The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

  Her cheeks flushed again at the memory of his words. She ducked her head so her hair—freshly washed and brushed—fell across her face.

  “Earth to Willow,” Finn said with a crooked grin. “I have something to help you feel better.”

  With a flourish, he lifted two bowls with his left hand and set them on the picnic table in front of them. They were filled with an oozing dark brown substance, a single, lopsided candle at the center of each bowl. “You didn’t think I’d forget to celebrate your birthday, did you?”

  She had no idea what to say. Warmth filled her from her toes to the top of her head.

  “So it’s brownie batter, not a cake.” Finn nudged the candle that was slowly sinking into the batter. “I tried to sneak into the kitchen to make an actual cake, but I’m about as sneaky as a bull in a china shop. The chef caught me. He wouldn’t give me any oil, and they didn’t have eggs. But he did let me steal the box of brownie mix I’d stuffed under my shirt. Turns out, if you mix in a tad of water, it’s phenomenally good.”

  She took a bite, closing her eyes in pleasure as the sweet, gooey chocolate melted on her tongue. It was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.

  Finn mounded the batter on his spoon and shoveled it in his mouth. “Scrumptious, right?”

  She ate some more, every bite a luscious explosion of delectable sweetness. “Benjie will love this.”

  “Don’t worry. I saved some for him.”

  Several crows flew low, black shapes carving through the cobalt sky. They pecked at the popcorn strings strung around the pine tree the kids were decorating, black wings flapping. A dozen children shrieked in alarm and waved their arms, looking like little birds themselves.

  She thought of Benjie’s wooden carving. She thought of Raven. They’d promised to meet her. Was she still there, skulking in the woods, Shadow by her side as she watched the highway, waiting for them? She put down her spoon. “I’ve been thinking about Raven.”

  Finn wiped a smear of chocolate from his mouth with the back of his left hand. “Me, too.”

  “She said she’d watch I-575 for us. The town of Ball Ground, exit 27, remember? But we aren’t there. She’ll think we didn’t make it. Or that we abandoned her. Neither of which are true.”

  “I’m sure she can handle herself.”

  “I know. But still.” The girl had seemed perfectly capable out there in the forested wilderness with her wolf. Raven was a survivor. Willow still felt crappy about it, like she was breaking her word. Besides, she’d be far more comfortable with Raven than these enigmatic New Patriots.

  “Willow, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” Finn moved his bowl aside. His gaze dropped to the table, then lifted to meet hers, his expression suddenly uncomfortable, even embarrassed. “I’ve had time to do a lot of thinking, and—”

  Everything fell completely silent. Abruptly, she was very aware of his large, masculine hand resting on the wood picnic table inches from her own.

  Panic seized her. She shoved off the bench and brushed fiercely at the snow crusting her pant legs. “I forgot I’m supposed to meet Silas to go over choke-holds and neck-punches.”

  “Willow—”

  “I’ll see you at dinner!” She forced brightness into her voice, though she felt like biting her tongue in half. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Finn probably thought she was an idiot.

  She strode across the yard, forcing her head up and her shoulders back. Her skin prickled, sure his eyes were on her, judging her. She’d just acted like a complete moron. And for what?

  It was Finn. Big, goofy Finn. Her constant. Her rock.

  What was she so scared that he would say? Or maybe it was what she wanted him to say. What she was afraid he never would.

  In a world where you counted yourself lucky to even be breathing, wasn’t it hubris to long for something more? She’d done her best to keep those thoughts locked out of her head.

  She didn’t think about the adorable gap in Finn’s front teeth. She didn’t think about how it made her chest expand to see him with Benjie. She didn’t think about how warm and secure she felt curled up next to him every night. How, no matter where they slept, he would always be there. And she certainly didn’t think about how it felt to be wrapped in his strong arms, pressed tight to his burly chest, his heart beating steady against her ear, reassuring her that it was all going to be okay.

  She couldn’t think those thoughts because it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter. The world was ending and even if it wasn’t, she was still just a poor Filipina girl from the slums. Just plain, chubby Willow. Not beautiful and captivating like Amelia or Celeste.

  Finn thought of her like a kid sister, or at best, a good friend. Just like everyone else.

  All she was really good at was injuring people on purpose. Not exactly a romantic draw. In a fight, she wanted people to underestimate her, to ignore her, to not even see her.

  In real life, it sucked.

  35

  Micah

  “We’ll do it,” Cleo said with a scowl. “But you haven’t made any friends with these unreasonable demands of yours.”

  The New Patriots had made them wait three days before agreeing to mount the rescue mission, perhaps hoping they would back down. They didn’t. Micah adjusted his glasses. “We don’t need friends. We need allies.”

  “Those either.” She rested her hand on the butt of her holstered pulse gun as they walked. Cleo was giving Micah and Gabriel a tour of the grounds. She’d wanted only Gabriel, but his brother had insisted he join them.

  The day was crisp, the sky a rich cobalt blue. A breeze rustled the giant pines towering around them. Tree limbs drooped, fattened with heavy, wet snow. Several children Benjie’s age played tag between the buildings, stomping through melting drifts.

  Adults crisscrossed the grounds, some directing hover carts full of vegetables harvested from the hydroponics farm, others working on repairing the metal roof of one of the barracks. Some were families strolling in the fresh air; others hardened soldiers—or maybe criminals—grim, armed, and heavily muscled.

  Behind them, Wildwood Mountain cast a long shadow. The north end of the compound was pressed up against a sheer rock face that towered a good sixty feet above the single-story buildings. Sugar Spring River snaked along the east flank. The compound was surrounded by thousands of acres of dense woods that made up the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest.

  “We leave Christmas morning before dawn,” Cleo said. “Two days from now.”

  Micah nodded. He’d forgotten all about Christmas. He’d been too busy trying to stay alive.

  He followed Cleo and Gabriel along the concrete pathways that wound through the old prison. Most of the compound consisted of squat, concrete buildings painted in dull brown and puke-green to blend in with the natural surroundings. The buildings spiraled off a large, snow-trampled rec yard in the center. Because it was a low-security prison built on theories of rehabilitation and community, there were few fences on the inside.

  Cleo showed them the east and south barracks, which were the same as their own west side accommodations. The New Patriots called them barracks, but they were really just long rows of prison cells. Each concrete square allowed a dresser or bookshelf and a cot padded with an actual mattress.

  “How do we know you won’t withhold the cure once you get it?” Cleo asked abruptly. She wheeled to face them, her expression cold and suspicious. “We’ve already rescued you people at great personal expense, housed and fed you, and treated your injured. Now, we’re going to fight a battle for you, all before you do a thing for us.”

  “A fair point.” Gabriel’s jaw bunched, his shoulders rigid. “Instead of joining the mission to infiltrate the Sanctuary, I volunteer to remain behind.”

  A slow, sly smile contorted the burned side of her face. “As a hostage, you mean?”

  Gabriel’s expression was pained. “If Amelia does not return, you may do with me as you wish.”

  “Gabrie
l, no—” Micah started, but his brother held up a hand to silence him.

  “Is that a promise?” she asked carelessly, but he could tell it was an act. There was nothing careless about Cleo Reaver.

  Micah glanced back and forth between them. This was a power play, one his brother was losing. There was a tension battling just beneath the surface that he didn’t completely understand.

  “Yes,” Gabriel said heavily.

  Cleo’s smile was triumphant.

  A seed of doubt sprouted in his gut. Would Gabriel really sacrifice himself? Or did he have another agenda in mind? Why would he willingly choose to stay behind with the New Patriots? They’d managed to find their way past the distrust, the lies, and the betrayals, but suddenly Micah wasn’t so sure.

  No. He trusted his brother. He wouldn’t doubt him now. It was Cleo who deserved his suspicion.

  “And how are we supposed to trust you?” Micah asked before he could stop himself. “We watched you torture our own people. You burned Willow.”

  “It wasn’t personal. It was a job.” She paused, a wicked smile curving her lips.“Though there’s a lot to be said for enjoying your work.”

  “You take pleasure in hurting people?”

  Her smile froze on her face. “Sometimes a sheep has to wear the wolf’s clothing.”

  Gabriel shot him a warning glance. Be careful, his look said.

  “How long have you been here?” Micah asked to change the subject to less hostile territory.

  Cleo pulled a cigar and a lighter out of her pants’ pocket and lit the cigar. “General Reaver made Fort Cohutta her chapter headquarters six years ago, two years after the state abandoned the place due to resource shortages—aka nationwide drought and famine—and budget cuts. It’s served as an emergency base ever since. Every chapter captain knew of its existence, though only a hundred or so lived here permanently before the world ended.

  “Those of us who could brought our own families. We’ve also attempted to rescue people rejected by the Sanctuary where it was feasible. Many were members of the gangs the Pyros wiped out in Atlanta. We took them in over a month ago. The Earth Liberation Army, Right Hand of God, Latin Brotherhood, the Cobras.”

  “Thugs and killers?” Micah’s gut tightened. He recalled his conversation with Jericho before he died. He who fights with monsters…

  “Survivors.” Cleo’s eyes flashed. “They’re people willing to do what needs to be done.”

  The look in her eyes chilled Micah to the bone. He longed to flee with every ounce of his being. There was danger here. It was dangerous for Gabriel, for all of them. But if they left, they were risking Elise’s life. They were risking their own.

  Where would they go? It was winter. They were in the middle of the wilderness. Outside of this place, there was no power, no heat. And they’d made deadly enemies of both the Headhunters and the Pyros.

  Their options were limited. And without Jericho, they were leaderless.

  Later that night, he found Amelia outside their barracks. He’d been wanting to talk to her since they’d arrived. She understood him in a way no one else did, not even Gabriel.

  The cold air was sharp in his lungs. The stars were glittering shards of ice sprinkled across the black bowl of the sky. The world was hushed with an almost reverent silence.

  “Maybe we should leave,” he said, speaking the misgivings he was hesitant to share with his brother. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, about these people.”

  “We need them,” she whispered back, her expression determined in the pale moonlight. “How can we take on the Headhunters by ourselves? Especially without Jericho. We don’t know where they meet with the Sanctuary. We don’t know what road they’ll come in on. We don’t know the territory or the possible traps. We need help.”

  Micah’s stomach twisted uneasily. “We’ll figure something out. We always have.”

  She rubbed her charm bracelet, which she wore outside her sweater now, but still bound to the leather cord he’d given her all those weeks ago. It suited her. She met his gaze, the set of her jaw firm and uncompromising. “Maybe not. But if the Sanctuary is what they say it is, then we need their help to get inside, too. We can’t be stupid, Micah. We’ve lost too many people already.”

  Micah sighed in frustration. He hated it, but she was right.

  “I know this isn’t easy,” She said gently. “You’re always talking about being good, about choosing a better way.”

  “I killed Sykes,” he blurted suddenly.

  She cocked her head, studying him. “He would have killed you if you hadn’t.”

  He tried to articulate the ugly tangle of emotions inside him. “I feel guilty because I killed him, even though I know I needed to. And I feel even more guilty because I didn’t kill him fast enough. If I hadn’t hesitated, Horne would be alive.”

  She clucked her tongue. “You feel that way because you’re a good person. That’s the burden of a leader.”

  “I don’t feel like a leader,” he said quietly. He felt weak, afraid, and full of doubts. “What if I’m wrong? What if I make a mistake? We trusted Horne. We almost died for it. Jericho did die for it.”

  “You offered mercy to Gabriel and Silas when neither of them deserved it. And they turned around and saved our lives. Horne made his own choice to betray us.” Her expression softened. “Don’t let people like him change who you are, Micah. You taught me that.”

  “You’re right.” He smiled at her, but it was stiff. Tension still twisted like a screw inside him.

  “You’re worried this is the Grand Voyager all over again.”

  For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, he nodded.

  “It won’t be.” She reached out and squeezed his arm. Her touch was gentle and light, like the brush of a butterfly wing. She was so close, her eyes so bright. “Because this time, we aren’t victims.”

  She looked like a warrior queen from some distant time and place, with her white-blonde hair a shimmering corona around her face, her delicate features carved in ivory, her eyes blazing with a fierce conviction. Moonlight spilled all around them, like diamonds reflecting off the snow.

  “This time,” she said, “we decide our fate.”

  She squeezed his arm, sending him both strength and comfort, reminding him who he was. He felt her touch like sparks shooting through his veins. He licked his lips, heat flushing his face. A tiny thing was loosed inside him, set free, like his heart had sprouted feathers and winged away.

  He could have kissed her.

  But he didn’t. She wasn’t his, and never would be. But he loved her all the same.

  36

  Amelia

  Christmas Eve dawned cold and gray.

  Amelia and the others found a plot of unfrozen Georgia clay in a small clearing beneath a hundred-year-old oak tree, so tall its branches seemed to rake the sky. Half a mile beyond the compound, the dense and wild forest pressed in all around them.

  Gabriel dug the grave. The ground was tough and hard, but he managed. The snow on the ground had mostly melted. The sky was a muffled gray, thick with charcoal clouds. Flurries of heavy, wet snowflakes dusted their heads and shoulders.

  Micah found some scrap wood and cobbled together a small wooden cross.

  Micah said a prayer for Jericho’s soul and recited Dylan Thomas’s famous poem from memory. “Do not go gentle into that good night,” he finished quietly, “but rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Though they had no body and no coffin, they each wrote notes—memories, regrets, hopes—on old-fashioned scraps of paper and tossed them into the earth.

  Silas stood stiffly beside her, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his face a rigid mask. Only his eyes betrayed a lost and wretched anguish. But he was here. He didn’t run. He didn’t scowl or sneer or scream or hit anything. He stayed present and a part of their grief.

  She reached out and grabbed his hand. She pressed all her tenderness, love, and comfort through her fingers, offering solace
in the only way he would take it. He tensed, but he did not pull away.

  They stood around the grave in silence. All of them that were left, all of them that had been through hell together and come out the other side. They were family now. She, Silas, Micah, Benjie, Willow, Finn, Celeste. Gabriel.

  After it was over, Amelia and Willow drifted back toward the compound, walking side by side along a snow-trampled path. Out beyond the fence, the ground was steep, the woods wild and untamed. They stepped over gnarled roots hidden beneath the snow as they trudged past brittle tangles of underbrush.

  “We’ve lost too many people,” Willow said quietly.

  “I know,” Amelia said.

  “We can’t lose any more.”

  Her stomach twisted. “We won’t.”

  They walked in silence for awhile. The air here was clean and crisp, nothing like the fetid, smoke-choked air of Atlanta. The falling snow formed little drifts and ridges beneath the trees, covering the battle-scarred earth in a blanket of white.

  Everything looked brand new. Like the world could start over if it really wanted to. Like they all could. She turned to Willow. “I wanted to thank you, for what you did.”

  Willow looked at her sharply. “For what?”

  “Back in the mall, with the fire and the rats. When I—when I had the seizure. You could have kept going. You had every right to. But you didn’t.”

  Willow kicked at a rock in the path. “Micah did all the heavy lifting. He’s the one who carried you, who wouldn’t leave your side. You should have seen him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way he held you, the look on his face, like he was watching you die right there, like it was the worst thing that ever happened to him.”

  Amelia’s blush deepened. “What are you saying?”

  Willow stopped and turned to look up at her. She fisted her hands on her hips. “He loves you.”