by Kyla Stone
“It sounds like a lot of places are in for a world of hurt,” Julio said soberly.
Shay chewed on her thumbnail, her expression troubled. “We don’t know that. Not for sure.”
“Okay, fine. We don’t know for sure. We don’t know anything for sure. But we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Dakota turned away from the group. She didn’t feel much like talking.
Her stomach rumbled. She didn’t want to take more food that Zamira and Piper and the others would need later, but she needed sustenance for the journey ahead.
One. She’d take just one item and leave the rest to give everyone the best chance of survival. The longer they remained inside, the safer they would be.
She strode over to the food supply and grabbed a bag of Doritos, ignoring Schmidt’s baleful glare. She retreated to her usual spot in the rear of the auditorium to wait out the next hour.
Her gaze snagged on Logan, who was back to pacing the far side aisle.
He climbed the left set of stairs, strode along the upper back row of seats, descended the right stairs, walked back and completed the circuit again, restless as a tiger.
In the semi-dark, she couldn’t make out the shape of the pistol tucked snugly against his back beneath his loose T-shirt, but she knew it was there.
She needed her own gun. It wasn’t safe out there. A knife was only good for quick and dirty attacks and close-quarters ambushes.
It wouldn’t be enough. Not with thousands of terrified, wounded people stumbling about—dazed, helpless, and devastated. After forty-eight hours without water, they’d be desperate, willing to do just about anything to get food and drink for their children, for themselves.
She knew how easily the civilized veneer slid off a person as soon as the doors were closed, as soon as they needed or wanted something badly enough.
She had the scars, didn’t she?
Dakota suppressed a shudder. It wasn’t just the chaos of desperate survivors she feared. The back of her neck prickled, apprehension pooling in her stomach.
Maddox was still out there.
She longed to assume he was dead, to be done with it and rid herself of him once and for all.
Tens of thousands of people had been incinerated in the blink of an eye. Why not Maddox? He deserved it more than any of them.
But she knew better. That was too easy. Not a single thing in her entire life had ever been easy.
Maddox was still alive, still hunting.
She had to be ready. She couldn’t afford to underestimate him, to let him take her by surprise again.
She clenched her jaw, considering the options.
She didn’t like the obvious choice, the one building in the back of her mind.
But she didn’t have a lot of choices. The walls were closing in on her, an enormous weight bearing down on her chest. She needed something from Logan Garcia, whether she liked it or not.
She sucked in a sharp breath. Here goes nothing.
30
Dakota
Dakota rose from her seat, strode across the center aisle, and approached Logan. “You should sell me your gun.”
He stopped, his foot hovering over the next stair for a moment. He took a step down and turned to face her. “What gun?”
They were separated by six stairs. She gazed steadily up at him. “I know a concealed carry when I see it. You’ve got a compact pistol in an inside-the-waistband holster at the small of your back.”
He scratched at his scruffy jawline, hesitating. Maybe he was deciding whether to admit it. Some people freaked out in the presence of a gun, but she wasn’t one of them.
He gave a lazy shrug. “You can never be too careful these days.”
“I don’t disagree. Which is why I’ll buy it off you.”
This time, he didn’t hesitate. “Not a chance.”
“I have a hundred bucks on me.”
He laughed mirthlessly.
“Fine. Two hundred.”
“No deal.”
“Five hundred,” she lied.
“I’ll take a hard pass.” He cocked a wry eyebrow. “Doubt you’ve got that kind of cash on you, anyway.”
She hadn’t thought it would work, but anything was worth a shot.
Briefly, she considered rushing him, grabbing the gun, and running. But that was stupid.
She’d bet that five hundred bucks that this guy was ex-military. He seemed reticent about discussing anything personal, but she saw it in every movement of his muscled, well-honed body.
He was a fighter, a warrior.
Ezra had taught her some skills, but she was nothing if not self-aware. This wasn’t flabby, pretentious Schmidt, easy to take down with a well-placed kick.
Logan Garcia wasn’t someone to be messed with.
Which was why she needed him.
“Come with me, then. I could use someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“Who says I know what I’m doing?”
“Enough with the games. I can tell you know your way around a fight.”
He gave a sour laugh. “I don’t fight. My main pastime is drinking. I’m very good at it.”
She didn’t believe that for a hot second. “You keep a gun on you, but you don’t fight?”
He cracked his battle-scarred knuckles. “Not anymore.”
“But you know how.”
“You could say that.”
“Like I said, you don’t want to sell me your gun, fine. Then come with me.”
He leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and gave her a cool, assessing look. “Why would I wanna go out there? You basically told everyone they’d end up like the overcooked dead guy.”
“I exaggerated a bit.” She didn’t know if she had. Likely, she hadn’t.
She guessed the exposure outside was still between five and ten rem an hour. They’d succumb to radiation sickness in less than twenty-four hours of exposure.
If the blast was larger than ten kilotons or closer than she’d estimated, it could be higher. And instead of vomiting and diarrhea, they’d be dealing with seizures and comas.
But there was no way to know until they got sick or made it to a hospital. Every working hospital within a hundred miles must be overwhelmed by now.
She despised this not-knowing, so many lives depending on guesswork and supposition.
She wanted facts. Knowledge.
It was what they didn’t know that would kill them.
She loathed speaking the words, but she forced herself to say them anyway. This wasn’t about her; it was about Eden. And for Eden, she’d do anything.
She cleared her throat. “I—I need your help.”
He studied her for a moment, eyebrows raised.
“I’m going north to get my sister, then west to escape the chaos. It’s dangerous out there, especially alone. I could use someone who has my back. Just for a few days.”
“What makes you think I’d be interested in helping you?”
“Because you’re going stir-crazy in here. It’s driving you mad, I can see it.”
He ran his hand through his black, disheveled hair and shook his head. “I’m right as rain. Free rent? Free food? I’m good.”
“No, you aren’t. And neither am I. I’m getting out of this damn city. I know you want to go, too.”
“So, go.”
“Not without my sister.”
“That’s not my problem.” Logan snorted and turned away. He headed up the stairs. “Enjoy your trip.”
She stared at his retreating back, at the bulge of his weapon, a weapon she needed, until her eyes blurred. She didn’t want to trust him. She didn’t trust anyone.
But she knew what it would be like out there. Ezra had warned her. People wounded and sick, hungry and desperate. Their baser, brutal animal instincts would show themselves soon, if they hadn’t already.
She knew better than anyone what desperate people were capable of.
And there was Maddox.
She abo
ut choked on the word. “Please.”
He didn’t turn around.
Fear speared her. She could not, under any circumstances, underestimate that man. If he found them and she had nothing but a knife to defend them, Eden was already lost. And Dakota was already dead.
She was going to have to give up something important to snare Logan.
An image of Ezra popped into her head: bent over the wooden kitchen table intent on cleaning one of his rifles; that grizzled, white-whiskered face scored with wrinkles; those bright, intelligent sky-blue eyes.
She knew exactly where they needed to go.
She had no interest in taking any of the others there. They had their own families, the pieces of their own lives to try and pick up after they left the auditorium.
She’d gotten them to shelter, saved them from the fallout. That was enough. Besides, outside was a dangerous place to be right now. She didn’t want Zamira or the girls out there, vulnerable and exposed.
Only Dakota would go. And Logan, if she could convince him.
It felt like a betrayal, offering something that wasn’t hers to give. Ezra wouldn’t understand. He’d hate her for it.
Maybe he wouldn’t even let them in.
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, thinking, considering, weighing the costs and benefits. She lowered her voice. “I know a place. A safehouse.”
He stopped. “Why would I need a safehouse?”
Logan turned and stared down at her with that dark, level gaze of his. It felt like he could see all the way into the back of her head, could pick apart her thoughts, her memories, her fears.
Ezra had a look like that, too. She’d hated it.
“Because you’re not stupid. You know everything’s collapsing. Our infrastructure can’t possibly handle a million dead and a million more fatally wounded. What about the millions of displaced, homeless, and hungry people?
“How is Miami going to get fuel? Fresh water? Food? How is Fort Lauderdale? Or Homestead and the Keys? Even if the National Guard or FEMA comes with supplies, how long is it going to take to get down here?
“You know as well as I do that we’re on our own, at least for a while. For the next several weeks at least, the only safe places are ones with razor-wired walls and electrified fences and three years’ worth of stored food and supplies. You personally know of any bunkers like that?”
He didn’t say anything.
“My friend owns a place. Off the grid, with a well and solar electricity. He’ll take us in—you too,” she lied.
Even as she spoke, the plan shifted in her mind. She didn’t have to worry about Ezra taking Logan in if she never brought him to the cabin in the first place.
She didn’t owe this guy a thing. There was no reason she had to keep her promise. She could use him to get to the Tamiami Trail, then find a way to lose him. In the chaos, it’d be easy.
Dakota was no stranger to lying through her teeth. And she was damn good at it.
“You’ll be safe.” She gave him a wide, genuine smile. “I guarantee it.”
His expression remained impassive. But he hadn’t said no again. She took that as a good sign.
“You said yourself you have no family to weigh you down. You don’t have an apartment left to go back to. No job. Face it. You’ve got nothing.”
He snorted. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Help me get my sister. I’ll take you to the safehouse. Then you can decide to stay or go. You can hole up for a few weeks until the power comes back on and FEMA gets their act together.
“Or, if you decide you’d rather go, we’ll give you supplies and as much whiskey as you can carry.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“That’s right. My friend likes his booze as much as I suspect you do. He’s got a three-year supply of that, too.”
“Just what kind are we talking about here?”
“Beer, whiskey, tequila, vodka, gin. Whatever you want, he’s got it.”
He cracked his knuckles one by one, his face unreadable. Then something shifted in his expression. That easy grin returned, though it never reached his eyes. “Just where is this mythical place?”
She smiled, knowing the battle was already won. “The Everglades.”
31
Eden
Eden lost track of time.
Every so often, she got out of the tub, crawled across the cool tile floor, hand outstretched until she touched the door, and moved the towel she’d shoved against the crack in the door.
When a hint of watery light leaked through, she knew it was day. When the slice of space between the floor and the bottom of the door was as pitch black as the bathroom, it was night.
She’d brought her notepad to draw to pass the time, but in the darkness, she could do nothing but wait, worry, and drift into restless sleep, only to be awakened by another nightmare.
She practiced her sign language in the dark, her hands weaving into the now familiar shapes. I’m scared. Please come find me. And I love you, I love you, I love you.
She retold her favorite stories that Jorge had read to her—The Giver, Hunger Games, Ender’s Game—from beginning to end, adding everything she could remember. Then she made up new stories and acted them out until her fingers were sore.
Dakota wanted her to hate her foster parents, but they’d given her a gift, the gift of expression, of language.
Was it still language if no one could see it?
She clenched and unclenched her hands. Did she exist, or had she disappeared, forgotten? Left here to die inside a cramped, lonely bathroom?
She waited for her foster parents to return home, apprehension squeezing her heart tighter and tighter. They never did.
Had they been in a car accident? Did the brilliant flash blind them? Had a building collapsed on them as they tried to flee from the shockwave?
Or had the bomb itself incinerated them into ash in an instant?
Nausea roiled through her empty, cramping stomach. She pressed her fist to her mouth, choking back another sob.
With every passing hour (or what she thought was an hour) her hope in her foster parents dwindled.
But still, she waited for her sister to come for her.
When she was thirsty, she drank from the sink. She’d filled it up and pushed down the stopper just in case the water stopped working. With the power out, the water would stop, too, once it got through the pipes.
Fumbling for the faucet with one hand so she wouldn’t bump her head, she bent and scooped water into her mouth with the other.
Her stomach gnawed with hunger, but there was nothing she could do about that.
Time passed. The crack beneath the door turned dark, then light, then dark, and finally light again, and still Dakota wasn’t here.
Why wasn’t she here? Hours and hours had passed. Where could she possibly be? Didn’t she know Eden was trapped here, scared and desperate and alone?
Eden blinked back tears of helpless frustration. But that just made her feel guilty. She had no right to feel anger at her sister.
Dakota wouldn’t abandon her. She knew that. Dakota had promised.
And out of everyone in the whole world, only Dakota had never failed her.
It was Dakota who had saved her, again and again. Dakota who swore to never leave her. Never, ever.
They were sisters.
And that meant everything.
32
Dakota
“We want to go with you,” Shay repeated.
Julio stood behind her, his hands stuffed into his pockets, looking decidedly less sure.
“There’s still fallout,” Dakota warned. “It’s dangerous.”
Dakota, Logan, Shay, and Julio stood in the empty foyer of the theater. Dim light streamed through the broken windows, highlighting the grains of fallout that had drifted inside the entrance like a deadly tide.
“There isn’t enough food and water for everyone.” Shay chewed on her ragged thumbnail. “If all four of u
s leave, they can make it.”
“I’m not leaving my wife to fend for herself a second longer,” Julio said, his expression resolute. “You aren’t the only one with family out there.”
Dakota couldn’t stop them from coming. Besides, the saying was true. There was safety in numbers. Shay had some medical knowledge which might come in handy out there.
And Shay was right; the others left behind in the theater would last several days longer with four fewer people.
Dakota thought of tough Zamira, her fragile granddaughter Isabel, and little motherless Piper. Zamira had promised Dakota she’d watch over Piper and help her find surviving family members after this was all over.
They deserved to live. Dakota wanted them to live.
“All right,” she said. “You’re adults. You’re capable of making your own decisions. If you want to come with us, I won’t stop you.”
“What’s the plan?” Julio asked.
“First, we’re rescuing my little sister. She’s a bit over two miles northwest, in a suburb between Wynwood and Allapattah called Palm Cove. I don’t think it’ll be more than a couple of hours out of our way, but every second counts.”
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “You need to know that you’ll get more exposure than you would if you just went directly west from here to escape the fallout.”
“And after you get your sister?” Shay asked, popping another piece of gum into her mouth. “What’s next?”
“We’re heading straight west to US 41.”
“The Tamiami Trail,” Julio said.
“Right.” US 41 was the main route connecting east and west Florida below Lake Okeechobee. “It’s around seventy-five miles from the outskirts of Miami to the outskirts of Naples. We can’t take I-95, because it cuts too close to the hot zone.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the complex layout of Miami in her mind’s eye. “We could go west past the airport and then take the Palmetto Expressway north to I-75, then the Sawgrass Expressway. But everyone will be fleeing that way, and it bottlenecks between the Glades and the Atlantic, making things even worse.