by Kyla Stone
“We’ll pay,” Logan said.
“I need to see the cash. Just to be safe, you know.”
Carson muttered to himself as he pulled out his wallet. “I have two hundred.”
“I’ve got fifty,” Julio offered.
“I have it.” Frantically, Vanessa tugged out several crisp twenties and thrust it at him. “There. Take it.”
The guy shook his head and stepped back. “Go on ahead to the lobby and my father will get you situated. Have a great night.”
Carson put the truck into drive and rolled carefully between the two parked cars. He pulled up beneath the roof overhang in front of the lobby doors. The glass in the door and window frames were broken, but everything had been swept up.
Another young Indian guy, likely the brother, lounged against the check-in counter with a Mossberg shotgun in his hands. His pockets were bulging—probably with spare shells.
“Stay in the cab,” Logan said. “I’ll go in.”
Once inside, he paid the balding, older man behind the counter. “Give us two end rooms with two beds in each, next to each other on the second story, as far from the lobby as possible. Do the rooms have a connecting door? Can we have it opened?”
“Yes, of course.” The owner set four keycards down on the counter. “Rooms 239 and 240. We have limited power, but the city water’s off. My wife put gallons of water in every room. Not for drinking. For the toilet.”
“Got it.” Logan stuffed the keycards in his pocket with his free hand. With the other, he still held the Remington pointed at the floor. “How’s the smell?”
“The smell?” The man wrinkled his nose. “It’s fine.”
It wouldn’t be for long. Not with nonworking sewers backing up soon. Not with mountains of uncollected trash piling up. But that wasn’t Logan’s concern right now.
“Check out is at ten a.m.,” the man said as Logan headed for the door.
Logan nodded at the brother, who stared back at him impassively, attempting to appear tough and intimidating to protect his father’s business.
Logan didn’t need their protection. He provided his own.
18
Logan
Once they reached their hotel rooms, Logan and Julio offered to carry Park.
“I can walk,” Park muttered weakly. “My arm is broken, not my legs.”
“Clearly, your pride is wounded as well,” Dakota said.
“It’ll recover just fine,” Park said. “After a week of sleep. Maybe a month.”
“You get ten hours. Sorry to disappoint you.”
Park still needed Julio’s arm to steady him as he stumbled up the steps. “Why are we on the second floor again?” His face was bone-white from the effort of climbing. “This is literally torture.”
“If there’s any trouble, it’ll likely begin at the lobby,” Logan explained. “Most people intent on robbing and looting always start with the easiest targets, i.e. the first floor. We’ll hear it before it reaches us, and can take the stairs on the east end, the west end, or through the central stairwell. If we really had to, we could jump the railing. Plus, if we’re forced to defend ourselves, we have the higher ground up here and can better pick off any hostiles.”
“Color me impressed.” Park settled onto the mattress, shook his head, and winced. “Well, this has been a ballbuster of a day.”
Julio helped Shay, while Logan offered Eden his arm. The girl threw up on the sidewalk—barely missing Logan’s shoes—but made it into room 240 without further incident.
Kids made him uncomfortable. Too many bad memories. Too many nightmares. As soon as he could, he disentangled himself and stepped away swiftly.
Dakota glanced at him, her eyes narrowing.
He stared back at her. She had no right to judge him. No right at all.
She turned back to the girl. “Eden, let’s get you into bed.”
Vanessa settled gingerly on the closest bed, gazing at it in consternation like she expected fleas to start dancing on her pillow. Her face contorted, and fresh tears tracked down her cheeks, smearing her mascara. With a whimper, she jumped up, rushed into the first bathroom, and slammed the door shut.
“Use the jugs of water to flush,” Logan called after her.
She didn’t respond. The sounds of muffled sobs filtered through the thin door.
“Please bear with my wife,” Carson said quietly to Logan. “She’s a successful, high-powered lawyer in her firm. In the world she knows, she’s confident, efficient, and in control. But this—she’s never dealt with anything like this. Neither of us have.”
Logan didn’t have the time or patience to coddle anyone. “No one has.”
“We still have to keep it together,” Dakota said. “All of us.”
“We will.” Carson nodded stiffly. “We get it.”
“Let’s get everyone situated, “Julio said. “Women take the beds, men take the floor. Except for Park, since he’s injured.”
“I’ll take it,” Park said. “I have no shame. Not anymore.” He looked around for a moment, as if he expected Harlow to pipe up with a sarcastic comment. He stiffened and inhaled sharply like he was realizing all over again that she wasn’t coming back.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss, Park,” Julio said, watching him.
Park didn’t say anything after that. He just lay flat on his back, cradled his broken arm, and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wet.
“There’s room for everyone to have a spot if we don’t mind sharing,” Shay said.
“I’m fine with the floor,” Logan said.
“Shay, you need to lay down,” Julio said. “You’re swaying on your feet.”
Shay shook her head wearily. “I need to monitor Park’s vitals and see to his wounds. Logan needs a new dressing on his laceration. I need to check on Eden and Dakota.”
“And we need to change your dressings, too,” Julio said. “Let me help. Just tell me what to do.”
“Are you sure?” Shay asked. “There might be blood.”
“I’m just gonna have to get used to it, aren’t I?” Julio said with a small, rueful smile.
“Thank you,” Shay said, managing a shaky grin back at him.
While the two of them focused on the group’s injuries, Logan focused on security. He scanned the cheap motel room: ocean prints hanging on the beige walls, threadbare brown carpet, a small round table and two chairs by the window, two queen beds covered with thin, flower-print bedspreads, and a faux wood entertainment center against the far wall with a tiny fridge and ancient TV.
At the end of the room was the yellowed counter with the sink. The toilet and shower were in their own small room to the right. The second room had the same layout but flipped.
As requested, the connecting door was unlocked.
Dakota angled her chin at the door. “More exits?”
“Exactly. Keeps our options open and everyone together.”
In each room, he grabbed one of the chairs and wedged it beneath the door handle.
“Locked doors won’t matter much with the windows broken,” Dakota said.
“That’s why we’ll take turns on watch,” Logan said. “Two five-hour rotations. We need to sleep in. We’re all exhausted, which lowers alertness and reaction time. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day.”
A scream echoed in the distance, followed by a rattle of gunfire. It sounded almost celebratory, like fireworks.
Dakota stared at the window, her expression stony. “Tonight is going to be a long night.”
“I’ll take first watch.” Logan lowered his voice. “You take second. I don’t know or trust the Wilburns. It needs to be us.”
His gut twinged at the use of us.
Dakota didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. She nodded tightly. “Good.”
19
Dakota
Dakota sat next to the broken window in one of the chairs in room 240, her pistol aimed at the door. The lights were switched off inside the motel rooms to better see o
utside. The air was hot and stifling. Someone was snoring.
The night outside the window was black. A fire glinted from somewhere several blocks away. Then another. She’d been on watch for over an hour and hadn’t seen any movement. She couldn’t see the motel entrance from here, but she hadn’t heard any cars drive in, either.
Muffled voices echoed outside. Laughter and shouting. Occasionally, shots rang out. Some in the distance, some much closer. And other noises: things crashing, things being smashed, car alarms screeching.
And then there were the screams—deep, guttural, terrifying.
Eden slept in the bed closest to her, which she’d shared with Dakota until it was Dakota’s turn for watch. Shay and Park shared the second bed.
In the other room, Vanessa and Carson had one bed, while Julio slept alone in the other. Instead of sleeping in the bed with Julio, Logan lay on the floor next to Dakota’s chair with only a pillow beneath his head, the hunting rifle locked and loaded at his side.
No one had spoken much before falling into exhausted sleep—each person fighting off their own demons of despair and desperation. They’d escaped the hot zone, but it was little comfort.
The world was still crumbling around them.
Other than Julio, Vanessa, and Carson, most of them were sick. Dakota’s lungs felt scorched, her throat raw from the smoke inhalation. The knot on her head ached furiously. Shay was weak and glassy-eyed. Logan admitted to nausea, but only after Shay had lectured him into submission.
The radiation exposure had caught up to them. The theater shelter had saved their lives, but it hadn’t completely protected them. For the last day, the radiation levels had been low, but not non-existent. It all added up.
Except for Julio and Dakota, they’d barely eaten anything for dinner. Dakota scarfed down two candy bars and a bag of Baked Lays simply to keep her energy up.
Before going to bed, everyone had scrubbed down with soap and water and the alcohol wipes as best they could. There was nothing else they could do.
Logan told them to sleep with their shoes on in case they needed to flee fast in the middle of the night. Vanessa complained of blisters and removed hers anyway—a pair of impractically high-heeled, strappy red sandals—but everyone else slept completely clothed.
After she’d repacked the medical supplies, water, and food, Dakota had put the bags next to the door. She wiped Eden down and helped her into the bed closest to the window. She placed the notepad on the nightstand next to her.
Dakota studied her with growing concern. Eden’s face was slack. Her arms and legs were limp, her eyes unfocused as she stared vacantly at the ceiling.
She’d thrown up a few times in the motel wastebasket. Shay had given her some Pepto-Bismol from their first aid stash, but she’d warned Dakota it probably wouldn’t do any good. Radiation poisoning went far deeper, was far more insidious than a mere stomach bug.
But this was worse even than radiation poisoning.
Eden was in shock. It was too much for her to handle. After two days trapped in a bathroom, she’d barely survived a fire. She’d found one brother after years—only to have him put a knife to her throat and reveal that her other brother was dead. Then she’d watched someone get shot and killed right in front of her.
“Eden,” she whispered. “Please talk to me.” She’d even take the sign language she couldn’t understand if it meant Eden was communicating something. “You know I’ll never leave you, right?” she whispered. “Never, ever.”
Eden’s eyes were shiny and unfocused. She didn’t blink. She didn’t show any sign that she’d heard Dakota at all—or that she wanted to.
It didn’t matter that Eden wasn’t her real sister; Eden was Dakota’s only family, all she had. For the last three years, her every thought had been to protect this girl.
What if Eden hated her now? What if she’d lost her? The thought was unbearable. Dakota felt it like an incredible pressure, like an immense rock crushing her lungs. A little more weight and she might crack wide open.
It was too hot. She hated listening to everyone’s breathing. Dread twisted in her chest, winding tighter and tighter, until her whole body thrummed with it.
She needed air.
She left the chair in place and the door locked. Silently and carefully, she moved the curtain aside and stepped over the low, jagged window frame, and slipped out onto the balcony.
With the Sig in her hand, she walked thirty feet down the balcony to the set of rickety metal-grate stairs and sat down stiffly. She’d been able to get several hours of much-needed sleep, but it was a restless, uneasy sleep, filled with nightmares of Maddox and her years at the compound, years she wished she could erase from her mind.
She scanned the darkness—the dim shapes of cars in the parking lot, the road, and the squat buildings beyond it—and listened to the sounds of the city slowly descending into chaos.
What was Ezra doing right now? Was he safe at his cabin, rocking on the porch, his rifle in his lap while he listened to the nighttime sounds of the Glades? Was he on his ham radio, checking in on the state of things around the country?
Or was he thinking about her, wondering if she was safe, too? Did he even want her to come back? She hoped so with every fiber of her being. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the warmth and the peace of the only place she’d ever considered home.
A thump came from behind her.
Adrenaline surging, she whipped around, gun up but her finger still off the trigger guard.
She recognized the shape prowling toward her. Her heart gave a little jolt. She licked her dry lips and lowered the gun to her lap.
He wouldn’t be happy with her. He had every right to be furious.
She was furious with herself.
Logan said, “We need to talk.”
20
Dakota
Dakota didn’t say anything, just scooted over to make room for him. She swallowed hard, her throat burning. Her muscles tensed like she was preparing to go into battle.
Logan held two bottles of water by the neck in one hand, the rifle down next to his thigh. He offered one to her. She took it.
A slight breeze rustled her hair and cooled her hot cheeks. It was still above eighty degrees, just another typical muggy night in July.
Logan sank down next to her, his body tense and rigid. He stretched out his legs on the stairs so they were only inches from her own. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him—and the anger.
He took a long swig of water, capped the bottle, and set it beside him next to the rifle.
“That guy is the reason you were so bent on having a gun.” His voice bristled with anger. “He’s the reason you wanted me with you, for protection. Matt or whatever his name is. Your brother.”
She stiffened. “Maddox. And he’s not my brother.”
“You knew he was out here. You knew he was looking for your—for the girl, and you didn’t tell me.”
She glared back defiantly. “I don’t have to defend myself to you.”
“There’s a dead body back on that street that says you do.”
It was like she’d been sucker-punched. The pain left her breathless. A dull ringing echoed in her ears. She wasn’t a monster; she felt guilty as hell over Harlow’s death.
He was right. She knew he was right. What the hell was wrong with her? She longed to pull away, to run, to do anything to avoid this conversation, but she resisted. She deserved this.
Besides, she knew how to endure rage, contempt, hatred, even violence. She had the scars to prove it. She could take whatever he threw at her.
“I love that girl like my own sister,” she forced out. “What does it matter whether she’s blood or not? My own aunt—my real blood—did nothing when they…she did nothing. We only had each other, and we did what we had to survive. I don’t care what anyone says. That girl is my sister in my heart and soul, and I’m hers.”
“I don’t care about that,” he
said slowly, every word enunciated, like he was fighting to keep his voice even. “You knew someone was out there looking for you, someone dangerous, and you didn’t bother to tell me?”
“I—I didn’t trust you.”
“You brought me on for protection but kept me in the dark.”
“I—it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous!”
“I thought I had it under control.”
“Under control?” he hissed. “Are you kidding me? There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t know where to start.”
She felt him staring at her in the dark. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Again, it took everything in her not to run, to escape him, to flee the anger and judgment in his eyes—and the hot, wriggling shame within herself.
She stared straight ahead, her eyes stinging. “Maybe I should’ve done things differently.”
He snorted. “You have this hero complex, Dakota.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You want to save everyone. The people in the Beer Shack and the theater. That woman with the dead baby. The first responders. Eden.”
“What’s the problem with that?”
“The problem is that you’re so pigheaded you try to do it all on your own.”
“Don’t act like you know me. You don’t know anything about me.”
“No?” His voice rose. “You think you’re in control, but you’re so desperate to be the hero that your heart scrambles your brain and makes you impulsive and reckless. You end up putting people at risk instead of saving them. How am I doing so far?”
She flinched. His words left her reeling, like she’d been kicked in the teeth. “At least I’m not a drunk,” she shot back.
“Don’t you dare turn this around on me,” he snapped, livid. “This is about you and what you did. You play the hero, but you don’t trust anyone else to help you. You try to control everything, but you can’t. You didn’t want to trust me, so you purposefully kept me in the dark, even though you wanted to use me for protection.”
