Edge of Collapse Series (Book 2): Edge of Madness

by Stone, Kyla

  They headed home on M-40 S and I-94 W in absolute darkness. No stars. No moon. No streetlights, no glow from towns or cities, no lights from passing cars. No passing cars, period.

  They’d already dropped Phoebe and Chris off at their respective homes—Chris in Plainwell just southeast of Ostego, and Phoebe in Dowagiac, about fourteen miles east of Fall Creek. The neighborhoods were dark. Everything was dark.

  Their headlights were the only lights anywhere. Two yellow cones pierced a veil of black slashed with diving, spinning swirls of white. He couldn’t see the farmland interspersed with woods and occasional houses and businesses—warehouses and used car lots.

  He couldn’t see anything but a few yards directly in front of him.

  Here and there, the truck’s headlights haloed great humps of snow-covered metal—cars and SUVs and trucks, all stalled and abandoned on the side of the road. Several times, he had to swerve around pile-up accidents of two, three, or more cars.

  Quinn huddled in the passenger seat beside him, just a dark shape in the dimness of the cab. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. She held her hands in front of the heater to warm her fingers as she stared dully out the window.

  Milo slept soundly in the back seat, curled up like a puppy inside the sleeping bag. Noah kept glancing nervously at the rearview mirror to check on him, occasionally flicking on one of the overhead lights. His skin tone seemed okay. His chest rose and fell steadily.

  His vitals were strong. Still, Noah worried.

  The boy had endured an incredible amount of stress tonight. It was too much for an adult, let alone a child. What toll had that taken on his adrenal glands? Was his medication enough to protect him, or was his body already turning on itself like a silent, invisible poison?

  Before they’d started the drive home, Noah had given Milo his evening pill. For a cold or flu, he usually bumped Milo’s dosage for three days. Beyond that, it was a visit to Dr. Prentice.

  Anything serious, and they doubled or even tripled his dose for a longer period, constantly monitoring his hormone levels.

  Milo was a strong kid, brave and resilient. He’d survived losing his mother in the most horrific manner imaginable, hadn’t he?

  He’d be okay. He had to be.

  Noah shifted his grip on the steering wheel and winced at the bright throb of pain. The heat in the cab had finally thawed his extremities. His fingers, ears, and nose hurt almost like they were burning.

  It meant he had frostnip probably, but no frostbite. Pain was a good thing.

  “I know who you are,” Quinn said after a long silence. “I remember Hannah Sheridan.”

  He glanced at her, startled. “What?”

  “It’s my birthday today.”

  Noah’s chest clenched. “I . . . see.”

  “I remember that day. The day she disappeared.” Quinn kept her gaze out the window. “It wasn’t like there was a big party planned or anything. Not on Christmas Eve. Octavia—my mother—she usually forgets. But that year, she managed to get me a cake. My Gran wrapped a few presents, painting supplies mostly. A cheap drawing pad from Walmart. It was an okay day, I guess. My eleventh birthday. It wasn’t anything special.

  “But I remember the red and blue lights flashing through my window the next day. She’d disappeared on my birthday . . . I’d seen her a bunch of times. Like, just living her life. She liked to jog early in the morning with the baby in the stroller, always with her headphones on. Sometimes she would sing out loud to whatever she was listening to. Aerosmith or Pink Floyd or whoever. She would stop and wave to me, every time.”

  “I remember.” He sucked in a breath so sharply it seared his still-aching lungs. “Hannah was always kind.”

  He normally didn’t like to talk about this stuff, but he didn’t have the heart to shut her down. This strange, sarcastic teenage girl was rattled, just like he was.

  She’d lost a family member on top of everything. She was just a kid, really.

  “I don’t know. It just . . . hit me hard, I guess. Not like what you and Milo went through. Nothing like that. But I just . . . I googled the case every single day. I paid attention. When they arrested you, for a while I really thought you’d done it.”

  “So did most of Fall Creek,” he said. “The whole county did, really.”

  He hated thinking about those days. The suspicious stares and mistrust from friends and neighbors. The sense of isolation. The loneliness.

  They’d never found any evidence implicating him. The most damning fact was simply that he was her husband, and statistically, most women were killed by the men closest to them.

  The masses had been trained by glossy cop shows on TV to believe a trail of DNA evidence littered every crime scene. The reality was much different.

  After a while, the case simply ran cold. That night’s snowfall had erased any tracks that might have been left. They had nothing to go on. No leads, no witnesses, no hairs or fingerprints. No other suspects. Just a car abandoned on the side of a highway.

  Rosamond Sinclair, Fall Creek Township superintendent, had been vocal in her support of Noah’s innocence. Her faith in him had never wavered. Chief Briggs had eventually believed in him, too. Over time, the town’s suspicions had faded.

  Noah was never exonerated. He was never convicted, either. People harbored their opinions based on hearsay, rumor, grudges and long-held loyalties.

  A few people suspected—and maybe still did—that Noah had hurt Hannah rather than allow her to leave an unhappy marriage. Some people believed she’d left him and Milo and hitchhiked to California, choosing to unburden herself of her family completely.

  Others thought that there was someone else out there. A predator who’d stumbled across an opportunity and gotten away with murder. The FBI estimated that between twenty-five and fifty active serial killers stalked the United States.

  Noah didn’t believe she was still alive. He wished she’d run away to California. But she never would have abandoned Milo. He knew that like he knew his own name.

  He’d never intentionally hurt Hannah, but he still lived with tremendous guilt. He’d done nothing more damning than failing to love his wife enough.

  In the end, that was all it took to lose the things that mattered most.

  Quinn shrugged, shifted uncomfortably. “I’m just . . . I remember Hannah, is all. I remember what day it is for you, too. And I’m sorry.”

  He closed his eyes, blinked back a sudden wetness. Grief had a way of walloping you when you least expected it, even years later. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

  The snow fell harder, grew deeper. Soon, it would be too deep to drive if the plows didn’t get out to clear the roads. If there weren’t enough of them that still worked.

  The dashboard analog clock read 9:17 p.m. With every passing minute, dread and anxiety snarled tighter and tighter in his gut. The further they drove into this eerie, silent world, the stronger his dread grew.

  More darkness where there should be towns and cities. Humps of snow-smothered vehicles rearing suddenly out of the blackness like crouching gargoyles. And always, the endless swirling snow.

  They could have been driving off the edge of the planet and wouldn’t even know it.

  “What the hell is happening?” Noah breathed.

  “I told you,” Quinn said, but there was no triumph or glee in her voice, only a broken resignation. “It’s the end of the world as we know it.”

  15

  Noah

  Day Two

  “Dad? The electricity is still broken.”

  Noah groaned and dug deeper beneath the pile of blankets. The cold was brutal.

  He rolled toward his son and opened his eyes. It felt like his eyelashes had been glued shut. His head ached. His whole body ached, his muscles clenched tight like a fist.

  Milo was already sitting up and rubbing his face with his little fists. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

  The events of yesterday came rushing back with a vengeance. The hou
rs enduring the freezing cold, the fear and the panic, the struggle to keep Milo or himself from succumbing to hypothermia. The dead bodies.

  Noah yanked himself to a seated position, pushing aside the couch cushions they’d stacked around themselves the night before.

  Gray morning light streamed into the room. Last night, he hadn’t had the energy to block the single window with a blanket, and the blinds did nothing to keep out the cold.

  Noah had picked the warmest room—or more correctly, the least freezing. His office was the most interior room of the house, with the fewest windows.

  They had a fireplace in the living room, but they’d used the last of the firewood over the past week, enjoying pre-Christmas fires complete with roasted marshmallows, s’mores, and late-night bedtime stories.

  He’d tried to make it fun for Milo. Using the small flashlight to see, they’d quickly made a fort of pillows and cushions they’d stolen from the couch, spread a blanket above them, and shoved in as many sleeping bags and comforters as he could find.

  The “fort” trapped their own body heat as they snuggled together and passed out. They were both still wearing their winter coats from last night, though Noah had made them remove their boots and damp socks and put on fresh ones.

  “Merry Christmas, bud,” he said, though it felt anything but merry. “How do you feel?”

  As soon as they’d gotten home last night, Noah had checked him again for symptoms: fatigue, muscle weakness, dizziness, nausea.

  Milo had seemed okay. He seemed okay this morning, too.

  Milo tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “Fine, Dad. I’m fine.”

  “Let me get a good look at you.” Noah examined Milo’s cheeks, nose, and ears. They were red and chapped.

  “Can you feel this?” He poked Milo’s nose.

  Milo made a face. “Ouch. That hurts. My fingers hurt too.”

  “That’s a good sign, son.”

  The anxiety in his gut lessened as he took the boy’s hands and turned them over, stripping off his gloves. The tips were pale and white, but the rest of his hands and fingers looked okay. “Some frostnip, but no frostbite. We got lucky.”

  “’Cause you saved us.”

  Noah’s chest warmed. “We saved each other.”

  Milo played with the medical alert bracelet on his wrist. “I’m hungry.”

  Hunger was a great sign. The first symptoms Dr. Prentice had told Noah to watch for were lack of appetite, nausea, and fatigue.

  “What about pancakes?” Milo asked.

  The last time they’d missed Christmas pancakes was the morning Hannah didn’t come home. Noah closed his eyes, opened them. “Great idea. I think I’ve got a camping stove in the basement. Let’s whip some up.”

  They emerged from the cocoon of the fort. Noah shivered. One day without heat, and the house already felt like an icebox.

  “Pancakes with chocolate chips, Dad? And peanut butter?”

  “Yes to chocolate chips, buddy! Of course.”

  Noah got a larger flashlight from the coat closet and switched it on. Surprisingly, it worked. Whatever this electromagnetic pulse thing was, it appeared to spare small objects without too many electronics or circuits.

  He didn’t overthink it. He headed down to their “Michigan basement,” an earthy, damp basement with ceilings so short that adults couldn’t stand up straight. The walls were exposed cinder block; the floor, packed dirt. Moisture, water leaks, and structural integrity were constant concerns.

  He scrounged through boxes and totes stacked on a couple of metal shelves for the camping supplies. The camping stove was in a large plastic container labeled in Hannah’s beautiful cursive script. Next to it, another tote labeled “propane canisters.” She’d always been organized like that.

  He and Milo hadn’t gone camping since Hannah had disappeared. She was the one who lived for the outdoors, who’d wanted to teach Milo cross-country skiing as soon as he was old enough to stand upright.

  He pulled out two propane canisters. They had fourteen left. Back upstairs, he set up the stove on the counter and opened the kitchen window for the needed ventilation, even though the air wafting inside was shockingly cold.

  His gloves on, he whipped up a pancake breakfast worthy of a king, with orange juice, sausage links, and hash browns, the chocolate chip pancakes spread with Jif peanut butter and topped with swirls of whipped cream—Milo’s favorite weird concoction, which he’d loved since he was two.

  Normally, the veggies, cheese and milk, and leftovers in the fridge would go bad without power, but considering it was colder than a refrigerator inside the house, Noah figured everything would be fine. The food, anyway.

  He and Milo were a different matter.

  They were both cold and shivering, hunched over their plates and barely able to hold their silverware. Noah needed to block the windows and get his hands on as much firewood as he could.

  The hardware store stocked a supply, and the owner of the local gas station, Mike Duncan, also sold firewood from his fifty-acre wooded lot across the bridge.

  Seasoned firewood would be a hot commodity for the next few months—literally. And if he couldn’t scrounge up enough to keep himself and Milo from freezing, then they were in serious trouble.

  With Milo’s condition, he couldn’t risk stressing his son’s vulnerable system.

  Worry twisted his stomach. He’d lost his appetite. He sat and watched his son eat, his mind cycling through the possibilities, none of them good.

  After he’d stuffed himself—peanut butter and whipped cream still smeared across his mouth—Milo’s gaze shifted to the darkened tree in the living room, and the half-dozen Christmas presents piled beneath it.

  His eyes lit up. “Can I open my presents yet?”

  Noah forced himself to swallow a bite of pancake and washed it down with orange juice. “Let me check and see if Mrs. Gomez can watch you for an hour or two first.”

  Milo pinched his lower lip between his teeth—just like Hannah used to—and frowned. “But it’s Christmas.”

  Regret pierced Noah’s chest. He hated being a single father. Hated all the pressure and obligations always pulling at him from every side.

  He wanted nothing more than to spend the entire day with Milo like they’d planned.

  He rose and put their plates in the sink. He turned on the faucet and watched the water pour from the tap. Without power, the water would stop, sooner rather than later. He hadn’t even thought about it when he’d measured water for the pancake mix.

  So many things to get used to, to mentally adjust.

  He moved the faucet to the clean side of the double sink, set the stopper, and filled the basin. By the time it was full, only a few droplets dripped from the tap. He needed to fill the bathroom sinks and as much of the bathtub as he could before the pipes emptied.

  Trepidation churning in his gut, he turned and squatted in front of Milo’s chair. “You know how I’m a police officer, and it’s my job to keep people safe?”

  Milo nodded soberly.

  “You remember being trapped on the ski lift, how most electronic things stopped working? I believe it happened here, too, and maybe other places as well.”

  “People need help.”

  “Yes. It’s very important that I check in with Chief Briggs and the town council to make sure everyone in Fall Creek is okay. I know it’s Christmas, but we’ve got to make sure everyone is safe.”

  Milo’s face clouded over, but he didn’t protest. “I know, Dad.”

  The swiftness with which he put his own wants and desires aside for the needs of others made Noah’s heart ache. The boy already got only the scraps left over after Noah’s long days. He was already a motherless child.

  And he’d watched two people die yesterday. Noah needed to talk to him about that later, make sure he was okay.

  “Can we check on Quinn, too?” Milo asked.

  “Of course.” He patted Milo’s head. “And we’ll do presents tonight, I
promise.”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked it. Still dead. He’d tried his radio last night. It was fried, too.

  A heavy sense of foreboding settled over him. He hoped it wasn’t as bad as he feared. What if Quinn was right, and the power grid was down for months—or even longer? What were they going to do?

  16

  Noah

  Day Two

  “Get your boots on,” Noah said to Milo. “And fresh gloves and your blue hat.”

  While Milo complied, Noah went to his bedroom and paused for a moment in front of Hannah’s dresser. His hands hovered over the top drawer handle.

  He hadn’t opened the drawer in years. He’d finally emptied out their shared closet two years ago, but he hadn’t touched the dresser. The top still held her mirror and compact and jewelry tree.

  And inside her sock drawer, tucked into an unused pair of fuzzy Christmas socks, the two hundred dollars in cash she’d insisted they set aside for emergencies.

  They’d argued over that two hundred dollars. When money was tight, they’d had to choose between using the emergency cash to pay the electric bill or eating ramen for a week to make it to payday. She’d made them eat ramen.

  He’d been mildly surprised she hadn’t taken it with her the night she’d stormed out, vowing they were over for good this time. But of course, she hadn’t taken Milo either.

  Which meant she was coming back. She never would’ve left Milo. And certainly not on Christmas Day.

  She just needed a few hours to let off some steam, to vent and drink it off with a girlfriend. That was all.

  Or so he’d thought. That was why he hadn’t notified anyone until the morning after. Didn’t call her best friend, Carly. Didn’t even go out to look for her himself.

  Maybe if he had, Hannah’s angelic voice would be filling their home right now as she laughed and sang Christmas carols and classic rock songs with Milo. Maybe the house wouldn’t seem so cold, with or without electricity.