by Kyla Stone
“Point taken,” Liam said. “But I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“What does that mean?” Perez asked.
“There’s more.”
“How can there be more?” Dave asked.
Reynoso kept his steady gaze on Liam, already expecting the worst. “Out with it.”
“The Sinclairs,” Liam said. “There’s another one.”
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Two
Hannah’s heartbeat thudded in her chest, her ears. Trepidation shot through her. “What do you mean?”
“They call him the General,” Quinn said. “Or at least, Sutter did. His name is Byron Sinclair. He’s Rosamond Sinclair’s father. And he knows about us.”
Everyone stared at Quinn in shock.
Her voice shook. “He knows we killed Rosamond.”
Though a propane heater warmed the room, a chill sucked the heat from Hannah’s body. For a second, everything went fuzzy and distant.
She inhaled a sharp breath and forced herself to remain present, to understand what this meant—the threat it presented to her family and her home.
“Can we even trust Sutter?” Reynoso asked.
“Sutter had no reason to lie,” Quinn said. “He was using the information to torture me. He didn’t think I was getting out of that place alive.” She raised her chin. “I did, though.”
Hannah dabbed the crusted blood from the side of Quinn’s face. Her hands trembled; she bit her lip and willed them to steady. She had to think, to remain clear-headed and focused. “What exactly did he say?”
“That the governor of Michigan gave him a small army. He’s supposed to go after some threat in Illinois—”
“Alexander Poe,” Liam said.
“—But he’s coming here first to get his revenge.”
“When?” Reynoso asked.
Quinn kept her gaze on the carpet. “Sutter said a couple of days, but who knows.”
Reynoso cursed.
“Who says we couldn’t try to reason with him?” Lee asked.
“Like how we reasoned with Rosamond?” Perez said. “That worked out so well.”
“Tell him we had nothing to do with his daughter’s death.” Lee flashed a guilty glance at Bishop. “No offense, Pastor. I know it’s a lie, but what else are we going to do?”
“None taken,” Bishop said. “I understand the need for deception when facing an enemy such as this. Except, I doubt it would work. All Southwest Michigan knows Fall Creek defeated the militia and put a stop to Rosamond. It’s no secret.”
Most folks assumed it was Liam who’d committed the act; it was Hannah and Quinn who had confronted the superintendent and come out the victors.
Hannah had seen no reason to correct them. Besides, Quinn had enough on her plate.
“We’re assuming he’s as bad as Rosamond was,” Lee said. “What if that’s a mistake?”
“What if he’s worse?” Bishop said. “Isn’t that more likely?”
Shen Lee hadn’t seen Rosamond for who she truly was. At first, he’d supported the militia, long after he shouldn’t have.
“Every member of that family was poison.” Hannah pinned her gaze on Lee. “Gavin Pike was a murderous psychopath. Julian, a scheming enabler. Rosamond, a selfish, manipulative tyrant.”
“It’s safe to assume that the poisoned apples didn’t fall far from the tree,” Bishop said. “If the General is the tree—”
“—then we’re facing a heap of trouble,” Dave finished, the blood draining from his face.
Hannah kept looking at Lee. Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze, his cheeks blooming red.
“We need to assume that he’s as much a threat as Sutter claimed he is,” Liam said. “Until and unless we receive actionable intelligence otherwise, we’re facing the gravest threat to our safety that we have yet encountered.”
Liam waved Evelyn away like an irritating wasp and sat up. Nonplussed, she slapped his hand aside and went back to work abrading his wound.
Hannah’s mind whirred. Her brain kept searching for a different explanation, for a way out. There wasn’t one.
“We thought it was finished with her,” Molly said, the slightest tremble in her voice. “It was supposed to be over.”
“Since the Collapse, nothing has ever been over,” Liam said.
Hannah shivered, suddenly cold. He wasn’t wrong.
Three and a half months ago, an EMP attack devastated the nation. A series of simultaneous, high-altitude nuclear detonations had caused an electromagnetic pulse that destroyed the power grid across most of the continental United States.
It had fried the electronic systems in vehicles, aircraft, laptops and phones, even many newer model generators.
Tens of thousands had died that first day. Cities were deluged with fires, explosions from fallen planes, and massive vehicular collisions.
The weeks that followed had been horrific. The brutal winter had killed millions with hypothermia, starvation, and disease from poor sanitation and tainted water. Hundreds of thousands of medically fragile people perished without access to the machines and critical medications that kept them alive.
And the violence. People murdered each other for a can of beans or a bottle of antibiotics. Gangs and cartels fought for supremacy in the power vacuum left by impotent local and state authorities.
“Evil is difficult to eradicate,” Bishop said. “It sprouts everywhere. You cut off one head, another appears somewhere else. With the collapse of civilization, those with wicked intent have become emboldened. They believe there is nothing to stop them from doing whatever they wish.”
“I’ll stop them,” Liam said.
“What if he comes with hundreds of armed men?” Reynoso asked. “Real soldiers. That’s a far cry from a bloodthirsty band of untrained militia. We’re talking about the military, here. We couldn’t face that.”
“What do we do?” Molly asked. “What’s the game plan?”
“Could we run?” Dave asked. “Gather our people and flee Fall Creek?”
“And go where?” Liam asked.
“The neighboring towns—”
“Would put themselves in his crosshairs,” Bishop finished. “We wouldn’t be safer with them.”
Perez shook her head, dark eyes flashing. “Like they’d even agree to shelter us. I doubt that. Not after the way the Community Alliance abandoned us.”
“Then we go further,” Lee said without conviction. The blood had drained from his face. He looked as sick as Hannah felt.
“With what vehicles?” Hannah asked. “We only have a handful of working trucks, tractors, and ATVs. Not enough for a thousand people.”
“It’s not logistically feasible,” Liam said. “We would run out of fuel and food. We would starve.”
“I’m not leaving,” Molly said. “This is my home. It was my daddy’s home before mine. I spent forty years with my husband in that house. No way I’m giving it up to a bunch of turdballs with guns.”
“Then how can we defend ourselves?” Lee asked.
“How many men?” Bishop rested one hand on the pistol holstered beneath his leather jacket. Like he wanted to confront this new enemy that second. “How well trained? With what weapons? Will they have military gear? The seal of approval from the government? What are we facing here?”
“All questions we needed answers for yesterday,” Liam said.
“When will it end?” Quinn asked.
“When we end it,” Hannah said with more conviction than she felt. “And we will end it.”
Bishop placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hannah’s right. We’ll face this threat together. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Despite her brave words, a frisson of terror raced up her spine. A coldness seeped into her flesh, a coldness she couldn’t shake.
The evil that plagued this town was not yet extinguished.
She couldn’t picture this man as a human being of flesh and blood, but rather a faceless shadow,
a monster made of nightmares.
Another Sinclair rising like a ghost from the ashes, threatening everything she held dear. After all they’d been through, after all they’d endured.
With a wince, Liam rose, one hand pressed to his bandaged side.
“Sit back down,” Evelyn ordered.
“No time,” he said between gritted teeth.
Evelyn clapped her hands. “Okay, that’s enough for now. I have two patients who need their rest.”
“Later,” Liam said. “I can’t rest—”
“Today, you are.” Evelyn raised her voice, her jaw set. She was having none of it. “Give your orders to Bishop, or to Reynoso, or Dave, Annette, or Perez. You have a dozen people waiting at your beck and call.”
“Liam,” Hannah said, her throat tight.
Evelyn had cleaned, restitched, and covered his wound, winding a fresh bandage around his torso, but not before Hannah glimpsed the angry red infection flaring from his injury and creeping outward in vivid scarlet and purple streaks.
She tasted the sour acid of fear in the back of her throat. Evelyn wasn’t exaggerating; in this world without ambulances or hospitals, an out-of-control infection spelled disaster.
Liam kept pushing and pushing. Something had to give. Something would break.
She understood why he’d needed to go after the Brooks and then Quinn, but that didn’t mean she didn’t worry. It didn’t mean the potential consequences were less dire.
For a long moment, he looked at her, emotions warring across his rugged face.
A fierce affection squeezed her chest. He might not own the title, but he was their leader. The one they all depended on.
He knew it and bore the burden willingly. It was a burden he couldn’t shed at will. It was in him, a part of him. He wanted to protect them.
That went both ways. They could take care of him, too.
If he learned to let them—to let her.
As if sensing the tension in the room, Ghost lifted his head and gave a low distressed whine. He cocked his ears and chuffed.
“It’s okay, boy,” Hannah soothed. “We’re all in agreement, now. Aren’t we?”
Bishop stepped forward. “Tell me what to do, brother.”
Subdued, Liam sank back onto the cot, scowling. Surrender wasn’t in his nature. “There’s a map of Michigan in my go-bag. Bring it to me. We need to get ready. Right now, we’re blind and vulnerable. We need to send forward observers north to warn us of what’s coming. The defense of Fall Creek starts now.”
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Three
Quinn slogged through soggy, half-melted snow. Every movement brought jolts of aches and pains. Her entire body felt bruised.
At the edge of the parking lot, she hesitated. The chilly air pricked her exposed cheeks.
Dense gray clouds roiled across the sky. The temperature hovered in the forties. It was downright balmy after the wind chill in the negative double digits for months on end.
A cold wind whipped at her hair. She wore a coat, her AR-15 slung over her shoulder, one hand thrust in her pocket, fingers closing over her slingshot.
The cuts in her palm throbbed through the bandages, pulsing with her heartbeat, with her grief, regret, and anger.
She wanted to shoot something. Or curl into a ball and weep for a century. Or both.
She stood at the rear of the Crossway Church property. Perched on the corner of Main and Riverside Road, the stone church’s steeple towered above her. Plywood boarded up the shattered stained-glass windows.
Three months ago, she’d staggered from this building drenched in other people’s blood, Milo’s small trembling hand clenched in hers.
Quinn had dragged Milo out of hell itself.
“You can come closer,” a deep voice boomed. “No need to sneak around.”
Quinn flinched. She’d thought she was alone. Some super spy she was.
Several yards from the parking lot, Atticus Bishop knelt beneath a cluster of barren maple trees. Caught in her reverie, she hadn’t noticed his presence.
In front of him, three wooden crosses rose from three mounds of packed dirt—one large, two smaller. Each cross was about three feet tall, constructed of nailed two-by-fours.
Still kneeling, Bishop twisted around to look at her. He hunched his broad shoulders, his face gray with fatigue and sorrow. Two wet tracks traced his cheeks into his bristly beard.
He’d been weeping. Grieving his dead family.
Quinn was a trespasser. She shouldn’t have come.
She swallowed, her mouth dry as a desert. “I wasn’t sneaking.” Though she had. Kind of. “I’ll go—”
“No.” Bishop swiped at his reddened eyes with the back of his arm. His face cleared, and he smiled. “Please. I want you to stay.”
Bishop had never treated her with anything but kindness. She couldn’t say no to him.
She glanced at the crosses again, then nodded numbly.
“Couldn’t keep away, huh?” Bishop meant it as a joke, but it fell flat.
Quinn didn’t know what drew her back to this place, the origin of her nightmares. She had to come, like a moth drawn to a flame.
The scent of fresh paint was unmistakable in the crisp air. Glancing around, she caught sight of several empty cans clustered outside the side door that led to the recently reopened food pantry, along with a stack of two by fours, a bucket of nails, and a paint-splattered canvas tarp.
Rolls of ragged carpet leaned against the outside wall. Bloodstains had leaked through the carpet backing.
Her gaze flicked away, her heartbeat quickening. She hooked her thumb and pointed behind her. “You’re repairing the church.”
Bishop’s forehead wrinkled. “I couldn’t leave it like that. The house of God, a place of refuge. It felt…desecrated. I’m repairing what I can. The people need a place to worship. To heal. I need it, too.”
“Oh.”
“I’m working on plastering the bullet holes. You’re welcome to help if you’d like.”
Her stomach did a sour-sick somersault. She didn’t know about that. Hell, she was pretty sure she never wanted to step inside Crossway again. “Maybe later.”
“I’d like the company. Of course, it’s up to you.”
Much had happened since the massacre. The vivid scenes still echoed in the deepest recesses of her mind—the awful screaming, the rat-a-tat of machine gunfire. The fear like a vise constricting her throat, the taste of terror a copper penny on her tongue.
Ray Shultz and his bulging, half-crazed eyes as he opened fire on the church sanctuary. Billy Carter, psychotic child murderer, killer of Bishop’s family. Octavia, her druggie meth head mother who’d done a single good thing at the end—she’d saved Quinn from Billy.
The slaughter of innocents had set in motion events that had brought the militia, the executions, tyranny, and fear, that had led inexorably to the showdown with Rosamond and the death of Noah.
Quinn met Bishop’s gaze and recognized the shadows of regret and loss in his eyes. He was reliving the same night.
He’d watched them die. The daughters Quinn had failed to save, the wife he couldn’t rescue.
They shared that terrible history. Milo wasn’t old enough to understand the way they did. To live with the nightmares, both sleeping and waking.
Maybe that was why she’d come, driven by the guilt and shame eating at her.
Bishop understood what had happened here. He’d lived it. And he’d loved Noah; he’d lost a friend, too.
Maybe he’d understand about Sutter, too. Why she’d felt driven—compelled—to do what she did. Why she’d had to kill him.
How pain was a thing that burrowed deep inside you. It changed you.
Bishop watched her, head tilted, his jaw working like he wanted to speak but was holding back. Then he turned and faced the crosses.
She stared at the back of his bushy head until her eyes blurred.
It was hard to look at the crosses. So rou
gh and bare. So ugly. They didn’t fit the vibrant people buried beneath them.
Juniper, the tomboy with dirt always under her nails, dressed in jean overalls, her wiry black hair tugged into two buns. And Chloe, sweet, beautiful Chloe. Hers were the cries that still haunted Quinn’s dreams on her worst nights.
She rubbed at her eyebrow ring and looked away. A sharp bitterness welled on her tongue. The wind whistled through the maple trees ringing the parking lot.
This was a mistake. She didn’t know why she’d come, why she’d thought bothering Bishop with her problems would make a difference anyway—
A tree caught her eye. A big tall oak with great spreading arms.
Her stomach wrenched. Her breath caught in her throat. Almost against her will, she drifted toward it.
After all these months, the pink and purple construction paper target Chloe and Juniper had designed was long gone. She could almost hear the squealing laughter and delighted cheers as she’d drawn back her slingshot, released, and hit the bull’s eye.
Quinn knelt at the base of the tree, steadying the AR-15 with one hand. Her boots sank into snow-crusted dirt. Pine needles and dead leaves littered the damp ground. The scent of wet earth filled her nostrils.
With a bare hand, she brushed aside a lump of dirty snow and uncovered a small object—the object she knew she’d find.
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Three
Quinn swallowed around the lump in her throat. She palmed the bright blue marble.
It was a cat’s eye. The watery sunlight brought out the depths of rich cobalt blues. The swirls of white and gray like a tiny planet, something deep and rich and alive.
“That was Chloe’s,” Bishop said.
She turned toward him. He still knelt before the crosses several yards away, his expression pained, but there was kindness in his eyes. Compassion and understanding.
It nearly undid her.
“We—we shot these the night of…the night it happened. Chloe said it was her favorite.”