by Kyla Stone
“What about the radiation contamination?” Julio asked, gesturing at the blankets.
“We’ll get rid of everything we can as soon as we get out of the hot zone,” Shay said. “But they need comfort right now. The hard truck bed could jostle Park’s arm and cause further injury.”
While Julio and Logan quickly attended to Harlow’s body, Dakota checked on Eden. The girl stared blankly up at the sky, listless, maybe in shock. Or maybe she was too angry at Dakota to even look at her.
Dakota opened the rear passenger door. Several expensive-looking suitcases and overnight bags stuffed the seats and every spare inch of space. There wasn’t room for one person to squeeze back there, let alone three.
“This isn’t gonna work.” She grabbed the first massive suitcase, lugged it across the seat, and dumped it on the driveway, touching as little of it as possible. It must have weighed fifty pounds.
The effort made her lungs and throat burn even worse. Her palms stung, but she ignored the pain. She’d already added a second and third suitcase to the pile when Vanessa dashed around the truck, waving her arms in agitated distress.
“What are you doing?” she asked, horrified.
“You can’t take this stuff with you.”
“It’s mine. I most certainly can!”
Dakota didn’t stop unloading the back. She turned to drop some fancy Vera Wang bag that probably cost a small fortune.
Vanessa tried to jerk it out of her hands. “You are our guests! We’re the ones helping you—”
Dakota released the bag. The woman wasn’t expecting it and stumbled backward.
“Lady,” Dakota said with barely restrained impatience, “everything in your house is contaminated with radiation. Everything. Do you understand? Including that bag in your arms.”
Vanessa’s face drained of color. She dropped the bag like it’d just sprouted fangs and claws. “What?”
“You won’t be taking anything with you into the EOC, probably including the clothes on your back. You’ll need to be decontaminated.”
“Everything I own is in that house,” Vanessa said, her voice shaking. “Everything that matters.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” Dakota said. “But we’re leaving.”
Vanessa began to cry. “I can’t just leave everything! I’ve lived here twelve years! All my memories are here. My grandmother’s fine china collection. My wedding dress. The letters from my mother before she died—”
“I’m sorry, dear, I’m so sorry,” Carson repeated, like he was personally responsible for this hell.
Maybe Dakota should’ve had more sympathy for a woman who’d just lost friends and co-workers, who was now leaving every earthly belonging behind, but she didn’t. It was ‘survive or die’.
She had no time or patience for this. She dumped the last bag on the driveway and gestured at the truck’s open doors. “Get in or get out. Make up your mind.”
Carson took Vanessa’s arm and gently guided her into the front middle seat. “It’s alright. Everything will be alright.”
Logan took the front passenger seat with the Remington rifle and the ammo boxes at his feet. Dakota slid in the opposite side with her pistol and six remaining bullets. Shay and Julio followed.
The sun slipped behind the palm trees as they drove away from Bellview Court.
Dakota twisted in her seat and stared through the rear window at the splotch of red staining the road.
Harlow was dead. Maddox killed her.
Don’t ever forget that. Not for a second. Don’t forget what he did.
Dakota’s buried past wasn’t so buried. Maddox had plunged from her nightmares into the real world, devasting everything in his path.
He was still out there. Still dangerous. Still deadly.
If she ever saw him again, she would hunt him down and kill him.
No hesitation. No remorse.
They had a long way still to travel before they reached safety. They had to get everyone to medical care at the airport. Then make it to Ezra and his cabin in the Everglades—home.
So many ways for things to go wrong. So many opportunities for Maddox to find them again and attack.
Dakota shook the dark thoughts from her head. She’d made a grave mistake, and someone else had paid for it. She couldn’t be this stupid again.
How easily that might have been Eden’s lifeblood spreading in a crimson halo around her lifeless body. Dakota saw Eden’s face again in her mind’s eye, her stunned, disbelieving expression as she realized Dakota had lied to her, that the woman she loved and trusted wasn’t who she thought she was…
The look of betrayal in her eyes seared Dakota to her core.
She forced herself to remain stiff and alert—ignoring the fatigue, the aching muscles, the pain in her body, in her soul. It didn’t matter whether Eden hated her; she still depended on Dakota to keep her alive. So did Shay and Julio and the others.
Dakota would keep fighting with everything she had. And when she was completely spent, she would dig down deep and fight some more.
12
Logan
As Logan expected, SR 112 was a parking lot.
“We could take US 27 or even SR 944 west to the airport,” Carson suggested.
“We need to stay off all the main roads.” Logan shot a glance at Carson. “Residential only until things clear up.”
He looked nervous as hell, even though he’d insisted on driving. Sweat slicked his forehead and stained the ironed collar of his golf shirt. “Okay, yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”
“If we can get on 28th Street, we can take it to South River Drive,” Julio said as he studied the paper map he’d kept in his shoulder bag. “21st Street will take us the rest of the way, avoiding the highways.”
“Do it,” Dakota said.
They carefully maneuvered west along the side roads until they reached 28th Street. They had barely enough clearance to squeeze the truck through the congested roads. At one point, 28th Street was so crammed with abandoned vehicles they had to backtrack and do several loops through neighborhood side streets.
The going was tough and slow, especially in the gathering darkness. Often, they were forced to veer onto the curb, the truck bumping and bouncing, jostling the passengers against each other. More than once, they had to stop so Eden could vomit.
Logan felt ill himself, the nausea churning each time the truck swerved and jolted. The cab stank of sickness. The humid air was sticky and cloying. Logan’s nerves were on edge. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but he’d give his left nut to get the hell out of that truck.
Carson flicked on the headlights.
“We’re sitting ducks with those lights,” Logan growled. “Anyone can see us a half-mile away.”
“And without them, we can’t see at all,” Carson argued. “It’s too dark without the street lights or ambient light from houses and buildings. We need to see.”
“Still not a good idea,” Logan said.
But Carson insisted. It was his truck.
Logan wasn’t ready to overpower the man in his own vehicle. Not yet. But he didn’t like it. In all this darkness, the headlights were targets.
They made it one mile. Then another.
Occasional lights run by generators pricked the night, but the rest of the city was completely black as far as he could see. On all sides, buildings hunched dark and shadowed, like huge creatures—beasts and monsters—taking on new, sinister shapes in his imagination.
The sky was empty of stars. Thick clouds covered the moon.
It felt like they were the only people in the entire world—though of course, they weren’t. There were people still here, hidden behind their curtains and closed doors. Scared, numb, grieving, and angry. A few seethed with hate and vengeance.
Not all of them were friendlies.
Carson let out a muttered curse. The whites of his eyes were huge. The man looked like he was balancing on the brink of panic.
Beneath his shaking ha
nds, the Ford lurched and jolted. He could barely keep the wheel straight. He kept jerking his feet on the gas, then the brakes.
“Careful, please!” Shay said. “We’ve got injured people here.”
“I know, I know.” With a squeal of burning rubber, Carson wrenched the wheel and veered between two rows of cars on both sides of the road.
Fenders scraped either side of the truck. A moss-green Hyundai leaned against the passenger side door. On the other side, a Civic was pinned against the rear tire.
Carson swore under his breath.
“I’m happy to drive if you’d like a break,” Julio offered from the back.
Carson’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “It’s my truck. I’m driving it. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
Logan twisted in his seat, checking and rechecking the dark yards and buildings, the empty cars huddled along the sides of the road.
His pulse hammered in his throat. This was a perfect spot for an ambush. If hostiles leapt out of any of these dark buildings, they would be trapped, as easy pickings as fish caught in a barrel.
He despised feeling this helpless. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Carson reversed, flinching at the rasping grind of metal against metal as the truck wrenched free of the vehicles on either side. They scraped past several more cars and turned left at the next light. Without electricity, it was nothing more than a dark blob in more darkness.
“Could we turn the radio on?” Julio asked, his voice tense. “Maybe there’s an emergency broadcast.”
“Good idea.” Carson switched the radio on and turned the dial.
After a belch of static, a female voice broke through. “…Keep listening for the emergency processing center nearest you. You will receive food and water, medical care, and shelter. No personal belongings will be allowed. Please wear protective clothing, eyewear, and gloves to protect yourself from the radiation. Use only sealed food and water.”
“This is an emergency alert broadcast. If you reside in the following counties, please make your way to the nearest processing center only if you are injured or need assistance. You are located within a safe zone and do not need to evacuate. Please do not panic. Keep listening for a list of emergency centers...”
She rattled off a list of locations several miles away in Hialeah Gardens, Kendall, and Miramar. “If you are located within three miles of the coast north of Hobie Island Beach Park and east of 22nd Avenue north through Fort Lauderdale, please evacuate and find your nearest emergency center. Survivors in downtown Miami, Brickell, East Little Havana, Overtown, and Wynwood, when you can safely do so, please evacuate to the Miami International Airport for assistance…”
“See?” Carson said to his wife. “That’s where we’re heading, dear. Everything will be fine.”
“Nothing is fine,” Vanessa whimpered. “Don’t you see that?”
“I’m just trying to make the best of things.”
Vanessa shivered and stared straight ahead through the windshield. “It’s not working.”
Logan raked his hand through his unruly hair, gritting his teeth to hold back a curse.
These two were barely holding it together. It was a whole different world they lived in—where life didn’t kick you every chance it got, where high-dollar promotions, luxurious vacations, and homes that belonged on the covers of magazines were the norm.
They’d probably never met a problem they couldn’t throw money at to fix. Until now.
Maybe joining up with these people was a mistake. But with Park, Shay, and Eden injured, they needed the vehicle. Dakota had inhaled so much smoke, it was a wonder she was on her feet at all. And Logan didn’t want to admit how sick he was, not even to himself.
They needed the truck until they reached the airport and the EOC.
Then all bets were off.
13
Logan
Carson turned the radio dial. More staticky stations. Then a deep male voice with a prim British accent came on the air: “…in this, the single greatest catastrophe and humanitarian disaster the United States has ever seen.
“In the L.A. attack alone, experts estimate that the radioactive fallout has contaminated a three-hundred-square-mile region. Two to three million residents will require relocation facilities, unable to return to live and work in the affected hot zones for anywhere between three to twenty years.”
“What can you tell us about the astounding numbers of refugees being reported?” asked a female radio announcer in a grave, raspy smoker’s voice.
“In the Los Angeles Basin, more than half of the six million people who fled their homes are now stranded, strung out along the major interstates to the north of the San Gabriel Mountains and along the north and south coasts of L.A.”
“Holy hell,” Logan breathed.
“Where are they going to put all those people?” Julio asked in disbelief. “This is just for one city…There are twelve more…”
“Hundreds of schools, hotels, warehouses, and stadiums have been opened for displaced persons,” the announcer continued as if he’d heard Julio’s question, “but these facilities are already overwhelmed. Most refugees are critically low on water and food. Some have set up tents or are simply camping in their vehicles on the side of the road, in parks, and on public property. Many have run out of gas and have nowhere else to go.”
“Similar stories are coming out of every attacked city, from Charleston and New York City to New Orleans, Norfolk, and Seattle,” the female announcer said. “Surrounding states are reporting mass food shortages, rolling brownouts and blackouts, and increased crime and looting as officials try to deal with hundreds of thousands of displaced refugees.
“FEMA is working around the clock in conjunction with the Red Cross and other humanitarian aid organizations to provide emergency temporary shelters, but the demand for housing for tens of millions across the country has far outstripped their capacity.”
“What about medical care for the injured, Rebecca?” the male announcer asked.
“State officials report that functioning hospitals within a two-hundred-mile radius of the thirteen affected cities are overwhelmed, with severe shortages of personnel and medical supplies. Dozens of mobile military medical units have been deployed to help relieve the overload, utilizing stadiums and gyms as emergency clinics.”
“My parents are in Charleston,” Vanessa said. There was no whine in her voice now, only grief. “We couldn’t get through at all before our phones died. I have no idea if they’re even okay.”
“I’m so sorry,” Julio said.
“They’ll be fine,” Carson said. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
“You don’t know that,” Vanessa said. “No one can know that.”
They fell silent again, listening to every horrible snippet of news, each seemingly worse than the last.
“…Criticism intensified with calls to President Harrington to recall a significant portion of our four hundred and fifty thousand forward deployed troops. Texas Governor Omar Harris’s quote to the Washington Post yesterday has gone viral: ‘We don’t need them in Syria protecting the Syrians, we need them on American soil protecting Americans.’”
The announcers continued talking, but Logan only caught bits and pieces. “…Over a hundred thousand people are presumed dead in Miami alone, not counting the injured or those expected to die of radiation poisoning…social media blowing up with images of mass graves of thousands…Nightly rioting in Miami-Dade has reached a fever pitch…statewide curfews have been enacted as Governor Blake urges President Harrington to declare martial law…”
“May God help us all,” Julio said.
To Logan, the mind-numbing numbers and horrifying statistics were white noise. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, and he didn’t want to.
What was happening in L.A. and New York and D.C. meant nothing to him. Even the disaster of greater Miami meant little.
He cared only for what was happening in this neig
hborhood, on this street, in this cab.
Everything else was a distraction.
And distractions could get you killed.
“The country is falling to pieces!” Vanessa said, shocked. “What are we going to do?”
“We have to take care of ourselves, now,” Dakota said.
“What if it’s all over?” Vanessa’s voice rose with a tinge of hysteria. “What if we never recover? What if the U.S. becomes another collapsing, war-torn country like Syria and Venezuela—”
“Maybe we should turn it off,” Julio said gently. “Just for a while.”
Silence filled the cab. Vanessa stared straight ahead, trembling, lost in whatever future horrors gripped her imagination.
Logan didn’t have time to envision the horrors of the future. There were plenty right in the here and now.
He kept his gaze on the houses creeping by outside.
Two shadows stood on a dark front porch. They were large and bulky—men. One held a flashlight.
As the truck passed, the man aimed the light at them. The beam slowly swept the truck, pausing on Logan and the Remington in his hands.
He squinted against the glare. The men didn’t have guns themselves, but they had weapons. The one with the flashlight gripped a crowbar in his other hand. The second guy held a long kitchen knife.
“We may have trouble,” he murmured. “Stay alert.”
Beside him, Vanessa sucked in her breath.
Logan tensed, watching them carefully as the truck rolled past.
The men didn’t move, just watched.
Most likely, they were guarding their own families from hostiles rather than plotting mayhem themselves. But you never knew.
“We should be out of the hot zone now,” Julio said a few minutes later. “Harlow said it was only a mile west of us, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Shay said, “she did.”
Logan knew he should feel relief that they were out of danger from the radiation, but he didn’t feel anything of the sort. The radioactive particles were already on them, inside them—invisible, deadly, doing their dirty work with silent, lethal precision.
