The Light we Lost : A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (Lost Light Book 1)

by Kyla Stone

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  “I’ll decide what I want,” she shot back. Ten yards away, she stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, back straight, shoulders square to Eli’s position. “Don’t frickin’ move.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “Walked.”

  “The ATV. That was you.”

  “That’s none of your damn beeswax.”

  “How did you find this place?”

  Her lip curled. “It’s a free country.”

  The irony didn’t escape him. He’d used the exact same cliched phrase last night. “This isn’t exactly a public beach.”

  She shrugged.

  “Not many people know of this place.”

  She stared at him, or what she could see of him.

  “How’d you find it?” he repeated.

  “I just did.”

  Jackson must have brought her here. Could have been Sawyer, but Sawyer would have no reason to bring this kid here. Possibly Lena. The thought made his chest go tight, but he swiftly dismissed the thought. Not Lena. She was long gone.

  Jackson was the kind one. The thoughtful one. The one who would check in on Lily’s children. Who would adopt them as a generous and benevolent uncle, taking care to show them the wild places where they’d shared so much as kids, as teens, as young adults.

  Where Lily had truly been herself as nowhere else. Of course, it was Jackson.

  Shiloh scowled. “I can be here, same as you. No rules against it. Nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “You’re the one with the bolt aimed at my chest, Shiloh.”

  She went absolutely still. Like a wild thing caught in the crosshairs. Her eyes big as quarters. “How do you know my name?”

  “Same as you know mine.”

  She pondered that for a moment. Her gaze never left his, her index finger still on that trigger. “You’re Eli Pope. The Broken Heart Killer. You murdered my mother.”

  Something caught in his chest. Those words, spoken so cavalierly, so matter-of-factly from the child whose world had been destroyed by that terrible act. “You remember me.”

  “Seen your picture on enough news shows.”

  The last time he’d seen her, she’d been a chubby, dark-haired five-year-old. A dervish of frenetic energy. The older one, the tow-headed boy—he’d been the sober, serious one.

  Even at six, he’d sat calmly at the kitchen table and colored while tiny Shiloh had scaled the cabinets, opened the freezer, and consumed four chocolate popsicles while Lily and Eli had coffee on the porch.

  “My little wild thing,” Lily had said with a laugh.

  He reached back in his memories. That had been two days before the murder. He’d come home to check on his father’s deteriorating Alzheimer’s condition for a week before departing on another undisclosed mission to Iraq.

  It had been years since Lena had broken up with him and moved down to Tampa. He was lonely; he had taken comfort in Lily as Lily had taken comfort in him. It was always casual, at least on his part.

  Lily had a way of dominating every room she was in, of pulling you into her orbit whether you’d intended to enter or not. It was a rare man who could deny himself Lily Easton’s tumultuous and addictive affection when she chose to give it.

  Eli had never met the man who could deny her.

  He said to Shiloh, “I didn’t kill your mother.”

  Eli didn’t know why he spoke the words. He didn’t owe this child anything. And yet. With her dark wary eyes on him, sharp and penetrating and fearless—he could not look away.

  The girl sniffed. “Easy enough to lie. Everybody lies.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove it.”

  “No, I can’t. That’s why I spent eight years in prison. Not everyone who goes to prison is guilty.”

  “Most of ‘em.”

  “Maybe.”

  “They had evidence. That beer bottle with your prints on it and my mom’s blood.”

  “It was planted. Someone wanted me to go down for a crime I didn’t commit. And I did.”

  She grunted. Non-committal. He didn’t blame her, not one bit. He was surprised she was still here. Astounded that she hadn’t squeezed the trigger and tried to kill him.

  He should disarm her. It was the smart play. Anyone who dared hold a weapon on him would’ve been mortally injured by this point. His fingers tightened on the grip of the pistol, but something held him back.

  He did not act. Not yet.

  19

  ELI POPE

  DAY THREE

  Eli found himself fascinated by Shiloh.

  She looked so much like Lily. But Lena was in her, too. In the way she tilted her head to the side while she appraised him, the frank expression in her elfin face, those sharp assessing eyes.

  Once upon a time, Lena had looked at him like that, like she could see straight through him, like she already knew his thoughts before he did. His mind flooded with memories too painful to bear. The scent of her hair. Her smile. How her eyes crinkled when she laughed.

  His gut knotted. His past was lost to him; his future stolen.

  Shiloh took a single step into the clearing. “If I killed you, I bet I’d get away with it.”

  “Maybe you would.”

  “Maybe I should do it.”

  “I think you’d regret it.”

  “I’m not scared to kill nobody.”

  He had the unsettling sense that if you came at this girl with a knife, she’d come back at you with a cannon.

  “Okay,” he said. “I believe you.”

  “I’d do it if I had to. If I needed to.”

  “Do you need to?”

  She hesitated at that. A line appeared between her brows as she wrinkled her nose. Instead of answering, she changed the subject. “My grandpa is dead.”

  “I heard that.”

  “You kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Deputy Cross. I was in a concrete cell that smells like piss and despair.”

  She took that in. “You talked to Jackson.”

  “He’s looking for you.”

  Shiloh took another careful step forward. Her boots crunched dead leaves. She kept the crossbow in place, kept her focus. “Someone took my brother.”

  “Same person who killed your grandfather?”

  “Yeah.” She hesitated. “I think so.”

  “You weren’t there?”

  “Nope.” She said it quickly. Too quickly. Probably a lie, though her expression didn’t change, her eyes just as fierce. “But I’m gonna find out who did it.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  “If it was you, I’ll kill you.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  Shiloh said nothing for a long moment. He could see the cogs turning inside her head, thoughts flitting behind her eyes. Her finger massaged the trigger.

  He considered drawing his knife and throwing it at her. He could knock that damn crossbow out of the way before she could react and squeeze the trigger. The point of the blade would pierce the soft tissue of her throat. She wouldn’t have a chance.

  Again, he stayed his hand. He didn’t want to harm her. Or embarrass her, either.

  “Maybe it was the windigo.”

  She blinked. Doubt moved across her face, then vanished. “I don’t believe in that crap.”

  “But you know it.”

  She nodded.

  In Ojibwe legend, the windigo was a malevolent flesh-eating spirit that roamed the deep woods, hunting humans to consume them, body and soul.

  She had Ojibwe blood in her veins. It was in the slant of her face, her coal-black eyes, her tan skin. But more than that, it was in the way she moved, the sharpness of her gaze.

  Lily had told him that Shiloh’s father was a security guard at Kewadin Casino in Sault Ste. Marie, a gambling man with no interest in children. He ha
d always suspected that it was Gideon Crawford, whose mother was Ojibwe.

  But Lily had taken many lovers: a rich sailor who’d docked his sailboat in the harbor for a weekend or a passing musician she’d visited in Ann Arbor.

  “It was a flesh-and-blood monster,” Shiloh said with conviction. “No make-believe thing.”

  “I agree.”

  A turmoil of emotions warred across her knife-thin face. Doubt and confusion, mistrust and uncertainty. But not fear. Whatever she was, she was not afraid, much as she should be.

  She didn’t speak for a moment. Her nose wrinkled, eyes narrowed as she figured out her next move. Probably deciding whether to shoot him or not before she moved on to the next item on her list.

  Shiloh took another step closer, balancing at the edge of the clearing, wary as a fox. Small but dangerous. Brave and fierce.

  The fire in her eyes. How bright she burned.

  He respected that.

  She took her eyes off his concealed position behind the white pine for the first time, let her gaze drift around the campsite, taking in the Biolite stove, the solar kettle, the flames flickering from the hole in the ground.

  Her eyes darted back to him. “You’re gonna live out here.” It wasn’t a question. She was smart. Quick on her feet. Observant.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  Because he’d been driven out of his father’s home, out of his hometown. But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? He’d already planned to leave. He’d always been at home in the woods.

  Where most soldiers endured SERE training—Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape—he’d relished it. He felt a connection to the land that white people didn’t feel, could never feel.

  His past had branded him. Scarred him. Not just prison, but his years as a spec ops soldier. The fighting, the killing, the dead.

  Out here, life was simple. It was about survival, man and nature. Out here, he could forget who he was, who he’d become. All the endless, open space. The lonely hills and stoic trees. The rocky bluffs and sun-dappled green. The bottomless deep of Lake Superior.

  This was the antithesis of prison. This was freedom. He couldn’t explain it, how it made him feel, how his pulse beat stronger; his soul lighter. He felt it, deep in his bones. It was in his blood.

  The silence brought peace. He needed this. For as long as it took, he needed it. He wouldn’t let anyone take it away from him.

  “Our people belonged to these lands for thousands of years. This is our home.”

  The girl nodded like she understood. Gradually, she drifted closer, slowly circling him. He moved with her, keeping the tree between them.

  She gestured at him with her chin. “Put the gun down.”

  “Lower that crossbow.”

  She balked.

  “Trust goes both ways.”

  “You first.”

  Eli hesitated. With any other adversary, he would never even consider such a thought. And yet, he obeyed. He moved out just enough that she could see him holster his pistol. He waited, tense, ready to draw it quickly if needed, ready to retreat to full cover behind the tree trunk.

  His act of surrender had the desired effect. The crossbow relaxed in her hands, the bolt drifting lower. Her index finger slid off the trigger.

  She took another step closer, wary and watchful, but curious. Her curiosity got the better of her. She lowered the crossbow as her gaze flicked to the fire. “How come you made the fire in a hole like that?”

  “It’s called a Dakota fire hole. It’s designed to provide heat and a cooking source without revealing your location with too much smoke.”

  “How’d you make it?”

  “I’ll show you if you put down the crossbow.”

  “No way.”

  He shrugged. “Then I’m not coming out.”

  She hesitated, vacillating between curiosity and wariness.

  “You can keep it right next to you. It’s there if you need it. I won’t come near you.”

  Finally, she made up her mind and placed the crossbow on the ground next to her feet. She crouched as she watched him, ready to flee or attack at a moment’s notice.

  Eli moved out from the trees into the campsite. He knelt and stirred the coals at the bottom of the hole. With half his attention on her hands and the crossbow, he showed her how he’d dug the fire pit with an army-style folding shovel.

  He’d dug two holes in the ground, the first about a foot in diameter and a foot deep. The second was about six inches wide and dug at an angle, with a tunnel that connected the two holes that served as a chimney.

  Eli had packed twigs and kindling into the bottom of the larger hole, then layered small logs on top. He showed her how he lit it with a ferro rod. The size of a pen, the fire steel didn’t rely on fuel, could get wet, and could start a thousand fires before it ran out.

  Eli demonstrated, striking the rod with a hard striker, moving it swiftly across the ferro rod to produce sparks that caught the tinder and swelled into flickering flames.

  “The fire burns from the top down and draws a steady draft of air from the smaller chimney hole, so it achieves near complete combustion. The result is a strong, bright fire that burns efficiently, uses less firewood, produces little smoke and conceals the flames from potential threats, especially at night. It provides warmth and you can cook off it, too.”

  He pointed to a grate of green sticks that he’d woven with fishing wire and could place across the top of the hole. It would hold a pot or frying pan.

  She listened, seemingly fascinated, her bottom lip protruding in focused concentration. “How do you know how to do all this stuff?”

  “The army. Also, I’m Ojibwe. We learn how to live with the land instead of against it.”

  “You didn’t live on the reservation.”

  “I have family who do. An aunt. My grandparents before they passed away. I spent a few summers there.”

  She nodded, still staring in awe at the fire. “You won’t miss electricity? Cell phones and iPads? Xbox? The internet?”

  “No, I don’t. People would be a lot happier without some of those things.”

  “I like flushing toilets.”

  He snorted.

  Something flickered across her sharp features—a hint of pleasure, of self-satisfaction—then disappeared, replaced by that hard, focused gaze, her finger on the crossbow trigger.

  He watched her. How still she was, coiled and tense with an urgent energy, like she might bound away at any moment. “You want something to eat?”

  She didn’t answer but watched him hungrily.

  “I’m just going for my pack. No sudden moves.” He reached for the rucksack he’d placed at the base of the cottonwood. Opening the front zipper, he pulled out one of the protein bars he’d collected from his cache.

  He held it out to her.

  Shiloh stared at it like it was a snake about to bite her.

  “It’s wrapped. It’s not poisoned.”

  She didn’t move.

  “It’s chocolate.”

  Her eyes darkened.

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “I don’t need no charity.”

  “Not charity. It’s in thanks. For not skewering me like teriyaki chicken.”

  She thought about that.

  He tossed it at her feet.

  Startled, she grabbed the crossbow and retreated three steps, almost tripping on a log. The crossbow lifted for half a second, then she thought better of it and dropped it to her side.

  Ducking into a crouch, she snatched the bar and slipped it into her overalls’ pocket. A second later, she was on her feet again, backpedaling, the crossbow held low but ready.

  Shiloh scowled. “Don’t you dare follow me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “You could if you wanted to.�
��

  Someone must’ve told her. Or maybe it was one of the semi-salacious factoids included in the tell-alls and news specials. The inscrutable Native American murderer. Dealer in spirits, rain dances and powwows, a supernatural tracker with bird feathers in his hair and war paint on his bronze-skinned face. She could’ve heard it from anywhere.

  “Don’t give me a reason to.”

  She pursed her lips, considering, then nodded. Spinning on her heels, she turned abruptly and darted across the clearing, headed for the dark space between two spruce trees.

  The girl retreated into the woods on light feet. Even in hiking boots, she hardly made a sound. A crushed leaf here, a broken twig there. She was a natural. A little training and she’d move almost invisibly, like he did.

  As he tended the fire and cooked his dinner, he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts.

  This half-feral creature that appeared out of the forest. This girl with the haunted eyes. Hungry as a stray dog. Fierce as a wolverine.

  That terrible night, she’d lost more than he had. Maybe that was it. She reminded him so much of them—of Lily and Lena—the only women he’d ever cared about.

  Shiloh should have hated him, but she didn’t. She should’ve tried to kill him; she hadn’t.

  He couldn’t explain it, this strange, light feeling in his chest. Like he could breathe deeply for the first time.

  Eli wanted her to come back.

  He hoped that she would.

  20

  JACKSON CROSS

  DAY THREE

  That morning, Jackson and Devon met the medical examiner at the Munising hospital morgue, which they used to store bodies under a contract with the county. The room was cold and sterile.

  When they arrived, Dr. Virtanen was bent over the corpse, which lay on a gurney in the center of the room, a tray of medical instruments beside her. She straightened and looked them over without smiling. She wore gloves, sleeves, booties, and an apron. Goggles were perched on her head.

  She walked them through the autopsy she’d conducted so far. Amos Easton was sixty-nine-year-old male and weighed two hundred and twenty-two pounds. “Positive identification was established matching premortem dental records. The manner of death was homicide. The cause of death is exsanguination due to external hemorrhage.”