by Kyla Stone
His smile was gracious, but there was something unnerving in those curving lips, that white flash of teeth—a smile so blindingly benevolent that it was also somehow menacing.
The Prophet watched the three men stroll away, that strange, disconcerting smile still fixed on his lips. “Now, a new nation will rise up, led by God’s chosen Prophet—a prosperous America who knows her place. Be patient, my son. We have our Shepherds ready to enact the next step when the time comes. The Lord will provide.”
Maddox nodded dully. Once, he would have saved the Prophet’s pompous, vainglorious words in his mind to repeat to Dakota later, the two of them rolling their eyes in mockery. Now, though, he simply listened, awed and humbled.
The Prophet stared into his eyes, his intent gaze penetrating his very soul. “Are you one of us, son?”
“Yes,” Maddox said without hesitation. “I am.”
47
Dakota
“I have to be honest with all of you,” Dakota said. “There’s something I have to say before we leave.”
Their group seemed so much smaller—it was only Dakota, Logan, Eden, Park, and Julio. Park rested in the backseat. The others were standing along the shoulder of Miami Dairy Road at the rear of the F-150, pausing for a few minutes to catch their breath and reload their gear.
The truck looked like hell—dented, scraped, and pockmarked with bullet holes—but it worked. They’d just completed a weapons check. Everything was there, along with a few boxes of 9mm ammo for the pistols and 5.56 mm NATO ammo for the AR-15s, both of which were NATO chambers, so they could use both 5.56 and .223 ammunition.
Hawthorne and Kinsey had also left them with two backpacks full of bottled water and MREs—military “meals ready-to-eat”—three headlamps, two LED penlights, a first aid kit, and a can of DEET for the killer mosquitoes. They’d even shoved a rusty old toolbox in the truck bed.
While she and Logan had been working on their gear, Julio had managed to connect with his wife for a few minutes on Hawthorne’s cell before service went out again. He looked happier just hearing her voice, his expression radiant.
He slipped the phone in his pocket and turned to her, a satisfied smile still on his face. “We’re listening, Dakota.”
Dakota sheathed her knife and slipped two loaded magazines into an ammo pouch on her belt. She rezipped the backpack and slung it over her shoulder.
Then she turned and faced the others. “I promised you a safehouse, but I don’t know what we’re going to find when we get there.”
This was it. Time for candor. Time to try a little trust. It didn’t matter that she sucked at both of those options.
She owed them the truth, no matter what.
One, two, three. Breathe. She took a breath, let it out. Here goes nothing.
“The truth is…” she began haltingly, “the guy who was after us before—Maddox Cage—he knows now that we were hiding out at Ezra’s cabin after we ran away from him and his people. He knows that’s where I’d head now. He hasn’t bothered to track us because he knows exactly where we’re going. He may have beat us there.”
“What if we don’t go to the cabin?” Julio said. “Will that keep your friend safe?”
“No.” Dakota swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “These people are vindictive. As soon as they find out Ezra kept Eden from them, they’ll attack him whether we’re there or not. Ezra is a former Marine. He’s no joke. He’s the bravest, crabbiest, most cunning bastard I’ve ever met. But he’s getting old. He’s not as quick as he used to be.
“Your typical trespasser or thief—Ezra can handle that, no problem. But a surprise multipronged assault from who-knows-how-many trained guys with semiautomatic rifles? I don’t know.”
“What do you think we’re gonna see when we get there?” Logan asked soberly.
“If Maddox made it back or was able to contact his people…it might already be over. Ezra will be dead, and those guys will be waiting for us in an ambush.”
“Maddox is half-dead himself,” Logan said.
“He’s not alone. There’s at least thirty trained men at that compound. They all know how to shoot and fight, and they all do the bidding of the Prophet.”
Julio raised his bushy eyebrows. “The Prophet?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Holy hell,” Park muttered. “He sounds like a madman.”
“Something like that.”
Logan folded his arms across his chest. “And if they’re not there yet?”
“Then we arrive in time to warn Ezra. That cabin is a bunker. If we’re prepared, we can defend it. I know we can. It’s still the best option out there.”
Eden wrapped her arms around her ribs and stared down at the ground, her blonde hair falling over her face. She sniffled quietly.
“I’m sorry.” Dakota turned to Julio and Logan. “To both of you. You never asked for any of this. I promised you safety, Julio. And all the booze you can drink, Logan. I lied on both counts. Ezra is a teetotaler. He doesn’t even drink.”
Logan sputtered out an incredulous laugh. “That figures.”
“I knew I was in danger, but I thought I could keep my past hidden. I was wrong, and Harlow got killed. I don’t want any more death on my conscience. I don’t have any expectations that either of you should come with me. You don’t owe me anything.”
“And if we don’t go?” Logan asked. “If we part ways right now?”
“I can drop you off at any point between here and the Glades. I’ll give you the rest of my cash and you can check into a hotel, rent a car, go find your family, do whatever you need to do. You can even go back to the airport and throw your lot in with FEMA. I’m—I’m sorry it got this far.”
“And what about you?” Logan asked.
Dakota slipped the last magazine into her belt pouch. “I’ll go by myself. Ezra Burrows saved me once. I’m not turning my back on him now.”
Logan gave a rueful shake of his head. “Why am I not surprised?”
She couldn’t look at the others, couldn’t bear to see the judgment in their gazes.
She glanced up at the cloudy sky. The afternoon thunderstorm had already passed. Beads of water clung to the blades of grass and dripped from the palm fronds. The pavement was still wet, but it wouldn’t be for long. The sun peeked through the clouds, already beginning its descent toward the western horizon.
Julio leaned against the truck and sighed. “This is an awful lot to take in.”
Dakota had already apologized more times in the last five minutes than in the last five years. She couldn’t bring herself to do it again. She simply waited for their decision—calm on the outside, a sea of nerves on the inside.
“If we defeat these guys, what happens then?” Julio asked.
“Ezra owns over fifty acres. He has years’ worth of stored food, plus he has a well, a greenhouse, chickens and rabbits, and the man can hunt anything that moves in the swamp. Ducks, wild hogs, racoons, gators.
“If we help him defend his place, he’ll have to let us in,” she said, more in desperate hope than certainty. “There’s room for all of us—and your family, Julio.” She hesitated. “Whatever’s happening in the cities, we can outlast it.”
Julio tossed the key fob into the air and caught it. “I was really looking forward to driving this beast.”
“You still can,” she said. “Come with me to Ezra’s. After the dust settles, we’ll figure out how to bring your wife there, too.”
Her heart pounded in her ears. She didn’t dare look at Logan or try to guess what he was thinking. He would walk away. She knew he would.
He and Julio both would, and Park with them.
What she was asking of them was crazy, especially after she’d lied and deceived them. It was too much.
The thought left her feeling hollowed out and empty. Bereft. No matter how terrifying it felt to trust these guys, being without them was worse.
Logan stomped around the side of the truck. He
opened the door, climbed inside, and slammed it shut.
She looked up, startled. What was he doing? He wouldn’t try to steal the truck, would he?
Of course, he would.
She’d overestimated him, erroneously believed he’d discovered some shred of honor deep inside his twisted ex-convict heart.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Anger flared through her veins. She should’ve known better. She should’ve known never to trust—
The rear window on the driver’s side buzzed down. Logan stuck his head out and stared at her. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. “Thought you’d want shotgun.”
She glanced at Julio, too surprised to speak.
Julio grinned, shrugged, and jogged over to the driver’s side. “What’s one more dance with death?”
Park opened the rear passenger door. “I used to gamble for a living, you know. I’ve ridden every rollercoaster on the east coast. I’ve jumped out of airplanes. You give me long odds, I’ll take the risky bet every time. Big risk, big reward. But the house always wins in the end.
“Still, if you’re wise, if you know when to go all in and when to fold, and if you’re smart enough to take your chips and go home—in the short term, you can win.”
Dakota stared at him. “What the hell are you saying?”
Park rolled his eyes. “I love to beat the odds. I’m saying I’m in.”
“What’s taking so long?” Logan grumbled. “Are you coming or what?”
48
Dakota
“It’s getting dark,” Julio said.
“We’re not stopping,” Dakota said.
Julio kept both hands on the wheel, his gaze straight ahead. “Agreed.”
They’d been driving for two hours. Julio had the wheel; Dakota took shotgun while Logan watched their left flank and rear from behind the driver’s seat.
Park slumped in the middle seat, his head flung back against the headrest, his cast cradled to his chest. He was doped up on plenty of painkillers, but he still looked like he was hurting.
On the other side, behind Dakota’s seat, Eden leaned against the window. She should be sleeping, but instead, she was drawing. Dakota could hear her pencil scratching. She didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop.
They had taken Miami Dairy Road beneath the Dolphin Expressway and gradually made their way past the Mall of the Americas and turned west along Tamiami Trail, aka SW 8th Street, aka Calle Ocho as the Cubans famously dubbed it.
Dozens of vehicles still littered the shoulder and occasionally blocked one of the westbound lanes, but a week after the terrorist attacks, the traffic jams from those fleeing the fallout had mostly cleared.
Julio was right. He was a much better driver than Carson. The ride was a smooth one, even though they were forced to swerve and weave to evade all the stalled and abandoned vehicles.
“Do you remember where to go?” Julio asked.
“Pretty much.” She still had the paper map, but she didn’t need it if they stayed straight west. “There aren’t many roads crisscrossing the Everglades. Only two main ones go east and west—Tamiami Trail and Alligator Alley.
“Tamiami Trail is a two-lane, eighty-mile strip of road connecting Miami with Naples. In between is nothing but swamp and snakes, gators and mosquitoes. There are a few rural settlements, old-timer gladesmen and Indian land, but they’re remote and difficult to reach.”
“Let me guess, that’s where we’re headed.”
“When SHTF, you want to be hard to reach.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Only a few moving cars were visible at any given time on either side of the highway. Trash and debris littered the asphalt—a black garbage bag full of clothes; a stroller tipped on its side; large suitcase unzipped—shirts, shorts, and underwear scattered along the road for a couple hundred feet.
It was like people had simply shed their belongings as they fled.
“Well, that’s creepy,” Park said.
It was eerie. Unnatural, almost sinister in its silence, the enormous emptiness of a city devoid of the rush and crush of humanity.
Very few people had returned to work or felt safe enough to leave their homes or neighborhoods. It was like life itself was on pause, everyone holding their breaths, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Their world was broken. It had always been broken. People like her and Logan knew that already. The rest of them were just figuring it out while the comfort and security they’d always trusted in shattered all around them.
Park began to hum the R.E.M. song, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.”
“You seem in good spirits, considering,” Dakota said.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Park said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “My arm’s gone to the crapper. Probably won’t be able to pick up a spoon with that hand ever again. But at least I’m a lefty. What I should be doing is counting my lucky stars, I guess.”
“Hey, man—” Julio started, already trying to soothe frayed nerves.
“I got ahold of my parents in New York and my aunt in Houston last night.” Park took a breath. When he spoke, his voice was flat, emotionless. “My brother is dead. So are my uncle and two of my cousins. Well, presumed dead. They were all in the middle of ground zero when it happened. My parents won’t even have a body to bury at the funeral. Well, neither will a million other families, so it’s like I don’t even have a right to grieve, you know?”
“I’m sorry about your brother.” Julio touched his cross with one hand. “And your cousins. Every life is precious. Every life is a tragedy. That others are suffering doesn’t negate your own pain.”
“The whole country’s gone to hell in a handbasket,” Park continued, as if he hadn’t heard Julio. “What’s left if we can’t find a way to laugh in the face of hell itself? Humor’s a coping mechanism. It’s gotta be. Otherwise, you’d best send me to a padded room, because none of us are ever gettin’ out.”
Dakota didn’t say anything. She agreed with him, though she’d rather spit in the face of hell than laugh at it.
But everybody had to figure out their own way to survive. Not just physically, but psychologically, too. Otherwise, it’d crush you.
The movies and books always overlooked the psychological toll of extreme disasters. For once, Dakota was thankful she didn’t have a network of friends and family who were dead or missing. She had no one to grieve.
Hundreds of thousands of families would never know for sure how their loved ones had died. They wouldn’t have a body to bury, would never have the comfort of absolute proof.
The loss of family, friends, co-workers, and neighbors combined with the destruction of thousands of homes and businesses and communities…and not by accident, not an act of God or nature—but the cruelty of human beings committed unconscionable acts against one another.
The entire country was floundering, tormented by grief and despair. How long until the reports of skyrocketing suicides started coming in?
Maybe it wasn’t the ones with the most skills and resources or the strongest physically who survived in the end—it was the resilient ones. The ones who got knocked down just like everyone else, but they always got back up.
49
Dakota
“Can we turn on the radio?” Park asked, clearly done with discussing his own misery. “See if there’s anything not about the demise of civilization as we know it?”
Dakota leaned forward and switched it on. “…Chase banks in Houston closed their doors after opening for a little over three hours Friday morning when angry customers exploded into rioting. Two tellers were injured…Fears continue to rise over rumors of a snowballing financial crisis…NASDAQ is scheduled to open Monday, but forecasters are predicting another rapid shutdown if gun-shy investors cause another freefall…”
Dakota flicked to another station. “…MS-13 gang members attacked a Red Cross convoy delivering humanitarian aid from Russia, the U.K., and Canada yester
day in Richmond, Virginia…The National Guard in Washington D.C., New York City, and L.A. worked throughout the night to disburse supplies as thousands of hungry citizens waited in lines as long as twenty-four hours…”
She turned the dial again. The news was all the same, just spouting different facets of a country balancing on the knife’s edge of chaos.
“…The National Weather Service reports Tropical Storm Helen is strengthening off the coast of Puerto Rico with sustained winds reaching sixty-five miles an hour. It is predicted to become a Category One hurricane sometime tonight. If it remains on its current path, it could strike Florida’s east coast as early as Sunday.”
Dakota stopped channel surfing and listened.
“Meteorologists with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration predict a possible trajectory from the Keys up through Daytona Beach. However, if Helen were to hit Miami as a Category Two or Three hurricane, the impact on an already devasted city could be catastrophic—”
“Mother Mary and Joseph,” Julio murmured.
“Hot damn,” Logan said.
“We’re still reeling from the nuclear attack, and now this?” Park asked, incredulous. “It’s almost…apocalyptic.”
“Armageddon” was the word that slithered into Dakota’s mind. Plagues and destruction of Biblical proportions. Doomsday.
She pushed those traitorous thoughts deep down. Those were the words of a charlatan. A liar. A madman dealing in beautiful falsehoods and lethal deception.
“It won’t hit us.” Julio took one hand off the wheel and crossed himself. “I have faith that it won’t.”
“Keep praying, then,” Park said. “And maybe send up a prayer for us while you’re at it. I’m an atheist, but in times like these…It can’t hurt, right?”
“I already have, and no, a few prayers definitely can’t hurt,” Julio said.
“…In international news, the conflict in Syria escalated overnight,” the radio announcer continued. “Russia continues to claim U.S. interference in the attempted coup of Syrian President Bashar al-Assad. Five American soldiers were attacked and killed by insurgents on Monday, inciting intense criticism that U.S. soldiers belong in the U.S., addressing their own humanitarian crisis that has now claimed over a million lives—”