Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (Edge of Collapse Book 7)

by Kyla Stone

  Governor Duffield breathed heavily into the sat phone. He was debating with himself. His weakness would win out, his addiction long starved through the Collapse.

  He only needed to be coaxed a little further.

  The General sweetened his voice, took on an air of contrition and solicitude. “Listen, I’ll leave the guardsmen here under the command of Officer Hastings. You may appoint whomever you wish to take over and conduct your affairs from this point forward.

  “I will gather my things and tender my resignation immediately upon my return to Lansing. I will personally deliver the letter to your desk first thing in the morning. Handwritten, of course.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “The situation is controlled. You’ve won, Governor. I will do exactly as you ask. You’ll have no trouble from me. Consider this a small token of my sincerest apology.”

  “Osborne has it, you say?” He sounded mollified—and greedy.

  “Osborne is in my office now.”

  The General waited patiently as the governor made his way from his office to the General’s.

  “Tell Osborne that I said to give you the good stuff. The highest quality. While he’s preparing it, please take a load off and have a drink. I’ve been saving something particularly special.”

  Osborne and Duffield spoke for a minute. The General discerned murmuring but not individual words.

  Governor Duffield let out an impressed whistle. “Hardy l’ere Lalique Crystal Decanter Cognac? How much is this worth? Five grand?”

  “Fifteen, at last count. It is a blend of six eaux-de-vies, a hundred years old. Every swallow is a symphony of apricot, honey, and cinnamon. Truly, a cognac to remember.”

  “Ahhh. I haven’t tasted good liquor in…at least two months. Feels like two damn years.”

  Not even a thank you. The General said nothing.

  He watched the waves rippling the lake and waited for the man to consume the first glass and start in on a second.

  The arrogance of such small-minded men. How easily they believed the whole world was owed to them.

  They never thought to look the gift horse in the mouth.

  45

  The General

  Day One Hundred and Fourteen

  “This changes nothing, Sinclair,” the governor said. “You know that. Your resignation letter on my desk tomorrow morning. After this conversation, I never want to see you or hear from you again.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  “You go too far. Men like you—you think you’re ironclad. That the rules don’t apply to you. There are still rules!”

  “You hired me to break them,” the General reminded him.

  “Only the ones I sanction!” Governor Duffield shouted. He was getting worked up again. That wouldn’t be good for his heart.

  The General smiled to himself. “You know, I’ve always despised you, Henry.”

  A spluttered cough on the other end. “Excuse me?”

  “Such a weak-minded pansy you’ve always been. Always anxious for someone to tell you what to do.”

  “You can’t speak to me like that! I’m the—”

  “I know exactly who you are. Now let me tell you who I am. I am the man who will regain control of this region instead of cowering in the capital, reacting to crisis after crisis. I am the one who’s going to rule this state, not you. You pathetic miserable worm.”

  “How dare you—”

  “I will not resign tomorrow or any day. In fact, very soon I’ll be sitting in your chair. I’ll have your job. And I’ll be doing a hell of a lot better at it.”

  “You can’t,” the governor sputtered. “You have no authority—”

  “But I will. It’s unfortunate that you chose not to trust me. I planned to oust Eubanks first, not you. But you’ve forced my hand. It’s a pity. Things would be easier with you functioning as governor, but we make our own choices. And must live with them.” He paused. “Or not.”

  He imagined Governor Duffield standing in the center of his plush office, holding the empty decanter in one hand, staring in growing suspicion and horror at the two melting ice cubes at the bottom of the glass.

  Osborne would be in his customary position by the door, not sitting but standing, hands clasped in front of him, his face expressionless as he examined the governor for the first signs.

  “How are you feeling, Henry?” the General asked.

  A long beat of silence.

  “What did you do to me?”

  “How’s your throat? Do you feel a bit of a burn? You’re probably feeling nauseous right about now. Some bad stomach cramps. Am I correct?”

  A soft clink registered through the phone. Probably the glass slipping from the governor’s fingers and thudding against carpet.

  “What did you do to me!”

  “Only what I had to do,” the General said smoothly, trying and failing to hide the smile in his voice. “You’re the one who drove me to it. In a way, you’ve brought this upon yourself. If only you’d trusted me. None of this would be happening.”

  “I feel…sick.”

  “What you are experiencing is acute arsenic poisoning. It is colorless, odorless, and tasteless, which means you would not have noticed it in your drink. I hope you enjoyed every drop of that cognac. While that particular bottle cost me dearly, I consider the after-effects absolutely priceless.”

  “You—you—” Henry Duffield croaked.

  Another dull thud sounded. Duffield falling to his knees, leaning forward, hunching as wrenching pain seized his stomach.

  “You’re experiencing severe gastrointestinal distress, as if someone has sawed through your guts with a dull knife and is now pulling out your entrails, hand over hand. Next comes acute respiratory distress syndrome as your circulatory system collapses, followed by cardiac arrhythmia and an agonizing death within a few hours.”

  The governor’s desperate gasps filled his ear.

  The General found the harsh rasping sounds incredibly satisfying. He gazed at the smooth peaceful water and wished he could have been present in person.

  “You are probably thinking—but can no longer say—that I won’t get away with this. The thing is, I will. Few autopsies are taking place right now. The Collapse has strained local, state, and federal resources beyond the breaking point. You understand. There are some benefits to a nationwide—nay, worldwide—crisis.

  “It will appear that you had a heart attack. For those who are aware of your unhealthy addictions, this will not come as a surprise. In fact, a stash of these pills will be discovered in your desk drawer.”

  Rattling, choking gasps escaped the sat phone speaker. The governor moaned.

  The General smiled.

  By the time the Secretary of State was sworn in as the new governor of Michigan, he would have made his move.

  The General had back-channel contacts. Friends in high places. The FBI. The CIA. The executive branch. He would get back into their good graces.

  In the end, this little blip would be intentionally forgotten, smoothed over, erased from the official narrative. Like governments had chosen to ignore similar atrocities throughout time.

  As the Michigan governor’s breath rattled from his lungs, the General hung up the sat phone and returned his attention to the task at hand.

  Duffield was out of the way. Fall Creek was within his grasp.

  The loss of the Black Hawk was painful and infuriating, but it had done its work. At this point, the townspeople would be turning on each other, consumed by terror and infighting, on the verge of panicked surrender.

  His soldiers were hungry. Supplies were low. It didn’t matter. They would fight when the General told them to fight. Even with the ordnance and transportation Liam Coleman had destroyed, they had enough.

  Five hundred soldiers. Enough bullets for every citizen in Fall Creek.

  Except for his granddaughter. He had big plans for her, just as he’d had big plans for Rosamond. He’d molded her in
his own image, but she’d hated him.

  He’d never understood why. They were the same. The same ambition, the same thirst for domination. The same bloodline. Iron strength flowing in their veins. Power. Superiority.

  Whatever had failed in Rosamond wouldn’t fail again. He would make sure of it.

  This child would be different. She would take his name. She would be his own. The woman who gave birth to her would mean nothing.

  The girl would be a Sinclair, through and through.

  It would take time, but she would outlive him, she would carry on his legacy and see that his name—their name—lived on. No one would remember a dead governor. They would remember the Sinclairs.

  This was how dynasties began.

  46

  Quinn

  Day One Hundred and Fourteen

  The attack was over.

  It didn’t feel like it. Nothing would be the same again.

  The townspeople remained in the bomb shelter overnight. Shell-shocked and numb.

  Though Liam and Bishop had eliminated the Black Hawk, they were too frightened to leave, even after the security teams assured them no secondary attack was imminent.

  Finally, the people had stumbled from the underground darkness into daylight to take stock of the devastation and number their losses, of which there were many.

  The attack had destroyed several buildings. Only a wall or a caved-in roof remained in the rubble. Tresses Hair Salon. The bank. Patsy’s Pizza.

  The elementary school was so riddled with holes, it looked like a Swiss cheese sculpture.

  Roads bitten to hell. Chunks of concrete and drywall everywhere.

  Winter Haven’s precious electricity gone—maybe for good.

  Eleven townspeople dead. Four gravely injured.

  Quinn knew their names, but the impact of their loss barely registered.

  The only person who mattered was Gran.

  Quinn rode her bike home with rubbery legs that didn’t belong to her, every movement rote and mechanical.

  Her clothes were filthy. Stiff with dried blood. Her skin caked in dust, dirt, and soot. Red flakes beneath her fingernails.

  Her numb hands unlocked the front door, fingers fumbling with the key a half-dozen times.

  Hannah hadn’t wanted her to go home alone. But she got busy helping everybody else. Slipping away was easy. As easy as it had been when she’d snuck to the warehouse.

  Quinn felt no sense of satisfaction. She felt nothing but the Gran-sized hole in her chest.

  Inside the house, dust motes spiraled through the shafts of sunlight bathing the wood floors and worn furniture in warm bright light.

  The house was chilly; the flames in the woodstove reduced to ashes.

  Five cats rushed her with aggrieved yowls, winding around her ankles, gazing up at her with doleful feline expressions. Even Hel, Ruler of the Underworld, who seldom left her perch atop the fridge.

  The stench of cat piss assaulted her nostrils. The cats had been inside since yesterday morning. No food, no kitty litter. They’d held it as long as they could, then used the back doormat in the kitchen.

  Quinn set her rifle on the kitchen table and refilled their water bowls from a jug sitting on the counter. Hel and Valkyrie squeezed in first, with Loki not far behind.

  She threw the soiled mat outside and left the door cracked open so the cats could do their business and find breakfast.

  Valkyrie darted outside to hunt. Loki sauntered across the kitchen, pounced on a chair, and hopped onto the table.

  Affronted, he sat on his haunches and stared at Quinn with that pointy, cunning face, as if daring her to yell at him.

  “Git!”

  He let out an incensed yowl, glancing past her as if searching for his real owner.

  “I said go!”

  He didn’t move, just stared at her as if she’d offended him.

  Maybe he expected Gran to come barreling in, waving her cane, shouting that she was gonna skin him alive if he didn’t get his ugly butt off the table.

  Quinn didn’t yell. She didn’t do anything.

  Loki stayed on the table.

  Thor and Odin wandered the house, meowing plaintively, searching for their mistress. They sensed something was off.

  “She’s not here,” she said, barbed wire in her throat.

  Quinn went to the backyard and drew a bucket from the well, lugged it to the bathroom, and stripped off her soiled clothing. She used a cold washcloth to wipe the grit and blood from her body.

  Gran’s blood. She bit back a whimper. Once she’d finished, she dumped the bucket of dirty water and her clothes in the backyard. Clad in her bra and underwear, goose pimples broke out on her skin. She barely noticed.

  She’d take care of the clothes later. Maybe she’d bury them. Or burn them.

  She would never wear them again.

  When she re-entered the house, Thor and Odin were waiting dejectedly by the door. They’d always been the needy ones. The ones Gran loved the most.

  Odin waddled over and pressed his furry head against her shin, meowing mournfully like he was begging for a treat. Only it wasn’t a treat he wanted.

  A sudden, irrational fury shot through her. “Go away! I can’t help you!”

  With startled yowls, both cats scurried for the safety of the sofa. Fat Odin couldn’t fit beneath it but clambered onto the armrest. He settled his furry bulk and offered her a wounded look.

  “She’s not here!” Quinn said in a strangled voice. “Can’t you see that? She’s not here!”

  She stumbled down the hallway in her underwear to her bedroom and moved to the dresser, pulled out sweatpants and an oversized Lions hoodie, and tugged them on.

  The dressings on her right hand had been filthy; she’d thrown them out with her clothes. The scabs needed topical antibiotics and fresh bandages.

  The mere thought was overwhelming.

  Quinn moved to her bed and lay atop the unmade covers, stiff as a board, arms at her sides, her head full of cotton.

  Time passed. She didn’t know how long. She drifted in a dull, numb haze.

  47

  Quinn

  Day One Hundred and Fourteen

  A distant thud sounded. The front door opened and closed.

  For a heart-clenching instant, Quinn thought it was Gran.

  Reality clobbered her like a sledgehammer to the chest. Gran wasn’t shuffling through the front door because Gran was dead. Dead, dead, dead.

  Two sets of footsteps padded through the hallway toward her bedroom. One human, one the click, click, click of paws on hardwood.

  She did not lift her head. She did not move or breathe.

  “Quinn?” Milo said.

  Quinn opened her eyes and stared blindly up at the ceiling.

  “Can I come in?”

  Her tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of her mouth. Thick and swollen. She couldn’t speak, which meant she couldn’t say no.

  Milo took her silence as consent and entered the bedroom. Ghost limped in behind him.

  The dog came to the bed and nosed her shoulder, as if reassuring her. When she didn’t respond, he gave a low, sorrowful chuff, then turned a few times in the middle of the room and curled up on the rug.

  A second later, the mattress sank. A small warm body clambered into the bed beside her.

  Milo lay on his back, his arm touching hers, his feet reaching her shins. He wriggled his stockinged toes and leaned into her. His little kid breath smelled like peanut butter.

  She stiffened but couldn’t push him away. Her veins were filled with cement.

  Gran was dead. Gran was gone forever. Gran was never coming back.

  Quinn’s own mother had abandoned her, betrayed her, failed to love her—but Gran never had. Not for one second.

  Gran had been tough and stern, not given to bouts of affection or sentimentality, but Quinn had never doubted that Gran loved her. Never, not once.

  And how many times had Quinn told Gran how much
she meant to her? She didn’t know, couldn’t remember. That seemed like the worst kind of failure.

  Milo took her hand and held it. Small fingers clutched her own. “I miss her. I miss her laugh. I miss her cornbread and how she always gave me extra drizzles of honey. I miss that she taught me things way more interesting than school. Or how she saved all her peanut butter just for me.”

  Quinn sucked in a sharp breath. Her chest tightened, and it was hard to breathe. Her eyes hot and stinging. “Me, too.”

  “What else do you miss?”

  “Lots of things. Everything. Her sarcasm. How she loved those damn cats. How she’d lecture you like she was mad, but you knew she really wasn’t, and she’d probably make you cookies later. How everyone was a little scared of her, even Liam. She was always there, no matter what.”

  The pain was a boulder on her chest, threatening to crush her. A tsunami to drown her. A black hole to suck her into nothingness.

  “Mom says the people you love who die still live in your heart,” Milo said in a soft voice. “You remember them with other people, to talk about them. That’s what keeps them with you. How they laughed and what they smelled like. How they made you feel. That’s how I remember Dad.”

  “That’s…that’s a great idea, Small Fry.”

  “You should try it. It helps me. Probably it’ll help you, too.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Mom says it’s okay to cry. That crying helps to get some of the sadness out so it doesn’t stick inside.”

  “What happens if it sticks inside?”

  “Your internal organs get all moldy and gross, of course.”

  “Of course,” Quinn echoed.

  “And some feelings are too big for one person. So you gotta share those, too. That way it’s not so big, when you’re both holding it.”

  “You’ve got a pretty smart mom.”