by Kyla Stone
“We’ve got to go now!” Logan said.
She knew he was right. She set her jaw and strode to the shattered doorway. “Anyone who doesn’t want to die of radiation, come with me.”
9
Logan
Logan wrapped his arm around Walter’s frail shoulders and helped him hobble along. Dakota jogged beside him, panting, with Julio just behind them.
A blast of humidity struck them as they left the bar. Logan’s pits and lower back were instantly damp.
The street was in chaos. Smoke clouded the air, everything covered in a film of dust. Fires blazed everywhere.
They raced along the sidewalk, past downed telephone poles and street lights, palm trees sheared and broken. In several places, they were forced to move into the street to avoid piles of smoking rubble from partially collapsed storefronts.
In the street, cars were flung about, their metal frames crushed and twisted, dozens toppled on their sides. A shiny apple-red Ford Mustang lay upside down, the roof crumpled, steam hissing out from the twisted hood, wheels still spinning.
A Ford F150 had plunged into a Dunkin’ Donuts storefront, great chunks of the walls and ceiling of the structure collapsed around it.
People moved around him, gasping, covering their mouths, crying out in terror. Some were bruised and battered, others bleeding. They staggered blindly into the street, dazed and bewildered.
Others sank to the curbs, clutching at their cuts and bruises and broken bones in stunned disbelief.
“I can’t see!” someone screamed.
“My husband! He needs help!”
“My eyes…there’s something wrong with my eyes…”
“Help us, please!”
They sounded distant and remote; he hardly heard them through the roaring in his own ears. His legs felt heavy as lead, his breathing ragged.
Sweat already soaked his underarms, dampened his hairline, and dripped into his eyes—sweat from the heat, but also the kind he knew so well—the sour sweat of fear.
“Radiation!” Dakota yelled at the people they passed. “Seek shelter!”
A handful of people remained in their cars, scowling and cursing, trying unsuccessfully to start them. At the curb, a woman sat in a silver Tesla, frozen with her hands on the wheel, unmoving, unblinking, her eyes wide and blank with shock. No cars were working, not even the ones undamaged from the multiple pile-ups.
“Something’s wrong with my phone!” Julio panted. He held it as he ran, punching desperately at the screen. “I can’t call my wife!”
“An EMP,” Logan said as the realization hit him. He hadn’t even thought about it, but of course, it made sense. He’d seen a documentary about it on Netflix.
“What?” Walter said. “You just said it was a nuclear blast—”
“It is.” Logan sucked in a mouthful of muggy, smoky air. He kept himself fit in the boxing ring, but the old man was heavier than he looked. “The blast radiates an electromagnetic pulse that disrupts or destroys all electronics and the electrical grid—cell towers, telecommunication switches, radar, phones, computers, cars.”
“Mother Mary and Joseph,” Julio gasped. “Across the whole city?”
“No.” Dakota slowed down as she edged around a tangle of fallen, sparking power lines. “Only within a three-to-five-mile radius from ground zero.”
He wiped at his stinging eyes. The stench of burning things—plastic, metal, flesh—overwhelmed his senses.
A fire engulfing a four-story office building completely blocked the road ahead of them, forcing them to backtrack and find a side street.
The sound of crying drew his gaze.
On their right, across the street, the roof of a designer clothing shop had caved in. A small shape huddled against the trunk of a downed palm tree. A girl of nine or ten with straggly, dirty-blonde hair.
She was dressed in denim shorts and a too-small purple Disney princess shirt. Her pink-framed glasses were set crookedly on her tear-streaked, sooty face.
The girl stared at them in mute terror. A blue stain dripped down the front of her shirt, across the blonde princess’s face. More of it puddled on the ground at her feet, along with a small, flat stick.
A Popsicle. She was just a kid happily licking a Popsicle. And then the bomb went off.
Logan’s gut twisted. A face flashed in his mind, unbidden, unwanted—small and round, large pleading eyes black as prayer beads, desperate and full of terror. He pushed the thought down deep.
Ahead of him, Dakota slowed, wiped sweat from her brow, and held out her hand to the girl. “Radiation’s coming. It can kill you. Come with us to the movie theater.”
The girl shook her head. “My mom’s in there.” She gestured behind her plaintively. “I keep calling her, but she won’t come out.”
Logan glanced at the caved-in shop. The collapsed roof listed dangerously. It was a death trap.
Even if the woman was still alive, she was likely gravely injured. They didn’t have the time, the knowledge, or the tools to safely rescue her.
Dakota hissed out a frustrated breath. She glanced at her watch then down the street toward the shopping plaza. “Come on.”
“I—I can’t.”
“You have to worry about yourself now,” Julio said, trying to reason with the girl. “We can come back for your mom later.”
The little girl pushed out her lower lip, fighting back sobs, and shook her head. “She told me to stay with her, no matter what.”
Julio reached for her hand. “Come on, honey—”
The girl shrank back with a terrified squeal.
Julio froze.
“What should we do?” he asked uncertainly.
“Leave her,” Walter growled. “We don’t got the time for heroism.”
Logan and Dakota exchanged strained glances. `
It wasn’t his business. There were people suffering and dying all over the city. What was one more kid? She wasn’t their responsibility. She certainly wasn’t his.
Overhead, the sky darkened.
“Fallout’s coming,” Dakota warned. “It’s been seven minutes.”
He fought his desire to leave them all behind and just run for his own self-preservation. It wasn’t a feeling he’d been acquainted with recently. But it was still there—the innate, instinctive desire to survive at all cost.
“Look!” Logan pointed down the street. “The theater’s right there. We need to go!”
Something like disappointment shadowed her face for the briefest moment. She shook her head, turning away from Logan, and muttered a curse.
She grabbed the girl’s upper arms, yanked her up, and shook her, hard. “If you wanna live, you’ve got to run!”
Stunned, the girl stared up at her, mouth hanging open, her glasses nearly falling off.
Dakota didn’t bother with an answer. She broke into a sprint, still grasping the girl by her wrist in an iron grip. The girl stumbled, crying out, but the waitress ignored her and jerked her back to her feet.
She took off down the street, dragging the weeping girl behind her.
“What’re you waiting for?” Walter growled in Logan’s ear.
They ran.
10
Dakota
Dakota raced across the parking lot, pulling the girl behind her, her lungs burning, her heart hammering in her throat.
She hadn’t wanted to shake the girl so hard, but it was the only thing she knew to do to snap the kid out of her fugue. Maybe there were alternatives, but they all would’ve taken precious seconds they didn’t have.
At least the girl would live.
As it was, time was already running out. The hot air swirled around her, the rapidly blackening sky bearing down on them all as they ran.
They had only minutes until it was toxic. What if it was already contaminated, invisible poisons sinking deep into her exposed skin?
She shook the fear off like a dog shaking itself dry. It wouldn’t do anything but bring on debilitating panic. T
o survive, she had to think.
Showtime 14, the fourteen-theater cinema, was situated in the center of a U-shaped, two-story shopping center between an Old Navy, a Dollar Tree, Walgreens, and various boutiques and restaurants. Broken glass littered the gaping windows and doors, but the massive stucco and concrete-block building looked solid enough.
A group of teen boys stood in a clump in the parking lot, gazing up at the mushroom cloud invading the sky with open mouths.
“Get inside!” Logan shouted at them.
Dakota pulled the girl slipping and stumbling across the parking lot, ignoring her wails. “Don’t fall, or you’ll cut yourself on all the glass.”
The girl straightened and somehow managed to avoid tripping until they reached the cinema. Inside, the foyer was cloaked in shadows, the only light streaming in through the front windows.
Dakota looked at her watch. 12:46 p.m. Eight minutes.
A few dozen people milled about near the concessions bar, most frowning down at their non-working phones or gesturing toward the shattered windows, confusion and trepidation on their faces.
Several families trickled out from various auditoriums, probably because the power had switched off halfway through their film.
They all stared as Dakota and the others rushed in, disheveled and bleeding, dragging a weeping, panic-stricken child with them.
“A nuclear bomb just detonated!” Dakota shouted. "Radioactive fallout is about to rain down. Get away from the windows and doors!"
Some people gasped and moved back instinctively, pulling their children with them.
A skinny man wearing a Marlins cap with a round basketball gut shook his useless phone. “Where did you hear that? We can’t even turn the damn thing on! Power’s broken.”
“We saw it,” Logan said steadily. “If you went outside, you’d see the mushroom cloud for yourselves. But I highly recommend you restrain yourself. One look could cost you a hell of a cancer diagnosis six months from now.”
Marlins Cap balked. “You’re talking nonsense. That’s crazy.”
“We saw it too!” one of the teen boys exclaimed from behind them. “It was epic!”
“Epically terrifying,” another boy mumbled, sounding a bit sick.
Gasps and mutters filled the room. Strangers exchanged appalled, disbelieving looks. A woman covered her young daughter’s ears.
Dakota didn’t have time for another philosophical discussion with skeptics and idiots. There was too much to do to stay alive.
She looked down at the girl and released her hand. “See the concession counter over there? If you can sit here quietly without moving, you can eat whatever you want. Deal?”
The girl sank down to the floor and crossed her skinny legs. She wiped her nose with the back of her arm and hugged her arms to her chest, still trembling, but finally, she nodded.
One problem taken care of, for the moment.
Dakota turned to Julio, Walter, and Logan. “Go behind the counter and grab all the packaged snacks you can. Get the plastic buckets for the popcorn. We’ll need them for water. As many as you can!”
"You can't do that!" A scrawny, pimply-faced redhead squeaked from behind the counter, an “assistant manager” badge pinned to his blue staff shirt. “That’s stealing!”
“I prefer to call it borrowing,” Logan said.
“You’re crazy!” the kid sputtered. “I’m calling the police!”
“Go for it.” But when Logan strode around the counter, the kid backed up, raising his hands, palms out, shaking his head.
Logan cut an imposing figure. He was strong and fit. She could tell he knew his way around a fight just by the confident, languid way he moved, the alert wariness in his gaze. She tucked that bit of information away.
It might come in useful later.
Logan ignored the kid and reached beneath the counter for a stack of yellow-striped plastic buckets. Julio reached carefully into the broken display cases and gathered boxes of Whoppers, Nerds, Reese's Pieces, and Sweet Tarts.
“What do you think you’re doing?” A short, burly man barely as tall as Dakota stalked over. He punched a fat finger at his own chest. “This is my theater.”
“We’re trying to save as many lives as possible, including yours,” Julio said diplomatically, with a level of patience Dakota would never obtain.
“You’re out of your mind!” the manager growled. “You’re a danger to the patrons!”
“It’s the bomb that’s the danger, man,” one of the teen boys said. “Get a grip.”
The manager glared at him, his broad face purpling. “If you haven’t paid for a ticket, then you’ve got no business being here!”
Frustration clawed at her. Dakota fought to keep her voice steady. “We’re not leaving.”
The manager puffed out his chest aggressively and jutted his fleshy chin. “I don’t care where you go, but it won’t be on my property. I insist you leave immediately. Get out!”
11
Dakota
Dakota opened her mouth to rip the asshat a new one.
Logan stepped forward. His hands were loose at his sides, but the muscles beneath his tattoos tensed and bulged.
Just his presence was intimidating, and he knew it.
The manager paled.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Logan said in a low, dangerous voice.
Julio pulled several twenties out of his jeans pocket and held them out to the manager. A few speckles of blood stained the wrinkled bills. “Consider that a deposit on a later payment. I’m no thief. I’ll pay whatever bill you’d like. For all of us.”
“If you think—” the manager started.
“Take the money,” Logan growled.
The man’s face was so red it looked about to explode. He glared up at Logan, who stared icily back. He opened his mouth to speak something inhospitable.
Logan took another step forward. He towered over the short, squat man.
The manager’s features contorted at some inner battle between self-preservation and oversized ego. Finally, his shoulders sagged in capitulation. He seemed to understand that he didn’t have a choice in the matter.
At least the money was a way to salvage his wounded pride.
He snatched the cash with the tips of his fingers. “This is only the down payment!”
“I’m good for it,” Julio said wearily. “Don’t worry.”
The manager scowled at the droplets of blood landing on the burgundy carpet at Julio’s feet. His beady eyes flicked to Logan. Wisely, he said nothing.
She’d had enough. “There’s no time for this crap!” she shouted. “Don’t you people get it?”
Everyone fell silent, staring at her in astonishment, all of them still expecting the old rules of polite and civilized behavior to apply.
But that world was gone.
It had blown itself into smithereens eight minutes ago.
“Radioactive fallout is coming right now! The bomb is real. Sheltering in place is the safest thing to do. And we need to get to that shelter in the next minute before the radiation starts eating you from the inside out!”
“Even if it’s true, there’s no way we’re staying here,” Marlins Cap growled. He gripped his wife’s arm. “It looks fine out there. We’re getting out while we still can.”
The wife, a mousy little thing, glanced back at Dakota as the man hauled her out, alarm etched across her thin face. But she allowed herself to be led away.
“You’re making a mistake!” Dakota called after them. She gritted her teeth, willing the anger down. She’d seen plenty of women like that before—cowed, docile, obedient to a fault.
It made her want to punch something.
More people followed their lead. Three other families moved toward the front doors along with them. Dozens streamed out into the darkening parking lot, desperate to find their families, to get home—a place that sounded safe, but was anything but.
“I believe you.” A curly-haired Hispanic woman
dressed in a purple flowered maxi dress clutched her purse to her chest, her expression stricken. “I saw the windows blow out. I felt the whole building shake. Why else aren’t our phones working?”
The woman’s gaze darted to the shattered windows and back to Dakota. “But my daughter is at her ballet class less than a mile from here. I don’t care what’s coming for me. I’m not leaving her.”
Dakota understood that desperation better than anyone. She felt it clawing up her throat, tightening her chest, roaring in her ears. All she wanted to do was get to Eden.
But if she left now, she might be dead before she even got there. She couldn’t give in to her fear. Fear made people stupid, Ezra always said. And stupid got people killed. She had to be smart.
She could already see the woman wasn’t going to change her mind, but she tried anyway. “Maybe your daughter found shelter where she is. If you wait even several hours, the radiation lessens dramatically.”
The woman shook her head.
“In two hours, it’ll be half of what it is right now. In seven hours, seven times less. You might make it—”
“I’m driving to her right now. She needs me.”
“Your car won’t start because of the EMP. Even if it does, the debris will block your way.”
The woman’s mouth tightened in a straight, bloodless line. “I’ll walk if I have to. It’s a risk, but so is staying here.”
Dakota gave a resigned sigh. “The wind is blowing the fallout north. For now. But it could change direction. Just make sure you head perpendicular to the wind, okay? Get your daughter and get as far away as you can. Prompt radiation will be everywhere within a few miles of ground zero. But the fallout carried by the wind can settle radioactive particles sixty or more miles away.”
The woman grasped Dakota’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”
Dakota didn’t have time to watch her go.
She checked her watch. 12:46. Nine minutes.
She turned to the worker behind the ticket booth, a tall, willowy black girl nervously biting her nails, her dead phone in her other hand. Her name tag read “Mishayla Harris.”