by Stone, Kyla
Second, Xander’s group was useful. They were violent, malicious, destructive, like slavering attack dogs that needed to be pointed in the right direction and unleashed.
Sutter should be leading this ragtag group of thugs, not serving as the lowest rank-and-file foot soldier. They were wasting his skills, his potential. Still, he kept his tongue. It would take time to gain their trust, to manipulate himself into a leadership role.
Xander nudged the bodies with the toe of his boot and grimaced in distaste. “Scabs on the butthole of humanity, these two. Holed up in their castle, watching the rest of the world burn.”
Sutter would’ve loved to hole up in such opulent luxury and extravagant comfort, but he knew better than to say so. Like any cult or corporation, you toed the party line and regurgitated whatever drivel they wanted to hear. “Damn parasites.”
Xander turned to those waiting behind him. The crowd shifted with an eager energy, grinning in anticipation, bristling with those bizarre and unsettling weapons—swords and knives, spears and javelins, big heavy maces and axes, hatchets and sledgehammers.
Xander unsheathed his sword and thrust it into the air. “Death to power!”
His minions took up the chant, shouting and shrieking as they poured into the house like cockroaches bent on annihilation.
Sutter remained outside, watching impassively as they desecrated the palatial home with graffiti, shattering windows and breaking the front door off its hinges.
Inside, they wrought further destruction—hurling china dishes against the wall, bashing in a grand piano, flipping over mahogany bookcases and hutches, pissing on the lush white carpets.
Tyrell and Dahlia, two of Xander’s most devoted—and insane—followers, remained at his side.
Xander pointed to the two bodies and tilted his chin at Tyrell. “String ‘em up. You know what to do.”
As his people got to work, Xander turned to Sutter. “Where’s this fuel you promised us?”
“Soon,” Sutter said. “I just have to verify one last thing.”
He still needed access to that sat phone.
Of course, he’d known about the secret sat phone that Rosamond had smuggled in beneath Sutter’s nose. As if Sutter hadn’t known everything that went on with his men.
And he’d known exactly who she would call. It had taken little subterfuge to get ahold of the phone and discover the number.
One call was all it would take.
Sutter could wait. Vengeance, after all, was a dish best served cold.
5
Hannah
Day Eighty-Seven
Hannah Sheridan stood back and admired her creation.
The contents of her project were scattered across the kitchen table. Using the survival books on Molly’s e-reader, she had taught herself to build a high-efficiency solar oven using duct tape and the reflective side of a windshield accordion solar shade.
After shaping the solar shade into a funnel, she placed the funnel on top of an upside down five-gallon bucket, with a cake rack set in the funnel's bottom. She’d wrapped a black pot in an oven bag, then placed the pot atop the rack, which would allow the sun’s rays to shine down under the pot and reflect on all sides, drawing in solar heat.
With the oven bag trapping the heat inside the pot, the oven could cook dinner at temperatures up to 350 degrees. Voilà!
More windshield shades shouldn’t be hard to find. Neither should cake racks or baking bags. She and Milo could scavenge the bakery and abandoned vehicles, build more solar ovens, and barter them for needed supplies at Trade Day.
Someday soon, spring would arrive, and the sun would shine again.
“Not bad for an afternoon’s work, right?” She tickled Charlotte, who let out a peal of giggles as pure as church bells. The baby gazed up at her with her big blue eyes—all pink velvety skin and feathery brown hair sticking out beneath Liam’s handmade gray and green knit hat.
Every time Hannah looked at the beautiful, crooked yarn, it did something to her chest, squeezing her belly. Where was he right now? Was he safe—?
A knock sounded at the door.
Her heart gave a little jolt. Could it be Liam? She balanced Charlotte on her left hip, who cooed and batted at anything within reach, and headed for the door.
The town was protected with armed roadblocks at each of the six roads into town, including an additional barricade at the top of Tanglewood Drive. Still, her good hand strayed for the American Ruger .45 at her hip.
She still wore her western-style oversized silver buckle so she could rack the slide one-handed if needed. The Ruger had been a gift from a kind, fierce woman named CiCi that she had sworn never to forget.
Hannah opened the door to find Dave Farris standing on her front porch. “Hey, Hannah. I just wanted to check in and make sure you were doing okay.”
He wore a winter cap and sweater beneath his unzipped jacket, his weathered face creasing into a broad smile. Behind him, a bicycle leaned against the mailbox. Now that people were running out of precious fuel, bikes had come back in vogue.
She smiled warmly. “We’re alright, thank you.”
She’d always liked Dave. In his early sixties, Dave was gregarious, kind-hearted, and dependable. He was a helper, happy to pitch in where needed, offering his hotel with a working generator for the medically fragile and elderly.
He also kept everyone apprised of news and rumors through his ham radio network.
She glanced beyond him toward the empty street. The day was gray and chilly, the snowdrifts melting, but not fast enough. The houses hunched against the cold, smoke spiraling from every chimney.
Hannah was back at her old house. Milo had jogged over to Molly and Quinn’s house to borrow one of Quinn’s end-of-the-world science fiction novels that weren’t fiction anymore. Ghost had gone with him.
A few weeks ago, Atticus Bishop, the pastor of Crossway Church, had moved in across the street. So had Mike Duncan and his son Jamal, along with Annette King, the high school principal, and Jose Reynoso, the new chief of police by default after Noah’s death.
Liam had taken one of the vacant homes a few houses down.
She felt safer with everyone nearby—especially Liam.
The neighbors rotated a constant watch at the barricade they’d placed at the top of the road. At Liam’s direction, the town had formed a 24/7 watch at roadblocks in and out of town along with patrols to maintain security around Fall Creek.
“Just making sure. After what happened…” Dave waved a vague hand. “It’s been a hard couple of weeks for all of us, but especially for you and Milo. We’re here for you if you need anything.”
“I appreciate that. Planning Trade Day has been keeping me busy.”
She and Molly had been working with several of the local farmers to create Molly’s trading day on a larger scale, and Dave had helped get the word out to the surrounding communities. They’d set the date for Friday at the Berrien County Youth Fairgrounds just outside of town on Old 31.
Dave adjusted his coat, fiddling with the zipper. “Oh good, good. With you and Molly at the helm, Trade Day should be a great success. I have no doubt.”
“We’ll do our best.” Hannah narrowed her eyes. “There’s something else.”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “Okay, you got me. It’s the town council. Since we’re not electing a new superintendent, the council will run things until we receive further instructions from a reliable government source. We’ll have an election in six months, after we’re a bit more stabilized. But for now, the council voted to choose replacements for our vacant seats. The majority felt you’d be a beneficial voice for the council. So, we voted you in last night.”
Hannah raised her eyebrows. “I don’t get a say in it?”
Dave winked. “We’re confident that you’ll say yes.”
“But I don’t have any experience.”
“You care about this town. You’re a natural. The way you spoke out at the last town hall meeting. I
t was going downhill fast, but you and Bishop brought it back. You helped figure out a solution and got most everyone on board.”
Hannah blushed. The meeting two weeks ago had been rife with discord. A few fist fights nearly broke out.
No one in Fall Creek could agree on what to do with the families of the militia.
The families were crammed into three Winter Haven houses under constant guard. Every day, eighty-seven women, children, and elderly strangers needed food, shelter, and toiletries. They were a drain on precious resources.
It had divided the town. Anger, resentment, and grief simmered, about to boil over. People had shouted and pointed fingers, some weeping, others threatening violence.
She could still hear the cacophony of discordant voices growing louder and more vehement:
“Why are we still wasting resources on the outsiders?”
“They’re eating our food! We’re on the verge of starvation, and they’re living in luxury!”
“We should drive them out! Let them fend for themselves and see how they like it!”
“Hang them all, I say!”
“That’s inhumane! They’re women and children. That would make us murderers!”
“Better us than them! We let them stay in our midst, they’ll slaughter us in our sleep!”
“We should let them stay. What happened isn’t their fault. They’re innocent!”
“Over my dead body! We should go in there ourselves and take care of the problem. A box of 9mm rounds should do it!”
Aghast, Hannah had watched the proceedings as they unraveled into chaos. This was not the Fall Creek she knew and loved. They’d held it together this long. They’d outlasted a corrupt tyrant and a sadistic militia.
If they didn’t come together now, they were doomed.
That couldn’t happen.
Before she could think better of it, Hannah had stood abruptly, shoving back her chair and whistling through her fingers. Bishop added a booming command for everyone to shut their traps.
Maybe it was because she was still an oddity in the community, a fascinating source of rumors and hearsay, but when she spoke, the people quieted. They listened to her.
Instinctively, she knew that they couldn’t accept a group of hostile outsiders, most of whom resented and despised the Fall Creek residents for killing their husbands and fathers, wives and mothers.
Likewise, Fall Creek had suffered its own losses at the hands of the militia. The town was grief-stricken, crippled, and needed space and time to heal.
Allowing the militia families to stay would not only be dangerous, it would also tear the town asunder with animosity, suspicion, and bitterness.
They had to go.
When she suggested the town use one of the old diesel buses to transport the families to the FEMA shelter pick-up zone, it was generally accepted as the best of several mediocre options.
The trip would require critical fuel resources, but it would remove the families to a safe and distant location, ensuring they couldn’t easily return to seek vengeance. And those who were truly innocent, the children, would be cared for and not left to starve.
Sometimes, the least bad choice was the only choice.
Some grumbled unhappily, but the vote passed.
While Reynoso and his security teams kept watch in Fall Creek, Liam and Bishop had chaperoned the transport to the FEMA pick-up location north of St. Joseph off Old 31, where Red Cross volunteers would transfer the families to the nearest FEMA regional center in Portage, just south of Kalamazoo.
It had been a harrowing but successful trip. The militia families were gone, and only James Luther remained as a prisoner.
Dave cleared his throat, bringing her back to the present.
“It’s all thanks to you,” he said, as if bound and determined to convince her no matter her thoughts on the matter. “You stood up to Rosamond and eradicated her reign once and for all.”
“Quinn was there, too. Truth be told, Quinn was the one who put a stop to her, not me.”
Dave grinned. “She’s a spitfire, no debate on that count, but she’s a little young yet for a town council seat.” He leaned in and tickled Charlotte’s feet, eliciting a gleeful shriek and a spate of giggles before returning his fervent gaze to Hannah. “You’ve earned your place. And also, we need you.”
Hannah’s cheeks went hot. She’d spent five years locked in a concrete room, isolated and cut off from society—from friends, neighbors, and family.
She had craved belonging like a shipwrecked sailor starving for a morsel of bread.
She’d found that here. She wanted to get involved, to help. Although she’d never thought of herself as a leader, that didn’t mean she couldn’t step into the role and learn as she went. “I’m willing to help however the town sees fit.”
Dave’s grin broadened, his cheeks crinkling beneath the bristly salt and pepper beard he’d grown over the last few months. “It’s settled, then.”
Charlotte squirmed on her hip, and she adjusted her grip on the baby’s chubby thighs. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s a terrible job, but someone’s got to do it, right? At least you won’t be lonely. Bishop just accepted a council seat as well.”
“An excellent choice.”
“We asked Liam, too. He declined. I bet you already knew that, though.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “Liam Coleman isn’t much for committees.”
Dave rolled his eyes. “He said the same thing, only not as nicely. It’s a real shame, too. The townspeople fear him just enough to listen to him. Reynoso’s our new chief of police, so we named him head of security.”
“Did he accept?”
“Didn’t give him a choice on that one. He’s already doing it; we just made it official.” Dave frowned and glanced back toward the street. “Sure wish he was back already. It doesn’t feel right without him around.”
Liam’s absence left a hole in her chest that expanded with each passing day.
In part, it was her fault. She was the one who’d encouraged him to leave in the first place.
He had nothing to answer for in Hannah’s mind, but his own judgment was another matter. She knew Liam Coleman well enough to understand that his self-recrimination would destroy him if left unchecked.
So many things in life couldn’t be changed. You couldn’t go back and save anyone, couldn’t wrestle time or people into submission.
But rescuing his nephew was still possible.
And so he had gone out into a world consumed by mayhem and anarchy—a man alone, but a warrior.
“It’s been a long week,” she admitted.
“It’s been a long year!” Dave removed his cap and twisted it in his hands. He kicked snow off his boots and stared at the wooden planks in the porch floor before clearing his throat awkwardly. “I have more news. And I’m sorry, Hannah, but it’s not good news.”
Her heart lodged in her throat. “What is it?”
“It’s about your family.”
Hannah loved her parents dearly. And her older brother, Oliver.
During her years of captivity, she’d thought about them often, wondering what they were doing; whether they still went snowmobiling, winter camping, and hunting in the Porcupine Mountains of the Upper Peninsula; whether they sat around the dinner table and stared at her empty chair and missed her as much as she missed them.
Once she had escaped the basement, she’d only had the head space for two things—staying alive and getting home to Milo.
After she’d returned to Fall Creek, she’d asked Dave to use his far-ranging ham contacts to find a needle in a haystack and track down her family.
Dave’s expression softened. “I’m so sorry, Hannah. Your mother was in a fatal car accident the day of the EMP, and your father had been receiving chemotherapy treatments for bone cancer. Your neighbor said the prognosis was excellent, but without the chemo…he passed away a month ago.”
Hannah went rigid.
Her parents, dead? They would never know that she’d survived. They would never meet their granddaughter.
Charlotte gurgled happily, tugging on strands of Hannah’s hair in her fat fists. For her infant daughter, everything was still normal, her world not spinning, everything turned upside down yet again.
Numb, Hannah bounced her in her arms and patted her back. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “And Oliver?”
“The neighbor said he’s still alive, but he hasn’t seen him in a few weeks. We’ll find him for you, I promise.”
She managed a nod, unable to speak.
Dave cleared his throat again. “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
She blinked away the wetness in her eyes. “You found my brother. For that, I cannot thank you enough.”
Dave blushed, his weathered cheeks turning ruddy. He tickled Charlotte’s toes again and gave her foot a soft squeeze through her socks. “We take care of each other in Fall Creek. Anything you need, just say the word.”
“Thank you, friend.”
After he’d ridden away on his bicycle, Hannah shut the door and collapsed against it, her legs failing her. She held Charlotte close and rubbed her small, soft head. She smelled like baby powder and milk.
Hannah’s eyes were wet, her chest too tight to breathe. The world seemed far away and too close at the same time. More death. More pain. More sadness.
When would it end?
6
Hannah
Day Eighty-Seven
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Hannah blinked and glanced at her mechanical watch. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been standing there, lost in a sea of memories and grief. A half hour had passed.
Milo had not yet returned from Quinn and Molly’s house. Ghost was with him, so she didn’t worry, but Charlotte squirmed in her arms and let out an unhappy yowl, the distinct smell of urine reaching her nostrils.
