by Stone, Kyla
Edge of Survival
Copyright © 2020 by Kyla Stone All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover design by Christian Bentulan
Book formatting by Vellum
First Printed in 2020
ISBN: 978-1-945410-62-8
Created with Vellum
Contents
Preface
1. Liam
2. Liam
3. Liam
4. Sutter
5. Hannah
6. Hannah
7. Quinn
8. Quinn
9. Liam
10. Hannah
11. Hannah
12. Quinn
13. Quinn
14. Liam
15. Liam
16. Liam
17. Liam
18. Liam
19. Liam
20. Liam
21. The General
22. The General
23. Quinn
24. Quinn
25. Hannah
26. Quinn
27. Liam
28. Liam
29. Liam
30. Hannah
31. Quinn
32. Quinn
33. Hannah
34. Hannah
35. Sutter
36. Quinn
37. Quinn
38. Quinn
39. Liam
40. Quinn
41. Quinn
42. Hannah
43. Hannah
44. The General
45. Quinn
46. Quinn
47. Quinn
48. Hannah
49. Hannah
50. Liam
51. Liam
52. Quinn
53. Quinn
54. The General
55. Liam
56. Quinn
57. Quinn
58. Quinn
59. Quinn
60. Quinn
61. Quinn
62. Quinn
63. Quinn
64. Liam
65. Liam
66. Hannah
67. Quinn
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Also by Kyla Stone
About the Author
Nuclear Dawn Preview
Preface
Much of this story takes place in Southwest Michigan. For the sake of the story, I have altered certain aspects and taken a few liberties with a real town or two. Thank you in advance for understanding an author’s creative license.
“We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it in full.”
Marcel Proust
1
Liam
Day Eighty-Five
Liam Coleman studied the man through the scope of his Remington 700 30-06.
At first glance, the man did not appear to be a threat. But Liam took nothing at first glance.
The man was in his mid-seventies, his weathered face a network of wrinkles, his blue eyes rheumy, his bald scalp shiny in the sun. He wore scuffed work boots and worn jeans beneath a heavy brown overcoat.
He was also a vandal. The old man held a half-empty bottle of whiskey by the neck in one liver-spotted hand; in the other, he gripped a can of red spray paint.
He was busy scrawling choice words across the side of a two-story gray colonial with an iron turkey weathervane set atop the roof. A double-barrel shotgun leaned against the wall beside him.
Glass from the house’s broken windows peppered the front porch and glinted in the matted grass. Trash and debris were scattered across the patchy, overgrown front lawn. Graffiti defaced the scuffed, peeling siding.
The entire house seemed to sag, defeated and desolate.
It was a microcosm of the rest of the town. Mounds of trash bags piled outside buildings. Some bags had burst open, and refuse skittered across the streets and sidewalks and accumulated in the storm drains.
The boutique storefronts and businesses along the main street boasted shattered windows and busted front doors. Several had burned to the ground.
No movement anywhere. No signs of life but for several rats darting in and out of a gas station with windows like empty black eyes.
The town was deserted. Utterly empty.
The man was the first person Liam had seen today.
Liam shifted, flexing his sore shoulders, pebbles and twigs poking his belly. He lay on his stomach on the hard ground atop the hill overlooking the town of Tuscola, Illinois.
The evening sun hovered above the tree line, the sky burnished in golds, oranges, and reds. He had been watching the town since dawn, shifting positions several times, studying the main street, a few neighborhoods, and now the northern outskirts.
Tuscola was a small rural town in the heart of Illinois’ Amish and farming country in Douglass county off Interstate 57. It was about one hundred and sixty miles south of Chicago and two hundred and twenty miles from Fall Creek, Michigan.
Liam stabilized the 30-06 on a flat rock in front of him, his M4 slung across his back. He’d brought the 30-06 for sniping, since it had more range and a stronger punch.
Over his BDUs, he wore an improvised ghillie suit made from jute netting woven with grass, shrubbery, and twigs. Camo netting wound around the body and barrel of the 30-06 to camouflage it.
The disguise blurred the human form and blended him perfectly with his surroundings. Anyone from town who glanced up the hill would see only trees, bushes, and rocks.
Dead leaves smothered the matted, brown grass. Patches of snow blanketed the ground. The air was sharp and chilly; the setting sun did nothing to warm him.
As Liam watched through the scope, the old man took a drink of his whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, then went back to work spraying a new insult in colorful language.
Liam needed information. He needed to talk to the old man.
Concern for the people he cared for back in Fall Creek ate at him, chiseling at his considerable concentration. Hannah Sheridan and her children, Milo and little Charlotte. Quinn and Molly. Bishop. Reynoso and Perez.
He’d left Fall Creek five days ago, carefully rationing his fuel in the 1978 Dodge D150 he’d borrowed from a farmer and stashing it in an abandoned barn a half mile south of his current position.
Raiders had attacked him twice on the road, and he’d avoided at least double the ambushes. The term “highway robbery” had become literal again.
Before he’d left town, he’d spent a week training the townspeople and helped the Fall Creek Police Department and various volunteers set up roadblocks and watches, establishing a protective perimeter around the outskirts of the small town.
It wasn’t enough.
There was more to do, and he hated leaving Hannah, but this mission was necessary. For himself. For Jessa and Lincoln’s sake. And for his nephew.
He’d abandoned his brother’s child once. He wouldn’t do it again.
Liam scanned for possible sniper positions. The tops of the buildings were empty. No movement, nothing out of place, no light reflections from scopes.
He’d already selected the route that provided him with the best cover and
concealment. As soon as it was dark, he would enter the town.
He inched backward, shuffling on his belly with the rifle still in his hands until he’d slid far enough down the hill that he could stand without being spotted behind the tree cover.
A crow cawed from somewhere. Icy wind rustled the branches of the oak, maple, and pine trees surrounding him as a chipmunk scuttled through snow a few yards southwest.
He took it all in. Saw everything. Heard everything. Every sense on alert.
He was used to the lack of mechanical sounds. Few planes flew overhead unless they were military. Few cars on the roads anymore, either.
Most vehicles built after 1980 had stalled the day of the Collapse. The rest had run out of gas in the following weeks. Those who had fuel conserved it wisely.
Liam moved stealthily to a tree about five yards down the hill, removed and folded his ghillie suit, and placed it in the pack he’d hidden beneath several pine boughs.
He shouldered his go-bag—which contained several days of food and water, a water filter, first aid kit, more ammo, and other survival supplies—and did a quick weapon check.
He had switched to his M4 for this stage of the mission. He had his Gerber MK II tactical knife sheathed at his hip along with his Glock 19 outfitted with a seventeen-round magazine. A round always chambered made it eighteen.
He wore a plate carrier and chest rig with two preloaded magazines for the sidearm and three for the carbine along with night vision goggles and a few flash bangs and frag grenades confiscated from the militia’s weapons depot.
Liam put on his NVGs, adjusted his grip on the carbine, keeping it in the low ready position, and began his descent down the hill. His spine twinged in discomfort.
He kept going, not letting the pain slow him.
Liam had served eight years as a Delta Special Forces Operator before being medically discharged for a back injury—five crushed discs from too many jumps from choppers and airplanes conducting top secret operations around the world.
The pain in his spine was a constant ache, unless he exacerbated it—then it was an electric shock to his spinal cord, debilitating and agonizing.
Gradually, darkness fell. Night sounds filled the air—nocturnal creatures creeping through the underbrush, the hoot of an owl. The night was his.
His heart rate quickened. On high alert, every sense straining for any threat, Liam exited the trees at the base of the woods.
He used the terrain to his advantage, moving from tree to tree until he reached a long deep ditch, careful to avoid the patches of dirty snow. He followed the ditch until it came out behind a row of houses. From there, he skirted a backyard and came out on the road.
A Chevy Impala was parked at the curb, covered in dead leaves and withered pine needles. Taking a knee behind it, he slowed his heart rate, breathing steadily, and listened.
Nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of a threat.
With great care, he made his way along the road, leapfrogging from car to car, from building to building, and crossed the street. He scanned windows and rooftops, searching for movement.
Cutting the corners, he led with his weapon in a firing position until he reached the weathered gray house with the turkey weathervane.
Keeping his back against the siding, he checked the rear window and opposite side windows for others inside the house. A darkened living room, an empty bedroom, a kitchen. A camp stove on the counter, a few clean dishes stacked beside it. Neater inside than the trashed exterior.
Nothing moved. No shadows out of place.
He crouched at the eastern corner of the house, listening. No sounds but labored breathing and the shake and spray of the paint can. The old man was hard at work.
By the sound of it, he’d moved to the front of the house, next to the porch. The light from a kerosene lantern glowed softly.
Liam exhaled, steadied himself, and burst into action. He swung around the side of the porch and aimed the M4. “Hands up! Now!”
2
Liam
Day Eighty-Five
The old man turned and blinked his rheumy eyes several times, startled but seemingly unsurprised.
He raised both arms and dropped the spray can but not the bottle, the whiskey sloshing.
“I’ll do whatcha ask,” he said in a creaky voice. “Just don’t make me lose my booze. It’s all I got left in the world.”
Liam circled the porch, his eyes never leaving the old man. He came in close and kicked the shotgun out of the way, almost knocking over the kerosene lantern next to the man’s feet.
“Keep your hands up where I can see them,” Liam said.
The old man trembled, more from age than fear. His eyes, though, were steady. “You don’t gotta kill me for the booze. I’ll give it to you, though it’ll break my heart to do it.”
“Keep the whiskey.” Liam patted him down and removed a Sig Sauer P365 holstered at his hip and a folded tactical knife in his right pocket.
Liam confiscated them both. He tucked the pistol into his belt and the knife in his pocket. “Whose house is this?”
“My own.”
Liam raised his brows. “You’re vandalizing your own house?”
The old man gestured at the houses across the street. “It’s camouflage, ain’t it? Gotta blend in these days. If my house looked all clean and kept, it’d draw attention. And that’s the last thing I’m aiming to do.” He grimaced. “It’s also excellent therapy.”
It made sense. The guy was wily and clever. Liam wouldn’t underestimate him.
He gestured with the M4. “Inside.”
The old man narrowed his eyes. “What for? I told ya, I got nothing.”
“Not planning to hurt you, but I will not wait around out here for a sniper to take me out, either. Inside, now.”
“Makes sense. If there were any snipers out here.” The man grunted. “Someone after you?”
“I’m the one who gets to ask the questions.”
“I suppose that carbine says you’re right. Let’s go, then.”
His shoulders bent with age, the old man picked up the lantern but left the spray can as he shuffled across the front yard.
Liam retrieved the shotgun and followed him up the porch steps and inside the house, weapon pointed at his back.
He scanned the living room—two floral couches, an oak coffee table strewn with photography books. On the wall, dusty photos of grown kids and a handful of grandkids.
The old man saw him looking. “They’re all gone now. All of ‘em.”
Liam shut the door behind them. He set the shotgun in the far corner out of easy reach and prodded the man into the kitchen, sat him down in a kitchen chair, and directed him to set the alcohol on the table.
He secured the man’s hands behind his back with zip ties from his pack.
The old man wiggled his arms but didn’t fight him. “You don’t gotta do that.”
“I’m clearing the house.”
“Fine by me. You won’t find nobody but ghosts.”
Liam checked the house, room by room. It felt cold and unused. Dust settled on every surface, spider webs gathering in the corners.
Satisfied that it was indeed empty, ghosts excluded, he moved back to the kitchen.
The old man watched him warily. “Could you be so kind as to free me now? These withered old arms of mine are goin’ numb.”
Liam checked beneath the table and inside the cabinets for hidden weapons. Finding nothing, he figured honey would attract more bees than vinegar.
He cut the zip ties with his Gerber. “Keep your hands on the table.”
The man let out a groan, stretched, and rubbed his wrists. He rested his elbows on the table and clasped the whiskey bottle with veined, wrinkled hands. “Name’s Rob McPherson. Since you’re a guest in my house and all, seems we should introduce ourselves.”
“Liam Coleman.” Liam angled himself so he could see out the kitchen window without exposing himself while also monitoring th
e old man.
He wished his NVGs had infrared capability. The backyard glowed green—matted, overgrown brown grass poking up beneath scabs of dirty snow, a sagging fence, and patio furniture filmed in dead leaves and snow.
Several houses stood behind the fence, their windows like broken teeth.
McPherson stared at him. Not indignant, and not afraid. More curious than anything. “You a soldier? A real one?”
“Are there fake soldiers around here?”
“You could say that. Which kind are you?”
“You look like a soldier, is all I’m saying,” the old man said. “A real one.”
Liam was a soldier. Didn’t matter whether or not he was still in the service. His years of training were embedded in his bones, in every move he made, in his every thought and the way he looked at everything as a potential threat, always assessing exit strategies and counter moves.
It was as natural as breathing.
“I served my country. Always will, if that’s what you’re after.”
The old man nodded, satisfied. “It is.”