by Stone, Kyla
Do they flee for their lives? Or do they defend their town and risk losing it all?
Some things are worth fighting for, dying for.
This may be their last stand.
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Author’s Note
As I write this, I’m listening to Tommee Profitt’s new Christmas album, Birth of a King (I highly recommend it). Soon, I’ll wrap presents and fill stockings.
By the time you read this, Christmas will be over and 2020 will be over or nearly so.
2020 has been quite the year. I have to say, I’d much rather write an apocalyptic scenario than live through it. We have endured sickness and lockdowns, political turmoil and riots, job losses and economic distress.
We will come out stronger on the other side. Like Hannah, I have faith.
In 2021, I wish you joy, fellowship, and the warmth of friends and family to sustain you.
I hope 2021 shines far brighter than 2020, that we come out of this year stronger and wiser, with a hard-won knowledge that connection with our fellow humans is what truly matters in this life.
And I hope you enjoyed Edge of Survival! Quinn was the star of book six. She’s endured hell, but like us, I think she’s ready to emerge from the dark a stronger and better person.
Book seven, Edge of Valor, will be the final book in the Fall Creek saga. Look for it in April 2021.
Until then, stay safe and healthy.
Acknowledgments
As always, a huge thank you to my fabulous BETA readers: Fred Oelrich, Melva Metivier, Wmh Cheryl, Courtnee McGrew, Sally Shupe, Lauren Mae Nikkel, Jenny Avery, and Jose Jaime Reynoso. Your thoughtful critiques and enthusiasm are invaluable.
To Michelle Browne for her line editing skills! Thank you to Cheree Castellanos, Joanna Niederer, and Annette King for proofreading.
Thanks to Albert Moss for his insights into nuclear reactors. And to Angela Martignetti Baez for her medical expertise. All errors are my own.
Once again, a heartfelt thank you to George Hall, a real life Special Forces hero who helps me bring the character of Liam to life. Liam would not be who he is without George.
Thank you to our armed forces who put their lives on the line to keep us safe and protect freedom around the world.
To my husband, who takes care of the house, the kids, and the cooking when I’m under the gun with a writing deadline. To my kids, who show me the true meaning of love every day and continually inspire me.
Thanks to God for His many blessings. He is with us even in the darkest times.
And to my loyal readers, whose support and encouragement mean everything to me. Thank you.
Also by Kyla Stone
The Edge of Collapse Post-Apocalyptic Series (EMP):
Chaos Rising: The Prequel
Edge of Collapse
Edge of Mayhem
Edge of Darkness
Edge of Anarchy
Edge of Defiance
Edge of Survival
Edge of Valor
The Nuclear Dawn Post-Apocalyptic Series (Nuclear Terrorism):
Point of Impact
Fear the Fallout
From the Ashes
Into the Fire
Darkest Night
Nuclear Dawn: The Complete Series Box Set
The Last Sanctuary Post-Apocalyptic Series (Pandemic):
Rising Storm
Falling Stars
Burning Skies
Breaking World
Raging Light
Last Sanctuary: The Complete Series Box Set
No Safe Haven (A post-apocalyptic stand-alone novel):
No Safe Haven
Historical Fantasy:
Labyrinth of Shadows
Contemporary YA:
Beneath the Skin
Before You Break
Audiobooks:
Nuclear Dawn series:
Point of Impact
Fear the Fallout
From the Ashes
Into the Fire
Darkest Night
Edge of Collapse series:
Chaos Rising
Edge of Collapse
Edge of Madness
Edge of Darkness
About the Author
I spend my days writing apocalyptic and dystopian fiction novels, exploring all the different ways the world might end.
I love writing stories exploring how ordinary people cope with extraordinary circumstances, especially situations where the normal comforts, conveniences, and rules are stripped away.
My favorite stories to read and write deal with characters struggling with inner demons who learn to face and overcome their fears, launching their transformation into the strong, brave warrior they were meant to become.
Some of my favorite books include The Road, The Passage, Hunger Games, and Ready Player One. My favorite movies are The Lord of the Rings and Gladiator.
Give me a good story in any form and I’m happy.
Oh, and add in a cool fall evening in front of a crackling fire, nestled on the couch with a fuzzy blanket, a book in one hand and a hot mocha latte in the other (or dark chocolate!): that’s my heaven.
I love to hear from my readers! Find my books and chat with me via any of the channels below:
www.KylaStone.com
www.Facebook.com/KylaStoneAuthor
www.Amazon.com/author/KylaStone
Email me at [email protected]
Nuclear Dawn Preview
Dakota Sloane was no stranger to hardship. A born survivor, she’d spent her life waiting for the next calamity, the next disappointment, the next strike from a world intent on breaking her.
But Dakota didn’t break.
She felt close now, though. Her chest tightened as she scanned the street outside the window of the Beer Shack Bar.
A damp rag in one hand, she froze, bent over a yellow table strewn with crumpled napkins and a greasy, half-eaten lunch of twist fries, burgers, and globs of ketchup.
Her gaze locked on a familiar figure striding through the lunchtime crowd strolling along Front Street in Overtown along the outskirts of downtown Miami.
She knew that confident, purposeful walk, the lean, lanky shape of him, sharp as a knife blade. She’d recognize that thin, angular face anywhere, those grim, fevered eyes—the eyes that haunted her nightmares.
He wasn’t supposed to be there.
Dakota didn’t believe in coincidences.
If Maddox Cage was in Miami—in this part of Miami—it was for one reason.
He was here for her. For her and Eden.
She’d made it two years and thirteen days. She wasn’t ready yet, hadn’t saved enough. Six more months and her plan would be in place, ready for execution.
Five grand and her little sister. That was all she needed to start a brand-new life a thousand miles away.
Miami was loud and colorful and always moving, made up of a jumble of Cubans, Haitians, Asians, South Americans, and Anglos, an exuberant smorgasbord of cultures, music, food, and art.
Miami was an easy city to get lost in.
But she hadn’t gotten lost enough.
Sweat prickled along her hairline. She took a step back from the window, hoping the sunlight’s glare on the glass would shield her presence.
Maybe he only had a general idea of their location. If he was still searching, if he didn’t already know exactly where she was…
But maybe he wasn’t coming for her first. The thought sent a cold fission of dread through her gut.
He wa
s going after Eden.
She held her breath until he passed—never turning his head to the left or right, eyes fixed straight ahead as he weaved between the pedestrians thronging the sidewalk.
He always had been single-minded, like a dog with a bone.
She should’ve known he wouldn’t let go. Would never let go.
She leaned over the table to get a better view of the street. Maddox Cage paused at the corner and waved down a taxi. Dakota didn’t move until he slipped inside, shut the door, and the car pulled away from the curb.
“Excuse me, Miss,” said a heavy, middle-aged Indian guy at the next booth.
She didn’t know him. The usual regulars haunted their favorite bar stools, but this close to downtown and Miami International, the bar always served a steady stream of tourists and traveling business types.
People liked the Beer Shack’s funky vibe. The bar was lined with kitschy shiny yellow tables and elephant palms in huge ceramic planters adorned with fairy lights.
Famous locations throughout Miami—South Beach, Freedom Tower, the Coral Castle Museum—were immortalized in bottle cap art hung on the faux brick walls.
The radio was always playing a vibrant mix of rumba, salsa, timba. The mix of authentic Cuban fare and classic American selections was damn good, too.
With his sweating mug of Sam Adams, the man gestured toward the flat-screen against the far wall. He was in his fifties and nearly bald, a neatly combed circle of white hair ringing his shiny brown scalp. “Can you turn that up?”
“Sure thing.” She forced herself to move, to go through the motions, even as her mind spun with jostling, frantic thoughts.
She put the Coke glass down on the dirty table she’d been cleaning, leaving the plastic tub and rag behind. She pulled the remote from her moss-green apron and punched up the volume.
The Marlins’ loss recap had been interrupted. The screen showed an aerial shot of Michigan Avenue in Chicago, completely cleared but for a minivan parked on the street.
Several police cars and SWAT vehicles were stationed a safe distance away, three helicopters hovering overhead.
A breathless, wide-eyed news reporter gesticulated wildly about something. She couldn’t make sense of the woman’s jumble of words.
“I live near the west side of Chi-Town. Heading back tomorrow. Crazy, huh?” the guy said.
“What’s all the excitement about?” Dakota asked distractedly, forcing herself to be polite.
A low, frantic buzz filled her head.
Fear was already forming like ice around her heart.
She couldn’t just leave in the middle of her shift. She couldn’t afford to lose another job, but she had to contact Eden, had to figure out what to do.
“Some kind of bomb. Terrorist wackos, looks like. Probably ISIS. But Chicago PD caught it in time. Disarming it now, thank God.”
“Good thing,” she said.
He held his mug toward her. “Fill ’er up, would you?”
She grabbed the mug, refilled it at the bar, and returned it to the customer. He didn’t acknowledge her. His eyes were glued to the screen.
Her nerves were stretched taut. Anxiety squeezed her lungs. She needed a break. She needed to reach Eden.
She strode across the room and paused, keeping her back to the empty bar-height table behind her, the glass front door on her left, the bar counter several feet to her right.
The bar wasn’t busy yet. A handful of regulars hunched over their drinks, staring glassily at the second screen hung over the bar, showing the same view of the van in Chicago.
The steady buzz of their conversations was a constant hum in the background: Walter Monroe whining about his ex-wife; Jesse Peretti’s grass kept dying from the increased water restrictions due to the drought; Tamara Santos complaining about more forced overtime.
Mendo Del Rio always brought up politics, especially when he was itching for a fight. The Beer Shack owner and current bartender, Julio de la Peña, had been forced to kick him out several times.
Most of the time, the regulars discussed sports and deep-sea fishing plans, crappy boss problems, and the latest indomitable heat wave.
They were all regular people with regular problems. No one was hunting them.
None of them paid any attention to her.
She jerked her cell out of her cargo pocket—an old model Samsung that barely qualified as a smartphone. It was all she could afford, since she put every extra penny toward her bug out fund.
As she tapped the contacts icon, she kept one anxious eye on the street outside, in case Maddox decided to double back. He was cunning like that.
Wanda Simpson, her sister’s social worker, picked up on the fourth ring.
Dakota didn’t waste time on greetings. “I need to see my sister. Now. Today.”
“Well,” the woman huffed. “I don’t have time for this nonsense today, Ms. Sloane. You know as well as I do that you have court-appointed, supervised visits once a month and no more. Your next visit isn’t for a week—”
“I can’t wait that long.”
“Ms. Sloane, your sister is medically fragile. She needs consistency. The judge, the psychologists, and I all agree that disrupting her carefully maintained routine would be detrimental to her well-being.”
“Which is just shrink-speak for trying to keep me from my sister so you can adopt her out—”
Mrs. Simpson sighed heavily into the phone.
Dakota could hear voices in the background. At the bar, someone turned the TV up even louder. She gritted her teeth, repressing everything she longed to say, pressed the cell to her ear, and turned away from the bar. “Look. It’s an emergency.”
The woman gave another imperious sigh, like she was already patting herself on the back for her boundless, saintly patience. “What kind of emergency, Ms. Sloane?”
Dakota couldn’t tell the social worker who she’d seen or what she feared it meant. She’d never explained what she and her sister had escaped from. To bring Maddox up now would expose them both to questions they wouldn’t—couldn’t—answer.
“I just need to see her, okay?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Frustration bubbled up inside her. She was already doing her best to do everything absolutely right.
First: gain steady employment and stable housing. Second: petition the courts for custody before Eden’s rich, shiny foster parents sank their claws into her permanently and whisked her away with promises of a real family, vacations to the Keys, art and tennis lessons.
Until then, she kept to herself and stayed wary and watchful.
She saved every penny, spending nothing extra on herself other than her sessions three times a week at the gun range off Miami Avenue.
She carefully maintained a low profile—never attracting attention, avoiding conflict, even when she wanted to punch someone in the kidneys.
It was essential to remain under the radar at all times.
In two years, she’d begun to think that they’d escaped the horrors they’d fled, that the past wouldn’t follow them.
But she was dead wrong.
The fragile sense of security she’d built around herself had shattered the moment her gaze snagged on Maddox Cage among the sweating crowds outside the bar windows.
“I’m practically her guardian!” she forced out. “I’ll be ready to petition the court in a few months—”
“It would be foolish to make such an assumption, Ms. Sloane.” Mrs. Simpson sniffed derisively. “It’s not an appropriate—or healthy—frame of mind, especially considering your inability to maintain steady employment, your lack of a G.E.D. or high school diploma, and your…flexible…housing arrangements.”
Dakota could imagine her smug face, her cheap polyester suits, that awful chemical perfume that smelled like burnt rubber. The woman despised Dakota and her “negative influence” over her fifteen-year-old sister.
A helpless fury roiled in her gut. “I’ve done everything
you’ve asked. Gotten a job—”
“Bussing tables hardly qualifies as a job—”
“I have an apartment!”
“In a highly dangerous and questionable neighborhood.”
She and Eden had been separated for almost two years, after they’d been caught sleeping on the sidewalks on Southeast First Street in downtown Miami.
With no parents and no family, the Florida Department of Children and Families—a terrible misnomer of a name if she’d ever heard one—had swallowed them up into its bloated, utterly broken foster care system.
After a slew of disastrous foster placements, Dakota was stuck in a group home for unwanted teens until she’d come of age eighteen months ago.
Her younger sister—beautiful, sweet, traumatized Eden—was placed in a specialized foster home for the medically fragile.
She swallowed back a curse. She couldn’t afford to piss off a woman who still held so much power over her life.
“Please,” she said instead, hating herself for begging, but giving it one last shot. If the woman still refused to help, she’d have to take matters into her own hands.
“You know I can’t do that even if I wanted to, dear,” Mrs. Simpson simpered. “And you know I only have your sister’s best interests at heart…”
Behind Dakota, someone at the bar gasped. Dakota glanced back at the flat-screen. Her arm fell limply to her side. Her fingers barely held onto the phone.
The social worker babbled something, but Dakota wasn’t listening anymore.
She could do nothing but watch the screen in stunned disbelief.
Cold went through Dakota all the way to her bones.
The screen was split now—one side displaying the bomb squad descending on the minivan in Chicago; the other side, a shaky cellphone video of a massive cloud rising into the sky over a city so hazy with smoke, she couldn’t tell which it was.
“...We repeat, we’ve just received reports from outside Washington, D.C. that there has been a massive explosion,” the male reporter said, his voice rising in agitation.
