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

by Kyla Stone

  The river gurgled over rocks and logs. Small creatures slunk through the underbrush. His mind emptied of all thought but the task at hand. Eliminate the threat. Shoot to kill.

  Another sound. A cry like a wounded animal.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

  Twenty yards to the east, juniper leaves trembled, agitated by whatever creature—animal or human—disturbed it. Through a thicket of elderberry bushes, past the cluster of jack pines, beneath the canopy of a maple.

  Silent, Eli rose to his feet. Remaining crouched, leaning forward, light on his feet, he placed each step heel to toe.

  Every movement slow and deliberate, he began to circle the outskirts of the clearing, shifting from tree to tree, from cover to cover as he closed in on his target. Muscles tensed, weapon up, ready to fire.

  Five minutes later, he rounded a cluster of boulders and his target appeared. Eli stared down at it for several heartbeats. Not an it—her.

  Shiloh Easton curled in a fetal position on the ground. Her right leg had tangled in his tripwire. Her crossbow lay a few feet away, like she’d dropped it as she fell.

  This girl had dragged herself from somewhere. Her camp at the cave was about three miles via the ATV trails. Or somewhere even further. Limping, bleeding, in pain. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it had been. At least she’d been able to take the trail.

  In her right hand, she clutched her small knife. Like she was ready to fight demons and monsters, even to the point of collapse.

  A groan escaped her lips.

  In the half-darkness, he could see she was hurt.

  Alert for danger, he scanned the woods and listened hard. He studied the ground, the trees, the rocks and rise of the hill leading to the bluffs beyond them. There were no shadows that did not belong.

  Satisfied that they were alone, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and crouched beside her. He wasn’t a medic, but he knew first aid and kept an IFAK—individual first aid kit—in his rucksack.

  He felt her pulse. It was strong and steady, though fast. He checked her breathing, then skimmed her body with his hands, searching for wounds, for broken bones, for blood.

  She whimpered when he touched her shoulder, and again when he felt her right ankle. It was already swollen. Twisted, possibly sprained.

  Pausing, he again listened to the forest sounds. Nothing out of place. No signs of danger. Untangling her foot from his tripwire, he reset it, feeling the lumpy ground for the stones and replacing them inside the can.

  “Don’t leave me,” Shiloh said.

  “Did anyone follow you?”

  She shook her head.

  “This is going to hurt.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  He grunted, bent, and gathered her into his arms. For so fierce a soul, she was light as a feather. How young she was. Young and vulnerable and alone.

  He cradled her as a shepherd cradled a lamb and hurried back to his campsite.

  “My crossbow—”

  “I’ll get it. Don’t talk. That makes it hurt more.”

  She turned her head and buried her face into his chest. A mewling sound escaped her lips, like a wounded kitten. Fury flared through him, hot and sharp, at whoever would harm this child.

  Eli knelt and half-crawled into his shelter, then lowered her atop his bivy sack. Shucking the rifle but keeping it close by, he reached for his rucksack and withdrew his flashlight and IFAK.

  “I need to check you for injuries,” he said gruffly. “That okay?”

  Shiloh stared up at him with eyes wide and unblinking, black as beetle shells. She did not flinch or cry out. Her teeth gritted against the pain.

  Bruises bloomed across her left shoulder and upper chest. Cuts and scrapes marred her bare arms. A nasty bruise was turning a deep blueish-black on her left shin.

  He checked her visually—her skin tone was pink. Her breathing and chest movements appeared normal. She was alert and could speak in complete sentences. She could move her arms and legs, though her right ankle was swollen and tender to the touch.

  Luckily, her ribs had escaped the brunt of it. Without an X-Ray machine, he had no way to know whether they were cracked or broken. He’d treat them the same either way as long as there was no flailed chest injury, where three or more adjacent ribs were fractured in two or more places—a grave injury.

  Using a battery-operated lantern for light, he rinsed the cuts with sterile water from his water bottle and dressed them with antibiotic ointment, then used liquid band-aid to seal the wounds. He splinted her ankle with a splint he kept in his rucksack.

  His fingers were too rough. Awkward and fumbling. He didn’t remember how to be gentle. How to treat fragile things with such care. His hands were built for violence. He did not know how to do this. He wasn’t any good at it.

  He growled in frustration. “I should take you to a hospital.”

  “No,” she said.

  “You should see a doctor.”

  “They’ll get the police.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “No.”

  “You need—”

  “No!”

  “A hospital—”

  She raised her knife and pointed it at his chest.

  He stilled. One hand held gauze, the other ointment as he knelt beside her. “Put it away.”

  “Promise. No hospital.”

  “Put the knife down, damn it!”

  She sucked in a pained breath. The point of the knife settled at his breastbone. He crouched over her, unmoving. He knew ten ways to disarm her, but he didn’t want to do it like that.

  She didn’t take her eyes from his. They burned fierce and undimmed. “The police will get social services. They’ll take me away. I’ll never come home. I’ll never find Cody. They think he did it. I know he didn’t. No police. No hospital.”

  He shook his head. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea.

  Maybe Jackson was right. He was going about this all wrong. The professionals should handle this, handle her. This was a mistake.

  And yet.

  At the same time, she was not wrong. He knew what it was like to be the one sucked into the massive, indifferent machine of the justice system, how swiftly the jaws of the law could consume you. It didn’t matter if you were innocent.

  He couldn’t bring himself to betray her. She had come here, hurt and scared. She’d come to him when she had no one else. Didn’t matter how many times he told himself he didn’t care. That she was none of his business.

  “No hospital,” he said. “No police.”

  The knife lowered. She let out a relieved sound that was half sigh, half groan.

  He took the blade from her limp fingers and set it beside his rifle. “What happened?”

  “The four-wheeler went off the road. Into the ravine.”

  Shiloh must have been thrown free of it, or her injuries would’ve been much worse. “An accident?”

  She stared up at him. Shook her head.

  “Someone did this to you.”

  She didn’t have to answer. Her burning eyes revealed the truth.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “Too dark.”

  “Any details? Any information you can give me?”

  She shook her head in mute fear.

  He leaned back on his heels and appraised her. She was battered, but not broken. Not on the outside. The most dangerous scars were on the inside, where they did their damage unseen.

  She gave him a beseeching look. “Hungry.”

  Despite himself, a smile tugged at his lips. He dug around in his rucksack and retrieved two Snickers’ bars. “I’m out of the protein ones.”

  “Even better.”

  He peeled back the wrapper and handed one to her, taking the other for himself. He propped her head up with a pillow so she could eat without choking. “How’s your jaw? Okay?”

  She chewed cautiously, then n
odded.

  They sat in silence while they ate. She pointed for his water bottle, and he handed it to her. She finished the candy bar in a few bites and then drank half the bottle without coming up for air.

  The girl’s eyelids slid closed. Exhaustion slackened her features. She’d held on as long as she could. Now she was here with him, safe, where she could let go.

  He put away the IFAK and stuffed the bloodied gauze into a plastic trash bag. He checked outside and walked the perimeter. He retrieved the crossbow, then checked the decoy tent. He examined the hushed landscape for several minutes before slipping inside the shelter.

  He checked on Shiloh again. “Sleep, girl.”

  “Don’t leave,” she said without opening her eyes.

  He said, “I won’t.”

  As she drifted into sleep, an alien emotion plucked at his chest. So foreign he didn’t recognize it. His hardened, scarred heart was numb. Deadened from war, from prison. Nothing left of him but rage, bitterness, and vengeance.

  As a convict, he’d been reduced to an animal. He’d lost everything but that instinct to kill.

  Maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t.

  Eli would not sleep more tonight. He’d sit and keep watch. All night. This night and the next and the next, for as long as she needed.

  He looked down at her and whispered, “Whoever did this, whoever made you so afraid. I’ll find him, and I’ll end him.”

  39

  ELI POPE

  DAY SIX

  Eli felt eyes boring into him the second he opened the door to the IGA Country Store in the town of Christmas. The bell above the door jangled in welcome.

  He wasn’t welcome here. He knew that. But he needed a few supplies, for himself and for Shiloh, who was sleeping soundly in his lean-to shelter. And so, here he was.

  He’d biked back to his father’s house and drove the silver 1998 Pontiac Bonneville into town. Surprisingly, it still had gas in the tank and ran fine.

  He moved down the narrow aisles. The lights weren’t working; watery daylight streamed through the dusty windows. The generator hummed as it provided power to the refrigerated section in the back.

  He’d planned to get something halfway healthy for Shiloh to eat, but the shelves were barren. Most items were out completely. Two of the freezers were empty, the refrigerator carried the few beers that remained.

  He recognized the woman behind the counter. Michelle Carpenter. Her father had run the place when Eli was a kid. Later, she had taken over the store after her parents died, while Eli was overseas fighting classified wars that the average American knew nothing about.

  Every time he’d returned home on leave, he’d visit the store for his favorite beer, Molson Canadian. Mrs. Carpenter had kept it stocked for him, traveling across the border once a month to source it.

  Now, the woman watched his every move, her back straight, one hand on the counter, the other clutching her cell phone. Her face formed a rictus of revulsion and hatred.

  His skin grew hot, his hands clammy. He felt himself shrink inward, growing smaller and despised himself for it. He should be used to this by now, his black heart inured to rejection.

  Why had he thought this was a good idea?

  Eli stood still in the center of the beer aisle. Frozen in place. He didn’t know why he’d bothered to check. She didn’t stock it anymore. Why would she? And even if she did, it was already gone.

  The Molson Canadian beer he’d loved had convicted him in the end. A fingerprint on a bottle. A spot of blood. The tainted bottle left in his car for the cops to find.

  The door bell jangled, and two people entered. Tim Brooks and Gideon Crawford. They were former friends—and they’d been part of the mob that had accosted him on his doorstep.

  Eli tensed. His VP9 was holstered at the small of his back beneath his black T-shirt, a round chambered. The AK-47 he’d stowed in the backseat of the Bonneville beneath a blanket. He had no intention of using either weapon, but he wouldn’t back down if it came to it.

  The men were arguing about the best fishing spots in Alger County and didn’t notice him at first. Instinctively, he checked them visually for weapons; they appeared unarmed.

  He thought of the night they’d spent drinking eight years ago. How one of them might have taken a used beer bottle from the bar and framed him. But no, Sawyer had told him who had betrayed him.

  He still didn’t want to believe it.

  Gideon caught sight of him, elbowed Tim, and they headed straight for him.

  On wooden legs, he exited the beer aisle and took his meager supplies to the counter—bleach to purify water, a handful of Snickers bars to bring back for Shiloh, a bottle of soy sauce. The soy sauce wasn’t a necessity, he just wanted some damn flavor with his dinner.

  He felt the presence of the two men behind him. They’d gone dead quiet.

  Eli dug in his pockets and set two wrinkled twenties on the counter.

  “Your money is no good here,” Michelle said.

  “I have the right to shop.” His voice too quiet. The resolute indifference that had served him in prison had deserted him. He knew this woman, this place, these people.

  “I don’t serve killers.”

  He couldn’t meet her eyes. Shame permeated his insides, his tongue thick in his mouth. A sickening sense of claustrophobia overwhelmed him. The empty shelves crowded in, the shadows heavy and thick.

  In that moment, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t guilty.

  “I called the police,” Mrs. Carpenter lied.

  He knew she hadn’t—there was no service—but he didn’t correct her.

  Her body shook with anger, accusation in her eyes. “I used to babysit Lily. I have a daughter. If you lay a hand on her, I will fillet you and hang your entrails around your neck and drown you in the lake and that would not be the death that you deserve.”

  “You need help, Michelle?” Tim Brooks asked.

  “Looks like we need to take out the trash,” Gideon snarled.

  They sounded like bad TV actors. It didn’t matter. Eli felt like he’d been sucker punched in the gut. He wanted nothing more than to escape to his campsite in peace.

  “Keep the change.” He scooped up his items, leaving the cash, and backed away.

  Mrs. Carpenter said nothing. Her red-rimmed eyes glistened like she was on the verge of weeping. Her hands pressed flat on the counter, palms down, fingers splayed, as if they were holding her up, like her willpower was the only thing keeping her upright.

  Eli spun on his heels. The men stood behind him, blocking his way. A surge of anger broke through his self-pity. He made a lunging motion at them. “Move or you’ll regret it.”

  The men scrambled backward. Fear and loathing warred across their features. Fear won out. And self-preservation. Gideon’s shoulder struck the rack of touristy magnets, and several clattered to the tile floor. Tim bumped into a shelf holding the last bags of Doritos.

  Eli marched between them, unmolested.

  “Don’t come back!” Gideon spat at his back.

  The bell over the door jangled before Eli reached it. Jackson Cross strode in, dressed in his deputy’s uniform. His sandy hair mussed. A five o’clock shadow rimmed his jaw, bruises beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.

  Tired or not, those clear hazel eyes swept the store and took in the situation in an instant. He nodded his head at Michelle. “Mrs. Carpenter.” He turned to the men. “Keep shopping. Have a good day.”

  Jackson opened the door wide and motioned for Eli to follow him out.

  Eli obeyed without argument.

  Once they were a good ten yards past the front door, Jackson wheeled on him, his expression livid. “What the living hell, Eli.”

  “A man has to shop.”

  “Then drive to the Soo. Or Marquette. Or anywhere but here. Can’t you see these people can’t handle it? You’re liable to get yourself shot.”

  He couldn’t help himself. “I think you have that the other way around
.”

  Jackson threw up his hands. “I’m trying to keep the peace, here. I’m doing my best to keep a volatile situation from exploding.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing a bang-up job of it.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  They stood a few feet apart. Lines bracketed his old friend’s mouth, framed his tired eyes. He looked like he’d aged a decade since the last time Eli had seen him.

  “You find Easton’s killer yet?”

  “Maybe I’m looking at him.”

  The sick feeling was fading fast, replaced by a familiar anger that Eli wore like a favorite pair of jeans. The anger fed him, soothed him, drove him. “Screw you, Cross.”

  “No. You do not get to do this. You do not get to turn this around like you’re the injured party here. You cannot torment these townspeople. They’ve grieved for eight years. Let them live with their ghosts. Leave them alone. Live out there like a survivalist hermit in the National Forest, I don’t care. But do not interfere with my county. Do not cause trouble. I am warning you, Eli.”

  Eli went still. He had never responded well to threats. His lip curled in derision. “Or what?”

  Jackson stood taller, his eyes flashing. “I’m not the naïve little kid who once followed you around like a puppy, worshiping your every move. You can’t manipulate me. You can’t lie to me. That kid that believed in you? That person is dead. Dead and gone. He died with Lily.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Eli said, quieter. A dark current hummed through him, but he held it in check. He remembered Sawyer’s accusation. The insinuation. And he wondered.

  “What do you think you can do to me, Jackson?” He paused a beat. “Or maybe the real question is, what have you already done?”

  40

  ELI POPE

  DAY SIX

  A rusted pick-up rumbled past the IGA’s parking lot. The passenger’s side window rolled down. He recognized Dana Lutz. She spat out the window and gave him the finger.