by Kyla Stone
“150 proof—it’ll put hair on your chest, that’s for sure!” Zane bellowed, laughing at his own joke as he poured booze into Logan’s flask.
She frowned. She hadn’t realized he’d managed to keep the flask during their decontamination screening. Most people lost all their personal belongings in the process, mostly because FEMA, the Red Cross, and the National Guard didn’t have the time to decontaminate millions of items. Their only focus was saving lives.
Because their group had saved Trey Hawthorne and his men, they’d received special privileges. Nonporous items were much easier to decontaminate. It was why Dakota still had her knife, and they had their guns back.
Zane finished filling Logan’s flask and held it out to him. Logan shook his head and said something, but Zane ignored him. Zane gestured, laughing, and Logan finally acquiesced and took a swig.
Dakota turned away in disgust—and disappointment. With everything going on, all she needed was Logan too drunk to be useful. Was she right to depend on him? Or was she making a huge mistake?
Haasi cleared her throat, bringing Dakota’s attention back to their conversation. Haasi frowned, staring down at her pestle and mortar. The leaves looked well mashed, but she kept working at them. “You know, Ezra was heartbroken when he lost you.”
Dakota’s throat tightened. There had been a stoop to his broad shoulders that she didn’t remember. He walked like his joints ached, pressing a hand to the small of his back when he thought no one was looking, grimacing when he sat or stood, a permanent scowl on his face as he fought the betrayals of his own aging body.
Her throat tightened. Old age happened to everyone—but this was different. She hated to see him like that. She hated the realization that she had something to do with it even more.
She sniffed, trying to play off the sudden surge of emotion stinging the backs of her eyes. “Does Ezra even have a heart?”
“You know he does, girl.” Haasi worked in silence for several moments. “When Izzy, his wife, was still alive, she used to bring their vegetables to the farmers’ market every other week. Made the best Muscadine grape jelly in all South Florida. He’d go with her, smile and chat with the customers. They came to the Colliers’ barbeques, and Ezra helped my husband, Minco, install our well before he died.
“Ezra was a different man before she passed. Something inside him broke without her. He couldn’t believe that it was cancer that did it, in the end. All that planning, all the years of effort and work that went into creating his safe little self-sustaining world, and it couldn’t save the one person who mattered.”
Haasi’s eyes were bright and glistening—like she was holding back tears. “And then you and that girl showed up. You changed that man’s life.”
Dakota realized with a start that this woman cared deeply for Ezra. Probably she had for years. But Ezra’s heart had been too hardened to let anyone in—until Dakota and Eden.
They’d repaid his kindness by abandoning him without a word. It was the last straw. He’d never risked opening up to anyone else again, not in friendship, and not in love. It only made sense that his feelings toward Dakota—and everyone else—were filled with bitterness, resentment, and anger.
A fresh wave of shame washed through her. Part of this was her fault. Too much of it.
“He saved our lives,” she said quietly. “But now he won’t let us save his.”
Using a spoon, Haasi transferred the poultice into a small glass jar and sealed the lid. She handed it to Dakota. “The paste can be applied directly to the skin and covered with a piece of clean cloth, preferably something thin and light like gauze. Cover the cloth with plastic wrap to hold in the moisture, and change the poultice every three or four hours, or whenever it dries out.”
“Thank you.”
Haasi wiped her hands briskly on her skirt. “Did I ever tell you what happened to my family?”
“No.”
“Tessa was two, Peter almost one when it happened. Their father was out of the picture—and wanted to be—shortly after Peter’s birth. I was babysitting them while my husband drove Hachi—my daughter—to Everglades City, to a used car dealership to see about getting her a more dependable car. They were broadsided by a moron texting on his phone at seventy miles an hour. My daughter died instantly. Minco suffered for two weeks before he passed.”
“I’m truly sorry, Haasi.”
She shrugged off the sympathy. “It could’ve killed me, that much loss. But the way I saw it, I had two grandbabies who needed me, so I had to fight through somehow, some way. And I did. A few years later, Maki came along. She’s Seminole, not Miccosukee, but I’ve forgiven her for it.”
“You’ve built a good life out here.”
“I have. But make no mistake, none of this came easy. It was the bravest thing I ever did. I miss my husband and daughter every single day. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t carved out a bit of peace and happiness.”
Haasi pressed her lips together and shook her head ruefully. “Ezra couldn’t face the pain of his past. He allowed it to eat him up him instead. The way he is now, he’ll die alone.”
“I hope not,” Dakota said.
“He made his own choices, don’t forget that. We all do.”
Haasi was right. Ezra, as much as she loved him, was a miserable man. Rather than risk his heart for the possibility of something more, something better, he’d chosen a safe, solitary life of loss and loneliness.
Dakota turned her head quickly, blinking back the sudden stinging in her eyes. Guilt and remorse pierced her—for Ezra, but not just Ezra.
Maybe she couldn’t do a damn thing about how Ezra chose to live—or not live—his life, but she could deal with her own crap.
Silently, she vowed to tell Eden the truth at the first opportunity. Her secret had been festering between them for far too long. She dreaded confessing, but that didn’t give her a pass to push aside her own responsibility.
She’d seen firsthand what that did to a person.
She didn’t want to turn into Ezra. She didn’t want to hurt the people she cared about most in the world.
If she’d learned one thing in the last weeks, it was that the next minute wasn’t promised to anyone. The terrorist attacks had obliterated hundreds of thousands of people, every single one brimming with plans, dreams, goals—all turned to ash, their secrets buried with them.
But first, she had to convince Ezra to let them stay.
“Ezra is a hard, stubborn man who can’t admit when he’s wrong,” Haasi said. “You just have to be more stubborn than he is.”
Dakota cradled the jar in her hands and managed a small smile. “That, I can do.”
17
Dakota
“I’m not leaving.” Dakota flung open the door and marched back to the cabin. She planted herself in the middle of the worn but fastidious kitchen and stared down Ezra with her hands on her hips. “And neither are my friends.”
Ezra shoved back his chair and stood, glowering at her. Old newspapers were spread across the kitchen table, topped by a handful of guns in neatly ordered rows and a well-organized cleaning kit. “If you think—”
She cut him off. “I know they make more mouths to feed, but they make more hands for working, too. And in case you’ve forgotten, you can’t take care of this whole place with one hand. We’ll all help. We can maintain the garden, take the boat out and fish, keep up with the rabbits and the chickens.”
Ezra only grunted.
“And you and I both know the Shepherds aren’t done with us. We’re not leaving you to defend yourself on your own. We’re going to finish this. I’m going to finish this.”
Ezra stared at her.
“After that, if we haven’t earned our place, just say the word and we’ll leave. Until then, we’re staying.”
He turned his back to her and fussed with his guns, fumbling with his one good hand, the splinted fingers of his left hand making him clumsy and slow. He moved stiffly, like his joints were cau
sing him pain. Or maybe it was the beating he’d just taken.
She waited him out. Ezra Burrows was incredibly stubborn, but so was she.
Several long, tense minutes passed.
She shifted impatiently, balling and unballing her fists against her thighs, her teeth gritted, staring at the white streaking his thinning hair, his broad stooped shoulders, at a round liver spot on the back of his neck.
Her frustration dissolved, replaced with something that felt a lot like sorrow. He was getting old. She hated that thought with a loathing that made her stomach hurt.
Everything she loved was falling apart.
But not this. Not yet.
She wouldn’t let it.
She was strong enough to keep this place together, tough enough to keep the people she cared about alive and well and safe here for as long as they needed.
There was so much more she wanted to say, but the words clogged in her throat like stones. She didn’t speak. She waited.
If she lost him now, she might lose him forever.
Finally, he relented. His shoulders sagged. “You’re bossier than I remember.”
“I was taught by the best.”
He gave a soft snort.
When he turned to face her, his eyes were shiny, but she pretended not to notice. He held his splinted left hand up close to his chest. Puffy, purple bruises distorted his features. “Everyone works their asses off.”
“They will,” Dakota promised, keeping her expression even, fighting back the triumphant grin daring to break across her face.
Someone knocked on the front door. Logan stepped inside. He glanced from Dakota to Ezra. “We have a lot to do to prepare for the Shepherds.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Ezra gestured at the kitchen table with his good hand. “Bring everyone here. I have a plan.”
18
Maddox
Solomon Cage stormed into the infirmary. The Prophet followed him, his hands folded at his waist, his face grave.
“They’re all dead!” Solomon snarled.
Maddox sat up swiftly, his heart hammering. He’d been in bed resting while Sister Rosemarie changed the dressings of the sores pocking his chest and upper arms, sores from the radiation sickness. He was still weak and lethargic, but at least he wasn’t vomiting.
The medical clinic was simple, with a wooden floor, plank walls, and a low ceiling. A row of cabinets was set against the fourth wall beside a stainless-steel cart containing scalpels, trauma shears, rolls of gauze, and other medical supplies.
His father jabbed his finger at him. “Seven of our best men! We sent them out yesterday to take care of your screw-up. None of them returned. We’ve heard nothing all day. No contact. They’re dead.”
Maddox knew for a fact that they hadn’t sent their best men. His father had sent new Shepherds, young and relatively inexperienced, who’d never shot at anything more threatening than a target tacked to a tree.
He pursed his lips but said nothing. To say so would only invite further wrath, and his father was already boiling with rage.
“This is because of you.” Solomon’s expression was stony, as if his features were carved from granite, his eyes a cold, cruel glacial blue. Though his sandy blond hair and beard were peppered with gray, he was still a fit, powerful man. A hard man.
“Are you really my son,” he snarled, “or did your mother whore herself out to a cowering dog? Are you really that worthless?”
“No!” Maddox cried, his own anger flaring. “I wasn’t even there!”
Outrage thrummed through him. It was her. Dakota did this to him. Without her, Eden would still be here.
Maddox should be one of the elite Chosen alongside his brother, Jacob, setting the world right with nothing to stop them. No one would look down on them ever again. They would rule everyone and everything.
Maddox would have the power. He would be in control.
“And why weren’t you there?” Solomon spat on the floor. “Because you’re weak.”
Maddox bit down on his tongue. Excuses wouldn’t matter. To defend himself just made him appear weaker than he already was.
God’s will—the Prophet’s will—didn’t have to make sense. Their duty was to bend to it without question. To question the Prophet was to question God, a blasphemy of the worst kind.
Beside the bed, Sister Rosemarie stiffened. She dropped the cool compress she was holding to the bowl on the medical cart beside her. “Your son is still recovering. He needs peace and quiet—”
“I’ll decide what he needs!” his father roared. He turned his scornful gaze back to Maddox. “You know who never wavered? Jacob never doubted. Jacob never failed me.”
Maddox flinched from the sting of his father’s barbed words. He failed when he allowed a girl to kill him. But he didn’t dare say the words aloud. Thoughts of his perfect, dead brother brought a snarled ache of love and resentment, bitterness and pain.
“I—I have faith,” he said instead.
“Solomon,” the Prophet said, the faintest reproof in his voice. He had been silent until now, patiently waiting while Solomon burned through his rage.
The instant he spoke, Solomon went stiff and still, like the Prophet had tugged an invisible leash.
In his mid-fifties, the Prophet was a slim, tall man with a long, narrow face and wavy yellow hair to his shoulders. An unremarkable man at first glance. His power was in his eloquent words, his charisma, and the unnatural sway he held over every single one of his devoted followers.
“You know what you must do,” the Prophet said calmly to his father. “Sparing the rod is a mortal sin.”
He watched his father’s jaw work silently, his eyes savage with fury. He spoke like the words were choking him. “The Lord could judge you harshly. Instead, he has spread his hands of mercy over you. Come, my son, to the mercy room.”
“His body can’t handle it!” Sister Rosemarie stood quickly, moving closer to the edge of Maddox’s bed. “He’s still recovering! He was exposed to radiation—”
“God will give him the strength,” the Prophet said. His voice was quiet but as commanding as if he’d shouted. “In our weakness, we are strong.”
“But—”
His father shot her a scornful look. “Be careful, Sister, lest you question God’s will.”
Sister Rosemarie took a step back and lowered her head. “Forgive me, Prophet.”
The Prophet patted her shoulder. “Blessings be upon you, dear Sister, for your compassionate heart. Do not allow it to lead you astray.”
“Of course not,” she murmured. She reached her hand toward him, her head still bowed meekly. “Blessings.”
“Of course.” The Prophet held out his hand with an indulgent flourish and let her kiss it. “I bless you, my soul.”
She glanced at Maddox, her eyes full of concern—and apology.
It wasn’t her fault, but he felt a stab of resentment anyway. She was here, witnessing his humiliation. He hated her for that.
The Prophet gestured at Maddox. “Lead the way.”
Maddox gritted his teeth, his legs like lead, dread coursing through him. But he held his head high and strode to the mercy room, ignoring the laughter and calls of the children, the gentle song of someone practicing a hymn on the violin.
Volleys of gunshots echoed through the forest. The Shepherds were training hard for something big. The Shepherds were always together, always secretive, coming and going with increased frequency, their expressions tense like warriors preparing for battle.
The last mission, the people whispered, the one that would trigger the end, the Armageddon, the final cleansing of a corrupt and wicked land.
Soon, Maddox would join them. He only needed to endure a little longer.
As they approached, a man came striding out of the mercy room, shoving his young son of maybe nine in front of him. The boy’s head was lowered in mortification. His face was wet, his shirt clinging to his back, red streaks staining the rough cott
on fabric.
Maddox recognized the kid’s lank, corn-colored hair and pinched features. He was a mischievous kid, always telling inappropriate jokes or giggling in church. His parents were the rigid, pious types who couldn’t bear the embarrassment of an unruly child.
“Don’t shame me further in front of the Prophet, boy,” the father snapped. He turned toward the Prophet, his incensed expression instantly transforming to one of adoration and worship.
Trembling from pain, the boy managed to kneel and grasp the Prophet’s hand to kiss it.
“Blessings be upon you, Philip,” the Prophet said, his voice kind and compassionate, as if he weren’t the one who’d ordered the whipping in the first place. “This too shall pass.”
He smiled—paternal, benevolent—but there was that faint twist of his lips that felt somehow as menacing as it was magnanimous.
“I swear this will never happen again,” the father said fervently. He reached for the Prophet’s hand and kissed it, his head bowed in reverence.
“See that it doesn’t,” the Prophet said, less graciously.
Maddox tried to catch the kid’s eye, to give him a smile and let him know he wasn’t alone, but the boy didn’t look up. He was too upset.
The father pushed him along, the thundercloud of his expression promising whatever punishment the boy had earned wasn’t over yet.
Maddox knew well how some people used religion to cloak their acts of aggression and cruelty. It was cunning and clever, really. No amount of guilt or self-awareness could ever pierce the bloat of self-righteous piety.
Once the man and the boy were gone, Maddox entered the mercy room of his own volition, followed by his father and the Prophet. Maddox knelt, stripped off his shirt, and received the whipping he didn’t deserve with his head held high.
He’d been lashed because of Jacob or Dakota more than once. He would remember this, would remember every agonizing blow. He’d hold onto his anger, hatred, and resentment and relish every bitter sting.