by Kyla Stone
She pushed Charlotte along the sidewalk ringing the field, alternating between watching Milo and Luther, who clutched the radio to his ear and paced the stage in narrow, restless circles.
His mouth moved, but Hannah couldn’t make out his words.
On the playground, Milo and Ghost played their version of tag—Ghost chased the boy while Milo tried to pelt him with snowballs. Ghost’s resounding barks echoed across the water, mingling with Milo’s laughter.
A few snowflakes spiraled from the gunmetal sky. Charlotte giggled and reached out her mittened hands, attempting to grasp the flakes and shove them into her mouth. Liam’s green and gray knit cap rolled down across her forehead, covering her eyes.
Hannah checked to make sure her daughter’s blue snowsuit was snug, her mittens on, socks pulled up beneath her tiny boots.
Her throat constricted. For a brief instant, she was just a normal mother in a normal park, watching her kids enjoy themselves on a normal day.
An instant later, reality invaded. There was nothing normal about life anymore. The .45 she carried was proof of that.
When she returned to Luther, he handed her the radio with a muttered, “Thank you.”
They stood facing each other, Hannah with the stroller on the ground, Luther on the empty stage, thin and miserable, hugging his arms against his narrow ribcage.
His eyes were red-rimmed. He’d been crying. He ducked his head, as if attempting to hide his emotions. As if he were ashamed of himself. “What you’ve done. How you’ve cared for my dad—”
“I said I would.”
“I didn’t deserve that.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“Then…why?”
“I did it for me.”
Luther looked away, blinking hard, his jaw set.
“I told you before. I make a promise, I keep my word. I’m helping a sick old man because it’s the right thing to do, not because you deserve it.”
“I never wanted to be like that, you know. I was an accountant. Can you believe that?”
She stared at him, her heart made of ice that wouldn’t thaw.
He cleared his throat. “The militia was about being stronger, being prepared, being ready if anything ever happened…but some guys, their motto was they didn’t need to prepare if they owned the guns. They could take what they needed. I didn’t agree with that. But Sutter had a way about him. When everyone else was running scared, he had a plan. I…I was drawn to that. I didn’t want to feel afraid or worry about what would happen to my father. One thing led to another.”
Her crooked fingers tightened around the stroller handle. The malformed bones ached in the cold. “I don’t need or want your excuses.”
He nodded, gaze on the water, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched like a man defeated. “Coleman would’ve had me shot. Or hanged. Reynoso, too. Even Bishop, probably. I know it was you. Coleman didn’t execute me because of you.”
She shook her head, said nothing.
“I understand why you hate me. I have nightmares. Of the things we did. That girl, lying there in the snow…the fire…what I did.”
The image of an unconscious Milo trapped in Noah’s house flashed through her mind. The stench of the smoke choking her lungs, the heat of the flames, the blind terror as she raced into the burning house.
“You set fire to the house with my son inside. I don’t need your gratitude, Luther. I don’t need anything from you.”
He flinched like she’d slapped him. His gaze flicked to the playground, toward Milo.
“Don’t look at him,” Hannah said through gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare!”
He opened his mouth like he was going to argue with her, try to plead his case, but he pressed his lips together and nodded. “I deserve that.”
“Feeling guilty doesn’t make you a good person,” she said. “Your actions do. If you want to be a good person, be one.”
“There’s nothing I can do to earn your forgiveness?”
She barked a sharp laugh. “Forgiveness? Are you serious?”
He stared at her, a haunted look in his eyes. Hungry and desperate.
She gave a weary sigh. “We haven’t killed you. Accept that and be on your way.”
“I owe you. For that. For what you’ve done for my father.” His face twisted like he was fighting back more tears. “Tell me what to do.”
She fought down her anger, irritation, and resentment. Agreeing to meet him had gone against her better instincts.
He was miserable and pitiful. He didn’t deserve her pity.
She felt a tiny iota of something she wished she didn’t.
She met his gaze. “You want redemption?”
“Yes.”
“Earn it.”
“Tell me how.”
Charlotte fussed and whimpered. She was hungry. And too cold. Frustrated, Hannah rocked the stroller back and forth. She had things to do. Better things than this.
They had the General and his army to prepare for.
“It’s time for you to go,” she said.
Luther grimaced. “When he dies, he’ll be alone. My father. I can’t bear the thought of that.”
“He’s not alone. We’ll do the best we can to make sure that he’s comfortable. That’s all I can promise.”
“It’s something. Thank you. Whatever you want. I’ll do it. Just say it. Anything.”
Grudgingly, Hannah relented. “Talk to Liam. Maybe he has something for you. As for me, I never want to see you again.”
It was harsh, but it was the truth.
He nodded, a spark of hope in his haunted eyes. “That’s fair. But I want to. Help, I mean.”
She turned to go. “Milo!”
Luther called after her retreating form. “I’m a different man. I’m better. I can be better.”
Hannah pushed the stroller faster and didn’t answer.
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Four
“Hey, Wolverine!” Quinn yelled over the rumble of the chainsaw.
Liam switched off the chainsaw and straightened. An eerie silence descended, the birds holding their breath.
Quinn hopped off her bike, flicked the kickstand, and adjusted the rifle slung across her back. She rode her bike everywhere now since Gramps’ bright orange 1978 Ford F150 Super Cab—the Orange Julius—was nearly out of gas.
She tugged the bag of filled water bottles from the handle; her bandaged hand flared with pain. She ignored it. The cuts had stung the entire bike ride. The bruises on her thighs and torso ached, and her face looked like a smashed watermelon. What else was new?
She had a new respect for Hannah, who accomplished more than most people even with a crippled hand. Strength could look like more than one thing.
She hobbled across the road toward Liam, wincing at the fire in her ribs. “I brought you fresh water from our pump. It’s Whitney’s job, but I volunteered.”
Quinn kept her slingshot and a few flechettes in her jacket pocket, but she’d upgraded in weaponry. She took the AR-15 everywhere, the Berretta pistol holstered at her waist, and the karambit blade fit snug at her belt.
She thrust a water bottle at him. “How’s it hanging?”
Liam frowned at her but accepted the water bottle. He took a long swig and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
Above them, sunlight filtered through the latticework of branches. The morning had been frigid, but around noon, the sun peeked through the clouds.
Maybe this arctic winter would finally relinquish its hold on Michigan. Or maybe that was too much to ask.
Jonas Marshall and another volunteer armed with scoped AR-15s kept watch a hundred yards on either end of the road while Liam and Bishop felled sycamore and maple trees with chainsaws.
Several trees already barred the road, interspersed about twenty feet apart.
Thirty yards away, Bishop was busy roping the section of a thick trunk with chains attached to the winch of an old Ford.
<
br /> She shifted uneasily, glancing from Liam to Bishop, then back toward her bike.
They were alone on the road. She could see the scouts far ahead.
Bishop glanced up from his work, caught sight of her, and flashed a thumbs up.
She knew what he was thinking. This was her chance. Better take it.
She scowled, but he’d already returned to chaining the next tree.
“How’re the ribs?” Liam studied the road, the trees, the houses tucked into the woods, always alert for danger.
Quinn kicked at a chunk of asphalt. “Everything hurts like hell. My bruises have bruises.”
Liam grunted like he knew the feeling.
“Why? How do I look?”
“Like you argued with a rhinoceros and lost.”
She touched her tender split lip, which was starting to scab over. She missed her lip ring. It was somewhere in the cavernous warehouse at Vortex, along with a healthy chunk of her flesh. “Sounds about right.”
“You’re young. You’ll heal.” He shot her a hard glance. “Don’t do anything else that stupid.”
She felt herself shriveling beneath that appraising gaze. Like he’d judged her and found her wanting. After all, he’d had to risk his own life to drag her out of that hell.
That wasn’t how things were supposed to go down.
She swallowed. Half of her wanted to turn and flee. She could spend the rest of her life in her bedroom, curled like a pill bug beneath a pile of blankets. That was normal, right?
Instead, Quinn planted her boots and forced herself to straighten her shoulders.
This was what she’d come for. Bishop had told her she wouldn’t get past this shame worming inside her if she didn’t make this right with Liam.
She couldn’t chicken out now.
“Are you mad at me?”
His brows lifted. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“Because I went off alone. I took things into my own hands. I didn’t tell you about Sutter because I wanted revenge. But I almost got us both killed instead.”
Liam pursed his lips. “That sums it up pretty well.”
Her face burned like hot coals.
“Sutter should have killed you. He was bigger, stronger, more experienced. And mean as a pit viper. You got lucky.”
“I know that.”
“You got mettle, kid, but you have a long way to go.”
“I know that, too.”
He studied her for a long minute.
A pair of robins chirped from a maple tree across the road. Anxiety torqued through her, but she waited, her tongue thick in her mouth.
Finally, he shrugged. “Okay, then.”
“Okay?”
“Yep.”
“That’s it?”
“What else is there?”
“But aren’t you mad at me? Let me have it. I can take it.”
“You already know you shouldn’t have gone alone.”
“I know.”
“I don’t have to tell you what you risked.”
“Your life,” she choked out. “And everyone else’s, too.”
“You’ve been scolded already. No need to add to your misery. You learned your lesson. And some more besides, I’ll wager.”
Relief flooded her veins. Her legs wobbled. It was more than she’d expected—or deserved. “So, we’re good?”
“We’re good.”
“I want to be like you,” she blurted.
He looked at her.
“I want to be a warrior.”
“You already are.”
She snorted.
“I saw you. I saw what you did to Sutter.” He scratched the stubble along his jaw, something like admiration in his eyes. “Being a warrior starts here and here.” He touched his head, then his chest. “You’ve already got that in spades. You need to learn the tricks of the trade.”
She kicked at another stray chunk of asphalt, this one large as a dinner plate. Potholes were everywhere.
“I’m not any good at talking about…things.”
She smirked. “You mean feelings?”
“Yeah, those.” He grimaced like he’d swallowed something bitter. “But if you want to fight, come to me.”
“Are you still willing to teach me?”
“If you want to learn.”
Her face brightened. Hope bright and fierce in her chest. “I do.”
“No more skipping our sessions. Not for any reason.”
She beamed. “Done.”
He handed her the empty water bottle, which she’d sanitize and refill with clean water for the next work crew. After scanning both sides of the road, he turned back toward the chainsaw.
“What are you doing? And why?”
“What do you want to know?”
She spread both arms wide. “Everything.”
His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but he was Wolverine, so he had to maintain his grim, fierce persona at all times.
“Travel—including military transportation—depends on roads, assuming the General doesn’t have Chinooks at his disposal. We have ATVs, bikes, a few motorcycles, horses, and snowmobiles. They don’t. They need roads. We’re creating as many obstacles along the roads as we can.”
He pointed. “We blocked off all four roads leading in and out of town—Snow, Lemon, and Hummingbird Lane. Except for M139—Old 31. I suspect the General will roll in via the highway, since it’s cleared. That way, we can concentrate the bulk of our forces on a few defensive positions instead of spreading ourselves thin defending a dozen or more locations.”
Quinn nodded.
“If he’s coming in, we want him to come in where it benefits us most. The north blockade, where we have the most defenses and fighters.”
“That makes sense.”
“And then, of course, we have our goodies.”
Her eyes went big. “Show me.”
Liam grabbed his carbine leaning against a nearby log and led her along the road to the first felled tree. Lowering the M4, he crouched and pointed.
A clear fishing line about ankle high stretched across the road, tied between two trees on either side. The wire was affixed to a tin can—inside it lay a grenade.
It was the size of an apple. Death in a little green globe.
“This M67 grenade is attached where the line meets the tree, so the blast is directed to the kill zone. It’s also tougher to spot.” He pointed to the fishing line. “Ankle-high is fine, as the grenade will explode up and out.”
Her adrenaline spiked. “How do you know it won’t take out a friendly?”
“Good question. We’ll have OPs—listening and observation posts—scattered around the perimeter to monitor for intrusions by foot. Our forward observers will alert us to anyone heading our way—friendlies or hostiles. Snipers positioned up the tree line have eyes on the road. We can stop any friendlies before they reach this point.”
“One reason we’re under orders not to leave Fall Creek.”
“Correct.” He rose and strode back toward the chainsaw, his neck on a swivel.
She hurried to catch up with him; every step was painful.
“How are the foxholes coming?” he asked.
“Got out of digging duty.” She waggled her bandaged hand at him and made a face, then grimaced at the pain. “We used the backhoe. The rest is by hand.”
For the last two days, they’d been digging holes. Each foxhole was armpit-deep and wide enough for a two-man fighting team. The dug-in fighting positions provided concealment from enemy scouts or drones and protection from enemy fire.
For overhead cover, they’d chopped tree limbs and larger logs, stacked them across the opening like a roof, then shoveled dirt on top and covered it with shrubbery, leaves, and chunks of grassy turf.
“Everyone has blisters, even with gloves, but it’s almost done. The gun ports are pretty cool.”
Yesterday, Liam had the teenagers hammer nails into long two-by-fours, placing the tire-puncturing strips acr
oss the road in strategic spots. In addition to filling sandbags, they scavenged for barbed wire and concrete barriers.
On top of that, she’d done her chores for Gran and helped Jamal and Tina install a windmill to the Sanderson’s well. They’d delivered a big diesel generator to the McPherson family on Pine Lane, who had four kids and had taken in three more orphans.
“Keep it up,” Liam said. “Report to Reynoso when you’re finished. When you feel up to it, he’ll put you into watch rotation.”
She could have two broken legs and she still wouldn’t say no. “Oh, I’m up to it!”
“I need to check the status of—”
Static spit from the radio at Liam’s belt. “This is Echo Two for Alpha One!” a frantic voice cried. “We’ve got company!”
10
Liam
Day One Hundred and Four
“SITREP!” Liam barked into the radio, asking for a situational report.
Alarmed, Quinn stilled.
Bishop sprinted toward them, weapon in hand.
Static filled the radio. Frustrated, Liam shook it. As if that would help. “Echo Two, do you read me? Come in!”
Jamal had helped them set up repeaters to extend their range. An engineering major, he was a genius with electronics. He and his friend Tina Gundy had a magical touch with anything mechanical.
Together, their tinkering had brought dozens of radios and generators back online. But even with the repeaters, the forward observers were out of range.
Liam had sent out twelve forward observers to cover the major roads within thirty miles north, northwest, and northeast of Fall Creek, with extra attention on the most likely avenue of approach via I-69 South and I-94 West.
Besides the radios, the scouts had flares for a secondary method of communication. Satellite phones were still in existence, but Fall Creek had no such access.
He missed instant communication. Cell phones. GPS. The internet. Decent comms.
Unease slithered beneath his skin, his chest tight. “Echo Two, come in!”
“…Two vehicles,” Echo Two panted through thick static. She sounded like she’d been running hard. Her name was Mara Wright, a woman in her thirties, her blonde hair in a perpetual ponytail, cherub-faced but determined—one of Samantha Perez’s recruits. “Both military Humvees…One outfitted with an M2 Browning .50 cal.”