by Kyla Stone
“I caught similar chatter from my contacts this morning,” Dave said. “It’s like a war zone.”
“It’s not like a war zone. It is one.”
Dread scrabbled up the notches of her spine. Via I-94, the city of Gary, Indiana, was less than sixty-five miles from Fall Creek. “You think Poe might invade Michigan?”
“It’s a distinct possibility that we can’t afford to rule out. They may push into Michigan City or head toward Mishawaka.”
“Either city is too close for comfort,” Dave said.
“I agree. Indiana obeyed the President’s edicts and sent their National Guard to aid in the rioting in D.C. They’re vulnerable. Poe is bulldozing through the state with little resistance.”
“Aren’t folks fighting back?” Dave asked.
“They are, but we’re talking small groups and individual homesteads. It happened so fast, the civilians didn’t have time to organize a fighting force. They were taken by surprise.”
“Hot damn,” Dave whispered.
“Take care, Fall Creek,” Hamilton said.
“We will,” Hannah said. “Over and out.”
Hannah and Dave exchanged a heavy glance. Dread curdled in her gut. Threats were closing in from every direction.
War. Tyranny. Human slavery.
How could this be America? How could the tiny town of Fall Creek stand against such evil?
She sensed the danger lurking just outside their line of sight, invisible but ever present, drawing closer and closer, gathering strength and power as it came.
A tsunami of darkness about to crash down upon them, destroying everything in its wake.
The General
Day One Hundred and Three
The General tipped his head back, swallowed the last of the cheap whiskey, and tossed the plastic cup on the concrete floor.
He wanted to wash his mouth out with soap. The whiskey had held none of the complex tableau of rich, dusky flavors of cognac, his beverage of choice. He relished a well-aged cognac rich with spices, leather, citrus, and tannins, like velvet on his tongue.
He glanced at his watch in increasing frustration. He was sick to death of the Fort Custer Training Center in Augusta, Michigan, near Battle Creek.
Fort Custer was the federally owned and state-operated Army National Guard training facility where Governor Duffield had sent him to gather the National Guard to defend Michigan from the Syndicate.
A mere eighty miles from his true destination of Fall Creek.
So close. And yet.
Their departure had been delayed when one of the two Black Hawks requisitioned for the mission broke down. Obtaining the specialized parts in the middle of a worldwide collapse had proved an exercise in frustration and futility.
They were down to one helo.
So be it. They could do plenty of damage with their remaining arsenal.
Five hundred National Guardsmen armed with M4s. Twenty armored Humvees equipped with .50 caliber M2 Browning machine guns, along with additional transport vehicles. Crates of LAW anti-tank rockets and belt-fed machine guns. Modest supplies of mortar and artillery. He’d requested more; the Governor had not yet complied.
No drones, though. Resources were rapidly dwindling: fuel, ammunition, food. Military bases, at least in Michigan, derived their power from civilian power sources. 100% of them were offline.
Communication was failing. Chaos and confusion reigned at every level in the chain of command.
He wasn’t worried. Irritated to all hell, though.
Worse, the paramilitary team he’d sent ahead of him had neither returned nor checked in.
With an irked sigh, he watched the guardsmen organizing the staging area, readying the supplies, and loading them onto the transport vehicles. He kept his own men close.
His most trusted contractors served as his bodyguards. At least ten surrounded him, skilled paramilitary operators dressed in black fatigues, combat boots, and chest rigs, outfitted with Berettas and M4s.
He’d recruited them years ago for his private security firm, conducting special operations off the book for the alphabet agencies who wanted plausible deniability. He’d given it to them.
He’d handpicked former military or law enforcement with black marks in their files. He preferred the morally bankrupt.
They made better soldiers and more efficient killers. Zero moral qualms to take into consideration.
The General cracked his swollen knuckles. His arthritis was acting up again. The stale, chilly air gnawed at him, but he refused to shiver or reveal any weakness.
He was no longer young. Pushing seventy-one, he’d always boasted a rugged toughness, his broad chest sagging only in the last few years. Now, his body ached in too many places to mention.
He missed his cushy office next to the Governor’s at the George W. Romney Building on Capital Avenue in Lansing. The overstuffed leather chair, the whirring generators, and his tumbler of favorite cognac. He missed ice.
War was a young man’s game.
He belonged at the top of the food chain, where he could rest and relax in luxurious comfort—not out here in the wild, enduring cold, hunger, and discomfort.
Those behind expansive desks had earned the right to command death with the push of a button.
Only, there were no buttons to push anymore.
Ah, but he’d chosen this, hadn’t he? He’d let his thirst for vengeance and sense of poetic justice lure him from the sumptuous luxuries of the governor’s office. Simple things—ice on command, power at the flick of a switch—represented the new opulence.
For a purpose, he told himself. A little longer, and he’d return victorious, the man responsible for demolishing the Syndicate.
Not only that—he’d consolidate more power and influence than any politician in the Midwest.
Lauren Eubanks, the Secretary of State, had remained behind to whisper in Governor Duffield’s ear and undermine the General at every turn. She disliked him, distrusted his sage advice, and resented his rapid rise to power as the Governor’s trusted military advisor.
A plain woman with a stern, suspicious demeanor, Lauren Eubanks was intelligent and competent. Unusual for a politician, or a woman.
The General hated her.
She was also the next in line of succession if something unfortunate were to happen to the current governor of Michigan, Henry Duffield. A fact never far from the General’s mind—or plans.
He’d left his assistant, Osborne—a sniveling, obsequious little man—behind for a singular purpose.
He’d make his move soon, when the time was right.
Politics was a game of chess: sacrificing pawns, obfuscating with the bishop while invading with the rook for checkmate.
He was the General. The epitome of the behind-the-scenes shadow, the string-puller, the puppet master.
One of his contractors jogged up to him. It was Tyrone Gibbs, one of his best men, the one he’d sent to retrieve Sutter.
In his mid-thirties, he was trim but muscled, not an ounce of fat on him. Loyal, capable, and a talented sharpshooter. Blotches of blood spattered his wrinkled uniform; his brown skin was sheened with sweat beneath a layer of soot and dirt.
Gibbs saluted. “Sir.”
“Status report,” the General barked.
“The nihilist group were untrained, though well-armed. We had them in hand. And then—”
“What the hell happened?”
The tendons on Gibbs’ thick neck stood out like cables. He looked like he wanted to strangle someone. “We had to abort.”
The General’s lip curled in disdain. “You failed?”
Gibbs didn’t answer, but the impotent anger flashing in his dark eyes told the story.
Rage flared through the General, sharp and hot. “Where are the others?”
“Sir, I’m the only one.”
“The only what?”
The man scowled like it hurt him to say it. “The only survivor.”
The General s
coffed. “That’s impossible.”
“Sir, a secondary force interfered. A spec ops soldier, it had to be. Had to be someone with considerable combat experience. He was good. Really good. We were focused on servicing our targets, and this guy took advantage of our tunnel vision. He took us by surprise. And he had help. They ambushed us outside Vortex Headquarters. I lost five men in sixty seconds.”
The General glowered at him. “Unacceptable.”
This spec ops soldier couldn’t be the same one Sutter had warned him of: the man who’d murdered the General’s daughter.
But perhaps it was.
It made a terrible sense. How many super soldier vigilantes could be running around Southwest Michigan?
He glared over Gibbs’ shoulder. “Where the hell is Sutter?”
“Dead, sir.”
The General blinked, taken aback. That wasn’t the response he wanted to hear. He needed Sutter for intel on these Fall Creek hooligans. It was the only reason he hadn’t ordered his men to eliminate Sutter, too.
“I found him laid out beside a dumpster. Stripped of his weapons and stabbed repeatedly with a small knife.”
“The work of this spec ops soldier?”
“I doubt it, sir. It didn’t have the mark of a professional.”
The General shook his head, seething. “Damn it!”
His nephew should’ve been better, done better. He’d carried his mother’s name—a weakened bloodline. The General’s brother never had good taste in women; the caliber of his son reflected that deficiency.
With considerable effort, the General regained control of himself. It served no purpose to allow his men to see his frustration.
They needed a strong, competent leader. Emotion was a tell. A weakness. It drained your power and gave your enemies intel and influence.
He smoothed his expression and dipped his chin at Gibbs. “What took you so long to return? You look like you got run over by a Mack truck.”
“The transport ran out of gas forty miles out. Couldn’t find more to scavenge, as the locals had already emptied the vehicles. It took me awhile, but I obtained a bike and rode the rest of the way, sir.”
“Get some rest. We depart in eight hours.” He shaped his features into a sympathetic expression and placed a hand on Gibbs’ shoulder. “That soldier that murdered our people? He’s from Fall Creek. We’ll make damn sure they pay for it.”
Gibbs saluted. “Yes, sir!”
As the man left to grab some grub, the General returned to the folding table and studied the map, tracing potential routes. He was about eighty miles from Fall Creek. Less than a day’s drive by vehicle, even with the wrecked roads.
He tapped his finger at a location in St. Joseph, on Lake Michigan. A hotel located a few blocks from the beach, in the heart of downtown.
He’d always loved the ocean. The Great Lakes were an acceptable second.
The General gestured at one of his bodyguards, a man named Tyler Redding. A big burly guy with acne scars, a misshapen nose, and a chip on his shoulder jogged over. “Sir.”
“Command and control will be here, at the Boulevard Inn. We’re not going in blind. Clear it and the surrounding two blocks, then send scouts to report back to me. We leave at 0700 hours.”
“Sir.” The soldier saluted before marching off.
This time tomorrow, they’d be unloading at the hotel.
Departure couldn’t come fast enough.
Though he wouldn’t roll into town without anticipating resistance. Whoever these people were, they’d defeated Sutter’s militia and his own daughter.
That was surprising—and disconcerting.
But they were no army. If he were fighting in an actual war, the General would’ve had his troops take twenty buildings in town to disperse into smaller elements to guard against air raid attacks.
But he wasn’t, so he didn’t bother.
However, he would still order smaller units to cover fuel depots, munitions storage, and transport. The usual logistics.
He craved a snifter of Hine Antique XO Premier Cru Cognac. Instead, he licked his parched lips and thought again of his dead nephew. His last living family member.
No. Not his last.
In his last conversation with Sutter, his nephew had revealed a juicy little detail.
For the last two days, the General had examined it from every side, searching for cracks or defects and finding none.
“There’s one more thing you should know,” Sutter had said in that sniveling voice. “Rosamond wasn’t interested, but I think you might be. There’s a woman in Fall Creek who claims Gavin Pike was the father of her baby.”
Only one thing held the General back from destroying Fall Creek utterly.
Through his daughter and psychopathic grandson, a part of the General still existed outside himself.
They were both dead. But their seed lived on. His seed lived on.
The General had a great-granddaughter.
And he very much wished to meet her.
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Four
Hannah shivered. It was the second week of April, but the morning temperatures hovered in the low thirties, the sky cloaked in heavy gray clouds.
The wind chill made it feel twenty degrees colder. The frigid breeze scythed through her clothes and chapped her exposed cheeks.
Ahead of her, Ghost growled.
Hannah paused, Milo at her side, holding the jogging stroller handle with her bad hand. With her right hand, she tightened her grip on the .45 in her coat pocket.
For the meeting, she’d chosen Greenway Park, a small park along the riverbank, just past the bridge over Fall Creek.
In summers past, they used the large open area for picnics, soccer games, and kite flying, with live concerts featuring local bands in the evenings.
Snow patches dotted the field. Birds twittered from the naked branches of the trees lining the river. The large pavilion with a black metal roof and open sides loomed ahead of her.
A dark shape stood in the center of the platform, a familiar blue camo backpack slung over his shoulder. The hood of his coat shielded his face, both hands plunged deep into his pockets.
Her pulse quickened. She stiffened.
Milo tugged her coat sleeve. “Who is that?”
She glanced at his cherub face, pointy chin, and big dark eyes; he’d inherited his olive skin from Noah’s Venezuelan heritage. His unruly black curls poked out from beneath his winter hat.
A fierce affection swelled in her chest. “No one you need to worry about.”
“Can I play on the playground?”
Her gaze strayed to the figure on the platform. He hadn’t moved or registered her presence. He didn’t pose a threat to them, but she remained wary.
It was early in the morning, and no one else was at the park. Few people had time for leisure these days. The trees sighed in the wind. Water lapped along the riverbank.
She released the stroller and squeezed Milo’s hand. “Don’t wander from the playground. Ghost, stay with him.”
Ghost let out a disgruntled whine, like he’d rather remain near Hannah to keep a sharp eye on James Luther. The dog didn’t trust him. Neither did Hannah.
The Great Pyr returned to her side and pushed his head against her thigh, as if that would change her mind. She rubbed his ears with her free hand, crooked fingers scratching just the way he liked. “I’ll be fine. Watch Milo.”
Ghost chuffed unhappily but obeyed, trotting after Milo with a swish of his plumed tail. He still favored his hind leg. He could run, but not like before.
The bite he’d received defending Quinn and Milo from the feral dogs was healing, but he might never regain his full speed or strength.
With one last glance at her son, Hannah turned her focus to Luther.
Half the town wanted him dead. To protect him, Liam had stashed him in one of the abandoned houses outside of town.
She’d sworn she’d kill him herself if he ever set
foot in Fall Creek again.
And yet, here he was.
He’d helped rescue Quinn. He’d saved Quinn and Liam during their escape from Vortex.
That was the one and only reason she didn’t shoot him dead where he stood. It was also the reason she’d agreed to meet with him. A onetime courtesy she already regretted.
Anger slashed through her. He was still militia. He always would be.
She pushed the jogging stroller across the bumpy ground and halted ten feet from the stage. Her right hand still in her pocket, fingers curled around cold hard steel. “What do you want?”
Luther hunched his shoulders against the wind and squinted at her. He was tall and skinny, almost gaunt, with sun-weathered features. Though he wasn’t old, his face held a dour, world-weary look.
“My father,” he said. “Is he—is he still alive?”
“We traded with the National Guard stationed at Cook Nuclear. They had medical supplies. I got him a few more oxygen tanks, but they’re running out. There’s no way to manufacture them —not here in the States, anyway.”
She almost apologized but caught herself. The state of the world wasn’t her fault.
She owed this man nothing.
Dave and Annette had moved Luther’s father from the house at Winter Haven to a room at Fall Creek Inn. Dave had organized a rotating group of volunteers to care for the elderly and sick in the community.
She unhooked the radio from her belt and held it out. “Dave’s on the other end. He’s with your father. You can talk to him for five minutes. That’s it. You understand why we can’t bring him to see you—or vice versa.”
The old man was near death. To bring him to the park and expose him to the elements would risk his deteriorating health.
And allowing Luther into town was a bad idea of another sort.
Hannah handed him the radio and then gave him some privacy. Luther loved his father. She couldn’t begrudge him that.