by Kyla Stone
Last summer, Gabriella and Jorge had taken her to Florida Bay, which had stunk so bad she’d begged them to leave.
Jorge had explained the smell was hydrogen sulfide, produced by the natural decomposition in organic-rich marine mud. Something about the large amounts of organic material combined with low oxygen concentrations.
The explanation had gone over her head, except for the part about how small amounts of sulfide gas were added to propane gas so people could smell it in case of a gas leak in their home.
It was gas she smelled.
Gas leaking from somewhere inside the house.
She clambered to her feet, stepped out of the tub, and felt along the toilet and the counter to the sink.
She flipped the handles. Still no water. The sink was still bone dry.
A helpless sob ripped through her, wracking her ribs, choking her throat. She clutched the edges of the counter, staring into a mirror she couldn’t see, trying not to panic.
But the panic was coming for her anyway, just like the monsters of her nightmares, the monsters who’d stolen her voice, who came creeping back every night, seeking the only thing they hadn’t yet taken—her life.
Something terrible was coming, and she couldn’t stop it by herself.
She wanted to scream and shout for someone to come and rescue her.
She opened her mouth, but only that terrible rasping breath came out—a mangled, ruined sound that no one would hear outside of the tomb of this awful, claustrophobic bathroom.
Her eyes stung. Tears leaked down her cheeks. Her chest hitched as she tried to hold back the waves of fear and worry and doubt.
Eden was afraid to stay. But she was terrified to leave.
Indecision gripped her.
She was used to other people telling her what to do—her real father, Maddox, then Dakota and Ezra, her social worker, now her foster parents.
Other people made the decisions, and she was content to follow. But now there was no one to give her direction.
No one to tell her which choice was the correct one, which led to suffering and death and which led to life.
She needed Dakota. She needed her sister.
Instead, she was stuck here, crying and scared like a little kid, alone in the silence and the dark.
And the leaking gas.
34
Dakota
Instinctively, Dakota tightened her grip on the Sig, heart hammering in her throat.
Logan dropped into a defensive posture. He kept his pistol in the low ready position and scanned the area warily.
Dakota did the same, taking in the sagging, debris-strewn gas station, the hunched, empty buildings, the desolate street.
Heat shimmered off the asphalt. Fifty yards ahead, several palm trees clumped in the island in the center of the street sagged listlessly. Humidity hung thick and heavy in the stagnant, smoky air.
No movement. No people. No threats other than the fires burning in the distance. Nothing she could see, anyway.
“Oh, sorry,” Harlow said sheepishly. “That’s just the alarm from my PERD, my Personal Emergency Radiation Detector.”
“Your PPE suits don’t protect you from gamma rays,” Dakota said. With the attack and its aftermath, she’d forgotten the first responders were willingly exposing themselves to radiation, too. “How long have you been out here?”
Harlow tapped a small black pager-like object attached to a flap of her suit. “We’re monitoring our dosage. The alarm means we’ve surpassed our safety limits. Each unit takes turns with limited time in the hot zone. Our unit already went back, but we two geniuses decided to try and rescue one more person since we still had the stretcher.”
“Turns out…that was a horrible idea,” Park grunted.
“We were assigned to one of the initial triage sites set up at Miami Jordan High School off 36th Street, the nearest casualty collection point for evacuees and the injured.” Harlow frowned. “But they don’t have the resources to care for Park.”
“That double fracture requires surgery,” Shay warned, “or his arm will be deformed permanently. There’s a pinched or torn nerve. He could lose complete use of his hand.”
Harlow nodded grimly. “We need to go to the airport.”
Park squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s too far. I’ll die from the pain…before we ever get there.”
“No, you won’t, you big baby.” Harlow shook her head. “My favorite cousin is an ER doctor at Miami North Medical Center. It suffered damage from the blast, so she’s been reassigned to the EOC to oversee triage. She can get us admitted, then get you on the priority list for medical evac. This isn’t a choice, Park, so stop whining.”
She turned to Dakota and the others to explain. “They’ve shut down Miami International—except for medical, government, and military flights—and turned it into the regional Emergency Operations Center.
“They sectioned off a huge part of the domestic terminal for emergency medical triage and treatment for injuries and radiation victims. They’re also coordinating medical evacuations to the nearest regional hospitals accepting patients, some over a hundred miles away.”
Harlow glanced at Shay’s bandaged head, at their sweat-stained, duct-taped long-sleeved shirts and pants, the scarves draping their necks.
“You should get that head wound checked out yourself,” she said. “And you’ve got to get out of the hot zone. We’re a mile straight west from the contamination border. You should come to the EOC with us.”
Dakota swallowed. “We will, but I need to find my sister. She’s only a half mile from here. Shay, you’re welcome to go with them.”
“I will as soon as I can,” Shay said. “But if it’s all the same, I’d see Dakota reunited with her sister first. She saved all of our lives by getting us to a safe shelter.”
Heat spread up Dakota’s throat and burned her cheeks. Was that the real reason Shay had insisted on coming with them—to help Dakota in repayment for saving her life?
Dakota hadn’t done it for thanks or accolades or favors owed. It wasn’t like that. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Shay gave her a warm smile. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Julio turned to Harlow. “There’s a group of survivors at the Showtime 14 cinema in Overtown in auditorium seven. And another group sheltering in place at the Palm Industries Center building west of Wynwood. Could you send a team in to rescue them?”
Harlow nodded. “I’ll radio it in and relay the information to our team leader. They’ll do what they can, I promise. If those people are still there, we’ll get them out.”
“Thank you,” Shay said.
The woman hesitated. She glanced down at Park, then eyed Dakota and Logan’s weapons and pursed her lips. Her eyes were wide, her pupils huge. “What if we came with you? A half mile isn’t too far out of the way, right, Park?”
“Why don’t you just go to South Beach…while you’re at it?” he said. “Don’t worry about me…in agony over here…about to go into shock and die.”
She patted his uninjured arm. Her hand was trembling. “That’s just the pain talking. He’s normally very agreeable.”
“Nope,” Park muttered. “Pretty sure I’m not.”
Harlow ignored him. She turned to Dakota and Logan. “The attack set back our timetable. We’re too far from the EOC or the established triage sites to reach them by sundown.”
For the first time, the woman’s brisk, unflappable mask slipped. She looked terrified. She cleared her throat, then cleared it again. “To tell the honest truth, I’m worried about more crazies coming out of the woodwork, you know?
“We thought…we thought for sure no one would bother first responders. Not in the hot zone, not during the day. Who would do something like that?”
No one said anything.
“The world’s gone crazy on us.” Harlow’s voice cracked. The unnatural calm was gone. Her face was pale, her solid jaw clenched. “It’s like we’ve been overrun by zombies.
Those people who came at us were…evil. Pure evil.”
Her features contorted. Her whole body was trembling. But it wasn’t in fear or shock—it was anger. “I volunteered to help people, damn it! Just being out here, I’m increasing my cancer risk by over thirty percent. Maybe more, I don’t want to know. We risked our lives! And for what? Those people…those people would’ve killed us for nothing, for our masks, or maybe just…just because.”
She looked down at Park and sucked in a sharp breath. “If they had killed Park…This was my idea. He went into the hot zone because of me. He’s a good person. Annoying and stubborn as all hell, but good. Not like them. Those ungrateful savages.”
“Most people aren’t like that,” Julio said. “I believe the majority of people want to do the decent thing and treat each other right.”
“Not from where I’m standing.” The skin across Harlow’s knuckles whitened over her clenched fists. “I believed the same as you. Hell, I was one of the first volunteers. I was a fool. And it almost cost Park his life.
“No more,” she growled through gritted teeth. “I’m just taking care of me and my own now.”
Dakota was hard-pressed to disagree with her. The veneer of civilization was just a mask. She had seen behind that mask often enough.
Maybe there were a few good people in the world, but most of them were only out for themselves. Maybe they wouldn’t resort to violence as quickly as these scumbags had, who’d been driven by pain and panic and radiation poisoning.
But hunger would do the same thing. And fear.
“We weren’t…ready,” Park said. “For this.”
“No one is ready,” Julio said. “But we’re doing the best we can.”
Dakota intended to do better than that. She pulled her new Sig out and rested it against her thigh, just in case. There were five bullets left. She wrapped her hand around the comforting grip. She’d missed this.
Never again. The knife wasn’t enough. She’d never go without a weapon. She needed the gun. She desperately needed the reassuring feeling of no one will ever hurt you again.
“You’re okay, now.” Shay shot Dakota a hopeful look. “You’re with us.”
“It’s the right thing to do.” Julio touched his cross. “We can’t just leave them. We were headed toward Miami International anyway.”
Harlow took a shuddering breath. For a moment, her face slackened, but then she seemed to regain control of herself, though her eyes still flashed with anger. “We would appreciate that.”
Dakota closed her eyes for a second against the throbbing pain in her head. The eerie silence pressed in on her, the heat sapping her little remaining energy.
Another wounded person would slow them down further. But Julio was right. She couldn’t turn her back now. They couldn’t just leave a woman by herself with a helpless guy on a stretcher at night in a lawless city.
“Maybe I should just run ahead and get Eden myself,” Dakota said. “It’s only half a mile.”
“Are you insane?” Julio asked. “We’ve already been attacked twice today! And I didn’t even count hiding while four thugs with assault rifles hunted us! No one should go anywhere alone out here, not until we get to the EOC and back to civilization.”
“And you shouldn’t be running anywhere with that knot on your head,” Shay warned. “A concussion is still a possibility. You need to take it easy.”
Dakota blew out a frustrated breath.
It went against every fiber of her being not to take off running right now.
They were close to Eden. Maybe only thirty minutes to an hour, depending on the fires and other obstacles in their path. Then it was just a mile out of the hot zone.
They might not be safe yet, but at least she’d have her sister and they’d be free of the radiation threat.
She glanced at Logan. He dipped his chin slightly in agreement.
The dull glassiness in his gaze was gone. He was sharp and alert, but there were still shadows behind his eyes. He looked like a man haunted.
She’d watched him dump his flask after the fight. Did that mean he was done with being a drunk? How did that change things?
Logan had fought well despite his drinking. They’d beaten off the psychos together. They made a decent team. Together, they could protect Eden and themselves from whatever threats awaited them between here and their destination.
As a security guard, Harlow knew her way around a gun, too. And what if Eden was hurt? Shay could help her. Plus, there was safety in numbers.
It would be stupid to go it alone, even if it was faster.
Her mind made up, Dakota holstered her Sig but kept her palm resting on the butt. Now, she was prepared. “We’ll all go together. And then we’ll escort you two to the EOC. But we have to move.”
35
Logan
Logan and Dakota strode just ahead of the group, clearing the path of debris and keeping an eye out for hostiles.
Dakota had the Sig; Logan his Glock. Harlow agreed to carry the M4, though she said she preferred her Smith and Wesson 642 revolver. Unfortunately, it was back at her condo with her cats.
Julio had offered to push the stretcher. Shay walked on one side, her hand on the stretcher to keep her steady, while Harlow took the other side, constantly checking on Park’s vitals. Park lay rigid, grimacing and hissing with every jolt. His right arm was splinted from his elbow to his wrist.
The heat lessened as the sun slid slow and languid across the sky, but the air was still thick, heavy with smoke from the fires surging in the distance. The humidity was stifling as a wool blanket against his skin.
They continued along Bay Point Drive toward Palm Cove, Bellview Court, and Dakota’s sister.
Small one-story stucco houses in shades of pastel yellow, burnt orange, and faded coral crowded together on tiny, brown-grass lots. Broken glass littered porches and walkways. Every door was shut, blinds and curtains closed.
The street was completely still. No cars honking. No children yelling and shrieking. No music playing or cellphones ringing. The only sounds were the squeak of the stretcher’s wheels and their own footsteps and ragged breaths.
No crashed cars blocked the road here, though most of the vehicles were gone. A few leftovers were parked along the curb or sat in short driveways.
A burgundy Nissan Versa had both front doors flung open, as if its frantic owners changed their minds mid-getaway and abandoned the Versa for a better option.
A purple tricycle with sparkling teal streamers lay on its side on one yard; in another, an inflated baby pool filled with water collected pine needles from a nearby slash pine tree.
The air smelled of mown grass and car exhaust—and the singed stink of smoke and burnt plastic. The smoke stench seemed heavier, thicker. He could taste it in the back of his throat.
A flash of movement caught his eye. In the broken front window of a squat, eggshell-blue house, the blinds gently swayed.
Someone was watching them.
He tightened his two-handed grip on the Glock and spun in a slow circle, scanning the area, taking in everything. Nothing else moved. The street remained quiet.
There were still people living in the tiny house, sheltering in place, but with hardly any protection from the deadly gamma rays.
How many families were still here, hidden and cowering with their children, blindly hoping they’d made the right decision?
He lowered the gun, still holding it in one hand, and ran his other hand gingerly over his ribs, wincing. He glanced back at the purple tricycle, those sparkling teal streamers.
Hot anger ran through him like an electrical current. He flexed his stinging knuckles. He wanted to strangle whoever was responsible, to smash their teeth in with his bare fists. To hurt and be hurt.
The back of his throat burned. He felt it like a pressure growing behind his eyes. He wanted a damn drink.
He wasn’t going to get one. Not now, not ever.
“What can you tell us about what’s g
oing on?” he asked between gritted teeth, desperate for a distraction. “What is the government doing to help?”
“The government as we know it is gone. It’ll take months for them to get on their feet again. I don’t know how much they were helping the little people before, but they’re sure gonna be useless now.”
“What do you mean?” Shay asked.
“Our response organizations are woefully underprepared,” Harlow said. “Medical staff and first responders can hardly communicate with each other, let alone the public. We’re severely lacking in resources and manpower. We experienced a huge loss of first responders in the blast—hundreds of firefighters, police officers, EMTs, nurses, and doctors.
“A lot of people evacuated; others left their posts to care for their families. I don’t blame them. Heck, if I had family, they’d be my first priority, too. It is what it is. We’re all doing the best we can. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. Neither have most of the people on our team.”
“What about the radiation?” Shay asked.
“Millions fled the fallout,” Harlow said. “Even in unaffected cities, people panicked and tried to escape. The entire country is a mess. Within five minutes of the first bomb, cell coverage and even the internet got so overloaded, nothing worked.
“It didn’t matter. Even though the emergency alerts went out over all the radio channels, people panicked anyway. They relied on gut instinct and fear—instead of following instructions, they dropped everything and ran.”
Parker winced as the stretcher bumped over a pothole. “Not like instructions…did any good here.”
Harlow’s face darkened. “Governor Blake based the entire regional response plan on the cigar-shaped Gaussian fallout pattern in all the nuclear disaster planning literature. Apparently, he thought the radiation would only affect a symmetrical, easily-defined area. He was dead wrong.”
Dakota nodded. “In the real world, fallout patterns are irregular.”
“Think post-modern art,” Park wheezed.