims were beyond the help of man. But if there was someone still alive in this hell, Noah and Julian would find them.

  No masked men or women leapt out with guns drawn. No survivors crept out of hiding. Only more bodies. More corpses.

  A few pistols lay near a couple of the men and women. They must have attempted to fight back but were overwhelmed by the firepower of their assailants.

  In the short L-wing, several more bodies lay in the hallway or the fellowship hall where they’d fallen—most of them shot in the back as they’d fled the slaughter.

  Noah recognized several of the volunteers: James McDill. Sandra Perkins. Ralph Henderson-Smith and his wife Lauren. Teachers. Bank Tellers. Restaurant managers. Mothers and fathers. Sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, friends and mentors.

  It was senseless. Unfathomable. There could never be a reason that could possibly encompass such an atrocity. The things people did to each other. The evil humanity was capable of inflicting.

  Why did anyone need to believe in a devil when humans were evil enough?

  A wave of raw, ugly emotion crashed through him. His throat went tight. His legs turned to jelly. He sagged against the wall next to a large framed photo of the Crossway congregation lined up in spring dresses and suits outside the church, smiling and happy.

  He bent, forearms on his thighs, clutching the shotgun with trembling fingers and gasping for breath that wouldn’t come. Vertigo lurched through him. The images of the dead flashed through his mind, one after another after another . . .

  Julian came up beside him, weapon still up, alert to danger. “Don’t lose it, brother. Not here. Not now.”

  “Milo—” Noah forced out. “He was here . . .”

  “And now he’s not.” Julian’s features were ghostly in the dim light. His mouth a thin line, his eyes bloodshot and haunted. “He made it. He’s not one of them. You remember that.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Keep it together and do your job. Do your damn job.”

  Noah sensed Julian was speaking to himself as much as to him. His shoulders were tense, his neck corded. A vein pulsed at his forehead.

  Mentally, he shoved it all down deep—the horror and revulsion, the fear and anxiety. He knew how to do that. Knew how to keep all the feelings too dark and painful to contemplate somewhere below the surface, where he didn’t have to feel them or think about them.

  It was how he’d survived the last five years without Hannah.

  Noah managed to nod. Someone had to keep going, had to make this right somehow. And that someone was him. Him and Julian. “You’re right.”

  “We’re the cops. The good guys. We’re the ones who are gonna nail these scumbags to the wall.”

  “Julian . . .” This wasn’t the right time. But here, surrounded by all this death, he had to say it. “Are we straight? You and me?”

  Julian glanced at him. His eyes softened. “You couldn’t lose me if you wanted to. It’s you and me. Always has been. I have your back, Sheridan.”

  Noah pushed himself off the wall and forced his legs to straighten. He adjusted his grip on the Remington, his hands damp with sweat despite the chilly air inside the church.

  “You good?” Julian asked him.

  He nodded. “I’m good.”

  He wasn’t good. Far from it. Nothing about this could possibly be called good.

  But he was on his feet. It had to be enough.

  Every sense on high alert, Noah followed Julian from the fellowship hall down the last hallway. Only four rooms remained uncleared. The three storage rooms and the main food pantry.

  Four rooms to reveal his friend’s fate.

  They kept their weapons up, constantly sweeping back and forth, the shadows shuddering and quivering, the darkness crouching just out of reach of their flashlight beams.

  The dread was palpable. A living, breathing creature skulking behind him, prowling just out of sight, its rancid greedy breath hot on the back of Noah’s neck.

  He shuddered. The feeling didn’t dissipate. If anything, it grew stronger.

  A shuffling sound caught his attention.

  Noah and Julian froze.

  The soft scrape of a boot on tile. It came from somewhere ahead of them.

  Julian gestured with the barrel of his shotgun. Noah nodded silently.

  They lowered into crouches, weapons ready. Together, they crept down the hallway.

  52

  Noah

  Day Seven

  Noah eased along the wall, his weapon leading, his pulse a rush in his ears. Julian moved silently ahead of him.

  The door five yards ahead on the right was open. A second door further up on the left led to the community pantry.

  Noah and Julian stacked up on the left side of the doorway, Noah squatting, aiming low, Julian above him slicing the pie from the waist up.

  Noah peered gun-first around the edge of the door frame and took in the scene.

  Shelves of food and supplies. Rice, beans, and wheat spilled from bags and plastic containers punctured by sprayed rounds. Frigid air filtered from the broken window along the far wall.

  In the back of the room next to the window, a man in a black ski mask hunched over a stack of storage totes.

  He looked up, startled.

  “Police! Don’t move!” Julian shouted.

  The suspect darted for the automatic rifle leaning against a shelf a few feet away.

  Noah’s adrenaline surged. He spun into the room, still keeping low, and fired at the man’s feet. The retort exploded in the enclosed room. Tile shards flew up and sprayed the suspect’s shins.

  The man leapt back, cursing loudly.

  “Hands up!” Noah shouted over the ringing in his ears, already racking another shell into the chamber. “Right now!”

  The guy raised both hands. His ski mask was yanked up and bunched at his forehead. Grizzled acorn-brown beard. Sickly, pockmarked skin. Yellowed teeth. Randy Carter—thirty-two-years-old, drug addict, dealer, and ex-con. Went by the nickname Nickel.

  Nickel had draped a blanket over the window frame and stacked several of the plastic storage bins against the wall. Through the window, Noah glimpsed a snowmobile parked just outside, the rear trailer packed with the church’s food bins.

  He’d been left behind. Maybe intentionally so he could steal more supplies. Or maybe inadvertently in the chaos.

  Whatever the reason, he was here now.

  “Ow! You shot me!” Nickel kept his hands up as he hopped on one leg. Several blood stains bloomed on his left shin from the tile shrapnel.

  Anger and revulsion burned in Noah’s gut. This lowlife scumbag was a mass murderer. The worst of the worst. He was responsible for the carnage in the sanctuary.

  In that moment, Noah wished he had shot him. Right between the eyes.

  “You look fine to me,” Julian said. “Get on your knees.”

  He and Noah stepped into the room, firearms at the high-ready. Broken glass crunched under their boots, the floor sticky with syrup from ruptured cans.

  “I work here! I’m a volunteer, helping give away all this crap,” Nickel said frantically. His distraught gaze darted to the rifle. “Just tryin’ to protect myself from the crazies who attacked us. That’s all!”

  “We know exactly what you are!” Julian spat. He was shaking, his face red and blotchy with rage. “You think we’re so stupid we wouldn’t recognize you?”

  Nickel’s unfocused eyes narrowed. “Hey! I—”

  “On the ground!” Julian shouted “Now!”

  Nickel lunged for the weapon, simultaneously reaching behind his back.

  Instinctively, Noah’s finger moved for the trigger.

  The retort of the gunshot splintered the air.

  Nickel sank to his knees. He clutched at his chest with both hands. Blood bloomed and spread across his coat. The revolver he’d been reaching for—tucked into the back of his jeans—tumbled to the floor.

  Noah’s ears rang.
Sound went tinny and distant. For an instant, he thought he’d pulled the trigger himself. His finger was still resting on the trigger guard.

  It was Julian. Julian had fired at Nickel.

  “You shot me?” Nickel asked, questioning, like he was so stunned this was happening to him, he wasn’t sure it was real. “You shot me!”

  Julian rushed forward and kicked Nickel in the chest. The man toppled onto his side.

  “Julian!” Noah shouted too late.

  His reactions were slowed, the horror of the night turning everything upside down and inside out, his overwhelmed brain struggling to process new stimuli.

  Julian stood over the man, pointed his service weapon at his skull, and squeezed the trigger a second time. The suspect’s head snapped back. His body went limp. A hole in the center of his forehead leaked a single bead of blood.

  Randy “Nickel” Carter was dead.

  “You killed him,” Noah said in a choked voice.

  Julian whirled to face him. His expression was grim, his mouth a flat line. His eyes blazed. “Did you not see what he did? Did you not see the dead little kids?”

  Noah swallowed. “I did.”

  “Then you know what I had to do. It was a good kill. It was justified. You saw it. You saw him go for a weapon.”

  Noah had seen it. Of course, it was a good kill. He shouldn’t doubt Julian, not even for a second. Hadn’t Noah wished he’d killed the monster himself only moments ago?

  But still, that faint, unsettled feeling niggled his gut. That voice whispering in his head. The first shot had been legit. The second one, though . . .

  His eyes took in what he was desperate not to see. The suspect lying down, weaponless. The brain and blood splatter spray on the floor and shelves revealed the story the autopsy would tell. This was the point-blank assassination of an unarmed suspect.

  He felt sick. His intestines cramped. He wanted to vomit the contents of anything he’d ever eaten. It was too much. Too much death.

  It was this night. It was everything. All the dead bodies seared into his mind. His friends and neighbors. Murdered by savages. By monsters.

  “We did what we had to do,” Julian said fiercely. “We put down a rabid animal.”

  The country was in crisis. They had to protect the town. Julian had done what he had to do. What any good cop would have done.

  “I know,” Noah said.

  “I have your back, brother. You know that. Family first, always.” Julian touched his arm. “We need to clear the last few rooms. I’ll take care of the rest. You go home to Milo. He needs you.”

  Noah nodded and forced himself to turn from the corpse.

  A moan echoed down the corridor. Low and pained and full of despair.

  Noah’s heart stopped. Bishop.

  “Noah, don’t—”

  Noah sprinted from the storage room, Remington pulled tight and ready to fire but only one thought on his mind. He dashed down the hall to the last door on the left. His thudding footsteps and pounding heart filled his ears.

  Sensing Julian right behind him, he edged around the doorway, weapon leading, instinctively clearing the room.

  He stopped and stood, stunned. He lowered his shotgun, his arms going numb with shock.

  The metal shelving full of supplies lining the walls glinted in Julian’s flashlight beam. Shredded cardboard and broken glass littered the floor. Dozens of leaking cans scattered everywhere. The sickly-sweet scent of peach syrup mingled with the coppery tang of blood.

  Atticus Bishop knelt in the center of the pantry floor. Puddles of crimson stained the linoleum. His leather jacket and Hawaiian shirt were spattered and sprayed with blood.

  Several frayed lengths of paracord lay on the floor behind him next to the bloody shard of a broken jar. Blood leaked from his right hand and dripped from the cuff of his jacket.

  Bishop didn’t look at them or acknowledge their presence. His broad shoulders were hunched in defeat, in grief, his head bowed.

  In his strong, steady arms, he cradled his family. Kind, beautiful Daphne. Spirited Juniper. Spunky little Chloe.

  All of them, dead.

  53

  Noah

  Day Eight

  It was three hours before Bishop spoke a word. Midnight came and went. No one even noticed.

  Noah sat inside the pantry, his legs crossed, his back resting against the wall, the shotgun on the floor beside him. He hadn’t moved in hours. Neither had Bishop.

  No one had touched Bishop or tried to pry his family from his arms. Bishop had allowed Noah to cover their bodies with blankets. That was all.

  It wasn’t protocol. But protocol had died with the power grid.

  They had left Bishop under Noah’s watch.

  Julian and the other officers were working the scene to the best of their abilities. It was grim work. Without power, they no longer had a means to analyze DNA or enter evidence into the databases, though they collected samples of fluids, blood, hairs, and cartridge casings as best they could anyway.

  That was the job of the crime scene techs. Noah had no idea how things were being handled in the larger towns and cities, whether a skeletal crew of government and law enforcement still existed, or whether the system was crumbling everywhere without access to communication, transportation, computers, and high-tech equipment.

  Everything was wrong, felt wrong. There were no multicolored plastic cones on the floor, no numbered pieces of tape on the wall to mark the different types of evidence. No technicians in Tyvek suits, collecting samples, taking photos, and making measurements, transforming a mass grave site into something alive with activity and purpose.

  Noah shifted uncomfortably. His back ached and his glutes were going numb. Someone had brought in a kerosene space heater, a stack of donated blankets from one of the storage rooms, and a battery-operated lantern. At least he was warm.

  He was thirsty but not hungry, though he hadn’t eaten anything since before noon. He couldn’t stomach the thought of food.

  He sat with Bishop and he said nothing. He would wait for Bishop to speak first. He would wait all night if he had to. His friend deserved that, at least.

  He wasn’t stupid enough to believe he had a thing worth saying. I’m sorry. I’m sorry was a pebble hurled at a hurricane. Worse than worthless.

  He’d heard a thousand I’m sorry’s over the last five years, until he’d wanted to strangle every well-meaning stranger, acquaintance, and coworker who said it.

  He touched his wedding band. His mind drifted back to thoughts of Hannah.

  He had lost her. She had simply vanished into thin air. Like she’d been abducted by aliens or stepped into a parallel universe, leaving this one behind forever.

  Someone had taken her. He believed that. Stolen her from their lives, erased her from existence. But believing and knowing were two different things.

  He never had a body to bury. No funeral for closure, no communal grieving. No certainty.

  Even five years later, the grief still hit him, sometimes out of nowhere. In the strangest places, at the worst times. The grocery store. One of Milo’s Little League games. Or a certain song that Hannah had always loved to sing playing over the radio.

  A few notes of “Hallelujah,” “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” or “When Doves Cry,” and it would all come back in an instant—Hannah curled up with Milo at bedtime, singing him rock songs as lullabies. The way she’d look when she sang, how the purity of her voice filled him with emotion, transported him somewhere else—almost like magic.

  And just like that, the grief would hit him, a tidal wave, a tsunami pulling him under, swallowing him whole until he couldn’t breathe, until he felt like he was dying. The anguish so overwhelming that death would be a relief.

  Noah understood grief. But understanding it couldn’t help him ease his friend’s pain. His heart ached for Bishop, mourned with him.

  He understood guilt too. Noah had almost lost Milo tonight. He couldn’t rec
oncile his sorrow for Bishop with his own immense relief. Only chance—only blue-haired Quinn Riley—had kept Milo from sharing the same fate.

  His child was safe. His child was bathed and sleeping in a warm bed with people who cared for him. Bishop’s children were growing cold in his arms, his last memories of them the terror in their faces and the cries for help he could not answer.

  Noah hated himself for it, for even thinking it, but he couldn’t help himself. He would gladly endure the guilt of a hundred lost lives if that meant Milo got to open his eyes in the morning.

  “I failed them.” Bishop’s strong baritone voice broke the stillness. It was ragged and broken. “I did everything I could to save them and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.”

  “Bishop—”

  “I’m a husband without a wife. A father without children.”

  “You—”

  “Leave me.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Go away.”

  “No.”

  “I want to be alone.”

  “You need a friend, Bishop. Whether you want one or not, you have me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Bishop made a sound in the back of his throat, a wounded animal sound that wrenched Noah’s heart and shattered it anew. Gone was his easygoing charm and infectious laugh, the kindness that warmed his features. Bishop was nearly unrecognizable.

  He said nothing for several minutes.

  Noah waited him out. He would keep waiting.

  Truitt had sent him a message via the radio two hours ago. Milo was safe. He and Quinn were in Rosamond’s care. The nurse was on his way. Noah longed to be with his son, but he couldn’t leave Bishop. Not like this.

  “It was Ray Shultz,” Bishop said finally. He breathed heavily, in short deep gasps, every word costing him a great deal of effort. “It was them.”

  “They did this . . . for revenge?”

  “Yes.” Bishop raised his head and looked at Noah. His pupils were huge. His gaze distant. Blank and unseeing. “I thought the deacons would be enough. We had a guard on watch twenty-four-seven after what happened at the food pantry. I thought we were being smart. But we couldn’t stop them. Our pistols weren’t enough. They came in with automatic weapons, and we couldn’t do anything . . . They wanted vengeance. They wanted blood. There was no reasoning with them. They were like . . . animals. Demons. Pure evil.”