by Stone, Kyla
The General intended to become the next Secretary, and sooner rather than later. There were so many ways to die these days.
As if she could read his mind, Lauren Eubanks narrowed her eyes.
The General smiled at her. It wasn’t a warm smile, but sharp. A warning.
22
The General
Day Eighty-Nine
Lauren Eubanks glared back at the General, unblinking, uncowed.
She was becoming a problem.
The line of succession was a conundrum for another day, one he planned to tackle, but not yet. Patience, after all, was a virtue. As was cunning, which he had in spades.
Duffield cracked his gnarled knuckles, a few age spots marring the back of his hands, and glanced away. “What are we going to do?”
“Send more men to Detroit,” the General said. “Get the city under control. Then organize a resupply to FEMA Centers #23, #24, and #26 and promise them additional food stores if they provide us with a list of National Guard recruits. We need more soldiers.”
“We can’t hold food hostage in exchange for families giving up their sons and daughters,” Eubanks said. “That’s beyond the pale.”
“At least we’re not drafting them,” the General shot back. “Yet.”
“The White House is demanding we send more troops to Illinois,” Governor Duffield whined, his voice rising. “This Syndicate and their leader, Poe, are becoming more of an issue, and—”
“He’s not our issue,” the General insisted. “Chicago is a dumpster fire. They need to admit defeat. Contain it, that’s the best they can hope for.”
“We have to send them,” Eubanks said. “We’re under orders—”
“Wait,” the General said. “Give it a little time. The right decision will become clear in due time.”
“We can’t just disobey federal regulations—” Eubanks started, but the governor waved her off.
“We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”
“But—”
“I’m tired, Lauren.”
Eubanks pursed her lips, reluctant, but nodded. “Sir.”
She didn’t address the General but turned on her heel and strode from the office, her practical sneakers squeaking across the floor. He watched her go with a smile.
She knew he’d won that battle. The governor was a waffling, indecisive man. A delay was as good as a win.
Since they’d been dismissed, the General turned to his assistant, who stood silent as the General preferred, awaiting his next command. “Call Baxter to my office.”
John Baxter was a timid man with an elongated neck and wet, meek eyes that reminded the General of a turtle; the sort of man always prepared to duck into his shell at the slightest sign of trouble.
He was also thorough, boasted the mind of a steel trap, and had the loveliest handwriting the General had ever laid eyes upon. He imagined medieval monks transcribing the Bible on vellum with ink and quills couldn’t have compared with Baxter’s flowery but exacting script.
When the dust settled and America had revived, the world needed to know what happened; the heroes and villains, the sacrifices and betrayals. Who among them rose boldly to lead a broken country, and who choked and fell on their swords.
Whether that was ten years from now, fifty, or a hundred, it didn’t much matter to the General. As any historian worth his salt would tell you, history was written by the victors.
And the General intended to become the victor. It would be his version of history the future remembered, his vision recreated.
Baxter scurried in, head down, a leather-bound book clutched in his long slender fingers. The General waved to the man’s customary seat by the window.
He leaned back in his leather chair and took another satisfying sip of cognac. Ice tinkled against the glass. “Shall we begin?”
As the scratching of pen on paper filled the room, the General found his gaze drawn to the satellite phone perched on the edge of his desk.
She still had not called. And he had no one close by to check on her.
He made multiple calls a day, remaining in contact with his various team leaders stationed throughout the state. His closest paramilitary contacts were in Grand Rapids. They had their hands full with a raging gang war and a FEMA shelter suffering from dysentery outbreaks due to lack of proper sanitation.
A flicker of unease flared through him. He closed his eyes, opened them. Everything was the same—the desk, the leather chair, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the large window overlooking the once-gilded grounds of the ornate capital building across the street.
He took another swig of liquor; it didn’t calm him.
Anxiety niggled at the back of his mind. Something was wrong.
Most people were replaceable, but not all of them. Not her.
He might not have spoken to her more than twice in a decade, but he’d kept tabs. He’d known.
Now he didn’t, and the not knowing was unacceptable.
Suddenly, he was in no mood to parse his legacy.
“Leave me!” he thundered at Baxter.
Without a word, the small man dropped the pen, set the leather-bound book on the side table, and bolted from the chair. The General didn’t bother watching as he scurried from the room and shut the door behind him.
The General picked up the sat phone and once again called his daughter.
Once again, Rosamond failed to answer.
23
Quinn
Day Eighty-Nine
The morning of Trade Day, Quinn wandered the Berrien County Youth Fair grounds, Milo ambling along behind her, checking each booth as Ghost trotted beside him.
Several white rectangular buildings loomed in front of them, stacked side by side and constructed of metal with concrete floors and large open doors at either end.
In years past, the buildings had housed thousands of art projects, student paintings, photos, and crafts, the expo buildings reserved for local businesses to advertise their wares, offering stickers and lollypops to passersby.
A few hundred people strolled from building to building and clustered in small groups to chat and catch up on news and rumors.
“Which building next?” she asked with forced brightness.
Milo made a show of studying them all, then pointed to the last building in the row, furthest away. “That one.”
“Of course,” she muttered.
Quinn was watching Milo for the day. Usually, she didn’t mind. Milo was like the little brother she’d never had, and she adored him.
Lately, when she looked at Milo’s wan face and sad eyes, she saw Noah. He reminded her of that night, of everything that had happened.
Today was the first time she’d spent with Milo in two weeks. They both felt it—the awkwardness, the distance, circling each other like strangers.
Milo was quiet and withdrawn, Quinn consumed with her own dark thoughts, at a loss with what to do or say.
They hurried across the muddy grass, ducking their faces against the chilled wind. The sky was gray and overcast, the temperatures in the mid-thirties.
Gunshots echoed over the hum of conversations and shouting children. Reynoso and a few Fall Creek officers had set up a makeshift range out of hay bales to conduct sessions throughout the day. BYOB—Bring your own bullets.
The fair rides were normally at the west end of the fairgrounds. Now it was an empty, weedy brown field, snowdrifts piled here and there.
Where were the huge metal monstrosities, the Ferris wheel, Gravitron, carousel, bumper cars, the pendulum pirate ship, the drop tower? Probably gathering dust in some enormous warehouse, never to be used again.
At least, not for a decade, maybe two. Might as well be forever.
Things like county fairs wouldn’t be anyone’s priority for a while.
With every step, memories struck her. Visits with Gran and Gramps every year to see the rabbits, chickens, and goats and watch the equine show competitions like dressage, the beautiful horses prancin
g around the ring with their braided manes, supple shining coats, and flowing tails.
And of course, gobbling elephant ears as large as her head, her fingers dusty with powdered sugar, her mouth sticky from cotton candy and caramel apples and giant turkey legs dripping with fat.
At seven, she’d thrown up on the Tilt-O-Whirl. At nine, she’d won first place in art for drawing Princess Ariadne fighting the Minotaur instead of Theseus. She still had the blue ribbon tucked away in her sock drawer.
Another, darker memory infiltrated her mind. When she was ten, she’d waited for Octavia to pick her up from the fairgrounds after a friend’s mother had dropped them off earlier that morning.
One by one, her friends’ parents had arrived to take their precious children back to their safe, warm, cozy homes. Until Quinn was the only one left.
Night fell, the fair closed, the turnstiles squeaking as hundreds of guests filed out in a rush, and then the workers locked up and left, all overlooking the little girl sitting on a hay bale off to the side of the entrance, licking ice cream off her fingers and trying not to cry.
After several frantic phone calls and the discovery that Octavia was on a bender, in no shape to mother anyone, Gramps had eventually come.
“I’m here,” he’d said as he’d pulled up in the rickety orange 1978 Ford F150 Super Cab, a rare flash of anger in his face when he saw her, alone and shivering, soon replaced with concern and relief. “I’m right here.”
They hadn’t spoken on the way home, but how she’d loved the Orange Julius that night, the rumble of the engine vibrating her frayed seat, the familiar smell of Gramps, the sturdy, reliable shape of him in the dim glow of the passing headlights.
So many memories. Some good. Some bad. That time gone forever, no matter how much she wanted it back. Shattered with Gramps’ death, with the EMP that stole so much in a single, silent, invisible breath.
She rubbed her eyebrow ring and picked up her pace, pushing the bleak memories out of her head as she glanced at the crumpled paper in her hands.
Gran had directed her to make a list of items available for trade, since Gran herself was busy selling her famous canned applesauce, peaches, and strawberry jam while she watched baby Charlotte for Hannah.
Quinn and Milo stepped inside the last long white building, Ghost trotting close to their heels. Hannah had instructed the Great Pyr to watch after the boy, and the dog seemed to understand—never straying further than a few yards from Milo’s side.
Inside, it was like a giant flea market. Folks from Fall Creek and nearby towns displayed their wares on folding tables, prices hand-scrawled on pieces of cardboard or construction paper and taped to the tops or sides of the tables.
No one wanted money; it was a barter system, now.
“Beans, bullets, and band-aids” were the three B’s that Gramps always said would be valuable if the world went dark. He was right, as always.
Becky Grisone, the owner of Tresses Hair Salon, had shears, combs, and spray bottles displayed on a couple of tables. She’d dragged in one of her salon chairs and was cutting a woman’s waist-length hair to her chin.
A line of people waited behind her, carrying plastic shopping bags with a few cans or boxes of food to trade for a good haircut.
It was smart to go short. Less hair meant less shampoo and soap; plus, with hygiene harder and harder to keep up, lice was making a major comeback.
Maybe Quinn should consider a cut of her own, though she’d trimmed her bangs herself with Gran’s shears. A blue mohawk might be cool, though most of the blue had faded to black.
A few booths down, Jamal Duncan and Tina Gundy, whose father had owned Gundy’s Auto Repair, had an array of mechanical junk spread across several tables, stuffed in cardboard boxes, and scattered across the floor—car batteries, coils of wire, chargers, and lawn mower engines.
Jamal had helped Fall Creek set up repeaters to extend their communications range. An engineering major, he was quite the genius with electronics, and his tinkering had brought several radios and a few generators back into working order.
Word had gotten out, and people were bringing in car batteries, handheld radios, portable generators, and solar chargers for Tina and Jamal to fix in exchange for toiletries and food.
Quinn stopped at Mr. Atkinson’s booth for some of his home-grown honey, which he traded for Gran’s peaches. His wife made amazing peach cobbler and various pies.
Julia Vern-Smith had made handmade soap from ash and pig fat. Corinne Marshall had some precious seeds, which she exchanged for a few of Mrs. Dorson’s chickens.
Ghost sniffed at everything, his bright brown eyes missing nothing. He was so tall, his wagging tail brushing tubes of Neosporin and boxes of band aids.
At the next booth, he knocked small pots of rosemary and basil seedlings right off the table.
No one yelled at him. He drew weary smiles from adults and cries of adulation from the kids, who came running in all directions to pat his head, fondle his ears, and scratch beneath his chin.
Ghost indulged their adoration with the serene tolerance of a prince.
Quinn marveled at his incredible patience with those he deemed his charges. He treated the littlest ones with utmost gentleness, even when they inadvertently stepped on his paws or tugged on his tail, while he playfully nudged or pushed the older kids, inciting them to chase him or vice versa.
“Great dog you’ve got there,” said a middle-aged woman at a booth selling homemade candles and eggs. Her sign said she was trading for bleach, soap, and toothpaste.
Milo beamed with pride. It was the happiest Quinn had seen him since Noah died. “Thanks, lady.”
“You ever wanna sell that dog, I’ll trade whatever you ask. I’d give up my best laying hens for that beautiful boy. All of them.”
Milo frowned. “He’s not for sale.”
The woman shrugged but gave Ghost another yearning glance. “Just throwing it out there.”
They kept moving, Quinn making a list of trades that she and Gran would come back for with a trailer to carry everything. A few booths later, Milo leaned in and studied a kerosene lantern. According to the sign, the owner needed beta-blockers for his heart condition.
Milo chewed on his lower lip. “You should have a booth, Quinn.”
“And what would I trade? People won’t need homemade hand warmers for long.”
“Your drawings.”
“No one wants monster drawings, Milo.”
He gave her a shy glance through the dark curls falling into his eyes. “In the olden days, all the rich kings and queens would commission painters to paint portraits of themselves. So their family wouldn’t forget about them.” There was something lost and wistful in his voice.
Her heart clenched. She understood what he was asking for, even if he couldn’t come out and say it. He wanted a picture of his dad.
She blinked, a sudden pressure behind her eyes, her hands forming fists at her sides. Everything in her recoiled at the thought, anger mixed with something dark and painful.
And yet, Milo’s forlorn gaze pierced her to the core.
“I’ll think about it,” she forced out around the lump in her throat.
She could feel him studying her, his big solemn eyes on her face. Pleading with her, beseeching. Begging for something that she couldn’t give him.
“Wanna listen to music later?” he asked, so quiet she almost didn’t hear him.
She busied herself examining a soy candle, picking it up and weighing it in her hands, inspecting the wick length, pretending she gave a damn about any of this.
Maybe he wouldn’t ask again, and she could pretend she hadn’t just rejected him. She felt his brokenhearted need like a chain around her neck, but she was already barely treading water, already drowning. She couldn’t take the weight of him, too.
Disappointment clouded his face. Quinn looked away, hating herself.
Later, she promised herself. Next time. Tomorrow, maybe.
Her ne
rves were raw and edgy, anxiety scrabbling beneath her skin. She wanted to run, to get away, to disappear.
Suddenly, everyone was too close, the buzz of conversation too loud, like angry bees inside her head.
Ghost let out a low urgent bark.
Quinn glanced down at him, startled. She’d been standing here for a few minutes, her mind blank. “What is it, boy?”
He barked again, his body stiff as he tilted his head, sniffing the air. He gently shook off a couple of kids petting him and dashed toward the opened doorway at the rear of the building, his plumed tail streaking behind him.
“Ghost! Wait up!” Her heart rate quickening, Quinn turned around, searching for Milo.
He wasn’t next to her anymore. He wasn’t at the booths on either side or anywhere in the crowd.
Milo was gone.
24
Quinn
Day Eighty-Nine
“Milo!” Quinn set the soy candle on the table and rushed after Ghost, emerging from the expo building into the dreary gray day. “Wait!”
Milo and Ghost were nowhere in sight.
“Milo!”
No answer.
She took a few tentative steps, then turned in a slow circle, scanning the buildings, the trees, the barren field in the distance.
The expo building was the last in the row, along the far west perimeter of the fairgrounds. A concrete walkway circled the buildings. Beyond a few scattered outbuildings, thick woods lurked beyond the fence line.
How had they disappeared so fast?
Past the fence, something moved in the trees.
Quinn squinted, shielding her eyes with one hand while going for the Beretta with her other. She stuffed Gran’s list into her pocket and withdrew the pistol.
Though the police and other volunteers patrolled the fairgrounds, it didn’t mean they were safe. The last three months had taught her well.