The Break Free Trilogy (Book 3): Through The Frozen Dawn

by Fitch, E. M.

  Everyone froze. It was hard to see in the low light. Jack stepped forward, the lantern glow extending to the floor space in the center of the couches, and then he stepped back quickly, knocking the lantern to the floor. The flame hissed and spit, but that was low compared to the cracking fuse that had almost reached the lip of a duct-taped can.

  The homemade grenade exploded with a pop like a cherry bomb. Screams lit the small room as shards of metal flew like shrapnel. Even through her bulky coat, Emma could feel the sharp sting of the metal as it cut like blades into her skin.

  "Emma!" Jack screamed her name and she stumbled forward, tripping over Harris's feet and landing on the floor. Her ears were ringing with the force of the bomb and she saw stars when her head connected with the corner of an arm chair. Hands were yanking her to her feet, feeling down her body.

  "Don't," she slurred, "Jack, wait." He pulled her down behind a couch, peaking over the top to look towards the broken window. She put her hands out, feeling along her arm for the throbbing points. She caught the corner of a twisted bit of metal and gave a sharp tug. It came free, tearing a small chunk of her arm out with it. She whimpered, placing the piece gingerly on the floor before feeling for more.

  Harris was muttering behind her. He had jumped up and landed behind the couch they had both been sitting on. She saw his hands flitting over his chest and legs. There were no blood stains, Emma must have absorbed the blow for him.

  Lucky me, she thought savagely.

  She could hear Jack speaking to him, even as she found another shard that had grazed her shoulder. It wasn't embedded in her flesh, but it had cut her. Emma could feel the warmth of the blood as she pulled her arm out of her sleeve to check. It dribbled in a thin stream down her chest, staining the cloth there. She pressed her palm to it, staunching the flow.

  "What was that?" Harris asked, his voice low. He had a gun in one hand, the barrel cold gray steel in the dark. "Miranda? Sam? Carla?"

  No one answered. Emma frowned. The explosion was odd. Not just that someone had thrown it, not just because someone obviously wanted them injured and scared, but because it didn't seemed to be designed to kill. Hurt terribly, yes, but Emma would heal from this. The lantern that had been knocked over when Jack jerked back was still on its side. She reached for it, placing it on the carpet between their two couches. In the glow, she watched as Harris's eyes ran over her, darting from bloodstain to bloodstain.

  He didn't have time to ask if she was okay though. The light of the lantern had caught something else. A hand stretched up into the glow. From where Emma sat, she could see the shard of metal that had sliced its way into the palm.

  "Miranda," Harris whispered. A snarl answered.

  Emma had never seen anyone turn at night. It shouldn't have been possible. The infected were asleep at night, there was no way to get bitten. She stood, looking down at the mess of bodies on the floor. They reached forward into the light, their lower limbs tangled, their chests rising like a snake charmer's pet. Miranda and Carla and Samuel, each with slices in their exposed skin, bits of metal penetrating their bodies. Their snarling faces stared up at Emma, hissed at the light. She recoiled from their eyes, already staining yellow, from the twitching limbs and muscles that quivered with newly born infection.

  "How?" Harris asked, grief weighing his words. His hands ran over his chest again, stroked his forearms. He looked from his blood free clothing to Emma, mouthing the word again.

  "The explosive," Jack said, pulling Emma back down and kicking at the lantern. With the tinkle of broken glass, the light extinguished and three newly infected people fell with a thud to the floor, unresponsive.

  The can was packed with infection. In what form, Emma wasn't sure. The flesh of an infected body? The blood and tissue from some sleeping corpse? They had filled the can, stuck in an explosive, taped it off, and then threw it without regard, not caring who caught the disease coated shards in their skin.

  Emma felt sick.

  "It's starting," Jack whispered. As soon as the light was extinguished, Emma could hear them, too. Soft footsteps were rustling in the snow. A low chuckle escaped and floated through the cold, winter air. The soft noise passed through the broken glass until it died among them. Jack nodded towards the nearest window, crouching as he made his way over.

  "The others," Harris whimpered, looking from Jack to the bodies they were leaving on the floor. Jack shook his head. There was nothing that could be done for them now. He was about to reach for the window when a beam of light cut through. Jack ducked, pulling Emma close to him. She could smell his sweat, even through his coat. He pressed them both back to the wall, the beam of light passing so close that it lit the top of Jack's head. Strands of his inky black hair shone golden.

  Outside, someone whistled. The light cut off and Jack scrambled to the back of the room, ducking behind a sofa that had been squashed in the corner. Emma and Harris were right behind him.

  Moments later, light flooded the room. The three behind the couch huddled close together.

  "I thought you said they were all in here," someone murmured. Emma thought it might be Corey. She wasn't sure.

  "Thought so," another grunted. "Doesn't matter. We got most of them anyway."

  With the introduction of the light, the moans and snarls picked up again.

  "Here, biter, biter, biter," Corey crooned. From the shadows cast agains the wall, Emma could see that he was holding something out, swinging what looked like, to her, a teddy bear. "Time for breakfast."

  "They're not pets," someone admonished.

  "No, but they do serve a purpose," Corey responded. Emma could hear the grin in his tone.

  The three infected on the floor snarled. Furniture scraped along the wooden floor as they pushed through, lunging for Corey. He laughed as he backed out the front door, keeping the infected bodies in the full light of the lantern to keep them moving.

  "What about Harris?" a cold voice asked from the front porch. Corey was still moving backwards, the infected Council members still following him, like feral dogs in search of a treat.

  "Must have slipped out back," someone answered. "We'll get him."

  The light shut off, the darkness settling back down. Emma peeked from around the couch, seeing the backs of the men as they hovered over the infected bodies that collapsed in a heap. They had led them down the stairs, just to the edge of the square. The empty women's dorms were just in front of them, the mess hall not far away. People would be rising soon, waking to find the infection breaking out again, the Council just about gone.

  One of the men upended a bag. Several misshaped lumps fell to the snow with dull thuds.

  "This'll keep 'em busy for a bit."

  "Scatter them around, make it look random," Patrick advised. Someone kicked the mysterious lumps around, circling the bodies of the infected. Then they left, walking back towards the men's dorm and the meeting they were all supposed to be having.

  It wasn't until Emma and Jack tentatively left the porch, their eyes searching the darkness for bullets or the sharp gazes of watching men, that Emma found out what the lumps were.

  Forest animals and birds, necks broken and wings torn, lay in scattered piles around the sleeping bodies. Emma's mouth bobbed open slightly, even as the muscles of her throat froze.

  They were leaving them food, something to keep the infected Council members in the square when the sun rose. They wanted the infected as visible as possible, wanted panic but wanted it controlled. Emma pulled her gun, watching as Jack did the same, intending to end this now and then run, get the others and run for the gate and never look back.

  Before either could pull the trigger, a smooth voice called out from across the square.

  "Well, well," Patrick drawled. "Thought that was you, Jack. And you, Emma, got a little something on you, don't you?"

  A beam of light circled on Emma's abdomen, tracing its way along her bloodstains.

  She heard the shock in Patrick's voice when he spoke. "Ho
w in the hell-"

  The gunshot surprised them all. Harris stood in the center of the square, over the bodies of his fellow Council members. Fire lit the end of the barrel as he pulled the trigger over and over again. Amidst the shouts and confusion, Emma felt Jack's hand find hers. He dragged her around Harris, through the square and into the woods. The crack of gunshot and bullets tearing through the trees echoed all around them. The camp woke to a black dawn, shouts echoed from across the grounds. Emma and Jack tore away, ignoring the brambles that caught on their skin and in their hair. Emma's breath came sharp and fast, pressure building and then searing in her lungs.

  It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me.

  The words pound in her brain to the tune of her heartbeat. Her new injuries burned and throbbed in sync. She wasn't sure why it was so important, only that it was. It wasn't her that infected those men at the dorms. There were bird remains there, too. It was them, it wasn't Emma. It had been them all along.

  "We have to go. Now," Jack said as soon as he caught sight of the cabin. Kaylee was already waiting for them in the doorway. At the sight of her sister and husband barreling through the trees she called for the others.

  "What happened?" she asked, her voice breathy and low. She passed a bag first to Jack and then another to Emma.

  "No time," Jack muttered, grabbing for her hand and shouldering the bag. "Let's go."

  The morning began a slow unfurling, revealing the start of a frozen dawn. What started with birdsong had expanded. Now the darkness was fading, a pearly luminescence bleaching the horizon. The tip of the sun would graze the tree line soon. Emma could smell the difference, the shifting of the warmth through the air, the beginning of day. Already it was easier to seen, easier to avoid the tree trunks and footfalls as they crashed through the forest.

  Andrew ran right next to Emma. His breath was measured though still somewhat ragged, a remnant from his collapsed lung that was still healing. Anna was behind, her panting breath even and rhythmic. They followed Jack and Kaylee, keeping their backs in sight even as they darted ahead through the trees. They all knew where they were going. The gate.

  Emma knew it wasn't far. That was good. Already the staccato gunfire seemed further away from them. But still, every pop into the dawn had her jumping, her muscles tensed for the invasion of a lead bullet.

  The gate loomed ahead of them, a giant in the dark. Emma could see nothing beyond. She yanked at the straps of her backpack, wincing as another volley of shots sounded off behind them, ricochetting into the trees and splintering the bark. It was hard to tell where the bullets were coming from, hard to tell which direction to avoid. But it didn't matter anyway, because the only direction they wanted was forward. The gate.

  Jack paused at the edge of the trees, looking across the bare space to the little guard house in which Willy was always perched. Emma didn't know if he would be awake. She tried to still her breathing to see if she could hear him, leaning forward instinctively to try to catch a fragment of poetry on the air.

  All was silent.

  She crept forward, shaking Andrew's warning hand off her arm. She ignored Jack's whisper of caution. Again, it made sense if she were the first to go. The infected couldn't harm her. And if she died, better for them all anyway.

  She almost didn't see him, curled up in the bottom of the guard shack. She was reaching forward, intending to slip the key to the padlock that held the massive doors chained together off the key rack. The rustling on the floor alerted her to his presence.

  "Miss," he whispered in a strangled tone. "That's Willy's key."

  "I know, Willy," Emma murmured, jumping again as another shot sounded. It was followed by two more. She could have sworn they were getting further away but these sounded very close. The sun broke over the distant horizon, slanting in through the uppermost window of the guard shack. Willy squinted against the burst of orange light.

  "I have a poem," he started, using his elbows to prop himself into a sitting position. He grinned up at Emma, gaping holes where teeth should have been. "As I was going up the stair, I met a man who wasn't there-"

  "I wasn't here," Emma interrupted, staring down at him. Willy stopped, staring at her speculatively. "Get it, Willy? It's me. I am the man who wasn't there."

  His shaggy eyebrows rose spectacularly on his forehead and he grinned, a full blown, cheek crushing grin. He touched one finger to the side of his nose and nodded.

  "The man who wasn't there," he murmured, not stopping Emma as she grabbed the keys and turned towards the gate. "He was a lady all this time!"

  The echo of his laughter followed her into the cold dawn. She was in the shadow of the gate, light spilling around the massive sides, filtering through the ramshackle fence that stretched on either side, casting patterns of chain link and bars, snarls of wiring and the mismatched cracks between boards unto the snowy ground that surrounded them. Andrew and Jack were suddenly at her side as she twist her key in the lock and yanked the chain free. They pushed at the gate until it inched forward, pushing over the grate that covered the pit of infected bodies. The sun had woken them already and arms were stretching over hungry mouths, hands reaching between the frosty grates to snatch at air, the biters keening with hunger into the sunlight.

  It was Kaylee who screamed. Emma drew her eyes from the pit, looking for the first time passed the infected to the fields beyond where a line of vehicles sat waiting, tailpipes spewing exhaust into the cold, morning air.

  "They're here," Andrew muttered, frozen at the gate.

  The Circle. They were laying in wait. Waiting for people to run screaming into the dawn, waiting for Patrick to open the gate. Emma wasn't sure which. Even as they stood there, Emma framed between the two ajar doors, one of the truck doors swung open and a man got out to stand next to his vehicle. She could see no identifiable features. He was a perfect silhouette, backlit by the rising sun.

  A burst of gunfire sounded behind her and she trembled. She had been right, the shots were getting closer.

  "Well, swing those open and let them through," a rough voice called out behind them. Emma spun around, padlock and key still in her hand. Patrick came out from behind a tree. His neck was red with blood but he spoke clearly enough. Whatever wound had been inflicted on him, it wasn't fatal.

  "Don't!" croaked another voice. Harris, much worse for the wear but fighting through. "We will not, we will not, open that gate to whatever hoodlums you met along the road!"

  "Hoodlums, Harris?" Patrick's voice was smooth and amused. "No, not hoodlums. Family."

  "Lock the gate," Harris whispered, realization coming across his features. "Please. Do it now."

  Emma froze in the crack of the giant doors. The lock and key felt heavy in her cold fingers. She didn't want this. None of them did. They wanted out, not to be sucked into the middle of this war.

  "You see Harris?" Patrick laughed as Emma paused. "They don't want any part of this. Freedom, that's what they want. Not these stupid rules and morality policing. Freedom will alway win."

  "It's not freedom you want, you've always been free to leave," Harris replied, addressing only Patrick. He was weakening, Emma could see the difficulty he was having drawing even breaths. "It's power."

  Behind Harris, shrieks were rising that Emma recognized. Goosebumps rose on her arms and the faces of those she had shied away from, the people she tried to protect by keeping her distance, they flashed through her mind.

  "Hey, you in there! Sounds like you could use some help!"

  The voice from behind them was interlaced with revs from the engines, laughter low and nondescript echoed around them.

  "They have perfect timing, don't you think?" Patrick asked, waiting Emma out. Faces spun through her memory, settling on Marco's. He was in there somewhere, unaware that Patrick was about to throw the whole camp into a maelstrom. This was exactly what they had wanted, Patrick and the rest of his men, they wanted the camp in chaos. They wanted the Circle waiting outside to be called in as heroes
who could save the day. They wanted the extermination of anyone who wouldn't fall in line with them. That included Harris. And now Patrick knew that included Emma and her family.

  She trusted Andrew and Jack to keep Patrick in their sights. Already, out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jack's arm, the muscles rigid and taunt, his fingers wrapped precisely around the handle of his gun. Beyond Harris, people were moving closer. She couldn't tell if they were infected or not, only that they were running, coming at the group fast. Emma turned, lock in hand, to snake the chain around the door handles and secure the lock between two chains. She wasn't sure it would do much good anyway, other than keeping the Circle's large vehicles out from the center of camp. If it was a battle on foot, maybe the people of the New North America, the people who had no idea one of their own was leading them to war, would stand a chance. Marco would stand a chance. It was the least she could do for them.

  "That was a poor decision," Patrick whispered. Still, he was smiling, hard and cold but it was there. His hand reached behind him, quick as ever. Jack pulled back his trigger. He missed. Emma saw a chunk of pine explode where Jack's bullet lodged as Patrick melted back into the trees. Everyone scattered. Emma threw her body down in the snow, expecting a volley of bullets. Instead, out of the trees, a burst of smoky light rose. It wavered as it climbed, higher and higher until it exploded, a red flare against the brilliant dawn.

  She could hear the murmurs of surprise and fear from the group of people who were closing in on them. Her head rose from the ground, wiping the melting snow from her face. The cuts from that grenade burned but fear left her mind no room to process that. The faces she had been picturing were slowly gathering in the empty spaces by the gate, looking from Harris, crouched behind a nearby barrel, to Emma and the rest on the ground. Mouths hung open, mouthing words of confusion. She could hear them, the questions, the confusion.

  The next thing Emma saw was half a dozen gleaming metal projectiles, thrown high over the fence and landing, scattering in the snow among the group, the fuses hanging from the lips already hissing.