by Stone, Kyla
Milo knew which plants were which, and when the fresh greens were ready to be harvested. He’d proudly pointed out the potatoes, turnips, carrots, cabbage, cauliflower, onions, garlic, and Swiss chard.
She’d watched Quinn and Milo make a few dozen homemade handwarmers. Milo had shown her each step. He’d gestured at the Ziplock sandwich and snack-sized bags strewn across Molly’s kitchen table. “You just add a cup of ice melt salt, like what they use on roads and sidewalks. But make sure it has the calcium chloride stuff in it.”
He poured the salt into the sandwich bag, then picked up the smaller baggie. “Add half a cup of water to this one and push out all the air bubbles, then seal it.” Milo had put the water bag inside the larger ice salt bag and sealed it.
He’d handed it to Hannah, his face beaming. “Keep them in your coat pocket. When you go outside, squeeze it to puncture the water bag, then shake it to activate. Boom!”
When she’d tried it, the heat had activated immediately and kept her hands warm for about thirty minutes. It was a genius idea, and she loved seeing Milo so engaged in creating something useful.
“We’re using them for trade, Hannah,” Milo had said proudly.
They were making items to barter with other people in the community for canned goods, split firewood, toiletries, gasoline for generators, and other supplies.
A bit of an underground trading post had sprung up, with tough, practical Molly at the heart of it. She didn’t give anything away, but she traded her expertise, teaching neighbors and friends how to build bucket toilets, solar ovens, and Amish buckets to retrieve water from their wells.
Day by day, she felt herself drawn to the warmth and kindness of these people. It surprised her how quickly she’d come to care about each of them, how in such adversity, community meant everything.
When they weren’t learning new skills with Molly, Hannah spent time with Milo at the Winter Haven house. They read books, drew superheroes, played with Legos, and cooked and cleaned together.
At bedtime, Milo still asked for Noah. He hadn’t asked for Hannah yet. He still called her Hannah. He didn’t seem too interested in his infant half-sister, either. It pained her heart, but she didn’t press it.
He was just a child. He was overwhelmed and needed time to figure things out.
They were working toward each other, slowly and cautiously, but it was happening. That was all that Hannah could ask for.
She would accept whatever Milo was ready to give her, when he was ready.
Cliché as it sounded, she took each moment as it came.
In the life she’d lived before, she had taken happiness for granted. Now, she took nothing for granted. Just sitting here next to Liam, this small moment of peace and comfort—it was enough.
This type of happiness, this simple contentment, was no longer ordinary. It was precious and fragile. If she moved too quickly, it might slip from her hands and shatter.
“Fall Creek is my home,” she said again.
Liam leaned forward and gazed at her intently. “Are you sure?”
She knew what he was thinking. What he wanted to say but wouldn’t. He was too honorable.
He would take her with him, if she asked. He would take Charlotte and Milo, too. No hesitation. He would protect her little family with his very life.
She shook her head, her throat thickening. Unable to verbalize how tempted she was, how much part of her wanted to take her children and flee Fall Creek.
Though there was much good here, and good people, there was also a wrongness about this place. A darkness festering at the heart of it.
She couldn’t take Milo from Noah. Milo worshipped his father. He would never forgive her. She knew that. Her relationship with her son was budding but still so, so fragile.
She was trying to make things work with her husband. Trying as hard as she could. Every time she thought they were making headway, Noah would do or say something that made her feel unmoored all over again.
The way he couldn’t hold Charlotte. How he couldn’t bear the sight of her crippled hand. How he tiptoed around the past, choosing not to bring it up rather than face it head-on.
It was like they were both adrift on a wild and raging sea and couldn’t find their way back. Like it was impossible.
But she wasn’t going to quit. Hannah Sheridan did not give up easily. It wasn’t in her.
She said it more for herself than for Liam. “I have to try, Liam. I owe it to everyone to try.”
He nodded once, accepting it.
It remained unspoken, the thing between them. Glimmering like a thread of gossamer. Barely visible, and yet stronger than she thought possible. She felt it, pulling her, tugging on her heart.
She swallowed, whetted her chapped lips. “I don’t want you to go.”
“If you want me to stay, I’ll stay,” he said.
She didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
“Not in this house.” His jaw clenched. “It’s not safe for you. And it isn’t…it’s not working.”
“Our old house is empty,” she said quickly. “You can stay there. You can stay as long as you want. Please, I—”
She couldn’t say the rest. How the thought of him leaving stole the breath from her lungs and filled her chest with an aching dread.
She bit her lower lip. “Please say yes.”
His eyes flashed with something she couldn’t read in the dark. He cleared his throat. “Hannah, I’ll stay for as long as you need me.”
“Thank you.” She longed to take his hand and hold tight. To steady herself the way she held onto Ghost. She didn’t, but she wanted to.
48
Julian
Day Thirty-Four
Cold, thin puffs of air drifted from Julian’s mouth with every breath. Dawn tinged the early morning sky a weak, watery gray.
The Sinclairs owned a little fishing shack on the edge of Fall Creek along the far border of Winter Haven’s property line. Gavin had had no use for fishing—preferring to hunt larger prey, including humans, apparently—so it was Julian who used it almost exclusively.
The small ten-by-ten shack smelled musty and dank. Dust motes danced in the gray light trickling through the smudged, dirty window. The wood plank floor was rotting in some places and scuffed with dirt and grime.
He’d packed his gear on a sled—jigging ice fishing rod; tackle box with line clippers, pliers, hooks, and sinkers; a bucket to overturn for seating; a manual ice auger with an ice saw and chisel; a skimmer; and a retractable ice pick, just in case.
He didn’t have his usual bait of meal worms, grubs, or minnows that he could just grab at a bait and tackle shop like before the collapse. He’d tried a few hacks he’d heard of from other anglers, which had worked surprisingly well. A few kernels of canned corn threaded onto the hook could lure trout, perch, carp, and bluegill into biting. Gummy worms and marshmallows also worked for bluegill.
He hesitated in the doorway, glancing back a final time. The chest freezer in the corner drew his gaze like a terrible magnet.
There was no electricity to keep it running, but the freezing temperature had served its purpose. The body inside should still be cold enough to keep it from decomposing too much.
He would need to move it soon. The ground was still frozen, but he could weigh the corpse with rocks and chains, roll it over a deep and secluded section of the river, cut a hole in the ice, and dump it in.
Maybe someday the authorities would dredge the river in search of people who’d disappeared during the collapse, but it wouldn’t be for a long, long time. Julian wasn’t worried.
Chief Briggs had been easier to kill than he’d thought. He’d killed in rage before—Nickel and Billy Carter came to mind—but Briggs was premeditated, calculated. He’d had to work himself up to it.
When the moment came, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d needed to do it. It got done.
A bullet to the back of the head when the old man had his back turned. Julian had made sure it was quick
and painless. Merciful.
Chief Briggs had been a miserable old bulldog. Now he was at peace. Or, as at peace as a corpse crammed inside an ice chest could be.
He needed to get rid of the damn body. That was all. Then this sour sick feeling in his gut would go away. Then the nightmares would end.
He forced his feet to move, his body to pivot. He marched out of the tiny shack and slammed the rickety door shut behind him.
Cold blasted his exposed cheeks and slithered down the back of his neck. He was dressed for a day of exposure to the elements.
He wore a moisture-wicking base layer with long underwear and a flannel shirt beneath snowsuit bib overalls, followed by a waterproof winter coat, waterproof boots with good traction, and the usual hat, gloves, and thick wool socks.
The frozen river stretched out before him, oily and black beneath the thick gray ice. Thin straggly trees clawed at the sky with their barren branches. A low hill rose behind him, obstructing the view of the houses along the bluff. He had complete privacy.
This little corner of the river was tucked into an inlet. Water moving into the river provided a good source of food for game fish. Lots of deadfall beneath the surface also made it a good spot for fish to congregate.
Julian stepped out onto the ice, lugging the sled behind him. It creaked a little but easily held his weight.
The recommended thickness to walk on ice safely was four inches. Julian sometimes went out on only two or three and had never had a problem. He’d never been one to adhere to rules and guidelines anyway.
He moved out further, searching for one of his favorite spots. Fish liked to run edges. Julian usually targeted drop-offs or changes in underwater terrain to look for gamefish. Today, he was planning to fish the deeper side.
His boots squeaked. Five yards. Ten. Fifteen.
He planned to spend all day ice fishing. It was Sunday, as if anyone remembered what day it was in the apocalypse. He’d been working his butt off for a month and had only been able to escape out here a few times.
He needed a break. And he was sick to death of dinner out of a can. He craved fresh meat—even if it was just fish.
He also needed to get his damn head on straight. There was too much going on, too much to process.
He’d waited all night for the radio confirmation that Desoto and Benner had achieved their mission objectives: Liam Coleman dead. And Atticus Bishop, too.
Two birds with one stone. And why not? Liam was for his mother; Bishop was for himself.
He deserved it, didn’t he? Bishop had been a thorn in the side of Fall Creek for years. The collapse had just brought out the conflict in sharp relief. Bishop never had any intention of falling in line. He incited discontent and rebellion with every breath he took.
It wasn’t enough to take the church or the community pantry from him. It wasn’t enough to take his family.
As long as he was alive, he was a threat to everything that the Sinclairs had worked so hard to build.
Fall Creek was a small town. Nothing but a blip on the map. But it was theirs, and no one was taking it from them.
No one. Not Chief Briggs. Not Bishop or Liam Coleman. And certainly not Noah.
He shifted the sled rope from his right hand to his left and checked his radio once again. It was on. He was in range. What the hell was the problem?
They’d probably gone on a bender and slept it off afterward and just hadn’t bothered to check in. Or they’d gone straight to Sutter and cut him out of the loop entirely.
Frustration slashed through him. He cursed.
How much longer could he wait? Should he wait? If something had gone wrong, he needed to be back with the superintendent. He needed to be there to take care of it, not Sutter. And certainly not Noah Sheridan.
This was a mistake. He needed to go back.
He started to turn.
“Julian Sinclair!”
The shout was loud and clear as a gunshot. He recognized the distinctive, deep booming voice. The voice of someone he’d hoped was already dead.
Julian completed his turn and faced his nemesis. “Bishop.”
Atticus Bishop was very much alive. He stood at the shoreline, dressed in jeans, black boots, and a lemon-yellow Hawaiian shirt beneath his usual leather jacket, a Lions scarf tied around his neck.
He carried a handgun, held low and pointed at the ground. He didn’t need to point it directly at Julian. The threat was clear enough.
Bitter disappointment coiled in his gut. Julian tried to hide his anger, but he’d never been any good at controlling his feelings. He scowled. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came for you.”
Julian feigned ignorance. “What do you mean?”
He had his knife sheathed inside his right boot, but he’d left the shotgun and his service weapon in the patrol truck. He cursed silently.
What the hell had happened to Desoto and Benner? Benner was a little green, but Desoto was strong, tough, and relentless. Maybe they hadn’t tried for Bishop. Maybe they’d just killed Coleman and planned to go after Bishop another night—and hadn’t bothered to inform him.
As if reading his thoughts, Bishop said, “Benner and Desoto are dead.”
Stunned, he inhaled a sharp breath. That part, he didn’t have to fake. “What?”
They were dead? Both of them? Clearly, they hadn’t been up to the task. He should’ve done the job himself.
A needle of fear pricked him. He knew exactly why he’d handed it off. He was a decent cop. Serviceable with weaponry and physical prowess, but he was certainly no super soldier.
He’d never put in more time at the range or gym than he had to. There were always better things to do. Downhill skiing, snowmobiling, fishing, and women.
He’d let the militia do the dirty work. That was what they were there for. That’s what powerful leaders did. They never got their own hands dirty.
Bishop took a step forward. “They infiltrated Noah Sheridan’s property with the intent to break into the house and murder myself and Liam Coleman.”
“That’s a pretty wild accusation,” Julian said evasively. “Why would they do that?”
“That’s what I came to ask you.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Bishop’s expression hardened. “Oh, I think you do.”
49
Julian
Day Thirty-Four
Julian took a step back. The ice gave the smallest creak.
He felt a sudden rush of seething contempt. That familiar bite of bitter jealousy as he stared at Bishop. How he’d felt his whole life. Bishop and his family had had that aura, that appealing contentment that certain families exude—the kind that makes you wish you’d been born into some other family rather than your own.
He tilted his chin at Bishop’s gun. “Just what do you plan to do with that?”
“It’s time to talk.”
His lip curled. “I have nothing to say to you.”
Bishop shifted the weapon, the muzzle lifting slightly. “Yes, you do.”
Anxiety shot through Julian. Bishop couldn’t know. How could he know? He was just fishing for information. Working a hunch.
Julian just needed to get rid of him. The faster, the better. The question was, how?
“I’m an officer of the law!” He shouted across the ice. “Threatening an officer is a crime. So is assaulting an officer. To be quite frank with you, Bishop. I’m getting pretty threatening vibes from you right now.”
Bishop’s expression didn’t change. “Do I have a good reason to threaten you, Julian? Is that why you’re acting so antsy?”
“Don’t play mind games with me! You can’t manipulate me. I’m not gullible like your little flock.”
Bishop took a tentative step from the bank onto the ice. The ice held. He took another step. “You sent the militia to assassinate Liam Coleman in retaliation for the death of Gavin Pike. You sent them to kill me for personal reasons.
”
“That’s—that’s crazy! You can’t do this. You can’t just come out here making insane accusations without consequences.”
“What consequences, Julian? What else could you possibly do to me? You’ve taken my church, my ministry. You stole the supplies my wife and I had saved for years to share with our community, on our own terms. My wife and children are dead.” Bishop’s features went rigid. “Did you have something to do with that as well?”
Julian’s chest seized. Guilt speared him. “Of course not. Are you listening to yourself right now, Bishop? You aren’t even making sense. You’ve been in the cold too long. You’re crazed with grief. Go home. Go spill your guts to Noah. He’s good at that sort of thing.”
Bishop advanced a few more steps. Only twenty feet separated them. He fixed Julian with a cold, hostile stare. “You’ve been lying for so long, you’ve forgotten what the truth sounds like. That stops now, Julian. That stops today.”
Trepidation rolled through him. Julian glanced around wildly. The far bank was another twenty-five yards behind him. The ice in the middle was thinner—the river there flowed deep and fast.
The wind-scoured ice was slick. Running wouldn’t get him far.
He had zero desire to face Bishop one-on-one in a hand-to-hand altercation. Bishop was a big guy. Six-two and solid bulk underneath that stupid Hawaiian shirt.
Beneath that placid religious façade, he was capable of violence, just like everyone else. With his former military experience, he knew how to wield that violence better than most. Probably better than Julian himself.
“Shut up, Bishop! You never shut up!”
Bishop kept moving toward him. He took deliberate plodding steps, his jaw set, steely determination flashing in his eyes.
The man was relentless. He wouldn’t be put off. He wouldn’t be misled or deluded, not like Noah.
His heart-jackhammering against his ribs, Julian looked downriver. Just before the bend that rounded the peninsula of woods loomed the bridge that crossed Fall Creek and led into town.
