by Kyla Stone
Logan tensed, watching them carefully as the truck rolled past.
The men didn’t move, just watched.
Most likely, they were guarding their own families from hostiles rather than plotting mayhem themselves. But you never knew.
“We should be out of the hot zone now,” Julio said a few minutes later. “Harlow said it was only a mile west of us, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Shay said, “she did.”
Logan knew he should feel relief that they were out of danger from the radiation, but he didn’t feel anything of the sort. The radioactive particles were already on them, inside them—invisible, deadly, doing their dirty work with silent, lethal precision.
It made his skin crawl, made him want to vomit until his stomach turned inside out in a vain effort to rid his body of the hideous toxins.
Damn, he wanted a drink. Wanted to forget for just a few minutes the poison roiling in his gut, the thousands of corpses hidden in the dark, the death and destruction hanging over the city like a black shroud, that clung to him like a shadow he couldn’t escape.
But he couldn’t have a drink. In a misguided moment of gallant good intentions, he’d stupidly dumped it out on the road. Idiot. He’d take back every vow and promise he’d ever made for a shot of vodka right now.
They’d driven well over an hour when he heard it. The sound was unmistakable—the rat-a-tat of automatic gunfire.
14
Maddox
Rage burned through Maddox Cage’s veins.
He fled the Palm Cove subdivision, staggering between houses, around huge screened lanais and pools, across trim lawns and manicured gardens, clutching his gun with one hand, his nauseous stomach with the other.
One bullet had grazed his arm, but it was a surface wound. The sickness wrenching his guts was another matter. Sour sweat matted his hair to his scalp. Every inch of his intestines felt like they were on fire. Waves of dizziness wracked his body.
He’d been forced to run. If he hadn’t, that man with Dakota—Logan, he’d called himself—would’ve hunted him down and killed him.
Normally, Maddox could hold his own. He’d been trained by combat soldiers. His father had made him learn to shoot and fight and kill when he was ten years old.
He feared no one.
But things were different now.
He’d thought he could overcome it on his own, through sheer force of will—and Maddox Cage had considerable will—but once again, he was wrong. The debilitating radiation had made him weak. In his weakness, he’d allowed that slut to slip through his fingers yet again.
How dare she? How could she? He’d trusted her once. Even—but now? She’d betrayed him. Now she deserved nothing but suffering.
His vision went black with fury and righteous indignation. He paused, leaning heavily against the stucco side of some beige monstrosity, and cursed until spittle ran down his chin.
It was several minutes before he’d calmed himself enough to think clearly. This was a test. He’d thought he passed it. But weren’t the most arduous tests reserved for the most devoted followers?
As long as he still held breath in his lungs, he would let nothing stop him.
At least he’d gleaned one nugget of information he didn’t have before. It would be enough to placate his father. He was sure of it.
He pushed himself from the wall and kept walking, forcing one weak, trembling leg in front of the other.
It grew darker. Long purple shadows stretched across the pavement.
Occasionally, he saw people. A family stared out a broken front window, several lit candles on the window sill. A skinny, ragged woman hugged herself and chain-smoked on her front porch while two little kids in saggy diapers rode tricycles on the cracked sidewalk. An old couple slumped in lawn chairs, sweating and dull-eyed from heat stroke.
Maybe they knew they were out of the hot zone. Maybe they were too numb and resigned to care.
Several cars weaved between the stalled vehicles crowding the road, their trunks crammed with suitcases, pillows, clothes, toys, photo albums—the remnants of a life. With no electricity, no A/C, and no water, some of the families that had remained behind to shelter in place had given up, choosing to flee like everyone else.
An overweight shirtless guy in striped boardshorts stood on the street corner next to the road sign. He was in his late thirties, with tan lines circling his neck and arms, his soft, flabby beer-belly fish-white. He held a cell phone high in the air with both hands.
Maddox staggered toward him.
The man noticed him and stepped back, his face blanching. “Hey, man, you don’t look so good.”
Maddox stopped ten feet away so as not to alarm him. He forced a disarming smile to his lips. “You have service?”
The guy relaxed. “Barely. It really sucks. I’ve only managed to get one call through. Several texts, though. It goes in and out. The first few days, there was nothin’. I kept my phone off and let everyone else drain their batteries trying to connect every other second.”
“Smart.”
“Yeah, man.” The guy grinned at his own genius. “Now if we could just get the damn power back on. My old lady’s about to crap a brick, you know? Seriously, though. My mom’s not doing so well in the heat without the A/C. No one can live in South Florida without air conditioning. Not for long.”
Maddox hid a wince with a wider smile. He kept walking, stepping off the sidewalk to avoid the loser with the phone.
“Hey, man, take care of yourself, okay?” The guy called after him. “Miami needs to watch out for Miami, amiright?”
At the end of the street, Maddox caught sight of an elementary school. Next to the school stretched a huge set of soccer, football, and softball fields.
He stopped and took in the sight. He blinked to clear his blurry vision and let his gaze travel across the empty, darkened fields.
It gave him an idea.
15
Logan
Logan stiffened. He peered out the window, looking ahead and behind them. They were leaving a mostly residential area.
On every street, maybe three or four houses on each side had some sort of glow from candles or the occasional swipe of a flashlight beam across a window.
The rest were dark. It didn’t mean they were empty.
The smart ones wouldn’t give their presence away, not on a night like this.
Shouts and screams echoed in the night, followed by another string of gunfire, this time from a different direction. A dim glow flickered over the rooftop of a squat condo complex maybe a hundred yards away.
Another fire.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered.
“That was gunfire!” Vanessa cried.
“Rioting,” Julio said from the back seat. “Or looting. Maybe both.”
“Or a gang turf battle,” Logan said.
“It was only a matter of time,” Dakota said.
“You think it’s the Blood Outlaws?” Shay’s voice was soft. She sounded frail—and terrified.
“Hopefully, we don’t have to find out,” Julio said.
“Switch off the headlights,” Logan said. “Turn off the car.”
Carson obeyed. He slowed, easing to a stop before a stop sign at a quiet intersection. “Can we go around it?”
Logan kept his eyes on the street. “Julio, keep the flashlight low. You see anything on the map, any way to avoid this?”
“We’re in Allapattah,” Julio said. “Looks like mostly residential to the north. To the south, we’ve got businesses, grocery stores, pharmacies, and warehouses. We’ll hit 22nd Street in a quarter mile. There’ll be heavier traffic, more people. We’re more likely to run into trouble.”
“What are the options?” Shay asked.
“We should keep going,” Carson said. “We’ve got a vehicle. We can gun it and power through any dangerous areas.”
“The truck’s going to draw attention,” Dakota said. “Even in the dark.”
“We could find somewhere to hole up
for the night,” Julio offered.
“What about our sick and injured?” Dakota asked. “We need to get Eden, Park, and Shay to a doctor as soon as possible.”
“And if we get shot on the way?” Logan demanded. “That won’t help anyone.”
“We can’t stay out here,” Vanessa said. “These gangs are crazy. We hear it all the time on the news. They’re animals! It isn’t safe.”
As they talked, Logan scanned the street ahead and behind them, then the yards, the houses, then back to the street.
Thirty yards ahead on the right, two dark shapes materialized around the corner of a small house. They were barely distinguishable in the darkness. Logan squinted, trying to make out details. They were hunched, moving stealthily. Up to no good.
“I’ve got three—no, four—possible problems in a backyard just behind us,” Dakota said tensely. “They just scaled the fence.”
Something thudded against the rear of the truck.
Logan’s adrenaline skyrocketed. He whipped around, gun up, searching for the culprit.
“What was that?” Vanessa cried.
“Shhh!” Julio hissed. “Please.”
A loud crack echoed in the night air. Something shattered.
“Oh no. No, no, no…” Vanessa ducked and covered her head with her hands. “They’re shooting at us!”
“I think that was our taillight breaking,” Dakota said. “They’re throwing rocks.”
Another fist-sized rock struck the rear windshield. A tiny, spidering crack appeared.
Logan didn’t intend to waste precious bullets on rocks. That didn’t mean things wouldn’t escalate fast. He couldn’t tell whether they were all unarmed, or whether this was just a test run—the same way a shark circled and bumped its potential prey before taking a bite.
“Go!” he said. “Go now!”
16
Logan
With shaking fingers, Carson turned the keys and restarted the Ford. The engine rumbled to life. A few more rocks bounced harmlessly off the roof and sides of the truck as they pulled away.
“Look out!” Julio cried.
Carson wrenched the wheel to the left, tires squealing as he overcorrected. The truck bounced sharply left, narrowly avoiding crashing into the back of a Toyota Forerunner.
The driver’s side scraped past a row of parked cars. The mirror struck something and bent with a screech, the glass cracked, the frame dented.
Carson slammed the brakes, hurling everyone against their seatbelts. Logan wasn’t wearing his in case he needed to leap out of the vehicle quickly to defend the group. He knocked into the side door, smacking his shoulder and head on the glass. Pain spiked up his spine.
“Damn it!” Dakota cried. “Do you or do you not know how to drive?”
“Be careful!” Shay said. “You could do permanent damage to Park’s arm!”
“Everyone shut up!” Logan roared.
To the south, he had a clear view of the wide thoroughfare of 22nd Street. Four or five buildings were on fire. Dozens of shadows darted here and there. The sounds of screaming and shouting grew louder.
Dozens of people climbed atop abandoned cars, jeering and yelling, hoisting beer bottles and crowbars above their heads. A few held semi-automatic rifles and pistols.
A bunch of thugs took baseball bats to various vehicles, slamming windshields and taillights, denting hoods and fenders.
The destruction wasn’t limited to cars. More figures hustled in and out of the stores lining the streets, carrying boxes of electronics and other goods. At least ten bodies lay prone on the sidewalks or in the street—either dead or beaten to within an inch of their lives.
They couldn’t drive through this. It was suicide.
“Keep driving,” Logan said. “Take a right here, away from that madness.”
“It’s north of us, too,” Dakota said. “And west. I can hear it. Just a bit further away. And not as crazy. Yet.”
“We have to stop somewhere,” Logan said, not a question.
He half-expected Dakota to argue with him—it seemed to be something she enjoyed—but she didn’t. “A house?” was all she said.
Logan shook his head. “Some of these houses that’re dark still have people inside them. The way things are headed out here, they’d probably shoot us before we even finished knocking on the door. I would.”
“Then where?”
“Is that something ahead on the left?” Julio said, leaning forward and pointing through the windshield. “Are those lights?”
Two blocks ahead, a small, rundown two-story Best Value Motel appeared, the sign written in Spanish. Lights glowed in the lobby and a few of the windows.
A fire station stood across the street. It was also running off generator power. A few lights flickered in the windows, and one of the firetrucks was parked sideways in front of the entrance for protection and cover if the gangs ventured further out.
“I think that motel might be open,” Dakota said.
“Maybe,” Logan allowed.
Every muscle in his body ached with tension. His eyes burned with exhaustion. He needed to rest—his body demanded it. If they didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t be in any shape to defend them.
It was his job, his duty, to protect them. He’d been an enforcer in his old life, a killer dog on a leash. Dakota was tough and street smart, and she could hold her own. But Logan had the skillset to keep them all alive.
Something had happened in the last day. He felt connected to them, somehow, to Julio and Shay and Dakota, even Park and the girl, Eden. Obligated to see this through in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
He studied the building, straining to remain alert. “Drive around the block first, slowly. And keep the lights off. I want to avoid walking into a trap.”
Carson followed his instructions. A gas station squatted beside the motel, along with a sagging dollar store and an orange-painted laundromat, both signs in Spanish.
Behind the motel stood a long, low row of single-story office buildings—all dark. The hotel parking lot boasted several dozen cars. The motel itself was one of those low-budget affairs with external doors and rickety metal stairwells.
He didn’t notice anything suspicious—other than the pop of gunfire and shouting in the distance.
On their second pass, Logan directed Carson to pull into the entrance.
Two cars blocked the sides of the road, leaving enough room for only a single vehicle to pass through at a time.
A dark figure leaned against the side of a white Kio Rio. He stiffened and stood at attention when the truck pulled off the road. A holster at his waist carried a handgun, and he cradled a Ruger American rifle in his arms.
He didn’t point the weapon at them, but the threat was all too clear.
17
Logan
Vanessa gasped. “Turn around!”
“Not yet.” Logan flicked on the interior lights to show the figure with the rifle that they didn’t intend harm. “Stay calm.”
“Carson, roll down your window,” Dakota instructed. “Nice and slow.”
It was difficult to twist and aim the rifle inside the cab, so Logan left it loosely leaning against the passenger door frame. He knew Dakota would have a bead on the guy from the rear passenger window.
With a shaking hand, Carson buzzed down the driver’s side window as an Indian guy strode up to them. He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and an old Metallica T-shirt, with a friendly but guarded expression. “How can I help you?”
“We—we need a place to stay the night,” Carson stammered, staring at the Ruger only a foot away from his face. “We’re headed out of the city. But things are getting dangerous.”
The guy peered into the interior of the cab, checking them out. He nodded to himself, satisfied with what he found. “You’ve got that right. I’d advise not traveling at night right now.”
“How bad is it?” Carson asked.
“You can hear for yourself,” the guy
said. “I haven’t seen a cop car since it happened.”
“Has the rioting and looting affected you yet?” Julio asked.
“Nah. There ain’t much over here they want.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Dakota said.
It wouldn’t take long to go through all the food and goodies in the upscale businesses and stores. Then the mobs would be looking anywhere and everywhere. Especially places with electricity.
But they only needed one night. It was a risk, but so was continuing on.
“How come you aren’t closed down like everyone else?” Logan leaned slightly over Vanessa to get a better look at the guy.
He had short, buzzcut hair and black fuzz on his upper lip and chin. He gave a little shrug. “My father is the owner. We have a good generator. Most people don’t have electricity, water, or A/C. He wanted to help the refugees trying to get out of the city.”
“How benevolent of him,” Dakota muttered from the back seat.
The guy tilted his chin at the fire station across the street. “They went out the first night to try and protect the local businesses. Not all of them came back. There’s four of them left at the station. Too dangerous to go home, and they’ve got no families to search for. We’ve been watching out for each other.”
“We’ll stay the night,” Carson said.
“It’s cash only,” the guy said. “Credit card machines aren’t working.”
“Fine,” Dakota said. “We need two rooms. How much?”
“Two hundred cash a night. Per room.”
“So not that benevolent,” Dakota said.
“Are you serious?” Carson sputtered. “This place is normally, what, seventy bucks a night, if that?”
The guy only looked at him without smiling. He’d gone through this song and dance plenty of times already. “Gas for the generator is very expensive and hard to find. My brother and I will be up all night to offer security. You can pay, or you can go. Up to you.”