Edge of Collapse Series | Book 6 | Edge of Survival

by Stone, Kyla

  She aimed and fired, wincing as the round hit its mark. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  She squeezed the trigger again. The slide locked back. Out of ammo.

  Another dog yelped and fell, its throat torn to shreds. The dogs trampled over it and kept fighting, ferocious and unrelenting. Six of them tearing and biting at Ghost. Ghost a snarling, whirling dervish, all fangs and claws.

  Blood spattered the dead leaves and dirt. She couldn’t tell whose it was.

  With growing horror, she watched Ghost fighting for his life, for their lives.

  “Quinn!” Milo shouted at her. “Climb the tree!”

  She almost went. Almost. But she couldn’t abandon Ghost, not when he was so valiantly defending them.

  She wouldn’t let this happen. She wouldn’t let him die.

  Quinn picked up a heavy branch the size of a baseball bat and advanced on the melee, screaming so loud she couldn’t hear a thing, couldn’t think, only knew she had to fight, had to try.

  She never reached the dogs.

  Gunshots rang out. Several people raced into the clearing, rushing the fighting dogs, shouting, wielding weapons. More gunshots. Boom! Boom!

  Startled, the dogs broke apart. Two fell, blood blossoming. Three men waded into the fray, swinging nail-studded baseball bats and sledgehammers. Another three shots. Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The Rottweiler toppled sideways, a hole in the side of its head. The remaining dogs scattered—limping, bloodied, snarling and yelping.

  They fled into the trees and disappeared in the shadows.

  The strangers hollered after the dogs, but Quinn had eyes only for one.

  Ghost lay on his side, covered in dirt. Bright red blood stippled and stained his white coat. Blood was everywhere, trampled in the leaves, sprayed in terrible arcs across dirtied clumps of snow.

  Fear lanced through her. He looked dead.

  “Ghost!” Quinn cried.

  For a heart-shredding moment, the dog didn’t move.

  Then a shudder rippled through his great body. He lifted his head with a soft whine and rose gingerly to his feet, a bloodied gash in his right hind leg.

  He took a faltering step toward her.

  It was difficult to determine bites or cuts through his fur. She didn’t know how serious his injuries were, but he was up, he was alive.

  Her relief was short-lived.

  One of the strangers spun toward the Pyr, a skinny black guy with acned skin, a crossbow slung across his back and a hatchet at his hip. A revolver in his hand, aiming at Ghost.

  “Stop!” Quinn fell to her knees in front of Ghost, hands out, shielding the dog with her body. “Don’t shoot him!”

  27

  Liam

  Day Eighty-Nine

  Liam drifted in and out of consciousness, pain his only companion.

  Nightmares of combat seared his mind—the boom of machine guns and mortar fire, rounds screaming past him on all sides, smoke billowing, grenades exploding, the groans of his lost brothers-in-arms.

  Liam…Hannah present somehow but always just out of reach, trapped and calling for him. No matter how far he ran or how hard he fought, he couldn’t seem to find her. Liam…Her pure, church-bell voice beckoning him, as potent as a moth drawn to the flame. Liam…

  But he lost her again and again, and every time, he felt himself drifting further from himself…

  “Liam,” said an urgent voice. “Liam!”

  He jolted awake, his brain scrabbling through layers of darkness as he instinctively reached for his weapon.

  He seized his M4 from the seat beside him and struggled to sit up. No longer on the battlefield, ducking mortar fire. Not in the wintry woods, chasing after ghosts.

  Pain slashed through his ribs, jerking him into the present.

  As the cobwebs cleared from his head, the memories flooded in: his attack on the FEMA camp, the midnight rescue and near-disaster escape. Evelyn and Travis, sick little L.J., the bullet wound to his side.

  The truck rattled over potholes, every bump in the asphalt jarring his injury. The pain was incredible. He had no idea how much time had passed.

  Across the backseat, Evelyn peered at him. “How do you feel?”

  He glanced down at himself. Someone had cut half his shirt off, and fresh bandages wrapped his torso from his belly button to his ribs.

  He grimaced. “Still alive.”

  “Good enough.” Evelyn pursed her lips. “I cleaned it up as best I could and packed the wound. Without access to modern medicine, things can turn nasty fast. I need to examine you in a sterile environment and get that bullet out, preferably with medical instruments—and not in the backseat of a truck.”

  The cab was chilly but not freezing. Khaki fabric had been taped over the broken window with duct tape; Liam recognized the remnants of the patio umbrella from the brick bungalow’s backyard. Travis must have stopped to rig it up.

  “I used your knife and duct tape from your pack,” Evelyn said unapologetically. “We had to keep L.J.—and you—from getting too cold.”

  He gave a rueful smile. Of course it had been Evelyn. “It worked.”

  Evelyn handed him a water bottle. Forcing himself into a seated position with gritted teeth, he drank and scanned their surroundings.

  The midmorning sun hung bright in the blue sky. Mud and slushy snow blanketed the ground. Flat farmland pockmarked with occasional farmhouses set far from the road surrounded them on either side.

  The tree line was a distant brown smudge. Few vehicles marred the road along this stretch; most of them had made it to the shoulder, yielding few ideal ambush spots.

  Still, he didn’t relax. Couldn’t relax.

  “What did I miss?”

  “You’ve been out for about a hundred miles as the crow flies, though we’ve driven twice as far,” Travis said. “It took us a good eight hours. We bypassed St. Anne’s a bit ago, heading north on 17.”

  Liam did the calculations in his head. They were still about a hundred and twenty miles from Fall Creek.

  “I had to deviate a bit, but I stayed off the major roads, including I-57. Took forever, but it got us this far without too much trouble. Except for some angry looks from some folks and a few teenagers throwing rocks. Earlier this morning, just after Clifton, several people ran out onto the road trying to wave us down, but we didn’t dare stop.”

  “Smart decision.” His stomach lurched. He tried not to think of a dozen atrocities that might’ve befallen them. He couldn’t protect anyone while unconscious, let alone himself. “What happened?”

  Evelyn flashed him a look. “Eight or nine people tried to block the road and force us to stop. I borrowed your big gun and had to get stern. It worked.”

  He checked the carbine. “Did you fire it?”

  “Thankfully, I didn’t have to.” Her expression darkened. “I’m in the business of keeping people alive, not the other way around. I wanted to help them. They looked so desperate. They had kids.

  “In Tuscola after the collapse, things were bad, but people still helped each other. Travis’s aunt took us in, even though we were more mouths to feed. One of our neighbors shared the last of her formula to make sure L.J. would survive.”

  Travis glanced in the rearview mirror, concern for his wife in his eyes. Lines bracketed his mouth. His hair and beard were almost white, not gray but snow-white, contrasting against his earth-brown skin. “It’s okay, Evelyn.”

  “It’s not okay. That’s the point. I wanted to help those people. I would have given them some water, some aspirin, something, but I couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t hurt us. So I had to point a gun at them, even though I hated it.”

  “You did the right thing,” Liam said.

  She shook her head, her eyes flashing with anger. “It didn’t feel like it.”

  A soft coo drew Liam’s attention. L.J. twisted in his car seat, his eyes on Liam, his skinny arms reaching for the buttstock of the M4.

  “That is not a chew toy,” E
velyn said.

  L.J. let out that wet, croupy cough that sent a shiver of dread down Liam’s spine.

  Despite his scrawniness and the sickness that wracked his tiny body, he was a beautiful child. He had Jessa’s honey brown skin and Lincoln’s arresting gray-blue eyes. The same as Liam’s own.

  Once in Fall Creek, they would get him the nourishment and medical attention he needed. L.J. would thrive; he would make sure of it.

  “We’ll help someone else when it’s not so risky for all of us,” Travis said.

  Evelyn brushed the flecks of spittle from L.J.’s chin and gave him an affectionate pat on his curly head. “I know.”

  Liam glanced at Travis behind the wheel, then Evelyn. They were good people. He’d saved them, but they’d both picked up the slack when he couldn’t. They’d kept their heads without panicking.

  He wasn’t used to feeling beholden to someone or counting on anyone but himself. As a kid, he’d learned not to depend on adults.

  Only Lincoln had been there for him. He closed his eyes at the sudden flare of grief. Lincoln was gone.

  “Thank you. For driving. For stopping the bleeding.”

  “It was Evelyn.” Travis gave a modest shrug. “In all honesty, I nearly pissed my pants.”

  “He was just waiting for his moment to shine,” Evelyn said with obvious pride. “He’s always loved cars.”

  “Classics. I love classics, like a 1959 Cadillac Eldorado or the 1961 Jaguar E-Type, possibly a 1964 Aston Martin DB5. I’m talking leisurely summer drives, not a lethal race in the dead of night being chased by armored vehicles boasting guns bigger than me.”

  Evelyn beamed at him. “We got out, that’s what counts. Thanks to you, Liam.”

  Flustered, Liam made a show of studying the scenery outside the window.

  He sniffed. Something smelled singed. Ahead and to the west, smoke billowed into the sky above a cluster of distant buildings. “Looks like the entire town is burning.”

  “We passed a few others like that,” Evelyn said. “It’s awful.”

  Several minutes later, Liam caught sight of something up ahead. He stiffened. “Roadblock.”

  Several hundred yards down the road, concrete barriers and spools of concertina wire narrowed the road to a single lane. Several Humvees parked at 45-degree angles and a half-dozen National Guard soldiers dressed in BDUs were stationed at the roadblock just ahead of a blue and red sign emblazoned with the words “Welcome to Indiana: Crossroads of America.”

  The soldiers caught sight of them and stood at attention, rifles pointed their way. Liam spotted a female soldier kneeling near the left Humvee, armed with a scoped carbine; another crouched behind the right armored vehicle with an M4.

  Travis sucked in his breath as he slowed the truck to a crawl. “What do I do?”

  Adrenaline shot through Liam. These days, a uniform didn’t differentiate the good guys from the bad. “Just drive up nice and slow.”

  Travis gripped the steering wheel, drumming his fingers with nervous energy. “What do we tell them?”

  Liam glanced at his nephew. He was safe, now. Safe to grow up free, not in a cage.

  Everyone trapped at FEMA Center #109 deserved the same.

  Liam was only one man; he couldn’t save everyone. If any functioning government remained, maybe they could.

  He didn’t trust the government, but he still trusted the military, or at least, he wanted to.

  “The truth.” Liam lowered the M4 to the floorboard. No use in hiding it, but flaunting it wasn’t the best idea, either. “This could go sideways at the drop of a hat. Whatever you do, stay calm. And if I give the word, hit the gas and drive.”

  28

  Liam

  Day Eighty-Nine

  At the checkpoint, Travis hit the brakes. He rolled down the window, then returned both hands to the steering wheel.

  A soldier in his mid-twenties carrying an M4 circled around to the passenger side and peered through the windows. His shaggy acorn-brown hair tickled his collar, long past regulation length.

  A Chinese-American soldier approached the driver’s side window and requested their licenses and registration. Her nametape read Chung. “Indiana is closed. No one gets in.”

  Evelyn raised her brows. “Closed?”

  “Executive order from the governor, ma’am. We must redirect refugees from Illinois to the nearest FEMA emergency center in their home state. The closest one is—”

  “Number 109 in Champaign,” Travis said. “We know. We just came from there.”

  “You’ve got an injured passenger.” The male soldier narrowed his eyes. His nametape read Collins. “Is that a gunshot wound?”

  “Yes,” Liam said. “Sustained during our escape from the camp.”

  Collins lifted his rifle a few inches. Two guardsmen came up behind him to offer backup, their weapons in the low ready position. “Escape? What do you mean?”

  The Brooks told their story. Travis did most of the talking, as he was the calmer of the two, with Evelyn adding a bit here and there. Altogether, they were incredibly convincing.

  The soldiers attempted to remain neutral, but Liam read their dismay, indignation, and growing outrage as the Brooks described the atrocities they’d witnessed and endured, American citizens held against their will, civilians starved and abused.

  One guardsman stepped aside and murmured into his radio.

  Collins spat on the road. “Illinois is FUBAR.”

  Chung grimaced at the crass military term meaning things were screwed up beyond all recognition. “Just about. You wouldn’t believe the things happening all over the country. We’ve heard rumors about shelters being overrun, but we haven’t received confirmation until now.”

  “What about this Alexander Poe guy?” Liam asked.

  “Poe and his Syndicate took over Chicago within a few weeks of the Collapse,” Collins said. “The federal government ordered the National Guard elsewhere, so there weren’t enough soldiers to protect the city. Some say it was a calculated decision to let Chicago burn to consolidate troops to save New York and D.C. instead. But Poe hasn’t been content with Chicago. He keeps spreading, like the world’s nastiest virus.”

  “We’re contacting our commanding officer,” Chung said. “We’ll do something. I don’t know what, but we can’t let this continue. Poe keeps amassing more territory and more men, like he’s intent on taking over Illinois. If he does, I doubt he’ll stop there.”

  “Men like that don’t stop,” Liam said.

  She nodded, pursing her lips in a way that reminded him a bit of Quinn. “Indiana is a mess, too. If he heads toward us, we’re in trouble.”

  Collins swept his gaze over the barren corn field across the road before returning his attention to the truck. “In a nutshell, the feds’ efforts to restore law and order—and power—are concentrated on the coasts. They’ve abandoned the Midwest at this point.”

  “But you’re here,” Travis pointed out.

  Collins straightened his shoulders. “Lieutenant Governor Wright-Mays—governor now, since Governor Rhyson never made it home—she kept back some Indiana National Guard units. So did Michigan. Illinois sent all their soldiers, believing the feds would provide aid when they needed it. They didn’t.”

  “California, Washington, and Oregon have formed a federation,” Chung said. “They’re hoarding local resources and keeping their Guardsmen and military assets for themselves, defying federal regulations. Texas is doing the same. They’ve restored partial power in a few areas since they have their own grid infrastructure. But good luck fleeing to Texas; they’re turning away nonresidents at gunpoint.”

  “I can’t believe things are degenerating so fast,” Evelyn said. “I mean, we saw it happen in Venezuela and other countries, but here? I never thought this could happen here.”

  A guardsman brought over three water bottles—lukewarm, but that didn’t matter. Travis took them with a nod of gratitude. “Thank you.”

  “What was yo
ur muster?” Liam asked.

  “Fifty percent,” Chung said. “Most of us showed up to the armory with our families. It’s crowded, but we make sure the kids have food and shelter. These days, it’s more than most people have.”

  Collins scratched his jaw. “We’re losing people every day, though. Everyone’s having the same problem. The military, first responders, police, doctors and nurses, everyone. When the world’s going to hell, most people care more about helping their loved ones than doing their job. Can’t say I blame them, though it makes our task harder.”

  “Thanks for the information,” Travis said.

  Chung pursed her lips. “I wish we could do more.” Her gaze flicked from Travis to the baby in the back seat. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, but our orders haven’t changed. We can’t accept refugees from Illinois.”

  Evelyn snorted. “Refugees? Seriously?”

  “Evelyn,” Travis said, his voice soft.

  Evelyn sat back with a huff. “Come on. We’re all Americans. We’re on the same side here.”

  “It’s not their fault.” Travis shot the guards an apologetic look. “We get it.”

  “Sorry,” Chung said again.

  “I’m not from Illinois.” Grimacing at every movement, Liam fumbled in his go-bag and pulled out his driver’s license. “We’re headed to Michigan. I’m a resident. We have no desire to stay in Indiana, we have a safe place to go—Fall Creek. So, if you’ll just let us pass through, we’ll be on our way.”

  Chung nodded vigorously, looking relieved. “We can do that.” She narrowed her eyes. “Southwest Michigan, right? You’ve got a nuclear reactor over there?”

  “Cook Nuclear in Stevensville,” Liam said. “And the Palisades plant further north near South Haven.”

  Chung’s expression turned somber. “Braidwood, one of the plants serving Chicago, melted down.”

  Evelyn’s face went ashen. “What?”

  “It experienced a core meltdown the day of the EMP. The emergency shut-down sequence is an electronic system, so the pulse fried it before the signal was sent to the generators. Braidwood had just upgraded their generators to an all-new high-tech smart system. It got zapped, too. No one expected the generators to shut down, or the containment structure to fail.”