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

by Kyla Stone

  He entered the city and drove through the streets of Marquette. He passed long lines at a food bank. The gas station lines snaked around the corner. Grocery stores and hardware stores were packed.

  The afternoon’s bright blue sky felt insidious. Like Mother Nature was mocking them, playing with them like the Greek gods played with human fates.

  At the first homeless shelter, Room at the Inn, they recognized his photo of Ruby Carpenter, her red hair and defiant pout. Astrid was correct; Ruby had stayed here, but not for over a year. No one had seen or heard a word from Ruby Carpenter.

  He gave them the standard missing person information. They promised to keep a look out.

  He felt his hope dwindling. She was out there, somewhere. He wanted to bring her home, especially now with the looming disaster. He’d made a promise. And Jackson hated to break a promise.

  The second shelter was located on the outskirts of Marquette. It was a small home run for indigenous girls and women, called simply Nindaanis House. Nindaanis meant ‘my daughter’ in Ojibwe. It was unlikely that Ruby had stayed here, but he would check anyway.

  At the front counter, Jackson showed his badge and pulled out the slightly wrinkled missing person’s flyer. “Have you seen this girl?”

  The woman behind the counter was in her seventies. Wrinkles scoured her face, her silver-white hair pulled back in a braid. She was Native American, likely Ojibwe.

  She sat behind a plexiglass window, two ancient computers set atop the countertop, the screens blank. The cracked yellowish linoleum floor had seen better days. Two vanilla-scented candles set on the counter flickered, deepening the crevices beneath her eyes.

  The woman frowned as she took the flyer through a slot in the glass. “She is far from home if she is here. But I have not seen her. I am here every day; if she walked through these doors, I would know.”

  Disappointment constricted his throat. He turned to go.

  “Wait.” The woman’s chair squeaked as she wheeled across the room, opened a filing cabinet, and riffled through it. She yanked out a photo and squeaked back to the plexiglass window.

  She shoved it through the slot at Jackson. “You come here searching for your pretty white girls, but how about this one? You never come looking for them.”

  Jackson held the 5x7 photo of a girl of about sixteen. Long glossy black hair. Lovely dark eyes. High cheekbones. She wore ripped jeans and a tight white T-shirt, her arms crossed defiantly over her chest. Dark marks speckled her forearms. She was Ojibwe.

  “She came from the Keweenaw Bay Indian rez, but she talked about a half-brother in Bay Mills. She stayed with us three months at the start of the year. She was addicted to heroin, but we got her into a sponsored treatment program with methadone. Many girls don’t make it, but she was cleaning herself up. She had dreams, things she wanted to do. One of the ones who might make it.”

  She grimaced like it pained her to speak the words aloud. “Her half-brother offered her work in Munising, leading kayaking tours to Pictured Rocks for the tourists. I do not remember his name. She left in March and promised to call when she arrived. No one has seen or heard from her since then. My cousin in Bay Mills says that she never arrived.”

  Jackson couldn’t tear his gaze away from the girl’s haunted eyes. There was something about her. Something both tough and soft, tragic and strong. “What is her name?”

  “Summer Tabasaw. Niibin is her native name. It means ‘summer’ in our language.”

  “I’ll ask around. See if I can find her.”

  Her gaze hardened. “Will you?”

  “I will.”

  From the other side of the plexiglass, she jabbed a thin finger at him. “Do you see those marks on her arms?”

  He looked at the photo again. He saw them. He knew what they were. “Cigarette burns.”

  “She didn’t do that to herself. It was her mother. They say a mother would never do things like that. They can. They do.”

  He swallowed. He’d seen those burns on child abuse victims. On addicts. Domestic violence cases. And on Lily.

  Wild and haunted, she a bright girl running from a darkness inside herself that he’d never understood in his youth, and still did not understand now.

  “No one cares about these girls. They die. They go missing. They leave with bad men and do not return. No one looks for them. Not downstate, and certainly not here.”

  “I care,” Jackson said.

  “Do you believe the electricity will return?” the old woman asked abruptly.

  He hesitated. No one had asked him that outright. “No,” he said finally. “I think that things are going to get bad. Very bad. It may be a long time before it gets better.”

  She nodded, seemingly satisfied with his honesty. “If this happens, there will be more to fear than hunger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The monsters of society, they hide. But when there are disasters, when bad things happen, the monsters gain strength. They feed on pain and fear.”

  “I know.”

  “They won’t need to hide anymore. They will hunt in plain sight. Who will stop them?”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman, her beetle-black eyes. A tightness in his chest, his throat dry as old bones. “I will,” he said. “I will stop them.”

  She leaned back in her chair, scorn and disbelief in her wizened face. “Do you believe that?”

  “Yes, I do.” He tapped the photograph. “May I have a photocopy of this picture?”

  “No electricity. The things done before can no longer be done the same way.” She studied him for another minute, her bloodless lips pursed, wrinkles spanning the skin around her black eyes. “Take it. You said you’ll look for her. So look. Do what you have said you will do.”

  He didn’t know this woman from Adam, yet he felt her words like an accusation, like a pronouncement of guilt.

  “Ma’am,” he said, his words measured as he slipped the girl’s picture into the pocket of his windbreaker. “I will do my best.”

  32

  JACKSON CROSS

  DAY FIVE

  At Lake Superior Outfitters, the shelves were sparse. In another day or two, they’d be barren. The aisles were crowded, people hurrying with their heads down. A sense of quiet urgency permeated the store.

  No music played over the speakers. The fluorescent lights were off. Daylight streamed through the front windows and glass double doors. The deeper into the store he headed, the darker it was. Near the back, people used their phone’s flashlight to scan the shelves.

  Jackson pushed the old woman’s words out of his head and focused on the task at hand. He would worry about what she’d said later.

  He procured a couple of solar chargers and extra solar panels, a second camping stove, several wind-up flashlights, an emergency wind-up radio, battery and solar LED lanterns, extra propane canisters for the grill and portable heaters he had in the garage.

  He stocked up on ammo for his Remington shotgun and Glock 17, then picked up the last solar dehydrator. With a dehydrator, he could keep meat preserved, along with fruits and veggies.

  When he checked the generator aisle, they were all gone. A smaller secondary generator would be helpful to augment their whole-house generator, which hooked up to their propane tank.

  The checkout lines were long. Fifteen to twenty people in each lane. The store accepted cash only; the handwritten sign was taped to the front door.

  The next person in line could only purchase half of her cart’s contents. She swore at the cashier and stormed off with the half she’d paid for.

  The couple in front of him tried to pay with a credit card. They had a solar generator in their cart, along with sleeping bags, a rocket stove, and a portable water purification system.

  The cashier explained in a flat voice that the machines were down. He was a college-aged kid with black hair tied in a ponytail. He looked bored. Not even an impending apocalypse could get a rise out of him.

 
The couple argued, cajoled, begged. The woman had choppy blonde hair and wore an oversized hoodie with sweatpants. Her partner was a heavyset guy in a green Packers jersey. He smelled of cigarettes.

  “We have a checkbook,” the woman said. “Come on. Just let us pay and get out of here.”

  The cashier shrugged. “Like the sign says, cash only. If you don’t have cash, I can’t help you. If you don’t step aside, I’m gonna have to call security.”

  The woman cursed and flicked him off. The man’s hands formed fists, legs splayed like he was prepared to fight. His face reddened with embarrassment and anger.

  Jackson tensed, ready to intervene. He wore plain clothes, but he carried his service pistol, concealed by his windbreaker, and he had his badge. This wasn’t his jurisdiction, but he’d get involved if things got dicey.

  The cashier stared them down. “Step aside, please.”

  “Move along!” someone behind Jackson shouted.

  Grumbling, the couple left their cart where it was and stalked out of line.

  Jackson pointed to their cart. “I’ll take that generator.”

  “If you got cash, you can have it. That’s the last one.”

  He always kept cash on-hand for emergencies. “I do.”

  “Lucky dog,” muttered the guy behind him, a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and trucker hat that stated, “Truckers do it Best.”

  The cashier strolled around the counter and dragged the couple’s cart out of the way. A pile of carts loaded with unpaid-for camping supplies crowded the front of the check-out aisle.

  The remaining folks in line grew quiet. The tension was tangible. A few lowered their heads, bills clutched in their hands, silently counting through clenched jaws. They eyed the abandoned carts greedily.

  Jackson peeled off a large number of twenty-dollar bills. Movement snagged the corner of his eye. A cop’s intuition made him look up.

  The couple hadn’t left the store. They lurked near the front doors. The woman kept her back to the check-out as she pretended to peruse a rack of sunglasses.

  The guy in the Packers jersey telegraphed his intent with furtive movements. He crept closer, his expression nonchalant.

  As the cashier counted out Jackson’s change, Packers snuck up behind him and seized the cart with the solar generator.

  Jackson took three swift steps past the check-out counter and reached the perp. The man didn’t have a chance to move. Beneath his windbreaker, Jackson nudged him with the muzzle of his service pistol.

  Packers flinched, startled. “What the—”

  “Law enforcement,” he said in a low voice so only the man could hear. “You don’t want to do this, trust me. It’s not the way to go.”

  The man froze. His face contorted in fear and anger.

  “Release the cart. Go to your wife and leave the store. Don’t come back. Do as I’ve instructed immediately, and I won’t arrest you.”

  Fear won out. Packers released the cart and lifted both hands just high enough to keep them in Jackson’s sight without drawing attention. “I’m going, man. I’m going.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry. It’s just—my wife…”

  The woman turned around, one hand on her swelling belly. She had to be eight months pregnant. Jackson hadn’t noticed from behind.

  “We’ve got another little one at home.” Packers’ voice was strained. “She’s five, and she’s asthmatic. We need electricity to run the nebulizer when she has an attack. We know the power might not come back on for a long time. I’ve never stolen in my life—I would never—we need that generator. I’m sorry.”

  Pity welled in Jackson’s chest. He felt himself softening. He had the money. At the same time, cash was king. He knew he would want it later. And yet, it wasn’t in him to turn his back on a young family, not when it was within his power to help.

  The cashier stared at them. As did the people in line behind him.

  “Everything all right there?” the trucker asked.

  “Everything’s good. Just chatting with a friend.” Jackson lowered his voice. “Take the generator.”

  Stunned, Packers stared at him, open-mouthed. He’d expected to be arrested. Or at the least, forced to leave empty-handed.

  “It’s yours. As long as you take a word of advice,” Jackson said. “Burn that jersey. Get yourself a Lions one instead.”

  The man blinked. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “Hell no, sir. But I appreciate the thought.”

  Packers took the cart and returned to his wife. Their heads bent as he whispered something to her. The woman tossed a grateful look over her shoulder at Jackson.

  Together, they hurried from the store as if they feared someone would steal their treasure before they got it home. Give it a week or two, and they might not be that far off.

  Jackson waited for them to leave before he returned to the counter and accepted the change from the cashier. He loaded the back of the truck and headed for the nearest superstore.

  Near empty shelves greeted him. He imagined the only reason they weren’t completely bare was the cash-only rule. With banks closed for days, folks couldn’t access their own money. Few people had enough cash reserves on hand.

  Families hurried from aisle to aisle, dumping products into their carts as if in a trance. People looked tense, worried, and anxious. No one made eye contact.

  The toilet paper was gone, as was sun block and bottled water, but he managed to snag a few quarts of bleach for water purification. Their house was on well water. He was glad he’d installed the solar well pump a few years ago.

  Astrid had mocked him, but after the propane for the generator ran out, the solar pump would provide water to the sinks and showers and flush the toilets.

  He filled two carts with the leftover canned goods like tuna, ravioli, green beans, and beets. Next was peanut butter, beef jerky, powdered milk, sugar, salt, and baking soda.

  Then he grabbed the last of the large bags of dry beans, pasta, and rice. He added five-gallon buckets, some mylar bags, and oxygen absorbers for long-term dried goods storage.

  By the time he finished, his cash reserves had dwindled to less than a hundred bucks. It was dark when he hit M-28 and headed east toward home. Above him, shades of crimson, tangerine, and hints of green striped the sky in undulating curtains.

  He’d gotten no closer to finding Ruby Carpenter. Or Shiloh and Cody. He’d added another missing girl to his list.

  His truck overflowed with supplies, but it seemed meager compared to what lay ahead of him. What lay ahead of them all.

  33

  LENA EASTON

  DAY FIVE

  The Tan Turd rumbled along I-75, headed toward Toledo. The green rolling hills had flattened out as Lena passed corn and soybean fields. Heavy traffic slowed them down.

  In Ohio, they’d had to refuel outside of Columbus. Without generators, many gas stations were closed. The ones still operating were rationing. Ten -gallon limits, cash only.

  She’d stopped at five stations at different exits to fill the tank and the jerrycans, wasting three hours. There were long lines. Vehicles were backed up along the roads, horns honking, people losing their tempers.

  Everyone was edgy and agitated. No fights had broken out, but a few had come close.

  Now, though, every gas station she passed was closed. They had no electricity to run the pumps, or they had run out of fuel.

  With her jerrycan reserves, she should have just enough to get to Munising.

  She scanned radio stations, chewing a glucose tablet and then sipping an apple juice to raise her blood sugar.

  One station discussed rumors that the president, the vice president, the National Security Council, Congress and the Supreme court were being moved to undisclosed locations.

  Photos had been released of two white 747s leaving Andrews Air Force Base. They were the “Night Watch” E-4Bs that provided an airborne command post for the president and could direct large-scale military operations or to respond to major disas
ters. They were also hardened against EMPs and CMEs.

  Both Pacific and Atlantic submarine fleets had been spotted leaving ports. Large numbers of military aircraft were rumored to be headed to locations outside the affected areas. And state guard units were being ordered to report to their staging areas.

  She shivered. She didn’t know what it all meant, only that it wasn’t good.

  How long until the country descended into pure chaos? When people’s pantries ran dry in a day or two? She’d read that many families only kept three days’ worth of food on hand.

  Paying attention to the early warnings could be the difference between making it and not, between reaching sanctuary and being stranded a thousand miles from safety with no vehicle, no gas, and millions of scared and desperate people standing between you and your destination.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror. Bear sat happily in the back, head stuck out the window, floppy ears streaming against his skull, mouth open, jowls flapping in the wind.

  Lena couldn’t help but smile. No matter how bad things might get, as long as she had Bear, she could endure it.

  Bear barked.

  “I know, I see it.”

  Something was up ahead. Lena slowed, but she had no intention of stopping. They approached a caravan of three vehicles on the side of the road—a minivan, an SUV, and a Prius.

  A kid of twelve or thirteen stood on the shoulder, thumb out to hitch a ride. Beside him sat three little kids in varying states of disarray, two of them crying. A little girl stared at Lena with wide and frightened eyes.

  Next to the Prius, four adults stood in a huddled circle, heads down, gesticulating wildly as if deep in a serious conversation. They must have run out of gas.

  The little girl waved.

  Bear barked in greeting.

  Pity tugged at her, but what could she do? There were too many of them to hitch a ride. She couldn’t afford to give them a drop of fuel, or she wouldn’t make it, either.