by Stone, Kyla
Quinn shot her a look. “What?”
“I’ve got a few things squirreled away.”
“Like what?”
Gran just clucked her tongue. “That’s on a need-to-know basis.”
Quinn rolled her eyes. “But you know I’m right.”
Gran nodded, abruptly serious. “If it’s not Ray, it’ll be someone else. We need to be very, very careful. They get hungry enough, even our neighbors will turn on us.”
Gran leaned down and picked up Odin, checking him for injuries. He purred in contentment. Gran sighed. “Take the afternoon, Quinn. You have those new paint cans Gramps got for you for Christmas. Use them.”
Quinn turned back toward the stove. The soup was bubbling. “But the stew—”
“I’ll finish it. I wanted to try some new herbs to spice up rabbit meat anyway.”
“The firewood—”
“Will still be here tomorrow.”
Quinn couldn’t argue. Her emotions were a tangled mess of fury and heartbreak. She wanted nothing more than to retreat to the bedroom Gran and Gramps had given her to paint some of the hurt away.
She fiddled hesitantly with her eyebrow piercing. She wanted to say more but didn’t know how. She and Gran had never been great about talking about their feelings. Gramps had been the one to do it for them. Now they’d have to figure it out themselves.
A sudden surge of emotion thickened her throat. “I . . . I love you, Gran.”
“Don’t get all soft on me.” Gran made a face, a network of wrinkles spanning the skin around her eyes like a spider’s web, but her eyes were wet.
She leaned in and squeezed Quinn’s shoulder affectionately before letting go. “Get out of here before I paddle you, girl. This cane ain’t just for walking, you know.”
Quinn got the .22 out of the closet and kept it with her. She’d sleep with it from now on. She touched her still smarting scalp.
She couldn’t get Ray’s face out of her mind. His eyes. How they’d gleamed with hostility, a thirst for mayhem and violence.
There was something malignant inside him. A dark, poisonous cancer. He wasn’t hungry enough yet. Wasn’t desperate or enraged enough. But he would get there.
Maybe tomorrow or next week, but it was coming. Quinn was sure of it.
29
Noah
Day Four
Despite his promise to Rosamond Sinclair, it was two days before Noah managed to visit Atticus Bishop at Crossway Church on Main Street.
He’d spent the morning helping volunteers move snow-covered vehicles that had stalled in the middle of the street and needed to be towed to the shoulder or moved to less-used side streets to keep Main Street clear and plowed.
The ancient plow still worked after Tina Gundy, the mechanic’s daughter, tinkered with it a bit. Thank goodness for small blessings. Fall Creek’s tight budget had kept them from upgrading to a newer machine for over a decade.
The gray stone church with its towering steeple and stained-glass windows perched on the corner of Main and Riverside Road, the Asian Bistro on one side and Fuller’s Hardware store on the other. The Fireside Tavern was located right across the street.
Drunk patrons often stumbled to Bishop’s doorstep for late-night confessions. Bishop always accepted them with open arms.
The Crossway food pantry was served out of a side door on the left side of the church. Well over a hundred people stood in a line three-to-four people across, snaking across the empty parking lot all the way into the street.
Noah’s first instinct was to steer people out of the road, but he overrode it. The streets were empty. Vehicles and snowmobiles could be heard from a mile away in this eerie stillness.
People in line turned to stare at him as he roared up in the clunky requisitioned Kawasaki. The old engine coughed, spewing choking clouds of fumes.
Nestled between his arms, Milo shivered on the seat in front of him. Noah still didn’t have a sitter, so Milo had come to work with him for the third day in a row.
He was hoping to talk to Bishop about that problem. Bishop’s wife, Daphne, was a vet tech, but she currently stayed home with their two little girls.
Maybe she could watch Milo too, just until things got settled.
Noah removed his helmet and hopped off the Kawasaki, stuck the key fob in his pocket, and helped Milo down. The boy sunk well past his knees into the thick snow.
Milo tugged off the oversized helmet Noah had found for him. His black curls flew around his face in a mass of static. His cheeks were flushed, dark eyes bright.
“You okay, buddy?”
Milo wrinkled his nose. “Dad. I’m fine. You don’t have to ask so much.”
“Sorry. Just making sure.”
The day was heavily overcast, the gunmetal sky promising even more snow. The temps were barely above freezing. Crystalized clouds misted his face with every breath.
It was too cold to be outside for more than a few minutes without arctic-quality gear, and yet the crowd looked like they’d been stuck outside waiting for a while.
Families huddled together. Fathers held toddlers in their arms. Older couples wrapped their arms around each other’s waists, pressing close for any bit of extra warmth they could get.
Everyone’s coats were zipped to their throats, their scarves and neck gaiters wrapped around their necks and the lower half of their faces.
They stamped their feet and shivered and tightened their hold on their baskets, shopping bags, and cardboard boxes—all empty. As empty as their pantries and fridges, as empty as their growling bellies and the bellies of their children.
Only four days after the event, people were already running out of food. Just like Molly, Quinn’s grandmother, had said they would.
After his shopping trip at Friendly’s, Noah had a couple of weeks of food left. He’d used the rest of the cash to buy as much firewood as he could from Mike Duncan. With the fire burning all night, he was going through it fast.
Molly had helped him rig an Amish bucket for the well on his property. A bucket of water next to the toilet took care of their sanitation needs. Thank goodness for the septic system.
It wasn’t fun, easy, or comfortable, but they were making do so far.
Noah bent down to Milo. “Walk right behind me in my footprints. Stay close.”
“I can do it.”
“Right. I know you can.”
“Officer Sheridan!” someone cried. “What’s going on?”
“Why can’t we buy food at the store?”
“You people are guarding the pharmacy!”
“I can’t even get my mother’s medication!”
After the near-riot at Friendly’s the night before, Rosamond and Chief Briggs had both agreed to close Friendly’s, the gas station, and Vinson Pharmacy for a day or two until a guard rotation could be worked out.
“It’s for everyone’s protection,” Noah said calmly. “Once order is restored, we’ll open everything to the public again, within reason. We’re doing everything we can, I promise.”
An old Hispanic man spat on the snow. “Doesn’t that snowmobile belong to Billy Carter? I recognize that spidery design on the sides.”
Noah recognized him as a part-time teller at Community Trust Bank. Daniel Rodriquez was usually friendly and pleasant, not ornery like this. People were starting to change, and he didn’t like it.
He forced a smile he didn’t feel. “This snowmobile was donated to law enforcement for a short time so we can do our jobs and make sure you folks get the help you need and stay safe.”
“Donated, my ass,” the man grumbled.
Noah chose to ignore him. The old man was tired and stressed and hungry, just like everyone else. No reason to get him more upset by engaging in an argument.
Noah’s issued overcoat had zippers on the side to access his service weapon. He unzipped it, willing to trade some warmth for speed. Just in case.
Making sure Milo was still close behind him, Noah slogged through the
snow along the outer perimeter of the line. His nostrils were raw, the cold hurting his lungs. The tips of his fingers still burned and stung from his bout of frostnip.
“How long’s the blackout gonna last?” Maxine Hammond yelled. “I got no food left to feed my kids. No firewood neither. Last night, I thought we might actually freeze to death.”
“We’re not sure, Mrs. Hammond,” Noah said carefully. “But we have plans already in place. The high school is available as an emergency shelter if you need it. Someone should’ve come around and notified you.”
Over the last two days, three officers, five reserve officers, and about thirty volunteers had gone door to door—some on ATVs and snowmobiles, others on skis and snowshoes—passing along the clean water information he’d learned from Molly and checking which homes were occupied and which were empty.
They’d also asked a few questions about resources and supplies. Some citizens were more open to answering them than others. The more resources they had as a community, the more they could help everyone.
“Yeah, so?” Mrs. Hammond shook her head, frowning. “Heard they packed in almost two hundred people last night. Barely fed them soup, let alone a decent dinner. Not enough cots, and most people were stuck sleeping on the gym floor, stuffed together like sardines in a can.”
“We’re working on that,” Noah said. “Please, just be patient a little longer. We’re doing the best we can.”
Mrs. Hammond turned away with a disdainful snort. “That’s not good enough.”
More people called out to him. He couldn’t answer their questions, not to their satisfaction. He kept walking.
Three people had died in the last two days: a woman sick with kidney failure, a wheelchair-bound man in his eighties, and a three-year-old boy who’d kicked off his blankets in the middle of the night.
The little boy’s family didn’t have a fireplace, woodstove, or generator. They hadn’t come to the shelter, either.
The nightly temperatures were dropping into the negatives, even without wind chill factored in. And with the lake-effect storms from Lake Michigan, there was always wind chill.
Without a means of heat, houses were simply too cold.
Even with a crackling fire, he and Milo slept fully clothed in several pairs of pajamas, thick socks, and sweaters. Last night, he’d built the flowerpot heater as Quinn had suggested.
It provided a surprising amount of warmth. In fact, the pots had gotten too hot to touch with bare hands.
Even with the added heat, he still couldn’t sleep. He had tossed and turned all night, constantly worrying about everything—the dangerous cold, the near-riots, the dwindling food, but mostly, Milo’s medication.
After visiting Quinn and her grandmother yesterday, he’d stopped by Vinson’s pharmacy. Robert Vinson was a slim, precise Caucasian man in his early sixties, his thinning white hair receding sharply from his forehead.
“I checked every single box in the back,” the pharmacist had said grimly. “Another shipment was supposed to arrive on the twenty-fourth, but it never came in. And with the holidays and that snowstorm that hit right before Christmas Eve that delayed a lot of deliveries, some of our prescriptions are out or on backorder. I’m sorry, Noah, but I’m all out of hydrocortisone.”
Noah had swallowed hard. Because he’d been giving Milo a double dosage for the last few days, he only had a week’s supply left. And the one stress dose injection in case of an emergency. That was it. “That can’t be right.”
Dr. Vinson rubbed his eyes. “Look. Milo can take prednisone as a last resort, but doctors don’t want to prescribe it to children because there are long-term side effects, including delayed growth. But in an emergency . . .”
He thrust a small bottle into Noah’s hand. It was less than half full. “You’re supposed to have an RX for this, but I know that’s near impossible right now. I’m sorry. I wish it was more. I’ve got patients with Hodgkin's lymphoma, Crohn’s disease, autoimmune disorders. I’d love to give it all to your boy, but I just can’t.”
Noah nodded dully. The prednisone would give Milo another two weeks or so.
Then what? The words kept echoing in his mind over and over, haunting him. Then what? He didn’t have an answer.
“Noah Sheridan!” a booming voice shouted, bringing him sharply back to the present. “I didn’t know it would take this much to get you to a church, but I suppose the good Lord does what He must!”
A big burly black man slammed open the side door, sidestepped past a volunteer filling someone’s shopping bag with canned beans, and propelled himself at Noah.
He enveloped Noah in a massive bear hug, nearly crushing his ribs.
“Bishop,” Noah said, his voice muffled against his friend’s chest. “Nice to see you, too.”
Atticus Bishop pulled back and peered into his face. “Can’t even see you under all that crap. It’s freezing out here. Come inside!”
He motioned to Milo and offered a high five. “Hey, Milo. What’s up?”
Milo jumped to reach his hand, nearly falling in the snow but grinning wide. “I get to ride a snowmobile now. Dad says I can even drive it! Dad doesn’t go fast enough, but I’ll definitely go eighty miles an hour, like warp speed.”
“Maybe, I said maybe,” Noah qualified. “And no, you definitely won’t.”
“Why does he get to skip the line?” someone shouted.
“We’ve been waiting two hours!”
“That’s not fair!”
“All will be fed,” Bishop said to the crowd with a friendly wave. “Don’t you worry.”
Several people still grumbled. Bishop just grinned and ignored them.
“Patience is a virtue,” he said in a lowered voice, winking at Milo, “but somehow, I don’t think they’d appreciate a sermon just now.”
30
Noah
Day Four
Noah and Milo followed Bishop inside into a large room. Hundreds of bags, boxes, and cans of food stuffed the floor-to-ceiling metal shelving. Every inch of available space was packed with supplies.
Next to the side door was a half-wall with a window-like opening through which two volunteers were distributing the supplies—a few meals’ worth to each person, including kids.
“Wow,” Noah said. “I’m officially impressed.”
Bishop grinned. “We’ve got three more rooms even more packed than this.”
Noah knew Crossway Church provided the largest food bank in the county, but he hadn’t realized just how big. “How did you—?”
Bishop shrugged, but he was beaming with pride. “Don’t give me the credit. It’s Daphne’s passion. She’s the one who’s worked so hard all these years—rabbiting things away, organizing the volunteers, forcing me to allocate a larger and larger portion of the budget for community needs. She always said the government wouldn’t be worth much if anything went wrong for real. Well, you don’t need to hear me say it. She’s right here.”
Daphne didn’t turn from her position at the half-window. She stuffed a can each of SpaghettiOs, tuna, green beans, and two boxes of spiral pasta into a Meijer’s plastic shopping bag. “Good to see you again, Noah. You too, Milo.”
“Hi, Miss Daphne,” Milo said.
“And you, Daphne. Keeping Bishop on his toes, I see.”
“Always.” Daphne handed a full bag across the counter to a retired Middle Eastern couple in their early seventies. “Here you go, Mr. and Mrs. Amari. Make sure to stay warm now. And remember, you’re welcome to come to the sanctuary tonight if you need to.”
Noah raised his brows. “Another prayer meeting?”
Bishop did that wry grin of his. He was dressed in his usual Hawaiian shirt, worn leather jacket, and jeans. His only acquiescence to the brutal weather was a gray Detroit Lions scarf wrapped around his thick neck.
He always said he didn’t need a hat, that his afro kept his head warm enough. Even in high school, he’d often come to school in shorts and a T-shirt in the dead of winter. The
man had a different metabolism than the rest of humanity.
They’d been good friends since freshman year, when they both made varsity, along with Julian Sinclair. Julian and Bishop had never liked each other, but they’d tolerated each other for Noah’s sake.
Atticus Bishop was built like the “nose tackle” middle lineman that he had been. He’d been a monster on the field, but off it, he was one of the kindest, gentlest men Noah had ever known.
He’d served as a chaplain in the military for several years before returning home to serve his church and community with the same dedication and ceaseless energy he’d applied to football and his country.
“We have that big generator we bought off Craigslist several years ago after that Snowmaggedon storm took out power for five days,” Bishop said. “Anyway, Daphne says it’d be a crime to heat an empty church. And you know I can’t ever disagree with her.”
“That’s the truth!” Daphne called back, a grin in her voice. “Don’t let him ever tell you otherwise.”
Daphne was plump and curvy, with a wide beaming smile, a generous laugh, and warm brown skin that seemed to glow. Like her husband, she radiated a contagious energy and was graced with a natural ability to bring out the best in others.
“That fuel would last you and your family a long time.”
“This is my family.” Bishop gestured at the volunteers gathering the food, then at the line of people outside. “We’re opening the sanctuary at sundown each night and letting in anyone who needs a safe, warm place to sleep. We had almost thirty people last night. We’ve taken in a few families with very young children indefinitely.”
“How long until you run out?”
“Three or four weeks, at least. We were smart—Daphne was, anyway—and we stored diesel as well. Thank goodness the generator is old. I heard some of the newer models aren’t working, either.”
“They aren’t. All the newer model generators have computer chips in them. They’re just as fried as everything else. The Myers’ and Rick Reynold’s solar panels won’t work, either. I guess because they were connected to the grid when it went down.” Noah wiped melting snow from his forehead. “Most of Winter Haven still has solar power, though.”
