by Kyla Stone
Trevor shifted awkwardly and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Hey man, weren’t we gonna check out the theater? Thought we were gonna catch a flick.”
“I’m busy.” He pulled out her emergency wind-up radio and solar flashlight, then tossed them back in the crate. “Looks like you’re packing for the apocalypse.”
She gave a careless shrug. “Not really.”
Trevor and Javier grinned like they wished they were somewhere else but were clueless how to extricate themselves from the uncomfortable situation they’d found themselves in.
“It’s just a little power outage,” Josh said in a mocking tone. “The internet has gone down before. Hackers and all that. It’s totally normal. No reason to freak out.”
“Yep. I’m sure you’re right.” Heat flushed her face, her throat. Anxiety like spiders scrabbled over her skin. Stress raised her blood sugar, sometimes to dangerous levels.
She needed to get out of here, and fast.
He gave her a derisive look. “You really think this is different? Those lights in the sky got you going coo-coo in the head?”
“At least she doesn’t have a mountain of toilet paper,” Javier said.
Trevor chortled nervously.
Josh rolled his eyes but kept his attention on her. “You one of those crazy survivalists?”
“Sure, I’m crazy,” she said. “You don’t want to see my crazy come out, believe me.”
“You guys like, believe an EMP or something is going to destroy civilization, right? Or aliens? Funny, you don’t strike me as that type.”
“What type is that?” Lena said. She forced herself to remain calm, though she felt anything but.
“Crazy in the head. Tinfoil-hat-wearing freaks. The ones who emptied the stores of toilet paper and hand sanitizer last time. And they were wrong, weren’t they? Turns out they were the fools.”
Lena didn’t rise to the bait. Anger flared through her, but she controlled herself. She didn’t say that the prepared ones weren’t the ones who hoarded or emptied shelves.
Also, she didn’t give a flying fart what he thought.
“You do you,” she said. “That’s what everyone says, right?”
Josh shot an amused glance back at his two cronies. “She’s got spunk.”
“You have no idea.”
“What’s this?” Josh leaned in, pushed aside a crate of emergency pouch meals, and dragged out the 9mm ammo box. “Now this, I can use, apocalypse or not.”
“That’s not yours.”
Josh grinned at Lena. “Fine, fine. No problem, lady. No need to get all butt hurt.”
He opened the ammo box and ran his finger along the shiny rows of bullets. He whistled through his teeth. “I’m going to take this.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“You’re going to give it to me. As a goodbye gift.” His eyes darkened, glittering like stones underwater as he stared at her. A hungriness in his gaze that she recognized with a cold chill. “Of course, I can think of a more…appetizing goodbye present.”
Her heart clenched in her chest. “It’s time for you to leave.” She didn’t get defensive. She didn’t engage in his mental games. She just wanted him gone. “Now.”
17
LENA EASTON
DAY THREE
Josh leaned in close, leering. His skunky weed-breath hot on her face. She could count the pores on his cheeks. He intended to intimidate her.
Lena didn’t cower. Still, the stress was making her shaky. Her body was cold all over.
She wasn’t a skilled fighter, didn’t know karate, and had no superpowers. She was just a girl who’d taken self-defense classes, who went to the range to make sure she could hit what she aimed at.
And she didn’t entertain fools.
“Back off.”
He exhaled a sour breath into her face. “Or what?”
It was so cliché, she laughed.
Josh’s eyes darkened with rage. The type of guy whose fragile ego couldn’t handle female derision. Or rejection. His hand snaked out and seized her T-shirt. He jerked her toward him, off balance. “If you think you’re gonna—”
“Bear!” Lena yelled.
An ear-shattering bark split the morning air. Bear lurched from the backseat, landed with a scrabble of nails on asphalt, and hurtled to the rear of the SUV.
“Woah!” Javier took three jerky steps backward. He flung up his hands, still holding his phone. Trevor froze in place, startled.
Still holding Lena’s shirt, Josh gaped at the huge dog.
Bear was no attack dog. He wanted to rescue everyone and everything, from baby ducklings to doddering old men. Every ounce of him was built to love.
But they didn’t know that.
“Bear, attack!”
In the second that Josh hesitated, Lena lunged, brought her knee up and kneed him in the groin.
Josh gave a pained oof.
She tore free of his grip. Shaky and weak, sheer adrenaline kept her on her feet. She dug her hand into her pocket and jerked out the Pilot’s keys. Her fingers closed over the cylindrical object she needed.
Josh half-straightened, clutching his groin with one hand. He charged her.
Lena aimed, depressed the trigger, and shot pepper spray directly into his face.
With a scream, Josh fell backward, tripped, and landed hard on his butt. He dropped the box of ammo. Rounds rolled across the pavement.
His eyes squeezed shut, fiery tears leaking out as the mucous membranes of his respiratory tract swelled, causing immense pain, possibly even temporary blindness. “You stupid whore!”
“Leave now before I sic my dog on you for real.”
Trevor had had enough. He spun on his heels and strode across the parking lot, shoulders hunched, shaking his head. Javier quickly followed.
Bear barked at Josh. A deep rumbling bass that vibrated in her chest, hurt her ears. One hundred and fifty pounds of muscle topped with three inches of fur that made him look like a pony. With teeth.
Across the parking lot in front of Building C, a car alarm went off. A door slammed and someone cursed. “Shut that damn dog up!”
Lena glared down at Josh. “Am I shutting up the dog? Or are we bringing in the neighbors? Or how about another squirt of tear gas? It worked so well the first time.”
Josh clambered unceremoniously to his feet, one hand clutching his injured nether regions, the other clawing at his streaming eyes. He shrieked curses and insults between moans of agony.
Bear pressed against her thigh, growling. She knotted one hand in his thick fur and steadied herself, taking great satisfaction in Josh’s hunched form as he slunk away.
She’d made an enemy.
If she were staying, that would be a problem.
“Good job, Bear. You did great.” Her legs wobbled as she retrieved the box of ammo and the loose ammunition, then reached up and shut the lift gate. She locked the SUV. “One more load, buddy, then we’re off, I promise. We can’t leave without the most important thing.”
Bear followed her back into the apartment. She was weak and shaky all over. Sensing her distress, he kept close, nearly bowling her over as she entered the stairwell and took the metal stairs, gripping the railing for support.
After locking the apartment door behind her, she crossed the tiny living room and leaned against the counter, gasping. She managed to slump onto the counter stool and checked her pump. Her number was 250. Way too high.
She bolused herself and waited impatiently for the shot of insulin to do its job.
Her M&P 9 Shield EZ pistol lay on the counter. Though she had her concealed carry license, she’d left the gun inside her apartment. Utterly useless when she needed it.
She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Maybe Bear would defend her if it came to it. Or maybe he’d try to lick the bad guys to death. She wasn’t leaving it up to chance.
Lena holstered the firearm. She liked the natural grip, the crisp trigger, and the easy to loa
d eight-round magazine chambered in 9mm. It was simple to rack the slide, which was important when her blood sugar crashed or spiked, making her weak.
She patted Bear’s head. “This baby sticks with me from here on out.”
Bear whuffed his agreement.
With her blood sugar dialed in, she took a quick second to assess the apartment. The pantry and her closet, where she stored extra supplies, had been emptied out. Everything that didn’t fit in the Tan Turd was stored in the roof rack cargo carrier.
Lastly, Lena opened the fridge and pulled out the precious insulin vials. It suddenly seemed so little, paltry in the face of what was coming.
Apprehension torqued through her. When you lived with a chronic illness, with a pancreas that didn’t work, how prepared could you be?
For a Type 1 diabetic, it wasn’t about eating healthy or counting carbs.
Without insulin, she would die.
And when it ran out? What then? She hated that she didn’t know. Insulin was nearly impossible to manufacture on one’s own. And it was dangerous to take once it had expired.
Who knew how difficult it would be to procure insulin in a few months? Maybe FEMA would keep pharmacies stocked with essentials, but she wouldn’t bet her life on it.
Bear let out a whuff, his tail wagging. He nosed the fridge shelf like he was looking for one of his treats, which she’d already packed.
“We’ll figure it out, buddy,” she said. Her voice echoed in the too-quiet apartment. “We’ve got no choice.”
18
ELI POPE
DAY THREE
Eli wiped sweat from his brow as he crested yet another hill, legs pumping as he rode the mountain bike along the weedy, overgrown bike trail. His heels were blistered from hiking boots he hadn’t worn in years, even with the moleskin.
The ground fell away and before him Lake Superior stretched wide and glassy beyond the rocky beach. The view was spectacular. The Great Lake, pristine and wave-ruffled, the hills and distant cliffs jutting from the emerald water. The towering white pines, the sun-bleached rock.
He and Jackson had spent hot summers out here in the wild, hiking, swimming, hunting, swigging stolen beer. They’d brought the girls, too, but sometimes, it was just the two of them. It was an unspoken thing. This place was for them, for brothers.
He closed his eyes and was transported back in time, twelve years old, bare skin beaded with lake water, lying propped on a sunbaked slab of rock, on his elbows next to his best friend, gulping warm beer. Their first drink, both of them. Jackson had stolen it from his father’s liquor cabinet.
Jackson had spat his first sip out, startled at the sour bitterness, but Eli had taken to it from the beginning and never stopped. With his culture torn away, with a childhood of trauma and despair, he had taken to addiction naturally. It was the only thing that numbed the pain.
Eli shook the memory from his head. He dismounted the bike and wheeled it off the trail, making his way down the slope to the sparkling river that fed into the lake a half mile north.
Occasional hikers took the trail less than a half mile from here, or they hiked up the river from the wooden pedestrian bridge a mile downriver, but rarely did a human being pass through this spot.
It was a good spot, protected by the worst of the elements by the limestone bluff that rose thirty feet behind him. A flat spot between the rock face and a massive boulder the size of a car gave him further protection from the elements and prying eyes.
The river provided both fish and fresh water; he had water purification tablets, plus he could boil water with the fire or his Biolite camping stove, using kindling. It would also charge phones, not that he had one.
A half mile northwest, Lake Superior stretched out for three hundred and fifty miles, emerald green and clear as glass or gray and storm-tossed, depending on her temperament. A narrow rocky cove provided privacy as well as good fishing.
He had the AK-47 plus a .22 rifle he’d retrieved from his buried cache. Deer, rabbits, coyotes, and wild turkey were plentiful. He wouldn’t starve.
Years ago, he had buried two caches a half mile from his father’s house—just in case—but had only looted one. It was a simple five-gallon bucket sealed with a Gamma lid that made it water and air-tight, then wrapped in an industrial trash bag.
In addition to the .22, he’d stored boxes of 9mm, .22, and 7.62x39 ammo, a change of clothes, bottled water and protein bars, a tarp and rope, chem-lights, emergency space blankets, water purification tablets, and a first-aid kit.
He still fit in his clothes. The food was expired, but he ate a bar anyway. It tasted fine.
After clearing the site of twigs, pinecones, and other debris, he erected tent in the middle of the clearing. Then, he created a second shelter parallel to the boulder, a lean-to fortification with a firing pit.
He topped the shelter with a space blanket covered with branches and leaves to disguise the shelter. He placed his bivy sack inside. This was where he’d sleep.
He stood back and examined his work. He could watch the tent in case someone attempted to sneak up on him. The lean-to shelter gave him a good killing field from cover and provided an avenue of escape if needed.
The space blanket would go far to defeat infrared. The camouflage of branches and leaves made it look like part of the woods to anyone looking through a night vision scope.
Next, he dug a Dakota fire hole with his shovel. Squatting, using his Ferro rod and a fire starter he’d fashioned from cotton balls and petroleum jelly, he started a fire, adding small bits of twigs he’d collected for kindling.
Gradually, he added thicker branches until the fire burned hot. He closed his eyes and thought of her. Not the dead girl who haunted him, but her sister. Lena Easton. The girl who visited both his dreams and his nightmares.
Where was she now? What was she doing? Did she ever think of him?
He hadn’t seen her since that last night in the middle of the trial. When he realized the town was turning against her for defending him, the risk greater to her than to himself.
He’d told her to leave. To shut the door on him and never look back.
He did not regret it. And yet he missed her. Every second of every day. Her absence created a hole in his chest he’d never be able to fill.
He’d made mistakes. Terrible ones. Lena Easton had never been one of them.
Hunger gnawed at his belly. He planned to heat some beans, then fish Lake Superior for lunch. A great heaviness overtook him. Exhaustion pulled at his bones, but he couldn’t rest yet.
He needed to find out who had hated him enough to frame him for murder, and he wouldn’t get those answers hiding out in the woods. But he knew who to talk to, who to ask.
If anyone knew something, it would be James Sawyer. He had his finger on the pulse of this town—
The distant rumble of an ATV broke the stillness. A cardinal exploded from a hemlock branch above his head, red feathers bursting into flight.
Eli stilled, listening.
In the distance, to the south, a twig cracked.
Something was out there.
Swiftly, Eli drew his VP9 and retreated behind the boulder. Half-crouched, he exited the campsite, entered the tree line, and bladed his body next to the enormous trunk of a white pine, which offered both cover and concealment. He checked his pistol; a round was chambered.
He held it low and waited, silent and listening, ears strained.
Birds trilled in the underbrush. A squirrel darted along the branch of the cottonwood above his head. Deep in the woods to his right, something large ambled along a deer path.
A fox, probably. Maybe a bobcat. Earlier, he’d seen the scat of deer and hare.
A minute later came the rustle of leaves underfoot. A step. A long hesitation. And then another.
His senses heightened, muscles tensing. It was a someone, not a something. Someone was creeping up on him. No hunter or soldier, but far quieter than most idiots stomping through the woods.
It wasn’t Jackson, though. Jackson was bigger, heavier, louder.
This creature was small and stealthy.
“I know you’re there!” a young voice called out.
Eli didn’t move.
“Come out like a man!” she ordered.
He laughed. The sound startled him. It was the first time he’d laughed in a great many years. “You first.”
He kept his breathing steady, his limbs loose and easy, hidden behind the trunk. Ready to spring into action. He eased to the right to a few degrees, so he was still protected but could see his adversary.
“Okay, fine.” A girl stepped out of the underbrush, appearing between the thickening shadows spreading across the pine-needled earth. She held a crossbow against her shoulder, a fiberglass bolt cocked and aimed at the tree he crouched behind. “You do anything I don’t like and I’ll fire this thing.”
He sucked in a breath. It was like being punched in the solar plexus. The effect she had on him was instant and profound.
She wore hiking boots and oversized overalls over a long-sleeved purple shirt, her raven-black hair in a messy braid slung over her shoulder. Suspicious black eyes like two bits of coal glared from an elfin face, her chin narrow and pointed.
Thin and wiry, she was strong judging by how she handled that crossbow. Steady as a rock, no tremble in her hands.
The girl was both Lily and not Lily. The spitting image of her dead mother, but smaller, darker, fiercer.
“I’ll shoot you!” she warned.
He believed her. The crossbow’s buttstock was nestled snug against her shoulder, her cheek pressed to the stock so that her dominant eye was in line with the sight. Her trigger hand held the grip, her index finger balanced on the trigger itself.
He was protected behind the tree, but this girl knew what she was doing.