Into the Fire

by Kyla Stone

  He was hiding from something in his past. She knew exactly what that was like.

  So was she. More than one thing, in her case.

  40

  Dakota

  Dakota took a deep breath as the old memories tumbled back in, sharp and painful. The scars on her back prickled. She hadn’t slept well the last few nights. Returning to the Glades and fighting the Shepherds had brought everything back again in harsh, vivid color.

  She may have left, but the past was still where it always was. The people of the compound were haunting her dreams again, whispering in her mind with desperate voices.

  Not only Maddox and the Prophet, but the others—the women and the children who called that place their home, who didn’t know their sanctuary was also their prison.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she asked Julio.

  “Of course. You can ask me anything.”

  “I think about them sometimes.”

  “Who?”

  “The kids I left behind. At the River Grass Compound.”

  The people she’d left behind—they were still exactly where she’d left them. The compound hadn’t ceased to be. The people who lived there were still as trapped as she’d been, whether they realized it or not.

  “There was a woman…she was always so kind to me,” she said slowly. “Nothing like some of the other sisters. Sister Rosemarie. She was maybe the closest thing I had to a mother in there. But that’s not saying much.”

  Julio paused, hunched over his sandbag, and waited. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. He was listening.

  “I remember this one little girl, Ruth. She wasn’t that much younger than I was, but she was so tiny. Always wore her hair in braids. She was so smart, so inquisitive. She wanted to learn everything. She was always shadowing Sister Rosemarie and asking questions about medical stuff.”

  Dakota closed her eyes for a moment, pushing out the sweltering heat and the bugs, the buzz of the cicadas, the dirt beneath her fingernails. “Out here in the real world, she’d grow up to be a doctor or a scientist. But in there…once, they caught her reading the Bible—the real Bible, not the parts about submission, obedience, and hard work they photocopied and allowed the girls to read. They took her into the mercy room…she couldn’t stand up straight for weeks after they were through with her.”

  Julio’s round, placid face went ashen. He crossed himself. “Have mercy.”

  Dakota picked up the shovel and thrust it into the dirt. She practically hurled the dirt into the burlap sack, clods flying everywhere. That old anger was rising in her again, bitter and helpless and ugly.

  “That’s probably another sin, right? Being so angry I could kill something? Just add it to the list.”

  “I’m not a priest,” Julio said. “You have nothing to confess to me. That’s between you and God. But between you and me, righteous outrage isn’t a sin.”

  She shoveled furiously, her palms stinging from the relentless, repetitive strokes. She filled the sack, lugged it into the wheelbarrow, and started on the next one. “I left them behind. All of them. I took Eden and I ran.”

  Julio took a step toward her then stopped, hesitating. He scratched at the new, gray growth stubbling his cheeks. “Dakota—”

  “Does that make me just as bad? I saved myself and left them. All those kids.”

  “You were a kid yourself. Don’t forget that.”

  “I don’t think that matters to the kids.”

  “You aren’t responsible for saving them.”

  She wanted to believe his words, but she couldn’t. She made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.

  “Oh, Dakota.” Julio paused, studying her, his dark eyes gentle and full of compassion. “You can’t save the whole world.”

  Dakota snorted. “I know that. I just…all I wanted to do was save Eden. But the rest of them…those kids are trapped, too, just like we were.”

  “I’d want to get them out, too, if it were possible. But we can’t right all the wrongs of the world. You can’t take that on your shoulders. As much as you might want to think you’re in control of everything, you’re not.”

  She stared off toward the water, watched the distant fishing boat drifting next to the dock. “That’s what Logan says.”

  “He’s not wrong.” Julio hesitated. “Listen. What happened to you in that place was evil. Whatever you think, it wasn’t your fault—what they did to you, what you had to do to survive.”

  She looked at him sharply. He was watching her with a strange, strained expression, like he knew everything. Just like Ezra used to look at her—with a mix of pity, tenderness, and barely restrained anger.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he said softly. “I can guess plenty. Great evil has been done throughout history in God’s name. Trust me, God hates it more than you do.”

  “Maybe,” she said, not convinced.

  “Those people aren’t God, and they don’t speak for Him. God, the real God, loves you more than you could ever know. There’s nothing you can do to earn it. And there’s not a thing you could do to make Him stop loving you.”

  A part of her wanted to roll her eyes; another part of her wished it was true. “Not a priest, huh? You sure about that?”

  “I’m pretty sure a bartender can’t be a priest,” Julio said dryly, but he was smiling.

  She found herself smiling back despite herself.

  She cared about Julio, more than she’d realized. The strength of her feelings had snuck up on her, surprised her. But it was no less real. She cared about him, his safety and his family, and she wanted him to be happy.

  She didn’t have much experience with friendships. With relationships of any kind, really. Not growing up like she had, starved for affection and human connection. It made you so hungry, so full of longing that it was easier to shut down and go numb than endure rejection again and again.

  The thought still filled her with a low, humming terror. The more you wanted, the more afraid you were of not getting it. The more you had, the more that could be ripped away from you.

  Her chest tightened. Memories of the Prophet and Solomon Cage flickered through her mind, of Maddox with his knife to Eden’s throat, that deadly maniacal gleam in his eyes. The next time I see you, I’m going to kill you…

  “We could die out here,” she said abruptly, her mouth going dry. “I dragged you into this. All this—everything we’re doing—it’s because of me. I’m putting you in danger.”

  “It’s just as dangerous out there. Maybe even more so. Me, Logan, Eden, and Park are all alive because of you, Dakota. So is Shay. Don’t forget that. And don’t dismiss it so easily.”

  She finished the sack, tied it off, and hauled it into the nearly full wheelbarrow. She grabbed another sack from the pile and kept working. “I won’t.”

  But her guilt, of her responsibility for all of them still tightened around her heart like a vise. The Shepherds were coming because of her. It didn’t matter what anyone said; that was the truth.

  If Julio got hurt, or worse, she’d never forgive herself…

  “You can still leave,” she said. “This isn’t your fight, Julio. No one would think less of you for getting the hell out of here and saving your own family.”

  Julio reached out and grabbed her hand, stopping her in mid-shovel. “Boy, you are a stubborn one, aren’t you? Did you not listen to the part about you saving my life?”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” she insisted.

  She hated the thought of anyone sticking around because they felt they had to. She’d endured enough of that with foster parents and group home workers who gave their fake smiles and their false promises, but it was all just an act.

  Sure, there were plenty of foster parents who genuinely cared—Eden had lucked out with good ones. Dakota’s experiences had been very different.

  She shook her head and attempted to pull away, but he tightened his grip.

  He intended for her to pay attention, t
o really hear him. “I’m here because I want to be. I’m here to protect this place and the people I care about. That includes you.”

  Dakota’s chest filled with a sudden warmth. She looked away and blinked rapidly. She placed her gloved hand over his. “I—I’m sorry. For everything.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing.” He squeezed her hand. “I chose to be here. I’m meant to be here. I have faith, Dakota. There is a purpose in all of this. You may not see it yet, but there is.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I do. God has a purpose for you, too, Dakota. Maybe it’s to save Eden. Maybe it’s something more. That’s for you to find out. But you’ll get through this. You will. And you have your friends at your side. Don’t ever forget that.”

  She used to believe she and Eden were safer on their own. She’d been wrong.

  Now she had Eden, but also Julio. She had Ezra, and Logan. People she cared about, who truly cared for her. Maybe this was what it felt like to have a real family. To know people had your back and supported you, no matter what. It filled her with warmth, joy, and resolve.

  She had more to fight for than ever before.

  And more to lose.

  She slipped her hands free of his grasp, dropped her gloves in the wheelbarrow, and straightened her shoulders.

  Julio shielded his eyes from the sun and looked at her. “Where are you going?”

  “There’s something I need to do.”

  41

  Logan

  Logan paused and rubbed his sore back. His body wasn’t meant for all this kneeling. He was supposed to be weeding the garden inside the enclosed greenhouse, but he was doing a pretty crappy job at it.

  All the green stuff looked the same. He couldn’t tell a ripe tomato from a cantaloupe. Eden had been working with him, showing him which green plants were weeds and which green plants were going to grow carrots, snap peas, lettuce, et cetera.

  She’d taken a break to run back to the cabin to refill their water bottles from the pump.

  He was alone. He licked his cracked lips, his mouth as dry as a desert. He was thirsty, but not for water.

  For the hundredth time that day, he felt the need. The wanting. To feel that familiar, welcoming warmth buzzing through his veins. To finally numb the constant, tortured whispers of the monster lurking in his own mind.

  Instinctively, he reached for his flask.

  He hesitated, his hand hovering inches from his cargo pocket as he fought his own worst instincts. It was pointless to resist, anyway. What good had it done him? What was the point of all this, of any of it? There was no meaning to any of it, only death and destruction and more death.

  “Hey,” said a voice from behind him.

  He whirled around, adrenaline pumping, the flask forgotten as he reached for his pistol. Dakota grinned down at him with a slow, lazy wave.

  He wiped sweat from his brow, willing his thumping heart to still. She was good at sneaking

  up on people. It was disconcerting, to say the least. “It’s you.”

  She tilted her head, studying him, but her steady, enigmatic gaze gave nothing away. That she was willing to speak to him at all was the truly surprising thing.

  She must hate him. He hated himself.

  “I want to show you something,” she said.

  He needed to escape the damning whispers inside his own tumultuous head. And his gut was still roiling from the events of yesterday. Right now, anywhere was better than here.

  He dropped his gloves in the dirt. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Ezra will kill you if you leave them like that. Put them in the plastic tote by the door after you wipe them off.”

  He obeyed, wiping soil from his knees and then the gloves and putting them away neatly. He didn’t need Ezra to dislike him more than he already did.

  Zigzagging to avoid the booby traps across the property, Logan followed her to the edge of the swamp. The overgrown grass and weeds swished around his ankles and shins, the ground wet and spongy. Grasshoppers leapt ahead of them. The air smelled earthy, like wet grass and rotting vegetation.

  His hands hung in loose fists at his sides. His palms were sore and blistered. Last night, he’d worked for hours to bury the bodies of the intruders they’d killed.

  He could’ve left them in the woods where they’d fallen—there were plenty of dead already scattered along US 41. Or hauled them to the swamp and let the gators take care of them, like they’d done with the seven Shepherds.

  But the Collier brothers hadn’t wanted to leave them like so much trash. Neither had Dakota. So Logan had offered to bury them himself, alone.

  He’d needed to do it. Not for the dead scumbags, but for himself. He needed to work himself to the bone, to make his hands blister and bleed, his muscles ache and burn. He needed strenuous labor to distract him, to drown out the things he couldn’t afford to feel.

  The digging was hard and painful, the soil soggy and threaded with roots. But it did its job. The moonshine was still in the flask, still full, ready and waiting for a moment of weakness.

  He’d worked long into the night. The blonde woman he did last and buried the deepest—this close to the swamp, that wasn’t far. He shoved more soil on top, forming something that slightly resembled one of those old Indian burial mounds.

  It may have kept him from drinking, but the grave-digging hadn’t made him feel better. It hadn’t done a thing to stop the sickening waves of shame, the bitter self-loathing.

  Only one thing helped with that.

  He felt its pull, felt the desire to blot out the whole world and go numb bubbling up, toxic and irresistible. If he went back to it, he’d lose something critical. Of that, he was certain.

  He’d sink into oblivion and never come back again.

  “Hey!” Dakota touched his arm. “Logan?”

  He felt the heat of her fingers like an electric shock.

  He pulled away. “I’m here.”

  Dakota flexed her jaw, studying him again. Then her expression cleared. Whatever she was thinking, she’d made up her mind. She turned on her heels and motioned for him to follow her.

  A part of him whispered that he shouldn’t go. Wherever this was headed, it’d only lead to disaster and heartache for them both. But he shook it off.

  Another, stronger part of him wanted to go with her. Despite everything, despite the whole world caving in on him, he wanted what he wanted.

  She led him out to the old but well-made dock. The sturdy boards creaked as they strode to the small fishing boat tied to a post at the end of the dock.

  She got in the boat and gestured for him to do the same.

  He hesitated. “We shouldn’t go far—”

  “We won’t.” She patted the two-way radio hooked to her belt beside her holstered Springfield. “I’ve already let Ezra know where we’ll be. First sign of trouble, we’ll be right back here.”

  Logan stumbled awkwardly into the boat, plopping down on the aluminum bench with an unceremonious thud. It was the bow seat, she told him as she switched on the motor and directed them out into the millions of watery acres covered in endless waves of sawgrass.

  He sat stiffly while she settled in behind him on the stern seat. They motored toward a channel—a clear break between the maze of grass. There were little paths everywhere, but Dakota seemed to know exactly where they were going.

  Miles and miles of sawgrass as tall as their heads punctured a sea of still, dark water. Swirls of brown scum coated the surface. Clumps of trees gathered here and there like small islands, their branches draped with long, ropy vines.

  Clouds of mosquitos were everywhere, buzzing and biting with that high-pitched whine. Dakota pulled a small, greenish spray bottle from her pocket and handed it to him. “Haasi’s insect repellent made from crushed beautyberry. It’ll last a couple of hours.”

  The stuff helped immensely. The swarming gnats and skeeters mostly stayed away, for a while at least.

  After a fe
w minutes, Dakota cut the motor. “Believe it or not, we’re only a few minutes from the cabin. I took the long way.”

  They floated for a while in a sea of grass, not speaking.

  She pointed at a vaguely circular area filled with brown water. It looked deep. “Alligator hole. They dredge it, make it themselves. See how it’s soupy, muddy? It’s occupied.”

  “Occupied?”

  “With an alligator. The monsters of the swamp.”

  Abruptly, the surface of the water erupted.

  An enormous alligator launched itself at a tall, leggy bird dipping its bill into shallow water a dozen yards away. The alligator clamped its jaws over the bird’s feathery chest and dragged it flapping and squawking below the surface.

  The water churned as the gator spun with its prey. Within a minute, only a swath of bubbles revealed the bird and the gator had even existed in the first place.

  “Holy hell,” Logan breathed.

  “Don’t mess with the wildlife.” She smiled at him: a real smile, soft and genuine and open, not a mask, not a shield.

  It did something, tugging at some invisible string inside him.

  He almost managed to smile back. “I guess not.”

  Desperate for a distraction, he examined the sawgrass as the boat slid past. The ends tapered to spears. Tiny, sharp teeth ran up both sides of each blade. He reached out and grabbed a stalk to study it more closely.

  The clump of sawgrass cut his palm like a fistful of needles. He jerked his hand back and opened and closed it, blood welling from a half-dozen tiny cuts. He swiped his hand on his shirt.

  “Everything in this swamp is dangerous,” she said with a small, almost sad smile. “Scorpions hiding under logs; coral snakes, pygmy rattlers, and diamondbacks slithering through the pinelands. Alligators, water moccasins, and crocodiles in the water. Wild boars with tusks that can gut you. Even the grass is sharp as a sword.”