by Kyla Stone
“Do you have any flashlights? With the power out and no windows, we need to be able to see inside the theater.”
“We have five flashlights in the storage room for emergencies.” The girl stopped chewing her nails long enough to run her hand over her thick, wild mane of tight coils skimming the tops of her shoulders.
She slanted her eyes warily at the strangely darkening sky outside. “Is it really a nuclear attack? Bombs and everything? I just—it doesn’t seem real.”
“Yeah, it’s real. Bring me the flashlights,” Dakota said. “Which auditorium is the most centered in the middle of the building?”
“Number seven. We were showing the newest Mission Impossible film—”
“Great.” She raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Anyone who’s staying, grab as much food and bottles of water as you can and meet in auditorium seven ASAP.”
Mishayla glanced at the bloody cuts marring Julio’s arms, face, and torso, and Walter’s pained hobble. “We’ve got a first aid kit, too. I can help. I’m in nursing school.”
“Perfect. Bring everything you can to the auditorium.”
Mishayla hurried off toward an unmarked door behind the ticket counter.
Loaded with stacks of empty popcorn buckets and a pile of packaged candies, cookies, and chips, Logan and Julio headed down the wide hallway.
Walter limped along with the handful of people who hadn’t left, their arms filled with packaged waters and juice bottles.
The manager stalked after them, glowering, trailed by the red-haired assistant manager. They both looked like they’d swallowed something sour and couldn’t wait to spit it out.
Julio glanced back at her, questioning. “You’re coming, right?” He was a thoughtful boss like that. A good guy.
She waved him on. “Take the girl, would you? I’m right behind you.”
Turning toward the girl, Julio held out a snack-size bag of Oreos and gave her a kind, disarming smile. “Come on, honey.”
She climbed unsteadily to her feet, her expression terrified, but she followed him down the darkened hallway with the others.
Dakota checked her watch one last time. 12:48. Eleven minutes.
She paused for a moment at the ticket booth, hesitating, her gaze drawn to the shattered windows a few dozen yards away.
She couldn’t see the mushroom cloud this far inside the building, only the expanse of parking lot and a low sliver of sky behind a big box store.
The sky was dark as if before a storm, the air stained a hazy, sour yellow. Small dust-like particles drifted down like snow.
The fallout.
It was real.
The bomb was real.
How many thousands had just been vaporized? How many were wounded and dying, crushed beneath crumbling buildings or burned beyond recognition? How many cities? Five? Ten? More?
How many years would it take the country to recover? Would they ever recover from something as horrific as this?
Nothing would ever be the same.
She swallowed a silent scream. She couldn’t let herself fall apart. She was the strong one; she was the one who kept everything together.
She could still do that. She could still protect Eden and find them a way out of this hell.
Was Maddox out there somewhere, still alive in the chaos? She hoped he was dead. She didn’t care if it made her a terrible person. His death would be the only good thing about the apocalypse.
Her sister was out there, too. Hiding and scared, maybe all alone, maybe injured, but alive. She had to believe Eden was alive.
Dakota had rescued her once. She would do it again.
As soon as it was safe enough, maybe even before—the very minute she could escape without dooming herself to death—she was going out, out into the ruined city, and she was finding Eden.
12
Dakota
Mishayla brought the flashlights into the darkened theater, pitch-black but for the dim emergency lighting along the floor. Dakota let her keep one, took one for herself, and handed the others to Logan, Julio, and the manager, who’d reluctantly provided his name: Gary Schmidt.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she said as she pressed the handle into his fleshy palm.
Schmidt flicked it on and scowled at her. “You don’t get to decide. Those are my flashlights. All of them.”
Dakota was about to say something nasty when Julio stepped up beside her. “We can’t express our appreciation enough for your generosity.” His voice was calm and sincere, without a hint of sarcasm.
She glared at him, but he continued before she could interject. “When this is all over, I’m sure the news channels will love to cover stories of local businesses coming to the community’s rescue. It’ll be great for business.”
Schmidt let out a huff. “It better be.”
“Where do you want the food?” Walter asked from the front near the screen.
“Right there is fine,” Dakota said. She didn’t care about being in charge, but she’d do the job if she had to.
“And just who will be in charge of that?” Schmidt whined.
“Thanks, man.” Julio slapped his back with a warm grin. “We really appreciate you volunteering.”
Schmidt straightened his rounded shoulders. “Well, someone around here has to know what they’re doing.”
Julio winked at her. She just shook her head and turned away. Julio had a gift for smoothing bruised egos.
Dakota didn’t care to even try.
She scanned the auditorium with the flashlight—about a hundred plush recliner seats, walls painted some dark color she couldn’t discern, carpet a muted burgundy.
The little girl they’d rescued slumped in one of the oversized chairs, her legs pulled up beneath her as she nibbled on her bag of Oreos. She’d told them her name was Piper.
Fourteen other people huddled in clusters in the main aisle between the seats closest to the screen and the rest of them. Fifteen total, including two of the teen boys.
No, there were seventeen. A woman and a child sat amid the empty seats about halfway up.
The woman scowled down at them.
Dakota ignored her. What was she missing? What did they still need to survive the next several days?
She stared up at the ceiling, imagining the fallout descending on the roof above them. “Are you running a generator? We need to turn off the HVAC unit so it doesn’t draw in radioactive particles from outside, just in case the power comes back online.”
“It’s an emergency generator, but it’ll get hot—” Schmidt started.
She had no patience left for fools. “Just do it!”
Schmidt huffed but snapped his fingers at the assistant manager, who scurried off to obey.
Dakota closed her eyes, sending her mind back to that scarred wooden kitchen table, the warmth of the kerosene lamp, Ezra’s wizened face and crinkling eyes, the way he would frown intently and jab at the table with his index finger when he wanted them to really listen.
There were five critical elements for survival: shelter, food, water, protection, and a plan. They had the shelter and some food. Now they had to work on the rest.
She opened her eyes, and her gaze fell on the popcorn buckets. “We need to fill them all up with water, as much as we can. The water lines could break or turn off at any time.”
“What about contamination?” Julio asked. “Isn’t that a danger?”
“It’s possible but not likely. And not this soon.”
She turned to look at the huddled group of strangers, keeping her flashlight down to keep from blinding anyone. “I’m not sure if we got here in time. We were probably exposed for a minute, maybe two.
“Other than the really high levels of fallout, radiation is invisible. You won’t be able to see it or feel it, but it sticks to your skin and hair, your clothes, your shoes, everything. The longer it stays on you, the more damage it does.
“We need to go to the bathrooms and wash ourselves thoroughly
. Take every piece of clothing off and scrub your body with soap and water. Make sure you wash your face—get your eyebrows and eyelashes, too.
“Then wash your hair. It’s not like we have conditioners here, but they bind radioactive material to hair protein. Not a good idea. So only use soap and water.
“After you’re clean, scrub every article of clothing you’re wearing, inside and out. “It’d be best if we could bag and discard our clothes, but unless we feel like starting a nudist colony, I don’t think that’s a viable option.”
Logan snorted.
“What if we scrub everything really well?” Piper squeaked with an appalled expression. “With lots of extra soap?”
Julio gave her a warm smile. “Good plan, kid.”
Dakota swiveled her flashlight at Mishayla. “Will you lead us to the closest bathrooms in the center of the building, away from windows and exit doors?”
“Of course. There’s a set of bathrooms one auditorium over.”
“This seems a bit extreme,” Schmidt said, puffing out his chest to make himself seem more imposing. “We hardly need to scare the children present with fear-mongering paranoia.”
Dakota knew his kind. It didn’t matter that she’d just met him. She knew people like him, from the priggish social worker Mrs. Simpson to her last smugly self-righteous foster parent.
And the ones from before, the people she no longer allowed herself to think about.
She wasn’t going to waste her time or anyone else’s trying to convince someone dead-set against logic. “We’re doing it. You’re free to make your own choices.
“For everybody else, after you wash yourself and your clothes, clean and fill every single bucket. We need a gallon of water a day per person for drinking and washing up. The water supply could shut down at any time.”
13
Dakota
Dakota stuck her flashlight between her teeth, seized about fifty of the buckets, and strode down the hallway without a backward glance. “Piper, come with me.”
Once in the bathroom, she set her flashlight on top of the blow dryer and angled it at the row of five sinks. The walls glimmered with white subway tile, the floors large gray asymmetrical squares.
She sighed with relief when she switched on the faucets, and sweet, sweet water rushed out.
Four women and two girls followed her into the bathroom, including Piper. She kept close to Dakota, hugging herself, the half-eaten Oreos bag clutched in one small fist.
A plump, curvy Middle Eastern woman in her mid-thirties stepped forward first, gracefully unbuttoning a saffron-yellow silk blouse and slipping out of a fitted charcoal skirt.
“Don’t be shy,” she said. She was pretty, with velvety light brown skin, high cheekbones, and a slightly upturned nose. She wore a beautiful, silken cornflower blue hijab.
Mishayla ripped off her uniform with a tight grin. She thrust out her hand. “Always disliked this thing, anyway. I’m Mishayla, by the way. My friends call me Shay.”
The woman shook Shay’s hand. “I’m Rasha. My husband Miles and I are supposed to be on vacation, visiting my mom but staying on South Beach. We flew in from Atlanta on Sunday.
“Miles got a sunburn and, well, we thought an afternoon movie would give his skin a break.” She shrugged helplessly as she removed her hijab. “Now, here we are.”
“Zamira,” said a thin, older Cuban woman in her seventies, her entire face crinkling as she attempted a smile. “This is my granddaughter, Isabel. I watch her during the summer while her parents work.”
She clasped the hand of a teenage girl around thirteen. Her head was lowered, her long black hair covering her face as she sniffled and wept quietly.
“I’m Dakota.” Dakota gestured at the little girl beside her. “And this is Piper. We need to hurry.”
Zamira pulled gently on her granddaughter, leading her to the sinks. She turned and gestured at Piper. “Come now, dears, let’s get this done.”
The women undressed quickly, stuffing their shirts and jeans and bras into the sinks and scrubbing themselves with soap-drenched paper towels.
Zamira washed Isabel, who stood limply, shivering and weeping. The girl was probably in shock.
Zamira gave Piper encouraging smiles until she tentatively stepped forward, though she took off her own clothes and washed herself.
Dakota watched the three of them for a moment. Zamira was a kind, grandmotherly woman. She reminded her of Sister Rosemarie, one of the only women who’d shown her true compassion in the compound. She knew Zamira would watch out for Piper.
She offered to help Zamira finish washing Isabel and Piper’s hair.
“You should take care of yourself,” Zamira said. “We’re fine.” But Zamira’s hands were trembling. She was shivering from the cold, and she hadn’t even cleaned herself yet.
“Let me help you,” Dakota insisted, sharper than she intended.
But Zamira only smiled, her eyes nearly disappearing in a net of wrinkles. “I can see you’re a girl used to getting her way.”
“Don’t I wish,” Dakota muttered.
“What about you?” Piper asked.
Dakota just shook her head. Even with her skin prickling and burning at the thought of radioactive particles clinging to her flesh, she couldn’t bring herself to take off her tank top.
She’d hid her scars for so long. The thought of revealing them now, even here in the half-dark, sent chills zapping up her spine.
She was certain they’d made it in time to miss most of the fallout. She could afford to wait a few minutes for the bathroom to clear.
After she helped Zamira, Isabel, and Piper, she wrung out their clothes in the sinks as best she could, soapy water splashing all over the floor. They dressed in the cold, damp clothes, then rinsed out all the buckets.
Dakota, Shay, and Rasha refilled them to the brim with cold water and handed them to the women, who returned to auditorium seven, wet-haired, damp, and shivering, but clean.
Finally alone in the semi-darkness, Dakota shimmied out of her tank top, belt, and cargo pants. From the sheath attached to her belt, she pulled out the SOG Spec Arc tactical knife Ezra had given her on the only Christmas they’d spent at his cabin.
Unlike her XD9 or her bug out bag, it was one thing she could take with her everywhere—and she did. Ezra had taught her how to use it, too.
She swore she would never be helpless again, and she intended to keep that promise.
She set the knife carefully on the edge of the sink and went to work.
The air hit her exposed back like a slap. The skin around her scars prickled. She resisted the urge to shudder.
She cleaned herself quickly but thoroughly, scrubbing hard. A part of her wanted to rub her skin raw, just to ensure it was really clean, to make certain she’d gotten rid of every speck of contamination.
But of course, that was impossible.
The entire time, she managed not to look in the mirror, not even once.
14
Logan
Once everyone was finished, clothes wrinkled and wet but clean, they convened at the front of the auditorium.
Logan and Walter leaned against the wall near the pile of food and buckets of water, while Dakota and Rasha knelt next to the food, counting it all. Several people slumped in the plush seats, looking shell-shocked.
The teen boys sprawled beneath the theater screen, their dead phones limp in their hands. One sat with his knees tucked beneath his chin, narrow shoulders hunched. Wetness glimmered in the kid’s dark eyes.
Gone was the punk posturing, the swagger; they were scared and homesick. They were soft, coddled by their mamas, weakened by summers immersed in air conditioning and video games.
At their age, Logan had already been on his own for nearly a year. Tough, defiant, recklessly aggressive. He’d won every fight, took on every challenger, accepted every problem and enemy as an opportunity to carve his own place in a brutal world.
And he had, piece by bloody p
iece.
Logan blinked and looked away sharply.
He didn’t want to go where those thoughts led.
Instead, he watched as Shay went around with the first aid kit and tended to everyone’s wounds with topical antibiotic gel and oversized butterfly Band-Aids.
Julio alone took up most of the medical supplies.
When Shay got to Logan, he waved the girl off.
The booth in the bar had spared him from most of the glass. The cuts on his arms from shielding his face weren’t even bleeding anymore.
He picked out a last tiny shard from the jagged barb in the tattoo roping his left forearm.
He didn’t look at the Latin phrase tangled within the barbs that wound around his arm. He never looked at it anymore if he could help it.
He glanced at the waitress and saw her watching him, a small, perplexed line forming between her brows.
A jolt of unease went through him, though he had no clue why.
He wanted to look away, but he forced himself to give her a lazy smile instead. Pretend he didn’t give a damn hard enough, and eventually, it’d be true.
That’s what he told himself, anyway.
“Do we have any idea how big this thing is?” Julio asked, absently rubbing the gold cross at his neck. “The blast, I mean.”
Dakota broke eye contact. She sat back on her heels and shoved her chestnut hair behind her ears. “I’m going on the assumption that this bomb is an IND, an Improvised Nuclear Device, probably around ten kilotons. If it was a much larger nuke, we’d all be incinerated already.”
“What does that mean?” Zamira asked.
She was listening intently from one of the theater seats, where she sat stroking her granddaughter’s hair. The girl curled limply on her lap. Piper perched beside them, swinging her bare legs above the carpet.
“A kiloton measures the power of the explosion,” Dakota explained. “The bomb that hit Nagasaki was ten kilotons. A thousand pounds of TNT equals one kiloton. So, imagine ten thousand pounds of TNT exploding at once, and you’re starting to get the idea.”