by Kyla Stone
He placed his hand on the grip of his pistol at his side. He kept it low key, but his actions spoke volumes. He was done playing nice. “I will not ask you again.”
Julio gripped her arm more forcefully. “We understand, sir.”
“D11 through D19 are full now. Move along to D20.” He gestured with his free hand. “I will personally escort you.”
“We’re going now,” Julio said. “All of us.”
Dakota was so startled at Julio’s unexpected forcefulness she allowed him to turn her down the terminal toward D20.
Logan muttered a soft curse but didn’t argue.
“We’ll figure something else out,” Shay said under her breath. “Don’t worry.”
“Wait just a moment, please.” Another officer bustled up to them, glaring down at the tablet in his hands. “Stop right there.”
45
Dakota
The officer wore a flak jacket stenciled with the letters ATF on the back. He was also incredibly tall.
Dakota found herself smiling. Hawthorne.
“This isn’t the correct bus,” Trey Hawthorne said as he swiped at the tablet. “Let me check your paperwork.”
“What paperwork?” The soldier frowned and tilted his head up to look at Hawthorne. “No one has paperwork.”
“This group does.” Hawthorne flashed his security badge. “Over your clearance level.”
Captain Kinsey jogged up beside Hawthorne, elbowing her way through the crowd, a big grin on her face. She glanced at the soldier’s name and rank. “Thanks for all your help, Private McDonald,” she said with a dismissive authority the rank and file knew not to question.
“Of course, Captain,” Private McDonald said quickly.
“Follow me, please.” Before anyone else could say anything, Hawthorne took off with a confident stride, weaving between the clumps of civilians, Kinsey jogging in his wake.
Luckily, he was a head taller than everyone else in the crowd. He was an easy man to follow.
“What are we waiting for?” Shay whispered. “Let’s go.”
She was right. This was their chance. Whatever plan Hawthorne had cooked up, it had to be better than this.
Dakota pulled on Eden’s hand and scrambled after him. Logan, Julio, Park, and Shay quickly followed, leaving the disgruntled soldier behind.
A few minutes later, Hawthorne pulled them out of the stream of people into an empty concession kiosk full of healthy snacks, keychains and mugs emblazoned with photos of South Beach and the Miami skyline, and paperback bestsellers stacked on a center table.
“Hawthorne,” Shay said breathlessly. “That was fantastic.”
He beamed at her.
“What’s going on?” Dakota said a little too sharply. This wasn’t the time or place for these two to exchange batty-eyed lovelorn gazes.
With apparent difficulty, Hawthorne pulled his eyes from Shay and turned to Logan and Dakota. His expression grew serious. “I’m a patriot. I love my country. I’ve dedicated my life to serving America. To me, that includes its people. All of them.”
He cleared his throat uneasily. “All this—FEMA, the National Guard, ATF, FBI, local law enforcement, emergency services—we’re here to help. Seems like there’s something wrong about forcing help on people via gunpoint.”
“No kidding,” Dakota muttered.
Hawthorne folded his tablet beneath his arm. “This whole thing seems counter to everything this country’s supposed to stand for.”
Kinsey nodded enthusiastically.
“General Pierce doesn’t agree either, but the orders are from the governor,” Hawthorne said. “However, seeing as the orders were just relayed today, it seems reasonable that not everyone would receive them at the same time. In fact, I believe my radio has been on the fritz all afternoon.”
“Mine, too,” Kinsey chirped. “Damn government hardware.”
“If the president just now declared martial law, why are the buses already geared up to go?” Shay asked.
“Great question, Shay,” Hawthorne said, grinning.
Dakota rolled her eyes.
Kinsey nudged Dakota in her ribs. “In the field, this guy is an ace shot and consummate professional. Would you believe it?” She smirked. “But get him next to a pretty girl, and he transforms into a love-sick puppy.”
Shay dropped her gaze to the floor and bit her lip, clearly flustered—and pleased.
“I think it’s mutual,” Julio said.
“I can hear you, you know.” Hawthorne cleared his throat, attempting to look all business and only partially succeeding. “As I was saying, the president resisted enacting martial law, pointing out that the loss of American freedom should be a last recourse. The governor, though, has been pushing hard behind the scenes for martial law for days. Especially after the gang warfare and the attacks on our checkpoints.
“He wants the populace under control so he can expend more resources to crush the uprisings and retake the sections of the city already gang-controlled. I’m sure he’s been in close communications with the FEMA Housing Officer, Disaster Housing Coordinator, and the Logistics Section Chief getting everything ready before the president’s official announcement this afternoon.”
Dakota didn’t care about all the political nonsense. She just wanted to leave. “Just tell us how to get the hell out.”
“We’ll escort you,” Hawthorne said. “No one will stop us. Not in all this chaos.”
Kinsey gave an almost giddy grin. “I checked your weapons out of holding. They’ve all been decontaminated and are packed in the rear seat on the floor of your F-150—which we also had washed by hand to within an inch of its life. It’s parked outside the fence along Miami Dairy Road.”
“We’ll give you an official military escort off base,” Hawthorne said, “but then you’re on your own. I’d avoid any FEMA bus convoys from now on if I were you.”
“No worries there,” Park said.
Kinsey held out the key fob. Logan and Dakota reached for it at the same time.
Julio snatched it first. “It’s my turn to drive.”
“Fine with me. Can’t be worse than Carson.” Dakota allowed herself a tight smile. Things were finally going their way for the first time. With a truck full of fuel, they could be at Ezra’s by nightfall.
Her stomach tightened. She had to tell the others what might await them. She had to give them the choice to stay or go. “There’s something I need to tell you guys, first—”
“Whatever it is can wait,” Logan said. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not coming with you,” Shay said suddenly.
Everyone turned to stare at her.
“What?” Julio said.
Shay lifted her chin. “Yesterday, one of the doctors asked me to stay on as a nursing assistant. I can help here. I want to help.”
“You’re staying here?” Dakota echoed as Shay’s words sank in.
“Yes. I want to be useful and do some good. I want to make a difference. I can do that here.” She started to nibble on her thumbnail, glanced surreptitiously at Hawthorne, and dropped her hands to her sides. “I just—I came to say goodbye. I’m staying.”
“Excellent idea.” Hawthorne couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “I’ll take special care of her, I promise.”
Dakota groaned. “I’m sure you will.” She turned to Shay, a sudden, unexpected tightness in her chest. “What’ll we do if one of us gets shot in the head?”
Shay’s dark eyes glistened. “I’ll miss you, too.”
“Here.” Hawthorne thrust something into Dakota’s hand. “I was planning to give it to Shay.” He shot her a wide, goofy grin. “But since she’s staying here, I’ll give it to you instead. It’s a burner phone, but it’s got my personal number programmed. If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. Good people have to stick together. And you’re good people.”
Dakota stuffed the phone in her pocket. “Thank you.”
“Don’t ever repeat
this, but Kinsey is right,” Hawthorne said. “We’d both be dead if you hadn’t stuck your neck out for two complete strangers. I won’t forget that.”
Kinsey punched him in the shoulder. She had to raise her arm over her head. “Hell, yes, I’m right.”
“We’ve got to hurry,” Logan said.
They hugged quickly. Shay squeezed Dakota so hard her ribs hurt. She hugged Julio, fist-bumped Logan and Park, and had to bend to wrap Eden in her arms.
“Take care of Dakota for me, okay?” Shay whispered in Eden’s ear just loud enough for Dakota to overhear.
Eden nodded soberly, her notepad clutched to her chest.
Logan shook Hawthorne and Kinsey’s hands. “Thank you. For everything.”
“We’ll see each other again.” Shay wiped at her eyes as they turned to go. “I know we will.”
46
Maddox
The Prophet smiled at Maddox. “Handwritten letters are a lost art, don’t you think?”
“No idea,” Maddox said. He’d never written or sent a letter in his life.
The Prophet scooped up the pile, straightened the bent corners, and slipped them into a drawer. Before the drawer shut completely, Maddox glimpsed a few scrawled lines.
It wasn’t English. He couldn’t tell what language it was. The Prophet spoke to God. Maybe it was Greek or Hebrew, the original languages of the Bible.
Brother Richard had tried to teach him Hebrew once. He’d failed—mostly because Maddox refused to attend class. He’d visited the mercy room for that.
The Prophet rose to his feet and smoothed his crisp white button-down shirt. “No one sends letters anymore. It’s truly a shame.”
Reuben grabbed an orange from the wooden bowl on the coffee table. He tossed it in the air and caught it. “Here’s our boy. In the flesh, just like I promised.”
“I see that. He must be blessed.” The Prophet closed his eyes, as if he were communing with God that very moment. He opened his eyes. “He is.”
Despite himself, Maddox flushed.
Solomon Cage stalked out of the kitchen into the living room. “You returned emptyhanded,” he said flatly.
Reuben froze halfway through peeling a strip of orange peel. The Prophet gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.
“Catch you later, man.” Reuben threw Maddox a hurried wave. “See you at dinner.”
After he had gone, Maddox’s father whirled on him. “You failed. Again.”
His eyes were a cold, cruel glacial blue. His sandy blond hair and beard were trimmed short and peppered with gray. He was a hard man, a man of rules and consequences—quick to anger, even quicker to punish. Maddox had never seen him shed a single tear, not even at Jacob’s funeral. He ruled with an iron hand, bending only to the Prophet.
The Prophet, on the other hand, was handsome, charming, and charismatic. He was a slim, tall man with a long, narrow face and wavy yellow hair to his shoulders. In his mid-fifties, his tanned skin was creased with laugh lines. An easy smile was always on his lips. Much as Jacob used to be—a natural leader. People just wanted to follow him.
One felt enlarged in his presence, made more somehow, when his benevolent but penetrating gaze was pinned on you, searching your very soul. People hung on his eloquent words. They were willing to give up their lives and their savings, anything to do his bidding, to receive his blessing, to be touched by his holy hand and hear the word of God dispensed by his silver tongue.
“I know. I’m sorry—” Maddox began.
The scorn Solomon Cage felt for his son was evident in every line of his face. “The Prophet needs his bride, as Christ needs His church. Did you not understand how important your mission was?”
His stomach cramped. He felt sick. He told himself it was the remnants of the radiation poisoning. Eden was of age. What did he care who married her? There were far more important things at hand. “Yes, Father.”
“Your sister is incredibly important to me,” the Prophet said softly. “God has given her to me as a token, as a sign of his grace for all of us, for the new world that we will create. Even her name bespeaks of her critical role. It is a great evil that she is trapped out in the wilderness of wickedness and destruction. God gave you the task of correcting that evil.”
“I did everything I could—”
“It wasn’t enough.” His father sneered. “It’s never enough with you, is it?”
Maddox kept his head up, his eyes straight ahead. He wouldn’t fall prey to that trap again. He wouldn’t rage and curse and scream back like he once had.
He knew full well that his father was punishing him, humiliating him purposefully. For his failures, yes. But also because he wasn’t Jacob, could never be Jacob.
And that was the ultimate failure, the one thing his father would never forgive him.
“I know where they are,” he said, willing his voice not to tremble. “Or where they will soon be. And it’s only an hour from here.”
His father stepped back, stunned by his words. The Prophet said nothing, only watched him closely, a faint, bemused smile ghosting his face.
“After that whore killed my brother and stole my sister, she sought refuge at the homestead of Ezra Burrows, off Mangrove Road on US 41. She lived there for several months before escaping again and fleeing to Miami with Eden.”
“Ezra Burrows, that old half-mad ex-Marine who used to sell rabbits at the farmer’s market in Little Cypress?” His father’s lip curled in disgust. “I thought you checked his place.”
“We did. He said they weren’t there. We had no reason to doubt him.”
His father scowled. “And you just believed him? You just stopped searching?”
“We couldn’t search every square inch of the Glades!” Maddox burst out.
“How do you know the girls were staying with him?” the Prophet asked calmly.
“Eden told me when I found her in Miami.” He considered telling them about her mutilated throat and mangled voice. That, too, would be his own failure.
Maybe they’d see her as defiled now, impure. Would they send her to the mercy room? Or worse, cast her out? Though Maddox cared for little except saving his own skin, he did have feelings for his little sister.
He wasn’t a monster. He wanted her home and safe and taken care of, just like before.
His father was already furious enough. He decided to keep his mouth shut on that count.
“I attempted to rescue her,” he explained, “but I was sickened by radiation poisoning and overcome by the group with her.”
“You found her but didn’t bring her home?” his father spat, his face turning purple with anger. A vein in his neck pulsed. He took a menacing step forward, his fists rising. “You worthless piece of—”
The Prophet laid a gentle hand on Solomon Cage’s shoulder. The man bristled but didn’t dare shake him off.
“The past is the past,” the Prophet said. “The future is what concerns us now.”
Maddox cleared his throat. “I know—knew—Dakota Sloane better than anyone. Downtown Miami is in ruins. The city is falling into chaos. She’s going to go where she feels safe. She’s coming to Ezra.”
“Are you certain?”
“I would bet my life on it.”
“I knew we had underestimated your son,” the Prophet said. His eyes shone with approval. “We’ll need every soul dedicated to the cause to complete our task and achieve victory.”
His father said nothing, just scowled—incensed but unable to speak his mind in the Prophet’s presence.
“What happens after this?” Maddox asked. “What’s the next step?”
The Prophet placed his arm around Maddox’s shoulder and steered him out the front door to the wooden porch. “Do you see these people, Maddox? My flock?”
Dozens of people strolled across the grass toward the chapel for evening worship. The men chatted with each other, smiling and laughing. The women walked together quietly, their long skirts swirling around their legs, Bibles i
n their hands. Children dashed back and forth, shouting gleefully.
“Yes,” Maddox said, unsure where the Prophet was going.
“America left them behind. They lost their jobs, their marriages, their families, their pride, their livelihood. Out there in the fallen world, they ran out of options. Life disappointed them, left them bitter, angry, and hopeless.
“But God never gave up hope on them. And neither did I. They found a purpose, a mission here. I gave them back their hope. I promised to give them everything they felt they’re owed, that they deserve.
“America has become a whore, suckling the greedy mega-corporations, corrupt Wall Street, and criminal politicians. They cut wages and benefits and lay off American workers to hire foreigners and illegals. They outsource cheap crap that’s made to break—intended to break, even from its very inception. Much like America.
“The America of today destroys everything she touches. She orchestrates wars to make billionaires even richer. She manipulates revolutions, insurgencies, and violent coups, plotting the devastation of entire countries to line her blood-stained pockets. America is soulless. She doesn’t care.
“But we have made them all care—the corrupt politicians, their barbaric, warmongering military industrial complex—we have opened their eyes. As Isaiah 13:22 says, ‘Babylon’s days are numbered; its time of destruction will soon arrive.’ That is the next step, my son. That is what is coming, what has already arrived. I am God’s right hand. I have done this.”
Three members of the Prophet’s flock hurried up to him, their heads bowed in deepest respect, their hands held out beseechingly. “Blessings, Prophet,” a bearded man—Brother Samson—murmured.
“Blessings be upon you.” The Prophet took each hand with a magnanimous flourish and kissed them. “I bless you, my soul.”
They raised their heads and gazed at him in adoration, almost in worship.