by Stone, Kyla
“Just need to ask you a few questions.”
McPherson took a swig and wiped his mouth. “Ask them, so you can be on your way, and I can get back to my drinkin’.” He narrowed his eyes. “Alone.”
“Where is everyone? What happened to this town?”
“Same thing that’s happened to every town hereabouts.”
“And that is?”
“You lookin’ for someone in particular?” McPherson asked instead of answering.
Liam hesitated but saw little risk in offering the information. “The Brooks family. Evelyn and Travis Brooks. They have an infant with them, a little boy. They were staying with Jasmine Brooks, Travis’s aunt.”
McPherson rubbed his grizzled jaw and nodded. “I know them. Arrived a few months ago. Good people.”
The tightness released in Liam’s chest. “They made it.”
“They did.” McPherson’s mouth thinned. “Did you visit the farm?”
“I went there first.”
That awful day in Chicago, Liam had asked his dead brother’s in-laws to give him the address of their destination. He’d wanted to know where his nephew was—even if he never saw him again. He’d needed to know.
When he’d arrived in Tuscola yesterday morning, Liam had gone straight to the farm.
Located on ten acres a few miles south of the town limits, the large rambling farmhouse had once been yellow and white with a big wrap-around porch.
It was once warm and homey and welcoming. It was no longer any of those things.
The house had burned to the ground. So had the barn, a few sheds, and the chicken coop.
Most of the fence was still standing upright, bright white against the blackened remains of the fire. Whatever animals had once grazed within that fence—horses, cows, pigs—were long gone.
Liam had walked the property for an hour. The charred bones of the structure no longer smoldered. He picked his way through the burnt remains of a home, the detritus of a life.
Walls half-collapsed. A scorched couch with cushions melted to the frame. Furniture—credenzas, bookcases, dining room table, coffee table—reduced to blackened charcoal. Everything filmed in a thick layer of soot.
No footprints remained. No vehicle tracks to follow. No clues other than destruction.
Liam’s chest had gone tight, anger thrumming through him, a bright splinter of rage lodged in his heart.
If someone had hurt them…if anyone had dared to lay a finger on his nephew…
He would find them, and he would kill them.
That he didn’t find any burned skeletons was his only solace. It meant they hadn’t died here. Didn’t mean they weren’t dead somewhere else.
He’d retreated to Tuscola in search of information. A full day of recon had brought him to the defaced gray house with the weathervane. To Rob McPherson, his penchant for vandalism, and his fast-dwindling bottle of whiskey.
“Do you know what happened to them?” Liam asked. “Who burned it down?”
“Not in particular,” McPherson said. “But in general—probably the same thing happened to them that happened to everyone else.”
“You mean the Collapse?”
Three months ago, on Christmas Eve, a series of simultaneous, high-altitude nuclear detonations had caused a massive electromagnetic pulse that destroyed the power grid across most of the continental United States.
It had fried the electronic systems in vehicles, aircraft, laptops and phones, including many newer model generators—anything with a computer chip larger than an Apple watch.
In an instant, the United States had been dragged back to the eighteenth century. Unlike the eighteenth century, most people still alive lacked the knowledge or tools to survive.
McPherson gave him a hard look. “Worse.”
Liam checked the windows, looking for threats. Nothing. There was no one out there. No one at all. The entire town desolate, home to shadows and wraiths, dust and ashes.
An eerie, disconcerting feeling rippled through him. He repressed a shudder.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Fall Creek. A similar fate could befall them just as easily.
He was here, not there, not protecting them, not ensuring Hannah’s safety.
Guilt speared him. He felt his focus waning as worry filled him, his attention divided.
He longed to return to them. Hannah, her son Milo, and Charlotte, the child he’d adored the first moment he’d held her in his arms, her tiny starfish hand clamping around his finger, her rosebud lips, the milky sweet smell of her.
But first, he had to do this one thing. Needed to do it, for he knew he could not be whole without it.
Liam forced himself to bring his full concentration to bear on the task at hand. The faster he saved his nephew, the faster he could return to Fall Creek—and Hannah.
“Tell me everything.”
3
Liam
Day Eighty-Five
The old man took a long swig of whiskey. He set the bottle down in front of him and stared at it for a minute before exhaling slowly, like he had to work himself up to tell the tale.
“When it first happened, the government came after a couple of weeks. They said they were makin’ a big shelter for all the nearby towns south of Peoria and east of Springfield. They built a huge FEMA shelter just outside of Champaign.
“I suppose so the bigwigs could access Willard Airport easily and whatever resources the University of Illinois could still offer. Plus, the Army Corps of Engineers has their research laboratory there. At any rate, the government calls it a camp, but it’s more like a city, if you ask me. No idea how many people, but a lot.
“They promised electricity, food and water, and medications for those that needed them. Everyone was cold and hungry, and lots of people had already died by then. Car accidents, freezing in their homes, heart attacks, things like that.
“Most folks went willingly. No one was forced to go, but FEMA wasn’t supplying food drop-offs or anythin’. If you wanted food, you went to the camp. That was it.
“Then after a month, FEMA pulled a bunch of our National Guard boys who were keepin’ order here and at the camp. Needed ‘em more somewhere else, I guess. Probably to hold back the tide of chaos in Chicago. A losing battle, if you ask me. Anyway, a few weeks after that, the camp was overrun.”
“Overrun? By whom?”
“They call themselves the Syndicate. I guess it’s a riff off the National Crime Syndicate, that infamous confederation of organized crime and mafia bosses from the 1930s and 40s.”
Liam cocked his head. “A gang, then?”
McPherson shook his head. “Not like the gangs you’re probably thinkin’ of. These new groups out of Chicago are organized, powerful, and violent. Picture the cartels in Mexico or the old-style Russian mafia. They’ve got money and connections—high up, too. Corporations, political officials, and cops in their pockets. Way out here, we never had trouble from them, but I’ve heard stories.”
“I see.”
“They think they’re wannabe soldiers or somethin’. Must have robbed a National Guard armory because their weapons are military-grade, and they march around in uniforms.”
Liam stiffened. The militia had worn uniforms, too, fancying themselves better than they were.
These guys, though, sounded worse.
“Their head guy, Alexander Poe, has built up his reputation as this ruthless commander. He’s brutal. They all are.”
“What happened?”
“These guys came charging in like an enemy invasion—hundreds of them. They have armored trucks and automatic weapons. We couldn’t match their numbers or firepower. They took over the camp, killed everyone that resisted, and rounded up the town so we couldn’t fight back or go for help. Took everybody who didn’t hide in time and forced them into the camp. They burned houses and businesses. They killed good people, including my two sons.”
Anger washed through Liam. So much needless death, so much senseless evil, a
nd no one to stop it.
“They came through like locusts and confiscated everything—food, supplies, cows and horses—and consolidated them at some nearby Amish farms, since they’re completely operational without electricity.”
McPherson wiped at his rheumy eyes with the back of his arm and cleared his throat. “We’ve got the largest Amish settlement in Illinois right here in Arthur. Poe put some of his people with the Amish to guard them. They take whatever they want, whenever they want.”
A shadow crossed his face. “And not just animals and supplies, either, if you know what I mean.”
Liam’s anger flared brighter, harder. He did know.
“They’re using citizens at the FEMA camp as slave labor for the local farms. Supposedly, they’ve overtaken a few camps throughout Illinois. Poe uses them as supply hubs to support his growing army.”
It made sense that Poe and his Syndicate would target FEMA camps, and this one in particular, because they were soft targets rich in resources.
The needs of hundreds of millions of displaced persons and refugees scattered across the country had completely overwhelmed FEMA and the rest of the government.
With the lack of communication, limited transportation, and declining resources, many rural communities were overlooked, understaffed, and forgotten.
It made them easy pickings for gangs, militia, or whoever had the most guns.
“What’s he using his army for? What’s his goal?”
McPherson shrugged. “Beats me. But I’ve heard he’s using the camp as a base for human trafficking, too—selling women and slaves. He trades in food, ammo, weapons, fuel.”
Liam clenched his jaw. It didn’t surprise him. People like this Alexander Poe were greedy for power and control, and willing to subjugate anyone to get it.
They had existed before the collapse, but now little was stopping these sociopathic demons from destroying everything they touched.
“Now everyone’s just…gone,” the old man said. “The Syndicate doesn’t know I’m here. I keep the outside of the house looking as trashed and abandoned as all the others. For the first week, they sent patrols to pick up any stragglers, anyone still hiding. Now, they don’t come. Maybe they don’t care anymore. What am I going to do to them? Nothing.”
He shook his head. “Never seen anything like that here. Never thought I would. I love my country, Mr. Coleman. I fought in ‘Nam. Is this how it is everywhere now?”
“No,” Liam said. “It’s not like this everywhere. Things aren’t good. Plenty of evil thriving, but not like this. The National Guard would never allow this.”
“There are no watch dogs left. No one to protect the flock.”
“There are still a few,” Liam said gruffly.
McPherson drank the last of the whiskey, tilting the bottle back to make sure he got every drop. He licked his thin dry lips and sighed. “If your people are still alive, they’re in that camp. You gonna get them out of there?”
“I am.”
The old man’s gaze went distant, like he was watching a scene play out far removed from this dark empty kitchen. “They killed my sons. They killed my neighbors, my friends. Any damage you need to do to get the job done, don’t feel badly about it.”
“I’ll take that into consideration.”
“And be careful. They’re the shoot-first, ask-questions-never type.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Liam removed the man’s Sig Sauer from his waistband and set it on the counter. He placed the folding knife beside it and moved to the back door, scanning the backyard through the window in the door before turning back to McPherson.
Something tugged at him. A sensation he hadn’t been sure he could feel again—compassion.
He pitied the old man, recognizing the pain and loneliness in those rheumy but intelligent eyes. He knew loneliness deep in his own bones.
Liam cleared his throat. “Afterward, I can swing back here. I know a place in Michigan that’s doing okay, despite everything. I’ve got an extra seat in my truck.”
McPherson stared forlornly at his empty whiskey bottle. “Nah. This is my home. Way I figure, somebody’s got to stay to keep an eye on things. Keep those knuckle-draggers from winnin’ completely, you know? Might as well be me.”
Liam couldn’t help but respect the old man and his valiant stand against the evil encompassing him. There was something admirable in such a small, insignificant deed.
How simply surviving could be an act of bravery.
“Anything you need?”
McPherson pursed his lips. “You got an MRE by chance? Never thought I’d say this in a million years, but I’d love one. Whatever flavor you got.”
Liam gave a wry smile. “I do.”
4
Sutter
Day Eighty-Six
Mattias Sutter aimed through his sights and flicked off the safety of his AK-47, switching the fire selector to semi-auto. His finger massaged the trigger, itching to fire.
A man and a woman in their fifties stood on the wide stone steps not twenty feet in front of him. Presumably husband and wife, they were each armed, the silver-haired, pearl-wearing wife carrying a pitiful peashooter, the husband with a shotgun aimed at Sutter’s chest.
Sutter wasn’t worried about him. He’d never get the chance to pull that trigger.
“This is my property!” the man said in a quavering voice.
“Not anymore,” Sutter said. “Leave now—leave your belongings, your house, everything—and walk away.”
They stared at him, uncomprehending. Although they were sallow-skinned and unwashed, their designer-brand clothing hanging loose on their frames, they looked remarkably well-kept three months after the apocalypse.
Their house was a multimillion-dollar, twelve thousand square-foot palace overlooking the St. Joe River. Sutter drooled at the immense castle of a house—three stories of graceful lines and elegant turrets, built of fieldstone, with a great slab of an oak door and floor-to-ceiling windows.
He could get used to decadence like this. Too bad that wasn’t in the cards today—for him or them.
“This is our home,” the woman said, eyes wide with fear and hatred. “You have no right to it!”
Sutter shrugged. It was the response he’d expected. He’d have preferred to shoot them without the preamble, but this asinine Q and A was part of Xander Thorne’s shtick. “Not my problem, lady.”
This was an ugly world, but it was a world he recognized, welcomed even.
For the right player, it was a world full of opportunity. Just because he’d lost one opportunity didn’t mean a hundred others weren’t waiting to present themselves.
Including this one right here.
He had zero moral qualms about eliminating two strangers he didn’t know and didn’t give a rat’s hairy behind about.
It was as painless as taking out the trash. For him, anyway.
When he moved, it was lightning quick, the AK-47 in his hands spitting rounds faster than the couple’s brains could react.
They weren’t used to shooting people; they hesitated. Sutter didn’t. Two shots to the chest for each of them. They dropped without squeezing their triggers once.
“Shoot first,” he lectured their dead bodies, feeling nostalgic for the eager men and women he’d trained in the militia. He’d cared for them like his own family. “Always shoot first.”
A pang hit him. His men were gone. Dead. Murdered.
His home had been in Allegan, Michigan, a town of five thousand where he’d recruited and trained the members of the Volunteer Militia Brigade of Southwest Michigan, now all KIA.
With his militia slaughtered, there was nothing left for him in Allegan.
When he’d fled Fall Creek on the 1982 Suzuki Quadrunner four-wheeler he’d stolen from Rosamond, he’d paralleled US-131, heading north.
He’d had an acquaintance with a bug-out location just past Torch Lake in northern Michig
an, about two hundred and sixty miles from Fall Creek. A nice three-bedroom vacation cabin on a crystal-clear lake stashed with a few months of food and supplies.
He’d been planning to join his friend—or eliminate him, depending on the situation upon arrival—but his plans had changed abruptly when he’d stumbled upon Xander Thorne and his gang of hungry nihilists.
Sutter decided not to run after all.
Everything he had had been ripped from him, his entire life’s work obliterated in a single night. His plans laid to waste.
The men he’d spent years recruiting, dead. The community he’d worked so hard to secure, lost.
He’d lost it because of Liam Coleman.
Sutter’s plan had been flawed. He’d waited too long, allowed Rosamond Sinclair free rein while he bided his time. Her spurious desire to be lauded and adored by her subjects had derailed them all.
Sutter had seen the writing on the wall. Blinded by hubris, Rosamond had refused to recognize her fatal flaw and paid the ultimate penalty for it.
His cousin was dead now. Assassinated at the hands of Coleman, he was certain of it. That had been a bitter mistake, one he would not make again.
No more waiting. No hesitation. Decide, then act. Leave only bodies behind.
Sutter didn’t waste time drowning in self-pity. He might be down, but he wasn’t out.
Behind him, someone coughed.
Sutter didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off the two bodies. He imagined Liam Coleman dead at his feet.
Xander Thorne marched up beside him, several dozen tough, heavily-armed young people materializing between the trees and converging on the house.
Xander grinned. “Well done.”
“I pass your test?” Sutter asked, unable to mask a hint of sullen resentment from creeping into his voice.
He could’ve slipped away a dozen times in the night. Two reasons kept him eating, sleeping, and living with a hundred half-crazed gangster-wannabes.
First, Xander had confiscated his pack. They’d searched him for weapons but overlooked one critical element. The sat phone Sutter had stolen from Winter Haven would be his salvation and his vengeance—if he could just get to it.
