Into the Fire

by Kyla Stone

  Haasi didn’t lower the bow. She turned it on Logan instead.

  Much of his body was hidden behind Ponytail, but Logan was bigger, broader, and taller. Plus, the old woman stood at an angle from the other bikers, which gave her a far better shot.

  If she wanted to hit a vulnerable part of him, she could.

  “Why’d you hide the truck, then?” Sly Eyes asked suspiciously.

  “Because…” Julio glanced at Logan. “Because of the Shepherds. We didn’t want to be seen.”

  Archer frowned. “Shepherds? You mean the Shepherds of Mercy? Those religious freaks at that compound? They got no business being around here.”

  “They were here tonight. They attacked Ezra Burrows’s place.”

  “Damn it!” Sly Eyes cursed. “We’ve been patrolling since the sun went down, but we could’ve missed them while we were down by Monument Lake Campground. We had a bit of an altercation with a couple of aggressive dentists who thought the Kantor place would make a good bugout location—problem was, it wasn’t theirs.”

  “You did miss them,” Logan said. “They nearly tortured the old man to death before we stopped them.”

  Archer cursed under his breath.

  “What the hell for?” one of the hairy twins asked.

  Jake tried to shift, and Logan jammed the muzzle harder against his temple. He wasn’t letting his guard down for anything. He could smell the man’s aftershave, his sour sweat, the scent of his fear.

  “Don’t test me,” he said in his ear.

  The biker stilled.

  “Let our brother go,” Archer said, his hands raised like he was attempting to calm a wild horse. “Let’s take this back a few notches, how about that?”

  “Great idea,” Julio said. “Put your weapons away and we can talk. Please.”

  Logan didn’t move. He sure as hell wasn’t going first.

  The bikers looked at Archer, who looked to Haasi. Though she was half their size, they all seemed to respect her. The old woman nodded her head.

  The bikers reluctantly lowered their guns. The other woman, Maki, didn’t move her hand from her revolver, but it was holstered. Logan had the feeling she could draw her weapon just as fast as he could, if not faster.

  Haasi met Logan’s gaze with a piercing gaze of her own, her crossbow still aimed straight and steady at Logan’s head. “How about it, cowboy? On the count of three?”

  Logan clenched his jaw. He didn’t trust these people as far as he could throw them. He’d rather shoot them and know his people were safe for certain than take the risk of trusting strangers with loaded guns.

  “Logan,” Julio said quietly. “It’s going to be okay. You can stand down.”

  Eden was standing in his periphery vision. She looked tense and nervous but not terrified, not like before. “You and Dakota know these people?” he asked her. “They’re good?”

  Eden signed something. She nodded.

  “I’m counting,” Haasi said. “One, two, three.”

  On three, she lowered the crossbow as promised.

  If Eden trusted them, that was something, at least. More bloodshed was the last thing he wanted. Logan released his hostage’s neck, pulled back the Glock, and shoved him.

  Jake stumbled but quickly regained his feet. He whirled, his eyes flashing dangerously. Without a word, he raised his fist and swung at Logan’s face.

  12

  Logan

  It was a messy punch, swooping high and wide. Logan saw it coming a mile away. He was willing to make a few concessions to make peace with these people, but taking a punch wasn’t one of them.

  He sidestepped with ease, seized the guy’s thick wrist, twisted hard, and put him down on his knees. He bent the guy’s arm behind his back into an unnatural, intensely painful position.

  Jake let out a tortured squeal. Maybe he was used to throwing his weight around and getting his way through intimidation, but he clearly wasn’t accustomed to a brawl with someone who knew how to fight.

  The five bikers growled in surprised outrage. They raised their weapons.

  “No!” Haasi commanded.

  The men hesitated.

  “Jake lost his temper,” she said. “That’s on him. I’m sure if this gentleman were to release him, his brothers would keep him under control.”

  “We would.” Archer’s glare shifted from Logan to his brother, still cowering on his knees.

  “Okay, then.” The old woman sighed and turned to Logan. “I’m going to ask you to give Jake a pass on this one. The five Collier brothers you see here used to be six. A week ago, a group of hungry, half-dead refugees out of Miami stumbled upon this road and found the Collier place.

  “They attempted to break in. They were armed. So are the Colliers, as you can see. In the shootout that followed, the thieves were all killed. But they managed to kill Ford, a scruffy pain in the ass we’re all going to miss mightily.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Julio climbed to his feet and dusted gravel off his knees. He helped Park up, too.

  “So are we.” Archer’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. His voice was hoarse.

  All the men were haggard, like they hadn’t slept in a few days. Grief did that to a man.

  “Misunderstandings happen,” Julio said affably. “I’m glad we figured out we were on the same side before any blood was spilled.”

  Logan felt anything but affable, but Julio shot him a warning look. With a grunt, he released Jake Collier’s arm.

  The man staggered to his brothers, cradling his bruised wrist and cursing. He stared back at Logan defiantly, but Archer put a heavy hand on his shoulder to keep him in place.

  “You nearly got us killed,” Park muttered to Logan, regaining his composure now that the threat seemed to be dissipating. “We were two seconds from getting our heads blown off.”

  “I had it under control,” Logan said.

  Park rolled his eyes. “Like hell you did.”

  “I did.”

  “Let’s start this introduction again, shall we?” the old woman said. “My name is Haasi Long Creek, which is Miccosukee for ‘sun’. My family and I are of the Miccosukee Tribe.”

  She gestured to the woman who’d discovered their hidden truck, who scowled at them, still fierce and intimidating. “This is Maki Osceola. She’s Seminole.”

  Haasi motioned to the bikers. “And these are the Collier brothers. You already met Jake. The big one is Archer. He’s a giant pain in the ass, but a pain you want around when it hits the fan. The one with the goatee is Boyd.”

  Boyd was the sly-eyed one, the one still staring at Logan with suspicion and dislike. He reminded Logan of a fat fox—lazy, but still cunning and unpredictable.

  “And those two hairy ones that look like bears are the twins—Zander and Zane. They may not be the smartest crayons in the box, but they’re hard workers and loyal to the bone. Just don’t ask me which is which.”

  “Not true,” one of them said indignantly.

  “Zane’s beard is thinner—and shorter,” the other one—Zander—said.

  Archer snorted.

  “The Colliers got sixty acres a few miles from here, along with a passel of wives and too many kids for this old lady to keep track of,” Haasi said.

  Zane flashed white teeth beneath his beard. “She lies. She knows every single one.”

  “Sorry to meet under the circumstances,” Archer said. “But we can’t be too careful. Not after what happened.”

  He seemed to be the leader of the brothers, or the eldest, at the least. Crow’s feet crinkled around his eyes and gray streaked his beard. He appeared to have a solid head on his shoulders. At least, he wasn’t a hothead like Jake or Sly Eyes, i.e. Boyd. He might not be too bad.

  Haasi handed her crossbow to Maki and held out her arms to Eden.

  The girl let out a breath, as if she’d been holding it all this time. She rushed into the old woman’s arms.

  Haasi hugged Eden close. “Child, you must’ve been scared out
of your mind. I don’t know where you’ve been these last few years, but I bet you’ve got a fantastic story to tell us later.”

  Over Eden’s head, Haasi’s expression turned serious—and hard. “Swing by tomorrow. We need to talk.”

  13

  Shay

  Shay Harris adjusted her square-framed purple glasses with the back of her arm, careful not to touch anything with her gloved hands, and sighed. Her eyes burned. She was swaying on her feet from exhaustion.

  Rows and rows of cots overflowing with hundreds of injured and dying crammed each medical tent. The sounds of moaning and weeping filled the hot, stale air. The stinging smell of antiseptic mingled with the stench of burnt flesh, vomit, and human feces.

  The types of injuries were widespread—blunt force trauma, fractures and amputations, penetration injuries, pulmonary damage and eardrum rupture from the shockwave, third-degree burns, radiation poisoning…it went on and on.

  A sort of numbness came over a person in the midst of so much chaos, pain, and death. The enormity of it was too much for the mind to handle. But it wasn’t in her nature to detach.

  She was raw with the grief, the suffering, the pain and loss she saw all around her. Each person had a life, a family, a house and pets and a career and friends…hopes and dreams and disappointments…so many futures snuffed out too soon, so many possibilities ended in tragedy and mourning.

  The only bright spots in the midst of this hell were those stolen moments with Trey Hawthorne, when he showed up with a shy smile and a box of takeout from one of the still-operating airport restaurants. Sometimes, he brought her a pack of gum, a cup of coffee, or both.

  For just a few moments, she could remember that there was life outside the tent hospital’s walls, that there were people still living, still surviving, still fighting to rebuild what the terrorists had tried so hard to steal from them.

  Dakota, Logan, Julio and the others had been gone less than two days. It still felt like an eternity. She missed them, but imagining them away from all this madness kept her sane. They were safe and happy in the Glades.

  “Shay, you’re off,” said her supervisor, a brisk but tireless surgeon named Dr. Webster. In her early fifties, the woman looked like she’d aged a decade in a week. “Get some food in you and get back here in six hours for your next shift.”

  “Of course, Dr. Webster,” Shay said. “Any more rescues?”

  “Not since two days ago,” Dr. Webster said with a discouraged shake of her head.

  Dozens of rescue units were risking their own health to wade through the rubble in downtown Miami to search for survivors. Even outfitted in the best protective gear the government had to offer, it wasn’t enough.

  In the first week, first responders brought in hundreds of injured they’d found huddled in half-collapsed buildings. The news stations covered each one, the nation clinging to any bit of hope in the unfolding catastrophe that only got more dire by the day.

  As the days ticked by, the rescues had slowed to a trickle.

  “Dr. Webster—” Shay started, but another doctor hurried up to the surgeon, gesturing emphatically and commanding her attention.

  Shay gave up and headed to the contamination ward. Her legs felt like lead, and her head was throbbing again. She’d ignored it as long as possible, but she’d have to take more Percocet. The bullet wound was healing well but still hurt.

  She hated taking painkillers when there were hundreds—thousands—of patients suffering far worse than she was.

  “You won’t be able to help anyone if you collapse on your feet,” Hawthorne had reminded her. He was right, of course.

  She forced herself to pass several beds with patients screaming in agony. One was a child of six or seven—maybe a girl, but it was hard to tell anymore. The hair on the right side of her head was burnt completely off. The skin on her face and arms looked melted.

  Someone bumped into her. “Oh, excuse me.”

  Nicole Williams smiled tiredly at her. She was a kind, plump nurse who’d befriended Shay on her first day. She’d taken the time to show Shay the ropes and gave her more responsibilities as Shay proved she could handle the taxing load—both physically and mentally.

  Nicole clutched a container of used, pus-soaked bandages waiting to be discarded. Deep shadows rimmed her haunted eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Shay asked.

  “I was just…I was…” Her face crumpled. “I can’t—I can’t do it anymore—”

  Shay took her arm gently and led her through a series of tents into the decontamination zone. She sat the woman down on a metal bench in a corner away from the frenzy, the heart-rending cries.

  They’d already lost dozens of nurses, doctors, and assistants who’d cracked under the pressure and extreme toll of tending to thousands of the dying and the dead.

  Shay resisted the urge to say it was all okay, that things were better than they were. It was in her nature to think positively, to focus on the solution when everyone else only saw the problems, to believe in hope when things seemed the most hopeless.

  “There’s—just—so much death.” Nicole rocked back and forth, staring numbly down at her hands. “We could save so many of them if we just had the supplies…we’re running out of everything. The army keeps flying more in, but it’s not enough. We don’t have the facilities to treat these burn victims. What are we supposed to do? There are, what, one hundred and twenty burn centers? Maybe eighteen hundred burn beds in the entire country? We have that many patients right here, plus all the other hospitals in greater Miami, in Florida, in the other twelve attacked cities…”

  Shay felt the same paralyzing despair, the pit of crushing hopelessness yawning at her feet. The sheer numbers were staggering. They were utterly overwhelmed. People were needlessly dying everywhere she looked.

  She slid off Nicole’s gloves, then her own, and tossed them into the biohazardous waste disposal container. She took Nicole’s hands in hers and crouched in front of her.

  She said the words as much to herself as to her friend. “We’re doing everything we can. We aren’t giving up. We are saving lives, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You’re making a difference.”

  Nicole didn’t respond.

  “When is the last time you got some sleep?”

  “I…I don’t remember. A few days, maybe. And before that? I don’t know.”

  “How long until your shift ends?”

  “Two hours.” Nicole raised her weary head and gazed at Shay, but her eyes stared straight through her, not seeing Shay but some other horror. “My husband is dead. Did you know that?”

  Shay sat back on her heels, stunned. “No, I didn’t.”

  “He worked in finance at Miami Tower. Ground zero. I kept hoping they’d find him, that he’d be one of the survivors…But that’s a foolish hope now, isn’t it? It’s been almost two weeks.” She inhaled a ragged breath. “Every life I save, I imagine it’s him. Maybe that’s terrible.”

  “No, no it isn’t.”

  “It’s crazy, I know it is, but I keep thinking, keep imagining, if I save fifty lives, that’ll be enough to tip the scales of fate, you know? If I save one hundred lives, then I’ll have earned him back, I could save him…”

  “I’m sorry,” Shay said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tears streamed down Nicole’s face. She gripped Shay’s hands so hard her nails dug into Shay’s skin. But Shay didn’t pull away. Her friend needed this.

  Shay’s mother had never grieved after her father took his own life. She’d continued on like everything was fine, just like she had before he’d died.

  When he’d stopped taking his meds. When he’d cheerfully given away his favorite signed Dolphin’s jersey, along with his fishing gear and the high-end Bose speakers he’d loved. When he’d retreated to the dark, sour-smelling cave of his bedroom and simply gave up.

  Grieving was good. Grieving was part of the process. Pretending when the truth was right there staring you in the face was the defin
ition of insanity.

  With the satellite phone Hawthorne had given her, Shay had managed to get ahold of her mom, who was stranded in Tallahassee, a few days ago.

  Her mother was alive and well, staying at an overcrowded hotel that was fast running out of shampoo, soap, and fresh towels, and experiencing intermittent blackouts. Her mother kept insisting things were fine.

  “It’s very tragic what happened,” her mother had said in her tight, nasal voice, “but thank God it didn’t happen here. We’re fine. I’m fine. Things are a bit…tense, but Governor Blake says everything will be okay soon. The power will come back. Grocery shelves would be full if all these crazy, paranoid freaks weren’t stocking up on everything under the sun like it’s Armageddon or something. I had to pay twelve dollars—in cash—for a box of Fiber One yesterday. Can you imagine?”

  “Mom, I think—”

  “You should come here, Mishayla. It’s fine here. It’ll be fine. They’ve got martial law. The soldiers are keeping order. I want you to be safe. You need to be here.”

  She’d tried to explain why she couldn’t, why she felt compelled to help in any way she could, but as usual, her mother had stopped listening. It was an exercise in futility.

  At least her mother was still alive, which was more than most of these people could say.

  “Go get some rest,” Shay said gently. “I’ll finish your shift.”

  Nicole blinked. Her eyes were dull with grief. “Are you sure?”

  Shay managed a weary smile. She was supposed to meet Hawthorne after her own shift ended, but he would have to wait. She had a feeling that he was the kind of man who would understand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

  14

  Dakota

  Haasi smacked open the sagging screen door with her hip. She wore sandals, a long white skirt, and a colorful blouse like a patchwork quilt. Several layers of clay beads draped her neck and clinked around her wrists. Her long gray hair draped loosely around her shoulders.