Edge of Collapse Series (Book 4): Edge of Anarchy

by Stone, Kyla

  “Even in good weather, travel is slow and arduous. A lot of destruction and violence can happen in thirty minutes.”

  “I hear you. But it’s got to be better than nothing.” Dave stuffed the last handful of broken Dorito chips in his mouth, balled up the bag, and tossed it in the trash can beneath the desk. He looked around for a napkin, didn’t see one, and wiped his hands on his pant legs. “I wish Fall Creek would join.”

  Noah snorted. “I don’t see Rosamond Sinclair going for that.”

  “No, I suppose not. She always likes to blaze her own trail. And she won’t be too keen on sharing her militia posse, I’m sure.”

  Noah gave a noncommittal grunt. “Anything else?”

  “Some of the beachfront cities are doing okay. South Haven, Saugatuck, and Holland. They’re figuring out how to do ice fishing.”

  “We’ve got folks getting some fish from Lake Chapin and Fall Creek.”

  “Good thing. I’m jonesing for some fried fish. Some bluegill, walleye, and smallmouth bass. I’ve seen Julian down by the river across from the Inn a few times. I wonder if he’s caught anything good.”

  At the mention of Julian, Noah stiffened. They’d barely spoken in ten days, since Rosamond had appointed Noah chief of police instead of her own son.

  Noah didn’t know how to cross that void. Julian had always had a capacity to be vindictive and spiteful. He’d never turned that rancor on Noah—until now.

  Noah wanted to think that Julian would get over it. That he’d see that Noah was good at his job, good for Fall Creek. That he’d come around and things would go back to normal.

  Some part of him whispered that normal was never returning—not for the country, not for Fall Creek, and not for him and Julian.

  Sometimes, it felt like the only thing keeping the sky from crashing down was Noah’s own two hands—like Atlas balancing the weight of the world on his back, spine bent, straining and struggling to keep it all afloat.

  “Anything bigger? Any reports on who unleashed the EMP?”

  “So far, just chatter and rumors. Our nuclear missile defense system was attacked by sophisticated hackers. They must have had help from the inside. Our national security was compromised. They brought the system down just long enough for the nukes to strike.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Don’t know yet. I’ve got a friend out of Washington who says the military is gearing up for something big. The government is being very tightlipped about everything. All I know is, at first they thought it was China. Now, the rumor is whoever is behind it tried to set China up.”

  “China doesn’t make sense. They hate us, but they need us to buy all their junk products. They purchase all our debt for political leverage and control. They want us subservient, not destroyed.”

  “True. North Korea would obliterate us if they could. Iran hates us. Maybe Russia? Maybe we won’t know until the president nukes ‘em to kingdom come.”

  Noah sighed. “I sure hope so. Even if it doesn’t change anything on the ground for us, it matters. Knowing America got her vengeance.”

  “Hell yes,” Dave said, pumping his fist. “America isn’t gonna lie down and take it. Not ever.”

  Milo jumped to his feet. He made gun-shapes with his hands and pretended to fire over Noah and Dave’s heads. “We’re gonna get the bad guys. They can’t beat us!”

  “I sure hope so, kid,” Dave said with a tired sigh. “We can still hope.”

  24

  Quinn

  Day Twenty-Three

  Bathing in the apocalypse royally sucked. Quinn had loved showers as much as the next girl. Now, they were a pain in the butt.

  Gran and Gramps had always talked about installing a cool gravity-fed shower system in case the turds hit the fan, but they’d never had the money in their tight budget. They had an outdoor solar shower—basically a big black bag that they filled with water and heated in the sun—but Quinn had zero interest in using it in ten-degree weather.

  For now, Gran and Quinn washed themselves using an antiquated towel, soap, and hot water system. They boiled water that Quinn had pumped from the well in a large pot on the wood stove.

  When the water started steaming and forming small bubbles, Quinn took the pot from the stove, carted it into the bathroom, and set it on the counter.

  She stripped out of her dirty clothes, then carefully dipped a hand towel in the water and allowed it to wick up the hot water without becoming completely soaked.

  She used the hot, wet towel with a bar of hand soap to wipe down and disinfect her arms and torso, back and legs, feet and armpits, then private parts last.

  The towel never stayed hot for long, no matter how many times she re-dipped it. By the end, she was shivering and dancing to warm herself in the chilly air. She dressed as quickly as she could.

  Quinn studied herself in the mirror. Her black roots were showing. The vibrant blue hair that she’d maintained for years was quickly fading. It was funny how quickly priorities changed. She didn’t care much about makeup or hair dye anymore.

  Blue was her favorite color, but that wasn’t the real reason why she’d kept it dyed. She stared at the black roots until her eyes blurred.

  With her dark hair, everyone used to say how much she looked like Octavia Riley. Her meth-head mother was the last person she’d wanted to resemble.

  Now Octavia was dead. Now it didn’t matter.

  She didn’t miss her mother. She told herself she didn’t. What she missed was the mother she was supposed to be.

  It still felt like a hole in her heart that would never heal. Even the scar tissue hurt when she pressed on it.

  Gran knocked on the door. “You still alive in there?”

  Quinn cleared her throat to get rid of the sudden lump of emotion. She rubbed her eyes fiercely and opened the door. “That didn’t even take ten minutes.”

  “Coulda fooled me.” Gran was dressed in jean overalls, winter boots, and a bulky knit sweater over a few long-sleeved shirts. Wrinkles crisscrossed her weathered face. She was in her late seventies, but her blue eyes were still as sharp and intelligent as ever.

  Loki snaked between Gran’s legs and jumped on the toilet seat lid. Odin and Thor followed right behind him. The cats followed Gran around like her own personal entourage.

  “You feel all clean again?” Gran eyed the pot on the bathroom counter. “You certainly used enough water.”

  She scratched Loki behind the ears. “Yeah, except I haven’t washed my hair in five days. My scalp is all greasy, and I feel gross.”

  They were only washing their hair once a week now. Apparently, that was how things used to be before everyone had running water and fancy bathrooms.

  Gran thought it was fine; it bugged the heck out of Quinn.

  “We can always shave your hair off,” Gran said with an evil cackle. “That’ll do away with the lice issue.”

  “Baby steps, Gran,” Quinn said. “And I do not have lice.”

  “I have something for that itchy feeling.” Gran leaned her cane against the wall and shuffled past Quinn. She rummaged around in a cabinet beneath the bathroom sink and pulled out a bottle of baby powder.

  Quinn glared at it like it might bite her. “What’s that for?”

  “Rub it on your scalp. It’s like dry shampoo. It will help the itching to go away in between hair washes.”

  “I ran out of shampoo and conditioner,” Quinn said. “I searched the storage room in the basement but didn’t see where you hid them.”

  Gran grinned. “That’s because there isn’t any.”

  Quinn stared at her. “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s not a joke. Shampoo strips your hair of its natural oils. You don’t really need it.”

  Quinn made a face. “Don’t tell me you haven’t really been washing your hair all this time. Is that where that funny smell comes from?”

  “Watch that sass, smarty-pants.” Gran bent beneath the sink again and came up with a box of baking
soda. “Use this.”

  “Doesn’t that belong in the kitchen?”

  “It exfoliates your scalp and help gets rid of build-up. Mix baking soda, water, and a few drops of lavender essential oil in an empty shampoo bottle and shake to make a paste, and there you go. Homemade shampoo.”

  “I’d prefer my Pantene Pro-V, thank you very much.”

  “We’d prefer a lot of things. This is the world we got.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Quinn muttered. Her scalp was itching so bad, she was willing to try anything. She thrust out her hand. “Oh, fine. I’ll take it.”

  “Don’t knock it until you try it, girl. It’s very useful. You can also use baking soda to make a great toothpaste, too.”

  Quinn groaned. “Don’t tell me we’re going to be making our own toothpaste from now on.”

  “We sure are.”

  “Is that why we have so much of this stuff stored downstairs?”

  There had to be ten pounds of baking soda stored in Gran’s secret storage room hidden in the basement. Maybe more.

  “It’s got a three-year shelf life and works great for dozens of uses other than baking. It provides relief for bug bites, rashes, inflammation, and itching. You can make mouthwash or mix it with cornstarch for deodorant. It’s as close to a miracle product as we’re going to get.”

  “Gross.”

  “When the fecal matter hits the oscillator, what matters is whether it works. The cheaper it is, the more versatile, and the easier to store, the better.”

  “Yeah, yeah I know.” She did. She understood and appreciated everything Gran and Gramps had done to prepare for a disaster like this.

  Baking soda shampoo and toothpaste. Two more things to add to the “Reasons the Apocalypse Sucks” column.

  At least they had a way to make what they needed. There was that. She couldn’t imagine life without a way to clean your hair and teeth.

  Gran met her gaze in the mirror, her expression suddenly serious. “Noah told me what happened at Winter Haven. Did you think I wouldn’t hear about it?”

  Her cheeks went red. “Traitor,” she muttered.

  Gran clucked her tongue. “Don’t blame Noah. I don’t like what I heard about you attacking that fool soldier. Not one bit.”

  “They’re not even real soldiers.”

  Gran narrowed her white brows. “Their guns real?”

  “Yes.” Quinn heaved a sigh. “I know, Gran. I know. I was all set on being careful and being patient, just like you said. But when that jerkwad Desoto started pushing Milo around, I just lost it. He was choking a little kid, Gran. I had to do something.”

  Gran clucked her tongue again. “You got your grandfather’s fire in your blood.”

  “I’m not being stupid, I promise.”

  “You created an enemy, is what you did. That big ape isn’t going to forget you.”

  A chill ran up her spine. She remembered the way Desoto had looked at her, like he wanted to strangle her right then and there. “I know.”

  Gran pressed her lips together. “Maybe you need the shotgun with you.”

  Quinn had her own .22 rifle for shooting small game. She’d kept it close by whenever she was in the house but didn’t usually take it out with her. It wasn’t like it could take on one of the militia’s AK-47s.

  Quinn’s gaze dropped to Gran’s Mossberg 500 leaning against the hallway wall just outside the bathroom. Gran took it everywhere with her. It even went into bed with her so she could grab it easily in the middle of the night.

  “You need it, Gran. If someone tries to break in when I’m gone, you’ve gotta protect yourself.”

  Gran gripped her cane and leaned on it heavily. She suddenly looked tired—and older. “Just be careful. You’re the only kin I got left.”

  Quinn forced a grin. “There’s always the cats to keep you company.”

  “I’m serious, girl.”

  Quinn’s chest tightened. In this world, being careful didn’t make you safe. “I know.”

  25

  Liam

  Day Twenty-Four

  Liam woke up gasping.

  His body was drenched in a cold sweat, memories of combat bombarding him. Men yelling, grunting, screaming. Explosions rocking him to the core. Tracers and rockets flying overhead. Bullets striking, dust so thick, he could taste it.

  Adrenaline drenched his synapses, shutting out the fear, the mayhem, the sensory overload, and forcing himself to focus on the mission: identifying targets, firing, reloading, staying alive.

  He shot straight up. He didn’t know where or when he was. Anxiety thrummed through him. He scrambled for a gun, a weapon.

  “Here, it’s right here.”

  Something was shoved into his hands. The Glock. He closed his fingers around the shape of it, as familiar as his own hands.

  The nightmare faded slowly, his heart still thudding hard. Sweat drying on his skin.

  Blinking, he looked around, taking in his surroundings. The gunshots and explosions dimmed. The smoke and fire and screaming, gone. The stink and heat and sweat and panic vanished.

  He was back in the house, in the living room. He sat on the purple princess mattress, with his lower half covered in a pile of mismatched blankets. The fireplace at his back. The couch pushed against the wall. The windows covered.

  Ghost was stretched out along the other side of the fireplace. His muzzle rested on his paws, his brown eyes alert and pinned on Liam.

  Next to him, little Charlotte slept peacefully inside her dresser drawer.

  Hannah knelt beside the mattress. Her new, shorter hair hung loose around her shoulders. Concern lined her beautiful face. “I reloaded it. I thought you would want me to.”

  Hannah and Charlotte Rose were alive. They were safe.

  A giant hand released his chest.

  He racked back the slide of the Glock and checked the chamber. A .124-grain jacketed hollow point round gleamed up at him.

  He set the pistol down on the mattress beside him and released a slow breath.

  “How do you feel?” Hannah asked.

  The tips of his fingers and toes felt scalded. His whole body ached. The pain in his lower back throbbed dully. He felt utterly drained. “Like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck.”

  Her lips twitched. “That good, huh?”

  “Just about.”

  “We ran out of firewood. I burned the end tables you chopped. And the bookcase and coffee table. We’re on the kitchen table, now. I had to chop that one myself.”

  He glanced at the hunks of wood popping and spitting in the fireplace. The blaze was warm and inviting. “You did good.”

  She beamed. “I thought it might break my arms, but I did it.”

  She rose and hurried to a pot heating near the fire. She drew it out and ladled soup into a bowl with a spoon she’d conjured from somewhere. She came back to him, careful not to slosh the soup, and handed him the bowl.

  “I was hoping you would wake up soon. You need something warm in you.”

  He sipped it carefully. It was hot but felt deliciously soothing sliding down his throat. Suddenly, he was ravenous. His empty stomach gnawed at him like he hadn’t eaten for a week.

  He slurped up several more bites before pausing. “How long was I out?”

  “Three days.”

  He winced. “Three days?”

  “It was touch and go for a while.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “I thought—I thought you wouldn’t make it.”

  “I’m hard to kill.”

  “Yeah, well.” She looked away. Her cheeks reddened. “We were worried.”

  Ghost thumped his tail in agreement. He panted, his black jowls stretching back like he was grinning.

  “Ghost found me. In that blizzard…”

  “He knew you were still out there. He believed he would find you. And he did.”

  His chest tightened. “Good thing.”

  “Finish your soup. I’ll get some tea going. We’re running low on supplies, but
we still have some honey in the pantry. You need more calories in you.”

  He reached out and seized her hand. “Wait.”

  Her palm was soft and warm. He didn’t want to let go. He felt heat rising in his face. “Pike. We fought in the woods. I wounded him. Shot him at least once, maybe twice. He got away. I was sure he was coming here. I hoped he died on the way. Maybe he did. I thought…”

  Hannah didn’t pull her hand away. “He did. He did come here.”

  Liam’s heart stopped cold. Ice ran through his veins. “What happened?”

  Her eyes were so dark, as though the pupils had eaten the emerald green of her irises. “He came in through the garage. He trapped Ghost inside. I couldn’t get to Ghost. Pike came for me and Charlotte. I got the .45. I shot at Pike until the ammo ran out. I hit him once, but in the shoulder. My hands were shaking so hard, it was a miracle I hit him at all.”

  Liam’s heart thudded hard in his chest. He squeezed her hand and didn’t let go.

  She told him the rest. Haltingly, with several starts and stops, but her gaze never wavered from his. Her eyes shadowed with pain, with loss—but also triumph.

  With every word she spoke, his rage grew—but also his pride. He was proud of her. Proud of how she’d fought like a wild thing to protect herself and her child.

  She looked nothing like the frightened woman he’d discovered cowering in the woods. She was a completely different person.

  “We killed him,” she said. “Ghost and me. We did it together.”

  Ghost raised his muzzle and pricked his ears, like he knew they were talking about him. He gave a loud, self-satisfied chuff.

  “Good job, boy,” Liam said gruffly, emotion thickening his throat. “Both of you.”

  “He’s still down there.”

  “Leave him to rot.”

  Hannah’s mouth twitched. “I thought you might say that.”

  Beside the dog, Charlotte shifted. She flung her tiny arms out like a starfish and whimpered.

  Before Hannah could go to her, Ghost nosed her gently, like a mother might stroke her baby’s back. Charlotte opened her heavy-lidded eyes for a moment, gave a contented gurgle, and promptly fell back asleep.