Edge of Collapse Series | Book 6 | Edge of Survival

by Stone, Kyla

  She kept the karambit tucked on her belt beneath her two sweaters and navy jacket, the pistol holstered on her hip.

  She’d used a sunglasses case for her everyday carry just like Liam had suggested—it was tucked into one zippered pocket of her jacket, her trusty slingshot in the other.

  The .22 rifle was part of her cover. She’d told Gran that she was going hunting, staying the night at Whitney’s, then spending the next day with Whitney and Jonas, filling more barrels with dirt. Gran had allowed her to stay two nights at Whitney’s, which was unheard of.

  Gran kept looking at her like she might break, like an enigma she had no clue what to do with. Maybe she was glad to be rid of her for a few days.

  That gave her forty-eight to seventy-two hours before anyone would miss her.

  And anyway, Gran was distracted by the newness of Evelyn and Travis Brooks. Quinn tried not to feel hurt or jealous and failed miserably.

  After all, why shouldn’t Gran have friends, a life apart from Quinn? She should. Quinn wanted that for her.

  And yet, slipping away had been so easy, too easy, like discarding an old sweater you didn’t like anymore, like an ember winking out—there one second, gone the next.

  It shouldn’t be so simple to walk out on your own life.

  As she’d shrugged on her coat and backpack and opened the front door, she kept expecting the other shoe to drop, for Gran to see through her ploy and call her back with an abundance of lectures, finger pointing, and salty language—on her part, not Gran’s.

  It didn’t happen. Thor and Loki wound around her legs, offering up plaintive meows while Gran muttered curses at the lack of kitty litter, and then Quinn was shutting the door and striding down the steps to where her bike waited for her, leaning against the useless mailbox.

  She’d wanted to stop by and see Milo, but she resisted. Milo of all people knew her better than anyone. He also knew her secret.

  It wasn’t like she didn’t plan to come back. She did. She would.

  A gust of frigid air hit her like a slap. Bracing herself, she sucked in a breath and thrust one hand into her pocket, fingers closing over the familiar, comforting handle of her slingshot.

  You can still turn back, a voice whispered in her mind.

  Get on the bike and ride the twenty miles back into town, head to Jonas and Whitney’s like she’d claimed. Or maybe she’d go home, the fire on the woodstove, Gran cooking her famous chili and cornbread, the cats lying all over Ghost. Hannah and Milo sitting at the table with Charlotte.

  Everything warm and cozy and right, the way it was supposed to be.

  No, not everything. Noah wasn’t there.

  Because Noah was dead.

  She closed her eyes as the contented scene transformed into blood and screaming and death. A dark sucking energy surrounded her, her heart a black hole.

  There was no going back. Not until she finished this.

  A sound came from her right, footsteps on concrete.

  Her eyes snapped open and she whipped around, heart thumping.

  Five people stepped out from behind the building to the right. Seven or eight others appeared from the left. Several carried unsheathed swords, spears, and axes.

  Two shouldered shotguns aimed straight at her.

  On the opposite side, a Japanese-American girl dressed in black with her hair in pigtails pointed an AK-47 at Quinn’s face. An ice pick hung at her hip. “You’ve wandered too far from home, little girl.”

  Adrenaline spiking, Quinn reached for her pistol but realized it was too late. Always have a weapon close at hand, Liam had said. Mistake number one.

  “Nuh-uh.” The girl clucked her tongue. “Don’t think so. Hands up.”

  Obediently, Quinn raised both hands. She willed herself not to show fear, to keep the trembling from her voice. “I’m here for Xander Thorne. He told me this is where you guys are staying.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. “That so?”

  “I want to join you.” Her voice rang out in the silence, echoing off the concrete, steel, and glass. An entire city of abandoned buildings. “I want to be one of you.”

  The group didn’t move, didn’t lower their weapons, their expressions grim masks, their eyes blank of anything but wary suspicion.

  A tall, rangy guy with an angular face jerked his chin at a sulky teenager carrying a samurai sword. “Go get Xander.”

  Several tense moments passed in absolute silence. Wind soughed around the sides of the buildings. Trash skittered across the concrete sidewalks and asphalt parking lot, plastic bags snagging on the once-manicured bushes.

  The whole place was empty and desolate—but for the armed killers surrounding her.

  Quinn’s palms went damp, her mouth dry. She didn’t break eye contact with the girl in pigtails, her finger massaging the trigger of the AK like she couldn’t wait to squeeze it. “Give me a reason.”

  Quinn didn’t.

  41

  Quinn

  Day Ninety-Nine

  More footsteps sounded behind her, but Quinn didn’t dare look.

  “You came!” a loud voice shouted.

  Xander Thorne appeared in her line of vision. His two cronies, the skinny acne-scarred kid with the crossbow and the giant with the mace, flanked him.

  He gestured at her. “Put your hands down. No need for that.”

  She lowered her arms and let them hang limp at her sides. Her legs felt like spaghetti. “Thanks.”

  Xander wore the same clothes he’d worn a week ago. An unwashed stench filled her nostrils. They were all dirty, greasy, and stinking. She tried not to grimace.

  “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

  “I thought I might have missed you,” she forced out. “I was worried I was too late.”

  “We were about to head to Stevensville to refuel and move out, but Axel and Max got the runs, so we had to stick around for a few more days. Lucky you.” He glanced behind her, his face falling. “Where’s your dog?”

  Quinn swallowed. Mistake number two. One she’d better talk her way out of, and fast. “He didn’t make it. After the feral dogs attacked him, he was weak, and then yesterday, a gang surrounded us, and…” She let her voice trail off, her eyes watering. It was easy enough with the wind in her face.

  Xander released a string of curses. “Damn it!”

  “I’m here,” she said. “I want to join you.”

  He scowled. “I wanted that dog.”

  “What do I have to do to get one of those weapons?” she asked, trying to distract him.

  His clouded expression cleared, and he gave a sharp laugh. “I like your enthusiasm. I’ve got a good feeling about you. Come on in, and I’ll show you around.” He gestured to the rest of his group, who lowered their weapons. “We’re gonna blow your mind, girl. Blow it wide open.”

  She followed Xander as they skirted a couple of small office buildings to reach the giant warehouse.

  Inside, it was murky, the huge building dimly lit by high-placed industrial windows. She had a sense of vastness as she glimpsed cavernous aisles and massive shelving units towering two or three stories above her, stretching into the distance.

  Piles of scaffolding, bundles of wires, metal brackets, and other crap lined the walls. Forklifts hunched like silent mechanical beasts. Beyond the shelves was a processing facility with loading bays and docks for shipments that would never happen.

  The warehouse reeked of something stale, maybe rotting food from the break room fridge. Massive cobwebs gilded the corners, and piles of leaves and trash littered the concrete floor.

  It already had a dusty, disused, deserted feel to it, their footsteps and voices echoing like some ancient, abandoned cathedral.

  A group of twenty people entered the warehouse through one of the loading bays and headed toward them, followed by another fifteen streaming from a side office. Forty more crowded in the center, leaning on pallets or sitting in rolling chairs they’d confiscated f
rom cubicles and offices.

  Everywhere she looked, more of them appeared. Like termites. Or rats. It was disconcerting.

  Xander went around the group, introducing them all, but other than Tyrell and Jett, whom she remembered from the first meeting, and Dahlia, the trigger-happy chick in pigtails, she couldn’t keep their names or faces straight in her head.

  She only cared about one name. One face.

  And there he was. Standing off to the side, the oldest of the group by far, and the biggest. Big and burly, his bald head gleaming, those dark glittering eyes staring straight at her.

  Xander’s voice fell away. The guys and girls surrounding her, glowering, armed to the teeth—they dissolved into nothing.

  She halted, rooted to the concrete. Fear constricted her chest, and she couldn’t move, his gaze locked on hers, pulling her in like a homing beacon.

  Twenty-five feet between them. That was it.

  Xander hooked a thumb at Sutter. “This is Teddy, our current chef and general slave. He’s working his way into our good graces.”

  “I assume the name is ironic,” she managed.

  Xander let out a hard laugh. “You’re quick on your feet. I like that! Everyone here earns their own names. Like the Native Americans used to, right? Until they earn it, they either keep their old names, or we give them whatever names we want. But you’re right. Teddy’s cooking kind of sucks, but he’s surprisingly good at killing people.”

  Quinn and Sutter stared at each other. It was how he moved, in his eyes—something calculating. Sinister. Deadly.

  Her nerves stretched taut as the seconds passed. For a tense, electric minute, she waited for him to say something, to out her true motives.

  These freaks would turn on her in a heartbeat. They’d slice her into a hundred pieces before she got within a yard of Sutter.

  He wasn’t stupid; he knew why she was here. But if he hung her out to dry, it’d blow the cover story he must have concocted as well. She knew it was something; he wouldn’t submit to a gang of misfit killers without a reason.

  Sutter said nothing, did nothing, his glare and clenched jaw telegraphing his recognition—and his anger. The razor blades in his gaze promised pain.

  Quinn returned his gaze without flinching, making her own promise—retribution.

  She considered rushing him, going for the Beretta or the hidden karambit blade. Maybe she could reach him before Xander put that sword through her spine. Maybe she could stab him before he strangled her with his bare hands, but she wouldn’t escape with her life.

  Quinn had no plans to sacrifice herself for the likes of Mattias Sutter.

  She was going to kill him. And then she was getting the hell out.

  She would have to be careful. And smart.

  It was a dangerous game she was playing, where the prey was also the predator, and they both knew the hunt was on.

  Sutter smiled at her, the smile of a cat about to swallow the canary.

  Quinn was no canary. She smiled back.

  Oblivious, Xander thrust his fist in the air with a victorious hoot. “Welcome, recruit!” He spun around, almost giddy with joy, his arms stretched toward the cavernous ceiling high above them, a long sword in one hand, a medieval hatchet in the other. “Welcome to the new world!”

  42

  Hannah

  Day Ninety-Nine

  “We’re here,” Bishop said from the backseat.

  Hannah tensed as Liam pulled the Orange Julius into the drive leading to Cook Nuclear Power Plant in Stevensville, only fourteen miles from Fall Creek.

  Surprisingly, the gatehouse was manned, the gate closed. Several large concrete buildings clustered behind the tall razor-wired fencing. Two enormous concrete cylindrical domes rose above a brown rectangular structure. Behind the plant, a blue sliver of Lake Michigan glinted.

  Liam had put his M4 on the seat beside Hannah so as not to present a threat, but his right hand rested on the Glock at his hip. “Eyes open. Stay alert.”

  Everyone was tense, jumpy, nerves on edge. Though they hadn’t run into any hazards on the journey here, peril lurked everywhere.

  That morning, Flynn had contacted Bishop on the radio, seething with rage. Two greenhouses in Coloma had been destroyed. A vineyard in Dowagiac was mowed down and ripped to shreds, and two farmers who’d attempted to protect their property had paid the ultimate price.

  Liam had ordered the townspeople in Fall Creek to remain within the perimeter and organized regular patrols to check in on the farms outside the township limits. Milo and Charlotte were back in Fall Creek at the Brooks’ new home with Molly, while Reynoso and Perez oversaw the town’s security teams. Hannah was safest with Liam at her side.

  Now, she watched through the windshield as a soldier dressed in BDUs stepped out of the gatehouse carrying an M4 in the low ready position.

  He approached the truck and gestured with the gun. “Everybody out. Show me your hands.”

  They exited the vehicle as directed. Liam and Bishop raised their hands, Liam’s long rifle still in the truck. Hannah lifted her arms, forcing herself to unclench her crooked fingers.

  A strong breeze tugged at her hair and clothes. This close to Lake Michigan, the air carried the refreshing scents of fresh water, sand, and fish. A few seagulls wheeled overhead, squawking and squealing.

  “We’re friendlies!” Bishop said. “Our friend, Dave Farris, spoke to one of the engineers about our visit, Yamini Varma.”

  The soldier nodded. “She told us. I still need to see your IDs.”

  Hannah no longer had her driver’s license, though Liam and Bishop still carried their useless wallets through sheer force of habit. Hannah held her breath, but the soldier allowed them through on foot. They slipped beneath the gate as he directed them toward the large brown building to the right.

  RVs and travel trailers filled the parking lot complexes. Shade tents, outdoor rugs, and picnic tables were everywhere with dozens of camping chairs circling firepits.

  Drying clothes hung from clotheslines strung between vehicles. Rain barrels beside several RVs collected water for drinking and bathing.

  A short, curvy Indian woman in her late forties strode toward them, flanked by two National Guardsmen who didn’t look a day over twenty. Her hair was scraped into a bun, her movements brisk and confident, her thick brows curving over intelligent eyes.

  She thrust out her hand. “I’m Yamini Varma. Thanks for coming.”

  “Are you in charge here?” Bishop asked.

  She flashed them a tired smile. “As the lead nuclear engineer, I suppose you could say that, though we all answer to our armed forces friends.”

  The two guardsmen took a seat on a nearby bench a few yards away, monitoring things while offering privacy.

  “Do you live here?” Hannah asked, though the answer was obvious.

  Yamini gestured toward the parking lot. “The day of the Collapse, we saw the writing on the wall. Most of the engineers collected their families, brought their RVs, and set up shop. We knew we’d need to work around the clock, and traveling home would use up our fuel, not to mention the dangers of the open road. Once the governor dispatched the Guard unit to secure the plant, we had even more reason to stay. It’s safe here. Or as safe as we’re going to get for a while.”

  “How are the reactors?” Liam asked, then described the nuclear hot zone he’d heard about in Illinois.

  Hannah gazed up at the twin reactors, acid in the back of her throat. She couldn’t imagine the horrors those poor people had experienced. How close had Southwest Michigan come to the same terrible fate?

  Yamini rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. “How tragic. That never should have happened. All U.S. nuclear plants are able to withstand a station blackout with zero core damage. The emergency diesels start automatically, stimulating the automatic safe shutdown of the plant—control rods dropped into the core, water pumped into the reactor to reduce heat. The fuel is encased in a primary and secondary containment structure
designed to withstand a potential core melt.”

  She waved her hand behind him. “In our case, the automatic safety shutdown—or SCRAM—was activated correctly, though a manual override was required. Each reactor has multiple locomotive-sized diesel engines as backup. Many plants are only required to have enough diesel to run the generators for seven days, believe it or not. Here, we had thirty days. Of course, we’ve needed a continuous supply to continue the cooling operations.”

  “So as long as you have fuel, the reactors are safe?” Hannah asked.

  She nodded. “Lansing is still keeping us supplied—so far. But even if we run out, the reactors have been cooled long enough to avoid a meltdown. The containment structures will keep any radiation from leaking. We’re primarily concerned with maintaining the plant so it’s ready when the time comes.”

  “If the plants are still working, what’s the big holdup?” Bishop asked. “What do we need to get power up and running, at least locally?”

  “It’s not the plant itself so much as the transformers. Each transformer weighs four hundred tons, takes two years to build, and costs seven million apiece, give or take a million. So there aren’t a lot of spares lying around.

  “Not to mention, they’re almost exclusively made overseas. They require grain-oriented electrical steels—GOES—or electrical steel, which are ferritic alloys of silicon and iron with magnetic properties that increase the electrical resistivity, a critical component in transformers.”

  “Why don’t we make that steel here?” Bishop asked.

  “Far as I know, there’s only one U.S. manufacturer that even produces the special-grade steel. There’s a lot to it, but basically, we could make enough of the electrical steel ourselves, but it would take a decade just to get the additional steel production plants built. These contracts, they’re going to go to the lowest bidder. Guess who can get aggressive and outbid any U.S. company? In the last decade, eighty-five percent of new utility transformers have come from abroad.”