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The Great Pyrenees mountain dog was huge, the size of a small pony, one hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle beneath a coat of thick white fur. He let out an unhappy whimper, as if both chagrined that he’d missed the battle and worried for the welfare of his charges. It took every ounce of energy Liam had left to raise his hand and pat the Pyr’s massive head. “It’s okay, boy. We made it out okay.” By the skin of their teeth. But he didn’t say that part aloud.
“Sutter,” Liam said. “Quinn killed Sutter.” Hannah’s skin paled, her green eyes darkening with concern—and anger. Liam shared her sentiment. At least Quinn had eliminated the scumbag. Liam had seen Mattias Sutter’s slain corpse at the Vortex warehouse with his own eyes.
In a halting voice, Quinn told them. Her meeting with Xander Thorne and his crazy band of nihilists in the woods. How she’d glimpsed Mattias Sutter. Her rash decision to go after them and kill him herself. How Sutter had gained the upper hand and outed her, though they’d both ended up in Xander’s makeshift prison cell. The attack on the warehouse. Their escape as she fought side by side with a killer. How when Sutter had turned on her, she’d stabbed him. Everyone listened in rapt silence.
“They call him the General,” Quinn said. “Or at least, Sutter did. His name is Byron Sinclair. He’s Rosamond Sinclair’s father. And he knows about us.” Everyone stared at Quinn in shock. Her voice shook. “He knows we killed Rosamond.” Though a propane heater warmed the room, a chill sucked the heat from Hannah’s body. For a second, everything went fuzzy and distant.
“Evil is difficult to eradicate,” Bishop said. “It sprouts everywhere. You cut off one head, another appears somewhere else. With the collapse of civilization, those with wicked intent have become emboldened. They believe there is nothing to stop them from doing whatever they wish.”
Quinn didn’t know what drew her back to this place, the origin of her nightmares. She had to come, like a moth drawn to a flame.
Much had happened since the massacre. The vivid scenes still echoed in the deepest recesses of her mind—the awful screaming, the rat-a-tat of machine gunfire. The fear like a vise constricting her throat, the taste of terror a copper penny on her tongue. Ray Shultz and his bulging, half-crazed eyes as he opened fire on the church sanctuary. Billy Carter, psychotic child murderer, killer of Bishop’s family. Octavia, her druggie meth head mother who’d done a single good thing at the end—she’d saved Quinn from Billy. The slaughter of innocents had set in motion events that had brought the
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Quinn made a face. “Point taken. Just so you know, if you don’t want to talk to me, you can always talk to God.” “I bet God hates me.” “Why do you think that?” “I’ve killed people.” Her mind seared with images of Sutter sinking to his knees, blood gushing from his thigh. Of Rosamond clutching at her blood-soaked throat. “And I’m not sorry.”
“People are more than one thing. They carry both good and evil inside them, darkness and light, violence and peace. Mercy and justice.”
“Be angry. Nothing wrong with angry. But control it, channel it. Use it; don’t let it use you.” She let that sink in. “Anger can fuel you. Empower you.” “Huh.” “There’s an anger that motivates you, that drives you. That seeks righteous justice. There’s nothing wrong with that anger. But it can turn bitter and toxic. If you’re not careful, it can eat away at the part of you that makes you who you are. That’s the anger you have to watch out for, Quinn. It’s like fire. It both gives life and destroys. How you use it is what matters.”
The fight inside her needed to be controlled. Not diminished, but changed. Something shifted within her. A release. Like a dam had given way and the darkness inside her had leaked out. Anger still roiled inside her, but it was different now.
Hannah pushed it out of her reach and swallowed, anticipation fizzing in her belly. “Hello?” “Hannah?” The voice on the other end was achingly familiar. “Hannah, is that you?” Her breath hitched in her throat. She closed her eyes, mouth dry, unable to form words. Childhood memories filled her mind: camping, hiking, family dinners, trips to the grocery store. Football games and late-night study sessions. Dave squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?” His touch brought her back. She opened her eyes and inhaled sharply. Keying the mic, Hannah said, “It’s me.” Silence on the other end, as if the speaker
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Hannah gave Oliver the shorthand version of her captivity and escape from Pike. She told him how Liam had found her in the woods and saved her. Charlotte’s birth in a cabin in the middle of a blizzard. How Pike had hunted her. How she and Ghost killed him. Some parts were painful, but with every word she spoke, it became easier and easier. The act of telling her story was freeing—and powerful—in a way she hadn’t expected. When she’d finished, Oliver was in tears. So was Dave.
She’d come to terms with his actions, both the bad and the good. He had spent his life protecting their son. Though they’d disagreed on the methods, she could forgive him for it. She did forgive him. And with that absolution, that small mercy, she could move on.
“There’s room for you here at Mom and Dad’s place. For you and the kids.” Their parents had owned a farmhouse on thirty acres just outside of Brevort, a tiny town close to Mackinac Bridge separating the upper and lower peninsulas. The property was nestled at the tip of Lake Michigan, surrounded by the Sault Ste. Marie National Forest. “We can make it here, Hannah. We can.” Her heart squeezed at the hope in his voice, the eagerness and passion as he spun a vision of a tiny house deep in the woods, of gardens, a well, and prime hunting grounds. Remote and isolated. A safe place sheltered from
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We’ve had reports of large movements south of the Michigan state line. A large group of organized criminals calling themselves the Syndicate, led by a man named Alexander Poe. They’ve amassed a civilian army with military-grade weapons. They’re taking over towns and FEMA shelters, using forced labor, and selling supplies, drugs, and weapons. Rumor has it they’re selling people, too. Women and children.” Hannah stiffened. “Liam ran into them outside of Champaign.” “Then you know. They’ve taken over Chicago and most of Illinois. Last night, they breached the Indiana border. A fighting force of
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Hannah and Dave exchanged a heavy glance. Dread curdled in her gut. Threats were closing in from every direction. War. Tyranny. Human slavery. How could this be America? How could the tiny town of Fall Creek stand against such evil? She sensed the danger lurking just outside their line of sight, invisible but ever present, drawing closer and closer, gathering strength and power as it came. A tsunami of darkness about to crash down upon them, destroying everything in its wake.
He missed his cushy office next to the Governor’s at the George W. Romney Building on Capital Avenue in Lansing. The overstuffed leather chair, the whirring generators, and his tumbler of favorite cognac. He missed ice. War was a young man’s game. He belonged at the top of the food chain, where he could rest and relax in luxurious comfort—not out here in the wild, enduring cold, hunger, and discomfort. Those behind expansive desks had earned the right to command death with the push of a button. Only, there were no buttons to push anymore.
Lauren Eubanks, the Secretary of State, had remained behind to whisper in Governor Duffield’s ear and undermine the General at every turn. She disliked him, distrusted his sage advice, and resented his rapid rise to power as the Governor’s trusted military advisor. A plain woman with a stern, suspicious demeanor, Lauren Eubanks was intelligent and competent. Unusual for a politician, or a woman. The General hated her. She was also the next in line of succession if something unfortunate were to happen to the current governor of Michigan, Henry Duffield. A fact never far from the General’s
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He’d make his move soon, when the time was right. Politics was a game of chess: sacrificing pawns, obfuscating with the bishop while invading with the rook for checkmate. He was the General. The epitome of the behind-the-scenes shadow, the string-puller, the puppet master.
This spec ops soldier couldn’t be the same one Sutter had warned him of: the man who’d murdered the General’s daughter. But perhaps it was. It made a terrible sense. How many super soldier vigilantes could be running around Southwest Michigan? He glared over Gibbs’ shoulder. “Where the hell is Sutter?” “Dead, sir.” The General blinked, taken aback. That wasn’t the response he wanted to hear. He needed Sutter for intel on these Fall Creek hooligans. It was the only reason he hadn’t ordered his men to eliminate Sutter, too.
With considerable effort, the General regained control of himself. It served no purpose to allow his men to see his frustration. They needed a strong, competent leader. Emotion was a tell. A weakness. It drained your power and gave your enemies intel and influence.
“There’s one more thing you should know,” Sutter had said in that sniveling voice. “Rosamond wasn’t interested, but I think you might be. There’s a woman in Fall Creek who claims Gavin Pike was the father of her baby.” Only one thing held the General back from destroying Fall Creek utterly. Through his daughter and psychopathic grandson, a part of the General still existed outside himself. They were both dead. But their seed lived on. His seed lived on. The General had a great-granddaughter. And he very much wished to meet her.
Her throat constricted. For a brief instant, she was just a normal mother in a normal park, watching her kids enjoy themselves on a normal day. An instant later, reality invaded. There was nothing normal about life anymore. The .45 she carried was proof of that.
Quinn hopped off her bike, flicked the kickstand, and adjusted the rifle slung across her back. She rode her bike everywhere now since Gramps’ bright orange 1978 Ford F150 Super Cab—the Orange Julius—was nearly out of gas. She tugged the bag of filled water bottles from the handle; her bandaged hand flared with pain. She ignored it. The cuts had stung the entire bike ride. The bruises on her thighs and torso ached, and her face looked like a smashed watermelon. What else was new? She had a new respect for Hannah, who accomplished more than most people even with a crippled hand. Strength could
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“I want to be a warrior.” “You already are.” She snorted. “I saw you. I saw what you did to Sutter.” He scratched the stubble along his jaw, something like admiration in his eyes. “Being a warrior starts here and here.” He touched his head, then his chest. “You’ve already got that in spades. You need to learn the tricks of the trade.”
“This is Echo Two. I saw one soldier up close with my binoculars. They’re National Guard.” “You’re sure?” Liam asked. “Yes, sir. I served six years with the 1-125th Infantry Battalion Company B in Saginaw. I’m sure.” Liam swore. He’d still hoped they were the fake soldier variety, like the Syndicate hooligans he’d faced when freeing the Brooks from the FEMA shelter. No such luck.
There wasn’t room on the two-seater ATV, and she couldn’t bike as fast as they could drive. Disappointment crossed her face, but she lifted her chin and gave a resolute nod. She’d learned her lesson: follow orders, be part of the team, keep everyone alive. She turned toward her bike, pulling a radio from her pocket with her bandaged hand.
“Find Hannah!” Liam called after her. He wanted them together. Quinn and Hannah made a formidable force. Fear pushed his heart into his throat. Fear for Hannah and the children. His worry for Hannah was constant. It had nothing to do with her capabilities. It was innate, a part of him. He thought of her with every breath he took. With every fiber of his being, he longed to run toward her. To protect her with his life. Instead, he headed in the opposite direction. Defending the town should safeguard Hannah, too. He prayed it would be true.
Liam shrugged the go-bag from his back and did a weapons check. Thirty 5.56mm rounds in the M4, with several spare magazines in his pack. He wished he had his Remington 700 30-06 for sniping, but the M4 would have to do. His Glock 19 held seventeen rounds in the upgraded magazine with one in the chamber. In addition, he carried two frag grenades and three flash bangs. He hoped he didn’t have to fire a single round. Not against American soldiers.
Peering through the scope, he zeroed in on the road. He breathed in, breathed out, forced his heart rate to slow. Pushed out the fear and anxiety and pain. Put it in a box. Focus on the task at hand, nothing else. That familiar cold calm descended over him, his years of training taking over. Within a minute, the rumble of engines reached him.
Trepidation torqued through him. He loathed aiming at fellow American soldiers. It went against everything he believed in, everything he was. And yet, for his friends, for his town—he’d do anything.
“That was a warning shot,” Reynoso said. “We have no desire to fight, but we won’t be trampled over, either.” “You’re lucky I didn’t blow your head off!” Mustache growled. “If you had, my snipers would’ve taken you and your men out—before you’d fired up that Ma Deuce. Say what you need to say and leave.” “Fall Creek is under the control of General Sinclair by state mandate from Governor Duffield. If you refuse to admit us, that’s tantamount to treason. Consequences will be dire. Let us in!” Reynoso winced but did not back down. They faced each other, not twenty yards apart. Reynoso with no
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“If you fire, so will our snipers,” Reynoso said. “You can’t see them, but they can see you. Are you sure you want to open fire on American citizens? Are you certain you’ll make it out of here? Because you may have enough firepower to overpower us, but I can guarantee that you three won’t be leaving here alive.”
As Army Special Forces, he had been one of the first to be inserted behind enemy lines. In Afghanistan, he’d done his share of training local populations to be insurgents fighting the Taliban. Liam cleared his throat. “Today, we’re going to learn shooting and basic infantry tactics—which your lives depend on.” Liam spoke simply since he wasn’t addressing trained soldiers accustomed to military jargon. “If the National Guard engages, don’t fire unless it is a last resort. We will not slaughter American servicemen while we have the choice. Not unless it’s saving a life.”
Didn’t mean it would stay that way. To his left, Quinn stood behind the barricade and studied Old 31 with a pair of binoculars. Whitney Blair huddled close to her—pale, scared, and out of place with a shotgun in her hands. Jonas Marshall checked and rechecked his rifle, wearing a line through clumps of snow with his pacing. Every chance he got, he wandered close to Quinn. As if no one would notice. Liam made a note to keep an eye on the kid. With those baby-blue eyes and that swooping blond hair, he was too handsome for his own good.
Liam tensed, reaching for the M4, but something stilled his hand. “Wait and watch. Keep behind the barricade.” They watched the figure approach. The size and gait suggested a male rather than a female. He moved in jerky, shambling movements. “He’s like a zombie,” Quinn said. “Please tell me our apocalypse hasn’t just shifted to a new level of horror.”
Bishop eased Albert Edlin down against a large wooden barrel. Aghast, Quinn and Jonas huddled on either side of him, their faces white. Edlin took in shallow, rattling gasps. A disconcerting gurgle bubbled up from his chest. Blood leaked from a wound beneath his broken arm. Fresh bruises marred his wrinkled face. This was no accident. The man had been beaten. More like tortured.
After unzipping Edlin’s coat and unsnapping his overalls, Bishop tended to the man’s wounds. “Who did this to you?” “That damn…general.” Blood dribbled from Edlin’s cracked lips. “He sent his goons…they killed Wendy…they killed my wife.” Liam’s face went hot. A low, terrible fury roiled through him. “How the hell did they get inside the perimeter?” “Edlin’s farm is outside the town limits,” Bishop said. “Off the major roads. We can’t watch everything.” As much as he hated it, Bishop was right. Dozens of homesteads and farms sprawled outside Fall Creek itself. The area was too large to protect.
“The General said we were terrorists…that we turned against our own government…” Edlin coughed up a mouthful of blood. It leaked down his chin and splattered his gaunt cheeks. “That you murdered his daughter.” Whitney let out a dismayed whimper. Liam couldn’t take his eyes off Albert Edlin. “What else did he say?” Edlin’s bruised, shriveled face contorted. He raised his shaky left hand, grasped the lapel of Liam’s jacket, and drew him close. He stank of coppery blood, sour sweat, and impending death. A blade of fear slid between Liam’s ribs.
The General’s message had come through loud and clear. If he could torture an old farmer, he was capable of anything. They were facing an enemy with more men and more firepower. This man, this faceless enemy, was worse than Rosamond. Rosamond had been a knowable quantity. The General, however… He’d just made this conflict very, very personal. Dread settled like a stone in his belly. This was his fault. Instead of safeguarding the people that he loved, he’d put them in the crosshairs. He was only one man. All the training, skills, and expertise paled against an army. He could not protect them.
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The General’s threat loomed over the town like a brewing hurricane, the ominous storm clouds heavy with the promise of violence. Hannah felt the seconds and minutes ticking like a time bomb. Only fourteen hours until the deadline. The town had to provide their answer to the General’s demand. The council would meet tomorrow morning to make their final decision.
For several minutes, they worked in silence. Liam said nothing. Hannah didn’t press him. His shoulders were taut, his entire body thrumming with tension. When the trash bag was heavy, they tied the top and lifted it into the wheelbarrow, then started work on the second one. The muscles and tendons in Hannah’s bad hand ached. It took an incredible effort to wrap her warped fingers around the shovel handle. Her hand would never be normal, but with blood, sweat, and tears, she could force the broken parts to bend to her will.
His broad shoulders slumped, almost as if his body were caving in on itself. “The General has five hundred soldiers. I’m just one man. I’m not some kind of superhero.” “You’re one of us, now. They won’t give you up, not even to save themselves.” His face crumpled. Something despondent in his eyes. His stoic toughness faltered. “I can’t save this town, Hannah.” His voice cracked. “I can’t.” He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. What an incredible burden to bear without breaking.
“Even if you turned yourself in, there’s no guarantee he won’t raze the town as soon as he kills you. We were all complicit in overthrowing Rosamond. And besides, there’s Winter Haven. I’m sure he’s already eyeing that prize.” “I know,” Liam said. “I know.” The silence stretched between them. What could they do? The question hung in the air, unspoken. Then Liam said, “We could leave.”
Her breath fled from her lungs. The room abruptly too small, the cave walls closing in. She knew it. Of course she did. Still, to hear him say it aloud somehow made it more real. He took a step toward her. His face pained, the features she loved so much contorted in anguish. “We cannot win against these people. We’re building mud huts to stand against a tsunami. Like bows and arrows against tanks. What we can do—what we’ve done—it’s not enough. It won’t be enough.”
The vision shimmered behind her eyes. The reunion with her brother. Her parents’ house in the woods on thirty acres, surrounded by forest and lakes. The barns and outhouses, goats and chickens, and fencing for horses and cows. The flourishing gardens behind the chicken coop, a freshwater creek running the length of the property.
She fought the urge to fall into his arms. To draw him close and ease his suffering. “These are our people.” “I know.” His voice was gruff with restrained emotion—frustration, regret, fear. “Trust me, I know. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s foolish to stay. Tactically, our best chance of survival is to retreat. To flee.” The temptation was almost too strong to resist. A promise of safety, of freedom. Of life. A promise that didn’t truly exist. No one could promise anyone’s safety, not even before the Collapse. People died in accidents and car crashes, of heart attacks and strokes.
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If she escaped with Liam and her children, she doomed her friends to certain death. Cursed to live with the insidious, inescapable guilt for the rest of her days. If she stayed to fight, she placed her children in incredible danger. Liam might die anyway. They all might perish. Odds were, they would. Damned if you do, Damned if you don’t.
Her scars no longer a symbol of her weakness, but rather her strength. Hannah looked up. “I won’t do it. I won’t leave.” Liam said nothing, only watched her with those sharp, penetrating gray-blue eyes. “Pike wasn't an anomaly of the universe,” she said. “There are others like him. Inhuman. Those who feed on fear, suffering, and destruction. Those are the wolves the EMP has unleashed. And they’re coming for us. They’re coming for everything good in this world.”
