by Kyla Stone
They turned off their lights and walked in darkness, their way guided by the murky glimmer of moonlight. The snow blew into their faces, a cold wind nipping at their necks and cheeks. The city below them blurred into dark shadows and pale white shapes.
Gabriel trudged along the snow-covered magnetic aluminum tracks, taking point with Cleo, who wore the only pair of night vision goggles. Silas and Micah guarded their rear. Amelia helped Celeste hobble along and held Benjie’s hand to keep him from the edge.
Finn strode resolutely behind Gabriel, blood seeping through his bandaged shoulder, his teeth gritted against the pain. He cradled Willow to his chest in his huge arms. She hadn’t regained consciousness since the tunnels.
No one could dissuade Finn from carrying her, though both Micah and Gabriel tried. “You’re only hurting yourself. Let me do it,” Gabriel offered.
“You don’t feel it now because of the stims,” Cleo warned, “but you’re causing further damage to your shoulder, tearing tissue, muscle, ligaments. Our doctor can only do so much without a real hospital. We don’t even have cell regeneration therapy.”
Finn’s face was set in granite. “This is not up for debate. I’m doing this.”
Their pleading was as futile as wind battering a mountain. He would not be moved.
Finn may have been a pacifist, but he was huge and strong as a bear. Attempting force against him was a bad idea for all involved. “Leave him be,” Micah said finally.
Finn carried Willow for long, dreary hours in the cold and wind. He uttered no complaints. He did not falter.
They all trudged in silence, thinking their own thoughts, lost in their own private fear and grief and hope.
Dawn finally came, the world gradually lightening to shades of charcoal and ash. Gabriel kept twisting around to take in the Atlanta skyline growing slowly distant, the skyscrapers jutting proud and unbroken, billowing smoke staining the fire-scarred sky.
The further away they got, the safer they were.
Northwest, the track hugged Interstate 75, toward the city of Marietta. Gradually, the tangled network of roads, highways, and overpasses thinned. The city gave way to dense residential areas; to suburbs, towns, and neighborhoods, the buildings and vehicles and streets blanketed in a shroud of pristine white.
As the day passed, hunger burned in his belly. They hadn’t had anything to eat in thirty-six hours. Cleo had brought several water bottles to share, but it wasn’t enough.
He was exhausted from the tremendous exertion of fighting for survival. Every muscle in his body ached. His bones ached. But he’d done his duty. He’d saved them. Jericho was gone, but he’d kept everyone else that mattered alive.
It felt like they’d been walking for days. In the distance, a pack of feral dogs howled menacingly. He stiffened, then relaxed. They were safe from the dogs, at least. Humans, however, were another matter. He glimpsed a few dark shapes darting between buildings, but no one threatened them.
Cleo had spoken little all day. Her eyes had gone wide and hard when Finn emerged from the dark tunnel with Willow limp in his arms, but without Li Jun.
“He was a good Patriot,” she had said simply, her fierce expression closed and unreadable, then turned and marched off into the black subway tunnels ahead of them.
“How many New Patriots are left?” Gabriel asked now.
“Enough.”
“Seriously.”
She slanted her eyes at him. “How do I know I can trust you?”
His jaw twitched. “What part of the last twenty-four hours wasn’t up to your standards?”
She considered that for a moment. “What’s the New Patriot creed?”
The words had the bitter, ashy taste of death on his tongue. He said them anyway. “For the honor of true patriots and the love of country.”
She blew out a frozen breath.
“Now do you trust me?”
“Nope. Not even a little.” She flung her purple braids over her shoulder. “But I guess there’s no harm in telling you what you’ll find out anyway. We’ve gathered a community of over six hundred people.”
Gabriel whistled.
“But half of those are families—women and children, non-fighters. And most of them are survivors we’ve recruited over the last several months. Our rank of actual New Patriots is only ninety or so. Which is why we need you. ”
A gust of freezing wind blasted them. He shivered. Heavy flurries of snow swirled down from the gunmetal sky. There was no visible sun behind the haze of thick clouds, but it had to be late afternoon by now. The shadows were deepening, the cold sharp and bracing.
“How much longer?”
Cleo wrapped her leather jacket tighter around herself. She pointed to a copse of barren trees around a raised platform in the distance. An American flag tied to a pole on the roof snapped in the wind. “Up there. Less than a quarter mile.”
He cocked his brows. “That’s it?”
She nodded.
“Doesn’t look like much.”
“That’s the point. Don’t worry. They received my message. They’re coming.”
“So who’s in charge of this place?”
She looked at him askance, sizing him up. “General Reaver.”
“Never heard of him.”
She smiled dryly. “General Reaver is the founder and leader of the New Patriots. Only the captains of the city-wide chapters knew the regional lieutenants, who knew the state colonels, et cetera. To protect the leadership and sanctity of the cause. Who was your captain?”
Gabriel’s blood pressure rose. Instinctively, he curled his free hand into a fist. He never thought he’d have to deal with the New Patriots again. They were a blot on his past, the stuff of his nightmares, his deepest shame. Yet here he was, about to speak the name of the man who’d mentored him, who’d loved him and treated him like he was worth something, then betrayed him and everything he thought they stood for.
And Gabriel had killed him for it. He swallowed. “Simeon Pagnini.”
“The name sounds familiar. General Reaver would know it.”
“Are you close with him?”
She flashed that enigmatic smile again. “You mean her. General Reaver is my mother.”
Before he could react, a sound came from somewhere above them. An electric engine whine and the heavy whirr of thumping rotors filled the air.
“Look!” Benjie cried, pointing.
Amelia and Celeste gasped.
A military-grade Vortex hoverjet appeared over the tree line, zooming toward them through the thickly falling snow.
He’d grown up seeing planes and drones and choppers and hovercrafts of all kinds in the sky every single day. But after months of wondering if the whole world had died, the oblong aircraft hovering above them was disconcerting and strangely alien, like it was too good to be true.
Buffeting wind hit him like a slap. He bent against it, shielding his eyes with his hand.
The Vortex hovered over them then lowered slowly to the ground, rotors blasting swirling air, blowing away the snow and spitting up clumps of dirt and rock beneath its churning blades.
The Vortex settled on the ground about twenty yards ahead of them.
“Let’s go, Miss Amelia!” Benjie cried, yanking on Amelia’s hand.
“No running!” she admonished, though he was already pulling himself free of her grasp.
Cleo turned to Gabriel, her arm outstretched, that sly smile twitching her lips. “Your
chariot awaits you.”
33
Gabriel
Three hours later, Gabriel sat at one end of a large, battered-metal table facing the surviving leadership of the New Patriots. They sat at the far end of the table, well outside the ten-foot infection radius. Several armed guards were ranged around the room. A woman in a hazmat suit stood ready to decontaminate every inch of the place as soon as the meeting ended.
Gabriel and his people were segregated in the isolation block due to quarantine, assigned thei
r own barracks at the far east end of the compound. Everyone who came in contact with them remained several feet away and wore gloves and masks at all times. But they weren’t treated with fear, only caution.
Gabriel’s eyes were bleary from lack of sleep. After this meeting, he would sleep for two days. But now, he remained alert as he faced the New Patriots.
He shifted uncomfortably in the metal folding chair. There were five men and four women at the opposite end of the table, ranging from their mid-twenties to their mid-sixties, all armed and staring at Gabriel in open suspicion. Most of them wore gloves, but their masks were pulled down around their necks.
They held tablets and wore SmartFlexes. Cleo had explained that a tower at the top of the mountain gave them a secure, enclosed network for communication and tech support within the compound.
Cleo leaned against the far wall, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression impassive. A thick cigar was clenched between her teeth, a tendril of white smoke drifting toward the low ceiling.
Micah sat tense and fidgeting on one side of him, Amelia equally tense but completely still on his other side. The New Patriots had wished to speak solely to Gabriel, but he’d insisted Micah and Amelia join him.
“How are your friends settling in?” General Reaver asked, her voice deep and throaty as a smoker’s. She was a stern but attractive black woman in her late forties. She and Cleo shared few physical characteristics, but they had the same haughty jaunt to the chin and the same cold, cunning eyes. She was dressed in a tailored navy blue wool coat buttoned to the collar. Her gloved hands were folded neatly on the table.
“Very well, thank you,” Amelia said politely.
Willow, Finn, and Celeste were being treated in the infirmary for their wounds. Willow had awakened shortly after their arrival. She had several lacerations, a deep cut on her forehead, and a possible concussion, but she was lucky. She’d sustained no serious injuries from the explosion. Celeste had received a blood transfusion and stitches. Finn was still being examined.
“I know you would probably like nothing more than a good meal and a full night’s sleep,” General Reaver continued. “And I assure you, you will soon enough. However, Cleodora and her partner, Chen Li Jun, made great sacrifices to bring you to us. Chen willingly gave up his life. I hope you will respect those sacrifices.”
“Of course,” Amelia said demurely. Her short, choppy hair was tucked behind her ears. She sat ramrod straight, with perfect posture though she had to be as weary as Gabriel. She was as elegant as ever. “We are incredibly grateful to them both for saving our lives.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” said a man to Amelia’s right. His skin was distinctly olive-toned, with thick black brows connecting in the center of his forehead like a caterpillar. He was in his fifties and heavy, his jaw blurring into his neck, his plump belly bulging against his sweater vest.
“This is Colonel Patel Reid,” General Reaver said by way of introduction. “He oversaw the East Coast before the collapse.”
“You were on the Grand Voyager mission,” interrupted a second woman. Her dirty-blonde hair was cut into a harsh bob, and her skin was the pallor of mayonnaise. Deep lines around her mouth and eyes told of a hard life.
“This is Liza Willis,” General Weaver said. “A long-time solder recently promoted to colonel.”
“You served under Simeon Pagnini,” Willis said.
“Yes, I did.” He felt Amelia’s eyes on him. What was she thinking? Was she judging him, hating him? Remembering all over again every terrible thing he’d done on the Grand Voyager? How he’d betrayed her?
His mouth went dry, shame flooding him. He tried not to flinch, to keep his expression even. Whatever he personally felt for Simeon Pagnini, he knew better than to show it here.
The people around the table were nodding in admiration. “He was a good man,” the woman said gruffly. “Very committed.”
“He was,” Gabriel said, then hesitated. “He taught me everything I know.”
“He taught you well,” Cleo said from the corner, a hint of admiration in her voice. She tapped ash from her cigar and blew out a circle of smoke. “This one’s a hell of a fighter.”
The blonde woman grunted, her gaze lasering in on Gabriel, appraising him. “Surely we’re not here just for him.”
“You’re here for me,” Amelia said calmly. “I’m immune from the Hydra virus.”
Willis shrugged. She didn’t wear gloves or a mask. “Many of us still left are.”
“I am immune because I already had the virus.”
The room fell completely silent. Her words fell into the silence like stones. He could almost see the ripples vibrating the air around them.
“That’s impossible,” Willis scoffed.
“It’s not,” Micah said. “She got sick, and she almost died. I saw the blood coming out of her eyes. It was the Hydra virus. Then she woke up the next day and she was cured.”
“Cured,” Colonel Reid breathed, like the word itself was a miracle.
“And why should we believe you?” Willis’s eyes narrowed, her tone distinctly chilly.
Amelia squared her shoulders. “Because I am the daughter of Declan Black, chairman of the Unity Coalition, founder and CEO of BioGen Technologies.”
There was an audible gasp.
“I’m sure you’ve seen vlogs and newsfeeds of me standing beside my father at numerous galas and press announcements. You may take a retinal scan to verify my identity if you wish.”
Colonel Willis’s eyes lit with recognition. So did General Reaver, whose gaze narrowed. “An elite,” she spat.
“There’s no place for you here,” Colonel Willis said with a scowl.
Colonel Reid, however, smiled broadly. He exchanged glances with the man next to him. “The daughter of the most powerful man in the country. Maybe we can find some use for you.”
Gabriel tensed, his hand going to his gun. “If you think—”
Amelia shot him a look, stilling the words in his throat. Her expression was calm and determined. She didn’t hesitate. “My father was taken by terrorists on the Grand Voyager. Any of the elites who may have considered me an asset are now likely long dead. My only value to you or the Sanctuary is in the cure that may reside inside me.”
Colonel Reid frowned, seemingly disappointed.
“Then we have no need for her,” Colonel Willis said, her voice dripping with disdain. “She and her corrupt kind can find their own way down the mountain.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Or maybe we dispose of her in a more…permanent fashion.”
The air crackled with tension. The hostility emanating off the New Patriots was palpable. Beneath the table, Gabriel’s finger twitched for his gun.
General Reaver pursed her lips. “And what of the cure?”
“A ploy,” one of the women at the far end of the table said in a mocking tone, “to save her precious skin.”
This conversation wasn’t going well. This was a bad idea. They needed to get out of here. Gabriel needed to pull his gun and get Amelia and Micah out of here before things got really ugly.
“I believe her.” Cleo pushed herself off the wall. “And so did Moruga. She did not volunteer this little nugget to try and save herself. One of her own group turned traitor and divulged the information.”
General Reaver raised her brows, still skeptical.
Cleo sauntered to the head of the table next to her mother. She pointed her cigar at Amelia. “Someone somewhere had to survive this damn virus. Why not her?”
“Even if it is true, what are we supposed to do about it?” Reid asked.
“Send her to the Sanctuary,” Cleo said. “Their labs will find the cure. Then she smuggles it out to us.”
“We have a lab here,” Reid said.
“Not a good one,” Cleo said. “And not a research facility.”
General Reaver leaned back in her seat. She glanced at Cleo again before sharing a long look with Colonel Reid. She seemed to re
spect Cleo’s opinion, even though she was young and hot-headed. Maybe they’d make it out of here in one piece after all.
“They’re right,” the General said finally. “If this information is true, then it is imperative to act on it. The reward is too great not to take this seriously. But we will need the Sanctuary resources.”
“We’ll help get her in,” Cleo said, leaning forward, her voice rising. This was the most animated Gabriel had seen her. Except maybe when she was torturing Willow. “We have a man inside. He’ll help her. Then once their scientists have used her blood to manufacture the cure or whatever, he’ll help her steal it and bring it back to us.”
Amelia frowned. “Why would you need to steal it?”
Every eye turned to her. Their gazes were still closed and suspicious, hostile. Gabriel’s gut twinged uneasily. He could feel the hatred pulsing in the air, all of it directed at Amelia. Because of who she was and everything she represented. He’d felt the same way, once upon a time.
Cleo’s voice turned sharp as a blade. “How else would we get it? Do you think they’re gonna just hand it out like candy?”
“It’s the cure,” Amelia said. “It will save thousands of lives. The world can begin again. Of course, they will—”
“They won’t,” General Reaver broke in. Her voice had gone as cold as her daughter’s. “The Sanctuary isn’t a sanctuary for all. It is only for the elites. Only those they consider the brightest, the wealthiest, the best. The rest are left to rot.”
Cleo’s anger radiated off her in waves. “We’re left to rot.”
Gabriel’s own pulse quickened. Of course, the Sanctuary was too good to be true. The government had created it, the same corrupt government that destroyed its own country for years, for decades, consolidating all its wealth, power, and resources for the elites, and the elites alone.
Even with the world falling to pieces around them, the elites were still only concerned with themselves. They didn’t care if everything else burned. He no longer hated Amelia, but his hatred for the elites remained, burning inside him.
