the survivors

"This is Safe Haven Refugee Camp. Can anyone hear me?"
"Hello? Is anyone out there?"
Dear Reader,
If you are new to my work, you should know that I try very hard to swing away from what everyone else is doing, and I have a slight… obsession with the end of
the world as we know it. I prefer original ideas and surprise scenes, not seen before. (Pun intended.) Some of those will be violent, graphic, or mature in nature, I
promise. I do not suggest readers younger than 18 be allowed access.
Now that we’ve gotten to know each other a bit, please allow me to take you on a trip through a world none of us has ever known. Try to imagine…
…fated to lead New America, seven extraordinarily gifted people survive a nuclear apocalypse, only to find themselves on a cross country quest that will shake the
very core of who they thought they were. These long-denied descendants are destined to rebuild their country, their world...if they can stay alive long enough to find
each other.
Watch Trailer
*Flipping to the back for a 2 page outline of the main characters is recommended, but not necessary.
Life After War
Book One
The Survivors
By
Angela White
New Edition © 2012
Edited by Kim Fillmore
Beta-read by Sharon, Dana & Diane
All rights reserved
Angela White © 1991
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Standard Copyright laws apply. Made in the United States.
Table of Contents
This is the Way…
The Storm Tracker
The Marine
The Mother and the Magic
The Father
The Enemy
The Hero
Right Place
Mercy and Death
Hard Goodbyes
Dangerous Secrets
The Doctor
Guns and Magic
No Pain, No Gain
Birds of a Feather
Dreams & Schemes
Book Two
Hard New World
The Castaway
Cabin Fever
Once a Liar…
Paradise
Self Defense
True Grit
Close Call
Night Ride
Coastlines
Hard Days
The Devil & his Minions
Success and Failure
Fame and Fortune
Broken Bridges
Rude Awakenings
Old Wounds
Wrong Place
Fire and Desire
Close
Notes
Extras
Footnotes
*Please don’t be afraid to follow the (14) footnotes. The links will bring you right back to that page.
Nuclear
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
We conquered this land
Now keep it, we must
By any means, wrong or just
How? A weapon
Full of arrogance
We helped it evolve
Working equations
Man wasn’t meant to solve
Envisioned for defense
Created to cause massive death
We call it security, safety
But of that, there’s little left
Now, the whole world suffers
No one in control
For money and power
We’ve lost our souls
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
We’ve destroyed our land
Now watch it rust
-A.W.
Like most days now, the sound of the ocean haunts me.
My name is Angela. I'm a mother, doctor, soldier, and now, in the year 2017, I've become a leader of men. Thanks to the end of our world to nuclear war, I'm the
Guardian of an American refugee camp named Safe Haven.
Surrounded by carefully watching guards, I sit beside the immense Pacific Ocean as my people work and play nearby, confident my Army will look after them while
I tell you about the War of 2012…and how we were forced to leave our beloved Country. It was a nightmare from which we couldn't wake. Some of us still haven't,
and soon, we'll be at the water's mercy again. In less than two months, we're going home.
America waits for us to reclaim and to rebuild, but mostly, simply, for us to return. Before we undertake that perilous journey, I have to get the 357 souls here ready
for the trip, and I only know one way it can be done - Adrian has to come back, and lead us home, as he promised.
Adrian… That incredibly patriotic man has been exiled, even though he’s the only reason that we survived. His secret was the only excuse the camp needed to turn
on him, but I won't. I can't. I swore myself to him the same as the rest of his Council, and like them, I still believe.
I’ve gotten way ahead of myself, far beyond the beginning, when our future didn’t look as good is it does now. Most people here in New America won’t talk about
the War or the long, ugly journey we made together. They say the memories have faded, but I know a lie when I hear one. Some horrors you never forget. Like our
final battle with Cesar and his large band of ruthless Mexican guerillas.
It's been five years, but I still see the deep red streams of blood running down rain-soaked trees. I still smell men burning alive in their metal coffins. I dream of it
sometimes: of the cold, wet night when I was the bait, and I'm sure Adrian does, too. It was the moment we knew our people would live - because of one man’s dream
and his lies.
From the very beginning, Adrian kept us alive, gave us everything he had - and he always did what was best for the camp, no matter what it cost him personally. He
taught us to be stronger than we thought we could be, to look out for each other, and ourselves, and through it all… he lied by omission, knowing these scared, hurting
survivors would never have trusted him, would never have given him a chance, if they had known who he really was.
We came a long way together in the year after the War, over thousands of miles of heartbreaking devastation, and it hurts those of us who remain loyal to see him
accept their unfair judgment without a fight. It makes everything we went through seem less important than it was, weakens the magic somehow, and I can’t allow that.
I’ve been seeing open doors again, and that sly ocean cautions me, says the return trip will be just as hard as the one we undertook to get here. If there’s a storm
headed toward the flock, it’s our Shepherd we’ll need to see us through it.
So, for Adrian and for those of us standing by him, still ready to die for him, and for the dreams he made me believe in from almost the first minute I set foot in his
Refugee camp, I will tell our story and leave nothing out. Maybe then these people will realize what he did for our country, accept how much we owe, and allow him to
reclaim what’s rightfully his. Us.
Before I tell you about our harsh, ugly journey, let me show you what happened on that day, what they did to us and what we did to each other. This is how
America’s story of survival began…
Chapter One
December 21st, 2012
"I did it for my country, because my country would not do it for herself." -A former President of these United States, just minutes before dying from a self-inflicted gunshot
wound.
1
“This is a joke, right? One of Clancy’s gags?”
When no one spoke, the President dropped his eyes back to the paper he’d been given to read, wishing he’d surrounded himself with more experienced people. He
had no idea what came next. It wasn’t something he’d planned to conquer during his time in office.
“Where do I give the speech?”
Carter had discovered a love of talking to his people but Ben Seiling, Deputy Chief of Staff, gestured to the radio he used for the weekly addresses. “In here. It’s
not safe in public. The rioting started an hour ago in most places and it’s spreading faster than we can keep up with.”
“No cameras? Press?”
Ben’s scowl was huge as he shook his head. “No. We already have two security tapes missing. No reporters, no questions. Too many will already suspect the
truth.”
Carter gave a jerky nod. The usually confident man was almost speechless, unable to imagine how his country would react, and he slid behind the impressive desk,
for once without reminding himself that it was his. Dark hand hesitating, he looked up.
“We’re sure?”
Ben’s curt nod confirmed it, but the sheer number of Secret Service Agents roving the halls of the West Wing, filling his Oval Office, was what drove it in. As he
had the thought, three more uniformed men came in from the doors that led out to the Rose Garden, eyes full of excitement and a touch of fear that wasn’t comforting.
“Yes. They’ll take you and your family out, as soon as you’re done. The Vice President and Joint Chiefs will be in the air shortly, headed for the Essex Compound.”
The President flinched as two shots rang out in quick succession somewhere close by, and his eyes went to the damning newspaper lying on the spotless desk.
Betrayal and Lies are the Foundation of American Politics!
The Gospel of Mary was discovered in Southern France last month and has now been proven genuine by experts secretly asked to test the
parchments. In them, is a tale of murder, extortion, kidnapping, and forced reproduction that scientists claim have kept secret the descendants of
Jesus Christ. The list of powerful families around the globe accused is staggering...
Carter gestured to the newspaper. Tomorrow’s edition; he was positive he didn’t want to know how it had been obtained. “How did they find
out?”
“We’re not sure. An old manuscript was discovered last year and set for testing. One of the experts took a large payment. A local station is set to run the story
tomorrow morning.”
“Not anymore.”
“Exactly.”
The first term President stared at the Seal, the desk, the walls. These things had been his and he had done justice to them where he could, but this? It was beyond
his control.
He hadn’t quite believed it when he’d first been informed of the file known only as "DOC", but it hadn’t taken him long to understand how much the world would
change if the public suspected the massive secret the Freemasons had been keeping all these years. The days of government rule would be long...
Ben drew him back to reality. “Mr. President, please.”
Breaking into a sweat and not caring that he was ruining a very expensive suit, Carter stared at the small sea of white faces, now hearing heavy stomps above them
which could only be agents in the Residence.
Ben, perhaps reading some of his thoughts, shook his head. “These men have no families to rescue, have been paid well in gold and passes - and all of them voted
for you. No deserters here. You and your family will make it to NORAD, safe and sound.”
Only slightly reassured, America’s beloved President looked over what might be his last address with worry burning intensely in his heart. He glanced over the
pages at the impatient Deputy Chief of Staff. “You’ll start the sirens?”
Ben nodded again, both of them looking up as the ceiling lights changed to a pale red.
“Yes, as soon as you’re on your way, now please, you have to go. D.C. is a direct target.”
Carter still delayed, hating it that he was being rushed, wasn’t being told everything. “What about air traffic and vital services?”
The Deputy’s lined face went blank, and the President felt his heart leap at the tone that implied it didn’t matter.
“They’ve been instructed to land them anywhere they can so Star Wars doesn’t shoot anymore down by mistake. Last report said four confirmed crashes, two
more suspected. Mr. President, we have to...”
“What about the vitals? Evacuations?”
Ben sighed in frustration, knowing the President would have his report before he did anything. The black man could be pushed, but it had to be gently. He was one
of the few politicians of this generation that seemed to care about his people.
“The 'net is locked down; only our senior military have the codes needed to access it. As for EVACs, those on the lists are 35% recovered at this point. Ahead of
schedule.”
“And vitals?” Carter insisted, knowing it was ugly. In the answer, he heard the same terror and anxiety he felt in his own stomach.
“We have reports of massive abandonment of posts already. Media stations in France and China are on it. Daycares, schools, hospitals, radar and traffic towers,
police stations, utility plants; it’s all going to shut down. They’ll have nothing to depend on, no way to survive after the first few months.” The Deputy’s voice lowered.
“The Draft convoys started out half an hour ago. Waves of refugees in the hundreds have been spotted hitting towns ahead of the trucks. Some of those places are
attempting to barricade themselves in. The men will follow orders.”
The President winced. He’d been briefed, but he hadn’t really thought they would do this to their own...
“Carter.”
It was the first time the Deputy Chief of Staff had ever called him by his first name and to do it here, in this hallowed place, was such a transgression of protocol that
it got his full attention. This was the strategy that smarter men than he had agreed upon, and after, when it was time to come back up, he would still be in charge. The
US Presidency was not allowed to change hands during a time of war unless there was a death.
“We’re using the rest of our arsenal? Retaliating, even though we caused it?”
Ben motioned for one of the impatient, heavily armed agents to grab the tapes and hidden microphone from the desk. “It’s all under way.”
Carter’s dark finger pushed the button, not asking how that was possible without his approval. He’d learned a lot about leadership in the last few years and one of
the biggest was that you didn’t ask questions unless you could take the answers. Stomach churning, voice stunned, he began.
“My fellow Americans, this is your President, Carter Heins, and I have grave news. Let me start by asking each of you to care for and comfort each other in this
time of crisis, and we’ll get through it. Together,” he lied, ignoring the man waving at him to skip what didn’t matter; just tell his people that the entire world was about to
change violently and forever.
“At 10:28 this morning, a terrorist was able to gain access to our nuclear arsenal by hacking into the system and introducing an unknown virus that shut down our
firewalls and allowed NORAD’s computers to be breached. As a result, control of over half of our defensive warheads were compromised. The terrorists immediately
initiated multiple launches and the warheads are not responding to specific abort codes. Ten minutes ago, these stolen weapons began reaching their targets, and other
countries have retaliated, thinking we’ve declared War.” the President paused, couldn’t believe he was saying this, and heard a silent country holding its breath, listening,
looking for comfort that he couldn’t give.
“We predict that the United States will take at least five nuclear hits. Cities expected to be destroyed include Washington D.C., Houston, Texas, Lansing, Michigan,
New York City, and Los Angeles.”
Noise levels instantly went up throughout the White House, and outside, more gunshots destroyed the silence. Loud and rapid, they should have drawn immediate
attention. When they didn’t, the President understood then that it was really happening, was positive he’d be the last man to sit here. Gunfire in the capital and the agents
in the room hadn’t even blinked. It wasn’t a tasteless joke. The world was ending.
“I’m declaring martial law nationwide, effective immediately. The curfew is an hour before sunset. Looters will be dealt with harshly. Our southern border has been
closed, all air traffic has been grounded, and prices are frozen across the board.” He hesitated again, drew in a deep breath. “I’ve also reinstated the Draft, effective as
of 11:00 A.M. this morning. All males, ages 16-45, will surrender to the convoys of trucks on their way from bases across the country. People who refuse, flee, or
follow, will be considered treasonous and dealt with accordingly. Stay in your homes, do what the soldiers tell you, and pray for your country. God bless you and God
bless the United…”
He was jerked out of the seat at a nod from Ben and the President stopped struggling as they rushed him outside, panic roaring from the streets.
“Warning! Incoming!”
The lawn speakers blared behind them and Carter couldn’t take his eyes from the red and orange blur that he could just make out against the glare of the December
sun. It was too late. They weren’t going to make it!
The agents literally threw him onto the chopper, and the President huddled with his pale wife and twin boys as Marine One quickly rose into the air. As it ascended,
its huge blades were assaulted with rocks, shoes, briefcases, and cell phones that doomed citizens threw in fury.
The guards opened fire suddenly as a mob overwhelmed the iron gates and rushed across the White House lawn. Blood splattered, bodies fell, and then they were
flying through the beautiful, sunny sky, watching out the windows as the warhead barreled toward the American capitol, leaving a trail of fiery smoke.
“Look, Daddy! Fireworks!”
The explosion was staggering, blinding, and Carter kissed his wife’s tear stained lips one last time as the shock wave caught up to them and brought the chopper
down. There were no survivors.
2
Only two White House security tapes survived the blast, thanks to the quick instincts of a well-connected reporter with a shark’s reputation, and they were what
most of the watching people saw when the President’s voice disappeared so abruptly. The first was a ten second clip, and in that short time, one perpetrator of the
apocalypse was revealed.
Former President Robert Milton slid the disk into the main computer with a look of hatred that few would have recognized from his time in office. Once exalted, he
was now reduced to massage-boy for the current administration and he’d volunteered for this part of covering the centuries old lie.
Clearly trying to hurry, the man looked over his shoulder repeatedly while typing in codes. He placed his hand on the scanner and the lights in the room flashed to
deep red. Stepping over what was obviously a body, the broken man took a marker from the neat desk and began to write on the wall before the screen went to black.
The second tape was shorter. Only four seconds, it was a brief flash of the same traitor, now putting the shiny black barrel of a gun in his mouth. Hands already
stained with blood, there was a violent, crimson flash and the former President slumped to the floor. His message glared at the crimson-streaked camera lenses.
"I did it for my country, because my country would not.”
These two clips only circulated for a few minutes before the stations airing them went to static and didn’t return, but it was enough. The people knew the truth.
There hadn’t been a terrorist attack, the government had caused it. America, and the world, had been betrayed!
As to why - that didn’t become clear for a long time after the War, and even then, only a select few discovered the secrets…there were bigger atrocities to be
faced.
3
In northern Florida, a twenty megaton ICBM caused the swampy shelf to begin cracking like window glass. The blinding flash was felt as far away as the Virginias,
where fleeing citizens were stuck in crammed lanes of traffic on Interstate 81, with no way to avoid the danger. Nor could they escape the long convoy of draft trucks
that were battering their way through the wrecks and vehicles in the grassy median, following orders with no exceptions.
Brady - Virginia
“All males will surrender to the Draft! If you resist or run, you will be shot!”
The faint bullhorn woke those who had been dozing in the uncomfortable seats of the cold Greyhound bus, and a ripple of warning went through the armed man
sitting against the frosty window. People were standing to look, muttering among themselves, but the grunt remained still, waiting to see how he should react.
“Hey!”
“He hit an old guy with his gun! They can’t do that!”
“They just shot a woman! Murder! Call 911!”
Sergeant Brady used his military voice to be heard over the din, “Everybody out! Make room!”
The others stuffed into the crowded bus shifted toward the doors at the clear order, but they were panicked, shoving and yelling. Brady hefted himself up onto the
vinyl seat and dove out the open window as more gunshots and screams exploded from the stuck traffic behind the bus.
People were pouring from their vehicles now, running for the nearby homes and businesses of Wytheville as the MRAPs3 full of heavily armed soldiers followed,
firing M16s at the citizens who refused to turn themselves over. Back-dropped by thick, black smoke and an angry, red sky, they remorselessly shot fleeing males, and
anyone else who happened to get too close to their intended targets, only a few bothering with the bullhorns or their aim.
Recognizing bloodlust, the Sergeant rolled through the slush, moving under the bus, and he stayed there as the chaos got closer, arms and ankles locked tight around
the greyhound’s icy frame. The War had cancelled his leave, but he had to get home and he was going - a decision these Draft enforcers would shoot him for. Gun in
hand, Brady stayed still as the trucks rolled by, and the citizens he was sworn to protect, were gunned down.
A second later, the air shifted, thickened, and he instinctively shut his eyes and buried his head against his arm as the sky lit up and the sun fell on him.
4
The electro-magnetic pulse shot out brutally. The devastating wave traveled the same path as the radiation and pressure blasts, and then went farther. Moving
through the air and over the land, it traveled like electricity - surging through train tracks, electric lines, and low band communication equipment. The power surge shortcircuited
everything it touched - sparking fires, making pacemakers stop, causing engines to stall… and planes to fall from the smoke-filled skies.
Samantha – Wyoming
“Please, can’t you just tell us where we’re going?”
Samantha’s pretty blue eyes and calm demeanor allowed the grim-faced young soldier to answer her, when he hadn’t any of the others crammed into the chopper
around them, but the deadly rifle in his hands didn’t lower as the loud blades struggled to cut through the thick haze.
“We’ve been diverted to NORAD. The Essex Compound is now under evacuation.”
The chopper suddenly lurched sideways, and Samantha stifled her scream, but not a low groan, as it was hit by an invisible wave of force and lurched again. The
other Seattle civilians aboard the struggling aircraft echoed her noise of near panic.
Taken together, they’d been "removed" from the Environmental Protection Agency by big soldiers with clipboards, government passes, and guns. After seeing a
coworker shot in the back when he tried to run, none of them had rocked the boat despite obviously being kidnapped by their own government.
The need to fight back warred with her survival instincts and Sam brushed only a quick glance over the other well-dressed, “lucky” few on board with her. In their
faces, she saw the same dismay and slowly-dawning terror, and yet, she could have been alone - didn’t feel a connection with them. She was different.
Samantha fingered the badge around her neck, wishing she didn’t have it. If her alarm hadn’t worked, the former President, Robbie Milton of the infamous suicide
video, would have died four years ago in Nebraska, and none of this would be happening. Sam had been horrified to recognize the “terrorist” in the two short security
videos. Did her saving his life all those years ago make some of this her fault?
Sam assumed they were flying low to avoid Star Wars and stifled another sound of misery as the cities rolled by, unable to believe that was her country down there
tearing itself apart. Shootings, fires, assaults, murders. Bodies everywhere! In cars, on streets, even on playgrounds! Moreover, no one was coming to remove them!
Samantha swallowed her panic. This wasn't happening. Just a horrible nightma…
She watched in terror, forgetting to breathe, as an unending line of destruction rushed over the land, eating everything in its path. Power lines lit up, sparking
violently; gas lines ruptured, exploded, and homes and cars disappeared under the rapidly advancing brown and gray avalanche of death that was now drawing even
with the military transport chopper. They were out of range, weren’t they?
"Get higher!"
Even as Sam finished the shout, she saw the blades stop spinning, her ears registering the sudden, deafening silence, and then they were plummeting to the earth in a
sickening blur of swirls and screams.
The government bird slammed into the rocky, Wyoming ground at a hard angle and flew back up, flipping and twisting into new shapes. It blew through a thick tree
and began to roll, scattering awful debris. Huge flames and thick smoke blanketed the crash site.
Her hurting body checked in as bruised and ready to hide, but otherwise uninjured, and Samantha groaned, not opening her eyes. The lack of noise (not even a
whimper or scream) told her that the rest of her traveling companions had not been so lucky, and she moaned again, dazed.
Forgetting for a second about all that had happened, she hoped someone had already called 911.
“See! Told ya it’s a woman!”
The male voice released her tears. Help was here!
“I’ll hold her down ‘n you can go first this time, but let’s pull her away from all that metal and fire.”
As hands closed like iron bands around her slender ankles, Samantha started screaming again.
5
Less than half a minute had passed when another wave of destruction rushed out - one of pressure and wind at levels not even buildings, let alone people, could
withstand. Those who had time to get below ground were not as safe as they thought, especially in California, where the ‘Big One’ finally came and went mostly
unnoticed. People were already busy dying.
Adrian - California
"Is it true? Are you his son?"
Adrian opened his mouth to confirm the lethal secret he’d just been confronted with by his fellow Greenpeace members, but snapped it shut as the neighborhood
sirens began to wail again. The static-filled radio blared a reporter’s shocked words.
“…has been unlike anything my generation has ever experienced. We are watching in horror as each of these bombs hits and… it’s so ugly! Huge fireballs instantly
create gaping, fifty-mile wide craters around the point of impact and blasts all those buildings, cars, and people into the sky. As it rises, it forms a gigantic, toxic black
mushroom cloud that immediately begins to spread with the wind.
“Instantly following these explosions, are huge rushes of thermal heat and light that shoot out in every direction, peeling skin away from bones and
blinding every living thing facing in that direction. The temperatures are in the hundreds of degrees, and those in the path have no chance of escaping as our
way of life begins to crash down…”
The station faded into a national anthem as a city siren reached its peak. Ear-splitting, it overwhelmed, just for a brief second, the horrible noises going on outside
the small, San Bernardino ranch home, and across the riot-ravaged country. Adrian’s patriotic heart bled for people he didn’t know, and the powerful secret he had
kept suddenly seemed tiny in comparison. But it wasn’t. It was the sum of all secrets, and likely the reason their world was ending.
The radio on the basement steps wailed suddenly, mirroring previous sounds of impending arrival. The stepped under the thick planks next to the Christmas tree as
a dozen other surrounded him, shock and outrage on their faces.
“You caused this!”
Adrian had a brief moment to think he was glad that most of those here for the meeting had already fled at the reports of a bomb hitting the West Coast, but even
this dozen was too many to fight unarmed if things got ugly. Good thing he wasn’t. How had they found out?
“Answer the question!”
"Tell the truth!"
The furious men moved closer, and the plastic tree and presents went flying when he tried to use them for a shield.
“We'll beat it out of ya!"
“Did you know?”
Their eyes and voices were full of hate, demanding answers. Again, he started to answer and was cut off - this time by a huge, vicious rumbling under their feet.
It came hard and fast, sawdust from the stairs falling over them as it pounded closer through the rock and stone. Adrian had been in enough hot landing zones to
recognize the danger, and threw himself to the tiled floor, putting a hand on the gat4 in his pocket, as some of the men followed his lead. Others lunged his way, thinking
he was trying to escape.
“Get him!”
“Incoming! Get down!”
The walls above them exploded an instant later, blown away like brittle leaves in the fall, and then the small, neat house above them was crumbling, burying them
alive.
6
These were the first and most direct effects of the War on American soil, the beginning of a hard new world where all authority disappeared. In less than one day,
calm, arrogant safety vanished and took with it, the rest of society’s perceived protections that had always been taken for granted…like calling 911.
Angela – Ohio
“He didn’t say Ft. Defiance. He didn’t.”
The very pale woman dropped the stained hospital scrubs she'd just changed out of and gripped the back of the kitchen chair. Oblivious to the gunshots and
screams outside, and to the pains tearing through her slightly rounded belly, she watched the CNN report on the plasma T.V., listening to them tell of an impact over
1200 miles from her Cincinnati home.
“.. latest word is five million dead, another two million injured or exposed, and the cloud is moving west, northwest towards the Alabama State line at 37 mph.
Camp David is gone, Houston, all the coastal oil refineries…”
“Charlie?”
The woman slid to her knees on the plush carpet of the two-bedroom apartment, the agony in her chest worse than the bands of pressure clamping around her
stomach, pushing down. Footsteps thudded in the halls outside her door, followed by more shouts. Both went unnoticed.
“It can’t be!”
The cell phone slid out of her hand, liquid suddenly oozing down her thighs and swollen legs as Christmas lights flashed mockingly in place of emergency blinkers.
“I would know!” she cried suddenly, doubling over, “I would know!”
The door in her mind rattled and she grunted in pain, trying to draw on a gift (curse) she had locked away over a decade ago, but she was weak and those magic
halls remained closed.
Her forehead thumped on the carpet as pain, raw and sharp, tore through her stomach. Darkness flooded her mind.
Now unheard, an emotionless voice echoed calmly: “Please hold and the next available operator will assist you. 911 estimated wait time... Two hours, 14
minutes…The system is currently experiencing heavy call volume. If this is not an emergency, please hang up and try your call again later. Service outages
can be expected in some areas. Please continue to hold and the…”
Behind her, the horrified reporter continued to tell the rest of the world what was happening, but few were listening. The end had come.
“...Chicago barrier gave way instantly and millions of gallons of debris-filled water barreled downstream, overwhelming towns and cities for 40 miles before joining
the Wabash River, swelling it even more. It has poured down every stream, sewer, creek, and river it touched, sweeping away thousands in each state.
“This merciless torrent split briefly between the Wabash and Mississippi Rivers, widening the path of damage, then merging again in Louisiana, where it finally
punched a hole through the city of Baton Rouge and emptied into the already flooded Gulf.
“The pressure of the bombs, coupled with the pounding of the raging water, has triggered the ancient New Madrid fault line under St. Louis, causing a 7.7
earthquake that is leveling untouched areas, and is being felt as far away as Kansas City and Louisville. Places like Humboldt and Jonesboro have simply collapsed like
dominoes, already weakened by the surge of debris-filled waves…."
7
Once again a target for the government they represented, the military was especially hard hit. Most of the service men and women who survived, later denied they
were ever a part of any armed force. As few as one out of every ten came through the War alive despite being so well-trained...
Kenn –Arizona
“Damn!"
The Lance Corporal ducked down, pushing the muddy hardback5 as fast as it would go.
Ft. Defiance was under siege. Furious and terrified citizens were trying to get over and through the electrified, ten-foot-high fence that surrounded the 17-mile
compound. It sounded like a giant bug zapper - poles, cars, furniture, and even people were being used to try to break the live wires - but so far, the strong magnetic
force had held.
It didn’t keep out the bullets, though, and the Marine pulled his cover farther onto his head as the popping grew steadier, almost rhythmic. Someone out there was
firing an assault rifle. Kenn’s grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles white - he hated the feeling of near panic that lurked just under the surface. He had to get there first!
Choppers were swarming over the grounds of the base, trying to evacuate the Marines and "Draftees", but the violent winds gusting from the direction of Houston made
landing difficult, and might give him a chance.
In the past, the weather was the worst challenge the Pilots had to face here. Now, it was the least of their worries. Arriving Birds were being blown out of the
smoky skies before they could descend to safety – crashing, exploding, flinging twisted metal debris flying into the screaming mob of rioters. Some aircraft were only
damaged, and would crash later in remote locations, but many had already fallen on the scene from ambush - telephone poles and grenade launchers were hard for the
overloaded choppers to avoid. In short, it was mayhem.
"Yes!" The cadet barracks came into full view through the thicket of trees. “He has to be here!"
Men shouted, hungry rioters screamed, guns fired, and gust after violent gust of stomach-churning wind pushed against the truck, slowing it down. The sky above
the base rolled with thick red clouds that flashed angrily, and black flakes fell like a blizzard, coating everything with a heavy layer of soot that looked like ash from a
volcano.
Kenn looked up suddenly, the shadow of the chopper passing overhead not what drew his attention, but the silence of its engines. He stared in shock as the big Bird
began to freefall, spiraling toward him.
Not realizing the truck’s engine had died too, Kenn mashed the pedal and ducked, as the chopper spun past. He met the eyes of the horrified pilot for a brief
second, before it hit the main dorm, exploded through it.
Orange flames and thick black smoke billowed upward, and Kenn’s heart froze as the cheers and screams of those outside the fences grew louder, hungrier. If the
boy had been in there, he was dead now. No one could have survived that.
Falling apart at the seams
8
By midnight, communication lines were down across the country. No internet, no phones, no cable - and unchecked rioting across the nation. With their lives
suddenly blown away, the stunned survivors had no idea what to do. Few thought to help each other.
Split between broken states that had only small areas capable of sustaining life, most people began trying to get out of the cities. Searching for safety, and unaware
that it no longer existed, millions more were lost in the aftermath. At dawn, the American people were confident, arrogant about their future. By dusk, the dream was
crushed, faith not only shaken, but mortally wounded.
Less than a week after the War, the death toll stood at 250 million in the United States alone. Twenty million of those who survived were seriously injured or
blinded and another seven million had the radiation sickness. Most of those didn’t live to see the new year.
The numbers were staggering, inconceivable, and yet, real. The world’s worst fears had been proven true. The horribly high cost of freedom was settled
in the blood of the innocent, as debts like these, in the end, always are. The people should have been prepared, ready, and instead, the governments expected
to protect, hurt their citizens as much as the actual bombs. The Draft took tens of thousands of desperately needed doctors, scientists, nurses and engineers,
and they stripped farms and factories alike of their crops and livestock, leaving their owners bodies rotting where they fell. They took it all.
Some people fled before the President’s broadcast began airing, tipped off by determined sources as the governments began locking it down. A few of those quickthinking
souls survived, but flight was not an option for most. There were loved ones and supplies to be gathered first, and by then, the roads crammed with traffic and
accidents were impassable, forcing people to either wait in their cars for the convoys of draft trucks, or set out on foot to find somewhere to hide.
Those were the ones who fled too late, and were caught out in the open with all those who had already been on the road for the holiday. The rest hunkered down
where they were and hoped their town wasn't a direct target, or close to one.
Only two of every nine Americans survived the end of the world. This is our story…
Chapter Two
January 1st, 2013
Outside Bonneville, Wyoming
1
“There’s a storm coming.” Samantha’s tone was low. She hadn’t forgotten who she was talking to.
Her captor’s hard voice lashed out in the cold, Wyoming wind. “Tell us something we don’t know. It’s rained every day since you geniuses blew us up!”
Flinching, Samantha ducked her head, dirty blonde curls hiding a pale, bruised face full of loathing. Instead of arguing, she poked at their reluctant fire with her once
expensive shoe, watching the creepy darkness of the highway overpass around them. The clinking echo of the heavy chain around her ankle made her quit before
Melvin could tell her to. Now was a bad time to draw attention.
Samantha had never hated anyone as much as she did the two drunken men sprawled carelessly in lawn chairs just behind her. Warm in their paint-stained overalls
and long johns, she shivered miserably in the same torn, reeking office clothes she’d been taken in. She wanted to be alone inside their rusty van, out of the icy wind,
and searching for something she could use as a weapon, but the two males liked to wait until she was nearing frostbite before climbing in behind her to take what they
wanted.
The wind blew harder, bringing sounds of dogs yapping incessantly in hunger; thin, distant screams; loud bangs they couldn’t identify. Sam tried to huddle into a ball
that would keep it all out, the thought of sex while there were bodies rotting in cars and on the hard cement all around them, making her stomach lurch.
It was supposed to be Henry’s night - the Cruz Painting Company brothers sharing her - but Melvin, the elder, was making shot after shot of Wild Turkey
disappear. When he got like this, both Samantha and Henry gave him what he wanted to keep him from getting bent out shape. Melvin was mean and bitter when he
was sober, but he was a violent drunk. Instant Dick, she thought, eyeing the vague shapes of farmhouses and fields at the other end of the windy overpass: just add
alcohol.
Blackness surrounded them in every direction, not a speck of light except for their tiny fire, and Samantha tried not to think about the horrors she couldn’t identify
through the dark, gently touching her swollen lip. The two she could see were enough.
“Where we gonna go, Mel? It’s all trashed.”
Melvin took another long swig from the dirty brown bottle, digging at the filthy crotch under his large stomach.
“Nah, man. Not south. We’ll stock up and go to Mexico. Take over like the A-Team.”
“Don’t hafta go on no boat, do we?”
“Prob'ly.” Melvin’s voice was distracted, bloodshot brown eyes on the pale leg showing from beneath their whore’s grimy skirt. The sight of his own thumbprint on
her calf made him stir as he remembered how she'd gotten it.
“Ain’t goin' on no boat,” Henry whined, blowing out a hard belch.
Melvin gestured toward Sam, mean smile showing yellow, broken teeth. He threw small a rock at her, hard, and both men laughed when she cried out in pain.
Knowing the overweight alcoholics were hoping she’d fight back, Samantha let their laughter wash over her as she listened to the terribly angry earth around them,
resisting the urge to dig at her dirty hair or rub her stinging hip.
The two abusive pigs keeping her captive and passing her like... like a bottle, assumed she meant a thunderstorm, but it seemed like snow to her - maybe even a
Blue Norther - and about the weather, Samantha was hardly ever wrong. Her predictions had earned her the pass to safety…had given her this hell instead, but she
didn’t consider trying to tell them again. The long-haired, 30-something painters liked to pinch and slap as punishments, and she was already covered in bruises.
Keeping her mouth shut was a hard lesson to learn.
Get away. Try again! her heart demanded and the wind suddenly blew harder through the Wyoming basin as if to reinforce the thought. Sam shivered, mind racing.
The wounds and marks from her first attempt had mostly healed, but the damage to herself self-respect never would. Not that she had time for something as trivial as
that. Only survival mattered now.
The trio tensed at a close, loud bang echoing from the west, but when a second shot didn’t come, the men went back to their bottle, and their slave went back to
her desperate plans. She was a fighter. She just needed to stack the battle.
Closing her eyes, Samantha inhaled deeply. There would definitely be snow to start the New Year, and just before morning, too. Could it help her? Maybe, if she
manipulated things a little. Right now, the two men were drinking heavily. Set to stay up late and wake up even later, what would they do upon rising to a foot of snow
on the ground?
She frowned. They would take the way they had already cleared to get this far and return to the other end of the overpass - to the deserted farmhouse they’d
stayed in last night. They would hole up and wait out the weather, even though they were only an hour from moving the last of the abandoned vehicles out of their way,
and then they’d be free of the Bonneville City limits. It was an ugly place full of the dead and the wails of those who would soon follow.
The thought of being snowed-in with these horny, alcoholic idiots filled her gut with hot fire, mind working the problem as her stomach burned. She had always been
a plan-ahead person, but who the hell could have prepared for this? What she needed was for the heartless drunks to sleep now and get up ready to go on before the
snow got bad. It would put them all out in it together and might give her an opportunity to escape.
You know how, don’t you? She shuddered, drawing in a deep breath. Yes, she did, but she didn’t want to, couldn’t stand even the thought of being the one who
started it, let alone having to participate or pretend she was willing. What she really needed was a weapon. It would be easier to kill them. She was aching to think of
possible help at the Essex compound being so close and yet so far away, but she would do what she had …
Pop-Pop-Pop!
The sound of engines and tires squealing followed the loud gunshots, echoing from the total darkness to the South. Close by. Coming their way?
“Shit! They’re back!”
“Henry, get that fire out!”
Samantha was already climbing into the van as fast as the loudly clinking chain around her ankle would allow, as eager for the tepid warmth, as for the hiding place.
She slid onto the far corner of the bed in the back, heart beating furiously, and was plunged into darkness as the two men got in behind her. She didn’t struggle when
Melvin pulled her roughly between them.
The males cleared tiny circles on the dirty back windows and even though Samantha kept her head down, sure she’d be shoved back if she tried to look, she found
she could easily imagine the loud group that was now within at least half a mile of the overpass where they were hiding.
There would be only headlights at first, and gunshots, and then they’d see dirty, muddy, rusted-out jeeps and trucks with gun racks that held automatic weapons.
There would be cruel shouts and mean gestures; scared, abused women cowering in trunks and on floorboards, their futures grim - short. And all of it surrounded with
dangerous, reckless driving, shooting at anything that caught their eye…complete disregard for all the death that had happened.
Danger filled the air as the noises got louder and the barely-breathing trio in the van remained still and silent. Slugs began to slam into the overpass as the group got
closer. First the cars around them, and then the van, making Sam bite her wrist to keep from screaming. The gang went by very slowly it seemed to her, headlights
glaring off the dirty windows, and none of them moved.
They were all glad when the men avoided the jammed-up overpass from Interstate 26, traveling below it instead. They seemed to be heading directly into to
Bonneville, where desperate voices on the van’s CB had been calling for help for the last few days - for American assistance.
What they had called for and what they were going to receive, Sam thought, trying to ignore the hands now roaming her sore body from both sides, were as
opposite as they could be.
As the last of the engine noises faded, the van began to rock. Gently at first, it soon became violent and a scream echoed. Full of pain, the sound was cut off
suddenly, and a light, freezing rain began to fall over the broken land.
2
A short,
Long! So long!
hour later, the brothers were passed out in the back and Samantha was in the front passenger seat, as far away from them as the rawhide leash around her neck
would allow. Full of cold depression, she longed for even a cup of Charbucks6 coffee as she shivered and hurt. She wiped away a single tear at the thought of where
she’d been at this time two weeks ago - at the back table with a paper cup, the car and driver idling in front. What a difference from this hell.
She had been with the abusive brothers for ten days now, had turned 28 in captivity, and for Samantha, who knew where two government compounds were, it had
been beyond awful. She’d begged them repeatedly to take her to a bunker so that someone could look her name up and let her in. She had even promised to get them
passes. A lie, of course - she’d hoped to get the evil men shot - but it hadn’t mattered. They did not intend to give up the slave that had literally dropped from the sky
into their laps.
Samantha shivered at the thought of that first night. It had been life-changing and no one had helped her. Not the convoys full of Draftee’s and soldiers as they rolled
by, loaded down, and certainly not the terrified citizens that were fleeing ahead of them. She’d watched unarmed men get shot in the back, women being beaten - her
dreams were full of the haunting cries of the others who were now in the same situation as her.
It had taken days to stop herself from calling out to those around them for help, before she realized that even the police with all their expensive gear and years of
training hadn’t stood, hadn’t even been able to save themselves. The uniformed dead outnumbered the civilians in most of the places she'd been dragged through.
They’d lost everything. It was all gone and she was stuck out in the middle of it with men who knew she had been one of the chosen few valued by the government, and
tormented her for it.
When the War came, Sam had been mostly alone but content. Her needs were met by her butler and servants, and then by the agency staff after she’d taken over
her parents’ work when they were killed trying to measure an Atlantic storm during the height of hurricane season. A year into that wild ride, she had predicted the
Supercell in Nebraska during the DNC - had maybe even saved President Milton’s miserable life - and that was how she’d ended up here.
Samantha was used to having her needs met, but thankfully she was also very strong, able to face her terror and still react. It made her a formidable opponent that
she didn’t really fear death, only the pain, and becoming a Storm Tracker like her parents had been as natural as breathing. She had guts and she would have to use
them now.
The aching woman lit one of her “reward” cigarettes and watched the darkness through the dirty window. The rain splatters were turning to light gray sleet, covering
the dead world around them, and she ignored her pains, calculating. The next eighteen hours would be hard, but if she was careful, if she picked just the right moment,
this time tomorrow she would be free.
3
Samantha wasn’t sure if it was the icy cold or the bands of pain low in her stomach that woke her to day eleven of captivity, but she came fully alert all at once, mind
immediately returning to the plan she had fallen asleep working on.
She had decided she wouldn’t head to the Essex7 compound. On the chopper, the soldier had told them it was being evacuated. That was also the direction that
most of the radiation victims she had seen since the War, were coming from. Plus, the brothers knew to follow her there. She couldn't take the chance that they would
hunt her down, capture her again. If they did, she’d get no further opportunities to run. This was her last try, and she took another long minute, preparing herself to
follow through, no matter how ugly it got.
Stomach shifting uncomfortably, Samantha stretched her arm over and started the van’s engine. As she flipped on the heater, she told herself at least she wouldn’t
have a baby. She’d had a shot the day before the War, and it was good for three months.
“What...uh? What’re you doing?" a groggy Melvin questioned, elbowing Henry.
Samantha struggled to breathe normally as the wipers cleared a vision into a wintery hell, surprised the weather had muffled so much of the sound. They had slept
through it, she thought sickly, and hoped the gang had moved on in the night. Bonneville was in flames, the smoke was the only thing she saw moving, and it firmed her
decision. Today had to be the day. She wasn’t going in there. Anyone who ventured into that war-zone wouldn't come back out on the other side.
“I think that city is on fire."
She didn’t bother telling them it was snowing.
It got Melvin up as she’d known it would, and he woke Henry. While she was glad something had happened to get them moving, her heart worried that her freedom
might come at the cost of innocent lives. Had she made it happen with her hurting wishes? Was she responsible?
Her grieving mind said she knew better. They had hidden from those men before, seen the smoke and fires from the direction they went. The group was attacking
towns, trying to what? Eliminate the survivors? She nodded. That fit, and her American heart cried in protest at the loss of people she hadn’t even known. Someone
had to do something, had to fight back, she thought, never considering that she might end up being one of those heroes.
Sam listened to them talk about going back with fear in her heart, lazy Henry all for it. When they stepped out to look around, she gently searched the front for
anything she could use as a weapon if they did decide to wait in the farmhouse. This was the first time they had left her alone inside the van and she was very quiet.
“No way she’s still there, man. Look at all those flames.”
Melvin shook his head, eyeing the storm clouds that were currently raining black, ashy flakes over them.
“Gail'll be there. I told her to stay.”
“I don’t know, man.” Henry was looking at the roof of the farmhouse they could just barely see. It wasn’t his girlfriend, and he clearly didn’t want to go where there
was such obvious danger.
“I do. We’ll make it by dark. We just gotta get started moving shit again.”
“It’s an overpass, Mel. No stores if the storm gets bad.”
Melvin waved a dirty hand. “These cars’re the grocery now - and we’re not stuck anywhere. The van’ll go through any storm, even a Norther.”
“Yeah, I guess.” There was deep reluctance in Henry’s voice, mostly because of the rotting corpses in so many of the cars.
Melvin's laughter was mean. “The bitch’ll look for supplies while we’re shovin' that bus over. We’ll just chain her to the bumper like usual.”
Samantha’s gut clenched with nervous anger and hope. Maybe she would find a real weapon while searching those cars.
“Turn off that engine! Get out here, Slut! Time to earn your keep."
Samantha was careful to put heavy loathing into her voice. “In the snow?"
She could hear them snickering as she pulled the keys from the ignition with trembling hands, and she stuffed them up under the dash. Hopefully the jumble of wires
would hide the keys long enough to buy her a head start if fate gave her the chance to run…although she wasn’t sure she would. There was too much hate to just scurry
away now.
“Yes, in the snow! Come on!”
Melvin opened the side door, and Sam quickly began pulling on her flats.
“Get out here.”
He was leaning inside now, and she tried to control her voice and pounding heart. This was it. “I’m in a skirt. I’ll freeze.”
“Then hurry up and find some clothes in them cars out there - you too, but only dresses or skirts. My women don’t wear the pants, I do.”
Samantha nodded obediently. Wanting desperately to spit in his face, she held her leg out for him to clamp the hated tow-chain over the raw, bruised skin of her
ankle, and sighed in relief when he removed the rawhide leash from her neck. She forced herself to give him a small smile. Melvin was the one she might have to kill to
get away. It would be best if he thought she was accepting her fate, so she would have the element of surprise.
As she stepped nervously down into the half-inch of gray and black flakes, her shoe landed on a slick piece of wrapping paper with a bloody Santa smiling happily
at her. She slipped, awkwardly, crying out as the van’s sharp door caught her leg. The rusty corner tore through her skirt and she hit the wet ground, landing hard on her
ass, as blood welled.
The two painters were laughing, Melvin doubled over, and Samantha’s anger grew as cold as the wind.
“Get shoes too. Dumb-ass woman."
Samantha picked herself up, rubbing at her throbbing thigh. She wanted to scream that she had been grabbed and thrown onto a government chopper, that she
hadn’t been planning to walk in the snow or anywhere else, but turned away before she could. Fighting back now was not part of the plan - a weapon was.
Her feet were ice within the first minute and she stomped to the farthest car she could reach- a long, brown, dented station wagon. The frozen vehicle was,
thankfully, empty of remains, and she began to find small, useful treasures as soon as she ducked inside the front and began searching. She stayed at it steadily, anger
flaring hotter when her nail caught on the chain and ripped off in a hot flash of pain.
Five minutes later, she was still searching the wagon. First darting a quick glance at the two men struggling with the tow chain, Samantha saw they weren’t paying
attention to her, and took a moment to evaluate what she’d found- a fanny pack, a lighter, two Bic pens, one of which she slid behind her ear and covered with her dirty
hair. Half a pack of smokes and one unopened can of Diet Coke completed the stash, and she shoved it all into the small pack before moving to the rear. This vehicles
was so crammed with bags, suitcases, and boxes, it was a wonder there had been room for the driver.
The suitcase at the very bottom of the far floorboard was newer, just barely in reach…and full of women’s clothes and belongings, she realized, staring at the lacy
bra she’d fished out. Her numb fingers went back to exploring the many pouches and slots.
In the last pocket, when she could almost feel Melvin headed her way, Samantha found the Taser.
The cold edge of power filled her as she sought, and found, the symbols for a fully-charged battery. She grinned harshly at the footsteps crunching closer… at the
man who didn’t know the coming battle had just shifted her way.
“What are ya…?”
Sam hit the button as her arm was jerked around, and the vicious blast of electricity slammed into Melvin’s chest.
“Uuhhh..!”
He began twitching, letting go of her, and she stared coolly into his pain-filled eyes as she held the button in, watched him stumble back, teetering. The instant she let
go, he thumped heavily to the wet, snowy ground and his eyes rolled back into his head.
His yellow, nicotine-stained knuckles landed on her foot and she smiled coldly, kicking his hand away. “Shoulda been nicer, Mel.”
Sam's taunt was low; her tight smile seething hatred. That had felt good! She tossed the weapon and jumble of wire darts into the wagon’s backseat as Melvin’s
body continued to twitch as if he was touching a live line.
“Hey!" she shouted toward Henry, choosing her next move quickly. “Something's wrong with Mel!"
Henry came on the run and dropped to his knees in the snow beside his brother, who was now drooling, trying to talk - to warn him.
Sucking in air, Sam snatched the pen out of her hair, keeping it behind her back as she let the cap fall to the frozen ground.
“What is it? What happened? “Melvin’s eyes had closed, body stilling, and the painter was looking up at her in helpless fear. He’d forgotten that they weren’t in this
together.
Sam shrugged, trying to match his tone and keep her body blocking his view of the wagon and the weapon. “A seizure?”
Henry looked back down, and Sam immediately lashed out - swinging from the hip and leaning her weight into the unexpected blow.
The pen plunged easily into Henry’s neck, making an awful ripping sound, and she jumped back as his body went rigid, blood squirting.
Eyes bulging, Henry’s arms jerked wildly as he started suffocating. The end of the pen was protruding from just above his Adam’s apple, blood raining down his
black shirt in furious streams.
He collapsed across Melvin’s chest, unbelieving eyes glaring up at her from his purple face as he slowly died.
Sam sucked in a ragged breath, glorious in her victory…then cold, hard reason took over. She couldn’t stand here and wait for Melvin to recover! He was
definitely the more dangerous of the two. As if to prove her thought, the surviving brother moaned. She got moving.
Samantha clenched her teeth against a surging stomach, and used her foot to push Henry’s bloody body over. She quickly removed the dead man’s bootlaces and
bound Melvin’s hands and feet, shivering violently as he stirred again. With this setup, he wouldn’t even be able to stand, let alone run after her, which was good
because he wouldn’t take her body for this. It would be her life.
Satisfied with his bonds, she took a minute to clear the blood from her hands, using the icy slush to scrub with. That done, she lit one of the cigarettes from the fanny
pack and looked around, making her final choices. That icy feeling inside had little to do with the wind. She was a killer now and she would act like one again if she had
to.
Sam already knew she would avoid the burning city, and the Badlands to the northwest - she wasn’t going anywhere she had already been or Melvin might think she
would go. There was also no possibility of traveling the Rocky Mountains that littered her hazy view to the southeast, not alone and on foot.
To the west, more smoke was rising, backdropped by distant purple mountains, and she shivered harder. Yellowstone. Bad things were happening there. That only
left due east, or south. Samantha pushed off the wave of fear that wanted to overwhelm her. NORAD was south. She could make it that far.
“Ooohh…”
Melvin was regaining consciousness, and Sam made sure she was out of his range as she tossed the cigarette into a deep-looking drift and stepped back over to the
snow-covered wagon.
The black flakes fell thickly, the wind gusting harder, and she pulled the suitcase of clothes out and set it on the hood. Behind her, the trussed man came fully alert,
twisting and turning.
“What the...? Henry! What’d ya do t' Henry?"
Samantha ignored him, stepping casually by the feet that tried to trip her, hated ankle chain rattling.
“You killed him!” He glared at her, struggling against his bonds. “I got the keys, Bitch! Come get ‘em!"
Sam did look at him then, cold, blue eyes choosing his fate. Did he need to die, too? That was the only kind of death she was okay with handing out – the needed
kind, like for rapists.
“Come on, whore!"
Samantha grinned, stepping back to the wagon. “It won’t take long to get the Taser ready again. I’ll 'come on’ after your heart attack," she stated ruthlessly, sitting
down on the icy seat. Her teeth were chattering loudly as her fingers began to feed the wires into the small black box.
Melvin immediately started scooting backwards, balls drawing up painfully when she paused to give him a furious smile of anticipation. “Wait! Okay! We’ll trade.
Let me go, and we’ll split up - never see each other again!"
Samantha nodded, but made no move toward him. She wasn’t sure the weapon could be reused this way, was sure it needed a new cartridge or something, but the
backward hillbilly at her feet wouldn’t know that and hopefully it would bluff him. Sam smiled eagerly. Then again, she didn’t know for sure that it wouldn’t work either.
If not, if he pushed her, she had another pen.
The snow was falling in sheets now, the wind spinning small drifts in circles, and she moved faster, able to feel it getting colder as she watched the trapped man push
himself backwards in the slush.
“Okay! Okay! The keys are in my front pocket. You can have ‘em. I won’t move!"
Sam nodded again, still smiling that tight, malicious grin, and Melvin began to beg, finally sounding sincere.
“I’m really sorry, lady, really.” His voice got louder when she stood up, anger burning hotly in her heart. “Please don’t, please."
“You don’t even know my name!”
“No, come on! You’ll kill me. No! I’m sorry for what we..."
The man froze as Sam dropped to a knee beside him in the icy slush, shoving the box hard against his crotch. “It might not kill you, but you’ll wish it had.” She
sneered. “Be a good dog now, Mel, and don’t even breathe.”
His eyes pleaded with her as she sent a rough hand down into his closest pocket and came up with her freedom. Enjoying the fear on his dirty face, she jumped out
of range of his kicking feet and immediately unlocked the hated chain - it fall into the dirty snow.
“I should lock you to the bumper and leave you here!" She landed a vicious kick to his knee as she stepped over him, going back to the hood of the car. She
stripped while he watched, letting him see the dozens of purple and yellow bruises, and the dark blood crusted to her thighs. There was loathing in her look as she used
the grimy skirt to clean up, and her face mocked him as she threw it in his direction.
She pulled on a pair of warm sweats with a taunting smile. “Who wears the pants now, you piece of shit?"
Melvin said nothing, only watched her and the Taser that stayed close by her hand. Her eyes kept track of his slow backward progress as she got what she needed
from the weathered wagon.
“What’re you gonna do?" His voice was even, though he was starting to shiver.
Sam snapped on the pack and closed the suitcase before turning to look at him. “Henry always carried that knife, the one he used to cut my hair! Find it and stay
away! Don’t make me kill you."
“Just 'cause you had a pass don’t mean you’re worth a shit out here in this world!” the captive man spat, hatred lining every inch of his face. “I hope it haunts you
that we went right by that compound!”
Samantha walked away without responding to any of his taunts, threats, lies, or pleas, thinking she would have to watch out for him. Melvin deserved to die, that
was the only way she would really feel safe, but she just couldn’t, not unless it was needed. One premeditated murder was enough. The feel of it was…heavy, as if a
chain had just been clamped upon her soul – binding it to this world.
Samantha moved fast, glad when the snow became thicker and the wind blew fiercely. It muted Melvin's screams and would cover her tracks better. It also might
kill her if she waited too long to take shelter, but Sam didn’t stop right away, going by house after warm, empty-looking house, to keep her enemy from seeing where
she went. She longed to drive one of the vehicles she was now climbing over and around, but they had spent the first few days after the War looking for something
quieter, easier on gas, and she’d been forced to tell them about EMPs and that they’d been lucky Melvin’s van - parked under a sewer overpass - had started.
Anything with electrical components in a damage zone was now junk.
Samantha blinked back tears as the frigid wind stung her eyes, lungs aching from the cold in the thick air, and she sniffed before running a damp sweater sleeve
across her dripping nose. Her feet felt leaden, sliding on black ice, and she curled her numb fingers tighter into the wet material as she caught her balance and pushed on.
Sam sucked in a surprised breath as another icy blast of wind hit her in the face, but didn’t stop. The more space between her and Melvin, the better. “By and by,
Sammi,” she told herself, lowering her head against the wind. “One foot in front of the other.” She would stay away from highways and frontage roads. Maybe, with
any luck, the storm would get worse, and Melvin would have other things to worry about.
Fifteen minutes later, the snow had become blinding, travel through it no longer possible on foot. Sam broke into a house set behind a thick row of trees - her hands,
feet, and face burning. She grabbed a bag of treasures from the home: blankets, a man’s heavy trench coat, a pair of shoes, and a loaf of bread with only a little mold on
it. Tempted to stay and enjoy some of the old comforts, she made her feet take her instead to the small tool shed behind the house. Being a girl scout had saved her life
more than once in the days since the War had come and blown away everything she knew.
The shed held a small, green riding mower and three bales of inviting hay, and after putting her things inside, she opened the window and went back out into the
cold. It was a struggle to close the door and lock it, the gusting wind pulling it from her numb fingers, and she tried to hurry, looking over her shoulder before climbing
back into the window. Enough time had gone by for Melvin to have gotten free and started after her, and he would have his rage to drive him through the storm.
Sam closed the window, hanging her wet shirt over it, and wasn’t afraid of the pitch-blackness or the unfamiliar room. Her terror walked on two legs and she was
very glad to be out of sight. She planned to lay low for a few days, then continue her solitary journey south, the Cheyenne Mountain complex housing NORAD now her
goal. There was no way the compound had been breached. That bunker housed the President, the Joint Chiefs, and of course, all the records of those with a pass. All
she had to do was get there.
Sam made a bed in the warm, scratchy hay and after two peanut butter sandwiches and the icy Diet Coke, she dozed. Covered in blankets and stiff garden
bedding, she held a long kitchen knife tight in her grip.
4
Melvin didn’t find a knife, hadn’t thought to check his dead brother’s boots, and the wind-blown snow covered him in a very short time. His body temperature
dropped steadily.
Just before dawn, as death arrived, the painter was dreaming of falling into the icy pond behind their childhood home in southern Michigan. The frigid water was
suffocating, no Henry there to pull him out this time, and as his heart stopped beating in the dream, Melvin went into cardiac arrest under six inches of drifting snow. He
never woke, getting off easier than he deserve. During sleep was one of the kinder ways to die in this harsh new world.
Chapter Three
January 6th, 2013
Outside Williamsburg, New Mexico
1
“Who’s in here?"
The call held equal amounts of control and command, and it carried easily to the 14-year-old boy huddled miserably under the far bunk of the abandoned barracks.
The teenager had been here since the War and the evacuations, and to him, it seemed like a very long time.
Moving cautiously, the Lance Corporal stepped into the oval, dorm-style room, sharp eyes going over empty footlockers, their contents scattered. Someone had
been looking for food. Had he found any?
Stopping near the middle of the 30-bunk aisle, the Marine saw grit and sand, but no footprints or signs of recent life. Was he too late then? The base was mostly
empty, looted. Only a few had been left behind, overlooked, or escaped being dragged below ground. He had seen some of those and was hoping the boy was one of
them.
“Come on out. That’s an order!"
LC Kenn Harrison winced as the sharp tones bounced back at him from the thin walls, and his hand dropped to the nine-mill on his hip. Instinct said he wasn’t alone
in the barracks.
“Charlie?” Kenn called the name as if they were at home, ignoring the gunshots still going on outside the base, and was rewarded with a small shuffling noise that
made him tighten the control over his emotions. He had been sure the boy would be gone - had been forced onto one of the evacuation choppers.
The Marine slowly moved to the end of the aisle, preparing himself to react, as he read the heavy waves of the person. Desperation… and fear.
“Come on out." Kenn forced himself to be patient. He would not have been in the past, couldn’t, but the War had already begun to retrain him with things like
compassion and understanding. He watched two filthy hands emerge from under the bunk on his right. Kenn grinned, freeing his relief. The boy was here! He was alive!
He was... hurt? Was that blood trickling from his ears and Oh God! Where were his eyes?
“Sir?" The boy’s bloody, gaping eye sockets stared around, oozing crimson streams. The Marine automatically lunged forward to catch him when he stumbled, fell.
“Want... my... Mommy, Sir!" the dying child gasped, splattering them both with red droplets as he struggled to breathe. “… Mommy!"
Lance Corporal Kenneth Harrison snapped awake with a startled gasp. His eyes went to the boy who was laying close by, looking back with alarm. It was okay.
He’d found the child in time.
Kenn began to calm his breathing. It had taken him two full days to search, the smart boy moving to empty buildings to avoid being taken, and he was still feeling the
effects. The nightmare was a nasty reminder of the fear and hopelessness he’d felt when the chopper crashed into the officer’s dorm in front of him.
The darkness around them was absolute, their thick, black tent blending in well with the wet, New Mexico landscape, and that unwelcome sense of danger flared.
When Charlie started to speak, Kenn shook his head, senses switching to full alert as he listened. Light rain drummed on the tarps over the truck, wind howling through
the junipers around them…had that been a twig snapping?
Kenn quietly drew his M9, straining to see anything from the spyhole he had left when they made camp in the thick grove of piñon trees. They were too well hidden.
No way was someone out there watching them, no way. He slid his wrist under the blankets to block the light, and checked the alarm console on his watch. It was
armed and unbroken.
Kenn slowly settled back down. An animal? He kept his gun in-hand just in case it was the two-legged kind. Light, freezing rain thumped on the bare branches, the
tent, the shed they were behind, the tarp-covered vehicle, and sleep called, seducing…
Lightning flashed, bright enough to illuminate the tent, and then there was only darkness and the heavy patter of the rain again. Kenn started to drift off while waiting
for the inevitable crack of thunder.
Crunch.
Kkaaaabbbbaaammm!
Kenn’s eyes snapped open, moving to the scared teenager’s face in the darkness. Someone was out there.
Snap!
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
There was an alarm for each breach, telling the Marine how many ambushers they had.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The two males moved instantly, following the plan worked out before leaving the base ten days ago. Kenn slit a long gash in the tent wall and then the thick, black
tarp over the MRAP. The boy immediately began sliding their things inside, staying low in case gunfire broke out.
Footsteps came and the Marine inside took over, evaluating the threat and picking the proper action in seconds. Not rushing, but sneaking, if they were unaware of
breaking a perimeter alarm, then they were not professionals….
Snap!
Moving fast instead of careful, the soft murmur of voices instead of the silence of hand signals….Kenn’s lip curled. Boots8 - they still had a chance.
Kenn waved the boy into the truck’s floorboard and quickly got in behind him, adrenaline was flowing in thick waves. Charlie started the engine without being told,
and Kenn brought his M16 out as bright red lightning flashed in the far distance.
“They still have the truck!”
“Move in!”
“Get the boy! He’s what we want!”
Recognition came, and Kenn grinned coolly, kneeling in the seat. The tail from Ft. Defiance he’d thought they’d lost a week ago - seven moving targets in the
darkness. No problem.
“You’ll have to take this instead," Kenn said as he rose up, throwing off the tarp. He fired twice, following their steps with his well-trained ears.
Charlie held the brake down with his palm and shifted them smoothly into drive, sticking to the set plan.
Men grunted, fired back in the wet, cold darkness, and the Marine slid back down.
Charlie hit the gas. The truck's tires spun, fishtailing on a patch of ice as it lunged forward, spraying mud and clumps of locoweed.
“Get the bikes! We need his blood!”
“Shoot him!"
All of the men’s eyes were vivid in the dark, not right when the lightning and gun flash illuminated them, and their movements were jerky. Desperation made them
reckless and they openly charged the truck.
“Now, boy!”
Charlie slammed both hands onto the brake. As they slid to a wet, muddy stop, Kenn used the enemy’s noises to pinpoint their locations - the ploy drawing them
out.
The Marine fired. Five more deadly shots in the darkness, and then there was only the quiet engine and the damp, cold wind howling by them and the adobe
buildings in the distance.
“Boo-yah, baby!”
“Are they dead?”
The boy's tone wasn’t exactly calm, but Kenn was impressed with the control he had shown during the assault - his first. The Marine put it in park as the teenager
moved to the passenger seat.
“Give us some light and we’ll find out," Kenn said, knowing they were. Each of them was a kill shot, but he was eager for even the boy’s approval, since there was
no one else around. He was alone with the often-sullen teenager, protecting them both without doing without the attention and respect he craved. He would take what
he could get.
The cadet used one of the umbrella torches they’d made before leaving the base, the glass tops giving each of the three small candles on the thin wooden board a
small shelter from the elements. He held it high, taking it all in.
Kenn’s sharp eyes went over what there was to see around them. Shrubs, junipers, patches of mud, huge tire busters he would be careful to avoid, and darkness -
more of that than anything else.
Stomach uneasy, but eyes wide with respect, the boy looked at the battlefield with equal amounts of comfort and guilt. The seven bodies lay in two half circles, each
one a clean shot through dirty camouflage uniforms and black ski masks. Considering the darkness Kenn had been shooting through, it was amazing to Charlie. Not one
miss. After a moment, Kenn sat down on the wet, hard seat, motioning for the boy to put out the light.
“We takin' their stuff?”
“No. See the sores? They’re sick. We’ll hit the redline, make another click or two, then doze for a bit.”
“They wanted me? That’s why they’ve been following us?”
Kenn saw no reason to lie as he pulled up his hood, indicated that the child do the same. Both males heard a distant dog barking miserably, but ignored it as just
another starving pet still chained in someone’s backyard.
“Yes. Probably thought your blood would heal them. Crazy shit now, and women and kids are big targets. Stay close. It’ll just get worse."
The drab truck ran out of gas an hour later, and while Kenn was sad to see it go, he knew they’d been lucky to find it at all. He still wasn’t sure why the EMPs
hadn’t knocked it out too, but assumed it had something to do with where it had been parked. The electro-magnetic pulses didn’t seem to have traveled well through
lead. Kenn steered the coasting vehicle deep into a thicket of piñons, glad to see the sky was beginning to lighten. The rain fell steadily, the woods dark, twisted shapes
alongside the faint gray path of concrete as the two Marines loaded their things.
“All right, just like we talked about - never more than three feet away in any direction. Got it?”
Charlie nodded, still thinking about the battle that Kenn’s military mind had already forgotten - it had been justified, nothing to worry over. The boy’s heart wasn’t
so clear, but he kept his mouth shut. Kenn was not his mother and he would not understand.
2
As they entered the city limits of Williamsburg, New Mexico, the sky lightened enough to really see, and the two males had too much time to dwell on each horribly
vivid detail. There had never been a time for either of them (or the rest of the country) when even a single dead body had been left to decay on an American sidewalk or
street. Now there were hundreds, thousands amid horrifically gruesome Christmas decorations, and if not for the constant gusts of wind, the smells would have been
unbearable, even during winter.
It seemed like every business and home they passed had been destroyed or damaged, most with doors that had been kicked in. Almost nothing they passed was
safe to take shelter in. That was another lesson they’d learned after Charlie had almost been stung by a scorpion when he picked up his canteen for a metallic-tasting
drink of piss-warm water. They now watched out for little track marks in the dust: the indents telling them that snakes, scorpions, or spiders had taken over another of
Man’s abandoned houses, driven up out of the ground months before they should have emerged. Most of these places would remain theirs forever. There weren’t
enough people left to drive them out.
Relying on their training, the two males had been making camp with no fire and whatever was handy; wearing gloves and hats, extra pants and coats under their
uniforms. Going very easy with their water, on the fourth day of being AWOL, they had gotten lucky, finding a store that was damaged (that kicked-in door again), but
not cleaned out, and Kenn was relieved.
The feeling hadn’t lasted long. They only had a week’s worth of food and water, maybe two if they rationed, and the Marine had a feeling they might have to. The
lack of rebuilding was a big sign of things to come. They hadn’t even seen a single person for the last three days, until tonight, and the rare flashes of light in the dark
never lasted long enough to track. Hard times were here.
The two males pulled their hoods closer as drizzle started to sprinkle them. Kenn was glad it wasn’t that shit that burned - acid rain. That was something he’d heard
about, but scoffed at…until he had a drop land in his eye. Then there was chemical rain, which they were getting now. Almost warm, it was flammable - a puddle would
sometimes catch fire from just a thrown cigarette.
The weather wasn’t the worst part of traveling now, but it had definitely slowed them down. They had only come 70 miles since ramming the dead fence to get out
of the abandoned Military Installation, and they had made a lot of "We’ll let this storm move out." stops. The fury of nature came suddenly now, steady downpours
of hot drops that made them itch, or full of little black flakes that resembled snow. Then, there would be brilliant, flashing lightning with loud, drumming thunder that
promised damage…and then nothing but silence - all in the same hour. The only true constant was the wind and it blew sand and grit into everything.
As the thin, shadowy sun began to rise in the East, barely visible in the sky, Kenn finally sought shelter, exhaustion insisting. He stopped to look around, wincing at a
loud crunch of gravel under the boy’s feet. They were almost out of the city limits now, back to Spanish pueblos and Rocky Mountains shadowing deep canyons full of
sharp cliffs and rugged mesas. They would need some things before venturing any farther into that wilderness. First on the list was transportation.
“There’s our camp for tonight."
Eyeing the chaotic lanes of traffic on the hill across from them, Kenn sat on the bottom step of the neat front porch, as Charlie began dropping gear. Surely, there
was juice in one of those batteries. It wouldn’t be any fun to clear the other cars and trucks out of the way, but they could be back on the road by tomorrow afternoon -
maybe even reach NORAD by the end of next week.
“Door's unlocked." The boy’s tone was questioning.
Kenn yawned, rubbing at his stubbly, black goatee as he stood up. He drew his weapon as he went across the porch, the Marine ready to take over any occupants
if it was necessary.
The door opened easily to reveal new paint, walls and floors without marks or imprints, no appliances, and most importantly, no footprints in the layer of dust that
coated everything. He pointed these things out to the boy, teaching him patiently.
Kenn stepped back, held out the 9mm to the surprised cadet, who usually only touched a gun in class or competition. “Secure the perimeter."
The thin child took it eagerly, but with respect, snapping off a quick salute before disappearing inside.
Kenn broke into a reluctant smile at the careful copy of his own movements when they made camp each night. He didn’t follow, listening to the doors open and
close. A minute later, the tall, thin teenager was back, returning the gun with longing on his face.
“All clear, sir."
Charlie stepped back out into the damp smell of smoke and rot to bring in their things, not waiting to be told. It was the way he had been raised (trained), but it was
also to keep Kenny from seeing how much he had thought about pulling the trigger instead. He hated the Marine almost as much as his mom did. One day, when he
older, Kenny would pay for every hit he’d ever delivered.
They climbed the muddy hillside to the interstate a short time later, being careful not to slip or look inside the cars unless they had to. Most were empty of their
owners, but some were not, and Kenn thought he could tell which ones would be by the type of automobile. The newer, classier vehicles tended to be occupied.
Running out of gas was not enough to make those materialistic people abandon their expensive autos. How long had they waited for help to come? A day? A week? In
some cases, forever.
“What are we looking for?"
Kenn stomped thick, reddish-brown earth from his boots as he looked over the endless lanes of wrecked, sideways, mud-splattered vehicles. “We need new
wheels, but beans, bags, and blankets are on the list too."
The boy nodded, moving to a nearby car as Kenn checked a beaten-up Dodge truck for power. He registered bullet holes, and suitcases still shoved haphazardly
into back seats, and his stored the information. Kenn found a lot of clothes and personal items, along with a six-pack of bottled water he was glad to have, but the rest
of the search went badly.
It had been less than a month, and he hadn’t expected car batteries to be dead out here too, but every one he checked was. There was gas… and useless keys in
the ignitions of most. Doors left hanging open, as well as rusting bullet casings made him revise his theory. These people had left in a hurry.
“What about a dirt bike?" Charlie asked from a few vehicles away, voice echoing in the unnatural stillness.
Kenn moved his way. “Yes."
“It looks new."
The Honda’s key was in the ignition - like someone had tried to take it, but didn’t have time - and when the Marine turned the key backwards, the lights came on,
gas gauge swinging to full.
Kenn grinned and pulled the keys out, sliding them into his pocket. “We won’t be on foot come..."
He stopped, listening hard. Had he heard something?
Yes. Engines. Still a mile, maybe more, and the Marine inside seemed to know that they meant bad news. “Get back to the house!"
Kenn slammed the hatch and grabbed the boy's arm, keeping his grip tight, as they ran down the slick, muddy embankment. He wasn't being careful now, just
moving.
They hurried across the yard to the porch, and as the boy began to step up, Kenn pulled him back roughly. “We’re muddy. We’ll leave prints."
He sat on the bottom step, fingers flying over the laces of his boots, and Charlie jerked his off as the sound of engines grew louder, closer.
“What’s going on?"
Kenn shook his head distractedly as they moved inside and closed the door. “Stay below the windows and get your boots back on!"
The Marine was already doing his, and he frowned when the boy only stared at him questioningly.
“But, what’s…"
“Now!”
It was an order and the Cadet did as he was told, eyes hardening.
“Put our things in that closet and leave room for yourself behind them.”
Kenn turned back to the window, hoping all those vehicles weren’t coming here, to this town, to this house. Gunshots rang out, and he stayed low as the group
came over the hill and into sight.
A muddy jeep with three clearly armed, dark-skinned men rolled into view first, leading two rusty pickup trucks flying a foreign flag. The men in the back held rifles
and bottles. Behind them was a blue station wagon with dark-skinned women and children. Next, a U-Haul truck, a used Mustang, two long, filthy white passenger
vans, a very nice, gold flecked convertible, and then bikes - more of those than anything else.
There were roughly a hundred armed men, and Kenn watched them ride closer, heart pumping and adrenaline flying. His well-trained eye picked out details most
people would miss. Dark - not black, but Mexican or Cuban, jeeps of armed men, only that one wagon of women…and what was it about those white vans that
bothered him so much?
Had he seen a flash of blond and silver? Hair and handcuffs? Kenn felt his gut tighten. Slavers. That’s why his stomach was a ball of liquid heat. They had been in
the path of these invaders. If the truck hadn’t run out of gas, they would probably be in plain sight now. On this desolate stretch, and against so many, with no wheels of
their own, there wasn’t even a chance. Death had missed them by a quarter tank.
The large group drove erratically, forcing each other to swerve and fishtail, bumping into one another, and easily avoiding the swampy area to the left of the
interstate. That made Kenn worry they might be familiar with the area. He could only hope none of them would notice the new vehicle in the woods, or any of the deep
footprints in the hillside.
Suddenly sure these men were responsible for the destruction in this area, Kenn kept his hand close to his M16, thinking he would save the last slugs for…
“Why don’t we tell them we’re here? Maybe they’d offer a ride."
The teenager’s tone was rebellious, and Kenn frowned, watching the drunken, careless men fire at trees, signs, cars, windows, and anything else that caught their
eye - including the sparse houses. Bullets began slamming into the walls, shattering glass.
Kenn dropped to the dusty floor. “That’s the enemy, boy. Get down!”
Not as experienced as the Marine, now that it had been pointed out, Charlie could feel them for what they were - evil. His affection for Kenn grew despite the anger
inside. He needed the short-tempered Marine...he didn't have to like him.
Kenn marked the Slavers’ passage, and kept watching, even after they were out of sight and the sounds of their engines were gone. He was still watching when
Charlie began dozing with his head against the bullet-riddled wall.
Kenn was worried. There was no way he could challenge or defend against a group of killers that large. He had to hope to sneak through the next couple of days
without drawing any attention, though they would be on a loud dirt bike. Worried was an understatement.
However, he was also furious. A part of him was protesting just letting the foreign army continue their rampage. They didn’t belong here - were an affront to
everything America had stood for. If he had half a dozen men from his base, he might risk his life and try to kill them all.
Better yet, give me two grunts and Marc Brady, Kenn thought, lighting a cigarette. Brady had been team leader for the last few years and a pain in his ass, but
when it came to high-casualty ambushes, there was no one better.
The Marine blew out smoke rings, thinking they would head northwest when they left here, and then circle back to NORAD. It would add a lot of miles, but get
them away from these men quickly. He didn’t want to think the Slavers had been following their back trail, but if they were, they would have to come to where they'd
lost it - here. Kenn’s smile was icy. Maybe he could leave a surprise. He wouldn’t know if he got any of them, but it was still worth doing.
For the next few hours, he worked with the explosives he’d taken from the base, listening hard for the group of dangerous men to return. If that happened, they
would all go up together in one big blaze of glory. The government compound was waiting for them. That was the direction he’d been heading each day, the most logical
thing to do, but Kenn wasn’t sure if he was ready to be back under the rule of the government that had destroyed the world - and then left him behind to die in it - after
all the years he had served them...killed for them. He still loved the Corps, would always believe in what it stood for. He just no longer trusted those in charge.
There had been a brief hope in the beginning, after all their outgoing CB calls that someone might come back, but he’d waited over a week, and heard only
survivors begging for help - saw only the same. When the power had gone off (he had been surprised to have it for almost two weeks), they’d left, unable to wait
anymore as supplies ran low. Clearly, they were on their own, a Marine and a cadet adrift. What to do?
They would find a group to travel with, he decided, not looking forward to the boy’s reaction. The teenager expected them to head straight to Ohio, to his mother.
Kenn sighed, automatically blocking his thoughts even though Charlie was snoring softly. He had never seen anything…different from the boy, but he was always
careful. In a few years, the teenager would be the same age his mother had been when they’d met, and her gifts had been strong then. Angela had denied him access,
but this sullen child wouldn’t be that strong.
Not that Charlie had any idea what was coming. Talk of magic was forbidden in their house, even the book and movie kind. Kenn had been very careful from the
very beginning - just in case the power ran in every generation. There was still a chance to control it, and his role of step-father was driven by that thought. It was part of
why he had insisted Charlie become a cadet. More time to create a bond, it also gave Angela time to heal before the boy saw it.
Despite his easy touch, Kenn and the teenager weren’t exactly comfortable with each other, but Charlie knew who was in charge and they were able to work as a
team. It also helped that they both liked to win the annual father-son events hosted at different bases each year. They’d been in Arizona this time, at Ft. Defiance for the
contests, and they’d cleaned up, winning over half the competitions.
Though they had different last names, Kenn had never let anyone assume he wasn’t the child’s biological parent. They were both tall and stocky, with the same highn-
tight and bright blue eyes, though the regulation haircuts were a bit too long now. Dressed alike, there was definitely a resemblance. They even had the same way of
staring directly at someone while listening or talking, not looking away. When they averted their eyes, they were lying.
He wouldn’t say anything to the boy yet, Kenn decided. He wasn’t ready to tell him his mom was likely dead, and they weren’t going back to find out.
Leaning uncomfortably against the drafty wall, third-year cadet Charles White had fallen asleep while cleaning the gunk from under his nails. He was dreaming of his
mother.
She was telling him how to handle Kenn, but more importantly, she insisted she would find him, no matter where they went. They were over 1200 miles apart, but
his mom was special, different. She could do things that most people could only dream of, and though no one else knew…so could he.
Chapter Four
January 18th, 2012
Cincinnati, Ohio
1
“I can’t keep them from you much longer,” the Preacher warned quietly as he held the first, dirty, glass door open, and the woman sucked up her courage, wary
eyes going over a faded Special Forces tattoo on his wrist.
Drawing in air, Angela told herself she could do this, even if he and the rest had been soldiers. She just had to show them that she couldn’t be taken and she would
come back out when her work was done. “I don’t need your protection, Warren.”
As they moved down the bare, filthy hall together, his dusty robes flared out behind them like an evil bridal shroud. Her stomach churned when his voice lowered
another notch in response, becoming urgent.
“You’re wrong, my child. Soon, they will insist you stay, and if you are not under my guardianship, like the others here, I will not be able to help you.”
The tension thickened as they neared the main lounge. She knew his subtle threats weren’t idle. If they didn’t try to keep her here, he would, probably the next time
she came.
“Maybe today,” he confirmed, and the pale female nodded before stepping into the crowded lounge where seven unwashed, tense males waited for them with
heavy beards and thick frowns.
“Hello, gentlemen. How goes your day?” Her tone was polite, unafraid compared to her thumping heart, but she wasn’t encouraged by the way they only grunted
and kept eyeing her like something on a store shelf that was just out of their reach.
“Over here.” Warren gestured as he led her to a blanket-covered child of about ten, his daughter. Angela’s dislike of the greasy hypocrite eased a little with the love
she could feel. He was a weak man, easily tempted she was sure, but he feared losing the flushed girl. It was beating in his thoughts, and Angela was gentle as she pulled
the dusty blanket back.
“How long’s she been like this?” she asked, shining the penlight around her neck into the unconscious child’s dilated, brown eyes.
“Five days, a week. It all runs together now.”
“I hear ya,” the doctor muttered, pulling on gloves.
“Is it the radiation sickness?" one of the men behind them questioned loudly. There was silence in the very dirty, but otherwise undamaged, administration lobby as
they all waited for her to answer. These heavily-bearded men were all that remained of the technical college’s teaching staff, though Aaron, the bald man with the
constant scowl, had only been a groundskeeper.
“No."
“Praise the Lord!”
There were murmurs of relief and disbelief. They all frowned when she started running her hands under the child’s stained clothes.
“What are you doing?" the Father's deep brown eyes were leery as he stepped closer, a worn black Bible now in his beefy hands.
Angela ignored his tone as she turned to him, thinking his slicked back, brown and gray hair had probably been an attempt to show her he could "clean up." She
wasn’t impressed. “Where’s her injury?"
Her breath streamed out, clearly visible in the cold air, and Warren’s eyes narrowed, dropped to her red lips as his grip on the holy book tightened: So beautiful!
He pointed, and Angela rolled the sick girl over on the dusty green couch, exposing the ugly, swollen gash.
“This is causing the fever. See the red lines coming over her shoulder? That’s an infection. If those lines get to her heart, she’ll die."
“You can stop it? Help her?"
The only doctor in Cincinnati still treating patients nodded. Male eyes lingered on her slender hips and the long black braid that brushed against the floor as she knelt
down. Feeling the increase of testosterone in the room, Angela concentrated on the words instead of the fear.
“I have to clean it out first to be sure, but yes, I think so."
Relief flooded Warren’s face, and he was very glad he hadn’t waited any longer to seek out the (Witch!) woman’s help. Amy was the only family he had left. He
would kill himself if she died.
“We’ll try not to let that happen,” Angela said it without thinking, and kept going as if nothing had happened. She ignored her pounding heart and the sound of glass
breaking in one of the rooms above them. Sometimes her abilities made people unsure of themselves when they dealt with her, something definitely required while alone
in a small lobby with armed men.
“I need some things. Two bowls of hot water, rags, and a sheet."
Warren exchanged awkward looks with the other men before turning to Aaron, the black man’s face never losing that contemptible expression. “Get what she
needs from my share of the supplies.”
The man moved reluctantly and Warren turned back to the doctor, willing himself to ignore her pull, to feel only loathing for her strangeness. He could have in the
old world. He’d been so strong then! The woman’s eyes were a clear, crystal blue and when she gave him a tiny, knowing smile, Warren turned to keep her from seeing
the want on his face.
He had been high in the parish before the War, a stoutly religious widower for a decade, but that was a long time to go without even the soft caress of a woman’s
hand, let alone any intimate contact. Then the War and this woman had come together. Years spent resisting sins of the flesh should have prepared him, but now, when
The Judgment had come and gone, leaving his faith crumbled at his feet, this demon had been sent to tempt him…and her lure was stronger than any he’d ever known!
These men might have already forced anyone else to stay here, the medical skills as valuable as water, but not her, not Angela. She was different. She knew things
there was no way she could know, unless the Demon of Souls possessed her, and all the men, especially Warren, dreamed of claiming her and controlling that unknown
power.
Angela kept busy laying out what she needed and avoided making real eye contact with any of the pitifully thin men watching her every move. She had never seen
young males here, suspected that was on purpose, like in the Mormon colonies where the average marrying age for a girl was thirteen.
Angela discreetly let the Witch inside to listen to Warren’s thoughts, but picked up nothing other than lust. The big decisions belonged to him. She knew he wanted
very much to keep her here for himself - that his warnings came from hoping she would accept his offer of protection, so he wouldn’t have to fight the others for her.
The men of the world were now like the animals - in extreme competition for a mate (slave, whore) - and she knew if she encouraged even one of these starving
contestants, they would all start fighting over her. Humankind had fallen backward in evolution to nearly the caveman days, and she was as impersonal as she could be.
“I’m giving her three shots. One’s for the pain. Don’t mix any other dope with it, even if she cries. She’s too weak for the stronger stuff. One will help fight the
infection, and this last one will bring down the fever. She should probably have a tetanus shot too, but not for a few days.”
She did it quickly, feeling the Father wince behind her, but the little girl didn’t respond. “Now, we’ll dig that piece of metal out of her shoulder.”
Warren moved to help, leaning closer than she was comfortable with, and Angela was glad she was able to force herself to stand her ground, control her flinch.
Showing weakness here was a huge mistake. If she gave them the smallest sign that she could be taken, they would try.
“Have you heard anything from your Marine?"
Warren saw the woman tense for a split second, considering her options, and was impressed with the icy control that fell into place, even as he frowned. Did she
know her man would be in danger the second he returned? There were already people watching.
“He’s on the road."
There was only silence in response, and her worry grew.
It took Angela only a couple minutes to remove the small, rough piece of car hood from the child’s bleeding shoulder, clean it, and start putting in the small, neat
stitches.
“I’ll leave medicine, but watch those lines. They fade, she’s getting better. They keep spreading, you get her to me - STAT."
Warren paled, turning abruptly from the needle moving in and out of his daughter’s pale skin. In the heavy silence, Angela could hear the thoughts of the other men
as clearly as if they’d spoken.
"That’s it. That’s his weakness."
"Aaron was right. We’ll use the girl."
Angela wanted to warn the Preacher that he was in danger, not for his sake but for his daughter's, and it was a struggle to remain silent as she stripped off the gloves
and gathered her supplies. When she turned, she didn’t meet his eyes. “Keep her lying down when you can and try to feed her more. You know where I’ll be if you
need me.”
Warren nodded, and they both felt the tension thicken as she turned toward the door. The two men plotting against the Preacher were blocking her way out, had
probably seen a little more in her reaction than she had wanted them to. As she had the thought, Aaron joined them.
“You'll be here!” the bald man informed her hatefully, moving closer. “You’re not leaving!”
Angela paled, but followed the Demon’s voice in her head that said to stand pat, call their bluff. She narrowed her eyes at the two nervous-looking men.
“Move and I’ll hold my tongue.”
Seeing only fear in their body language, Angela realized they were sidekicks with no real kick to them. “Let me by. I already have an owner.”
Aaron's bitter face twisted at the reminder of her man, the Marine. “Not anymore! You’re mine!”
As he grabbed her arm, the terror was nearly overwhelming, but the years spent in Hell allowed her to handle herself. These men were threats. Her man was
deadly…and he wasn't here to stop her from using her gifts. Closing her eyes, Angela concentrated, raw power beginning to hum through the cold lobby of the college.
Aaron’s dark eyes widened suddenly, face changing as he looked down at his hand, at the steam rising from the contact. He jerked his fingers back, gasping at the
sight of red and black blisters forming on his skin. “She burned me!”
He spun towards the other men, who saw nothing, but moved back anyway, and Angela headed for the glass doors, heart racing. She kept herself from running only
because of the voice in her head whispering that if she showed fear to a dog, it would bite. It was simply in its nature.
“Stop her!” Aaron screamed it at the others.
When the two men moved her way, Angela froze. It wouldn’t take much kick to do her in, but if she let the Witch out, really used her power, someone might die.
"Trust me," the Witch whispered from inside her mental cage. "I only help you."
Scared and unsure, Angela let the Demon come forward for the first time in over a decade. She kept a tight hand on the cell door as the Sorceress locked eyes with
Warren. "Defend what you believe to be yours, man of a silent God!"
The command was one the widower couldn't refuse, and he stepped between her and the two men reaching out to take her arms. "She's mine!”
The two teachers only hesitated for a second, but it was enough time to give Warren the edge. The religious man had survived the jungles of Laos, and he planned
his moves, steeling himself to fight for her, as Aaron stumbled from the room, slinging his arm around wildly.
The two men went for her again, and Warren swung hard, fist knocking the dirty rival on the right off his feet. He kneed the moaning man in the face as he swung
again, ducking a clumsily thrown punch. The second hit landed on the other teacher’s temple, knocking him to the dirty floor - where he stayed. “Mine!”
Breathing rapidly, the Preacher turned to Angela, but she cut him off. “Your reward is information. Those two,” she waved a hand at the unconscious men, “and
Aaron, plot against you. Be careful. Between them and the cold in here, you’ll be dead inside the month.”
Shoving the Witch back, Angela slipped past him and out the door. Raised voices came from the dim lobby behind her, and she moved steadily, but didn’t run
down the sloping, cracked sidewalk to her car. The pain in her gut, she ignored. There would be time to cry later.
Footsteps crunched and she slowed a little to let Warren catch up, eyes on the sickly-looking crabgrass instead of the desperate faces of women and girls watching
her exit from the upper windows of the college. The guilt was heavy, but she didn't stop. They needed a hero, and that, she wasn’t.
“Thank you. I had no idea.”
She looked around, digging through her bag as she walked. “There are still plenty of people left who are willing to sacrifice anyone to get what they want. That
hasn’t changed.”
The female healer handed over two small bottles of pills, being very careful not to touch him. “Instructions are on the label.”
He pocketed them and opened the door of her muddy, red Tempo, falling back into the suitor mode he usually handled her with so he could…what? Form a new
plan? Probably.
“You’ll kill them?” she asked suddenly, hoping to get a genuine answer. When he shook his greasy head, she knew he was about to lie.
“Vengeance belongs to God. I'll vote against it.”
Angela said nothing, tensing instead at a distant gunshot, and then quickly sliding behind the wheel.
Warren saw her reaction as he closed the door and he leaned down. “You would be safe here with us, with me.”
Angela pretended not to hear the personal invitation or the threat, shaking her head as she snapped on her belt. “I think of it sometimes, but I can’t. My man, he’s
strict, like you. He said stay, so I will.”
The leader smiled at what he assumed was a compliment from a well-trained woman, age lines giving him the appearance of an evil cartoon badger. “You’re sure he
will come?”
Angela struggled not to frown at his tone. She’d been right to be so careful. Warren was planning a murder to get her. “Yes.”
“You will go looking for him, though, go to meet him?"
She shook her head, the lie and horrified tone falling easily from her heavy heart, “No, never. He said he’d come, and he will!"
There was such firmness in her words that Warren couldn't hide his disappointment, and Angela looked away from the plea in his eyes. He was nice to her, wanted
to protect her, but she already had a jailor. She was careful not to wound his pride, however, knowing that could easily push him into trying to force her to stay, and
then people would get hurt. Nothing would keep her from getting to her Charlie.
“You’ll bring her over next week for the shot?"
“Yes.”
The wind gusted suddenly through the open windows, heavy draft catching her long, black braid, and his fingers were there to catch it, hold its softness for a brief
second before handing it back.
He forced their hands to touch and Angela smiled her thanks, stomach rolling as she started the engine. She couldn't wait to be gone.
“You’re sure she’s not got the sickness?"
"Yes, she should be fine in a few days." Angela lit a cigarette and looked everywhere except into his needy, intimidating eyes. Aaron had forced her to show that she
would defend herself, but instead of the leeriness she’d been hoping for, the vibes from Warren had gotten stronger. Had that been the plan all along? To see what she
could do?
“What do I owe you?"
She shook her head, voice sounding more casual than she felt. “Nothing. That world is gone. See ya next week."
Angela shifted into gear and rolled slowly away, mind relieved when the scruffy Preacher returned her short wave without any sign that her quick exit had offended
him. She hated to come down here, hated it that one of these times she might really have to fight to get back out, but knew that even if they hadn’t insisted, she would
have come anyway. Her doctor’s heart simply wouldn’t let her do anything else. She would help everyone she could, and pay the price later.
Angela breathed a sigh as the tall, brick walls of the weather-beaten dorms fell out of sight in her mirror, but didn’t let her guard down as she drove past reeking
slaughterhouses and burnt frames of homes and businesses. There were still other people around here, and they were all a threat to a woman alone.
Her doctor's eyes flicked over body after body as she drove, determining the cause of death; gunshot to the head, knife wound, the sickness, gunshot. Death came
in many ways to this place, and it wasn’t only to the humans. Deer and cats were the most common corpses to represent the losses animal populations were taking, but
there were also squirrels, dogs, even birds mixed in, and Angela forced her mind away from it all. Maybe it wasn’t as bad wherever Charlie was right now.
Very little in the city where pigs fly had survived the riots, and as she drove, Angela heard no sparrows calling, no engines revving, no lawn mowers rumbling, no
pets yapping, no voices shouting, and no horns blaring. There was only the occasional scream or gunshot to break the silence, and destruction that grew worse the
closer she got to downtown.
Debris crunched under her tires as she rolled past dark, reeking restaurants full of rotting food, and she winced at the sounds of glass breaking as she neared the
library, where shadows moved inside, trying to learn to fend for themselves. If she got a flat tire, she would have to abandon her car for another. There was no way her
body could manage to break the lug nuts loose. What she needed was a set of those new tires that would go an extra 50 miles even on a flat. Self-sealing or something,
maybe even armor-plated if she could find it.
Her broken heart clenched at the thought, and she felt a tear slide down her cheek. What she needed most was to find the 14-year-old son she’d been apart from
for the last months. It was killing her not to be with him, not to be able to hold him, and she wished with all her heart (along with almost everyone else on the planet) that
the War had never come.
“Hold on, boy,” she whispered roughly. “I will come for you!”
Angela tried to push the sadness away, flipping on the heater and defrost. She jumped as lightning forked wildly overhead, the glare almost blinding. She drove a
little faster around the telephone poles, burnt-out cars, busted furniture, and rotting corpses, feeling awful that so many people would never have the peace of being laid
to rest.
She jumped again, as the wind slammed against her car and a barrage of black hail pinged off the hood in nerve-wracking blasts, pulling her attention to the weather.
The sky was a dim, grayish-brown, thick with layers of dust and smoke. The storm clouds racing towards her went through it easily, and fat drops of rain began to pelt
her hood and windows.
Following her instincts, Angela took refuge under the concrete viaduct as the storm bore down on the riot-ravaged city. It released sheets of black flakes that
covered the streets, and torrents of rain that slowly began to wash away another layer of the dirt and blood the end of the world had left behind.
Angela put it in park and lit a smoke as the nearby mill creek’s reek of fishy-shit invaded the car. Her eyes were moving, constantly searching the crumbling, trashy
buildings on either side of her, and her hand stayed near the gun in between the seats. Now that she was alone again, her courage had deserted her and she was glad
she had disobeyed Kenny - gotten a weapon on the last trip out.
"You disobeyed Kenny? You’re in trouble! You’re in trouble!"
The fear inside screamed it and Angela nodded, blowing out rings of smoke. They all were. These last weeks had been full of things she hoped never tell her man.
Kenny wouldn’t understand her having a gun, or helping these people. If he had been here, things would have been different, but she had been alone when the bombs
fell, alone when the first desperate survivor had pounded on her door, and she had made her choice alone. The suffering was too great for her to deny them what little
help she could give.
Kenny would have turned them away with icy looks and threats, but he was AWOL, and she couldn’t sit by and let people die without at least trying to prevent it.
She would face him with the entire list of rules she had broken when he found her, or when she found him, but for now, she wasn’t done adding up crimes to be
punished for. The two biggest transgressions, which he might kill her for, were still to come.
The storm flew by quickly, the threat disappearing as quickly as it had come, and Angela eased the car up Queen City’s steep, narrow pavement, trying to avoid the
big chunks of debris rolling through the ripples of muddy water. Cars and wrecks had been pulled to the side of this winding hill, looking like lined-up dominoes waiting
to be pushed over.
As with the rest of this broken city, she saw no signs of life, no one trying to continue like normal as she drove through her own neighborhood, but she could feel the
eyes watching her from the barely cracked blinds. She was disappointed by it. She had hoped people would come together, but these survivors wanted nothing to do
with her, only desired her to be gone, and she sped up, more than willing to comply. She understood how they felt. She, too, hated going out; hated leaving the small
security of her den, but Warren had cleared this hill so she could make the trip rather than forcing her to live with them. Saying no after that was not an option.
When they called for her on the CB, she always answered. Her Oath hadn’t vanished with the War, but she sighed in relief when her three-story, yellow brick
building came into view. Leery eyes swept the nearly identical rows of red brick duplexes surrounding her, their matching mailboxes and light poles beaten up, dented
from enduring man and nature’s fury. It all looked the same.
Parking in the back lot, next to the small flower garden, her sad eyes sought out the tiny grave tucked amid rows of purple violets. Grief enveloped her.
Her tiny, premature son had come in the dark, early morning hours after the War, his lungs not ready to work on their own. She had buried him just as an ugly dawn
broke, had placed him in the wet ground herself, wrapped in the red, white, and blue quilt she had brought her first son home in. She had never felt more pain than when
she began to cover him with the dirty, brown earth. Despite all her abilities, she couldn’t save her own child. Repairing existing damage was possible, but she couldn’t
replace what hadn’t been given time to develop.
Barely registering the harsh wind gusts, the woman forced herself to go to the grave, to mourn and keep feeling the awful pain so she could make peace with it. The
blackness lurking in her mind wanted to block it out (and everything else), but she knew it would take over completely if she let it, and then she would never see her
teenage son again. The darkness was too familiar, too comforting, and consuming. She had just spent a decade in its grip, as her life flew by, unable to change the
mistake she had made by saying yes to Kenny.
The wind swelled, but she paid no attention, broken fingernails digging into the pale, cold skin of her palms as she sank to her knees in front of the unmarked grave.
“My baby," she whispered, tears spilling from dark lashes. Four weeks had gone by, but it still felt like yesterday. She had wanted him so much! His father hadn’t,
but she had. Pain tearing through her battered heart, Angela let the darkness have its way for a while, her grief unbearable.
2
Bands of pain were clamping down on her stomach when she became aware of her surroundings again an she eased down the thickly-carpeted hallway stairs and
unlocked the basement door. She slipped inside the pitch-blackness with a fearlessness that still surprised her. She’d been terrified of the dark as a young girl, but had
spent so much time down here since the War that she didn’t even need the penlight anymore.
Listening intently, Angela scanned for intruders, but the Witch was silent. She slowly climbed to her hole-up with the same thought she always had: Hate it here!
Can’t wait to roll!
Not reacting fast enough to stop it, the heavy door to the storage area slammed shut behind her, locking automatically. She winced at the noise, even though there
was no one left here to tell on her, get her punished.
Angela moved toward the small, wooden room hidden behind plastic-covered mattresses and box springs, sliding inside the warmth with an unconscious sigh of
relief. She locked the door and her feet stepped carefully over the bags and boxes littering the 8’ x 6’ storage room she was calling her den.
Her legs were trembling as she lit the lantern on the floor in the back corner. She was almost shivering despite the warmth of her blanket-covered area was and it
confirmed her decision. It would be at least three more weeks before she could leave. Her body just wasn’t strong enough to make the trip. Angela tightened her grip
on her emotions, heart screaming at how long it was taking. Her eyes went to the circled date of 2/12 on her calendar, and she scowled at it in frustration. Twenty-five
more days of not even having a picture on the wall - Warren was watching for her men, and she wouldn’t make it easy for him.
Shivering and hurting, Angela pushed off her muddy shoes and socks, then replaced her wet, dirty clothes with clean ones. She turned on the battery-operated
heater at her feet, very glad of the extra propane cylinders she had found with the handy appliance. It, along with a few other useful survivalist items, had come easily
enough from the basement room of a Goodwill store, but she was daunted by the size of the list she’d prepared, wasn’t sure she’d be able to find it all.
“At least I’m not starving,” she muttered, thinking of the first few agonizing days after losing her son, when she’d forced herself to use the power and water while
they still worked. She had cooked, dehydrated, and frozen large chunks of ice that had lasted for days in her coolers when the utilities finally went off for good on New
Year's Eve, the hour-long blackouts before that, warning her to hurry.
Cramps exploded in her belly as Angela bent down to pour the boiling water into her mug, and she clenched her teeth. “Suck it up!” Her mind tossed out one of
Kenny’s favorite responses to her discomfort…pain. How she hated him!
Angela settled herself on the stack of knee-high cushions. She had been living down here since burying her baby boy, and had to actually force herself not to clean
the plush, two-bedroom apartment above her, knowing it needed to look abandoned to anyone who might wander in.
The doctor swallowed two pills, grimacing as they went down awkwardly. Gun in her robe pocket, she set the portable radio/TV on the pillows next to her. She
sipped and flipped, trying not to be disappointed when there was only static. She hadn’t really expected anything else. It was obvious that normal life was gone. For
how long was really the only unknown.
The last sad voice she’d heard had been on B105 last week, telling of hundreds of millions dead and dying, advising people to go into the caves and mountains. She
had a good plan, but Angela also knew the Witch she had been born with, was right about her needing help. She had very little chance of making it all the way on her
own, no matter how many delusion spells she could cast. They didn’t work on everyone, and it was a long trip. Over 1200 miles straight through, and with detours, it
would be more like 1500 or even 2000, with no outside energy to feed the power.
Sighing, Angela turned the radio off, switched it to the TV setting. She had hoped to make at least 50 miles a day at first, putting her on base in a month, but after a
four hour trip to get to the local store, which had already been cleaned out, she began to understand that making even twenty a day would be hard. It now came to
roughly three months on the road, and her mother’s heart cried out again. So long and so many of the odds were against her!
"Gets better when you call the boy’s real daddy," the Witch seduced, sending her memories of cool, Harrison nights and the softest, blackest hair she’d ever felt,
until their son was born. Angela closed her eyes as pain filled her heart as if it had happened yesterday. She had never forgotten what it felt like to belong to Marc
Brady.
“Call him. He’s restless, adrift. He will come," the Demon insisted, and the woman huddling in the nicely warming storage room gave the thought serious
consideration this time, instead of pushing it away like the fear in her mind wanted. Marc was also a Marine, had been for a long time, and she had no doubt he could
make the trip. More importantly, he owed her.
"You can’t!" her fear screamed. "Kenny will kill you both!"
She stretched carefully, wincing at a lance of pain. He'd probably try. Kenny would think they had been having an affair all along, even though she hadn’t seen Marc
in almost fifteen years. There was a spark, a connection between them that was undeniable, and her man would see it right away. Not that it mattered. She’d made her
choice, and she would face the consequences when the time came. Nothing would keep her from her son, not after all that she had lost, and maybe, just maybe, her
man could be surprised into making a mistake by not only Brady’s presence, but by how much she had changed. The Demon inside was awake. She was a slave no
more, and Kenny would find out very quickly that she wouldn’t go back to her old life of bondage.
First, she had to have time to heal, was scared that even if she managed to leave Ohio without Warren and the others stopping her, she wouldn’t be able to handle
the trip west. If just surviving in one place was so hard, how bad would a three-month journey across this broken land be? She needed help, and there was no one else
she could call. Marc had to come.
“But not yet,” she told the Witch and the heart that had both jumped eagerly. She would call out to him when she was ready, and that wasn’t today.
Angela lit a cigarette and blew out thick smoke rings that stayed intact until they hit the big brown blanket hanging over the thin, wooden door. She had been an
abused animal in a luxury cage, and it had happened fast. Her gifts (curse, Kenny always called it her curse) were the end root of their fights, what he wanted her to do
with them. After a while, the Demon inside had gone to sleep, locked behind a thick steel door, to prevent Kenny from using the power to satisfy his own selfish, petty
desires.
And Angela had spent a decade in hell because of it. There had only been two things she had kept from him during their long, hard years together - her abilities and
the name of her baby’s father. Everything else had been under Kenny’s unforgiving control each waking moment and many of the sleeping ones too.
Until the War.
Being alone while her world was being blown away had ripped off the locks on the Witch and the old Angela. The twisted, slotted cell door was barely standing,
and the dark, shifting spirit behind that thin shield whispered almost constantly to her now, guided her. She found it easy to listen, still surprised to look inside and see the
courage she had been forced to lock away. She was suddenly allowed to be her own person again, to make her own choices based on what she wanted and needed,
including exploring these things that she could do…and of that, there was a lot.
Her gifts had aged well in storage. Most of it was random, coming and going without control, but she was learning to direct it again, to concentrate and get what she
needed - to trust the powers inside. When the Demon spoke, she listened.
The Witch said it was fated for a new, more careful world to replace the old, but when Angela asked if her own small family would be a part of that peaceful
population, there was only darkness.
Chapter Five
January 28th, 2013
West Virginia
1
“Hell..."
Sergeant Brady knew it was a bad idea as soon as the front tires of his muddy SUV eased out onto the mostly clear suspension bridge. He could feel the way it
vibrated in the heavy wind, but the waters had risen while he slept and left only this way out.
The iron grates under the Blazer groaned, their supports completely covered in slushy, menacing debris as he neared halfway…then they gave.
Crack! Rreeennttpp!
The solidness under his wheels tilted suddenly, one of the two foundations slid enough to pull the bars out of the other bank, and it rocked the bridge like a child’s
race track.
The Blazer tilted violently and the guardrail began ripping away with horrible grinding noises, cables snapping like string.
Marc hit the gas, aiming for the end now dropping heavily towards the shallow side of the dammed-up Black River. “Semper Fi!”
Dust and debris flying, the Blazer leapt off the bridge’s lowered side and dropped into the foot of rushing water like a lead ball, crushing the front bumper and
throwing up a huge spray that drenched the older 4x4.
Pulled along with the swift current, Marc rolled the two front windows all the way down, surprised the engine hadn’t stalled. Slinging his kit over one broad
shoulder, the grunt ignored the water rushing inside, and aimed for a steep bank he knew he had no chance of making it up.
Wincing at the cracking sounds of the bridge behind him, the furious yapping of the big animal in the passenger seat confirmed what he already knew. They were in
trouble.
“Dog, out!"
Marc shoved his 6’, 225 pound frame through the window an instant after the wolf. They jumped down into the icy water just as the bridge finally collapsed, and the
wall of liquid death lunged forward.
Marc scrambled up the slick, muddy bank, taking rope from his kit, working it into a lasso. He threw it as the surging water hit the slowly moving Blazer, and rolled
it like a White Castle box in the wind.
The thick rope sailed over a burned, wireless pole, and Marc hoped it went deep enough as he quickly tied it around his waist. Then the water came thundering
down like an army, submerging him. Unable to breathe or protect himself from all the debris in the nasty liquid that slammed into him mercilessly, he held in the panic.
The light pole trembled under the pressure of the rushing Black River, vibrating against his hip as he used it to shield himself from the bigger chunks.
He drew his knife, ready to cut himself free if it came out of the ground. The pole shifted suddenly, tilted, and then he could breathe again, as the first tall wave went
by.
Coughing, spitting, sliding in the gelatinous slop, the Sergeant cut himself free, moving to safety as quickly as he could. Yet another lesson learned in this harsh new
homeland - bridges were not safe here, either.
Marc moved to higher ground, shivering in the cold wind, as Dog danced in the mud around his ankles. Lungs aching, he stumbled away from the crumbling bank.
Quickly jerking on his long coat from his kit, Marc’s eyes watched the fast-moving water. With the barrier gone, it would now flow downstream and rise up to spill
over weakened banks before seeping into the next town, the way it had been in every other place he’d come through. Nature was quickly reclaiming her property.
Marc took a long look around as he got his breath back, deciding where he would make camp and wait out the water. The Blue Ridge Mountains were east, rolling
peaks of foggy blue under a wide, purple and yellow sunset that was marred by angry gray layers that never went away. South was dipping valleys and hills full of
tobacco fields and Virginia white pines. It was the way he had come and those empty, snowbound towns had given him nothing to take hope from.
West was another community whose name he’d seen on the map, but couldn’t recall, and the newly released water was already overwhelming it. He saw no one
fleeing the filling houses and businesses, though, and grunted unhappily. The sitrep was bleak. North, then.
Maybe a full click above him, a small white building with a large, silver cross beckoned in the dim distance, looking pristine perched on top of a large, muddy hill.
Backdropped by cherry and wild crab apple trees, again, only the gritty sky spoiled the perfect picture of safety in the wilderness.
Shrugging at the irony - Marc hadn’t been in a church since being robbed of his dreams - he headed that way with his eyes and ears open for anything that looked
like trouble. Seeming empty didn’t make it so.
Dog, who came almost to his hip, stayed close, occasionally growling his dislike at the now softer rumble of the river.
Head starting to hurt, Marc foraged in his kit for a pain pill, and swept the small town around him. The outskirts of Franklin (identified by the sign on a nearby street
corner) looked mostly untainted. Surrounded by neat white homes and white picket fences, his eyes flicked from untouched manger scenes to the Christmas lights that
still decorated most of the area. Not much damage. Were there people here?
Marc listened intently, heard only wind. The silence pressed in, like something was wrong, but other than the river trying to kill him, it was the same here as in every
small town he had passed briefly through since the War - empty, over.
He scouted the next intersection, landing on a charred metro bus still full of rotting corpses, and he was thrown back in time to his escape, to his first brush with the
walking dead…to what he’d seen when he rolled out from under the greyhound bus.
“Help!”
“Oh my God!”
“Aahhh!”
Marc stared in horror at the people stumbling past the bus as he stood up. Soldiers and civilians alike, faces bloody, stumbling blindly... shooting at random.
“Help!”
“No!”
The screams were deafening and there were other noises too, ones that made him want to sick his guts up, but the gunfire was the clearest to his trained mind. Marc
backed away from the walking corpses who were firing out of reflex, mowing down others like themselves.
Eyes wide and feet unsteady, Marc looked for even one other survivor, but found only more breathing dead. He turned suddenly, sensing movement.
“Uuhh!” Marc threw himself back from the outstretched fingers of a uniformed man tightly gripping his pistol. He tripped over a bloody pile, landed hard on his ass.
“Please, what happened?”
The soldier’s deadened green eyes dripped blood. It ran over his lashes and cheeks in small torrents, and Marc hesitated, almost overcome with his first ever case
of panic. This wasn’t a foreign land – it was America!
“I can hear you breathing, you know,” the Army man stated almost casually, head tilted.
Marc watched the scarlet drops roll from his dead sockets, creeping down his pale cheeks to hit the dirt before disappearing - all of it seeming to be happening in
slow motion. “W-w-war… a bomb.”
“But, where? North or south?”
Marc considered, aware that a muscle in the blind man’s jaw had begun to twitch erratically while he waited for the answer. “South.”
“I thought so,” the soldier’s voice was without emotion. “Thank you.”
Calmly, without any indication he was going to, the wounded man raised the gun to his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
Blood sprayed wildly, raining across Marc’s face, and then he was running, trying not to scream and not sure he was succeeding.
Crunchhh!
The water’s destruction of debris pulled him from the flashback, and Marc shook his head, wishing the images would go away. He had begun moving carefully on
foot after that, headed determinedly for the family home, only to discover no one there despite the funeral being set for that very day. The house had no signs of a hasty
retreat, no letters of explanation, and there were no fresh graves at the family plot. What the hell had happened?
His eyes wandered the city limits of Franklin, drawn to the hills. He lingered on the cemetery, its iron gates surrounded by decaying bodies, few of them wrapped.
No one knew what to do with their dead. Neither had Marc. He almost hadn’t come home at all.
“I’m sorry, Marine.” The base Commander clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically.
Marc stuffed the legal letter into the garbage can they were standing next to, as other men moved by. Drill calls and Mess bells echoed throughout the brick halls of
the base.
“Thank you, sir.”
His superior regarded him for a long moment, unsure of his man’s mood. Didn’t he care? “I’ve scheduled your leave for the funeral. Starts ASAP.”
Marc nodded, not sure if he would go, not sure why he suddenly felt like a little kid afraid of the dark. It was just his mother. “Thank you, Sir.” He repeated
automatically.
“She the one you turned away last month?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marc didn’t offer any details, even though he knew the Base Commander didn’t take a personal interest in just anyone. He refused Mary’s visit every time she
came, hadn’t spoken to her, even by mail, in over a decade, and now that she was dead, he still hated her. Because of what she’d cost him. The last time they’d seen
each other was right before his first hitch was up. Thanks to the threat of charges being filed, he hadn’t been allowed to leave the base before then, and the conversation
had been short, cold.
“So, you can come home now.” Mary eyed the dark, brooding stranger sitting stiffly across from her. “The Harlot ran to the heathen city right after you… came
here, so she won’t be a temptation, but you’ll have to…”
“No.”
Her age-lined eyes flew to his hard face, the hands on the table that were clenched in anger. “No, what?”
Marc leaned closer, loathing her. She hadn’t changed. Her glasses were still crooked, her eyes were just as indifferent, and he read no regret or even understanding
in her cold blue depths. There was no caring for the life she had taken, denied him. "I’m not coming home. Ever.”
Stunned, Mary’s hand fell to the worn Bible in her lap, and Marc shook his head, stood up. “You put me here, took away what I loved, and now that I’m 21, I
don’t need you or have to listen to you. Forget my name. You’re dead to me.”
Crack!
Marc spun, .45 in hand, and the wolf bristled alertly at his side, but it was only the reeking water destroying more debris that was now able to move downstream.
He shook his head at his jumpiness, and got moving again towards the white church that was still a mile away. He had taken the leave to attend his mother’s funeral and
instead, found himself alone, in the place that had never been his home. The only living thing he'd seen was Dog curled up on the front porch, the blood in his fur still
tacky.
“Like he’d known I was coming.”
Marc thought of the window the wolf had broken through. The torn-up basement was the only damage he’d found in the whole house. Not even the door had been
kicked in, so he didn’t think they had been taken in the draft. The fact that they had put Dog in the basement suggested something darker, but he pushed the renegade
thoughts away, not really feeling the urge to search for any of them. They hadn’t been family in a long time. If they had found safety and hadn't wanted him there, so be
it. They were the last group of people he would want to survive with anyway.
Guilt and awful loneliness reared its head, reminding him it hadn’t yet gone away, and Marc forced himself to lock down on those thoughts as he taught others to do.
For them, it was to keep from being distracted and blowing their mission. He did it now to keep from drowning under a tide of guilt.
Fresh waves threatened, and Marc forced his mind away again, hating that tiny, ashamed part of him that was glad she had died unhappy. He had spent more than a
decade living that way, and it was only fair his mother should feel some of it, since she was the one responsible.
Marc had wandered a little after finding nothing at home, but it hadn’t taken long for him to become very restless and start looking for people, for his own kind. He
had once been sworn to his country, and while he still wore his tags beneath his fatigue shirt and long, black leather trench coat, the America he had served was busy
dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had no real desire to return to his base in New Mexico, either, and now that the future looked so grim, he was
fairly sure he wouldn’t. The whole world was FUBAR9. Everything and everyone he had ever known was gone.
"Are you sure?"
The cold wind pushed against him, mocked him, and Marc ignored it as they moved up the last quarter mile of very steep hillside at a quick pace. He looked down
at the big wolf. “Hell of a start to the day, Dog.”
The animal looked up at the sound of his voice, and then went back to smelling the bare, damp ground, heeling as if he were a well-trained pet, though one could
see at first glance that he wasn’t.
Where to go next was the most pressing choice at the moment. Marc wasn't worried about losing his supplies and transportation, though he would miss the thick
sleeper tonight. The rest of his preferred loadout was in the kit slung over his shoulder. Physically, he could do just fine alone, he always had. Mentally, things were more
complicated. He didn’t really like people, didn’t need them most of the time, but he did need a goal. The urge to serve was still there, and that, he couldn't do by
himself.
He had a good idea where many of the survivors had gone, the heartbreaking notes and letters on cars, doors, and blowing with the wind, were everywhere - and
they pulled at him. After the first dozen, Marc had forced himself not to read anymore, knowing if he did, he would spend the rest of his life trying to reunite these
broken American families.
Most survivors had gone to ground. Caves and sewers were the most mentioned, but flooding and collapses made that feel like a bad choice to the Sergeant. Even
if the flooding missed them and the cold didn’t freeze or starve them, the poisons now circling the globe were just as big a threat above or below the surface. How long
would a contaminated planet allow them to survive no matter where they were?
He had slowly moved northwest, checking places like White Sulphur Springs and the National Radio Astronomy Observatory, hoping to find recent signs of normal
(what a joke!) life, but Marc no longer expected to find large groups of people trying to rebuild together. It was more than just the awful devastation that made him think
so - it was what he didn’t see.
The world felt and sounded empty. There were no noises other than the wind and the water, not a single human voice or life continuing in the same American
tradition, and he didn’t see the bastards who let it all happen, either. The government was still not in attendance, and the people Marc had served for all those years
would never sit idly by and let the survivors have control of the topside, poisoned or not.
There should have been emergency broadcasts, signs, flyers, people taking pictures, measuring, monitoring, all dressed in little white space suits, and yet there was
nothing. There should have been soldiers in jeeps, all with itchy trigger fingers and bullhorns, giving orders, and not really helping…but there was only silence.
There should have been aid stations set up, Red Cross units overloaded with patients to be examined, tested, recorded, and left to die. The healthier ones would be
kept close enough to force them to beg for handouts, so the scientists could keep studying the effects, and Marc was suddenly sure he couldn’t ever do that, would die
first. Not that it mattered now. The government that had killed so many, had likely died with them.
“So where to?" He ran a hand over soaked black hair. Where would normal people gather? In stadiums or maybe even malls…
Marc tensed suddenly, some part of him registering the change, a note to the wind that hadn’t been there before. Almost as if someone were calling for him, looking.
“Marcus… “
He swung around, drawing drenched leather as his surprised eyes searched for whoever he had let sneak up on him. He frowned when he saw nothing but
dogwood flowers and the decaying bodies of two songbirds lying in the yellowish grass. He could have sworn…
His heart thumped as his mind matched the face to the voice, coming up with the one he had banished to his dreams so long ago.
“You’ll love me forever?” The girl asked as she let go of the blanket, terrified to trust.
The boy tilted her head up as he pushed gently between her long legs. “Just that long. Not a second more.”
The girl smiled happily, leaning up to meet his thrust, and as he kissed her, teenage body on fire, the boy knew instinctively nothing in his adult life would ever be this
good. She was perfect…his. He’d never let her go!
Marc's heart clenched with old longing, and the wolf whined uneasily at his Master’s pain. It was a wound that time hadn’t healed, and the sniper forced his mind
from the hurtful memories.
2
Finally reaching the small building on the hill, Marc fell into Marine mode as he squared away the small church (empty, thankfully) and tiny shed that was attached.
He moved warily, and once satisfied he was alone, put up alarms. A Marine always carried an emergency kit, and Marc was aware his training would make this new
world easier for him than for most. He’d been playing war for years.
He exchanged fresh fatigues for his soaked, torn clothes, and tied his holsters snugly over his thighs. While he changed, Marc listened, hearing nothing but the river
that was already feet deep around distant maple trees and broad column-supported buildings. He hadn’t thought to miss the sound of another human voice and it was a
surprise to the loner inside.
Changed and warming up, he took a quick look at the water still rushing downstream, evaluating. His breathing was normal, heart back in his chest where it
belonged, and other than a couple of bruises and scratches, he was unharmed - hadn’t swallowed any of the nasty liquid. He still had his hat even - string around his
neck had kept it from being washed away. Marc tried hard not to dwell on what could have been, very aware that had he reacted a little slower on the bridge, he would
be dead. It was a hard, new world…one where some days were rougher than others.
He had come 130 miles in the seven weeks since finding the family home deserted, and the bodies were what bothered him more than even the constant reek of
smoke and rot. They were in every place he went; stores, stations, cars, and sidewalks. Men, women, kids, elderly; all shocking to see in even one American City, let
alone all of them. He fought the urge to give them the burials they deserved, knowing that like with the letters and notes, if he buried even one, he would spend the rest
of his life on it.
The realist inside knew that gradually, terribly, Mother Nature would run her course. The cadavers would all disappear into the ground, into dens and burrows, and
then into hungry stomachs. But it would always be obvious that a harsh and violent struggle for survival had swept this country from coast to coast. So much death and
destruction, even in places that had no actual bomb damage!
Fires were the most common cause of this devastation, town after town reduced to darkened, shadowy frames, the victims of arson. This new world was a bed
pisser’s wet dream and a King horror novel all mixed together, Marc thought. He hated the helpless feeling it gave him to roll through these places. They reminded
him of his nightmares of the walking dead from the bus, and the soldier who’d killed himself. In his dreams, they followed him relentlessly with their not-so-funny,
stumbling walk - pushing until the cold ocean waves lapped at his feet, the water the only place left to go.
Marc sighed, lit a Winston with hands that stank of fish rot. Where the hell was he supposed to go? Even the radiation was already showing up, the mice in West
Virginia were twice their normal size of normal and...
“Marcus... “
He didn't draw this time, already sure there was no one there. Marc waved a finger at the softly growling wolf to quiet him.
“Is someone there?" he called anyway, feeling foolish. There was… a hint of vanilla, sweet and never forgotten, floating by on the wind.
His heart thumped painfully. “Angie?"
There was only silence, and Marc grinned sadly. He’d been alone too long. He was the last person she would call. There was no…
“Marcus! I need you!”
The words seemed to go right by his ear this time, searching, making his breath catch.
“Must be going nuts," he muttered, heart screaming in joyful recognition.
“You owe me!”
Marc winced at the accusation, the reminder, and stopped denying, understanding that the time he had feared (and longed for!) was here. Angie was finally calling in
his marker, and it was one of those debts that could never really be repaid.
Not letting his practical (male) side get in the way, Marc closed his eyes and concentrated as she had taught him so long ago. He was unable to keep from
wondering if the water had really gotten him, and this was the afterlife with an angel’s voice leading him to hell.
“You can’t go yet. Not until you help me. Help us."
The voice in his head (Angie’s voice! It was Angie’s voice!) was clear, as if they were on a phone. He found it helped to pretend they were, as his headache
increased, throbbing at his temples. Had he hit his head? It would explain this.
“Marcus…”
“What do you need?"
“My life back."
Marc jerked as if slapped, thrown into the past, and the note of desperation in her voice pulled at a place in his heart that he was unable to resist.
“I need you. Will you come?”
“As quickly as I can.” This would be the fastest swoop he’d ever made. In addition, this fast journey over a short amount of time would be done alone, without the
backup of his platoon. “Tell me where."
“Ohio. Cincinnati."
Marc’s heart pounded faster. He had been there once before. “Two weeks, Angie, maybe less.”
There was a relieved blast of force that exploded from her end, and Marc swayed on his feet as the good energy sank into his head, stopped the aching there.
“You have to hurry…”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
There was no answer, just a dead line, and though he tried again and again, there was only silence.
Marc rubbed the wolf’s tense ears, not missing the eagerness in the animal’s golden eyes. Clearly, Dog had felt her pull too, and Marc struggled to control the heart
that suddenly felt alive again. Angie had finally called for him!
Chapter Six
January 29th, 2013
Outside Trinidad, Colorado
1
“Not again.” Rick moved toward the center of the large, reeking camp as he fought against the sharp Colorado wind. “I won’t do it.”
He knew why he’d been called to the boss’s tent. Trinidad, Colorado was big, and the survivors there had the town barricaded with machine guns that were
constantly manned. The evil troll wanted him to be the wolf in sheep’s clothing…again.
Walking steadily, the white man kept to himself, pretending not to understand the lazy Spanish insults from those he passed. The faint noise of crying and begging
was nearly overshadowed by the lustful shouts of men, and the excited yapping of dogs. Mexican R&R, Rick thought.
His pale skin was very out of place, his life constantly in danger in the Slaver camp, and yet, he liked it. The white women here didn’t feel the same. The few being
allowed to sit in the open air were chained to their masters, and they watched Rick walk by with open contempt on their battered faces. These were the favorites, the
ones whose bodies the Mexicans would leave on the side of the highway a week or a month from now, instead of tonight or tomorrow.
Rick stopped in front of a crooked tent and tapped on the flap before shoving his cold hands into the pockets of his dirty jeans. Cesar’s men were mostly drunk and
in a good mood - the church they had desecrated in Santa Fe four days ago had been full of women and kids who’d gone there for sanctuary - but it wasn’t a friendly
mood, despite the grins and sly leers. The tremors in his stomach doubled as the first flakes of black snow began to fall. What did the hardened criminals know that he
didn’t?
Gunshots echoed loudly from the other end of the carelessly sprawled out camp, followed by a young, female scream. The wind gusted smoke from their many
neglected campfires as men hit, women bled, and the snow clouds rolled over a dark landscape. South was where they had been. North was where they were going,
the firelight of Trinidad a dim glow through the distant trees.
“Wait.” The Mexican leader’s cold tone carried to his men, and Rick saw the widening grins of the two dozen or so watching men. They dressed like Spanish
bandits with their crisscrossed belts and wide-brimmed sombrero’s. They acted like them too, enjoying any chance to make him squirm, liking him to know that only
Cesar’s word kept him from the fate of all the other white males they’d found.
Tense and alert, but not really scared, Rick watched them right back, his hot green eyes daring. He might be an outside member, but Rick was also their short,
stocky leader’s personal property, and Cesar would kill anyone who touched what was his. It kept Rick from the horrible death their eyes threatened, but it didn’t stop
him from being beaten. He was always careful to sleep with an eye open.
The freed inmate wasn’t exactly sure what it was that kept him here. There had been plenty of chances to escape, but he hadn’t even tried. Maybe it was the lack of
rules, or how he felt more alive than ever before - more like a real man should feel as he stayed among these violent killers, keeping his life where no other white men
had.
Rick sighed, turning from an icy blast of wind. Maybe he had a death wish. He was sure that eventually he would be eliminated, but for now he was surviving where
no one else could, and he raised his head. They could only kill him once.
His eyes went over lumps in the darkness, seeing jackrabbits, bats, larks, and people. Hell, a quick bullet to the head, or knife to the throat might be easier than
what the rest of the world was suffering right now anyway.
“Come in, Reechard.”
Rick’s mind snapped back to why he had been called, and there was a battle in his mind as he entered.
Vaguely glad to be out of sight of the unshaven, dirty Slavers who were camped directly on the dark, concrete lanes of US 25 like they owned it, he saw that the
tent looked the same. Only the bait was different. The first time Cesar had called him here, Rick had been so relieved to be spared that he’d agreed without thinking…
Salem.
Time slowed…
Rick could suddenly feel the struggling, naked female beneath him; could smell Cesar’s cigar as he leaned close, pinched the girl’s nose shut.
“You wish to live, yes?”
Rick couldn't stop, was too close to being in, and he jerked forward, wincing at the loud scream against his dirty hand as he buried his hard flesh in the struggling
body under him.
“I know, Americano, and you will.”
The Slaver's blade was against his throat now, sharp knife pricking the skin with each stroke, and Rick moaned, scared - and on fire.
“If you do what I want.”
Rick nodded carefully, struggling not to slit his own throat, as he raped the naked woman Cesar had thrown into his arms. His hand slid around her neck to keep her
from screaming again, and to get a better grip.
“Wh... Whatever you want!” he gasped, hips flashing.
The Slaver moved back. “Squeeze harder. She breathes too easy.”
That had been in the heat of lust and fear. Now, it would be a morally conscious decision, and Rick wasn’t sure which way he would fall, only that he would.
As he entered, Cesar was on the bed, rolling a thick line of white powder into a blunt paper, something that Rick had never seen anyone do before, and he lowered
his bandana. He waited just inside the awful-smelling Mess, shifty green eyes going over the man in the dirty gray robe who claimed to be the bastard son of Fidel
Castro.
Trying not to stare at the naked slave kneeling at her master’s booted feet, his gaze went over filthy clothes, a blanket, and scraps of food. Her dog collar and chain
purposely prevented the shivering girl from reaching any of the items. He had time to think he liked the look of the heavy metal around her slender, bruised ankle, and
then reality crashed in on him.
“Un momento, Reechard. It ees time to pay for the second month of life I have decided to give you.”
The Mexican’s accent was thick but clear enough to understand, and Rick’s stomach dropped the rest of the way. He rubbed his damp palms down dirty jeans,
trying to cover his nervousness. “What do you want me to do?”
Slightly distracted, as he was meant to be, Rick was trying very hard to ignore the naked teenager. He could see tears falling, but not the face covered by shiny
brown curls.
“Trinidad, Colorado,” Cesar sneered, making it ugly. "We will be there in a few days. You go with la salida del sol.”
Although Rick said nothing, knowing not to tell the ruthless Slaver he wouldn’t leave at sunrise, Cesar looked up at him with hard, black eyes as a warning. The
Mexican's left hand clenched into only half a fist; two fingers on that side missing. “Si?”
Rick lowered his eyes, “I can’t do that." The former janitor’s voice was low, apologetic, making his 5’11, 190 lb. frame appear much smaller as he stood in the
flickering shadows. “I’m sorry. Not again. You’ll have to kill me, I guess.”
Cesar smiled, revealing a single gold front tooth that flashed in the dim lantern light of the drafty tent. “All in good time, Reechard.”
Cesar waved a ringed finger, am his slave quickly climbed onto the large pile of blankets behind the ruthless man. She looked terrified, tender flesh shaking. Rick felt
a small measure of pity, but it was mostly drowned out by the envy that Cesar Castro Diaz was getting her all to himself, when Rick hadn’t had a woman since they’d
left the prison, and taken the first town. Salem, where he’d helped to kill them all.
There was a brief moment in time, a few seconds where his attention was captured by the outside noises, - by how bad and wrong it was here, and had been in
Arizona, and New Mexico - gunshots, a scream, a louder scream, a bigger gunshot, a rifle shot… a fading scream. Then everything settled back down to the dim quiet
of the girl’s shallow, fearful breathing, and the howling of the storm now starting to beat against the tent around them.
“Reechard.” It was an ugly tone, hinting at the slight insanity most of Cesar’s men already suspected.
“I can’t. They’re my own people."
The Mexican shook a head full of tight, kinked curls, his slanted eyes narrowing into deep lines as a blue vein began to stand out on his forehead. He pointed with
his deformed hand. “Me salvó la vida! I spared your life! You will give me what I want!"
Rick kept his mouth shut and waited for the offer, sure there would be one. Why else had he been allowed to live, but to serve? He was a slave, just like the
women, only in a harder way.
Against his will, his eyes crawled over the freshly washed teenager again, though he knew it might get him in more trouble. He had never had one that young!
Cesar, whose Mexican nickname was Son of Death (Hijo de la Muerte), waved a hand at the scared girl, “Arrodillarse."
She immediately rolled over and pushed herself up, trembling as her breasts hung low. Rick felt his mouth go dry, body twitching in response.
“You want her, si?"
He nodded just once, carefully. This female and all the Slaver’s young harem was off limits to everyone, with no exceptions.
“You will have her for doing what I want."
Stepping forward, Rick fell.
2
Cesar Diaz was a flesh peddler and wanted guerilla captain before the War. When all hell broke loose, he was already on his way to southern Arizona to rescue
family being held in American detention centers. With the War, the border patrols and SWAT teams vanished, and America was invaded.
Cesar does not have camp laws, doctors, or plans for organization, and he has no intentions of forming or finding these basics of society. He rules with brute force,
and in his world, the strongest live and the weakest die, as they were meant to. Raised at the knee of a dictator, Cesar hates America. He wants to fill the United States
with as many of his bastards as he can, leaving it an occupied land.
He plans to spend his life working on this goal with the full support of his men, most of whom he released from prisons and detention centers. That’s also where he
found Rick, cowering in a broom closet, after opening the front gates to let them in. The 35-year-old ward of the state had been a janitor doing community service for
attempted sexual assault on a teenager at the movie theater where he worked.
Cesar had planned to kill him, but his cousin José, one of those he’d come to release, told him of Rick giving extra supplies and reporting abuse by guards. The
Slaver chose to spare him, feeling a debt. Cesar has repaid it cruelly, by turning Rick into a traitor to his country, and he will continue using the weak man in this way
until one of his guerillas goes too far in the beatings, and kills the man. The slaver will then find another hostage of lust, and hold him the same way.
The flesh peddler's men are not loyal, trusting, or trustworthy, but as a leader, Cesar is very smart. He makes sure his men have everything they want, to keep them
in line: freedom and adventure, whiskey and guns - no limits beyond his share of the plunder, and females, some of them not even old enough to have hair anywhere but
their heads. It’s all he'd promised them and more.
This very large group of hardened criminals has slowly been moving north, clearing towns along Interstate 25. They emptied stores, burned businesses, homes, and,
when they felt like it, whole neighborhoods of scared, defenseless survivors - making examples of any try to stand and fight. The word was spreading quickly from
fleeing refugees, and whole communities of people were running.
Most of the small, doomed groups in the Slavers’ path fall easily, but some of these ill-fated survivors barricade their cities and made a stand. They lose, and pay the
ultimate price, but like so many in this country’s violent history, they die fighting - as American heroes.
Chapter Seven
Safe Haven Refugee Camp – Utah
1
The End of the world has given us a harsh, merciless existence, where nature tries hard to push mankind to the very brink of extinction. Everything is against us,
between us...untold miles of lawless, apocalyptic roads wait for our feet, and the Future, cold and dark, offers little comfort. Without CHANGE, there will be no
peace…only Survivors. And I am determined to be one of them.
1/1/2013
It’s been almost two weeks since the War, and I still can’t believe my luck. Joe, a senior Greenpeace member, showed up late and heard me trying to dig my way
out. There were no other survivors of the secret meeting. Why was I spared? I deserve to still be under that house. My dreams always start with me in that basement,
not sure if I’ll live. Maybe I’ll find answers there.
We're holed up in a barn with a tin roof, waiting out the storms, and I wonder if my companion hears any of what I dream about. It doesn’t matter. Not much does
now except making it to Little Rock. My grief for America is almost unbearable.
Adrian sighed, looking away from the notebook long enough to take a swig from his canteen. The first depressing weeks had been strange, full of hard days of
backbreaking labor, and eerie nights of broken dreams where he was in charge of a small group of survivors - fighting with everything he had to keep them alive and
free. Instead of fading, as his concussion and ribs healed, the images had gotten stronger, clearer.
There were glimpses of a bright future, and horrible Ground Zeroes, and he had found himself thinking about it almost constantly when he was awake. He'd quickly
understood how to do it, how to set up the foundation for a new democracy - sensing even then that the people he’d gather would have nothing but their lives - and the
guilt of it, of knowing he might have prevented it all, would hold him after the twenty hour days began to wear him down.
He’d been right, Adrian thought, sending his eyes back to the page. He was well into one of those now, the third this week.
1/4/2013
We hit Nellis today, and there’s nothing left. I think maybe I’m sick. I’m seeing things Joe doesn’t, hearing voices. I see odd colors in new places, stare at eyes that
glow like neon bulbs from dark and empty windows. There are words in the trees and movies in the gritty clouds, puddles with reflections… I may be having a
breakdown. It’s barely a scratch on what I deserve.
1/5/2013
It’s getting worse. The people we’re seeing, the awful, pain-filled refugees still trying to find each other, haunt me; stalk me.
They fall to their knees at my feet, beg me with tears and outstretched hands to help, to save them, and then I blink, and see they never even looked at us! What the
hell is happening to me? A side effect of one of the experiments? Am I in a coma somewhere and this is all one of my horrid nightmares? How I wish that were true. I’d
gladly trade my life for America’s.
I share the blame for all the pain and death. I should have revealed who I was, back when there might have been a chance to stop it all, but like those who betrayed
us, I didn’t want anyone to know the truth either. The need to atone is consuming, overwhelming, and I can’t make enough progress each day to be satisfied. The worry
is endless.
1/7/2013
The dreams are slowly convincing me I’m not crazy, demanding I take action. I remember each scene in such vivid detail when I wake! Even in the clear light of
day, they look good to me.
I owe the whole world a huge debt, but to my country, I owe everything that I am…even the one waiting for me in Arkansas. I have to at least try.
I’ve decided to start in the morning, when we reach Las Vegas. That infamous skyline is dark now, but in the city that never sleeps, there are people. I know. I can
almost feel them.
Adrian crushed out his smoke, thinking he’d been right and wrong on that one. He’d found refugees who were grateful for his help, but he had also found Tonya,
who killed Joe.
Adrian turned the page. Too bad he couldn’t prove it. The topless dancer had immediately pounced on who she thought was in charge, while Adrian was just
starting to realize the job belonged to him. By the time she’d understood the goodhearted, alcoholic, firefighter was only interested in drinking, screwing, and forgetting,
she was openly sleeping in his bed and fetching his bottles.
Adrian had wanted to kick her out for helping the kind man become a drunk, but even one life lost on his watch was more than he could allow. So he had thrown
himself into caring for his small, shell-shocked herd, hoping Joe would eventually see her for the scheming bitch she was.
They had set out for a base in Montana, his words of the secret bunker there easy to believe, though he had no intentions of staying with them - not until he made it
west. His heart was overjoyed to finally have his purpose in life, the reason he’d been spared. He was a Shepherd. That was why he’d been allowed to live. It was his
duty to help rebuild their world.
1/11/2013
Other than myself, there are only 30 people here so far.
Most of them are elderly men and I doubt half will survive; their injuries are just so bad I can’t help them in anyway other than providing drugs to dull the pain, and a
comforting hand to hold while they die. Each death kills something inside me.
I wonder if I’ve sacrificed family for these dead strangers, but I can’t just walk away. They need me too, and other than a little ‘listening’, I’ll put it out of my head
and go on. I haven’t abandoned him. I’m just very late.
1/12/2013
We sleep in vans and buses, not enough workers for tents yet, but I have an idea for two common room set ups. When the new man, Doug, recovers, that’ll be his
first chore. Doug’s important to me, I know it. I just don’t know how yet. I found him by accident or maybe by Fate leading me?
He was trapped under a collapsed concrete bridge in a national forest near the Nevada state line. Small packs of coyotes were keeping him from escaping the
crushed car and shallow water, and it’s amazing he survived so long despite his huge size. Retired Army, he’s one of my kind, just a little too old for what I need the
most. Doug said a tremor took out the bridge while he was crossing it, and that made me decide to start keeping track of those things too. If the temperatures continue to
drop - and this is wintertime, so they should - then we won’t make it to Montana before we have to hole up somewhere. That thought keeps me awake at night, even
when the guilt isn’t burning into me. Where?
1/13/2013
Damn, I’m tired. These people are depending on me for everything and I’m encouraging it - showing them I can handle the weight - but between standing guard at
night on third shift, rescue and supply runs during the day, and camp setups and breakdowns, I’m beat. I have to get the help, the magic my dreams hinted of last night.
Will Fate send me what I need?
1/15/2013
Things are becoming so much clearer! My help is out there somewhere, and I even know what they’ll look like now, but where are they? If we’re all descended
from the same bloodline, doesn’t that mean they can hear my calls for help?
We’ve spent the last two days in a mall, snowed in. The black flakes fell for almost twenty-four hours and left over five feet of nasty slush. I kept everyone inside
until it was mostly melted. It felt evil, like maybe we would have been sickened by contact, and I really do wonder if Mother Nature might be helping mankind’s
extinction along intentionally. It’s a crazy thought, but in this new hell, anything is possible.
1/20/2013
We heard foreign voices on an American military channel yesterday, and I moved the camp - ordered it. No one argued, and that makes it official for me. I’m the
Boss. I know it’s because they were scared, the voices were calling for everyone to surrender to the Mexican Draft, but for me, it’s real now.
I’m in charge of 48 terrified, hurting refugees, and I’ve started wearing a radio system so that I can listen for trouble from that side too. Gangs are attacking towns in
New Mexico and Colorado, the stories are awful, and many of my "sheep" are now survivors of two Wars. The threat of the Guerillas is a serious one that will require a
harsh plan, and a lot of defensive work that these people will have to learn and help with.
They’ve had an easy ride so far, but soon that will have to change. The first mandatory meeting is coming up. Guess I’ll find out then if I’ve done enough for them to
get their support and cooperation.
1/25/2013
They’ve agreed to all the things I wanted. We even have a name now: Safe Haven.
We set up the two big tents along with a center bonfire, in a big metal pool, and celebrated by barbecuing the chickens Doug found on a nearby farm. Tomorrow,
I’ll show them the Mess truck a few of us quietly put together. It has it all, including a hot water heater, and since we have a cafeteria cook now, Hilda, we’ll have
regular meals soon.
We also have more heaters and supplies on the way. Kyle and Neil found an undamaged sports store. I’m damn glad to have those two. They’ve both volunteered
for the private and the public police force I’m starting, and I’ve decided to split them up, have them each lead their own team. Kyle started first and I’m encouraged,
feel okay about sometimes leaving the camp in his hands on third shift.
These men will be trained not as everyday guards or even Marines, but as soldiers in My army. There will be no names that can separate them once I’ve finished.
1/26/2013
My leadership is official, and I can see some of them waiting for me to become like the politicians of the past, but I won’t use my authority unless I have to. I plan to
keep giving them back some of what was stolen, and slowly, things will come together. I see a better time of it in the future, and look forward to the help my dreams
keep hinting of. Five or six more like me will take us to better places…like Arkansas.
Adrian paused again, this time to listen to the wind, not sure if... he shook his head at the obvious shadow outside his flap. That would be Dale; he could tell by the
way the hips wore a tool belt with no tools. The rookie was trying to pass his first level test and didn’t know he had already failed. The police force was very new. This
group of nine men was only the second to try, and it wasn’t promising, but they were moving fast out of need.
Adrian frowned. It was a necessity that had been driven home by Tonya. She and Joe had been a couple, but the drunken man who was considered his unofficial
second in command, had fallen further into hell the farther they’d traveled. To his credit, the drunk had stubbornly ignored the spiteful redhead when she encouraged him
to fight for the leadership she and everyone else saw Adrian earning, but it hadn't mattered.
“Too late by then,” Adrian sighed.
He was in charge and Tonya hated it, mainly because he wouldn't give her the time of day, let alone any power. She had turned a hero into a drunkard, slept around
on Joe in her quest for power, and tried to manipulate all of them, not understanding the loyalty she saw had to be earned, not stolen.
While Adrian had been busy with keeping them all alive, she had been plotting. Joe wasn’t going to get her what she wanted, and instead of breaking it off with him
and moving on, she’d convinced one of her lovers to stage a fight over her while Adrian was out of camp on a supply run. Her motive? Adrian still wasn’t sure. Had she
really thought the camp would just give Joe’s place to her lover? Adrian’s mind flashed back to the death, and his grip on the notebook tightened.
He knew by the unlit bonfire that something was wrong; how many had he lost?
Adrian followed the loud, male voice to the largest tent, sharp eyes seeing blood splatters and other signs of a fight. When he stepped inside the dim canvas, his
arrival was noticed instantly.
“There’s The Man!” Caleb, a greasy, blood-streaked biker, growled. He waved his dirty knife toward the corner, where a reddish heap lay in the shadows. “One
down, one to go!”
Adrian’s heart clenched with sorrow for arriving too late to save the man who had saved him. Then the anger, the rage, was flooding every space of his being. His
people, his once-again terrified and cowering sheep, were all huddled in the back of the tent, watching with anxious, fearful eyes. Not about to challenge the lone killer,
but clearly expecting him to. Fury like he’d never known filled Adrian. How dare someone try to steal his flock!
He drew his 9mm so fast none of them knew it was coming.
Bang!
The biker fell to the floor a second later.
“You have been found guilty and I sentence you to death!” Adrian roared over Caleb's moans. He grabbed the murderer by his jacket and brutally dragged him out
of the tent, leaving a wide, bloody smear in the dirt and grass.
He roughly handcuffed the screaming man to the door of Joe’s lime green convertible and headed for a nearby supply truck, tossing the keys into the dirt just out of
the killer’s reach.
“You can set him free when he’s dead,” Adrian snapped as he stepped into the truck. His mind raced furiously, knowing Tonya had done this - Caleb was one of
her lovers, he’d seen them himself. She would pay!
Minutes later, Adrian stepped out of the tent with Joe’s stiffening body over one broad shoulder, a shovel and a bottle of Jack Daniels in his other hand. His sheep
stayed with him as he dug the grave and got drunk, waiting with eyes that begged him to say he forgave them for not stopping it.
Point man when it happened, Neil’s face had been the most ashamed. No one had wanted to get involved, and Adrian’s voice was hard as he finished sinking the
cross into the thick, ugly dirt, turning to look at them.
“I’m getting tired and there are survivors out there who still care enough to try again. If you guys can’t get it together enough to at least do what’s
right, then I’ll find another group to help and you’ll be on your own again.”
Adrian closed the notebook, thinking the panic on their faces had been enough to tell him he had their support, their loyalty. Except for Tonya. Never one to follow
blindly, her twisted logic had become clear when she’d come to Joe’s tent where he was getting drunk. She had begged him not to be banished, and he let her stay
because of one simple sentence.
“If I had known Caleb was nuts, I woulda told someone!”
That had stopped him. He too had missed it, had let in a remorseless killer.
Because of Tonya’s lust for power, two men were dead and he couldn’t even punish her publicly due to his own strict rules concerning the treatment of women.
Therefore, he’d devised his own line of justice, and tonight would be the climax, literally. After weeks of subtle flirting and making promises with his eyes, he was going
to let her seduce him.
The savior and the whore.
The rest of the camp, having no idea of the game being played, had already begun to regard her as slightly crazy when she spoke of their relationship, and it amused
Adrian to see the frustration burning in her eyes when he wouldn't back up her claims.
Tonya had been hiding ambitions of running this camp and having real authority. The power she had longed for with Joe was nothing compared to a position as
Adrian's mate. In this war-torn land she would be a queen, not just a dumb chippy who had been selling her body to get where she wanted to be. And he knew the way
her mind worked. She was sure that all she had to do was get him in bed. Every man who had ever slept with her had probably become her puppet, from teachers to
bosses. He was to be her crowning…
Scratch…scratch…
Adrian grinned, setting the notebook aside. Revenge was best served cold and he’d waited for that reason. He could have had her the same day as Joe’s murder if
he wanted, she was that callous.
“Come in.”
Tonya moved inside carefully, bright green eyes reading him, his mood. When he smiled, and leaned over to blow out the candle, she started pushing off her boots.
Barely lit by the shadows of the center fire, she didn’t see his smile merge into a greedy leer of lust and hatred. He was just as callous. She was about to learn that.
Tonya was in ecstasy already. Half an hour from now, she would be Adrian’s legal mate! She went to him eagerly in the darkness, determined to make sure he
enjoyed himself. When he met her, hands jerking her close, she melted against him.
“Ooh... I’ve wanted ya so badly," Tonya moaned pressing closer to his hard, male body in the dark tent as the cold Utah wind beat against the camouflage vinyl.
Her light Southern accent was fake but sexy, and Adrian’s body throbbed with need.
Tonya groaned in delight as his mouth slanted over hers, his hands roughly roaming her soft body, finding she wore no panties to slow him down. He grabbed a
handful of thick red curls and ground his hardness against her belly, thinking her pale skin and green eyes, combined with that Irish hair, easily made her the sexiest
woman here.
Adrian pushed the camp whore down by her shoulder, pulling at her dress, and as she slid to her knees, her fingers went obediently to the buckle of his jeans. Her
hands were like silk, and when her hot mouth closed over him, he arched forward, the sucking sensation incredible.
Her head began an aggressive up and down movement that sent heat rolling into his toes, and then he was pushing her back, following her down onto the cold,
canvas floor.
Shoving forward before she was settled, he kissed her deeply; loving it that her gasps were not faked like some women he’d been with. He moved shallow at first,
quick and light, and she climaxed fast, nails raking lightly down his shoulder, body tightening, pulsing, and exploding. Adrian thrust harder, dog tag clinking.
Tonya let her hands roam his hard, tanned skin and soft blond spikes. “We’ll be good together. I’ll be a good mate to ya,” she promised, moaning as he started
long, hard strokes that slid her up on the floor and drew a surprising rush of wetness. Very few men could pull two from her.
Adrian tangled his rough hands in her thick, red curls and pushed in as deep as he could get, on fire as he watched the triumph and need melt together in her glowing
green eyes.
“Finally mine!” she growled, giving him a chill, and she pulled his head down to kiss his full, sexy mouth.
Coming up for air, Adrian smiled cruelly, leaning his weight into each thrust. “Oh no, Baby. This is a one-time deal. Enjoy it.”
His breathing was harsh and he swelled, almost snapping when her eyes understood, but her body refused to listen, slender hips keeping perfect rhythm as he rutted
between her long legs.
“You, Bastard!”
On the edge, Tonya pulled his head down for another hot kiss that shoved her into a world of rivers and light, but she began to struggle almost immediately and he
let her. The pain in her eyes a bigger turn-on than even her mouth.
His hands kept her head still and Adrian ground their lips together, kissing her, touching her, mocking her as he thrust roughly.
Used to being the one who was cold and in control, Tonya was horrified to feel her traitorous body responding again, wanting his touch no matter the intent. She
twisted, almost rolling them over.
Adrian dropped his full weight on her, making her cry out. “Be still!” he growled harshly, hips now pounding into hers. “You’ve begged for it enough!”
Her fists slammed into his shoulders and back, and he lowered his head to avoid telling marks on his face, enjoying the fight she couldn’t win. When her nails raked
down his back, drawing blood this time, he shoved forward, grunting.
A final “Uhh!” and he was on his knees in a quick movement, seed spraying on her thigh as she scrambled to get away.
Adrian was up a second after her, very aware that this was the moment she might be her most dangerous. He bent over to pull up his jeans, unable to keep from
grinning in satisfaction.
A thick medical book sailed over his head, slapped the side of the tent and slid down the canvas wall in front of him. He laughed, turning to watch her as he fished in
his pockets for a smoke.
Tonya had jerked her dress over wild curls and was pulling on a calf high black boot, tears of rage blurring her vision as she sat on the neat floor. “You’ll pay for
this! I’ll tell!”
Her fake accent was gone, and she snarled when his confident smile remained in place; his cold blue eyes full of remorseless pleasure. “You’re a whore. They
already know that.”
“Even you can’t get away with rape!” she sputtered, clumsily pulling on her other boot.
Adrian shrugged, watching her carefully. “Don’t know of any rape conviction where the woman got two orgasms before she started complaining.”
“If they knew what kind of man you really are, they wouldn’t follow you anywhere!"
Tonya stomped from the tent with sticky thighs and Adrian’s mocking voice following her out into the cold, windy air.
“But they don’t know, Red, and, from you, they’d never believe.”
Adrian returned to his notebook with a smirking look few in camp would have recognized. There might be a skirmish or two left, but the war between him and
Tonya was over. She was an outcast, the camp treating her the way he did, and tomorrow, when she claimed they were sleeping together, he would deny such a nasty
lie. It would drive her crazy that this time she was telling the truth, and no one would believe her.
Adrian’s smile faded. His leadership hadn’t been questioned once after Joe’s death, but later, when Neil had told him his quick, brutal execution of the killer had
gotten him the camp’s final approval, Adrian had to stop himself from telling the Arizona State Trooper how morally wrong it was to earn respect by taking a life. It was
a hard, new world, and they were all adjusting as best they could.
Sure would be easier with a few more of the good men his dreams had promised , Adrian thought, pulling on his boots. Just a few. He had a couple of go-to
guys who showed promise, but frankly, he needed a lot more than those here could give.
Just after midnight now, it had been seven weeks since the War, and they were spending four days in the heavily wooded Fish Lake National Forest. Camped just
below Milford, Utah, they were waiting for a small group of men to get back from a supply run to a nearby food warehouse. The storms had slowed them down.
As always, Adrian’s relentless mind was back on where to call home for the winter. They’d already checked a long list of places. When they broke camp in the
morning, they would continue north, towards the base in Montana, but he already knew what they’d find there: nothing. His followers were looking for the authority;
Adrian was looking for the bunker under the compound, but if he kept picking up survivors regularly, there was no way that small shelter would hold them all. As a
result, other than underground, he had no good ideas that he could live with.
The choice had been left entirely up to him, the camp indicating at the meeting that they had faith in his decisions, and though that had been the plan all along, it was
still a heavy burden.
“It’s like sheep," he muttered, knowing they were scared and lost, but Adrian was unable to imagine a situation where he would give over control of his own life so
easily. They had no problem with being told where to sit and stand, and while it made things a lot easier, it showed him how weak they really were, and how much had
to be done. He would have to push harder, do more for them.
They didn’t even have a doctor yet, and that they needed desperately. Especially him, now that he’d been with Tonya. The sated blond grinned at the delicious
memory. It was wrong, bad, and damn, he’d enjoyed it! Revenge had been better than cold…it had been fiery.
2
Pulling on a heavy jacket with a fading eagle on the back, Adrian stepped out into the cold, windy darkness, grateful for the almost inviting smell of the salty wind.
Even with a hint of shit, it was still heaven compared to the reeking odors of smoke, decay, and blood that now hung over the towns and cities like a shroud.
Eager to make his nightly rounds of the perimeter guards, Adrian still took time to listen, hearing the soft murmur of voices and rustling of flaps. It told him his herd
wasn’t settled yet, and he knew he wouldn’t return to his own rack until they were.
His eyes went first to the watch, nodding to those he could see. Listening for the others, he heard the almost constant crunch of boot steps as the Eagles prowled,
eyes sweeping the darkness. Adrian was sure few, if any, of his new army would slack off. He had chosen most of them because they seemed to understand it might be
only one man’s dreams, but it was America’s future. They were nine man teams of safety, of security, and he was teaching them as fast as he could.
Adrian looked around again, spotting Dale, but none of the others. The new group of rookies was currently in the middle of individual challenges, and he allowed
himself a rare, brief flash of pride at having made it this far with them. It was their final test to be full Level One Eagles in his army, and only his approval on this would
pass them. It wasn’t just a police force he was training, and the men involved were very aware it was much more. Hopefully, it would be a long time before the main
camp discovered it, though. Suspicions were running very high, thanks to dear old dad and his Freemason pals.
Missing being able to look up and see the moon and stars, Adrian ignored the glittering green eyes that watched him, burned holes into his back from the female side
of the tents. He slid a bright red bandana into his front pocket, leaving the ends dangling. Was the radio quiet? It hadn’t been last night, and understanding the
transmissions through the loud, violent storms raging around them had been near impossible. The screams had been clear enough though, and it bothered him that he
couldn’t help.
There were other groups around. They heard people regularly on the CB pleading for help, and occasionally they saw campfires. Those close enough, he sought out
quietly, leaving on supply runs with a few of the more promising guards, and returning with survivors. Only those with him knew that he had planned it that way, down
to the very last detail. They were part of his American herd and he wanted them all.
Adrian moved quietly to the north end of the half-mile wide camp, wishing he had ten more alert-minded men to put on guard duty at night. Hell, another five
observant bodies would help, would let him get four and a half hours of sleep a night instead of the three he was averaging as he struggled to get everything done – to
keep up his end of the deal. It was a strange, dangerous life and while he didn’t baby the refugees, he did try to distract their attention from some of the things that might
have caused rebellion - like training his army. He gave them soccer and football games, poker nights, and shooting contests, knowing that eventually they’d start feeling
like Americans again. Once that happened, they would wake up to the unpleasant reality that it was going to be a very long trip, and they had to work together. It was
slow-going, with only a few exceptions.
The guard on the north end of the dimly lit parking area was Doug, now fully recovered from his trial under the bridge. With red hair, and a red vest under a raggedy
green jacket, the 6’4” Army vet was hard to miss even in a crowd, but he was nowhere to be seen as Adrian stepped between the new, rusty, old, beat-up, muddy,
and shiny vehicles. Doug may have been years out of service due to a small injury that had left him with a limp, but he was a great comfort to have around during this
time of chaos.
“Anything moving?" The blond leader was sure he had been heard despite the unguarded appearance of the dusty parking area, and his eyes went over the tattered
U.S. flags flapping in the heavy wind from nearly every antenna and door handle. That had been Kyle’s doing, he was sure.
“Same as last night. Just the wind, my watch, and Tonya."
Despite the clear lineage, there was no Irish accent from Doug’s low voice and Adrian watched him unfold from behind a small, blue Mustang.
The big man lit a cigar and gave the boss a look, but said nothing as he moved closer, leaving huge boot prints in the gravel. Adrian had saved his life and taken him
in, given him work that made him feel useful, but Doug knew he wasn’t really a part of these people yet, wasn’t comfortable enough to joke, let alone question and he
didn’t.
“Where was she headed?”
Doug stretched his wide shoulders, hard green eyes going over the dark shapes of sickly looking fir trees that lined the taped off area. He kept his left hand in his
pocket, the nerves jumpy, twitching slightly. He wasn’t sure if the hard leader would pull him off duty for it or not, but he wasn’t taking the chance. “Her tent, I think.
She looked pissed."
Adrian smiled, meeting his eyes with a small smile of male satisfaction that the big man recognized. “Isn’t she always?"
Doug grinned, nodded, and kept a tight leash on his mouth. He had only joined the service to keep from being just another Irish potato farmer in Idaho, but once in,
he’d found a way of life and a moral code that had allowed him to keep his hope. The same was true of Adrian. That 40-something grunt still had enough hope to save
the world, and though Doug had seen the easy redhead leave the boss man’s tent, he wasn’t about to begrudge Adrian a piece of ass that many in camp had already
had.
Adrian was sacrificing everything, trying to save some of this country. Doug, who had given most of his own life for the very same thing, had a lot of respect, and
willingness to overlook what might interfere. Like the camp finding out their leader was screwing the woman they all suspected was a black widow, or at least an
accomplice. Information like that was dangerous and he would guard it closely.
Adrian slipped out of camp through the parking area, hating the pitch blackness that surrounded them on all sides. As he moved towards the men guarding the rear
of the camp, he stalked back through the tape like an intruder would. These men were bouncers, factory workers, hardware store owners, drive-thru employees, and
they were on drag, the area farthest from the Safe Haven he’d tried to create. They were the wire, the only warning system, and it put them in the most danger. Because
of that and the many, many other things he had foreseen, Adrian had been working hard with them (some closer than others, like Kyle and Neil) and this was the first
test of their alertness. He planned on many more in the future. It was essential...
Click.
Adrian stilled at the sound of a gun’s safety being flipped off, and he nodded when the same noise came from behind him. The trees were only vague outlines and
shadows that shifted continuously with the wind.
“This is a US military refugee camp. State your business!" an icy voice barked.
Adrian heard the faint, static-ridden crunch of a hand-held radio. The guard had let the other men know they had a problem, just as he had been taught.
“Mister, I can see you real well, and I will shoot unless you state your business immediately!"
“Stand down, Neil."
The sigh was audible, “Damn, Adrian! I was close."
The State Trooper slid the Beretta back into his holster as he stepped from behind a nearby tree, night vision goggles coming down.
As Neil flipped on the penlight around his neck, dimly illuminating the thick fir trees he’d chosen to take cover in, Adrian pinned him with a searching look. “Would
you have fired if I hadn’t spoken up?"
Neil nodded right away, tall, thin shadow not quite leaning against the tree as the wind blew harder. “Affirmative. We can’t take chances now."
Footsteps crunched heavily from two directions and arrived at roughly the same time, telling Adrian they had been where they were supposed to be.
“What’s wrong?"
“You okay?"
Neil waited for Adrian to address the arriving guards. When he didn’t, the cop did, keying his walkie-talkie so the others could hear too.
“Disregard, false alarm. Go on back."
The two men went without question or complaint, nodding to Adrian, and he thought they were probably glad to have something to keep them awake. He had put
the right man in charge of this shift though, that was clear.
The trooper, who everyone called Neil, wasn’t just your average cop, and despite his young age (not quite 30) Adrian was aware that people had begun to wonder
if he was being looked over for second in command. He wasn’t. He didn’t have the blue eyes and special spark Adrian was searching for, but the trooper was still
valuable and it hurt no one to let the camp assume so. It only made Neil, who knew better, feel proud. They had talked about it briefly, exchanged two or three
sentences, but the cop understood that Adrian was holding that place for someone else, someone they hadn’t found yet.
Adrian noticed the man's respect; he waited for the Boss to begin. “Hearing anything?"
“Negative. Lights again, though. Campfires," Neil answered, not seeing Adrian’s shadows, but sure they were there. He and Kyle had only recently passed their
own level tests.
Adrian's mind went straight to the Slavers. “How many tonight?"
“Two northwest. Looks like the same ones we’ve seen all week, following us. Kyle thinks they’ll make contact tomorrow and I agree. “
“Why’s that?"
Neil frowned, settling his cover more firmly on his head as thick flurries began to rain down on them. “The other campfire, the one northeast; it’s big and more than
causing a disturbance. That’ll push the smaller group our way out of fear."
Adrian was very glad they had found the equipment shed at Pine Valley untouched. They now had a lot of weapons and defensive choices that most survivors
wouldn’t. “That’s exactly what I hope will happen. How many? “
Neil shook his head, green eyes worried. “Can’t tell yet.”
“The ones we heard yesterday, screaming for all Americans to die?"
“Yeah... I’m almost sure they’re bigger than us."
Adrian nodded. The bad would always gather faster than the good, would always outnumber them too, if things continued as they were. “You think you can find a
few more men? Double the guard?"
The trooper looked at his watch. “After the check?"
“Yes.”
When Neil offered him the walkie-talkie, Adrian shook his head, thinking the brown hat the cop insisted on wearing fit surprisingly well with the solid black uniforms
he had put together for everyone, including himself. His jeans and the eagle on the back of his jacket were necessary concessions. Later, it would be dangerous to
announce who he was so openly, but for now, he needed to be easily picked out of a crowd for the comfort, the calmness of his herd. “I’m not here."
Neil keyed the mic, hoping everyone was awake. “Check-in time. Let’s try to remember how to count. Point is clear.”
Adrian smothered a grin at the tone, glad the non-smoking, non-drinking cop wasn’t as tight-assed as he seemed. Getting each shift of men to go in the right order,
with the right wording, was frustrating to say the least, especially to the career cop, who was used to the smooth organization of a police radio. The fact that Neil was
the last in a very long line of a generational police family made it doubly annoying when someone went out of order, or worse, forgot their area number.
“Area two, nothing here." That was Kyle at the communications center.
“Area three, clear." Doug, at the parking area.
“Four, clear." Chris, at the Mess tent.
There was silence as everyone waited for Danny, the guard on the water tankers. When he didn’t check in, Neil frowned. Wasn’t there anything that guy could do
right? “Check in now, area five!"
Silence again…then the handset crackled.
“Five, sorry. All’s fine here."
The voice was groggy and Neil automatically handed the set to Adrian, knowing this was his chore.
“Area five, is my cat in the barn?"
The voice that answered was clearly embarrassed, “No sir! Nature call."
“Copy. Five is clear. Next?"
The check-in continued as Adrian handed the set back to the trooper.
“Think he fell asleep again?" Neil's voice was annoyed.
“Probably. Call in his relief when you get the extra men…and have him put lime dust around the johns before he can have a bottle. We shouldn’t get into the habit of
being careless.”
Neil ran a hand through thick brown curls. “Most of the men said okay to the mountains, if we can’t find anything better along the way.”
Adrian understood their reluctance. He too wanted to rebuild on top of the earth, not inside it.
Neil wondered suddenly what the shadows thought of all the conversations they were overhearing, thinking of his own test, his own revelations about their
supposedly altruistic leader.
“I should be doing more," the cop blurted, not planning to, and was surprised when Adrian only looked at him with knowing eyes.
“To help you, I mean,” Neil clarified. “Is there something more I can do?”
Adrian studied Neil’s narrow-face as the cold wind blew a light dusting of ashy flurries over their boots. “There’s something else you feel you should be doing for
me?" Neil didn’t drop his eyes, even though he wanted to. “I have some ideas - mostly about the guards…and security."
Adrian’s face split into a grin, and he clapped the surprised man on the shoulder. “It took you long enough to ask. I’ve always thought to have you as my head of
security when you’re ready and things start rolling."
They were the words every man in camp wanted to hear. A position close to Adrian, one that commanded authority and proved to the camp (to the Boss) that you
were useful.
“It’ll probably be only ninth or tenth in the final chain of command, but for a while, it will be third or fourth and you’ll always be in the loop. My word on that.”
Neil met his eye with careful gratitude and a small flare of guilt. He was so much more now, than he had been before the War. In this awful new world, he was
finally serving. “Is this the official offer?"
"No, that comes later. For now, work hard and learn." Adrian hesitated, and then continued. “Moreover, keep your eyes open for anyone you think I should talk to
or might have overlooked."
Neil studied him thoughtfully for a long minute before dropping his eyes. “You mean people like you."
It wasn’t a question and Adrian frowned, hoping he hadn’t offended the cop. “Like me?"
“It’s hard to explain. Something just draws people to you. I’ll know it when I see it.”
Adrian caught his eye. “Your loyalty means a great deal to me. You’ve been by my side almost since the very beginning, and all the responsibility you’re looking for
will happen. You have my word on that, too.”
Neil nodded, proud and eager for the time to come. “I see the sacrifices you make, how hard you work. We all do, and we’re grateful you stuck with us when
everyone else split."
A little uncomfortable (his guilt whispering insults) Adrian opened his mouth and was disappointed with what came out. “We’ll make it. God will help us find our
way now."
Neil tensed, face darkening as he turned away. “Why wouldn’t he before we got lost?”
3
Adrian took his time going back, seeing no signs anyone had around since the War. He carefully skirted the small, nervous herd of mule deer huddled together for
warmth, encouraged to see them. It looked almost normal here, would if not for the debris rolling with the wind.
Plastic bags, fast food wrappers, bits of paper, mildewed clothes - it was the same garbage that had always littered America, but the amounts of it had grown
drastically, litter patrols and trash removal gone like everything else. There wasn’t a single aspect of American life that the War hadn’t touched, changed. Still, other than
the debris that made odd noises in the wind, and the occasional rotting fox or rabbit, it looked like nothing had happened here, and that was the whole point of him
choosing preserves and parks. How could his people heal if they were constantly being reminded of all they’d suffered, lost?
Back in the heart of camp now, Adrian moved quietly, hearing tents flapping in the cold breeze and snores. He was glad not to see a single soul passed out around
the bonfire. They were all inside, finally adjusting to being under canvas.
Adrian nodded to Jeremy, the man now guarding the water tankers instead of Danny. It pleased him to see that the new guard on the 100 gallon, portable tankers
was wearing the entire black outfit, but he didn’t stop to talk.
Aware of the two shadows that came with him as he got a cup of coffee from the deserted Mess, Adrian then headed for the tow truck they had just converted into
Safe Haven’s communications center. The guard here was his most promising man.
A former captain in the infamous Genovese mob family, Kyle had also dressed in the suggested black gear, even down to the cap over his short, curly black hair.
Again, Adrian was more than happy he had changed his mind, convincing the man to make a clean break instead of trying to make it back to New York and any of his
"family" who might have survived. He hadn’t been sure of the Mobster at first, but he was now.
“Hear anything?"
Kyle shook his head, tan skin showing small age lines under his blue eyes as he frowned. “Nothing but static, Boss. Storm whacked the antenna good."
“Mitch pass?"
The stocky guard frowned, hand resting lightly on the handle of his Glock. “Yep. Only one who did."
“I want him on it come morning. Tell him to get comfortable there."
Kyle’s eyes swept the landscape around them as he confirmed. “You know it.”
Content for the moment that all in their kingdom was secure, the Mobster turned back. “Something’s coming, Boss. Feel it in the wind."
Adrian had the same worries. “Good or bad?"
“It’s hard to tell. A little of both?"
Before Kyle could add anything, Adrian spun. The movement was so fast, he was there before the action had been registered.
Adrian let go of the hand that had been about to rob him of the dangling bandana.
“Damn!"
“Pass."
The Eagle, a plumber from Oregon, swallowed his surprise and snapped off a smart salute before vanishing into the darkness.
Kyle grinned, thinking of his own level test a few days ago. “Daryl thought he had you."
“That’s how he failed. Rushed the end and made a noise as he went for it."
Kyle lit a cheroot with a calloused hand, waiting to see if Adrian had anything else for him.
“Chris also passed. Dale needs to do it again."
Kyle wrote it down, not questioning. Adrian was the sharpest judge of character he’d ever known, and he already trusted him completely.
“I’ll be in my tent."
Kyle watched him go, thinking these people were lucky to have the natural-born leader. The blond man was hitting on all eight, knew what was coming and was
preparing to handle it. Because of him, most of these people would probably live. If they finally got some of the help that Adrian had all of his top men on the lookout
for.
Chapter Eight
February 1st, 2013
Black Rock Desert, Utah
1
Charlie saw them first, and knew instinctively they were who the Marine was looking for.
It was only three o’clock, but the blanket of sky crap, as the boy called it, made it look like dusk. Five long, hard days of walking into the strong, gritty wind had
given them both red, squinted eyes, and rough, scratchy skin on their faces and hands. The two tired males needed it all -food, water, and transportation. The bike had
been left back in northern Arizona. Totally empty of fuel, and with no refills in sight, the Honda was now just another rusting pile of metal on the side of an American
road.
It had rained nearly every day since the War, but Kenn refuse to consider trying to sterilize it, worried it would still make them sick. They had run out of the water
this morning and towns around here seemed to be nonexistent. This was the Southern Badlands, the Black Rock Desert, and they were in trouble.
Kenn knew there had to be at least a gas station somewhere, but with the sand blowing so thickly, he couldn’t see beyond the occasional dead car or body, or hear
much better. He had chosen not to leave the main road. Utah was a huge place, and there would be no rescue party sent after them if they got lost.
Kenn hadn’t seen a home or business of any kind since dawn, only the faint, gritty shadow of mountains to the east, north, and west. There was occasionally a
vehicle, the battery dead, paint faded, with few windows and inches of dust inside, but there were no outlines of structures. There were only layers of sand.
Kenn’s eyes swung east, toward home, but his mind was on NORAD. There had been smoke from that direction almost continuously and he’d moved them farther
west to check the Dugway Proving Ground first. Overall, 257 was a surprisingly desolate stretch of highway. It was depressing, and the Marine forced his sore feet to
keep moving and his scratchy eyes to keep looking.
Brought up in a wealthy family where he had been the clown and party favorite, being totally on his own was new to Kenn. Even in the Corps, there were his fellow
Marines to rely on, be admired by, and the feeling of worry was not welcome. It didn’t help that Charlie still wasn’t talking to him unless he had to. Their direction
wasn’t due east and the teenager didn’t want to hear about slavers or detours. He just wanted his mom.
Charlie was staying a couple of feet behind the wide-shouldered Marine, sheltered from some of the stinging sand as he looked through Kenn’s powerful binoculars.
He wasn’t really searching for anything, was just bored, sleepy, and very tired of walking. There was nothing to look at except the big ants that Kenny wouldn’t waste
their ammunition on, and no sounds beyond the wind and crunch of their boot steps.
He swung around to look behind them and a flash of silver caught his eye. His jaw dropped and a spiteful wave of wind sent harsh, stinging sand into his open
mouth. He began to cough and spit, doubled over.
When Kenn put a hand on his arm, Charlie thrust the binoculars at him. “People!” he choked out, pointing. “It’s... headlights... right? Lots of them."
Kenn tensed further, looking hard. A long line of people, but were they survivors or slavers? Guess we’ll find out, he thought, watching the large convoy of semis,
cars, and trucks turn toward them.
Headlights flashed from the lead rig and then from each vehicle as they were seen. Kenn felt his heart warm a little at the familiar American greeting, but it didn’t
stop the worry in his gut.
“Stay close to me, boy. Do what I do."
“Yes, sir."
The two weary travelers waited tensely, the Marine automatically trying to estimate their number. Not that it mattered. They couldn’t fight so many, and there was
no place to take cover, but he drew his gun anyway as the convoy got closer, letting it hang along his side.
Thick sand blew harder as all the vehicles except the lead rig slowed, then stopped. The huge red, white, and blue tractor-trailer inched forward, and Kenn got
ready to fight.
The semi stopped smoothly next to them, and as the driver’s window went down, Kenn stepped in front of Charlie and lifted his gun to his hip. The barrel was still
pointed at the dusty ground, but with his finger on the trigger, it was a clear warning.
The driver’s big hand was on the wheel and when the left finished with the window, it joined the right. “Do you intend to use that weapon, Soldier?"
The voice was a cold bark, and years of training made both males square their shoulders, the correct response falling automatically from Kenn’s mouth, despite the
insulting title10.
“A Marine never draws without intent. That would be a mistake!”
“And what’s wrong with that, grunt?"
The hard tone allowed no hesitation, “Because the United States Marine Corps does not make mistakes!"
Kenn snapped his mouth shut, studying the driver. Short, golden blond hair, black, mirrored sunglasses, white T-shirt, and yes, there was the single dog tag. He had
been found by one of his own.
“So where ya headed?"
This tone was friendly, open, but Kenn understood that the first, sharp edge of command he had greeted them with was his real voice.
“Northeast."
“Looking for family?"
Kenn shrugged, not looking away as the wind pushed more sand towards them. “Something like that."
“He your son?"
Kenn took the first step toward making himself look good to a stranger. “He might as well be. I’m Kenn. He’s Charlie. We came from Ft. Defiance."
The driver removed his glasses and looked at Kenn with beautiful, pale blue eyes. “I’m Adrian." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Those are my people,
grunt, and they’re from everywhere. We have room as long as you follow the rules and pull your weight.”
The tone was casual, but those startling eyes were hard, assessing. Kenn put away his gun, voice firm. “For a while, but he stays with me and we leave together
when I say. He’s my people.”
“We’re Americans, Marine. No one is here against their will."
Trying not to flush at the scorn in the response, Kenn stayed quiet.
Adrian picked up his mic, told someone to come get them. “We’ll make camp in about an hour and Neil will see that you get settled.”
Kenn grinned. “Thanks. We could use some R&R."
Adrian smiled back. “Don’t thank me yet. After a full week of working with us, you may want to be alone again."
Kenn was encouraged. Work meant organization, authority, and planning. All the things he was looking for in the people they would stay with.
A small gray minivan pulled up next to the semi, the side door already open, and Kenn automatically snapped a quick salute to Adrian. Not waiting for it to be
returned, he waved Charlie in and climbed aboard, sliding the door shut.
The males were very grateful to be in any shelter, but this one was warm, comfortable, and moving, and Kenn sank down with a groan of relief even as his eyes
went over the three armed men watching him. One was roughly the size of a tank, the other two wearing the weapons and tools of Marines, even though they clearly
weren’t.
Neil saw the look and shook his head, mind already racing as he backed the minivan up to third in line. “It’s not like that. If he thought you were a threat, he would
have split you two up. You’d be with him."
Kenn was introduced to Doug, Kyle, and Neil, and gave them only his first name and no details. Their leader knew he was military. These guys could figure it out
for themselves.
All three guards knew instinctively that there was important work ahead for Kenn, serious accomplishments that would benefit them all, but they also sensed there
was something not quite right, not completely true, about the new man.
“The Boss has you with us. It means he probably already has a job in mind for you," Kyle stated from the front passenger seat, turning to look at the 9 mm on
Kenn’s hip. When their eyes met, the Eagle thought they would probably never drink from the same bottle. There was something hinky about the new guy.
Kenn frowned back at the stocky guard with the tanned skin and black curls. Mobster? “Like what? We just met."
All three men hesitated, shrugging, and Kenn sensed it was respect that kept their mouths shut. Those were the boss man's questions and these were his closest
men. “Could be anything," Neil said finally, green eyes unreadable as he ran a hand over shoulder-length brown hair in a movement that implied disappointment and just a
little bitterness.
“Mechanic, baby sitter, it’s hard to tell. He sees things in people, finds their talents."
Neil paused, looking at him in the mirror with eyes that were polite, but not friendly. “Hell, he might think you should be one of us."
Kenn took the cigarette that was offered and handed the bottle of water to the boy relaxing next to him, aware of the red-vested giant watching the teenager.
Maybe wondering what stories Charlie might tell if he were alone? Kenn would make sure that didn’t happen for a while.
“Sounds like a club," Kenn provoked lightly, testing the water, and drew a warning from the Irishman in the swivel seat in front of them.
“It is. We’re his chain of command and we support him – completely,” Doug stated.
Kenn smiled easily, his cool eyes shuttered, clearly not intimidated. “I’d like to be able to do that. We owe him our lives now. Sell me.”
2
Adrian shifted into gear and got his convoy moving. They were headed to Delta for people who had called on the CB this morning, and then he planned to spend a
few days in Oak Creek National Forest. The dust and wind were horrible for driving, the sand got into everything as it gusted against their battered vehicles, and he
wanted to wait until it settled some before heading out again for Montana.
His thoughts went to his newest additions as he drove, mind replaying it. He had known the man and boy for what they were the second he saw their shadowy
outlines, and didn’t think it was only coincidence that they were both Marines. The few he was looking for would have those eyes and that spark. With their secret
bloodline, how could they not? Atlantis and Mary Magdalene might be long gone, but their descendants were not.
Kenn and Charlie were his own kind, more so than even Doug, the Army Veteran. Kenn would likely turn out to be one of his circle, he could feel that, but instead
of being elated to finally have found his first, Adrian was worried. There was a sinking feeling that the Lance Corporal might also be a weak link, and that was
dangerous, because the first of his circle would be the one he depended on the most. The bond of bringing these people through the wilderness was one that would need
to be strong enough to hold them all together. It was the foundation, and if there was a crack, a weak brick, the whole thing could fall.
Head starting to ache from peering through the grit, the leader sighed. It didn’t matter right now. The man was desperately needed, no question there, and he didn’t
have the luxury of "cherry-picking" his help. Besides, Kenn had put the boy behind him instead of in front. That said enough about his character. Didn’t it?
3
The ride was a slow but quiet one, the two males dozing most of the way, and Kenn was impressed from the minute they stopped to make camp. It only grew as he
watched them set it all up, recognizing the equipment and techniques. There was no denying the feeling of longing, that old edge of excitement and glory he’d been
missing. Not just a fellow grunt, Adrian had been a military leader, and Kenn was about to be serving again.
Tents were being erected, campers and trucks being guided into place, yellow caution tape wound around the entire perimeter. People ran for head calls, animals
were let out, supplies unpacked, and through all, Neil - talking, directing, solving and overseeing. Kenn knew instinctively it was a perk of leadership to have that job,
commanding this authority during the camp moves, and was only a little surprised to already feel himself wanting it. He had definitely found his own kind in Adrian, and it
took only a couple of minutes for him to understand by the actions of the guards that the blond had no XO. His right side was empty and they were all vying for the
place.
Kenn's sharp gaze found Adrian directing the camp members in the parking area and his eyes narrowed, feet already moving. Was someone sneaking through the
cars? He was at the leader’s side seconds later, drawing frowns from the men around them, but instead of saying anything, he chose to handle it himself, hoping to earn
points. When the shadow tried to slip a hand between the metal bodies, Kenn locked in a tight grip, nine-mill pointed at the infiltrator's head.
Adrian felt his spirits lift. “Easy, Marine. He’s one of ours."
Realizing it was a test or challenge of some type, Kenn leered, as he let go. “Boo-ya.”
Adrian looked around at the surprised men, most of whom hadn’t seen the rookie, Jeremy, at all because of the blowing sand. “Training lesson number eight -
sometimes, no matter how or what you plan for, Fate throws in a wild card and you do the best you can to survive.”
He gave Jeremy a nod. “Pass. Help them set up the targets and we’ll see if our new man knows how to use the weapon on his hip."
Kenn took the hint, reholstering, as Jeremy threw him a sharp glare and moved off. “Maybe I could help with a drill or something."
Adrian eyes were full of warning, “That and more, but you’ll have to work for it. Nothing’s free in this new world, and certainly not here in Safe Haven."
“I’ve always earned my way before and I expect to now.”
“Welcome aboard, grunt. Let’s get to work.”
Kenn grinned as he fell in on Adrian’s right, very aware of the camp watching him openly, whispering, wondering who he was. Finally! The attention he craved.
Charlie hid his frown and stayed close to Kenn. It felt good here, but it wasn’t home and he had a strong feeling that the Marine would want to stay and never go
back. These were okay people, the teenager could feel that, but he wanted his mom.
She said she was coming soon, he couldn’t help but doubt. He’d heard her calls to someone named Markus, was sure Kenny had too, though he had pretended to
be asleep, and Charlie was afraid for her. He and Kenn were Marines and they had been in big trouble more than once - been lucky to escape. She would never make
it alone, needed help that could not only get her here, but fight for her. Kenny was a true bad-ass and not just anyone would be able to handle him.
Chapter Nine
Ground Hogs’ Day
NORAD Road, Colorado
1
Any hopes Samantha had of finding help at Cheyenne Mountain was gone before she got there. The smoke she had sort of been following all morning rolled up from
behind the hills in thick, black waves that signaled fresh devastation. Then, there were those big, wide-winged birds circling menacingly in the sky above Colorado
Springs - all clear signs that something was wrong.
Sam had built it up in her mind that the government had been ready for decades. All she had to do was get there, persuade just one guard to check her name, her
prints, and she would be safe inside the protective bunker. Ignoring the voice that asked why she was more worthy of protection than any of the dead she’d passed
along the way, Sam had pushed herself relentlessly, making eight to twelve miles a day on foot. She longed to drive (she was sure some of the vehicles she passed
wouldn’t have been damaged by the EMPs), but she couldn’t handle any attention she might attract.
The dreams of safety and authority had been the only thing keeping her going for the last four frightening weeks. Alone and mostly defenseless, Samantha was
moving through a new, unknown world that tried hard every day to break her.
This kind of existence went against everything she’d been raised with. Her sheltered childhood and wealthy parents allowed her to stay above all the human misery
she was seeing daily now, and it was heartbreaking. So many times she had the thought of just gathering supplies and hiding somewhere, but the idea of real safety at the
compound had kept her feet moving through Rawlings, where rats as big as a loaf of bread were starting to take over, and by Table Rock, where she’d been chased
out of a barn by an animal that looked like a cat and acted like a rabid raccoon.
This morning, she had bleached her yellow locks to kill the lice that were now immune to pesticide products. She wasn’t sure where she had picked them up,
thought it was likely from the dead soldier when she’d taken his gun and ammo. In all reality, the tough little bugs were the least of her worries.
To distract herself, she’d been looking for a groundhog, only a little interested in knowing if another six weeks of winter was in the future. Even more so, she needed
a break from the flashes of murdering Henry, of the fear that Melvin was lurking, looking for her, but mostly, of finding no help. She hadn’t seen one of the elusive
creatures, but she had seen a dead porcupine with what was probably a gunshot wound, and wasn’t comforted.
Bracing against the stiff, gritty wind trying to shove her off of her feet, Samantha shifted her battered pack onto her other shoulder, stepping carefully over broken
glass and wide cracks in the rough, weedy pavement. Ahead, she could see a lump in the street that was surely a body.
With the sole of her boot flapping with each step, Samantha drew in a ragged breath and kept going. Instead of giving into the tears that wanted to drown her in
disappointment and fear, she took another step. When she passed the uniformed man, who had been shot in the back, she wiped away a stray tear, telling herself it
didn’t matter if they were all dead. There would still be something she could use, maybe even a radio she could listen to for some idea of where to try next.
Longing for the warmth of the sun she could only just make out behind the thick layer of debris covering the sky, the Storm Tracker instinctively stayed to the left as
she came to the top of a hill, where the wind was sharper, stronger…reeked.
Glad for her goggles in the heavy smoke that swirled over the top of the road in waves, she moved between the trees so she wouldn’t be outlined by the dim sky.
Kneeling down, Sam looked own at the place she would have been, where she would have died, if not for the chopper crashing.
Buried inside the Cheyenne Mountain complex, the huge steel doors to the government’s once impenetrable compound were open, releasing pillars of thick, black
smoke. They drew Samantha’s eye repeatedly as she looked over the devastated shack city that was spread out far into the distance. There were no signs of survivors.
The fences which were supposed to protect the cave-like entrance were gone. Entwined with blackened strings of holiday lights, she could see parts of barbed wire
littering the sprawling refugee camp that lay smoldering on the canyon floor at the base of the enormous stone entrance. The sign announcing what was inside wasn’t
visible through the smoke and flames still shooting out of the airtight doors.
The refugee camp was a sad, pathetic mix of moldy, box homes. Most covered in plastic, boards and wood of every kind formed haphazard living quarters. There
was also a crowded cemetery at the far corner, telling her that these people had come here just after the War. These were the families of those who’d been taken in the
draft and they had been here ever since, slowly dying on the indifferent doorstep of safety. Had anyone been let in?
Almost able to hear the hum of flies swarming around the dead, Sam's horrified eyes went over row after row of destroyed cooking, sleeping, and laundry areas. A
junkyard of cars stripped of everything usable or tradable, more than a few obviously used as shelter. She raised her goggles, unable to stop the tears. No. Not one of
them. These people had been desperate, dying. They would have overrun the guards the second the door was opened.
This was something the government had planned on doing nothing about, and those running things inside had probably watched the slaughter with relief. Well,
probably, until just one compassionate soldier or unwilling "draftee" had opened the door to help, unable to watch his own people, maybe even his own family, be
murdered, and the compound had been breached.
Sam settled deep in the cover of the flower-dotted brush, sheltered from the sharp wind, while she waited for the fires to burn out. It could have happened that
way. Then again, these people might have just been the bait to get the doors open. That also had a ring of truth to it and she looked at the battle scene with new
understanding.
Blackened, smoldering piles of debris highlighted dead bodies lined up on the compound’s huge front steps, mostly men with gunshot wounds. The women and girls
were gone, obviously taken. She pushed away the thought of how bad their lives must be now.
Sam wasn’t sure if she could see anything moving, her view blocked by huge mountain slopes of constantly swaying spruce trees, but from this vantage point, she
might be able to see their campfires tonight, she decided.
The thick layer of clouds overhead threatened rain, or worse, by morning so she began setting up her small shelter - a painstakingly tight-woven roof made of rubber
bands around straw and leaves, and lashed over a wooden frame. Tomorrow she would go down. She was dreading it, but hoped there would be little bits of food and
maybe, just maybe, the location of another compound she could go to.
2
Early the next morning, with the smoke mostly gone from the front doors, Sam went to see what remained of the facility.
She had a very hard time forcing her feet to pass through the blackened, bloody entrance to the bunker. She tried hard not to stare at the dead, but again, she
couldn’t help crying for them as she moved over and around hands outstretched for mercy that hadn’t come. Another two hundred American lives, gone.
Footsteps echoing back eerily, Samantha slowly entered the tall, concrete tunnel with wide, nervous eyes, as sharp, glittering pieces of glass crunched loudly under
her boots. Thin clouds of smoke still lingered above her head, and snapping flies tried unsuccessfully to invade her long trench coat and gloves as she walked.
The red lights that signaled a backup generator in use comforted her as the dim daylight faded from view. She wasn’t sure she could have come in without it. The
feeling made her think of the King novel where the guy walked through a tunnel crammed with cars full of dead bodies - in the pitch black with only a lighter. Not her
and not for any reason.
She had a gun, a Taser that may or may not work, two knives, and a can of mace, but she didn’t feel any safer as she wound deeper, ears straining for any sounds.
This new world was full of death and destruction, more of it down here in these long, dark, concrete halls. As she picked through each room, Sam kept a hand on her
weapon, thinking the downside of the red lights was that she could see the horrors too.
Dead men in uniform littered the stone halls, blood smears and bullet casings hard to avoid slipping on. She flipped her belt light to high as she stepped into the first
room. It was obviously a security area, the four stiff bodies and blood splatter making her step right back out.
The next three rooms held more of the same. There were no corpses, but the spray on the walls showed that there had been, and she wondered why these bodies
had been removed and not the rest. A trap for troops just making it to the complex?
Catching a faint hint of gasoline, Sam moved by open doors marked Utilities and Lavatories, knowing they wouldn't hold anything she needed. The tunnel she was in
quickly dead-ended into a spacious, bunk area with a lot of bodies in the beds, wearing clothes that were an even mix of uniforms and Capitol Hill casual.
Not sure if she could make herself go into the room despite the lights, Samantha went back to the stairs, thinking she would try it last if there was nothing else. There
had to be three dozen corpses in that big room and she didn’t want them between her and the outside for any length of time.
Certain the main compound would be deeper, Sam chose the door marked ‘Sub-basements E-M’. Moving into the bowels of the Cheyenne Mountain operations
center, she could hear water gushing like falls, beating down above her. The next level was K, marked ‘Water’. She stepped through the doorway, but only stayed for a
minute. The reservoir was there, but the reek of gasoline told her the attackers had filled their own supply, and then ruined what they couldn’t carry so that no one else
could use it.
There was damage was on the stairs too, torn pieces of signs and posters, more bullet casings. Sam eased further down the narrow metal steps, wincing when her
sole flapped loudly. She went through each door she found, coming right back out of most - the fire damage and reek of corpses was simply too much. On the wall next
to the door marked only as ‘M’, was a charred and broken hand scanner, and Sam knew she was in the right place.
Open, riddled with gunshots, the door hung crookedly on the frame and looked like it had fared the best. The room itself was destroyed - broken furniture, bodies,
glass, and bloody papers littering the thin, red carpet. Her eyes scanned the room, but saw no other exits, no other doors. Surely, there was more than this?
Climbing the stairs to the previous floor, Samantha noticed another door in the shadows of the wall, another melted hand scanner. When the door wouldn’t open,
she frowned. Survivors who had locked themselves in? What should she do? Sam looked down, saw that the floor was dark and blackened as if it had been burned.
Her stomach lurched as she realized what odor was lurking under the harsh smell of smoke.
The Storm Tracker stumbled back up the metal stairs, trying not to gag. After that, it was a struggle just to make herself open the next door, let alone explore the
two or three tunnels off each one. She found closets and storage areas, a lot of offices and strategy rooms, but the damage was complete. The blood was so thick on
some floors that the Presidential seal was no longer visible.
She'd found a lounge that had been stripped of everything, two burnt-out cafeterias, laundry rooms without a sheet or blanket, and three medical bays that were
heavily damaged - not even a box of bandages spared. The men who had done this had made sure that anyone who survived, would find nothing to help keep them
alive. Back on the ground floor, her eyes were drawn to a small painting of President Clinton. It hung askew, revealing another dark shadow. Set into the stone, it was a
"throw room", a secure area where the Secret Service could literally throw a person so they’d be safe, while the agents guarded the hatch, the only way in or out. This
one had a bloody handprint on the rail that she avoided as she hefted herself into the 4x4 opening, thinking it clearly hadn't held.
The hole dumped her out onto a thick mat, in a narrow hall with seven doors. She listened intently before opening each one, but heard nothing. Although constructed
with comfort in mind, the Presidential retreat contained no little treasures with which to line her pockets. Nothing had survived, and the smells had her covering her
mouth as she explored the site of her country's last stand.
The sixth door was a secondary war room; computers destroyed, communications equipment lying broken on the carpet, bodies of uniformed men that Samantha
vaguely recognized draped across chairs and desks. The blood puddles and spatters were impossible to avoid as she checked stacks of papers and books. None of the
intact electronics responded to her fingers.
Samantha realized that the dark red Spanish writing on the walls wasn’t marker, and backed out of the room with her stomach in a knot. There was nothing here.
Scratch…
Sam spun, fingers fumbling for her gun. She stopped when she saw the big rat, thinking if not for the noise, she would try to kill it anyway to keep it from doing what
the insects were. Scowling at the alert rodent, she slapped at a fat fly and moved on.
The last door led to a lavatory. When she saw no bodies, not even blood smears, she allowed herself to use one of the dusty, cobwebbed stalls, thinking peeing had
never been so bittersweet. Even taking paper from the almost empty roll hurt, and it was a struggle not to cry. It was all gone.
A shadow, dark and small, dropped suddenly from the ceiling above her, landed on her bare knee.
“Damn!” She slapped at the mutated freak as it ran upwards, missing its extra legs. It was very fast and she gritted her teeth as the arachnid bit her, sending a rush of
pain up her leg that shot straight into her spine.
Sam squashed the fleeing spider against her jeans, grinding the 12 legged and more than 10-eyed mutation into little pieces, and she wiped the remains down the
dusty stall wall with a smirk of short-lived satisfaction, “Serves ya right!”
She wiped the bite with the last of the paper on the roll, a bit uneasy at how sore the wound already was, and then put it from her mind. She would check the lounge
she had passed on the ground floor, and then get the hell out of this mausoleum.
The climb back out of the bunker took her longer, made her even more anxious, as she half waited for someone to jump out of one of the doors she was passing.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the open tunnel came into sight, able to see the faint, dim glow of daylight at the other end. One room and she was outta here!
Sam stepped into the smoky, vomit-smelling, vending machine room, eyes spying unbroken glass. She went to the three tall dispensers eagerly, but every ring was
empty.
She slapped her hand against the dirty glass in frustration. “Damn it!”
“Help..."
Sam jumped, turned and fumbled for her gun with shaking hands.
“Yes, please."
Samantha drew in air, glad her bladder was empty as she raised her belt light for a better look at the man dying on the dark brown and white striped sofa.
“Please."
There was total awareness in those dead eyes and Sam wished her peripheral vision would disappear as he begged her silently as well.
The gore and blood was everywhere, and she began breathing through her mouth to keep from gagging. As she stepped closer, trying not to look at his emaciated
body, she realized it was a white sofa. The brown was his blood and rotting body that had begun to dry into the material. He had the sickness. The oozing, bald head
and open, leaking sores were undeniable, and her eyes filled with tears, with pity.
“Please… help me."
The pitiful whisper made the man seem more human and she slowly moved closer. “What can I do?"
“Kill me," came the immediate answer. Before she could tell him no, her hand had raised her gun.
She couldn’t do it though, and the man moaned. A wet, liquid sound, she heard the grinding of his jaws as he coughed violently. Scarlet flew from his mouth,
ejecting one of his teeth, and reddish drops of agony rolled down his distorted face.
“Please!" he begged.
She raised the gun again as his gasps for air filled the room. His body was no longer responding to his commands, the radiation destroying him from the inside out.
She pushed past her horror to talk, voice shaky.
“Where else can I go?"
He struggled to answer. “Only a base... in Cheyenne still taking calls. All gone...faulty air valves.”
“What about the Essex?”
“No! Ground... Zero. Evac'd after the hit... No transportation made for... radiation.”
His eyes had begun to run with reddish-green liquid in thick clots, but she could still see the hell in them.
“There must be someplace. What about all the Joint Chiefs and Secretaries?”
“Breached... Burned alive... wouldn’t touch me.”
Samantha’s mind went to the only locked door and the smell of gasoline she’d noticed, and she shook away the horrible images. At least their struggles were over
now. “What about the men who did this?”
The dying man on the gory couch began to heave, coughing, and Sam took a step back as thick blood and puss sprayed from his grossly-swelled lips.
“Mexican... Guerrillas... came during the... storm. Hit Ft. Carson first. Attacked the refugees... and took all females... doors opened, malfunction... retaliation for the
War.”
Sam couldn’t think of anything else to ask, and the man raised a finger, skin sliding nauseatingly to the side of the bone. “Please…do it now. Don’t know... anything
else.”
She tried to smile as she raised the gun. “I’m Samantha Moore.”
“Pat...Mi...Michaels.”
She smiled in horrified recognition, and when he closed his eyes and tried to nod, she pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed, his body jumping like Melvin’s had when she hit him with the Taser, and then Sam was running, her steps echoing, mocking her flight. She had no
idea where she would go, only that she shouldn’t have come here. These were not her people anymore.
Chapter Ten
February 6th, 2013
Ohio
1
She definitely needed help.
It had taken Angela a while to convince herself that calling Marc was what had to be done to get her son back. The voice of fear was constantly warning of past
punishments, but now that she’d called, it was a struggle to keep from doing it again. She hated being alone, hated being scared.
Angela was dreading the journey she was about to make, but most of all, she worried about the edge of panic in her dreams that said it would all be much worse
than her life with Kenny, if that were possible. Her nightmares said she would face dangers that made the Marine look like an amusement park ride and if not for the
deep love in her mother’s heart, she wouldn’t go.
The woman frowned at her thoughts. None of her fears mattered. Only her boy did, and she could wait no longer to leave. The circled day on her calendar was still
over a week away, but she was going now and needed to know where Marc was, had to be sure he was really coming this time. Without his help, her plans stood little
chance.
She wasn’t looking forward to telling him her story, planned to put it off as long as she could, but the odds were against her making it alone. And then there was
Kenny. He wouldn’t just hand her son over and let her go. Between her Marine and the terrain, she would definitely need help, and Marc Brady was the only one she
had left to turn to.
"You can’t!" her fear shouted, telling her Kenny would kill her for it and the door in her mind stayed firmly shut.
Angela stood stiffly in the dark hallway of her apartment building, fear preventing her from making the call. Once she did this, once she left, there was no turning
back. The urge to go inside and keep waiting was incredibly strong, but she shook her head, heart taking control.
“I’ll kill him if I have to! He won’t keep us apart!"
The rush of angry energy blew her fear aside and the door swung open. Her breathing became shallow, hair beginning to gather static, and power ran through the
mud-tracked hall as the Witch gathered the energy needed to find the right doors that would cover hundreds of miles. Her eyelashes fluttered shut as the memories
washed over her, strengthening the connection.
Jet-black hair, long and feathered, and soft on her fingers as their mouths touched. He was the only man she had ever loved and she called for him now,
releasing a powerful vibration that rattled like an earthquake as it went.
“Marc!"
His hands had been light, gentle magic as they crossed forbidden lines.
“Marcus!"
He had loved her and walked away, and she had never recovered.
“Marc!"
“I’m here, Angie."
He sounded older, used, and she winced at the pain of having him in her head. It reminded her of when it had been just them against the world.
“Are you still coming?"
Fear of the past made her hold her breath, whispered, "No,” that she would be alone forever.
“Yes. I should be in Cincinnati in less than a week.”
Angela let out the breath, ashamed of the grateful cry from her anxious heart. Five to seven days away. She had been afraid he wouldn’t come, and was still worried
he wouldn’t care once he found out what she wanted. She didn’t know what kind of person he had become and she was depending on a debt that was very old.
“Will you tell me what’s going on? I picked up a few things, but I can be better prepared if I know more.”
"But, you do know what kind of person he is or you wouldn’t have called him," the old Angela, the one the War had almost freed, stated flatly from her
twisted cell door. "Tell him what he needs to know."
“Angie?”
“I’m here, Brady.” She could almost feel him wince this time and it surprised her to find she didn’t enjoy it. She owed him much worse.
“Can you tell me?"
The caution in his voice allowed the old Angela to open the door between them a little wider and the words fell with a simple awkwardness that made her cry huge,
silent tears of loss.
“My...son is somewhere in the middle of the country. I need you to get me there and help me steal him back, if it comes to that. I’m leaving now. We can join up on
the road.”
There wasn’t even a thoughtful pause after her request. “It’s really bad out here, Angie. I wish you’d wait for me."
She could feel him immediately wanting to take it back, but her rage was quick, harsh. “I tried that already!"
Suddenly, she was sixteen again, hurt, betrayed, and alone, with no one but Corporal Kenny to turn to. She slammed the door on his incoming protests, but the old
Angela was stronger now and she was forced to listen to the muffled apologies and explanations he labored to push at her. She heard the words and his remorse, but no
matter what he said, Angela refused to answer. She was ready to go and could deny her mother’s heart no longer.
In the dawn’s early light, the doctor approached the shiny black Blazer waiting in the secluded garage. Her anxious blue eyes went over the extra tires on the
luggage rack, the rear area neatly crammed with boxes, and of course, the tiny grave she had spent time at almost every day since the War. Leaving her baby boy
behind was hard, and she had to force her grief back. She couldn’t abandon the living child to stay and mourn the dead one.
Angela wiped away her tears and looked at the Blazer again, finishing her comparison of the contents to the long list in her hand. Did she have everything? After
another minute, she put the paper in the mailbox, along with an envelope in plastic and the door keys from around her neck. It would have to be enough.
Her eyes looked over her Tempo, making sure the wind and weather hadn’t moved her notes. She had also written on Charlie’s bedroom wall and left the keys in
the ignition of her car - just in case. Her quiet, respectful son was becoming angry and inpatient, and if he slipped off on his own (and survived! Please, let him
survive!), she would change course to intercept him.
She had no delusions about the world they were in now, and she made sure he would know the truth if he came back here. The real truth, not that bullshit she had
been forced to tell him for the last decade. There had been a great love, a hard choice, a lie, and a deal of convenience, but really, none of that mattered now. What did
matter was telling him where he could turn if he found himself alone. The notes would do that, would hopefully keep him alive until his father could come for him.
Noticing the light, ashy flurries starting to fall, Angela got the last bag from the hallway. As she stepped out the door, she saw a woman reflected in the glass that she
wasn’t sure she knew. She looked so much stronger than she felt now and she slid into the driver’s seat with a thin smile. She was changing again…
“Going somewhere?" Warren’s cold voice just outside the open door was unexpected.
Angela flinched, but didn’t draw the gun her hand was resting on as she listened. How hard would she have to fight? Could a good bluff set her free? She hadn’t
heard them come, hadn’t felt a warning. Probably, they’d been here all along, watching and letting her do the work of loading supplies they would have if she wasn’t
careful.
They were lined up across the bare, muddy courtyard in front of her building, cutting off any path of escape. They watched her openly this time, hunger in their eyes.
They were still and quiet too, another bad sign, and she saw the outline of bulletproof vests under thick layers of clothing. Her heart skipped a beat. They had come
prepared.
"Or, so they think," the Demon inside comforted. "Hold your ground."
“He’s close. I have to go."
Warren shook his head. His beaten-up face and slumped shoulders told her that the chain of command at the College had likely changed, making this a more
dangerous confrontation. Talking her way out suddenly seemed very unlikely as she looked into his feverish, zealot’s eyes.
“If you move the car, they’ll open fire. Get out."
Angela slowly slid to her feet, eyes going over the six men spread out behind Aaron, each with a firearm aimed at not the Blazer, but her.
She looked at Warren with a baiting brow raised, seeing he still had the bible under his arm. “No longer under your protection, Preacher?"
Warren shook his head, eyes bitter, discolored. “No one is."
It was confirmation and yet none of the others stepped up to do the speaking, to take control. When Warren closed the door and turned to face her, she noticed
they stayed well back, even Aaron, who she thought was probably the only one she really had to worry about shooting her. The others wanted her alive. Aaron wanted
her dead for humiliating him.
“Let me go. I don’t want to hurt anyone."
There were nervous looks exchanged between the half dozen would-be captors, instead of the scorn she had been hoping for, and it told her that they had probably
already discussed the possibilities of getting hurt and were determined to follow through.
Her anger and anxious heart flared to life. She would have to fight her way out then. Angela slipped back to let the Witch have a little more control. She had to fight
- she didn’t have to kill. “And we won’t!"
Her reminder to the Witch seemed to be a cue for the scruffy males, and they moved toward her together, eyes grim, faces leery.
The Witch whispered the words and Angela muttered, hands casting them out: “Poison! Blindness! Disease!"
Their reaction was instant.
"I can't see...I can't see!"
"Skin's on fire! Someone put me out!"
"Help me, Mac!"
It was awful, powerful magic that had them tripping, landing hard on the cold, dirty ground, but Warren wasn’t fooled by the vivid bluff. He put a hand out to grab
her, but jerked back as lightning flew into a tree in the courtyard next to them, shaking the ground.
The oak exploded, raining down wooden shrapnel in warning, but Warren ignored it. He snatched her by her sweater, jerked her up against his hard, thin body.
“Surrender yourself to me, Witch!”
Her face became a snarl of hatred. “I belong to no man!”
Lightning crashed again, close, and she pushed him away with a strength he wasn't expecting. When he tried to grab her again, the Witch whispered two words and
Angela felt power flowing through her, something alive and hungry.
She closed her eyes as her newest gift was revealed: “Fire! Ice!”
Lightning cracked for a third time, striking the truck Warren had arrived in, and it exploded, twisted metal raining over their battlefield. Warren and Aaron ducked,
but the Witch didn’t flinch and wasn’t hit.
The sky opened up a second later and huge chunks of hail, black and heavy, began pelting them. The four men whose names she had never known recovered too
quickly, her magic weak, but they fled in fear, never thinking to use the guns that most of them had dropped from panicking fingers.
The Witch held out a hand, where flames now danced along her fingertips and the two remaining men stopped, eyes confirming they were in over their heads and
knew it, but were still unwilling to back down.
“If you push me, I will kill you," the Demon’s voice was cold, without weakness.
When Aaron raised his gun, finger tightening on the trigger, the Witch surged forward to laugh at him. “You think that’ll work on the likes of me? The woman
may die but I am immortal!”
The Witch shoved forward, demon face merging with Angela’s and the black man went pale at the sight of glowing red eyes and hungry white fangs. Horns
sprouted from the sides of her head, her long, crooked mouth opened to reveal razor sharp, needlelike teeth. When the Demon’s forked tongue lashed out at him,
Aaron turned and ran, never looked back.
The Witch remained, resisting Angela’s attempts to get her under control, and the Preacher showed no fear even though he was now facing her alone.
“You are not strong enough to override her morals. She is a doctor. She will not let you kill me," he countered, sure of his answer.
The Witch grinned back, red eyes changing, becoming reptilian. “You know so little. Doctors kill often. They don’t murder. This would be self-defense.”
Leaning on faith, Warren grabbed her arm again, Bible still in his hand. “I am the Lord’s Prophet and I see you, Demon of Souls! Surrender yourself to me in the
name of the Father, the Son...aaahhhh!”
The Witch released the ball of flames before Angela could stop her, and the fire leapt hungrily up the drunken Preacher's bare hands and face. He slapped at himself
frantically.
Angela shoved the Demon back before she could hit him with a final, consuming blast. “Stop! It’s enough.”
"Never! Never be enough!" the Witch roared, furious at the attempted theft of her freedom.
Angela looked at Warren with hard eyes, ignoring his pain as he tried to put himself out.
“You have offended us, Preacher, and the Demon wants your soul as payment,” she stated harshly as he yanked off his smoking jacket. Fear and hatred filled his
face. “She’ll settle for your death.” The woman held out a hand, where tiny flames were flowing in her palm, growing, shaping into a ball. “Does it have to be today?”
Warren wanted to push anyway, she could feel it, and Angela let the Witch’s red eyes blend once again with her own. “Last warning…”
The religious fanatic spun away, tattered book falling to the muddy ground.
Angela sucked air into lungs that burned from holding her breath. She’d won. She was free! Her scream of triumph echoed as they fled.
More confident now that she had another defense to fall back on (flames and ice; fire and brimstone - how fitting!) Angela moved toward her Blazer, reasonably
sure Warren wouldn’t die, and content that the others wouldn’t follow, even if he wanted them to. If he came for her later, it would be only him and maybe Aaron. Two
against one were much better odds, she thought, not knowing how wrong that was.
She pulled the Blazer’s door closed as Warren vanished behind the thick, rolling black smoke billowing from his burning truck. When his faint outline was gone, the
Witch slid fully back to allow Angela a last look through her own eyes, at the empty home - prison cell - she had lived in for the last fourteen years. All she felt was
relief. She was finally free and she couldn’t wait another second to go.
Locking the doors, Angela pushed the wall of grief and guilt away as the tiny grave caught the corner of her eye. Shadows darted and smoke rolled, as she started
the engine and shifted into drive. She felt sad and excited, but mostly scared, even with the gun at her side. Her kind was not meant to be alone. With a last look, she
pulled her sunglasses over teary eyes and drove away, empty and full mailboxes waving a final, hard goodbye.
2
It was a long day for Angela. The slow going made her grit her teeth in frustration and curse aloud as she spent the entire morning creeping her way west. She
squeezed through wherever she could, gently pushing dog houses, a dumpster, furniture, and cars aside, and it pained her to see whole blocks still decorated for the
holiday that would never come.
The pavement everywhere was cracked, full of weeds and potholes, and she found herself listening for the hit that would give her the first flat tire of her journey. She
began to ease through muddy yards to avoid the glass that littered the streets, and then berated herself for only making two miles in four hours. More than once, she
found her way completely blocked and had to drive through fences and back yards, wincing at every snap of wood, plastic, and bone.
She felt very exposed as she traveled through the riot-ravaged towns that she had known before the War. Everything was so different, so dangerous, that she
would never have recognized them if she hadn’t been here before. Doubts about her ability to make the trip hit her hardest as she passed through Cheviot, Ohio. It
scared her, shook her up more than dealing with Warren, and her dreams were filled with it when she finally slept.
Angela had tried to steel herself as she entered the city limits, sure it would be as bad as her own neighborhood, but it had been worse. She cried as she drove,
tears blurring the awful scene, but not enough. The medical salve under her nose pushed back the stench, but again, not enough, and the gritty wind gusted harder.
Half of the buildings were gone, burned own to charred, blackened frames. Those that did remain, had no windows, no doors. The main street was crammed with
abandoned cars and wrecks, but it was the dead that made her heart ache. There were so many! Had no one in this small city found safety?
Angela wiped at her eyes, steering carefully around the blackened shell of an Army transport truck, the driver’s uniformed body still rotting inside. She sucked in a
horrified breath as she cleared it, eyes drawn to what remained of the small municipal building.
Only the tall pillars still stood, the wide field of rubble behind it unrecognizable, and the tears came harder at the sight of so many who had represented authority
decaying on those charred stone steps. Police, soldiers, and citizens lay in a tangled heap, the scene gruesome.
Fishtailing suddenly on the ice, Angela hit the brakes too sharply and slid on the slushy side street. Her front tires hit the curb hard enough to throw her against the
seat, and the scare allowed her to get control of herself. She wiped her eyes again, just concentrating on the quiet rumble of her engine, and after a moment, felt better.
She started to back up, but something changed in the air suddenly, was different, and she turned off the heater to listen as she looked around intently. She’d heard
something.
"Not a threat," the Witch informed her, settling back. "Just more starving people."
They were close, watching. Angela could feel it, and she put the Blazer in park. She climbed into the back seat, ignoring the greed inside that was insisting she
couldn’t spare anything. “Yes, I can.”
A few minutes later, she gently dropped two bags out the open window, ignoring the flies that snapped at her, and then got moving again, hoping it would help. She
had included a note with a list of stores that still had nonperishable food left, but in her heart, she knew she had only delayed the inevitable, and hated the guilt she was
feeling for leaving them here to die.
"But they can search the stores." The old Angela didn't understand. "Why will they die?"
"Because they’re sheep," the Witch answered sleepily. "Without a Shepherd, they’ll stay out in the cold and freeze to death. They’ve lost their strength.
Those who cannot find hope will not survive."
Those words pulled at Angela, echoed in her bitter heart. Kenny had obviously found his reason to fight - her boy's dreams were full of the people they’d joined.
She knew they were headed to Montana, and it worried her, made her stomach burn as she wondered what kind of sorry bastard was now in charge of her child. She
didn’t trust Kenny's judgment at all, and she paid little attention to the Charlie’s inexperienced impressions. No one Kenn approved of could be good.
Being cautious, Angela drove slowly past long gravel driveways surrounded with pine trees and knee-high shrubs gone wild from lack of care, and they gave her no
more comfort than the homes she could see as she left the ghost town behind. They were sprawling beasts with paint-chipped porches and untended lawns, their fields
ready to be planted. Their two car garages would likely hold one white or red Ford Crown Victoria and one midnight blue 1966 Starfire that would now wait forever
for its owner to lovingly restore it. There were no signs of normal life, or any other, here.
Angela took her first break around four, pulling behind a faded billboard that warned buzzed driving was still drunk driving, and she rolled her eyes at the irony
as she lit a joint. It didn’t matter now. Probably hadn’t as much before as the government had made out. Like every plant in nature, marijuana had its purposes. Right
now it was keeping her calm, steadying her resolve, and she was very glad she’d found the big garbage bag in one of her neighbors’ apartments. She was terrified, but
there was no way she could ever turn back and live with herself, knew it for sure as she sat on the warm hood, sweater pulled close. Her first-born son was out here
somewhere in this hell, and she would find him or die trying.
3
Angela made camp her first night in an unturned corn field lined with patches of black ice and small, dirty snow drifts, in about half a mile from the jammed-up lanes
of Interstate 74. The brown, brittle stalks didn’t quite come up to the roof, but when she threw a wide, dark tarp over the top, scattering slushy snow on it, the vehicle
blended in, and she immediately felt better as darkness began to roll over the broken land.
Angela went to the area she had driven through, straightening rows until the path looked normal again, and her eyes darting nervously at every small sound and
movement of shadows. She didn’t see any insects or other wildlife, not even ants crawling over the dirt and yellowing switch grass as she set up camp. She did hear a
robin, but was unable to pinpoint its location by the weak call. Things were no better here than what she’d left behind.
Only getting out what she needed for dinner, Angela moved quickly and quietly, listening hard. Nursing a smashed thumb and a sore finger that she’d pulled a large
splinter from (nailing things and lighting them up was what her Marine was good at), she left the back hatch open, and with the ends of the wide tarp hanging down to
the ground, was almost completely shielded from the road.
The sandwiches were gone quickly, as was the light, and she sat on the tailgate, surrounded by pillows, sipping on a hot cup of chamomile and relaxing. The warmth
of the heater pushed back a little of the loneliness, and she drank her tea, watching the last of a vivid green sunset.
She hadn’t heard anyone on the CB, just gunshots in the distance that made her drive faster, and she hadn’t expected to, but not seeing any people, at least not any
alive, had bothered her too. When she filled in a page on her journal from now on, she would include how many people she saw on the way and what each town was
like. She wasn’t sure why she was doing it, but instinct said she should, and so she would. In this new world, instincts were a defense that had to be used.
Though she’d only come eight miles, it was a start. Enough to drive it home that once she found Charlie, there would be a price to pay for leaving when her man had
made it clear he wanted her to stay, to wait for him no matter what. Until the War, she had never considered disobeying Kenny. They had a deal, and he got mean when
she broke the rules. He would be pissed about her leaving - but about Marc Brady, he would be furious - and blood would be spilled, likely hers.
Kenny would never believe anything she offered as an explanation, and she would have to warn Marc that it might come down to real violence. It was only fair he
knew what he was getting into. Where was he now?
"You can look," the Witch tried to seduce, but Angie didn’t. Not because it was wrong, but because a part of her was too excited, couldn’t wait to see him again.
What if she still had feelings for him?
Not only would it really complicate everything, but it had to be a mortal sin to long for one man while still firmly attached to another. She told herself she was eager
to see him because it meant getting to her son and was finally able to sleep. Her dreams were not easy, haunted with visions of her son, vanished, gone forever, leaving
her to spend eternity searching the new American wastelands for him.
Chapter Eleven
February 10th, 2013
1
“Angie!"
Marc snapped out of the nightmare abruptly, heart thumping. His eyes focused on steamed-up windows, feeling sweat rolling down his neck and back in small
torrents.
He flipped off the heat and closed his eyes again. He could still see how her long, brittle hair had flared in the dust; how the blood-smeared footprints dragged out
behind Angie as she walked the broken landscape, searching for her son while the radiation victims from his bus escape, the walking dead, followed on her heels. Was it
only a dream or perhaps a vision, a warning? No way to know for sure, but it made him uneasy.
Marc snapped his seatbelt on over his long black coat, telling himself it didn’t matter. Wherever she was, he would find her. He looked over his shoulder and
grinned at the animal curled up on the neatly packed back seat. “How’s it hangin', Dog?”
The big timber wolf ducked his head under a wide paw, and groaned.
Marc grunted in agreement, wishing the sun would hurry up and rise so he could make good time…and because he was sick of the damp, cold air that always
hinted of snow. Not yet. Not until he found her.
“I hear ya. Few more days and we’ll take a break - get some fresh food and extra sleep.”
As if he understood, and Marc wasn’t sure he didn’t, the blackish-red and gray animal rolled over onto his back and stared at his master upside down with piercing
gold eyes full of patience.
Marc yawned again, wanting a shave and shower, but he quickly swallowed a pill instead, wanting to be alert to drive. He was exhausted, making 250 miles in
eleven days, 150 of it in the last five, even eating on the move. He had pulled over when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He figured Angie was roughly a
hundred miles ahead of him, and he had pushed hard to get here. As a result, he wasn’t completely sure where in southwest Ohio he was.
The roads were unbelievable and intersections required hours to get through in some places. It had taken him a full day just to get across the suspension bridge from
Kentucky. Would have been faster if he’d left his vehicle behind, but he wouldn’t do that without having another lined up.
He rolled down the window to view the foggy street sign. The first thing he noticed was the billboard above him wishing the city of Cincinnati a happy, prosperous
New Year.
“Some great joke,” he muttered, seeing a muddy, rusting CSX rail yard under inches of sludge. The dark trestles were barely visible through the fog, and even the
graffiti he could see (Die Milton! Hondo eats draft ballz. Px2012) looked like it had been there for years, instead of just eight weeks.
Nothing moved on the dirty suspension bridge swaying precariously behind him, just the same wind and rain-blown debris that was everywhere. Up ahead, were the
burned frames of two Hum-vees11 with a charred Wright Patterson logo on the sides. Both had crashed into a stand of dead and dying pines. His frown deepened.
It was bad here, contaminated, and Marc was glad Angie had left, even while he worried about her being alone. Clearly, it had become too dangerous to stay.
Sighing, Marc consulted the map. Where was he? His heart jumped as he figured out his location. Close. Very close to the home Angie had left her ghosts in.
A very short ten minutes later, the Sergeant was rolling up Queen City hill, seeing, but not worried about, the cleared lanes. Probably happened back in the first
weeks after the War, when some cities had actually tried to return to normal…which was when their power had gone off.
Marc wondered again why he was here. Angie had a man. Why wasn’t he helping get their son back? Had her husband run out on her? Maybe he’d been taken in
the draft, along with the boy. Marc nodded. That made sense.
"Maybe he’s dead," his heart whispered an alternative eagerly.
The grunt shoved the thought away with revulsion as he braked gently in front of the yellow brick apartment building. He had been here a decade ago, but hadn’t
possessed the courage, the callousness, to knock. She’d had a completely new life by then and he had realized it was one that didn't include him – one he had no right
to disrupt.
Marc had returned to duty and thrown himself into his career: saving, fixing, and impressing. Eventually, he’d ended up in MARSOC, where they used his brains as
well as his brawn, but he had never married, unable to even look for a woman he could settle for. He’d never regretted loving Angie, only that he’d let them get caught
before they could run.
“She’s not here now. Place is empty," Marc muttered, glad he didn’t have to face her man, but not really sure why he had come to this place.
Chasing ghosts was always a bad idea, but here he was, drawn into the past again against his will. He had spent his entire adult life trying to convince himself that it
hadn’t meant much, that she hadn’t been the one. Marc was filled with sudden, familiar shame - he'd taken advantage of her, had known it was wrong, but had been
unable to resist, and oh God, hadn’t every orgasm since paled in comparison? He owed her a huge debt, and there was little she could ask for that he wouldn’t give.
After all, she was family.
I want to know what type of life she’s had, Marc thought. That’s why I came - Recon. I just don’t want to face her totally in the dark.
He left the engine running, Dog watching anxiously, and Marc didn’t lock the door though the remote entry was in his pocket. Anyone who tried to enter the Blazer
would get a big surprise.
He jogged through the drizzle to the door, only vaguely noticing the burnt-out shape of a truck that looked more recent and a huge oak tree that had obviously been
hit by something harsh. His mind dismissed it as yet another battle scene.
Opening the cracked door, Marc slid his long coat behind his gun handles without even thinking about it. The hallway was very dark, and smelled like burnt sugar.
Two sheets of paper on the carpeted floor immediately caught his eye and Marc knew instinctively who had written them.
I’ll settle for whatever is in those pages, he decided, snapping on his penlight and picking them up from the mud-tracked carpet. He didn’t really want to go
inside the home that another man had shared with Angie, where some lucky bastard had lived the life Marc had dreamed about every night since being ripped from her
life.
The Sergeant read the letters with a sharp-edged curiosity that missed little.
Charlie, first, you should lock yourself inside and be as quiet as you can. Do it right now!
If you’re reading this, we either missed each other or I didn’t survive the trip. I’m terrified of that, of leaving you on your own. I wish I could be with you now! I
love you and miss you so much it feels like there’s a knife in my heart.
I have a big secret to tell you, one that was supposed to wait until you were grown and out of the house. Kenny is not your Dad. I know you've suspected, but I
couldn’t tell you before and I’m sure you understand why.
Your Dad is Marcus Charles Brady.
Our family was bible-strict Christian and when your dad and I fell for each other, only cousins by marriage, it was still too close for people to accept. We’d always
known and we hid it for a long time, but feelings like that can’t be hidden…or fought.
We didn’t plan on it, we were just swept away. We had planned to leave when I was older, but fate didn’t give us time. A bit after your dad was sent away, I
realized you were on the way. And I wanted you more than anything, from that first second of awareness.
I didn’t tell anyone, just ran as fast as I could. They had legal control until I was of age, and since I was only 16, they could have taken you. Worse, I’ll always
believe they would have made me get an abortion. I ran and…Kenny found me.
How it happened is my own personal hell – you already feel too much of my pain – and I won’t share that. Kenny and I made a deal that said you and I would
become his obedient family. It seemed like the best I could do at the time. I know now that it was the wrong choice. How could I not, when I can see it on my skin, feel
it in your looks?
Yet, after all that’s happened, he has chosen not to come back for me.
That only leaves one person you can trust – your dad. You have to call Brady, and you know what I mean. He’ll come once he knows it’s true. I’m so sorry now,
that I never told Marc, never gave him the chance to be your father. He had no idea you existed, or he would have come back for us. I know it in my heart...
There was more, but Marc let it go. Anger, guilt, and joy warred in his heart. They had a son. They made a baby! She should have told him! He would have come
back a happy man.
"Really?" his heart was cruel, "You wouldn’t have felt like a trapped criminal, sure it was wrong?"
Marc let out a harsh sound. That’s exactly how it would have felt back then, but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t knocked, and she’d been forced to turn to someone
else.
“I should have talked to her that day."
"Yes."
Understanding instantly that this man had been here all along, waiting for her…their son, Marc spun, Colt out and ready.
“You must be the sinner she talks about in the letter. Her lover,” Warren sneered, body stinging from the burns, mind flaming at the defeat.
Marc took in the charred skin and furious brown eyes, and instantly connected them to the wrecks outside.
“You’re she couldn’t wait for me.”
He was suddenly sure this man had forced Angie to defend herself. The rage was nearly overwhelming.
Warren scowled at the confirmation of their relationship, raising his gun as he moved out of the dark corner where he had been lurking. His daughter and his
leadership were long gone because of the Witch, but maybe he had another chance at her. If he could just wound her lover!
Warren's face was alive with hatred. “Will she come back for you?"
Brady’s stormy eyes darkened. “She’s not the one you should worry about."
They moved at the same time, but only one shot lit up the darkness as the Colt barked loudly in a flash of justice and death.
Warren’s weapon dropped to the carpeted floor, blood blooming on his chest. A second later, the broken preacher dropped to his knees, eyes almost relieved as
scarlet ran in small streams from one corner of his mouth.
Marc stared down at the shuddering man death was fast approaching. When Warren’s mouth opened, but no sound came out, he seemed to understand anyway.
“She’s not here to serve any man. She’s special.”
“A Demon!” Warren choked out.
Marc’s eyes went colder, but he only frowned, watching the man take his last breath while either thunder or gunfire cracked violently in the distance.
“Look at yourself. You have no right to judge.”
2
After pulling Warren’s cooling corpse out into the wet, morning light and around the corner of the building, Marc put the letters back together on the glass door
where he was sure they had originally been, and left yet another ghost to haunt the world.
Brady returned to his warm vehicle, giving the anxious wolf a quick rub of comfort as he turned on the wipers to clear the heavy layer of rain now thumping down on
them. He wiped the stinking liquid from his hands and face as he drove away, then lit a smoke and tried to relax.
Concentrating the way she had taught him so long ago, Marc called out as the riot-ravaged streets of Cincinnati began to roll by. He had to know she was okay.
“Angie!"
He hit the brakes as a child’s weather-faded ball rolled across the street, its color that of the dirty pavement he was driving on, and slowly rolled on as the wet wind
gusted against the muddy 4x4.
"Angie!"
“I’m here, Brady." Her tone was cool, unreadable.
“Where? I just left Queen City hill."
Angela hesitated, knowing by his tone that he had read the letter that was meant for their son. How long had he known where she lived?
“About ten miles north of Greensburg, Indiana," she sent as she got up and started packing her small camp neatly back into the Blazer, trying not to let her teeth
chatter in the early morning chill.
If he was in Cincinnati now, then he was still a week behind her and Angela wanted to keep that space for a bit longer. She had to be able to look back after this
was all over and know she had gotten the journey started. She also had no idea how to ask him for what she needed yet, hadn’t worked out the words in her head.
“I understand why you didn’t tell me, but I wish you had. I’m thrilled. I never thought to have a child."
His words made her heart pound. Hadn’t she longed to hear that so many times? Nevertheless, she ignored it as she pulled thick gloves on to muffle the bite in the
air.
Moving quicker, she sent a clear warning, “He’s mine. Parentage doesn’t matter."
Brady didn’t respond, though he wanted to. If she sensed the things floating through his mind, she would disappear. The idea hit him again and he felt himself
grinning. He had a son! It was a reason to have hope, a goal, and his heart was suddenly lighter than it had been since the War. He would now serve a child…and
maybe his mother.
“I ran into a friend of yours here. Had some burns.”
Marc could feel her scowling at the words, aware of Dog watching with golden eyes.
“Warren. He’s dead?”
Now, Marc was the one frowning. Something else she should have mentioned…though, she hadn’t known he would go there. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry. Killing wasn’t what I wanted. I had hoped he was no longer a threat.”
“It was his choice.”
There was silence between them for a moment, broken by the drumming rain and the squeak of his wipers, but the connection, the bond between them, was strong.
It allowed him to hear stray noises - a clink, a snap, a grunt of effort. She was breaking camp, didn’t want him around yet.
“Where are you holed up at?"
He could feel her wondering how he knew she wasn’t on the road, and though suspicion laced her answer, she didn’t ask. That meant she didn’t know how much
he was picking up. Good. More time to recon, without being evaluated in return.
“I’m in a cornfield, off highway 3."
“You could probably stay there if you wanted, take a break for the holiday. It wouldn’t take me long to catch up," he sent the option carefully this time, knowing
instinctively not to mention Valentine's Day by name.
“No."
He was glad when she didn’t sound mad, but he frowned at how set her tone was. “You okay?” he asked, still feeling that old need to protect her.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay…can’t wait to see you…."
The words were perfectly normal for the situation, but there was no mistaking his eagerness, and Marc felt another cold warning rush out to slap at him.
“Nothing’s changed for us, Brady. Don’t think it has."
“I don’t, but I had reasons, Angie."
“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Only my son does."
Marc wished he could see her eyes, so he would know if it was true. He couldn’t say that and mean it.
She let go of the connection and he didn’t bother saying anything else as he steered around bodies of people, dogs, and other corpses he couldn’t identify through
the rain. She wasn’t ready to deal with him yet - probably hated him, despite what she had written to soothe her child. He would have to force himself to back off and
let her have the lead when it came to settling the past. If he pushed, she would slip away, and if he wanted to see his child, he definitely needed her along.
If? A big grin filled Marc’s face. There was no if. He would track her down if he had to, but as long as he made it clear that he wouldn’t interfere with her
personally, things should be okay. She would have her missing child back, and he would only ask for time with the son he hadn’t known existed.
The Sergeant was a little surprised by how much he wanted the boy, by how much his heart liked it that their love had created a new life. He was grateful for this
chance to be close to someone again. He ignored the heart quietly hoping to find peace at last, sure now that she still had no welcome for him. Not that it really
mattered. Angie had called and he would go to her as fast as he could.
Chapter Twelve
February 11th, 2013
Rawlings, Wyoming
1
“You don’t know who to call even if you fix it.”
Jonathan Harmon, M.D. flinched at the sound of his wife’s voice echoing loudly across the dim, carpetless living room. He put a hand to his chest, trying to get his
breath back.
“Sorry.”
John smiled at her, thinking she had finally gained a little weight in the month they’d spent hiding in their home together. Anne was probably half of his 240 lbs, with
hair still mostly brown instead of his salt and pepper. She looked good for 58. He hadn’t been as lucky.
“You did that a’purpose,” he accused with a grin in his voice.
Anne nodded, brown eyes twinkling above fine age lines, as she set the large afghan she was knitting on the recliner’s matching brown end table. “I had to. You
look so sad.”
John turned back to the only window in their large, two-story farm house that they hadn’t covered in layers of thick plastic. Stalling, he took off his glasses and laid
them on the cord he really didn’t know how to repair, aged blue eyes frowning at the Discovery Channel special going on in their muddy front yard.
Their neighbor’s dog had collapsed and died near the barn yesterday. The Collie’s beautiful coat was bloody from what was probably a gunshot, the carcass now a
carpet of swarming, mutated ants, with bloated bodies twitching in effort and obvious communication as they struggled to move the food.
Backdropped by a view of the Rocky Mountains that was now hazy from the layer of grit in the darkening sky, the foraging ants were each the size of a quarter.
The biggest he had seen around here yet, their bodies were constantly changing from all the radiation and chemicals they were ingesting from the carrion. All nests were
getting regular doses of contaminated miracle-grow now and John hated to think about what it was doing to the snakes and spiders. Once Nature finished cleaning up,
leaving only bones, these predators would move on to other food sources - like people - and though only time would tell, he was sure their bites would be poisonous.
The final waves of radiation sickness would be the next in a long line of dangerous viruses to mutate, but it would make smallpox and bird flu seem minor in
comparison. The death toll from this man-made hell wouldn’t end for a century or more.
His eyes looked over rangeland covered in prairie grass that was permanently bent from the wind’s onslaught, fields ready for a planting season that would never
come. Everything had changed. It had been 38 years since he and Anne were in the army, medics at the same MASH unit in Vietnam, but he had to remember what
had kept him alive back then, so they could use it now.
“We need to pack up and go. The weather’s not as bad now that almost two months have passed. We’ve cleaned out the reserves we had.”
John didn’t look over, but was sure he had caught her off guard with his words. He didn’t know yet where they would end up, or if they would even be able to
make the trip. It definitely wouldn’t be a blow off. He only knew that their hometown of Rawlins - the place they had both been born - was no longer safe, and even if it
was, the temperatures were still falling, were below freezing right now. They couldn’t stay here much longer or they’d stay forever.
The lonely echo of his wife’s shoes on the bare wood floor as she moved toward him, had John wondering what it sounded like as it floated down to the dark,
flooded tunnels of their barricaded basement. Was it a dinner bell to those open dark ways and everything that might now be calling that nasty area home? They heard
noises sometimes, never sure if it was the moment they would have to defend themselves, but never went down there. They also didn’t remove the boards he had sealed
it up with, only hammered the nails back in regularly, but they did occasionally tense and look that way, and he was glad she knew how to use both the shotgun and the
rifle he kept by her chair. Not that a firearm would be very effective against sewer rats.
“But why should we, Johnnie? We get along here.”
“We’ve seen no signs of anyone coming to save us…and because of the basement.”
Scratch... sniff… sniff.
As if to prove his point, they heard the curious, hungry rodents clearly. The grates at the other end of their treeless grazing land kept out the bigger problems, but the
rat populations had come in by the hundreds after the War and they’d had to seal off the unused parts of their home. The rodents were big, much too wide to get under
the floors, but their pups wouldn’t be, and John expected to start seeing them in great numbers soon, considering they could have a litter a month.
“Where would we go? Other than those men with the guns, we ain’t seen a healthy person in nigh on two weeks.”
John forced his hand away from his aching stomach, eyes still on the yard. He wished that ugly green twilight sun would finish setting and hide the view so she
wouldn’t see it and get upset.
“Johnnie?”
The thought of leaving their home hadn’t occurred to her, was terrifying, and though he felt it too, the fear wasn’t strong enough to get John to change his mind. She
had to see things his way this time. Her life depended on it.
“To NORAD, for starters. We’ll surrender to the Draft.” The graying sawbones said it firmly, almost sure they would find little at the Colorado complex. That world
had moved on.
“What if it’s all like here, or worse?”
She was referring to the dead pets, dead police, dead crops, and of course, dead friends and neighbors they had known all their lives. The horrors were still fresh
for Anne, especially the memory of passing the neighbor's wrecked truck on the two-lane dirt road to their farm. Both doors were open, and they’d seen the bullet holes
in the windshield as they returned from their burning office to avoid the panic gripping their town, their country. She had wanted to stop, but there hadn’t been a reason
to. The elderly couple was dead, their brains all over the road.
“We’ll have to do some searching. Other healthy survivors are out there. I know it doesn’t seem that way when you look out the window, but there are. We just
have to find them.” He winced at his reference to the window.
“But we’re old, they won’t want us. Shouldn’t we just stay here?”
It broke John’s heart to tell her no, but he did, had to. “That, my dear Anne, is exactly what most people will do, and they’ll die. What the weather and disease
don’t take, the gangs and starvation will. All these threats are lessened when humanity comes together. Despite its flaws, humankind is not better off without society.”
He looked into her frightened eyes and when she leaned toward him, tan slacks rustling, he gently surrounded her with his strong arms, hoping she wouldn’t notice
his racing pulse. “You’re a Nurse, I’m a Doctor. It’s wrong of us to hide and deny them our help. They need us now more than ever.”
He kissed her wrinkled forehead, smiled at her, “Our age won’t matter, except to make us more valuable because of all our experience.”
John played his trump card without guilt, knowing her inability to catch pregnant (which he believed to be his fault) would keep her from arguing more. Suddenly
sorry he had never talked to her about adopting, John ignored the pain in his gut and looked at her with doubtless blue eyes.
“There are a lot of kids out there too, Anna, kids who are alone and hurting. They need us. Trust me, my sweet, I do this for you.”
“I do, Johnnie. You know that. I always have.”
He nodded, gritting his teeth against a burning wave of pain that settled deep in his guts. “Good. We’ll leave this week.”
Anne turned her head and John tensed, expecting a bad reaction as her eyes landed on the gruesome scene outside. She shuddered and he opened his mouth to
comfort her.
“I never did like that damned dog. It barked too much.”
Anne went back to her knitting, leaving him with a shocked look on his lightly bearded face, and a smile in his heart. Even after all these years, she was still capable
of surprising him, and he was happier than he could say, that they had survived the actual War together. There was no one he would rather be with.
2
A while later, John was still at the window, big ants (and their dinner) gone, the freezing rain returning for yet another round. His mind was still on his wife of 37
years, on the half-truths he had told her. He never lied, but often left things out…and this time it was something huge. He would tell her soon, though. She had a right to
know that this next year together would probably be their last.
John sighed. He had to get her to some kind of safety, and he had to do it now, knew she would refuse to go if he told her why they were really leaving.
Movement in the dimness caught John’s eye, mostly because they saw so little of it now, and he froze, watching a shadow limp across their driveway , keeping to
the line of dying bushes around the edge of the long porch. They had seen a lot of radiation victims after the War, most in the early stages where travel was still possible,
and he tensed, expecting one of the walking dead.
Tall and thin with dirty black curls under goggles, the young woman wore a long muddy coat that came to the tops of her black boots. Should he call to her? She
looked healthy other than the slight limp - normal.
Before he could decide, she turned toward the window and saw him. Her eyes widened in fear, panicked feet slipping on muddy debris, and then she was gone,
disappearing into the hazy darkness.
John started to go to the door anyway, and had to sit back down in the hard chair, grimacing at another sharp lance of burning pain. He rubbed his swollen stomach,
wishing the pills would hurry. He needed a lab that still had power, so he could run some basic tests. It would be easier to plan his wife’s future if he knew how long he
had before the cancer ended his life.
John sighed again. He would insist, something he didn’t usually do, and they would leave shortly, in the next few days. He wouldn’t stop until he found someone to
look after his sweet, gentle mate. She would never last out in this hard, new World alone.
Glancing away from a missed ornament - a gaudy, grinning reindeer lying under the couch - Anne tied the last knot of string on the dark brown blanket, trying not to
frown as she began to put away the knitting supplies.
She didn’t look at her husband - didn’t need to see him to know he was in pain, and gunny-sacking to keep her from finding out...again. He could try to distract her
with talk of kids all he wanted, she did feel a bit of regret that she had never been able to bear him a son, hadn’t wanted to take one in that wasn’t theirs, but it didn’t
keep her sharp eyes from noticing things. Something was wrong.
His eating and sleeping habits had changed drastically, and she had seen the empty pill bottles in the trash. He was protecting her from it, like he always did with the
bad things, and while she would do what he wanted and pretend she had no clue, she knew what she knew. He was sick and looking for a place to leave her.
He wanted to be alone when he died, had said it many times, claiming it would hurt too much to say goodbye, and while she would do anything for him, she simply
couldn't do that. Leaving him alone to die would be a betrayal of their life together, and now, after all that had happened, any betrayal of life was wrong. When they
went, it would be together.
Nearly a week later
“Go faster, John! Faster!”
“Hold on!”
The horrified Doctor swung the wagon onto the dark woods that lined the road and killed the engine a few yards in, glad for the heavy fog and cover of night.
“Get down! Low as you can!”
The elderly couple shoved themselves into the floorboard as best they could. The hurting man stifled a groan at the cramped position, glasses sliding from his face as
the engines grew closer.
Pop-Pop!
Sscreeechhh!
Headlights flashed their way and they tried to get lower, the gunshots and engines upon them as the storm rolled overhead.
“I love you, Johnnie. Have since we was kids.”
A cold hand locked onto his hairy wrist through the sleeve of his plaid shirt, and John covered it with his own shaking fingers, afraid he might wet himself despite all
his efforts not to.
“And I you, my Sweet.”
The large group of cars began to fly by and the couple froze, listening to the shots, wincing at each whine and ricochet. Drunken shouts echoed, along with thuds of
metal hitting, scraping. Rain thumped on the roof, a tire squealed, and a bullet pinged off their bumper, making them both jump. As their grip on each other tightened, the
fog was all that kept them from certain, painful death.
Long minutes later, the gang was out of sight, their noises fading to silence. Terrified it was a trick, that they’d been seen, John kept them still for another fifteen
minutes, only moving when the bands of pain around his gut caused tears to slip out of his eyes against his will.
Driving without lights, John turned them west on 40, away from the gang. They would still go to Cheyenne Mountain, they would just take a different path. They had
been on the road for five days now, and he had been careful to find ways through that didn’t require physical labor. They weren’t spring chickens, and he wasn’t taking
any more chances than he had to. They were both a bit stiff and a little sore, but had agreed that they felt more alert than they had in a long time.
“How long will this add?”
John slid his glasses back in place. “Couple hours. We have to get off these frontage roads, but we’ll still make Routt Ridge by dawn.”
Anne nodded, wrinkled fingers turning on the heat and defrost, before digging into the bag behind his seat. “Here, take these.”
She dropped two white pills into his wrinkled hand, and held out an open mason jar of clear liquid. John took them with a grateful look in his faded blue eyes. His
gut was on fire, blood in his temples pounding in time with his pain.
Anne said nothing, just turned on the CB, and went back to checking channels. He was her man, her love, and she wouldn’t let him suffer. She had a good idea now
what was wrong, had been a nurse long enough to read the signs he couldn’t hide on this journey, and it would be a secret between them no more.
John’s eyes scanned the foggy landscape, able to see only faint outlines of dude ranches and big game hunting lodges. Other than those, and the occasional farm
or dead vehicle in the road, there was almost nothing around here. It had been isolated before. Now, it was desolate except for the bluegrass that was exceptionally tall
- up to the wagon’s roof in some places. Wind howling through the shadowy darkness, they moved steadily through the foggy drizzle for the next four hours.
John made good time, but when he saw the next set of bodies and cars that were still smoking, he began to worry more. This had been a group of travelers, maybe
even a large family, and the gang had killed them all. The back trail was indeed leading straight to NORAD. Had they been there too?
The old man lurking inside winced as another bump jarred him against the sharp spring sticking out of the seat, and he shifted, trying to avoid it as the wagon
chugged along the smoldering streets of Granby, Colorado.
He hoped Anne would stay asleep despite the rough ride, and he tried to take it easy so she would. The gentle snoring coming from the blanket-filled passenger seat
gave him hope she might sleep through this particular stretch of road. One look out the foggy window and she would know they were in danger again.
Signs of a battle littered the area, and the winners had marked their victory with devastation. Homes were in flames - even the pine trees on front lawns were
burning, their cheery Christmas lights melting onto their branches - cars were rammed through buildings, and lifeless bodies, even horses lay where they’d been shot.
The blood hadn’t dried yet, and the doctor was horrified to see their tires leaving bloody tracks, but could do nothing about it. The puddles were unavoidable.
Even with the windows up, the smell was revolting: blood, shit, and charred skin. When he lowered the glass, stopped momentarily to listen for survivors, he heard
only wind and crackling flames, nothing else. The equality state was no longer that. Now, only the strongest would survive…and those with them, John thought,
looking over at his wife, before turning his eyes back to the dangerous land around them. He and Anne had been that type in their youth, but now he could only hope to
find someone that would keep her protected.
Pushing away the worry, he tried to concentrate on the debris-laden road, but found his eyes flicking off the horror to peer at the sky. He hated it that there was no
moon, no stars, just grit and thick, nasty smelling smoke. Like a damned episode of the Twilight Zone, he complained silently, grateful that the pills were pushing back
the agony.
John had automatically slowed to watch for signs of survivors, but the gang had been very thorough and after a long minute, he drove on. Granby was a cemetery
without a headstone.
4
Dawn was just starting to break as they cleared the city limits, the dusty sky barely hinting at light, and while he knew he couldn’t go another full day without sleep,
he also knew they weren’t stopping near here, not even for a stretch. Those men might...
“Want me to drive?” Anne asked, making him jump. “I’ve got my glasses.”
He nodded, smiling tightly as he loosened the belt over his swollen abdomen. “Yes, but not yet. We’ll switch after brunch and I’ll snooze in your warm spot.”
She smiled back as she adjusted her silk shawl tighter over her sweater, then closed her eyes and laid her head back on the pillow against the locked door. Instead
of giving him hell about not telling her he was sick, she was hadn’t even mentioned it, just adjusted to care for him as they traveled. She was handling the trip well. Had
she too been just a little bored, a little restless?
Hell of a way to have an adventure, he thought, still wanting to see the stars. There was a bite to the wind that said they would be running the heater all day, and
he was very glad of the cans on the luggage rack. Three hours at a gas station with a foot pump had given him a nasty backache, but they were good for two weeks of
driving, and he hoped to find a safe place long before it ran out.
Along with the gang they had just hidden from, there had also been other dangers on this trip, like the radiation victim that had snuck up on them in the fog three
days ago and almost got the door open before he could get the wagon into drive. Talk about taking some years off my life, John thought with a touch of bitterness.
The weather was also hard to drive in, but at least the acid rain would force the walking dead to hole up somewhere and start dying. With the open sores and lack of
reasoning skills, the zombies would go to ground and not come up.
The doctor inched along without headlights toward the government compound, casting his eyes over the tarp in the back of the wagon that hid their belongings - the
last remnants of their life together. He desperately wanted to find a group of people like themselves…different. John knew they were out there, gathering somewhere, he
could feel the pull of their calls, but saw no one, and the old Ford kept on chugging.
5
Half an hour before dawn barely lit the sky, the rain and fog had lightened and the wagon sat on Routt Ridge. The occupants waited silently, but their hope was
gone, the billowing smoke was undeniable. Their safety was in flames.
Surveying the surrounding area, John watched ants taking the poison bait balls he’d thrown out of the window when they’d first stopped. The ants here were bigger,
but their hill was enormous, - three feet high and probably just as wide - with a snakeskin and the bones of lizards scattered around it. The order of nature had been
reversed and even here, the smells of smoke, rot, and mildew lingered under the fresh scent of clean air and pine trees.
“Check again. Maybe we’ll hear survivors.”
Anne did it slowly, but they heard nothing until the last station. John put a gentle hand on his wife’s wrist to keep her from changing the channel, almost able to feel
something coming. “Wait.”
A second later, the radio lit up with heavy static an a man’s determined words.
“Safe Haven - Red Cross... Welcome all…survivors follow…clear means closer...”
They lost it, the radio going back to full static, and John looked over, not needing to see the horrors in the bunker to know they were there.
Anne’s voice was shaky, but there was confidence in her aged brown eyes - confidence in him. “Whatever you think, Johnnie.”
He hesitated, considered. They could at least check them out from a distance. With NORAD gone, there was nowhere else he could think of for them to go. If that
complex had fallen, and the pillars of sickly black smoke said it had, then no place was safe.
“All right.”
John headed them west, sure they couldn’t have heard the transmission if the people were to the south. The mountains wouldn’t allow the waves to carry even that
well on his cheap radio. He would narrow it down by the clarity of the calls, and they would see if this so-called Safe Haven was aptly named.
John believed leaving their home was the right thing to do. They had started seeing rats the day before, and his last memory of the home they’d shared for so long,
was of hanging the Warning! Rodents! sign on the front door.
They would probably have been sick by now, if they’d stayed. He had waited as long as he could, and though he knew the group they ended up with probably
wouldn’t be what he was hoping for, if his beloved wife would be safe and have a guaranteed place after he was gone, he would offer his services in exchange. If that
didn’t work, he’d beg.
Chapter Thirteen
Valentine’s Day, 2013
Indiana
1
Using simple hand signals, the Kelly brothers slowly snuck closer to the burned-down campfire and the woman covered in a quilt that slept behind it. The area
around them was heavily wooded, the Morgan Monroe State Forest remote even before the War, and there was no glare of moonlight off bald heads to give them
away as they stalked the lone female.
They had come far east of their main group to take revenge on the man who’d put them in prison. After those two bloody days, the brothers had gotten back on the
move, ferreting out female survivors. They’d found girls and their mothers still huddled in basements after the draft had taken their men, but the waves of energy this
woman was sending out had drawn them to her, making them leave the others behind…their bodies, anyway.
Following from a distance to make sure she was alone, when the woman had stopped to change the tire - her third in four days - they’d made their plans, knowing
from watching that she would have to rest afterwards. Now she was asleep and they would stay back no longer.
Dean and Dillan had been dishonorably discharged for the rape and murder of a Korean civilian, and they expected no trouble from one woman. They were spies,
assassins who excelled at front line infiltrations, and there was only the sound of the cold, Indiana wind howling through the trees as they slipped from rough trunk to
yellow grass. Their movements were so alike, they appeared to be only one 6', 220 lb. threat instead of two.
Exhausted, Angela was dreaming of murder, rape, and sadistic torture, the men in her nightmare giving no mercy as their knives continued to flash across the girl’s
naked body.
“They’ll throw us out for this,” one of the men worried, sinking his blade deep into a soft, dead breast.
His twin nodded, marking her bruised thigh with an ugly symbol. “We’re not going back. We’re Mercenaries now. Come on. Her daughter’s up.”
Angela snapped awake as the alarms in her head blared, told her she’d let danger get too close to run from, and she jerked her gun from its holster. Her wild eyes
searched the darkness beyond the dim firelight, but there was nothing in sight except the groves of poplar trees she had eased the Blazer into. There were no sounds,
not even a cricket - just the wind and the popping of her small, unevenly-rocked fire.
His cover was good. She found the intruder only by his fast, lustful thoughts, layers of slime overlapping, and she pointed her gun in his direction, not sure she could
fire even though the Witch was telling her to defend herself first and ask questions later.
"Use the fire." The demon ordered it, but Angela couldn’t. The intruder hadn’t done anything (yet!), though she knew his lean, sinewy body was ready to react.
She could feel it.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” she warned, hating her shaky tone. The flag-draped blanket fell unnoticed to the damp dirt as she stood.
“I'm hungry. Got any food?”
Obviously a lie, the words fell awkwardly, tone devoid of feeling. It gave her a chill of terror when he took a small step closer.
She raised the weapon, flipped off the safety. “Don’t! I will shoot you!”
Energy, fear, and adrenaline raced through Angela, and her mind called for a defense other than her gun or new power. A door appeared in her mind, one that
carried a feeling of death. She put a hand on the knob, but still hesitated, not wanting to take a life.
“What’s your name? Pretty bitch?”
His simple, awful words made her understand that the smoke and mirrors she had used on Warren wouldn’t deter this seasoned hunter. She opened the mental
door, not looking at what had been chosen as she prepared to do battle for her life. Nothing would keep her from her son!
The Witch whispered again, telling secrets, and her eyes widened in fear. “Where’s your brother?”
The Witch took great pleasure in the surprise that spread across his hairless face, and Angela darted a quick look at her Blazer while he was distracted. It was too
far away, and that sucked because it was a Presidential model...
“How do you know that?” Dean growled menacingly at her, moving forward through the cool, moonless darkness.
Angela felt a great wave of heat, of force, jump from her chest to form a thin shield between them.
Visible only for a second, Dean noticed, dark eyes narrowing, feet stopping.
“Be gone, Killer. You have no welcome here!” She forked her hands at him, and the burned-out fire flared to life, the crackling flames seeming to reach for the
surprised man.
The Mercenary took an unconscious step back, revealing the second brother, and the barrel of his gun.
“Drop it, bitch!” Dillan wasn't sure why his brother had hesitated. It had never happened before, and he couldn’t think of anything that would cause it now. They
feared nothing. “You shoot, you die slow.”
The Witch waited no longer, surging forward, and Angela stepped through the thick mental door, white-hot energy oozing around her. "You accept without
question?” the voices thundered in her head, and she nodded, closing her eyes. “I do.”
Arching as it rushed out, power flew from her chest, violent in its passage. It slammed against the brothers as it went, knocking them to the ground. Angela’s
breathing was harsh as silence fell, the thin shield vanishing as the fire sank back down to a dim glow.
“WWhhhhoooo!”
The wolf’s call was close, like it was responding to her cry for help, and Dean looked at his twin with worried eyes.
“What is she?”
Dillan frowned at his brother’s spooked tone and face. He hadn’t seen the shield or the fire and had already passed off being knocked down to the gusting wind.
“Ours, and we’ll have her here and now. Your turn to go first.” he spat, reminding his brother of their goal and who they were.
Both men missed the shadows moving closer as they shared an evil grin and suddenly spun, rushing her.
Angela threw herself toward the Blazer, firing wildly. They dropped low, but kept moving. Then, the dry click of her gun echoed, and they stood, eagerly closing in
for the kill.
“Fire! Ice!”
The flames blazed up between them again, but died just as fast. Her energy was spent, and the brothers jumped it at the same time, ignoring the bits of hail falling on
them. Crack! Crack!
Only Dillan made it across the short flames, bullets flying through the air, and an unseen predator padded into the circle of light as Dean hit the tall grass beyond the
fire, clutching his leg.
Dillan grabbed for Angela's arm, meaning to use her as a shield against whoever was shooting at them, but powerful jaws sank into his wrist. Pain flashed, making
him let go, the bullets forgotten as blood sprayed violently. “Aaaaaahhhh… Dean!”
The huge timber wolf shook his head and Dillan began punching the creature with hard, serious blows to the head that had no effect.
Angela wince, moving back farther as bones crunched between the wolf's teeth.
“Kill it! Dean!”
Dean stayed quiet, hands searching for the gun he’d lost when the unexpected slug had slammed into his leg, but he was tracking the shadows, looking for the
walking dead man who’d done this.
“Dean! Shoot it!”
The wolf jerked the hurt man to his knees, blood covering his muzzle. When he let go, baring sharp, red teeth, Dillan scrambled to get away.
“He’ll go for your throat if you move again,” Angela forwarded a thought from the beautiful predator's mind, and the twin stilled, holding his mauled arm.
Angela quickly retrieved the gun she’d dropped and the injured man looked at her with a hatred that gave her another deep chill of fear. Her death was in those
remorseless eyes and it was ugly.
“This isn’t over!” the Slaver snarled, almost crying tears of rage.
Angela paled, but before she could respond, a voice rang out with commanding fury.
“Yes, it is. You’re both dead!”
Brady stepped from behind her muddy Blazer, Colt aimed where the other man had fallen out of sight. He moved purposely in that direction, content the wolf had
things under control. The Marine was angrier than he’d ever been, and there was no hesitating, no doubt about what had to be done.
“Brady.” Feeling their death in his mind, Angela had to stop him, despite the Witch warning her not to interfere with the defense she had chosen. “I’m not hurt. Let’s
just go.”
Marc stopped, but didn’t turn. “It’s a bad idea.”
She nodded, heart thumping at the sound of his voice. Brady was here! “I know.”
He gave in reluctantly, slowly moved back into the shadowy darkness by her vehicle to provide cover without being such a clear target. “Go on, then. I’ll catch up.”
Angela moved fast, grabbing things, and was glad when the huge wolf stayed between her and the furious black man on the ground. The doctor inside wanted to
help, wanted to try and make peace, but his hatred. She knew even if she could change the way he saw her, he would always loath her for this surprise defeat. She
would only be healing him so he could continue to hunt her.
"They will anyway," the voice behind the now closed door whispered, warned, "Better to let your man kill them."’
Angela shook her head. No killing…and he wasn’t her man.
“We’ll come for you, bitch!” Dillan was sitting up slowly, clothes tacky with blood.
The menacing wolf snarled, telling Angela to stay back. If she stepped too close, if the man got even a hand on her, he would snap her neck with his good arm. She
caught that clearly too, and was careful not to get within his reach as she broke camp.
“You’ll look over your shoulder forever, Witch!” Dean shouted from the tall grass while searching for his gun. “You’ll bleed rivers while we have you!”
Evil laughter floated on the wind, giving Angela another deep chill despite Brady's presence. She looked at him, saw his eyes on her, but she could read nothing on
his handsome face.
When she raised a brow, he sighed heavily, cold blue gaze returning to the snake in the high grass. “You already know what I think.”
Angela studied her conscience for a brief second, knowing he was right, but she had lived by the old rules for a long time. “Let’s just go.”
Dillan was in pain, mangled wrist screaming with pain, and he was horrified to find himself relieved by her decision. For the first time since they were teenagers, they
had underestimated their prey, might even need help. It was humbling for men who had engaged whole military units alone, but especially for Dillan, who was the more
aggressive of the twins. It was a humiliation he would never forget.
Angela opened the door, but hesitated to leave Marc alone with the two killers, despite this very thing being why she needed him.
“Now. Take Dog, if he’ll go.” Marc’s words held a tone of command that she recognized and responded to, even as she frowned. Angela motioned to the wolf and
was a bit surprised by how clear the mental answer was from the beautiful animal.
"Man is your guardian. I am his," the wolf pushed against her leg, able to sense his master’s impatience.
Angela climbed into the Blazer, closing the door. The powerful engine fired up and she slid the window down, locked eyes with the mad man on the ground. “That
should be a fatal injury now. Will you die?”
“Who are you?” Dillan demanded. His dark face was full of hatred.
The Witch smiled back, red eyes glinting. “You’ve called enough of my names. Stay clear of me and mine.” She already knew they wouldn't. Their kind never did.
The Blazer was out of sight a few seconds later, and when both man and beast started to retreat, the twins hurled insults, hoping to lure him in, use him to draw her
back and make her surrender.
“Look at the railbird run!”
“Coward! Can’t you finish the job?” Dean yelled, gun now in hand.
Dillan was furious enough not to care that he was an easy target if the man chose to fight. Just as long as Dean killed that white, dog-tag-wearing mother fucker!
“Hell won’t be far enough for you to run!” He shouted, standing awkwardly as his brother came to his side.
“We will have her!” Dean confirmed ruthlessly. “You can’t protect her forever.”
Marc stayed silent, aware of their tactics (hadn’t Warren thought to do the same thing?), but also sure they meant every word they screamed. Unlike the scarred
man from her hallway, these two could back it up.
Out of sight now, Marc wound through tall oaks and high bushes, leaving muddy prints in the grass. The wolf kept pace, and the big animal was inside the second he
opened the door of the Blazer. Dog headed for his place in the backseat.
Marc slid in and started the engine, and the radio immediately lit up, making them both flinch from the unfamiliar sound. “You there, Brady?”
He shifted and hit the gas as he keyed the mic. “Be in your mirror in a click. I see your lights. Turn them off and stay close.”
The bright red and white tattles disappeared. “I will.”
Marc only slowed a little as he went around her on the gravel road, seeing she had left room for him to take the lead. When she fell in tight behind him, he let his
training and knowledge of the area take over, eager to lose the brothers and be alone with her.
Glad that the ground here was dry, but not dusty enough to leave tracks, he swung them onto an old dirt path that would eventually bring them out well away from
the vengeful threats they were leaving alive. Ignoring his gut that said doing so was a disastrous mistake, Marc lit a smoke and lowered the window. Angie hadn’t
wanted it, and the last thing he needed was for her to start off thinking he was a hardened killer…even though he was.
Marc sighed. The damp air rolling in warned of rain soon, a lot of it, and he told himself to relax, that between their injuries and the weather, he and Angie should be
able to get at least a good night’s sleep before they had to start watching.
Moving quickly, they drove down streets and dirt roads that Angela didn’t have time to look up on her map before they were turning onto a different one, and she
kept her doors locked and eyes on the Born Free & Die that Way! bumper sticker that she could only read when he hit his brakes. They moved through the thick,
silent darkness with his eyes to guide them, and her stomach was full of butterflies, pulse racing. He was here! Brady had finally come for her!
Marc kept one eye on the winding dirt road and one on the vehicle in his mirror, glad she copied his movements exactly as they rolled around downed trees, burntout
cars, and wireless telephone poles - damage that he was almost sure had been caused by an earthquake. She was following him as he had followed her, trusting the
choices he made, the way he had as he’d followed her back trail, and it occurred to him again that some of her decisions had been risky, reckless. Finding her had been
easy because she was taking not the easiest or most reasonable path, only the quickest - like the water crossing in Geneva. They’d both been lucky that bridge had
held. Marc wanted to pick up the mic, wanted to tell her how happy he was she’d called, but resisted. This was not the time or place, and not only because of anyone
that might be listening. He had to get himself under control first. His mind flashed back to the image of her bathed in firelight, no longer the innocent young girl of his
dreams but a full, rounded woman. He felt the pain keenly in his heart. Slender curves, a pale, flawless face, midnight black hair…it was suddenly easy to remember
how silky it had felt under his trembling young fingers.
One single, unforgettable weekend fifteen long years ago, and he had never gotten close to it again. The occasional barracks bait he’d succumbed to had been blueeyed,
with long dark hair and he had loved them in the dark. Searching for what he’d lost, he was always unsatisfied and regretful when it was over. Seeing Angie for
just these few minutes had reminded him of that, of how lonely he’d been, and unless he could hide it, she would know too. He’d never gotten over her.
Nerves began to settle onto Angela as the miles slowly passed, and she found herself hoping he would keep going all night. She was more than grateful for the
rescue, but she had expected to have at least one more day to figure out what to say to him. What she needed was dangerous and she was crazy to think she could guilt
him into it with something that had happened so long ago. It would never hold him through all they would face.
"Then just tell him the basics and let him make his own choices," the Witch advised her, and Angela tried to relax. That's exactly what she would do and hope
the rest would take care of itself.
"Start with how good he looks," the old Angela ordered, and while she pushed the idea away with a grimace, the image remained vivid.
Her dreams had kept some things alive in her memory - like the shorter, feathered black hair, those dark, sexy blue eyes, an his full, pouty lips - but she had
forgotten about his hard, tanned skin and the way a couple days stubble was so attractive on him. He looked like a modern day cowboy now, with wider shoulders and
lean hips inside dusty jeans and scuffed boots. He wore a wide-brimmed, faded black hat, and of course, there was the outline of dog tags beneath his shirt and long
black trench coat. He also sported a gun on each hip, crisscrossed gun belts accenting the great shape he was in.
Her Brady was all grown up and she hoped (feared) that what had once been between them would make him help her when anyone else would walk away. They
had been true friends once, lovers…maybe even soul mates. She was counting on those feelings and his sense of honor, and yet worrying about how to protect her
heart from all the need in his beautiful blue eyes. She would have to be careful not to even accidentally encourage or imply anything she had no intentions of restarting.
The past was done. They couldn’t go back.
2
By 2 a.m., storm clouds, thick and white, were rolling overhead, and Angela was ready to stop, too tired to worry about talking. She wiped at her blurry eyes as
they turned onto yet another weed-dotted, gravel road and a street sign flashed by too fast in the darkness.
They went past small, empty-looking and feeling buildings she recognized as restrooms and showers. A campground of some kind she assumed, maybe even the
back of the state forest she had been in. They were on a dirt path and his brake lights stayed lit as he came to a stop in front of a wide log house with a two car garage
that boasted a single, dark, second floor window. A caretaker’s home, maybe? Garbage littered the area, and the trees were more spaced out, spots still cleared for
tents and campsites, but only oddly-colored weeds grew in those neatly rocked off circles. It was spooky and she jumped when the radio lit up.
“I need to check it out. Stay close, okay?”
“Yes.” Angela shut off her engine, but didn't get out. She wanted to watch him, wanted to see if the Marine took over the man the way it did with Kenny, but she
(and the Witch) also needed to know where her enemies were, and she closed her burning eyes, searching for the evil twins she’d stopped Marc from killing.
3
Dillan and Dean were acting as if they hadn’t been bested, bloated egos unable to accept the fact that one woman and man had hurt them so badly, but inside they
were humiliated, furious, and on the hunt. They were familiar with black magic, understood what possessing the Witch could do for them, but it was the humiliation that
would keep them following.
They were tracking the couple with their lights out, blood-soaked pants and jackets sticking to the seats of their jeep, and the two identical Blazers were easy to see
as their brake lights flashed like red beacons in the darkness. Without speaking about it, the brothers both accepted now that this woman was different and required a
more aggressive approach.
When they saw where the Witch and her man stopped for the night, the brothers had backed off to plot, and tend their injuries.
“You have gas left?” Dean asked, staying low as Dillan watched their prey through the binoculars. They had followed separate trails for the first two days, being
careful not to lose her, until tonight, when they’d come together for the attack.
“Two gallons, you?”
Dean smothered a cry, fingers digging deep into his thigh for the bullet. “Four. Wait until they’re asleep and send them both to hell?”
Dillan’s face was a mask of hatred as he rewrapped his mauled wrist. “Just don’t shoot unless you have to. I wanna hear her scream while she burns.”
4
Marc frowned as he came out of the garage, seeing she hadn’t moved from the Blazer that was even the exact same shade of mud-splattered black as his own.
Able to feel the hum of raw energy, he stopped himself from reaching for the handle, knowing instinctively she was looking for the brothers.
When she opened the door with dazed, far-away eyes, he stepped closer, thinking she didn’t look 30 years old. He, on the other hand, knew he was five years
older than that by the age lines and grey hair starting to show up in his mirror. His birthday had been just eight days before the War, and he suddenly wished he had
celebrated it this time. “Everything okay?”
Angela shrugged, slowly coming out of the looking zone. “For now, I think, but they’ll come for us…for me.”
Her voice doesn’t sound right, Marc thought.
Angela didn’t tell him she had seen only darkness. She slowly eased out of the Blazer, trying not to wince at the pain in her back and gut.
As she moved, Marc saw she had a Therma-Care patch stuck to her seat and smiled. What a great idea. His eyes went over the .357 on her hip. Her random firing
at the twins told him she didn’t know what she was doing with the six-shooter. It was probably too big for her hands, chosen because it was pretty. Marc sighed
inwardly. She’d be better off with his old piece of shit12...though really, the M9 in the bottom of his kit didn’t fit that old USMC nickname. He’d had more respect than
that.
“We’ll make some real distance in the next few days, and lose them for good.”
Angela nodded, as the fog cleared from her eyes, hoping he was right. The two men were dangerous, and she should have let Brady take care of them…Brady.
They were together again.
She looked up, becoming aware of the thickness between them. Marc staring at her in stunned happiness, and she tensed as he moved closer, already knowing he
was going to hug her, and she was going to react badly.
Marc felt like he was in one of his dreams, and he didn’t register the fear on her face as his arms came up, nor the rigid body he wrapped them around with a groan
of longing. “God, I’ve missed...”
“Let go of me!”
Marc jumped back from the fear in her voice as if burned. Angie was afraid of him?
“Not at all,” she lied, hoping he hadn’t seen her hand plunging toward her gun. “I just don’t like to be touched.”
Since when? His eyes narrowed with questions he knew she wouldn’t answer yet.
“Is it okay to go in?”
Marc nodded, feet moving back as she buttoned up her long black sweater, and then slung two big duffle bags over her shoulder. “Yes. Window’s covered so our
lights won’t be seen.”
Angela hit her rear latch button, and closed her door, not looking at the decaying bodies of two wood thrushes near her tire, or the man she’d dreamed about
almost nightly for years. During the day, she’d been careful to keep Kenny from picking anything up, but the dreams were hers and she’d used them to remember.
“Get out what you need, and I’ll take it in.” Marc wasn’t surprised when she shook her head and stepped by him.
“I’ve got it.”
He went to get his own gear, stealing little looks that he could feel her returning when he glanced away. When he saw her step into the dark garage without
hesitation, it surprised him. The Angie he had known was very afraid of the dark, terrified even. "This isn’t her," his heart said, "Go slowly." He would.
As he stepped in behind her, she moved quickly to the far side of the small, mostly empty room, the pen light on the chain around her neck shining dimly. He
watched her fire up a lantern and put it in the corner, and knew she was very aware of him standing in the doorway, staring. She looked…tense.
“Figured we’d use the loft. It’s a good vantage point,” Marc said matter-of-factly, and she slid her bags back over one shoulder without argument. He was unable
to keep his eyes from her ass as she deftly climbed the ladder and disappeared into the darker shadows of the second floor.
She came back down less than a minute later, and he said nothing about her almost cushioned movements as they brought their vehicles inside without talking. Was
she in pain? Injured?
Angela backed her muddy SUV in first, him holding the garage door. When they switched places, he rolled by her with a silly wave and smile that reminded her of
the past, when he had been willing to try anything to pull a laugh from her.
Instantly sad, Angela headed back to the loft and set up the heater. She sighed in relief as the red glow came on and began to warm her fingers. She had chosen the
far, back corner, the side that was just bare, dusty planks, and was making her bed in the corner as he came up the stairs. Knowing from her life with a Marine that he
would want the spot closest to the door, she unrolled her bag with a frown, thinking one of them had to say something soon just to cut the tension. It was awkward, sad.
Once they had been so...
“Where did you find a heater that runs on batteries? I kept finding the cylinders, but no actual heater.”
His tone was impressed and Angela tried unsuccessfully to pretend it wasn’t relief filling her heart at the sound of another human voice. “The basement of a
Goodwill. It’s great to have.”
Marc was watching her, she could feel him looking for clues to why she had called, and she began to set up the Coleman stove he had brought in, still not sure how
to start that conversation. Outside, the rain began to fall heavily, drowning out the hard new world on the other side of their four small walls.
Marc had taken off the long leather coat, and her eyes were drawn to his thick arms against her will, as he dug out his own bedroll. He did indeed put it between her
and the ladder, and they both avoided the boxes, bags, tarp-covered bike frames, and tall mirror layered in thick dust that littered the other side of the wide, 8’ x 10’
room.
There were a million things she wanted to say. Where to start? “Want some hot chocolate?”
“That sounds good.”
She handled his stove with an ease that told him she knew what she was doing, and Marc kept quiet, wishing she would meet his eye for more than a second at a
time. What was her problem? Was it so bad that she didn’t think he would help? The urge to start asking questions was hard to resist, even for him, but he knew she
was tired, could see it on her pale face. If she said she’d rather wait until morning to talk, he would agree, but never be able to sleep.
Angela lit the Coleman, a twin of the one sitting in the rear of her Blazer. When she’d seen him taking his in, she left her own, and it made her think about their
vehicles. They hadn’t just picked the same camping equipment. Of all the cars and trucks in the country, they had chosen the same one, even year (’93) and make. Was
that just a coincidence?
“Can you use that gun on your hip?”
Angela turned the fire higher on the small pot of water, thinking again that he looked like a cowboy from the Old West with his silver, crisscrossed gun belts and
matching, ivory-handled weapons.
“I can load it and pull the trigger. Does that count?” she asked, dumping the packets into the mugs.
Smiling, Marc shook his head, noticing she bagged the garbage instead of just leaving it. “Not really. You use it before tonight?”
“No. I didn’t want to attract attention. Guess I did that anyway, but I had a flat and the flashlight wasn’t enough.”
She turned to him then, and her eyes were hard to look at, as he read the pain and miserable years she had also spent. His dread of her story increased.
“Thanks for coming. There’s no one else I can turn to.”
Marc instinctively wanted to comfort her, wanted to say she could count on him, and stopped himself. “I’ll help if I can. It’s the best I can do.”
“Hope you feel that way later.”
Angela sighed, dumped in the hot water and stirring. When she brought their cups over, she set his down and moved quickly back despite his hand being out for it.
She balanced on each foot to slide her shoes off and could feel his eyes on her, but didn’t look up. She didn’t want him to see she was terrified of being alone again
at dawn. Settling herself on her bedroll, Angela pulled the blanket over her lap before easing out of her sweater to reveal a simple white T-shirt with an American flag on
the front. The jeans now hidden under the quilt, were unfastened around her aching guts, had been for hours while she drove. She had been pushing herself, and now
she was paying for it.
Lips tightening at the attempt to hide her pain, Marc settled on the floor too. He busied his hands with cleaning his Colt as the rain drummed steadily and the thunder
rolled, but his eyes were mostly on her and the small details that many years of training allowed him to pick out.
There was a pretty (small) diamond ring on a chain around her slender neck, a claim of ownership she obviously still felt, or she wouldn’t be wearing it. She was
thinner than he thought she should be - probably only 120 pounds - and her nose was crooked, just barely noticeable, along with the slight shadow of what was
probably a nasty scar showing from under the edge of her wrinkled shirt.
She looked scared, sick even, and instead of the guilt or anger he’d expected her to use, he sensed only sadness and felt that old concern rise up - stronger. He
wisely kept his mouth shut, though, sure that anything he said would be met with scorn or sarcasm. This was her show until he agreed and he hadn’t done that yet.
Angela looked over at him, their eyes sparking, hers flinching away. There was joy and pain in that brief glance, and once again Marc admitted to himself that there
was little she could ask for that he wouldn’t give.
Angela took in a deep breath and then picked another question to stall. “So, are you really a Marine or do you just like being a moving target?”
Marc grinned, a bit surprised she knew he was military and what branch. Most civilians didn’t, and he wondered what had given him away. His tag wasn’t visible.
“Been doing it a long time. Saw no reason to change,” he stated carefully, slowing down his hands on the gun. This was going to take a while.
“What’s your rank?”
“I was a Sergeant.”
She looked at him curiously, “Why only an E5?”
He was surprised again by her knowledge, and he shrugged, heart starting to worry. Was her man military too? “I disobeyed a direct order too many times.”
“When did you enlist?” She hated herself for being unable to stop the old Angela from asking, but couldn’t deny the need to know.
Marc snorted, and noticed she jumped, but said nothing. She’d just been attacked. She had every reason to be a little jumpy.
“I didn’t,” his voice was heavy with sarcasm. “It was either put in my time, or go to prison for statutory rape. I’ve been a jarhead for fifteen years.”
Her eyes were guarded. Fifteen years. Right after they were caught in her bedroom.
“The first year was bad, but I learned not to draw fire, and I made a life. I do... did things that most people can’t even imagine.”
“Sounds like you’ve enjoyed it.”
“For the most part, I did. It was good, knowing I was making a difference.” Marc tried to get her to meet his eye. “What about you, Angie? Have you been okay?”
The question was abrupt and she lowered her eyes, trying hard to control her voice as she answered, “It’s had good days and bad days.”
Simple. He studied the bags beneath her long, dark lashes, the broken, jagged fingernails, and the unhealthy color of her pale skin. Too simple.
“More bad than good, right? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called me.”
She nodded, but didn’t give any details and Marc felt guilt roll over him as if she were screaming. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”
Angela lit a smoke, annoyed that he wasn’t clear on what he was sorry for. Did he regret loving her or not coming back? “I don’t need your apology, just your
help.”
Their eyes touched, and he gave her a small smile. “I will if I can. Tell me.”
She let out a deep sigh that told him he wouldn’t like any of it, and as with the note, he read between her words and missed little.
“I left some things out of the letter. Important to you and me, but it’s nothing my son needs to have confirmed and feel bad for."
Marc waved a hand, understanding what she wanted from him as the wind gusted. It moved things around outside and caused her to flinch and Dog to continue
pacing restlessly, picking up on her tension. “This all stays between us. My word.”
Angela inhaled, blew out a thick cloud of smoke. “We’ve been living with a man named Kenny for the last fourteen years. We met at the hospital where I gave birth.
He was there for rehab on his arm. I had just talked my way into a job as a lab assistant, running packages between floors to pay for my medical classes. He seemed
normal enough, safe, dependable, and I ended up telling him everything one night on my break," she paused and sucked in a breath.
"He acted horrified that I was a single, underage mother on the run, living in a sleazy hotel, working ten hour shifts, and then putting in another six hours, four days a
week in classes. Was scandalized I had to have the hotel manager's drunken sister and teenage daughter babysit."
“And the concerned Samaritan offered you a deal you couldn’t refuse.”
She nodded and the hate in her eyes left no doubt. He’d been forced to leave her, and she had been hurt. Marc braced himself. “What was the deal?”
She met his eyes with pain that he knew wasn't faked. “Me. I had to accept him as my owner until my son turned nineteen.”
“Nineteen?”
Angela crushed out her butt, opened a flat, black case to pull out a thick, neatly rolled blunt. Outside, the wind howled in warning, but neither of them noticed. “He
said the extra year was his bonus for being such a good citizen. He never let me forget he was caring for someone’s bastard.”
Fury filled Marc’s heart, but he could say nothing. After all, it was true. “So what do you need me for?”
His voice was a bit more defensive than she cared for and Angela lit the weed, inhaled before answering. Getting mad here wouldn’t help.
When she passed the joint, he saw how careful she was not to touch him at all.
“Help me get my son back. Clearly I’m not cut out for the trek.”
“So just for the trip?”
She met his gaze, shaking her head. “No, probably not. Kenny’s a Marine too. My son’s a cadet. They’re together now, in Western Utah, and Kenn can be…
harsh when he doesn’t get his way.”
His worry confirmed, Marc didn’t respond, mind busy running over what that confrontation might be like. She wanted him to challenge a fellow Marine. He could
do that, but only for the right reasons.
“When he gets like that, I can’t handle him alone. I need you to stay close once we find them, while we talk. Maybe we’ll work things out.”
Marc heard a mix of emotions in her words, but doubt was the clearest. “You don’t think so?”
She took the smoldering blunt back, and again, made sure they didn’t touch, drawing a deeper frown. Where was his Angie?
“No. Kenny doesn’t know what a compromise is, never had to before, and unless the War changed him, he’ll fight to keep what he considers his. I still owe him six
years.”
Marc knew trouble when he heard it. “So, I get you there and what? Keep an eye on you so you can tell your man you don’t love him anymore?”
Her eyes blazed, and he knew it was at the accusing tone more than the words.
“It was never love! We made an unfair deal, and he’s had over a decade of my life that I can’t get back! You don’t know, so don’t sit there and think I’m playing
games. Kenny will be furious I’ve left Ohio, and he won’t care about my reasons or needs. When he finds out I want to change the terms of our deal, that just maybe, I
want complete freedom, he’ll do whatever it takes to hold me…unless he’s changed.”
“And you hope he has?” Marc asked slowly, not wanting to know, and yet needing to. When she hesitated, his heart stirred. There was room there…and it was still
wrong.
“We were a family for a long time, and if he can stop...” Angela caught herself quickly, “If he can compromise, I might be willing to settle back into our old life.”
“And if he won’t?” Marc stubbed out the roach, and when she met his eye again, there was no mistaking the fear, but there was also a wall of determination that
reminded him of the old Angie, his Angie.
“Then I’ll grab Charlie and go north. Kenny would never expect a weak woman who speaks a little Spanish to head for Canada.”
Marc let out a frustrated sigh, sure she wasn’t telling him everything. “We could do that anyway.”
“No. I have to give him the chance.”
“So, I take you there and hang around until you make up your mind, and then maybe take you north. What’s the catch?”
Angela sighed ruefully, not meeting his eye. “There’s more than one, but the biggest is that Charlie doesn’t know for sure that Kenny’s not his father. I’ve never
been... able to tell him, but he’ll figure it out and then Kenny will know. Once my Marine finds out who you are, he’ll never agree to anything. You may have to fight for
both of us.”
Marc said nothing, waiting, and she let out a worried noise that called to him.
“He’ll be madder than I’ve ever made him, and…maybe it’ll come to blood.”
“Surely you’re exaggerating?”
“No, I’m not. He’ll see you for the threat you are, and try to run you off or hurt you. It’s only fair you know what you’re getting into.”
Marc felt a fresh tremor of unease at the tone. “Then why take the chance the boy will get caught in the crossfire? We’ll grab him and go.”
“No, Brady. I would have been sent home, and they would have taken my baby from me. Kenny saved me that. We made a deal. Eighteen full years no matter
what, and while I can’t keep that promise now, I at least owe him the chance to accept that things have changed and keep the family he had, just on different terms.”
Marc was quiet as he studied her, not liking it. If her man was that possessive, there was bound to be ugliness he wanted no part of. “What you’re asking is unfair. I
can’t even spend time with my son. It’s a bad deal now, too.”
The storm had broken overhead while they talked, rain now thumping roughly on the roof as the wind gusted, slamming things around, and she looked at him with
eyes that said she didn’t think she could do it on her own.
“You won’t help me?”
The crushing disappointment in her voice had him looking away, sure if he held her gaze, he would give in.
“I’ll think on it, but probably not. I can’t be your show of force and maybe even your attack dog, just because you can’t live up to a decades-old promise and are
too honest to skip out on it, even after all that’s happened. I certainly won’t challenge a fellow Marine for those reasons.”
Angela nodded, holding back hot tears. “I understand. I’ll go my own way come morning…I’m sorry, Brady, for all of it.”
She lay down with her back to him, trying not to cry. She just couldn’t bring herself to tell him the awful truths about how bad her life had been. He had to see on his
own how much she needed him. There was no way guilt would hold him through all they would face.
Marc wanted to talk more, wanted to convince her she didn’t have to stay with a man she didn’t love, that even after all these years, others were still waiting. He
also loathed the idea of being a Jody. No real Marine let himself become the guy that stole a fellow grunt’s girl while they were away.
Brady blew out a sigh of frustration, frown growing when the small sound made her flinch. What the hell was he supposed to do? "Whatever she asks!" his heart
reproached miserably, already aching at the thought of being split from her again so soon. His emotions insisted she was the real thing, a true damsel in distress, and he
went over her words and reactions repeatedly, looking for clues to what he was missing. What hadn’t she told him?
5
A short time later, Angela jerked out of a deep sleep, the first she’d had since leaving Cincinnati. Weak alarm bells blared in her head for the second time in the
same night, and she pushed herself up, but the door in her mind refused to swing open. She was too tired.
Marc woke the second she sat up, heart thumping at the sight of his dream woman with sleep still on her.
“We have to get out of here.”
He began to pull on his boots, not hesitating, and the clink of his dog tag caught her ear as he stood up to fasten the jeans he’d discreetly loosened. The sexy strip of
hair that ran from his flat, tanned stomach to his groin kept her attention, and she snatched in a surprised breath at the clear chill of desire that went through her. It had
been a long time since she’d felt anything even close to passion.
“What is it?”
Angela shook her head, tearing her eyes away as she grabbed her blankets, sweater, and the heater. “I can’t tell. Big and fast, whatever it is.”
She moved toward the ladder, leaving the rest of her things. She could hear Dog whining impatiently in the darkness below. Whatever it was, the wolf felt it. Angela
climbed down quickly, going for the door.
“Oh, my God!”
That instantly drew Marc from gathering their things, and he stopped in the doorway behind her, stunned.
Thick, orange flames licked up dying trees and the porch rails of the house, branches flaming in every direction. Even the air was burning, fat drops of acid rain
catching fire before they hit a burning branch or rail. It looked like the sky was on fire from the ground up, tiny sparks moving into the night like flames following
gasoline.
The rear of the garage was sending up smoke, telling Marc that direction wasn’t safe either, and his sharp mind began to search for an exit.
Angie was still frozen, and Marc gave her a nudge as a wave of thick, black smoke gusted toward them, noticing she cringed away from him even in a moment of
danger. “Back the way we came, and stay on my ass!”
They were rolling a few seconds later, tires moving over hot, smoldering branches and limbs that had already fallen. The smoke grew steadily thicker, making it
harder and harder to see as they drove by smoking cabins and tall, flaming trees that threw hot showers of sparks on their vehicles as they sped by. Neither noticed the
bullets that slammed by, all barely missing the tires they were aimed for, hitting the ground with hard, quiet thuds that couldn’t be heard over the crackling, popping roar
of the fire around them.
Smoke rolled across the road in thick waves, flames blocking their way in places, and Marc was forced to lead them in and out of trees that had become horrible,
burning torches.
Dead limbs fell, thumping to the ground in geysers of flaming debris and Angela followed him tensely, heart in her throat. They’d almost burned! It was hot and
smoky, her back and face sweaty, cheeks streaked with soot, and Angela tried to keep her eyes on his bumper instead of the flames. How close to death they’d been!
Brady took them back the way they’d come, but instinct was telling him this wasn’t a natural fire. When the flames continued to get heavier, he turned them again,
heading west as sweat poured off him in small torrents. The flames rose suddenly in a thick wall, and he keyed the mic, “Hit the gas! We’ll go right through!”
They plunged into the fire at high speed, the heat rising, and then they were through, coming out unharmed on the other side. Temperature instantly cooler, the path
Marc picked went downhill steeply, winding in long, bone-jarring bumps. The flames hadn’t been through this brown and green terrain yet and Marc was encouraged.
Maybe they had gotten out in time…because of Angie.
He could still see the flames in his mirror, though, and when he spotted the animals following White Creek, he headed for it too, eased them down into the half a foot
of casually flowing water. He rolled slowly down the middle of the creek, looking for the dirt path he’d only been on twice. It was nearly inaccessible to anything but a
bike, 4x4, or jeep, and it would take the fire a long time to spread up the huge hill.
Spotting it, he headed them gently that way, being careful not to kill any of the animals still darting into the water for safety. “Remember how we used to ride dirt
bikes behind Daniel’s house?”
“Yes.”
“This is trickier. Stay a few lengths behind, and remember that an uncontrolled slide doesn’t happen unless you hit the brakes too hard.”
Angela had to grin at his tone. It said he was eager for the next thrill, like when they were young. The fun they’d had together was something she hadn’t allowed
herself to think about in a very long time. She just couldn’t deal with the crushing pain and anger without Kenny sensing it and reacting badly (violently), and it still hit her
at odd times that she was now free to think about anything she wanted. “You lead, I’ll follow.”
Since when? Marc shifted gears as adrenaline raced through him, and he could almost feel her catch his mutter and smile.
He went up the steep hill with an easy burst of speed, and Angela counted to five before following, glad when he didn’t seem to have any trouble with the dark,
muddy-looking path.
His Blazer fishtailed as it hit the top, though, brake lights flashing briefly before he dropped suddenly out of sight. Heart in her throat, Angela hit the gas harder as she
neared the top, and only tapped the brakes as her 4x4 started to drop into thin air.
She saw Marc half way up the next hill, and then she had her hands full as gravity pulled hard and she landed on a narrow path that shot downward at an awful, left
tilt. The Blazer slid heavily, thick gobs of mud spraying the trees. Her hands worked the wheel, foot on the gas, and she just made the turn, shooting up the hill Marc
was disappearing over.
Her Blazer slid to the right again as she made it to the top, wincing as she scraped branches and trees, and she had to physically force her foot away from the brake.
She used loose hands on the wheel to keep the teetering vehicle on the edge of control and was able to make the turn.
Angela brought it gently away from the steep side, proud of herself, and jumped when his thoughts came flying at her, "Gets bad from here. I’ll tell you which
way to aim for."
She heard him clearly in her head, heard the worry but also the excitement, and was suddenly sure he would never let her go on alone. His sense of honor would be
the excuse he gave himself, but it was really the connection between them, the old hunger and restless need. It would make him stand with her. Their lives, her life, had
been in grave danger twice in the same eight hours, and the Brady she had known would never...
She stopped the old Angela, not ready for the pain that would come with completing the thought. That boy was likely gone. Better not to get her hopes up.
6
The twins had come up, then down, the steep miner’s road much more slowly than Angela and Marc, their jeep barely able to make the muddy, hairpin turns. As
they reached the summit of the last dark, treacherous hill, Dillan pointed at two sets of brake lights disappearing into the foggy valley below. They watched for a long
moment, but saw nothing else.
“Still going west.”
“Meeting someone?”
“Cesar, maybe, if she goes far enough. He’s in that area by now.”
“She wouldn’t be able to handle all those men.”
“Neither could we. Have to share.”
“No.”
“Exactly. We’ll follow but hang back, let them think we died or gave up. Our chance will come.”
Dean dug through his pack for two white capsules, glad to be traveling in the same vehicle together again. He’d missed his brother’s heat. “Start out again at
daylight?”
“Yeah. We know which direction she’s headed. We’ll camp high before dusk each night, and keep track by their lights. They’ll relax, and we’ll look for a shot at
her alone, take her off guard.”
“We’ll need a stronger tranquilizer.”
Dillan’s dark face was full of bloodlust. “And, sharper knives. I want it to last.”
7
Angela and Marc didn’t stop until almost noon. They were both bleary-eyed and exhausted as they sat on opposite corners of their tailgates with the tuna
sandwiches and coffee she had made.
The layer of grit in the sky seemed thicker despite the heavy rain the night before, and Angela tried to avoid looking at the suburbs of identical condos crammed
together across from the field. It sickened her to see how many had corpses of starved pets in backyards and front windows, most still appearing to be looking,
searching for the Masters who had left them to such an awful fate.
“We have to come to some terms before we go any farther together.”
Her eyes swung to his, a sweet smile of relief lighting up her tired face and making him suck air into lungs that felt too small. Marc watched her happiness cool, knew
instinctively she was waiting to see if she could pay the price he was about to demand. “First and most important, I’ll teach you to use your gun and some basic selfdefense.”
Angela nodded, frowning at the thought of being close enough to him (to any man!) long enough to learn something like that. “Okay, to both.”
“Good. We’ll plan routes together, share the chores, and I’ll keep my distance as best I can and still protect you. In return, I’ll need more than an introduction. It
can wait until you decide about your man, but then they’ll both have to be told so I can spend time with my son.”
She frowned again. The things he wanted were fair, reasonable, but there was still great fear in her heart. “Agreed, anything else?”
Marc waved a hand, dark blue eyes smoky, serious, “Yes. I’ll need to know things about your life, and that we’ll leave for when you’re ready, but on the way I’d
like you to tell me about...Charlie. Everything I missed. Bedtime stories, any pictures you have?”
She gave him a small smile that didn’t reach her cold eyes, and he wondered what about his words she hadn’t liked. All of it?
Angela gave him another nod, a thin smile. “Is that it? Good. Now, I have conditions. First and most important, we will travel every day. I’m in a hurry, and I want
that clear up front. Second, you’re in charge, but when I say to change direction, we do it. We’ll use the maps, but I’m tracking him too, and I trust me.”
Marc thought she sounded like a mother bear protecting her cub, and for a man who hadn’t had anything but guilt and loneliness for a long time even before the
War, it was very attractive. “Agreed, next?”
“Next is last. When we get there, do as I ask and abide by my choice. I want no violence if it can be helped.”
“You’ll see that I get time with Charlie, even if we have to sneak?”
Her voice was shaky. “Yes. You’ll protect us from Kenny, even if it comes to blood?”
The open fear in her eyes hurt him. “With my life.”
The answer fell easily despite the years between them. When she only nodded, Marc caught the fact that she didn’t tell him that it wouldn’t come to that. What the
hell was he walking into?
“Then I agree.” Mindful about keeping his distance (still stinging from it) Marc didn’t put out his hand until she did hers, and he saw her reluctance, saw her almost
draw back before placing her small fingers against his.
Lightning flashed overhead, forking into thick black clouds that rolled across the sky as the lovers touched. Electricity sparked between them, threatening to sweep
them into the past. Marc let go, moved back. He was a man of his word.
For Angela, the silence after the crash was deafening, but she didn’t apologize for the small theft of some of his healthy energy, almost sure he hadn’t noticed. Her
oddness was something she planned to rely on now, and he would have to get used to it. Kenny couldn’t, hadn’t even been able to consider accepting her for what she
really was without using it for his own gain. Would Brady?
She stood up, began cleaning. Only time would tell. “Well, come on then, Sir Lancelot. I’d like to make another five by dark.”
He snapped a stiff salute, grinning, and she turned away before he could see the disappointment in her tired eyes. Had a tiny part of her lonely heart been hoping that
one of his conditions might be another chance with her if she decided not to stay with her Marine?
She swallowed the hurt, closed and locked her door. That was exactly what the old Angela had been waiting for, and it was a struggle not to cry as she shifted into
gear.
8
They traveled until it began to get dark. The rain had returned for another light round and then cleared, leaving only the damp, reeking wind as they rolled over dead
wires still attached to downed poles and around trees by the hundreds that had their tops sheared off. It was sad, monotonous, and despite her need to hurry, Angela
was glad when he finally called her on the radio. She was beat.
“Ready?”
“Yes. You pick, I’ll cook.”
“Deal. That long drive on your right.”
Carefully easing up the long, muddy driveway full of cracks and weeds, she saw the benefits of his choice. Thick trees blocked them from view on one side as far as
the eye could see and an unturned cornfield did the same on the rest of the property surrounding the small, grayish farmhouse.
A few of the big windows were broken, but it looked otherwise undamaged, and Marc headed for the small carport, hoping there was room for two. He had
honestly expected her to be driving something flashy and unusable - her obvious seriousness about making this trip was something of a relief as well as a worry. It spoke
of someone who wasn’t exaggerating.
Marc stopped, watching her slowly back into the hard, dirt row of corn, snapping a surprising few of the knee-high stalks as she pulled in near the house.
Obviously, she’d done it a few times, and it made sense. He too preferred not to sleep in homes where family ghosts still lingered. Closing his mouth on the correction
he had started to give, Marc waited to see what she had in mind.
Angela pulled out a rolled-up, camouflage tarp, and when she tossed it over her Blazer, pulling gently on the stiff ends, the muddy 4x4 seemed to disappear. Marc
felt the Marine inside stir in respect at her resourcefulness. Fresh recruits tried hard for eight weeks to impress, usually without success, and she’d done it in less than a
day.
“There should be room for both of us.” She had crawled under the tarp and the radio made him jump.
“Copy.”
Angela stood on her roof, holding the tarp up so he could back in next to her, and Marc concentrated on watching what he was doing and not her. He put it in park
and killed the engine, watched her step casually across his hood and jump down, tugging just right until he had to turn on his inside light to see by.
Now wearing gloves and a heavier coat, Angela was driving thick, steel pegs into the corners of the large tarp as he got out, and Marc went to secure the house,
Dog at his side. His movements were careful, thorough, but his mind stayed with the woman he could hear working. She was an asset in this new world, he could see
that already. She was strong, smart, and a possible target for every man who saw her. That was what had stopped him from leaving. Marc was almost sure the fire had
been set.
He had found something on the corner of his tailgate that could just possibly be the trim of a bullet. The brothers had tried to fry her in her sleep, and when she’d
woken too soon, they’d started shooting. The smoke had hurt the brothers’ aim, and saved their lives. Amid the cracking tree branches and roar of the flames, Marc
hadn’t even known they were under attack. She wouldn’t stand a chance without him, and he had loved her too much to let her go on this suicide mission completely
unprotected.
"Loved?" his heart questioned scornfully and Marc pushed it away. They would stay on the back roads and be careful with shooting lessons that would draw
attention. One look at her and they would be under attack again, he thought, not knowing how true that was.
An hour later, they were settled on their bedrolls on the floor, eating and trying not to stare at each other.
“I notice you don’t wear any insignia. What branch of the Marines were you in?”
She was red-eyed, exhausted, and Marc looked up from his mostly empty plate, still dwelling on her story of finding fresh meat in the basement of a mansion she’d
passed in Edinburgh. Drawn by the lights in the windows, the generator was still running and there had obviously been people there recently, but she said she had seen
no one while exploring the big house. What courage that must have taken!
“Brady?”
“The one with no name.”
His words made her frown. Hadn’t Kenny said about the same thing a few years ago, when she asked about the last advancement? She sighed, eyes going to the
bedroll between her and the blanket-covered doorway as the wind howled outside. Kenny was going be so pissed she couldn't even predict what he might do. Was
Brady equal to that? “Like The Unit?”
Marc looked up at her with a smile. “You watched that bs?”
“Every Tuesday, no matter what.”
Her bitter tone made his smile fade and he waited for more, but there was only silence. He could feel her wanting to ask if he was that good, and admired her
control when she didn’t.
“Yes,” he finally said, answering her unspoken question.
Angela met his eye. “You’re sure?”
He nodded, not quite thinking about the harshest things he’d done as a Marine, but she could almost feel the darkness, the dirty stain on his soul, and was
comforted.
“Him too. He’s got four years in now.”
Marc looked at her with shuttered eyes. “Most men don’t do it that long. It’s dangerous work.”
She heard it, felt there was more, and let herself ask this time, “How long for you, Brady?”
He didn’t look away. “Eight. I had my own team.”
Angela knew he was heartbroken over the personal loss, could hear it in his tone, but she couldn’t bring herself to mouth the usual pleasantries the old world would
have required. He was mourning a great life. She’d barely had one to lose. Only two sons and now, one was rotting underground and the other was lost in the
wilderness.
Belly content for the first time in a while, Marc looked at the pictures she’d set by his plate, and he was glad she hadn’t pushed him on why he had stayed in so long.
That question required trust and they didn’t really have that yet. They would have honesty though, he sensed, but when he tried to make eye contact, she avoided his
gaze, “Why didn’t you call me, Angie? I would have come and taken responsibility.”
She pushed away her half-finished burger and corn. “I wanted more back then. I wanted all of you or nothing.”
Angela lit a smoke. “Besides, they wouldn’t have left us alone, and you know it. Between their religious crap and your shame, we didn’t stand a chance.”
“Didn’t I deserve to make that choice?” he asked quietly.
Angela took the cigarette from her mouth with shaky hands she knew he saw. There was probably little he didn’t notice. He was a Marine. “Yes. We both
deserved the right to be happy, but it was taken away. I found out about the baby, and I was alone. I did what I had to, made hard choices that were wrong sometimes,
but we’ve always been together and no one’s ever told him he’s going to hell because of our sins against God.”
Marc winced, fading back in time to the confrontation with his mother.
“She’s your family! How could you?”
“Not by blood!”
Slap! “By God!”
“That was a long time ago.” Angela’s voice held a tremor.
“A lot of hurt between then and now,” He stated.
“We made our choices. What’s done is done.”
She yawned tiredly and stood up, still surprised to find that his obvious pain and regret didn’t please her. She really did owe him much worse for the way he’d
abandoned her. She headed for the doorway, pulling on her jacket.
When he followed her, Angie said nothing, but felt immediately better that he was taking her request for protection seriously. “So, where all have you been since the
War?”
She headed for her Blazer and he hung back, thinking her waist was still so small, he could span it with both hands. He shoved them into his pockets instead,
remembering a time when he’d been free to do that and a lot more.
“I was in Virginia when the bombs fell, heading home for a funeral."
“Whose?”
“My mother’s.”
Angela started to offer her sympathy and he held up a hand. “Don’t bother. I went home to bury the past, not her. She’s been dead to me for a long time,” he lit a
Winston, casual tone not changing at all. “After Roanoke, I headed northeast for a couple weeks, but it all looked worse. There were mutations in West Virginia and
after that, I changed directions fast. I’ve been to about twenty other bases, offices, centers. There’s nothing.”
Hearing it only made Angela a bit sadder than she’d already been. That world was gone, and eventually they (she) would stop watching for its return. Angela got
another duffle bag from the back seat and disappeared behind a tree, liking it that he waved the wolf after her. This was why she needed him. He would teach her to be
strong, and look out for her while she learned.
"And what happens when he runs out of things to teach?" the Witch asked ominously, but Angela wasn’t in any state to look that far ahead, and she didn’t
answer.
They were quickly back inside the tepid warmth of the faded, drafty farmhouse, both of them avoiding looking at the happy faces of the family who had lived here,
smiling from the walls around them.
“How much gas do you have?” He pushed the heater closer to the window so the draft would carry it farther into the room.
“Only a quarter tank, but I have two full, ten gallon cans in the back.”
“Great. I’ve got about the same. We should be good for a few days.” Marc spent a minute looking out the window at the landscape around their vehicles. He had
chosen this room because it was the closest one to their wheels that had a window for a quick escape, and he wondered if he should point that out to her. How much
did she want to learn while they traveled?
“Have you seen anyone rebuilding? Any place for people to go?” Angela asked, suddenly wondering if his home had included a wife. The pain was almost
staggering.
“No, and I’ve been looking. It’s always the same. Things are bad and getting worse.”
Not surprised, she didn’t say anything. After ten days out in this horrible new world, she had seen too much to believe that this was the normal recovery time after a
global tragedy, that eventually help would come. Clearly, the government was gone and its people were on their own.
“So, he’s a HAC-RAM?”
Angela smiled at the thought of how good her son had turned out, and the beauty of it made Marc stare. Enough of those could blind a man from even seeing other
women.
“He has been for three years. Have a child, raise a Marine, was one of Kenny’s better ideas. They were in New Mexico at an annual competition when the War
came. They never miss it; usually bring home a box of trophies. From the outside, he’s the perfect dad.”
Angela settled herself on the couch, rubbing at her tired eyes, and Marc forced his mouth shut. He was going slowly, so that he didn’t miss anything important, and
was already seeing stuff that bothered him. The jumpiness and hand flinching toward her gun at every sound could be attributed to her being attacked by the brothers,
but there was also the way she hesitated to walk very close or look him in the eye. The no physical contact was a given, but her cold reaction to his hug had been
unexpected, uncalled for. What had…
“Where’d you get the wolf?”
“Dog?” Marc smiled awkwardly, not sure how much of his thoughts she’d been picking up. “He’s a half-blood, they think, brought in with a pack that was killing
livestock. Some were trained for police work, but Dog here, refused to conform. I got him when no one could make any progress.”
“They were gonna put him down?”
“Yeah. My buddy had a farm with lots of room and once there, Dog just settled right in and we made friends.”
“He obeys well for still being mostly wild. It’s good that you didn’t take that from him.”
Marc lit a smoke, thinking most people didn’t realize that fact when they heard the story. “I only changed him where I had to. He went on base with me, on missions
a few times. It saved my ass more than once to have him along.”
“It sounds like you’ve lived the ideal bachelor’s life.” Angela hated herself for being too weak to resist and was aware he knew the answer mattered.
Marc tried to steel his heart, but didn’t hesitate. “There was never anyone for me after you. You’re a tough act to follow.”
The old Angela did enjoy the hurt in his voice this time, and she slapped out at him with sharp claws not quite fully extended. "Hell, Brady. Thought you’d have a
supermodel by now. I never figured you for a swinging-single.”
Marc smiled uncertainly, shrugging, but his heart screamed ambush at her almost accusing tone. “I wasn’t that either. Too many strange ones out there. I had one
very fast date with a girl who had a nose ring and three-inch black fingernails. Just strange.”
Angela opened her mouth before she could censor the words and was appalled by the jealousy that spewed out. Her claws now sparkled, found blood. “Did she
have long black curls and pale, white skin like all the others? Did you see my face when you exploded in her?”
Marc sucked in a breath, hurt face open with the truth.
Angela stood up in regret and fear. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I said that.”
“After everything you’ve been through, I guess you owe me a few.” Marc stood too, reeling from the blow that she already knew he wasn’t over her, and frowned
when he caught her flinch from the corner of his eye.
“I’m sorry, Brady. It won’t happen again.”
The note of real fear was unmistakable and he slowed his movements, turned his back to her so that she couldn’t see the rage on his face. She was afraid of him;
terrified. “Better to let it out, Honey. The sooner we clear the air, the sooner you’ll trust me again and feel safe.”
“But, I do,” she protested.
Marc shook his head, moving toward the door, but his sharp gaze was on her and he saw the truth, saw the relief on her face when he kept going.
“I called you, didn’t I?” she argued tiredly as his hand went to the knob.
“Yes, but you’re not sure if you can trust me. It’s a problem we’ll have to work on.”
“It’s not a problem. I’m fine,” Angela insisted, worrying he was about to leave.
“Then why do you go for your gun every time I move?” He watched her slide trembling hands into her pockets. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Marc waved at the wolf, voice hard, “Stay. Guard her.”
The huge animal immediately lay down in the doorway, and Marc closed the door, leaving Angela relieved, confused, and sorry she hadn’t controlled her reactions
better.
Marc walked the perimeter, furious. Angie was scared, and not that childish shit women did over mice and spiders: it was real fear of being hurt and he hated the
people who had taught her that. He was hoping her life hadn’t been as bad as watching her implied, but every minute they spent together said it had been worse. The
fear she was carrying was not from being attacked by the twins; it wasn't new. She was terrified of men, and that only came from being hurt by one.
"What if she’s been abused?" his heart demanded. "What if it’s just like she says? What if he comes for her and finds she’s not alone?"
“Then I’ll fight for her.” The words were instinctive and the Sergeant thought he’d probably end up doing that anyway. It was ingrained.
"If she chooses not to be with her Marine anymore," his conscience threw in the condition, but his heart lashed out in bitter anger. "To Hell with her man! She
was mine first!"
9
Swallowed by her black coat and hat, Angela came out as he came up the steps, sweet vanilla filling his nose as they passed. Marc shoved his hands into his
pockets to keep from reaching out for her. They’d been apart so long and he had missed her so much!
Angela heard him as if he’d spoken, and she forced herself to stop and look at him as the stiff wind blew her stray curls around wildly. He was doing her a great
service, and she didn’t want him to be upset. “It just wasn’t meant to be, Brady, but we’ll be friends again, in time. That’s something, right?”
He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, they had been soul mates. “It’ll be enough. You’ll be safe with me,” came unexpectedly. He hadn’t planned to reassure
her, but was glad he had when she flashed him the first honest smile he’d seen since they were reunited.
“I know it deep down, but...” Angela shrugged, not wanting to expect more than he was willing to give.
His eyes were full of understanding. “But, it helps you to hear it, and you’ll probably need me to do it again.”
She flushed, brows drawing together as she looked away. He had seen her needs so quickly. Why couldn’t Kenny have been half the man Brady was? She moved
to the Blazer, very aware of his gaze burning holes into her back.
When she stepped out of the Blazer, she wasn’t surprised to see the wolf sitting on the porch, watching.
“Hi, Dog. I’m Angie.”
The big animal immediately held out a paw, and Marc grinned as her pleased laughter rang out, watching her bend down to shake without hesitation. Most people
were too scared. He watched from the impenetrable darkness of the doorway, heart thumping when she pulled her shirt to the side to adjust a lacy, white bra strap. The
desire instantly changed as his eye went to the jagged knife scar on her shoulder, instantly knowing that’s what it was.
It was rough, ugly and out of place on her pale, white skin. A hard knot of rage formed in his gut as his mind saw her being held down, struggling and screaming,
while someone carved what looked to be a grotesque letter K into her flesh. Wasn’t her man named Kenny?
Stop it! he told himself sternly. There were many possibilities, like a car wreck, shrapnel, fell on something, bobbed when she should have weaved, and still, he
knew what he knew. Marc moved silently back to their den, mind busy counting the ways he’d make her man pay if he was the one responsible.
Five minutes later, Angela still hadn’t come in and Marc went back out, even though Dog was with her, not liking it that there was no noise. She was in the farthest,
darkest corner of the porch, out of most of the wind, and if not for the sounds of her pen scratching on the paper, he thought he would have missed her. How could she
see so well to write in total darkness?
“Something about the way my eyes work. What’s the temperature?”
Using his lighter, Marc checked the small stick-on disc he had watched her put up earlier, “Either 30 or 28, can’t tell which.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” he lit a smoke, staring into the thick shadows around them. “I need to ask you something.”
Angela closed her notebook. “Shoot.”
“Was calling me a way to make him see you don’t need him, so that you can get what you want? Are you using me against him?”
Angela flipped on her penlight as she stepped toward the rail, letting him see the truth on her face. “Not in the way you’re thinking. He isn’t coming back for me,
intends to keep my son. I have to show him that I can not only make it on my own, but do it well.”
“Why wouldn’t he come back for you?”
Fathomless grief flashed in her eyes, and Marc drew in a sharp breath at the pain there, understanding something awful had caused it, something she wasn’t going to
tell him yet.
“I’m a burden.”
“You’re not a burden. Look how well you’ve survived on your own.”
She shook her head, and he could hear the anger, the disappointment. “I was never allowed to be this person. He sees only what he’s created.”
She looked up at him, the bags under her eyes almost like bruises, they were so dark. “He heard the calls too and knows I’m on my way. He doesn’t think I’ll
make it and doesn’t expect me to bring help that he can’t handle, so yes, I am using you, but only in the ways you’ve agreed to, nothing more.”
Marc knew she wanted to be done with it for now and pointed at the small, black discs he had set out, “Those are alarms, motion and heat sensors.” He picked up
a rock and a stick, tossed them in different directions and almost immediately, two different tones chimed loudly from his wristwatch.
He quickly hit a button to give them silence, holding his arm up for her to see, and Angela controlled her flinch, but not her widening eyes at the sudden movement.
“Different sound for each breach tells how many intruders. Red button turns it off, green arms it.”
She looked at him with curious, smoky eyes. “You learn that in the Corps?”
“That and a few other things.”
“Like what?” she asked, watching his eyes fall to her lips, before he turned away.
“Survival stuff mostly. I was always good at planning for trouble. It’ll come in handier now, I suspect.”
He sounded wide-awake and she frowned. “Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m a Marine, Honey. This is par for the course,” he stated matter-of-factly, but didn’t tell her he’d only gotten a short snooze before their escape from the fire. His
mind had been too busy racing to really sleep, and he’d taken a pill after they stopped for lunch.
They were quiet for a minute, looking, listening. No lights or noises in the darkness around them. No insects or rodents in the brush, and she shivered. The whole
world was dying. Would they too? Shaking off the morbid thoughts, Angela followed him back into the warmth of their den.
When he took off his coat, thick arms flexing, her gaze was drawn to his muscular body.
“I grew up, didn’t I?” he grinned at her, and she nodded, eyes unreadable.
“Yes,” Angela slid into her blankets and ducked her head to her bag, thinking it was all going to be so much harder than she’d first thought. She tossed the black
case toward his feet and hid a worried look, but still watched for anger from making him jump. “Light the big one, will ya?”
Marc grinned, leaning against an end table as he fired it up. His gun belts were under his pillow, boots nearby, and the sweet pot curled thickly around them as they
smoked all of it without speaking. There was a tension between them that they both disliked, but for Angela, it was a step down from what she’d lived with every day.
“In the morning, before we leave, I’d like to start showing you how to use that gun.” Come daylight, they would have to start watching for the twins.
She was unbraiding long curls that he longed to touch. “Okay. Will you tell me about some of your missions another night?” she asked, smothering another yawn.
“You mean about the places I’ve come through since the War?”
“No, about your time in the Corps.”
“Pick a city, state, or country.”
“New Orleans.”
“Before or after Katrina?”
She heard the change in his voice and met his eye. “During.”
“Okay.” Marc saw her shiver at a strong draft and pushed the heater closer to her with his foot, very aware that the connection, the spark that had always been
between them, was still there, waiting for her to overcome her fear.
“So what’s the first thing I should know about guns?”
“Don’t have one, if you don’t know how to use it.”
Angela understood the answer had been drilled into him, but still found his tone smug. She met his eye warily, “And the second?”
“When its life or death, like it is now, rule one means shit.”
Marc grinned again, and she had to give him a tiny smile in return, eyes burning, head starting to thump. “So, what will you do with me first?”
His eyes went to her mouth again, and Marc forced himself to look at the floor as the wind howled through the dead cornstalks around the farmhouse. “We’ll work
on target practice each morning for a few minutes before we head out, so we won’t be as likely to be tracked by the noise.”
“That’s smart.”
He stifled a groan of relief, dog tag clinking as he lay down on his side, facing her. “Won’t matter if someone’s close,” he warned, eyes on ebony curls resting on the
blankets. Would it still feel like silk against his skin?
Angela looked at him, nostrils flared as if she had smelled the thought, and the fear lurking in her eyes made him roll onto his back. He was enjoying the buzzing in
his head, the heat on his feet, and most of all, the sights, sounds, and smells of her that were invading his senses, reminding him of pleasures long gone. She too had
grown up.
Yes, I have, she thought, easing down as the mild cramps of her sore stomach continued hurting her. Enough not to encourage what I’ll never be free to give.
“Night, Brady.”
She closed her eyes and felt him reach that cold, dark place in her heart with a single, beautiful, fiery blast of heat.
“Night, Honey. See you in the morning.”
“Yes, you will.” The old, familiar, hurtful response came from her lips as if no years had gone by and it was hard not to let the tears escape. Brady was back, and
every wall that had stood between them before was still there, only now they were twice as tall. It would be a long time before they were even friends again.
Marc lay with his hands under his head until her even breathing told him that she was asleep, and then he eased onto his side, letting his eyes go where they wanted.
She was so achingly beautiful and still more courageous than any female he’d ever known. How was he going to do this? Fifteen years with no communication, but
Marc had never put her out of his heart. There was no way he’d make it a thousand miles without telling her that he had come back for another chance at their love.
There wasn’t any deal he wouldn’t agree to.
Chapter Fourteen
February 15th, 2013
Devils Head, Colorado
1
“Damned spider wasn’t even the size of my fingernail,” Samantha muttered bitterly, about to cause herself a lot of pain because of it. Her leg was bad, the wound
hard and swollen, black in the center with angry red lines of infection aiming for her heart. She shivered in the cold hunting cabin, building up the nerve to do what had to
be done.
Green Falls and Woodland Park, Colorado had been looted like every other place she’d come through, but both had pharmacies surprisingly intact, and she had
tried all the antibiotics she found on the spider bite, giving each a couple days to work. Though they had clearly slowed down the infection that had eventually made
walking impossible, it was now life or death. She would have to do surgery on herself.
Sam was holed up in the Devil’s Head Hunting Lodge, taking shelter in a large, rustic log cabin. There were older, uncomfortable furnishings around a beautiful
stone fireplace, an outhouse in the back, and huge glass windows in the front that gave her a view of dwarf birch trees with black moss climbing most of the smooth
trunks.
The other walls were decorated with a buck, a bear, an angry bobcat, and a calendar still on December. The floor under her was cold stone, the forest still in the
thick of winter. Isolated and alone, she was about to try treating herself so she could recover while waiting out the powerful blizzard she could feel pushing closer.
Terrified of passing out and bleeding to death, Samantha let her mind go where it wanted, thinking about the trucks and sport utility vehicles in the long gravel
driveway. The thick layer of dust on the floor said no one else had been here since all hell had broken out, not even the bloody smears that she was sadly becoming
used to. There also weren’t any bodies - not even a meadowlark or a stray cat, and that too, made her worry. It told her there were probably a number of predators
around here that were keeping the carrion cleaned up.
Her stomach dipped at that thought, and when she closed her eyes, she saw the doomed man on the sofa again, heard the single shot. The compound was fifty miles
behind her, but Pat’s grotesque face was her daily companion.
“Won’t last as long as he did if you don’t do this, Sammi,” she told herself.
The dark infection lines crawling outward from the wound were already six inches long, and she could only hope this drastic action would drive them back.
Bandages and other supplies spread out next to her, roaring flames in the marbled fireplace at her booted feet, the dirty blonde pulled her cap down tighter over her long
braid. It was time to shoot, Luke, or give up the gun.
Samantha, who had once created very useful technology for the government, and saved the life of the President, picked up the hot knife. There was a second one
smoldering in the fire, and she tried not to think of how much more it would hurt. There was a shoelace tied around her upper thigh, cutting off the circulation, and she
clenched her teeth as she pinched up the flesh around the nasty-smelling wound and thick, yellow clots ran out, rolled down her thigh.
“Don’t need someone to ride the river with,” she told herself, the leg of her sweat pants cut away from the thigh to the knee so if she passed out, she wouldn’t freeze
to death. “It’s do or die time, Sammi.”
The steel in her spine stiffened into an iron bar and with a quick prayer she had no real faith in, Sam drew in a deep breath and pushed the red hot knife into her
swollen, discolored leg.
It sank into her flesh like it was butter and she screamed as pain like she’d never known, raced up her leg. White and yellow puss shot out, followed by scarlet
streams, and she moved the blade again, her hoarse cry never completely stopping as a chunk of her leg slid to the sticky floor.
Stomach and teeth clenched, the sobbing woman forced her shaking hands to drop the knife and grab the full, open bottle of rubbing alcohol. She dumped it over
the heavily-bleeding wound, snatching up the second knife with her other hand before the waves of agony could overwhelm her, moaning.
Tears blurring her vision, she shoved the red-hot end over the gaping hole, and her lungs burned before she stopped screaming.
Twice more to be sure she had gotten it all, Sam could feel her heart thudding in her chest, nothing else except the flames that had become her leg. She dropped the
bloody metal back into the fire, grasping the syringe of morphine with jerking fingers.
Crying waves tears of misery, she only gave herself half of the liquid, and was grateful when the waves of pain immediately sank down into a nasty monster. The
morphine was powerful, consuming, and she was unprepared for the strength of the liquid gold as it made her head swim.
When she was sure she had herself under control, she shot a generous dose of antibiotics into her thigh and then sat still, trying to stay awake, afraid of the wound
breaking open, terrified of her dreams. Melvin and Henry were with her most nights, often joined by the Press Secretary from the bunker, and while she knew it was
just her mind working through it all, she couldn’t help being afraid, looking over her shoulder.
Brief flares of light in the darkness had come sporadically, made her go still until they were gone. With NORAD being destroyed, Samantha saw no reason to keep
looking for the government. She didn't know for sure what she would do yet, but if the surgery worked, she might be in Cheyenne by April Fools’ Day.
Pain was on her in thick waves, stealing her breath and Sam thought of her Seattle office with longing. She had spent more time there than the small condo she’d
been left in her parents will. She hadn’t been an active member of the weather service, only a computer message they’d been told to listen to no matter what the data
said, but she had been well-treated, her office full of luxuries designed to keep her close.
"Prize rat in a cushy run,” she slurred, crying again, ashamed of her life. She’d been part of the problem.
Some of this was her fault. Miserable, exhausted, her eyes closed less than a minute later, the pain and drugs too much. Sam slumped back against the bed of
cushions and pillows she’d made, as the darkness swallowed her. Outside, the snow began to fall.
2
Wwhhhoooo!
Sam was moaning in agony before her eyes were even open, hands automatically going to her wound. She screamed as clumsy fingers found the raw, angry flesh of
her leg.
She jerked awake, groaning as the room spun, and her stomach lurched from the smells and mess. Taking shallow, rapid breaths, she gave herself the rest of the
Morphine in the syringe without sitting up, slamming the needle into her other thigh.
Her empty stomach churned, and she gagged. Tears streamed from her eyes, and Sam concentrated only on holding her guts in, as the pain slowly sank back.
After a moment, she pried her eyes open. Cleanup had to be done. It had been an animal outside that had woken her. The mess was already drawing predators,
even though she could hear the wind and snow beating against the cabin. Her dream flashed through her mind, the latest vision. A blizzard where places on the edge of
the storm would see sudden temperature drops. The War’s death count was about to climb.
As if to prove her point, the storm outside picked up, freezing rain slamming against the windows, and she jumped at a quick movement in the corner. Squinting, her
blurry eyes told her it wasn’t a threat. It was a mouse, and it looked normal. It was the first good thing she’d seen in weeks. Maybe she could find it something to eat.
Samantha forced herself to move, and to use the bedpan, leg crying the whole time, flaring up to shout at each jar and wobble. She gently cleaned herself with
alcohol pads, relieved to see the dark red lines were lighter, and then forced herself to drink a cup of water and eat a pack of stale peanut butter crackers. She tossed
one into the corner for the mouse to find later.
She already missed the fire, shivering and hating the dark, but she just wasn’t up to all the effort required to relight it. For now, she had a big stack of blankets and a
couple of flashlights nearby, and that would have to be enough.
Leg starting to scream, Sam took another half syringe of morphine, eyes closing in bliss, and she jerked the covers over herself with careless hands, head swimming.
She would rest a while and then she’d be okay. She told herself that repeatedly, needing the comfort now that loneliness had caught up with her on her solitary journey.
Sam had finally come to hate the constant silence that enveloped the world now, longed to hear a compassionate voice. She needed to be with people again and as
soon as she was able, she would be on her way to Cheyenne. Even if the people at the base were gone, there was an EPA approved weather shelter there that few
knew of. She would check it out and stock it for the winter, make it her hideout.
It would be with a heavy heart. She couldn’t help but hope there would already be other survivors there, but knew it was too much to ask. Likely, there would be
only more pain and death.
Chapter Fifteen
February 16th, 2013
Near Roosevelt, Utah
1
“Harrison to Eagle One. Twelve o'clock, high.”
Adrian looked up from the roadmap he had splayed across the steering wheel, eyes narrowing on the huge black cloud coming over the distant hill towards them. It
moved like a badly-trained platoon, spreading an evil shadow over the land, and Adrian leaned forward, “What the hell is…Shit! Convoy halt! Put it in park, and get
down as low as you can!”
Doing 35 mph, he slammed both feet down, reaching for the trailer brake. Pulling the curved handle, he applied the clutch as he downshifted through half the gears,
and then tugged the rear controls harder. The semi shuddered, grinding as the tires started to lock up and thick white smoke rolled from the back wheels.
Left hand straining to keep the heavily-loaded truck straight, he let go of the chicken-stick, using the pedals again, and the semi ground to a halt. “Neil, Kyle, get that
truck of turkeys away from us!”
“What is it?”
Adrian groaned as their birds began clucking loudly, responding to the faint echoes, and were answered. “Everybody stay down! Fate sent us another wild card!”
The sickly flying birds headed straight for the convoy, an enormous flock of possible contamination. Adrian had enough time to wonder what species they had been
- seeing bald wings and dead, black eyes - before all the flock arrived.
Birds began slamming into them, shattering windows, banging off doors and hoods with awful thuds, sending blood and guts flying as the blind, feetless radiation
victims came in for a landing. They flew through open windows, pecking, calling to each other ceaselessly, and were killed by the vehicles nauseated occupants with
horrified feet and fists. They squelched against trees, ripped apart on sharp, bare juniper branches, and hit the ground with wet, sickening thuds, the cloudy wind gusting
them down faster than even the Eagles could handle. The flock was uncountable.
Adrian watched, knowing the sounds of their guns wouldn’t be enough to carry through the din of birds calling, screams, glass cracking, and awful, wet thuds. A fire
of some kind? Loud stereos?
Now holding his vest over the cracked, gore-splattered windshield, Adrian saw Kenn step out of his truck, and knew instantly that the Marine was about to work
his bolt and make himself look good doing it. About damn time!
That’s exactly what Kenn was thinking as he quickly climbed onto the roof of the school bus. Birds were diving in for sightless landings all around him, and he began
blowing the air horn he’d taken from his glove box. The kids had their windows down and were being pecked and scratched by the incoming birds. Sick birds, and he
knew Adrian would be relieved that only a couple had gotten through. The lower half of the glass was taking the brunt of the aerial assault so far.
Kenn began blowing birds out of the sky before they could get into an open window, rotating and blasting the piercing air horn, and those watching were amazed
when the flock immediately began to divert from their straight-at-the-ground course. How had he known that would work?
All of the Eagles followed Kenn’s lead, the guards carrying the loud horns for backup in case the weather knocked out their radios. The flock circled the camp in
groups, dipping and spinning. Some stayed high, but most were confused, not sure where to go, and their bodies dropped from the sky like rain.
The guns were starting to take their toll, the ground littered with carnage, and the rest of the flock finally seemed to understand there was anger simultaneously,
returning to higher ground in ragged staggers. Neat lines were also a thing of the past for the animal populations.
Now, the guns were louder than the cries of the sick, blind birds, as they were flew by instead of trying to land. They called anxiously to each other to keep from
getting lost. A minute later, they were out of sight, but their calls echoed for a long time through the gritty February sky.
“We’ll call it a day,” Adrian informed them. “Man on Point, take over.”
“Yes, sir!”
Kenn jumped from the bus, jeans and army jacket splattered with streaks of blood. He turned in a short circle, eyes evaluating, then waved Kyle over. He would
cover things in the order he knew Adrian would have, and enjoy it that the Mobster wouldn’t be able to argue. For some reason, Kenn still found Kyle to be a rival, and
though he had some hopes of swaying the Italian to his side, he couldn’t stop himself from showing the man where his place was.
“Have Neil do a perimeter, over in that onion field. Set it up and get them inside it. Send someone to the bus with first aid kits, and then set up a couple of showers
and wash areas over here so we don’t contaminate our campsite. Make the wire tight and short.”
Kenn looked at his watch. “Almost lunch anyway. Tell Hilda to go ahead, but scrub the tuna sandwiches. There’s no way anyone will eat that shit now. Also, have
Doug see to the Bitch. She’s taking pictures. When all that’s done, we’ll need new vehicles. You and your team see to it personally.”
Deeply-tanned hands clenched in anger, Kyle swallowed a nasty remark and got busy. He did indeed have a beef with Adrian’s new suit, but now was not the time.
2
Hours later, Adrian groaned as he lowered his 6’1” 230 lb, sore body to the dark bank of Duchesne Creek, not caring that mud was soaking into his dusty jeans.
Both his knees popped, head aching from the fumes of all the cars they’d stripped, tanks they’d emptied. It had been a 20 hour day for him already, and it wasn’t over,
but this area was ugly, full of death, and devoid of normal life. Even the mutating ants wouldn’t live here, and that frightened him. Would spending a day or two on this
ground make his people sick?
Adrian sighed. They had to have a break soon, but not tomorrow or the next day. He had settled for making camp under the retractable awning of an apple orchard
(long since stripped, with the owners body rotting on the front walk), and after seeing that Kenn knew how he wanted things, Adrian had come here to steal a few
minutes alone in the darkness, worrying.
Inhaling softly, the tired leader tensed at a ripple from the slow-moving water that said something was still alive in that reeking liquid. He tried to take hope from it,
moving his hand away from his gun. They were only about fifteen miles from Roosevelt, Utah, and he was very aware that horrible, unspeakable things had happened
there. It was bad enough to make him consider backtracking despite all the extra miles it would add.
This land was broken, rotting and muddy. The roads were unbelievable, impassable without the tow trucks. Bridges were gone, fallen and washed away. Nearly
every street was crammed full of vehicles, most empty of their drivers, and Adrian assumed that was from people fleeing California and Washington. They had watched
entire, distant hillsides of mud collapse in the last few days, the thick, reddish ooze swallowing homes and highways, and the weather was the cause. It rained each
morning now, and the saturated ground simply couldn’t hold any more. Barely above freezing most nights, the cold sleet was the color of ashes, and added more weight
to the muddy hills…more chemicals to the land.
He had people wearing extra layers to avoid contact with the precipitation, sure it was full of toxins, but Adrian was almost positive they were on the very edge of
some type of ground zero here. Besides the possible danger, the views were hard to ignore, and impossible not to feel. Twisted, burned metal, crushed cars and
building walls lay over the ground like grave markers. There were charred shoes, flattened fire hydrants, and of course, bones. Human and animal mixed together and
scattered across the sagebrush land like a huge jigsaw puzzle that had been shoved off a table.
Where had all this damage come from? The nearest ground zero was in California, too far to have caused this and even his sharp, military mind couldn’t come up
with another reason. This had to be the edge of a bomb zone, one that had come after communications fell, and he would add it to the map he was keeping.
Lightning flashed in the distance and the vivid reds and golds had his eye, but his mind was on his people and their broken country. How much of his beloved
homeland now looked and felt this way? Most? Would they really be forced into the caves to survive, blown back hundreds of years in evolution?
“What new life can there be if we have to live it inside the rotting shell of the old one?” He muttered.
Adrian tensed again, this time at the soft crunch of a boot step, hand dropping to his hip even though he knew no one had gotten past the guards. There were three
full shifts of men on the perimeter right now, and he could feel them watching, looking out for him too, even though he wasn’t specifically training them to do that yet.
They were following Kenn’s lead.
“Adrian?”
He pushed his dreary thoughts to a back file. They would do what they had to. Maybe the mountains wouldn’t be as bad as he was expecting. They hadn’t voted
on a final settling place yet, but he already knew that’s what they’d pick and he had his doubts about being able to make such a place safe for even a month, let alone
for the nuclear winter he still feared was coming. The first would be the hardest.
Following the guards’ eyes, Kenn eased down the small, muddy hill and sat down, handing over a mug of hot coffee. Like Adrian, he didn’t notice or care that mud
was seeping into his clothes. It didn’t matter anymore, only survival did.
“How are they?” The tone was that of a commander asking about his troops after a hard day.
Kenn’s answer was simple, honest. “Tired and down, same as you.”
Adrian nodded, but didn’t offer any excuses that would only be obvious lies. It was impossible to pretend everything was fine when you were rolling over the
unburied bones of your fellow Americans.
“We’ll be better when we’re away from here,” Kenn stated as he took a sheet of paper from his pocket. He’d been thrilled to see Man on Point on his schedule
this morning, and when the birds had hit them (coincidence or Fate?) he’d come through with full marks. Before the sick flyers, though, there had been surprise from the
Eagles. Now, Kenn had more pals than he needed and had chosen to keep these current favorites at arm's length for the moment. Adrian was the only one he really
gave a damn about.
“Sitrep whenever you’re ready,” Adrian guided, relighting the joint he’d been ignoring with his worried thoughts.
“Perimeter’s good, no serious injuries, radio’s quiet, everyone’s accounted for. The pictures from Cheyenne Mountain are in your tent.”
Adrian frowned, sure they’d be worse than those from Salt Lake City. “Anything?”
“No.”
When he didn’t ask for details, Kenn didn’t offer them, thinking their leader was depressed enough already. Adrian didn’t need to hear about the fry-room at
NORAD they had forced open, but Kenn was sure he would have recognized the clever way it had been done. Someone among the Slavers had military knowledge
and that didn’t bode well. Kenn planned to give Adrian the full in the report he’d been asked to deliver nightly about various camp issues and setups.
“Neil see ‘em yet?”
“No.”
Adrian nodded, unhappy the state trooper hadn’t gotten to go, but it had been Kenn’s mission and he hadn’t intervened. To make it up a bit, Adrian would let the
loyal cop see the awful photos before the camp did. They didn’t have access to all the pictures he and the Eagles took, but the big places still gave people hope. He had
to show them or they would go off on their own to check and maybe not come back. Some did anyway. Adrian wasn’t offended, only relieved when they returned. He
needed them all.
“We have two new arrivals who weren’t with the group that’s following us. Wanted to know if we had any use for a doctor?”
Adrian’s happily surprised eyes swung to his, and Kenn grinned back, loving this feeling of pleasing the blond leader. “I knew you’d like that. John and Anne
Harmon are husband and wife of almost forty years, had their own office in Rawlins. They were going to NORAD, but they saw the smoke. Then, they heard Mitch on
the CB and chose to come see if we’re good or bad. They’d like to trade their medical skills for a place with us.”
“Damn, that’s great! It’s exactly what we need. Give ’em a couple days to settle in, and then put them to work.”
Kenn was still grinning, sure his next words would also please the boss, and they did. “Too late. He saw Zack’s arm and insisted on cleaning and stitching it right
then, along with any other serious injuries. Neil’s setting him up in the corner near the livestock. Right now, they’re looking over the scratches some of the kids got. He
says the birds were likely American Gulls.”
“Give them one of the biggest tents and have a red cross painted on it. The doctor's name should be in red, white, and blue - Safe Haven colors.”
Adrian made a mental note to have a talk with the man in the next week. With that eager attitude, he would probably be well-liked. That was one of the reasons
Kenn was settling into the camp so fast. People were starting to realize that the Marine’s only goal seemed to be giving whatever was needed, and only those closest to
Adrian had any objections.
Not that they’d go against his wishes after the meeting tomorrow night. He intended to make it clear where the Marine belonged, and it would help that Kenn never
stole his thunder, didn’t seem to want it. His willingness to be only back-up had earned him respect. Then, there was his quick reaction to the birds. Giving Kenn point
had been a great idea at the perfect time, and it had been a good day for the camp.
“You wanna do this later?”
Adrian shook his head, frowning at himself in the windy darkness. “I’m easily distracted tonight. Go on.”
Adrian wondered if the Marine still planned to go back to Ohio. Kenn hadn’t mentioned leaving since that first day, didn’t have much to say about his old life at all
(something most people here liked, but not Adrian), and he was very busy carving out a place for himself. Again though, there was the feeling of something being not
quite right and it was stronger now than when the Marine had first arrived. Was it because Kenn thought no one had noticed?
“... and both women are on livestock duty, like you wanted. Water's down to three tankers; toilet paper, 12 cases. We changed four flats, two windshields, and
exchanged 10 vehicles for others Kyle’s team found. The tires came from the reserve.”
Adrian had known they would be into it this week, and it made his stomach burn with worry. Their transportation was nearly as important as the food, but water
was priority one. If they couldn’t keep moving and finding supplies, they would die, and their reserve wasn’t growing.
“What’s the biggest problem?” he asked tiredly, already knowing. Even with the carpool law he insisted on, they used a lot of fuel.
“Gas. We’re down to the reserves on it, too, after we fill up tomorrow.”
The reserves of gas were only a tenth of what was found and would hold them for 2 days travel, at best. They should have more by now, but people were scared to
leave camp. Some might not like it, that too was about to change.
“We’ll get farther from here and start draining the tanks on every car, tractor, and lawn mower we can find until we get lucky and find a station with something still in
it.”
“We could try 191.”
Adrian looked over at him curiously. “That’s a highway crammed with dead traffic.”
Kenn was eager to score bonus points to go with the full set of marks he’d earned earlier. “Exactly. Dead vehicles, like box-trucks and semis still full of food and
water. Maybe even a fuel tanker or two.”
Adrian grinned, clapped him on the back as the wind gusted again, now carrying a real chill they both felt and ignored. “You’re just full of good shit today.”
Kenn soaked up the praise, ready to volunteer, and stopped himself before he could - waiting to see if it would be offered. He had made good progress with the
camp. Not as much as he wanted, but it would always come down to this man’s opinion in the end.
“You’d like to go? Be in charge?”
Kenn nodded just once, trying to be cool about it.
The lightning storm to the west hadn’t died down and they both watched, human souls more afraid than in awe. Things with nature were bad now, wrong. “Sure,
when?”
“Head out in the morning, early. Catch up by Mess, day after tomorrow. I’ll make the arrangements, have the Eagles meet you by the trucks. Anything else for me?”
“Nothing but Tonya; she wants to see you in her tent.”
“Yeah, that’ll happen.”
The Marine kept quiet, frowning just a little at the quickly-thrown sarcasm. Tonya insisted, to anyone who would listen, that she and their leader were sleeping
together, but Adrian would cut people dead for even hinting it. Most had decided she was lying, still chasing what she couldn't have, but not Kenn. They might not be a
legal couple, but he didn’t think their Commander and Chief was refusing that Pogue bait13 when no one was looking.
“Kenn.”
He looked up guiltily to see Adrian’s thoughtful eyes on him. “You got a thing for redheads?”
Kenn dropped his own baby-blues, shrugging, “When they look like her, who doesn’t?”
Adrian grinned, liking the honest answer, wanting to trust the Marine as much as he obviously wanted to be trusted. “She definitely gets a man’s attention, but she’ll
do whatever she has to as long as she thinks it will get her what she wants.”
“What does she want?” Kenn looked at Adrian curiously. He wasn’t sure why he was asking, and was surprised - happy - to receive the same honesty he’d given.
“For me to be her legal mate or out of this camp, so she can put someone else in my place and have power through them. She doesn’t care which, and she’s as
much as said so to my face.”
Kenn laughed, despite wanting to do and say all the right things. “She’s got guts, takes care of herself. That kind of woman was rare before the War.”
Adrian didn’t like the tone, but let it go. “Tonya’s strong and we need that, but we’re weaker with her too, because she uses that strength for selfish reasons. She
would have to do a world of changing for anyone to really accept her here. It would be a hard sell.”
Kenn nodded at the warning, but didn’t say anything else.
Adrian stood up, eyes scanning the lights, sights, and sounds of his people. A neatly organized camp, fires driving back the darkness, dogs yapping for dinner,
echoes of doors closing, calm voices and steady footsteps. Normal as it got now. The Marine had done a good job.
“We’ll need to add safety glass to our lists. I don’t like how easily a flock of birds put us in danger.”
Kenn said what his boss was thinking. “Be too easy for a bullet.”
Adrian was more than pleased. Finally, some of the born help was here. “I’ll do rounds in about an hour. Wanna come along?”
Kenn fished in the oversized pocket of his black jacket for his smokes as he fell in on the right. “You know it.”
3
Adrian headed to his tent, eager to have a little time to himself, and Kenn’s mind stayed on Tonya as he joined the dozen camp members setting up base around the
huge bonfire.
Many times his eyes had been drawn to the sullen redhead, and he wondered where she was, who she was with. She was definitely selfish, greedy, a troublemaker,
and he saw her streak of meanness, too, but she was also strong, smart, and very determined to have Adrian. The people here hated the idea, but Tonya was openly
hostile to anyone who spoke against it, and she had even earned a day of hard labor for a slapping contest with Big Billy, a 300 lb. school teacher from Oregon,
winning, hands down. Tonya wasn’t afraid of anything and that had earned Kenn’s respect, something women didn’t get much of from him.
Kenn responded to the greetings and congratulations of those around the flames that the cold wind was teasing, taunting, but stood by himself. He hoped this fuel
trip would secure his place in Adrian’s chain of command. Kyle and Neil seemed tied for second, with Doug in third, but to Kenn’s selfish mind, they weren’t Marines,
and he didn’t think it would take long to get what he wanted; just more hard work. No one openly held the XO position here and he’d found himself longing for it at
night. Then the birds had come and helped him out.
Kenn passed on the bottles and the joints going around the fire as the wind blew a fresh chill over them, noticing the light was out in the tent he shared with Charlie.
Good. As he grew closer to Adrian, the time he spent around the teenager reminded him more and more of the secrets he was keeping, of how unworthy he was to
hold the place at Adrian’s side.
Kenn stared moodily into the dark, unable to see any of the surrounding mountains. His mind returned to Tonya, wondering if a redhead was slipping into a blond
man’s tent right now. She wanted Adrian in a way that was almost an obsession, his name always on her pouty lips, and Kenn felt a sharp connection with her because
of it. There was just something about the man that silently seduced. Not that it was a sexual thing for Kenn. He wasn’t a closet-case. He just needed to be near Adrian
and the authority he represented. Others felt it. Kyle and Neil for sure, and Doug too, but Tonya was the only one to pursue him so shamelessly, and was often
humiliated by him and the camp as punishment for it.
Kenn saw a flash of flame red and subtly watched Tonya move through the crowd of slightly drunk and very unfriendly people with an air of haughty contempt that
he admired. Everyone moved aside, whispering, staring at her, and she held her head held high, glaring back at some of them when the whispers became too loud.
Each time, the person fell silent, aware that she would back up her words with actions and Kenn felt a bolt of want. Her skintight, black slacks caressed her long
legs and her red net top made men consider breaking rules. It caused the women here to hate her for making them feel plain, second best.
The Marine watched her from under lowered lashes, not making eye contact, and was disappointed when she slipped into her tent, almost had to force himself to
stay where he was as the conversations resumed. These people had mostly accepted him, but they were still watching, waiting to see him cross even the smallest line
and be denied the position he was aiming (campaigning) for.
He couldn’t be seen making time with Tonya or any other woman yet, not until there had been a proper mourning period. He wouldn’t ruin his chances here on a
piece of ass, no matter how hot. It would be a betrayal of Adrian, but worse, of the wife he’d spoken of back in Ohio. That would be unforgivable thanks to Adrian’s
strict, but simple moral code: Do what you want and be shunned, or do the accepted thing and be welcomed. Both types of people lived here, but only one held any
power, and being a cut above the rest was also a lure for the controlling soul Kenn’s father had given him.
“You wanna hit this, man?”
Kenn turned to see Zack, the black and gray headed truck driver that the new doctor had just patched up, holding out a thick blunt. The man was unarmed, alone,
and carried himself like a fellow controller.
Eyes calm, knowing, arm in a white sling, Kenn thought he smelled new. It took a while for that to fade and the Marine’s sharp eyes assessed him. Like Adrian, he
too would need a right hand. Was this it?
“Sure, thanks.” Kenn hit it hard, keeping it for a long moment, waiting, and the career driver didn’t disappoint.
“I hear you handle the big man’s shit and your own. Interested in some backup?”
Kenn handed back the smoldering blunt, stubbing out the part of the cherry that had landed in the trampled needle grass at their feet. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
Zack’s green eyes darkened. It was clear to Kenn that the prematurely graying trucker was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it.
“And, in the meantime?”
Kenn shrugged, turned away. “Anyone who wanted to watch my six would have to be an Eagle and in charge of his own team. That’s a deal breaker.”
Kenn was in his sleeping bag three hours later, cold, uncomfortable, and aware that his past was catching up to him. He could feel Angela looking for her boy at
night, searching the vast darkness for their location, and he was furious with her for coming, but livid that she wouldn't answer him even though he knew she’d heard him
calling to her. He was no stranger to what she could do, had done his homework before dating (trapping) her, but he couldn’t accept it with her in control. She couldn’t
come here, not ever.
"She’s already on her way," his mind insisted brutally. "When she gets here, she’ll not only rock your boat, she’ll sink it. When Adrian finds out what kind
of man you were before, how you dishonored the Corps over and over, you’ll be banished." The voice was cruel, and Kenn hated her at that moment for the tiny
worm of fear that began to grow deep in his heart. If Angela made it to Safe Haven, he would lose everything.
4
Monthly camp meetings were mandatory for everyone but those on guard duty, and after dinner, Adrian called his sheep together. It was held in the Mess, and
Kenn was impressed with the tarp roof that gave extra room, the snacks and drinks, the neat orderliness of it all.
All the seats were taken as Adrian came under the awning, another dozen men lining the back corners of the gathering people. These, Kenn knew now, were the
off-duty guards who were being subtly trained to look out, even when not on a shift. Adrian explained it as civic service and from what Kenn had seen, it was working,
but it didn’t hurt that it also gained you the blond’s respect, something everyone wanted. What these people didn’t know was that it was a Marine Corps standard.
The big crowd was mostly quiet, waiting for Adrian to get himself a cup of coffee and a few of the cookies. He had a thick red notebook under his arm and he
made his way to the table in the center of the crowd instead of the one in front that had been left empty for him.
Kenn recognized the bonding moment as a very clever political move, but also saw the danger and instinctively kept his hand near his hip, noticing that a few of the
others (Kyle, Neil, and Doug) had moved closer.
Adrian remained standing as he got started, meeting their tense eyes to calm them down, while smelling the reeking rot of bodies in the wind, even over the odors of
cooking and port-o-lets. This was still cold weather. What would it be like in July?
“This is the third meeting of Safe Haven refugee camp. We have 91 people as of yesterday.”
There was a pleased ripple at that, safety in numbers mentioned in the crowd, and when he smiled, the people relaxed a little, very few of them realizing it was
President’s Day. Those who did know the date didn’t care. That world was gone. Safe Haven didn’t need a President. It had Adrian.
“We also now have a doctor!”
There was a big cheer at that, and most heads looked around the neatly organized Mess, but not the Eagles, Kenn noticed. They kept their eyes on their
surroundings, doing their duty.
“We’ll work out a schedule, but for now just sign the sheet Neil has, and put your problem on it if you can. The doctor will use it to decide who needs to be seen
first.” There was quiet chatter as the tall trooper passed the first clipboard, and before Adrian could continue, an eager voice rang out from behind Kenn, “You gonna run
those tests now? The ones to see if anyone here’s sick?”
Adrian nodded, picking his words carefully as people turned to look at the big-eyed man, “I’d like to, yes, but...”
“And we’re gonna kick ‘em out right? Just like we voted on?” Tony, a low-fare grease-monkey, interrupted again.
Adrian frowned at the short, balding mechanic. “We won’t be so nasty, but yes. They’ll be asked to leave.”
People were talking quietly to each other, some frowning, some nodding, and the drunkard sat down, looking satisfied. Smothering a curse, Adrian turned the page
and moved on. That wouldn’t help people get checked out, would only make them scared to.
“Our new crew of guards has passed into Level Two, and that means we need another 20 men to try out for Level One. Neil will pass around that sheet, and I’ll let
you know in a couple days. Also, our reserves aren’t growing, and I understand that’s because no one feels safe. While I can’t take away all the danger, I can give you
some protection. Eagle Four and his team are hereby on loan to guard any supply mission of six or more people that has been approved a day in advance. They get
their orders from me though, and will not endanger their lives unless it’s worth it.” Adrian warned, “If they say no, it’s not safe, move on. They’ll look after you, but if
something goes wrong, their number one priority is to get everyone back to camp. Next, schedule switches will no longer be handled by me. Kenn and Kyle will handle
all changes. I’ll still make out the original and give a final approval.”
Adrian paused to light a stale smoke, and the Marine was almost positive he was judging the reaction of the camp. They seemed to be fine with his choices, though
there were a few looks were being exchanged between some of the Eagles over the order of the names. How important was that?
“As of tomorrow, there will be a third meal. The appliances Kenn and Doug hooked up work great, so from now on, it’s three squares, Monday through Friday,
with Saturday and Sunday staying the same, lunch and dinner with the truck open for coffee, toast, and cereal. A-L will be served the new meal first, M-Z 35 minutes
later, shift to start at noon.” He turned another page, giving Kenn a nod of recognition that the dark- headed man soaked up like a thirsty desert.
“Effective immediately, everyone is back on full water rations.” The cheer was much loud this time, and the leader waved at his soon-to-be right hand man, “Thank
Lance Corporal Harrison. His idea of trucks on the highway was great, and now we’re good as long as we find one a week.”
Kenn was being slapped on the back and congratulated, but he didn’t miss the gleam of satisfaction in Adrian’s pale eyes as he watched his new man being
accepted.
“We also have four new loads of clothes, shoes, blankets, and a lot of other gear we’ve been low on or out of. The trucks will be open right after this meeting, with
M-Z going first and A-L, 20 minutes later.” He paused, looking around.
“We have the photos back from the Essex bunker and NORAD. They’re bad and it blows the idea of finding help there. With this odd weather holding in some
warmth, I say we keep looking, but if we haven’t found anything by the Fourth of July, then we should pick a place to try starting over on our own.”
“You mean in the mountains?” someone called out from the very back. Kenn noticed the eyes of the camp never stopped moving, looking, even though there were
guards everywhere right now. Tense sheep, he thought, waiting for the dog’s bite.
Adrian was clearly reluctant and had to raise his voice a bit to be heard as the wind ran through camp, causing the tents to flap louder. “Yes. The bunker under the
base in Montana won’t hold us all, but this country is full of tunnels, caves, and equipment to make them livable. I hope for something above, but if we had to, we could
go to ground or take a big set of caves and block them off, make it work temporarily.”
He waved a dismissive hand, his eyes calmer than his stomach as they muttered among themselves. “It’s just something to start thinking about. We’ll have a final
vote on that in July. For now, we’ll stay here tomorrow and have our contest, then head out the next morning. Where? We pick that tonight, along with voting on some
new rules.”
Adrian met suddenly nervous eyes with calm, reasonable words. “We have a lot of people here now, and we pick up more nearly every day. That’s great, exactly
what we want, but it also means we need more volunteers. With no law that says they have to, people aren’t pulling their weight. The current rules say everyone has to
help, but I’d like to be more specific. We need each person here to pull three shifts on guard duty and one shift on any other chore of their choice. We all want things to
be better, right?” He waited for a reaction, their half-hearted agreement, faces a mix of trust and suspicion, and then went on, voice without doubt.
“Better before, was working to get the finer things, the luxuries, but now, better means working to survive, to keep what we’ve got; this second chance. These
things have to be done, and we have to be the ones to do them. There is no one else,” his tone had become slightly scolding and Kenn was impressed, sure there would
be extra hands for at least the next week. No one liked to see Adrian disappointed or unhappy.
“I’d like to have more of us taking the gun classes too. There’s a large group of guerillas moving up Interstate 25, as most of you know, and we need to be able to
defend ourselves.”
“Do you think we’ll be attacked?” the reporter, Cynthia ‘Shark-Bitch’ Quest, asked, sweating heavily because she’d insisted on squeezing into the front with the
elderly so she wouldn’t miss a single word or reaction.
Adrian shrugged. His eyes were unreadable even though he knew her from before the War. She hadn’t placed him yet, might not if Fate was on his side, but he
hadn’t even considered turning her away, or worse, getting rid of her. And that was the difference between him and his father’s people, why he was worthy to lead
these people.
“I hope not, but it’s part of why we need more hands for guard duty and that reminds me, people are getting out of their cars in new places way too soon. Many
times, the guards haven’t cleared or roped off the area yet, and I’m telling you now, someone will end up getting hurt because of it.”
Adrian moved to the beaded doorway of the Mess, to the cook. Hilda was a plump-faced German woman they’d picked up in central Nevada, another one he
wasn’t sure about yet. Like the reporter - Adrian didn’t where she fit into his plans for their future, but he had little doubt they both did. And if one of these two alert
females discovered his secret, it was fate. They wouldn’t though, he had faith in that. At least not until these people were able to survive without him. Then it would be
open season.
“Can I get a Bud?”
The big-shouldered cook moved immediately, eyes unreadable, and he made a mental note to talk to her at a later time as he turned back to his people. If she
wanted work to do that kept her out of view, he had that, but he would not let her waste that sharp intelligence.
Adrian looked back at his camp. “This area is bad, dangerous. We all feel it. We can’t stay long without getting sick. After the contest, I’d like to make some real
miles and get away from here now that we know NORAD is gone.”
There was no real response except darkening faces at the mention of the compound many of them had secretly hoped would be standing and willing to take in
survivors, but the muttering was continuous. The large group wasn’t even completely silent while Adrian was talking.
Adrian took the towel-wrapped bottle with a nod, “Okay, any new business?”
“Yes.” Alex Ford, a young math teacher from Montana stood up nervously. “Are we gonna... I mean... Can we celebrate the holidays? Some of the kids have
asked and we’re not sure what to tell them.”
The well-dressed, bald man sat back down and Adrian appeared to be considering, but this was easy, one of the things he’d covered in his own head over a month
ago.
“Only the ones that matter, I think. The Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, New Years, for sure. Memorial Day.”
“What about Easter and Christmas?” Cynthia asked, hurriedly hand-copying as much of the meeting word for word as she could, and Adrian shook his head.
“Not as a whole camp. Hardly anyone believed in them, just used them as an excuse to indulge or buy off loved ones rather than spending real time with them. I
won’t even get into the money and stores and what they did to our lives. Each person can do what they want and I won’t be upset to see kids hunting eggs or dressing
up for Halloween, but I won’t let a few force it on everyone else either.”
There were nods and frowns, again about evenly split, and Adrian took a moment to open his beer and take a healthy swallow, wisely giving his sheep a minute to
settle in with the idea that even the holidays had changed for them.
“Guess we might all like Halloween a little more if one of you guys could do some magic,” his common joke drew smiles, but his eyes didn’t tell them how much he
wished it were true. "All right, anyone else have new business?”
“I have some suggestions,” the doctor's voice was respectful and Adrian waved a hand, liking the hard intelligence in the short, rounded man’s faded blue eyes.
Very new in camp and just out of a self-imposed quarantine, the MD had already made friends.
Adrian gestured with his bottle. “Suggest away.”
The aged healer stood up, sending a strong, menthol whiff of Ben-Gay over the gathered crowd.
“There should be more fruit and juice for everyone, along with daily vitamins. We’re being exposed to a lot of poisons, especially in places like this, and the
antioxidants in the fruits and juice will boost our immune systems.”
Silence greeted his words, and John went on carefully, hoping he wasn’t about to step on anyone’s toes, namely Adrian’s.
“I’ve only been here a couple of days, but I’ve been a doctor for a long time. I can tell you what illnesses we’ll face in the coming months and how to prevent some
of them.”
Adrian gave him a barely perceptible nod, aware and pleased at the man’s use of we. “What kinds of things can we expect if we ignore your suggestions?”
John’s answers were fast, sure, “Scurvy, rashes, nasty colds, weak immune systems that will let the sniffles last for weeks instead of days, migraines, vomiting and
diarrhea for weeks at a time. The list gets bad after that. We’re slowly absorbing all the toxic chemicals that fell with the bombs. Once there’s enough built up, we’ll start
getting sick, start dying.”
The crowd stirred uneasily but Adrian did nothing to calm them as most were expecting. They needed a reality check, he thought, his mind seeing idiots catching
rainwater on their tongues the last time it stormed. They knew less than nothing.
John noticed Adrian’s eyes on him and the retired Army Medic recognized unspoken orders. He wanted to scare them. John nodded. That was easy. Use the
truth. “Our biggest threat is the radiation. It’s usually 90% fatal at high doses, but it’s the low doses we have to worry about now. It’s a slow death that finds each
person’s weak link. It wakes up dormant genes, like Cancer and MS, and since exposure kills the immune system, we’ll be attacked from the inside. The immune
system is the army and though the radiation can’t be stopped, it can be slowed by a body whose army is strong, well taken care of. For us, it could mean only 15% will
die instead of 90%.”
“But them bombs is gone and the toxics soaked into the ground. Why are we worryin’? We ain’t even seen any radiation vics,” a slender, older white woman in the
front stated, and people immediately began speaking up.
“I did.”
“We have.”
John held up a hand, and Adrian was pleased to see the crowd’s talk fall off to mostly silence, “Those who were exposed during the War are gone now. Our
threats come from the weather dropping it on us, and from the radioactive debris still on the ground where we sleep and need to grow food. It takes a long time for the
toxics, as you call them, to go away. You see that layer of smog when its daylight, makes it look like dusk all the time? It’s the toxins. Until that’s gone, we’re not safe.
Near the bomb zones, that’ll take 30 years or more.”
The crowd was muttering and murmuring, whispering and worrying, and Adrian finished his beer and smoke before he spoke, shuttered eyes pleased with the
doctor. He’d have no trouble getting a good day’s travel out of them now.
“So you want responsibility for our health? Want to care for us? The right to add to our laws, once voted on, comes with it.”
The Doctor was aware of what was going on and very surprised that it was being offered so soon. “Not the laws part, I’m no politician, but yes to the rest. My oath
didn’t die with my country.”
Adrian smiled. “Well said. You’ve got my vote, but it’s theirs that matter,” he stated, waving a hand at the closely listening people. “All those in favor of putting the
suggestions on the ballot?”
John slid his glasses back on as he sat down, and when Adrian casually held up his own hand, both men were secretly relieved that nearly everyone else did too.
“So be it.” he held up a sheet of paper. “The bottom is blank. Fill it in as advice. A D V I C E. Okay, any other new business?”
No one spoke, and Adrian motioned for Neil to start passing around the pens and papers. The suspicious guard’s green eyes were emotionless even while he was
grinning and saying all the right things. Something was going on with Kenn and Adrian, Neil could feel it, and what came to mind was the reason his smile didn’t reach
his eyes.
“All right, last thing - members of the moral board need to stay after the vote. We have a possible violation to judge.”
Kenn, and everyone else, wondered what unspoken rule had been broken. The big ones went to trials that were witnessed by the whole camp, or so he’d heard.
There hadn’t been one since he’d come here, hadn’t even been a case of thievery, but the moral code was strict, too. There had been one moral vote since he’d joined
Safe Haven: the stalker was no longer a member of this camp.
“Which rule?” Roger Sawyer, the current foreman asked.
Adrian shook his head, the lie falling easily, “None directly, and that’s why we’re doing a closed hearing. I won’t ruin an innocent man’s chances for a new life
here.”
He said it for ear candy and it worked, but the blond was sure the man would be gone before he did rounds tonight. Leon and innocent hadn’t been close in a long
time. Roger grinned, and while Adrian hated that gleam of eagerness in the ex-Pinkerton detective’s brown eyes, he also understood the deep need to punish those who
were even the smallest bit responsible for all they had suffered.
Adrian waited until Kenn dropped his vote into the metal lockbox, then joined him at a small, empty table in the back. The rest of the camp was crowded around
the front tables to watch the votes get counted.
“That was some of the slickest shit I’ve ever heard,” Kenn’s voice was low, admiring.
Adrian grinned at him. “Maybe you’ll MC for me sometime.”
Kenn laughed, very happy with the words. That was exactly the kind of authority he wanted here. “I’m not a public speaker.”
Adrian let it go, sure the Marine would be, and there would be no one better. “How about coming by my tent an hour after everything's done? We’ll have a beer
and a conversation.”
Kenn agreed casually, heart rate picking up. This was it. “Sure. Should I bring anything?”
Adrian shook his head, face serious, “Just your stamina, Marine. I’m gonna need to be drunk when this night's work is over.”
5
The vote went Adrian’s way on all of the issues and as the crowd slowly broke up, their eyes showed they were confident that their Guardian was doing his job.
Their calm gazes also said they’d find out what rule had been broken and what was done about it.
In a short time, the Mess was mostly empty, the camp quieting down as everyone settled in for the night. Kenn wanted to stay, longed to be on the inside, but
caught Adrian’s eye instead of waiting until he was asked to leave.
“I volunteered for a double on guard duty tomorrow, so I’m gonna hit the showers, then the rack. Call me if you need anything.” Kenn was saying he assumed he
hadn’t been here long enough to be on the inside, showing a humility he didn’t even remotely feel.
Adrian took the opportunity without hesitation, telling them the Marine’s status had changed. It had been suspected for a while and talked about openly since the
encounter with the birds three days ago, but there would be some surprises when they found out how high up he was about to be placed.
“Hang around, will ya? I need someone on my right.”
There was a ring of magic to the words, and Kenn kept the triumph out of his voice by sheer will. “You know it.”
Adrian gave Neil a nod before turning to the thirteen men and women waiting together, and the trooper left with a scowl on his face. It was as he and Kyle feared.
That coveted position was being given to Kenn.
“We’ve set up a hooch near the parking area. Follow Doug. He’s the one with the red vest and shoulders so wide we could land a plane on ‘em. Let’s get this over
with as quickly as possible.”
The mood had turned somber, but Kenn couldn’t help the swagger in his step as he walked on the boss man’s right. They followed the board members who had no
trouble catching up to Doug. His limp was the only reason Kenn didn’t consider him competition.
Big-nosed, deeply tanned Kyle was on Adrian’s left and Kenn wondered what the stocky goon thought about those words, grinning to himself. Probably hated it,
but he could eat shit and die. Nothing he could do, but suck it up.
The thought made Kenn feel like laughing. The two men hadn’t spoken a word to each other in 2 full days, since the first gun class he’d taught, where they’d both
said too much, barely avoiding a fight. Now Kenn was about to be given some authority and he planned to rub it in every chance he got.
“Stay close to this guy. He has a nasty temper, and I’m sure this type of proceeding isn’t new to him.”
Kenn hid a disappointed look at the words. They were just chasers for a prisoner?
“The punishment might be,” Kyle stated, pulling his black cap tighter over his dark curls, and Adrian nodded, but didn’t smile.
“True. Don’t let him intimidate the girls. They’re already scared; afraid he might sneak back and hurt them in retaliation.”
Kenn saw them exchange a look that said the violator wouldn’t be able to come back because he would be dead. Jealousy flared up in Kenn, made him push a
little, test his new place before it was official. “Can I ask or should I wait?”
Kyle listened openly, waiting. A refusal would mean they had read too much into Adrian’s words. Kenn might not be empty clothes, the birds proved that, but there
was still something wrong with him.
“Two counts of sexual assault, two counts of death threats against women and kids, and two counts of physical assault. Those are all death penalty crimes here and
he knows it.”
"Sorry about your luck," Kenn thought, gloating silently, but he immediately brought the Marine out when they stepped into the big tent and saw the defendant’s
huge, tattooed body. Leon was easily 270 lbs.
As he and Kyle stepped to each side of the sullen biker, they exchanged a look that said truce - for Adrian’s sake. They would do this together and be hard from
the beginning. It wouldn’t take much for this to get out of control, the pierced suspect wasn’t even handcuffed, and both men were very aware of how little they liked
Adrian being close to this guy. Anything could go wrong once the verdict was in.
Nothing did, and less than an hour later, a sedated Leon was being escorted out of camp by men who had orders to kill him and piss on the body, a request from
one of the victims.
Adrian wandered the camp, mind worrying over the order. He walked in the darkest shadows around the flapping tents, occasionally listening in, eyes hard and
mind full of guilt. Leon wouldn’t be missed, had contributed almost nothing, and the loss of life still made him feel like a failure, as a leader.
Not that he’d change his mind. He could still call Kyle, but he knew the Mobster didn’t want the biker to get a stay of execution after what they’d heard him admit
to, and he wouldn't. The entire world was better off without Leon. Right or wrong, he’d made a leader’s choice, based on what was best for everyone here. It was how
he made all of his decisions now. It was the only way his people would survive.
Adrian’s feet carried him to the medical tent, but he hesitated to go in despite knowing he needed to officially invite the smart healer onto the payroll. Doctors were
notoriously temperamental, and this one, having been here only a short time, would not be pleased with this night's work. It had taken nearly a dozen men to hold Leon
down and though John had done what was asked without protest, the hypocrisy of it had to be fresh in his mind.
Headlights flashed, and Adrian moved farther back into the tent’s shadows, seeing it was Tonya rolling into camp in a very red, very new convertible that was
clearly not easy on gas like they had voted for at the last meeting.
She parked in front of her tent, making him frown at the second rule violation. As she disappeared inside the deluxe vinyl structure, he scribbled a note in his book,
wondering which sucker had helped her put it up. She would gas her own car all this week and maybe the doctor's idea about a mandatory quarantine zone would
work. She could be the first…
“… new place, Anne, a hard new world, where everything has an uglier price.”
Adrian didn’t budge as the husband and wife talked about what had happened, unknowingly moving closer to his hiding place while they cleaned up the large, twosided
tent.
“But, it’s barbaric, Johnnie! Branding him like an animal! It’s...it’s barbaric!”
“What else is there? No jails, no drugs, no mental help, and really, those things never worked on men like that anyway.”
Adrian heard her frustrated sigh and understood that criminal justice was an old discussion between them.
“He couldn’t just let him go, Anne. He had to make sure that everyone who meets that monster will see him for what he is.”
The husband’s voice was patient, still teaching after all their years of marriage, and he had Adrian’s complete attention.
“It isn’t right! We heal, we don’t hurt! This isn’t how America’s supposed to be!”
John gave a harsh snort that made Adrian tense.
“This is exactly how it should have been, and maybe we wouldn’t have destroyed ourselves.”
“But, the whole word?”
“It’ll keep him from easily hiding or removing it.”
“It’ll get him killed and you're responsible. You did it.”
“This is a good place and I’ll do what I have to so that we can stay, but this sin I’ll pay for willingly. It’s the only way now, and let me tell you a secret, my dear
sweet wife. I won’t carry the burden alone. That young man feels it a lot more than he shows. He values life, all life. It’s in the way he cares for his people, for his farm
of exotic humans. I’ll give him my help in any way he needs, and I hope you will too. He’s the few, the good, and I suspect we were allowed to survive because he
needs us.”
Definitely right to offer John a place on the council, Adrian thought, moving away. That old man had his head on straight. He’d seen it at the meeting and heard
it just now, but he had watched it during the punishment too. John had handled not only himself, but the Eagles around him with a calm sense of leadership, and because
of that, the branding hadn’t been as ugly as the members of the voting board had expected. Most of them would sleep tonight.
It only eased his mind a little though, that he now had at least two of the six or seven he’d been promised in his dreams, and he spent a lot of time worrying over the
rest. Had he passed them somewhere? He hoped not, because he and his grunts couldn’t keep doing all the work. Eventually, they would miss something or endanger
these people and lose their right to lead.
Adrian sighed, not as excited as he wanted to be, even though his first was here, and he was about to offer him the place that every man in this camp wanted. The
weight of this leadership was heavier than anything he’d ever carried before the War, and he was starting to feel a bit winded.
6
Kenn was sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair, in the center of Adrian’s perfectly neat tent, and wishing more people were out to walk by and see. The flap was
open, the dim lantern light flickering gently in the soft, midnight breeze, and Kenn couldn’t imagine being more content anywhere else. He knew there were men who
didn’t want him here, but they didn’t matter. They would never say anything against Adrian. His wants and choices were followed without question, the timid people
here almost worshiping the blond. Where Adrian wanted someone, he was placed.
“Here ya go. Try this. I made it myself.”
Adrian handed him a cool metal cup, along with a cigar, and Kenn noticed the five o’clock shadow and bloodshot blue eyes. Clearly, their leader already had a
head start.
Kenn smelled his cup, liking the vanilla more than he would ever admit to, and took a large swallow. It burned its way down to his gut despite the sweet aftertaste,
and he sucked in a breath, coughing. The two Marines shared a grin.
“Good?”
Kenn nodded as the blond man sat down, noting the red, white, and blue on the cups. With Adrian, everything was about America.
Adrian studied Kenn, pale eyes unreadable, and the tension thickened.
The Marine forced himself to stay still, sensing if he seemed too eager now, he might lose it before it was really his.
“Do you have any idea why I asked you here?”
Kenn shook his head, instinctively knowing this was all part of the ritual of being brought in. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Just the opposite. The guys tell me you like to stay busy.”
Kenn emptied his cup, set it on the small folding table as the potent alcohol burned its way to his gut. “There’s a lot to be done,” he gasped out, making Adrian grin.
“Ain’t that the truth. How long you been here now?”
“Fifteen days.”
The quick answer made Adrian frown a little. “You’ve done doubles on guard duty, taught two gun classes for the Eagles, helped find supplies, set up camp, broke
down camp, and gassed up vehicles. There’s been something every day, all on top of your regular schedule. Busy two weeks.”
Kenn shrugged lightly. “Unleaded is my new cologne.”
“Smells like a hard worker, someone with ambition looking for a mountain to climb.”
Kenn shrugged again, not looking away from those assessing blue eyes. “I’ve got a lot to offer.”
“And I want it, Marine,” he handed Kenn a thick black notebook with a silver pen in the ring. “Others see it. Many people have hinted that you should be invited
onto the payroll.”
“But?”
“But, it’s not up to some or most of them. It has to be unanimous and that depends on you.”
Kenn met Adrian’s pointed look with one of his own. “I’m working on it.”
The leader looked up from lighting his cigar, “Not fast enough, but I can’t wait any longer. We have to get these people ready to defend their freedom.”
Kenn was quiet, considering, asking himself if he could start out as a lowly drill instructor. When he looked up to tell Adrian that wouldn’t hold him long, the blond
added what was missing, with careful wording that Kenn overlooked - hearing only what he wanted.
“I have important work for you. You’ll be higher than any other here now. Together, we’ll save some of what matters.” Adrian raised a brow, eyes questioning, “If
you have the time?”
“You make the schedules. I have the time, if you say I do.”
Adrian frowned coldly. “This is no game. Be sure.”
“I’d never treat it that way.” Kenn looked horrified.
Adrian knew that, but the warning came with the offer. “Things will start slow, but it won’t stay that way. Effective immediately, you have that place at my right that
your eyes were asking for when we found you. You’ll always be second in command and more aware than anyone else - in my head deeper. I’m offering you what the
Corps couldn't…your purpose. The reason you were born, why you survived.”
“What’s the catch?”
Adrian returned his look with hard eyes that said no going back would be allowed. “You’re mine. Be the anything and everything I need to keep these people alive.
I make every choice based on what’s best for the entire camp and nothing else takes priority, not even me. I’ll do anything to keep us together, know that now. I will
expect your complete and immediate support, no matter what the chore or situation.”
Kenn didn’t even consider refusing, holding out a hand. “You have a deal."
Adrian shook with his new right-hand man, thinking the first one had come into his web, but there would be many more.
Chapter Sixteen
2059AW (After War)
1
There were people everywhere and it was a joy to see. They had come to pay their respects to the man who had made their new lives possible and groups were
streaming in from all corners of the globe in an endless succession of happiness and grief.
The founder of Safe Haven may be near the end of his time, but the vision he had created would survive forever. With his strength of mind, the son of a traitor had
given them peace, honor, and safety. There were no jails nor any need for them, no hunger, no pollution or dying planet trying to kill them first. The methods he had used
to achieve such a utopia were often brutal, but forty seven years after the War of 2012, America was flourishing, spreading back into the wilderness. Even the years
they had spent in foreign lands had been ones of happiness and light. Because of Adrian and his Eagles.
In the heart of Safe Haven City, surrounded by rolling farms and playing children, they gathered, waiting. Adrian would see them all one last time, and they would
listen well to any last words he had for them.
Glowing with fulfillment, he only spoke for a moment, and then there was a cheer as he stepped proudly from their lives. It swelled from the arched walls around the
stage and grew into a noise heard over more miles than anything since the great eruption of Yellowstone in 2013. It was a celebration of the hope he had given them, the
second chance to get it right, and they would honor his memory by keeping America in their hearts. It was his last wish.
2
In the early morning hours, the happy dream faded, allowing restless minds to sleep easier, but along Interstate 25, a Mexican with hate in his heart snapped awake
with a scream of rage that brought men running to his filthy tent. He would never let them rebuild! That bright Safe Haven future would never exist, Cesar vowed,
delivering a brutal kick to the girl chained at his feet. He would sacrifice every son and daughter he owned to prevent it!
He was screaming for his cousin before his filthy feet hit the girl chained to the center pole.
“Get up! There is work!”
3
Immune to the noise, Cesar watched as the plump woman rode out of camp, the cries of her two young children assuring him that she would do as he wanted. She
would be missed for her cooking skills here, but at Safe Haven she would be an invaluable tool waiting for his use.
His army was undisciplined, drunk on their successful invasion of the hated Americans, but the wise guerilla Captain sensed that wouldn’t be enough to defeat the
group of survivors from his dream. The blond man had been hard and Cesar recognized the future battle. When it came, he would be ready and none of them would
stand. There was a feeling of importance to the woman disappearing into the fog. Maria would be the key to that battle.
Shoving the toddlers away from his leg, Cesar summoned his slave to care for them. When his sons were older, they too would be sacrifices for the cause. The evil
slave trader grinned, letting out a battle cry that was echoed by his men.
“Muerte a Estados Unidos!” Death to America.
End of Book One – The Survivors
Book Two – On The Road
This series was split in the wrong place originally. To make sure everyone gets all the pieces, now that it has been edited, please enjoy book 2, free, as my gift, in
this file.

In Desperate Need of a Hero
Dear red, white, and blue
Is there still hope for you?
I wonder
Perhaps with someone in power
Who slaves by the hour?
To remain true
A person of dignity
Who's not a give-me
Or quota-fill
No reek of greed
No corruptive seed
Growing unchecked
A leader who can inspire
Who raises people higher
Than themselves
A soul with grace
Not colored by race
Of any kind
A take-charge warrior
An environmental voyeur
Who loves this planet
A Hero to lead
With only one creed:
America
Where do we find such belief?
When do we get the relief?
Of being loved in return
We'd die for the President
Would he pay the same rent?
Of course not!
Your sacrifice we do not require
We serve willingly, sire
If you're worthy
If you will get your hands a bit dirty
To further our lives
And enrich our minds
To earn our trust
It's all or bust
And always
America first!
Finally, a Hero with enough strength, enough hope, to give us back some of what was stolen.
-A.W.
Chapter Seventeen
February 21st, 2013
Devils Head, Colorado
1
They hadn’t gone away. Cold and hungry, they were determined not to let Man regain control, and even a lone female was a threat to this new awareness. Mother
Nature, having recognized the chance for a different outcome, was uniting species all over the world – most of them natural enemies - and her army was relentless,
growing.
Arrrooooooo!
Samantha’s eyes flew open and she froze, listening intently. After a minute, she told herself to relax, that she had more pressing problems than wolves or coyotes
outside.
The pain in her leg was agony, and her hands and feet were so cold she couldn’t feel anything in them but pain. It was dark and drafty in the cabin, the flames long
gone, and she forced herself to scoot over to the fireplace.
Sam clenched her teeth at every jar of her leg against the hard floor, knowing she needed heat, but all she could really think about was how much she wanted to
shoot up. It was the same craving making her almost drool when she woke in the darkness with only the flaring misery to comfort her, so she made herself wait. She
would not come out of the War an addict.
It was frigid in the hunting lodge, but the woman was thankful that the front glass windows had survived the cold wave with only small cracks. The thick line of birch
and evergreens in front of the cabin had taken the brunt. And the birds, she thought, shuddering.
Sam hadn’t realized the birds were there until she watched them freeze. The larks were huddled on an upper branch for warmth, and it had been awful, seeing their
eyes as it happened. She could still just make out the faint yellow hue of their snow-covered bodies. It was like seeing her own fate, had the windows not held.
It was growing warmer now, enough that she could even go to the outhouse, and while she was glad the freeze had let up, there was still plenty of nasty weather she
would have to travel through. The feeling of wrongness invading this place said it wasn’t safe here anymore. She needed to get moving again.
Adapting to the thick, groggy feeling of the morphine upon waking each day, she slowly stacked some of her dwindling supply of wood into the charred pit.
Finished, her eyes surveyed the dark corner, glad to see the crackers were gone. She had noticed the animal cage in the SUV’s backseat as she’d come up the
driveway to the hunting lodge, but it hadn’t registered and she’d mistaken the ferret for a mouse in her fear of doing self-surgery. Its brown and white fur had hung sadly
from its narrow frame, and she’d been feeding it whenever she ate, leaving water out. If it would come to her, maybe she would have a companion.
Shivering now, Samantha squirted the lighter fluid gently and struck a match, having to use three before it finally roared to life, singing her fingertips. Vaguely thinking
she had never looked or smelled worse in her life, Sam pulled the blanket tighter around her thin shoulders, huddling as close to the heat as she could.
Needing to know what her wound looked like, she gently pried back the bandage over her leg, trying not to disturb the newly forming scabs. It was still ugly, but
clearly improving and she could even put a little weight on it now. Her shaking hands replaced the mostly clean material, thinking it had hurt more than…
Arrrooooooo!
Samantha turned her head and froze at the sight of red, malevolent eyes glaring through the front window. She stared at those eyes for a long moment, reading,
evaluating her situation. It had been three days; blizzard cold, the snow was falling heavily even now, and the wolves were still out there…stalking her.
Sscccraatch... ssscchh.
Paws digging at the small gap under the front door got her moving, but her gaze stayed on the window, where more hungry eyes had appeared. She was in trouble,
and once again there would be no rescue but the one she provided.
Sam squared her shoulders, feeling the helpless anger that always rose when she thought of the old world now. Fine, if they wanted a war with humans, she would
give them a taste of what they were in for.
2
The first thing the Storm Tracker did was give herself a light dose of liquid gold and use the bedpan, glad her leg felt stronger. She would need that.
She dressed as fast as she could, knowing the layered shirts would help protect her from bites and scratches; the sweatpants going over the jeans for the same
reason. After tying her dirty blonde braid back, she strapped the gun around her hips, wishing it had more than just two bullets in it.
Samantha chose to make her stand in the corner, to the left of the stone fireplace, and was crying hard tears by the time she had tumbled the cumbersome wooden
desk onto its side, pulling it in like a wall.
After stowing all her things behind it, she filled a half dozen syringes with morphine, leaving the caps off, and added them to the knives already in the wide pockets of
her trench coat. They made a comforting clink. When the wolves came, it would be through the windows already weakened by the first, strong wave of the blizzard, and
it would get cold in here fast.
“Sure could use a solid,” Sam muttered hoarsely, very aware that this was probably where her luck would run out. “If I’ve got any credit, I’d like to use it now,
please.”
Taking a little more of the morphine she feared she would crave forever, Sam shook her head, recapping the needle with shaking fingers. She had already survived
worse. Wolves, no matter how determined, were nothing compared to Melvin and Henry, both drunk and wanting sex.
Scratch…Paw...Sniff.
Sam counted two shadows under the door, four pairs of eyes at the window. Six animals, and probably a few others hanging back, waiting. But not for much
longer, she thought, almost able to feel their hunger, their hatred, as they watched her movements through the frosted glass. The storm had piled up at least a foot of
thick snow, giving the wolves a step-up to see her better, and she glared back as she put the torches near the fire, not sure why she’d made them. The fire poles were
a last resort, she thought, turning to look at her would-be killers. As if on cue, the newest battle for survival began.
Smaaaaash!
The front glass shattered, a huge black wolf landing on its side as sharp pieces of glass flew across the floor, and snow, dark and dirty, flew through the jagged hole.
Snarling at her before it gained its feet, the wolf padded her way with red eyes promising death.
Crack! ...Thud...Ccrrssshhh!
The second window failed, snow and wolves streaming through the gaping opening.
Hungry fangs bared, their claws digging into the floor, Sam watched them with her heart in her throat, waiting for them to get close enough for her meager weapons
to be effective.
Craasshhh!
A third window exploded under the weight of a large white wolf. It didn’t slow as it hit the wooden floor, using it to jump again, fangs bared in anticipation.
Sam moved fast, jerking needles from her pocket, slamming two syringes into the white wolf’s furry chest as it came down on her. Grunting, she pushed the double
dose in, cringing away from the heavy, reeking weight.
A second wolf had lunged with its leader, and was hit with the Alpha’s convulsing body, knocking them both into the corner of the desk. The heavy marble slid
against Sam’s good leg, shoving her back and away from their snaps.
Pictures crashing to the floor behind her, Sam ignored the stabs of pain, looking up quickly to see a lanky wolf flying through the air, two others about to launch.
She fired the last two bullets in her gun, only one of the shots connecting, and then the third animal was flying toward her, snapping viciously…
Sam leaned into the wolf’s lunge, knife from her pocket impaling, ripping upward.
Iiiipe!
She let the bloody blade fall as she grabbed the Taser she’d found refill packs for, shocking the wolf she’d missed with the gun. She hit in the muzzle as it went for
her injured limb. The wolf fell, whining loudly.
She kicked the animal that had recovered from hitting the desk’s sharp corner with her good leg, blood trickling from its ear.
Iiippe! Iippe!
Her boot crunching against its ribs, the shocked wolf yelped horribly. Then all of the animals were fleeing, retreating before the injured prey that had taken out half of
their pack.
Sam turned in time to see the remaining three wolves jump through the snowy window, disappearing into the cold drifts of slush with their tails tucked between their
legs. Bloody paw prints marked their path of retreat, drops and sprays of scarlet scattered over the floor. Their howls of mourning as they vanished into the storm were
haunting.
Samantha lowered her arms, struggling not to puke at the blood on her hands, but when the white wolf at her feet twitched, the double dose of morphine not killing
it, she did, plunging her last knife deep into the Alpha’s thick chest.
Scratch…
Sam swung around, her shoulders relaxing when she saw the ferret’s dark, beady eyes. Not thinking it odd to see the pet despite all the noise, she didn’t notice the
restless twitch of its tail, nor the fact that it was charging her until it was too close for her to do anything but stomp.
She hit it with her injured leg as it lunged for her ankle, saliva dripping from its sharp, little fangs, then its head was crunching under her boot, guts and blood
squeezing out as stabbing pain shot up her leg.
Furious, Sam ground the ferret into the bloody floor, taking bitter satisfaction in every snap, crack, and dark splatter. “Slam you too!”
Tears in her eyes, Sam moved to wash and gather her things. It wasn’t safe here. She would go now, ready or not. It truly was survival of the fittest, and those who
didn’t listen to the warnings and prepare for nature’s worst would die.
Chapter Eighteen
12/21/2012
The Pacific Ocean
1
“Let me go!
The dark-haired females struggled against each other, but they went mostly unnoticed in the mayhem that had taken control of the enormous cruise ship.
“Keep going! We have to get below!” Kendle dodged the arms of a group of crewmen who were running down the crowded deck, grabbing wildly at unsuspecting
women, and shoved the younger girl out of their reach. Everything was out of control now.
“Stop!”
Kendle shoved the girl again as she came forward, one mesmerized eye on the horribly fascinating tidal wave eating up the ocean as it raced towards the boat, and
one terrified eye on the much younger and bloodier sister in front of her.
“We gotta help dad!” Dawn screamed, skin on fire.
Kendle shook her head, noises buzzing together unpleasantly as they stumbled along the debris-covered deck. They were being jostled by other panicked holiday
passengers, many of them also bleeding, having to stop and vomit. Tears blurred her vision and the actress wiped a hand across her face, not surprised to see a red
smear.
“Move!”
“Fall back!”
Dawn took a swing at her famous, survivalist sister for the first time in her life, missing, and Kendle’s thin control over her own emotions snapped. Her terror (the
first she’d felt in many years) flew out uncensored as the roar of the ocean grew louder, the screams more frantic. “He’s dead, Dawn! You saw his eyes explode!”
The girl screamed again, this time in horrified denial, and Kendle shoved her harder, sending the rebellious teenager tumbling down the dark stairwell. Ready to mix
it up to keep her alive, Kendle quickly followed, wishing for her camera crew - she hated to be without backup - and she yanked the dazed girl up by her arm.
“Hang on to this rail. Supposed to be unsinkable but if it flips, we’ll just have to hope…”
“Flips?”
Kendle locked her arms around the suddenly gutless teenager and the banister, the already-damaged wooden planks under their bare feet groaning in protest as the
ocean under them swelled, roared.
“Hang ooonnn...!”
The seven story wall of water slammed into the side of the Carnival Cruise Liner like it wasn’t even there. Not just flipping it, but rolling it repeatedly like dead wood
as it thundered past. The 80-foot wave then continued across the open ocean to engulf the small island state of Hawaii.
February, 2013
“Go away. Please, God. Make it go away.”
The young woman swallowed a groan as the shark fin rose out of the water and ran along the side of the faded speedboat. It had been stalking the drifting boat for
the last few days, almost certainly drawn by the blood in her urine, and today it had begun nudging her floating home until only her screams drove it back.
The Great White was big. Twenty feet long at least, and it acted as if it hadn’t seen a boat before. Kendle was sure just the simple shot of a flare would get rid of it,
but she had no flares, no gun, no knife, no gas, and no radio. She was adrift on a dead stranger's boat somewhere in the Pacific Ocean - the sole survivor of a
passenger manifest that had numbered over a thousand.
The shark was circling the boat again, and the red-skinned woman braced herself to follow through with the plan she'd made. Fight back or die had served her in
the past and it would now as well.
Bump!
The boat rocked and her grip tightened.
Bump...Bump!
More violent this time and there was an awful creak of waterlogged wood that got her up on her knees. Her boat wouldn’t take much more, and she would likely
only get one shot. She would have to get closer.
Kendle rose onto her knees near the side of the boat, not feeling the splinters digging into her clothes and skin. Her attention was focused on the shark streamlining
her way for another hit, this one likely an attack. It too had heard the water-weakened wood.
She sucked in a breath as the great white came in high on the water, the hunter moving in for its meal.
“Aaaahhh!”
Kendle swung the claw hammer with all her strength, the boat dipping precariously with her violent movement, and she buried the hammer in one of the shark’s cold
eyes.
Blood squirted, and the surprised predator jerked downward, yanking the weapon from her grip. It disappeared beneath the murky waves, tail thrashing against the
battered boat. One shot and she had nailed it. Was it enough?
Her eyes searched intently, her heart relaxing a little more with each second that passed. She’d lost her fishing hammer, but kept her life and her boat, and that was
a fair trade as far as she was concerned.
Kendle moved back, keeping her eyes on the waves, but after starting to doze off as the adrenaline rush faded. It was gone. Her heart fell. Like her world. She had
no idea where she was. The gas had run out a long time ago, and she was alone, at the ocean’s mercy.
Her bluish-gray eyes searched the waves as they swelled and dipped around her, finding nothing but debris and endless water. Forcing herself to ignore the waiting
tears, she got out her strings and began to tie a square of net to "fish" with.
“Fifty days and nights,” she muttered, cracked lips aching, skin a constant bruise from the lightest touch. In all that time, she hadn’t seen anyone, not a ship in the
distance, not even a plane overhead. Surely, they had found the liner by now, counted bodies, and started a search for survivors. Hadn’t they? Shouldn’t she have at
least seen a plane by now, one of those big 747s? They wouldn’t be able to see her, of course, but just knowing she wasn’t alone would be a comfort.
Fingers aching as she tied off the ends, Kendle flexed her hand a couple of times before starting on the next side, making small, tight squares that would trap
anything bigger than a marker. She let her mind wander as she worked on it, each piece a different color or type of material. She was almost out of things to drink and
was hoping for a bottle of water. Kendle croaked a bitter laugh, thinking of the saying about ‘water everywhere and not a drop to drink’.
“Definitely fits.”
Her throat was raw from trying to scream the shark away, and at that thought, her eyes looked around wildly, searching for a Great White with a hammer in its head
and revenge in its heart. Instead, murky waves, the unnatural, vivid green sunset, and the dark layer of clouds now ever-present in the sky, were her only companions.
Below was another world, but it was one she was terrified of now, full of foreign creatures that brushed against her wooden home and stole her breath. Where the
hell were the planes, the rescue ships? The land?
“It was a Carnival Cruise Liner, for God sakes!” she blurted in frustrated fear, head turning as if to see the Coast Guard pulling alongside. “Front page news!
Wealthy stars go missing, massive search ensues!”
Someone should be looking for all those citizens, all those lifeboats, shouldn’t they? And what was with the ocean? While she was grateful - it had certainly kept her
alive so far - she could only worry about an explosion that had been big enough to literally litter an ocean with debris.
Just about anything she could think of was floating in the salty waves -bottles, cans, cups, clothes, jugs. It was like a constantly moving store shelf of surprises (some
awful, like the hand she’d pulled up, still inside the leather glove), and she was constantly scanning the water, trying to find more each day than she used. She currently
had three weeks worth of food, divided evenly into the corners for balance, but her stomach clenched painfully at the thought of being on the ocean long enough to use it
all. Where was the land?
Kendle tied the net to the remaining guardrail on the faded orange and white speedboat with thick knots, finishing as a wave broke over the side and soaked her
from head to toe in cold saltwater. Her vision faded a bit, eyes blurring, and she was thrown back in time to the storm that had taken her sister just days after they’d
snuck off the doomed cruise ship.
“Hold on!”
“Help me!” the terrified girl screamed again, nails drawing blood from Kendle’s wrist as the weight of the rail that had ripped away pulled her down toward the
angry sea, where the rest of their group, also still anchored to the heavy metal, were fighting for every breath they took.
“Dawn!” Their wet fingers slipped, and the screaming teenager was yanked off the boat, as Kendle jerked frantically on the rope around her other wrist, unable to
get free to follow.
“Dawn!”
Bam!
Kendle screamed as the speedboat was hit hard from underneath, rising out of the water and tossing against the steering wheel. Stars bursting across her vision, her
hands found the wide, wooden spokes just as the craft plunged back down. It slapped up sprays of water and she barely kept herself from flying out, arm wrenching
painfully.
Bump, splash...Bump!
The boat rocked violently from the hits, and she held on to the wheel, heart thudding at every creak of waterlogged wood.
Thud...splash!
Her shark was back. She saw the fin, watched it roll over. Her eyes widened when she realized her net was wrapped around its streamlined body. It was trapped.
If it dove, she would go under too.
"Move!" her mind screamed, and she slid closer to the wildly thrashing animal as her fingers went for the net. ‘No time!’ the panic ordered, water sloshing into the
shallow boat as the shark tried to roll itself free. ‘Kill it!’
Kendle looked around. How?
The claw hammer was still buried in the shark’s eye, the long handle being pried out by the ropes of her net, and she grabbed the biggest can she had, its label long
gone. Kendle hefted it over her head, trying to wait for the right moment.
The Great White suddenly plunged downward, pulling the boat with it and as water began to pour in, she swung, slamming the heavy can down on top of the
hammer.
A sound of agony was ripped from the shark. More a vibration than a noise, the cry was one of a fatal wound and Kendle shoved herself back against the side of
the boat to rebalance it, shivering. She had just killed her first shark. That was something she hadn’t done before the War, when she couldn’t wait to face nature's
challenges.
After a minute, the shark stopped moving, blood leaking out into the softly lapping waves, and she forced herself toward the corpse, her back and shoulder on fire.
She ripped the hammer out of the animal’s head, the tearing sound making her gag, but she didn’t stop, swinging the slimy weapon back into the shark’s meaty area.
She ripped out a big chunk, coughing and wrenching. When her thumbnail tore off, she didn’t notice her blood mixing with that of the shark. Kendle wrapped the
meat in a towel, then began untying the carcass, not sure if she had taken it to eat or to look at and know the shark was dead. She felt the tears rise again, and didn’t
stop them this time.
The boat and the sisters had barely survived the rollover - being right by the stairs had saved them - but after three days of looters, fights, illnesses spreading, and
drunken pounding on the door, Kendle had chosen to get off the crippled ship before they were dragged from their staterooms. Others had been - they’d listened in
horror - and on the fourth morning after the tidal wave, she and Dawn had crept out to one of the three remaining lifeboats.
There had been five men there already and the girls had gone with them willingly. It had to be better than the rapes and murders on the boat that had started when
the Captain admitted he had no idea how to fix the ship and get them home, didn’t even know for sure where they were, then barricaded himself in the wheelhouse.
One day after the seven of them jumped ship, they found the speedboat, its owner looking much like the bodies they’d left on the doomed cruise liner. When its
engine started, they’d all been crying, hugging. It hadn’t lasted long. The boat’s radio, compasses, and lights were out, the fuel gone before daylight, and the speed
runner had come to a heartbreakingly slow stop with no land in sight.
“Lost two in the first week,” she croaked, hating the sound of her rough voice, but needing to hear it just the same. “Didn’t even know their names.”
The third to go had either fallen in or jumped, and was hit by something Dawn had sworn was the roof of a house. He hadn’t come back up, and the loss hadn’t
registered.
There had been little movement or conversation after that. Talking or moving required awareness, and no one wanted that until there was hope to go with it. They
had survived by fishing garbage out of the ocean, slowly adjusting to life on a world that was never still.
Kendle had been alone now for 45 days, marking the boat each morning since the storm that had taken her companions. It wasn’t the longest stretch she’d done -
that would be her 88 days spent hiking from one end of the Colorado to the other – but it was the first time she was totally without backup. She had no phone, no
camera crew with access to the outside world. “On my own for real this time.”
Kendle's skin felt very hot as she turned to look at the chunk of shark meat. “‘Cept for you.”
She laughed again and when it turned to sobs, she rocked herself gently for comfort. She would get through this the same way she had all the other trials. One day at
a time.
The sun vanished slowly, leaving eerie, beautiful trails of green and orange that threw strange shadows over the deep, dark waves, and Kendle huddled in the middle
while she dozed. She was miserable and heartbroken as the fading light left her with only her sense of hearing and smell, both of which checked in and recorded lapping
water and salt, nothing more.
Maybe the land was gone. Maybe that was why she was finding so much of the world in the water. A War? Hell, maybe an asteroid had hit and flooded the earth.
If so, she hoped the waters receded soon and set her Ark on a mountain before she went mad. Out here, she was defenseless.
Chapter Nineteen
February 23rd, 2013
Illinois
1
“No, please. No more bodies. There’s not room for them anymore!”
Angela’s words brought Marc instantly awake and he rose up on one elbow to look at her tear-stained cheeks in the dim lantern light. Dog’s golden eyes were also
watching her cry in her sleep.
“Angie?”
There was no answer. She was having another nightmare. It wasn’t the first time she had woken him this way and though he hadn’t said anything, it bothered Marc
that he couldn’t protect her in her dreams, too. Any small part of him that had been wondering if she was exaggerating, so she could play two ends against the middle,
was gone. Their first week together had revealed what she hadn’t told him and he was furious.
How could anyone treat her badly? She had been affectionate…passionate, and he loathed her man for changing that. He’d never felt hate so strongly.
“It’s how he was raised. He didn’t know any other way to deal with someone like me,” Angela answered his thoughts.
Marc jumped and gave her an awkward smile, having to pry his eyes from the long dark curls messed sexily over her shoulder. “You would have made a good
Marine,” he stated, not wanting to hear her defend someone who had obviously hurt her so much.
Angela sat up, pulling the thick, flag-covered quilt closer, her eyes roaming over pictures of foreign, seductive landscapes and dark, dirty windows, instead of
looking at him. “Not me. I don’t kill. I won’t.”
He frowned at her argumentative tone, wondering if it was the dream or something she had picked up from him.
“You okay?” he asked carefully, relaxing a little when she sounded more like herself, but her face was pale in the orange glow of the propane heater.
“I will be. Rough night.”
Marc grunted. Five or six this week. “Wanna talk about it?”
Angela tried to imagine telling him about her life of rape and assault, and total, unforgiving control. She closed her eyes against the shame and betrayal she thought
she’d come to terms with long ago.
“No. How about you tell me something from your life I don’t know. Shouldn't be hard.”
He ignored the tone. “Like what? After the War? Before?”
“Tell me something from our past, the answer to one of the questions we used to ask each other.”
His eyes swung to her pale face at the tone, but his mind was again screaming ambush from the almost resentfully spoken words. “Why?”
Marc could almost hear her telling herself to let it go, to preserve the careful peace they’d been sharing, and shook his head. “The truth is all that’s left now. Tell me
why.”
She opened her eyes, and he was only a little surprised by the coldness of her gaze. “Because I need to know what was more important than the way we felt. I need
to understand why. What was worth more than the love you left behind and forgot about?”
Marc pulled in a wounded breath, reeling from the blow. “I’ve never said it was worth it and I never forgot you!” he protested.
Her words fell like chips of frosted glass. “Clearly it was or you would have at least had the decency to come back and tell me where we stood. You weighed the
old life against the new one and if you ever looked back, I never knew. Last thing I heard was - I’ll find you. And don’t give me that ‘it was for the best’ crap, because
it wasn’t.”
“I wouldn't. I did a lot of things, helped a lot of people, but I’ve never considered it a fair trade. For the most part, it’s been lonely…cold… I’ve spent the last
decade aware that I made a mistake.”
She shrugged, not interested in his apologies, and too angry and hurt to be afraid of arguing with him. Their breakup and her life with Kenny was all she could see
when she closed her eyes, and the pain in his baby-blues was finally a balm to the old Angela.
“Tell me something I don’t know about your life,” she repeated tonelessly.
“I don’t... Okay. You remember how we wanted matching tattoos? I’ve got four now. Three can be shown in public.”
That caught her off guard, and he saw a flash of the old Angie, his Angie, in her response, “I’m public. Let’s see ‘em.”
Not expecting that, he reluctantly pushed up his camouflage sleeve to reveal a simple, thin green band around his thick arm, its edges artfully spiked. The other
sleeve hid a neat Marine emblem, an eagle on top of the earth. Her eyes lingered on his muscles as she wondered against her will, where the politically incorrect one
was. Ass?
“And the third?” Seeing the hesitation, she threw a rare grin. “Come on. You said three were politically correct.”
Marc stared at her. It had been so long! He was immediately sorry her already swinging mood was about to take a hit. He uncovered slowly, hating the fear on
her face when his hands went to the buckle of his dusty jeans. He only slid the waistband over his hip a couple of inches as he rolled toward her.
“I know those. Those are Recon wings. Kenny has the same…” she stopped, heart clenching as she read it. Kenny had the traditional "Mother" in the center of his.
Marc had "Angie Forever".
Their eyes met, locked, and memories swirled between them, old and powerful.
“You’ll love me forever?” the girl asked softly, terrified to trust.
The boy met her eyes as his hips pushed between her long legs. “Just that long. Not a second more.”
She smiled, leaned into his thrust as he kissed her.
Marc turned away with a heavy heart. That moment had been a very long time ago, but right now it felt like yesterday. He had to fight with himself not to go to her,
not to tell her how he felt, or that he had come back for her. It had been too late then, and it was too late now.
The big Timber wolf stretched, yawning widely before following his master, and Angela watched Marc’s big shoulders as he lit the stove. Her name on his tanned
hip flashed through her mind, and she slammed her eyes shut as she lay back down. She was sure it had been done when he was fresh into the Corps and still pissed at
his mother for putting him there. If their love had meant so much, he would have come back for her, right? He hadn’t, and in the years that had gone by, he'd changed.
The boy she’d loved had been her willing slave on most things, her ally and best friend. This new man was closed off, very adept at keeping to himself, and she
missed their closeness, hated the circumstances preventing them from having it back. "It’s for the best," her fear whispered. "What if friendship wasn’t enough?"
Angie gave the old dream only a brief glance before shoving it back behind the doors. Kenny would never let her go. The question didn’t matter.
Relieved when her even breathing told him that she’d gone back to sleep, Marc was certain any of the things he might have said would only have caused more
tension. They were mostly avoiding the old wounds, concentrating on working out an efficient travel routine. In that way at least, he knew he had pleased her.
They’d made 127 miles in the week since leaving the wounded brothers behind, compared to her 120 in nine days alone, and took turns at the cooking and cleanup.
She had expected to do all the work despite the agreement, and it bothered Marc to see her staring, wondering if she could still trust him, or if he was up to something.
She was jumpy, always looking over her shoulder or reaching for the comfort of her gun. She never asked if they were safe, wouldn't have believed him anyway, he
guessed, and he had begun doing things to make her feel better, like walking the perimeter often and always using the motion alarms. Marc was determined to show her
that he could keep her alive, that she could count on him.
He also kept his distance and kept his mouth shut, sure when she relaxed a little more, she would realize he was still the same man who had taken her virginity with
sweetness and care. Feeling himself stir at that hot, shadowy memory, Marc pulled on his coat and stepped out into the very cold Illinois air after motioning the wolf to
stay.
They were camped in a large, one-room log cabin deep in the Eagle Creek Recreation area, this particular building chosen for its complete lack of Christmas
decorations. The area in which he had chosen to make camp was on the farthest edge of the resort complex, away from the main clubhouse and lavish apartments. He’d
even shunned the golfing side, choosing instead to hole up deep in the campground. It was almost serene here, no damage visible thanks to the thick forest around them,
and he was glad they had finally cleared the St. Louis quake zone.
The cabin had no yard to speak of, just dense willow and oak trees that hung thickly over the rustic rails. Marc hefted himself into their canopy, wanting to see what
(who) was around them, but even with his scope, the leaves were too thick to see the outlines of the wealthier resort area. Only the shadows of blackened foliage told
him that Angie’s words of a huge fire were true. Not that he’d doubted her.
Frowning, Marc stayed in the tree, watching. Their first week together had gone smoothly. Even crossing the ugly, swollen Mississippi River had been easy, by using
an out of the way dam. He tried to do things for her, but she was stubborn, always insisting on the hardest path. The tone of her voice seemed to beg for another mile
each time he asked if she was ready to stop for the night, and he always gave in. As a result, she was exhausted, and he was tired, so much that they weren’t unpacking
anything but their bedrolls and the heater most nights. Marc sighed again. She needed a break. Soon, they both would.
2
Angela awoke abruptly, instantly aware that other than the wolf, she was alone in the chilly room. She concentrated, worried Brady had tired of babysitting her and
left, but she found him just outside and tried to relax. Between the fear of Kenny’s reaction hanging over her head like a noose, and her dreams of the twins, she was
freaking out a little. She knew Marc was picking up on it and was grateful for the things he did to make her feel better, but there would be hell to pay once Kenny…
"Something’s coming."
The door appeared in her mind, pulling at her, and she immediately closed her eyes and turned the knob, heart thumping. The twins?
An icy wind blew her hair back as she stopped in the doorway, knowing not to go further, and she shivered as she looked into another world.
This landscape was blanketed by a thick blizzard and dotted with the shadowy forms of people, but only one of them - a dirty blonde with a nasty limp - actually
looked alive as she plowed determinedly through the knee-high drifts. She moved toward where Angela stood on the threshold, the edges of her dirty brown trench
coat dragging over the deep snow, leaving a clear trail.
This world was pure white except for the people; even the trees were bent, covered in ice. Angela thought she saw a pack of dogs in the far distance, but wasn’t
sure. The other people paid no attention to the open door, but the blonde limped straight toward her, frozen eyelashes glistening like jewels. “It’s coming. Get ready.”
There was a radar map in the woman’s eyes, like a reflection of an old weather broadcast. Angela’s heart raced as she realized that she and Marc weren’t the only
ones caught in the path of the massive winter storm moving in from the South. Her son was in danger, along with all the people they’d joined at Safe Haven refugee
camp.
A strong wind pushed her back as the door slammed shut between them, echoing, and Angela jerked upright, eyes flying open. She would wait until the snow was
falling before she sent the warning - Kenny would never believe her otherwise - but it was coming and they would all have to get ready.
Fear raced through Angela’s veins and her heart sped up. She had to call Kenny. He was about to find out the first big rule she’d broken. He would know for sure
that she was on her way.
3
Angela stepped out onto the porch, wolf disappearing into the trees, and found Marc instantly - though she couldn’t see him from the doorway.
Marc grinned when she moved into view, looking up at him. “You see me or sense me?”
She frowned, not really comfortable talking to him about the things she could do. “I’m not sure.”
He dropped down. “You all right?”
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. “Not really, but I’ll be better when we’re on the move again.”
She lit a smoke, prepared herself to take a chance. Would he believe her?
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s a bad storm coming. A winter storm,” she said quietly, waiting for the questions.
“Snow?”
She still didn’t look at him. “A lot of it, and I think it’s going to get colder. I’ve got a roll of plastic.”
Marc smiled, showing sexy white teeth. “I’ve got a staple gun and duct tape.” His unquestioning acceptance brought her eyes up and they stared at each other. Both
of them could feel that old connection wanting to grow again. He looked away before she could.
“What smells so good?”
“Omelets. It’s all rehydrated or powdered though, so don’t expect much.” Powdered eggs suck, Marc thought, and Angela went back to cooking with a smile of
agreement, not searching for his thoughts, but not blocking them either.
“Can I do anything?” He followed her slowly, mindful about keeping his distance.
“Yes. Teach me some defensive moves today after lunch.”
“Sure. We’ll start with the basics and move up.”
“I really need something I can use now.”
He frowned at her insistent response. “I know quick ways, but they’re for Marines. Not pretty,” he warned.
She shrugged, brushing a stray curl back behind her ear as she turned off the stove. “Pretty doesn’t matter. Only results do.”
“Remember you said that.”
Angela frowned at the second warning, but didn’t ask for details or change her mind as she handed him a plate and sat down on the far end of the couch. “I will.
Let’s eat.”
Angela wrote in her journal the whole time, and then bundled up and slipped out the door without a word, leaving Marc to worry as he waved the wolf to follow.
Where was the carefree young girl who had insisted they build a clubhouse in the middle of a snow storm? Where was the innocent enchantress he had eased into
womanhood and how could he get her back? There had to be a way.
When he stepped out, Marc was surprised by how much gear she already had on the porch. Obviously, she was serious about the storm, and he kept his eyes from
lingering on the rounded ass sticking from the rear of her Blazer each time she retrieved something else. He carried her things inside instead.
Coming back for the last load, he noticed the temperature with a frown. It had dropped nearly five degrees in less than two hours. That definitely wasn’t normal and
it confirmed her warning. Again, not that he’d really doubted. Her gift had always been a part of their lives, one of the reasons his mother had been so against him
spending time with her, but it didn’t bother him anymore now, than it had then. It was useful, and he had little to hide. Marc had often wondered what it would be like to
see and feel everything the way she did, but he didn’t envy her abilities because he knew the terrible price she paid for them.
“Need some help?”
Angela hadn’t known he was so close behind her, and Marc saw the hand flinching downward before she stopped herself. “I’ve got it.”
Her tone was sharp, and he backed off, stepping through thick Bermuda grass as he went to get his own things. She was trying to keep the wall between them, and
he would respect her wishes….for now.
It only took them half an hour to improve the cabin’s temperature, using large sheets of plastic to enclose the area around the couch. They worked together in
silence, Angela anticipating his needs as she had when they were kids. Once finished, they dug out warmer clothes and Marc tossed a plastic-wrapped pouch on her
bedroll. “Thermal blanket. Used to a part of my sniper gear.”
Trying not to frown at the word sniper, she tossed a similar looking package on the couch. “He left some of his things behind this year.” Their similarity, from
supplies to transportation, made them both sad. What a great team they would have made. It also had Marc a bit more uneasy about the future. Her man had sniper
training, too. Great.
4
Angela tried to calm herself down. She knew Marc wouldn’t hurt her, but still flinched as the door opened and Marc came back in from doing a walk of the
perimeter.
“Ready for your first lesson?”
She nodded nervously, rubbing sweaty palms down her jeans. “In here?”
He motioned at the small area, very aware of how uncomfortable she was. “Warmer in here, more room out there. You pick.”
“Outside,” she chose, hoping the cold might distract her from her fear of being touched, of being hurt. She was already shaking.
Stopping at the foot of the steps, she drew in a deep, calming breath as he took off his gun belts and set them on the porch. It was lined in scraggily patches of
weeds trying to grow - with little success.
Marc watched the fear in her eyes grow as he moved toward her. “We can start out slow.”
"I can do this.”
Marc circled her. “I believe that too. Just remember to think.”
She nodded, and he rushed her.
Marc swung a leg behind her knee and gently took them to the ground. Not letting his weight fall on her, he tried not to think of her as a woman, but as a cadet to
be trained, instructed.
Fear bursting through her mind like a rocket, and Angela struggled thoughtlessly.
Marc clenched his teeth in an effort to stay soft. She felt good! “Rubbin’ that body against a man won’t make him stop, Honey.”
Angela froze, cheeks bright red. “I don’t want...”
“You can’t talk your way out, either. You have to think and then act. Start with locking your ankles together and try to throw me off.”
She did as he said - heart pounding, mind screaming - and Marc met her eyes.
“You have to get in control of it. Being scared makes you human, but you have to think too. Your hands should be trying to find a weapon while your legs keep
trying to throw him off. Your gun, his knife, a rock; anything in reach, and don’t waste your time yelling. It will only tire you out.”
Angela sucked in air, closing her eyes against the fear in her heart.
“He’ll be saying things, pawing at you, but surprise is your weapon. Distract him and then bite, punch, kick, whatever it takes, but don’t let him turn you over.”
She nodded, wanting him off of her, and Marc raised a brow. “Make me.”
She surprised him with an almost gentle butt to the head, and then they were struggling against each other, Marc using only pressure, no force. The fear in her eyes
was intense, preventing his body from responding.
After a full minute, he let her roll him over and off. She was on her feet in an instant, hair wild, eyes flashing as he stood up.
“Lesson two. When a man corners a woman, he watches to see if she’s a runner or a fighter. Your eyes and body language tell him how to prepare for you, and
again, surprise is your weapon. Keep your hands at your sides. Make him think you’ve frozen, and when he moves in, cup your hands into a fist and bring them up at
the same time as your knee. Pound his nuts into his stomach, and run for a weapon or your car. If you miss, you’ll be on the ground again. Ready?”
She was glad he had given her the warning this time, but couldn’t help freezing when he rushed her. They were on the ground a second later.
“Lock those ankles, Angie. Use your knees! You can’t hurt me, but I could hurt you, if I were a bad man. You need to pretend I am.”
She answered him with a harder butt to the chin that sent tiny stars of vivid shades across his vision. He let her roll him over again.
Angela quickly gained her feet for a second time, and Marc took a quick look around as he got up. Clear. “Very good. Ready?”
He was moving in before she nodded. Angela remembered to drop her hands, but was afraid to really hit him, terrified deep in her heart that he would hit her back,
as Kenny had so many times.
Marc tripped her easily, taking them down again. This time, her arms were pinned by his chest and the heavy weight of his body. “Don’t roll over and don’t unlock
those ankles!”
Angela twisted her hips to make room and flung a handful of dust half-heartedly in his direction. Her knee brushed his groin, and again he let her roll him off.
She got up a bit slower this time, almost winded as she tried to remember his words over the fear screaming in her mind.
Marc realized he was going to have to use a different method to circumvent her fear of men. She had to see him as a stranger. He backed up a little, ignoring the
heart that didn’t want her to be afraid of him for any reason or length of time. She froze when he got close, afraid of what would happen afterwards if she hurt him,
which she couldn’t. He needed to reach that place inside that came out when survival was on the line, so she would remember how to handle herself when it counted.
“Not going to the ground means the difference between rape and escape. You have to stop me by any means necessary.”
Angela frowned, backing up as he edged closer. “I can’t just attack you.”
“I’m gonna make it so you can. Remember to think.” Marc sent his very male eyes over her body with clear want, letting the animal side out just a bit, and Angela
felt terror go through her at his words. He wasn’t like them, right?
“Pretty white bitch,” he growled, mimicking the brothers' menacing tone almost perfectly. He hated her reaction, but didn’t stop, forcing her to deal with it. “How
'bout a kiss? Been alone a long time.”
She shook her head, still moving carefully away, and he was glad to see her eyes locked on his. At least she knew that much.
He rushed her suddenly and Angela brought her hands and knee up together. The force behind it was meant to hurt, but it didn’t. Neither said a word, Marc only
letting his body strain against hers.
It took him a full minute to get her off her feet this time, Marc not really trying, of course, and once on the ground, he kept her there, showing her where to hit,
scratch, kick, and punch.
A few minutes later, Angela knew she was done, and stilled, closing her eyes so he wouldn’t see how afraid she was that he wouldn’t stop.
“Done now… Let... me up.” To her great relief, his weight was gone an instant later.
There was no way she could have stopped him, and she knew he felt her shaking when she allowed him to pull her to her feet. She let go quickly and put some
distance between them, stomach muscles now aching, pinching.
“You okay?”
Her words were breathy. “Good... exercise even... if I don’t... learn anything.”
“You will.”
Their eyes met, sparked, and hers darted away, making him frown. He had provoked real fear in order to teach, but it had taken so little!
“I’ll work on it, Brady. Again...tomorrow?”
He grinned at her, surprised she wanted to. “Absolutely. You did great. Next time, I’ll teach you ways to keep anyone from getting close enough to grab you.”
She nodded, sweating despite the chill in the lightly gusting wind. She didn’t notice the wolf curling up on the porch, but Marc did, and was glad. He was never
completely sure the animal would return.
“Cool... guns now?”
His eyes were unreadable as he considered. He had shown her proper cleaning and hand positions, and they’d done some dry fire exercises, but she needed to
practice, and that made a lot of noise, would draw attention they weren’t ready to handle. “Not until we leave here. For today, we’ll use something quieter.”
Pulse and respiration racing, she only nodded again as they headed in, unwilling to ask him for more. She needed to get used to caring for herself. Wasn’t that why
she’d called him, to teach her?
“You mean that?”
Angela was surprised he was picking things up from her, the look on his face said he hadn’t been expecting it either, and the moment hung between them like a
flame in the darkness. Back in the old days, they had been open to each other in every way.
“Yes. Will you?”
He looked away from her, thinking her eyes were still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Pretty cars and expensive jewels had nothing on Angie’s baby-blues.
“Absolutely. In fact...” He dug in his kit. “I found this back in Mattoon.” He handed her a small, purple gift bag from his pack. It held an orange dart gun with half a
dozen darts and a paper target. She saw the benefits even as she laughed at the toy.
“I’ll treasure it always,” Angela joked as he taped the target to the wall. She loaded the bright orange weapon and stepped back to practice, concentrating.
Marc stayed in a back corner, occasionally offering direction and trying not to sniff his hands. They reeked of her scent. He kept a groan to himself. Damn, he had
it bad.
When Angela looked around a bit later, the wolf was at the door, gray ears up, reddish-black head down, golden eyes watching contentedly. Marc had settled on
the couch to clean his guns, and she felt peace and bitterness warring in her heart. This is how it should have been for them…and it had been stolen.
5
After a quiet meal of beans and Bambi, they settled in to wait out the storm. It wasn’t quite dark yet and they were surprised upon moving outside. Not to step out
into cold, white darkness, but by the amount of snow that had already fallen. It was still coming down in thick sheets, at least six inches of the dirty grey flakes covering
everything. The wind swirled the falling moisture into tiny tornadoes that raced across the cornfield to slam apart against the broken stalks and their snowy, tarp-covered
vehicles.
The pair split up wordlessly, Marc waving the wolf after her as she stepped behind a large, ice-covered tree and out of his sight. The wind howled, growing
stronger, and sheets of falling snow whipped violently, producing a whiteout effect that the flashlights around their necks barely penetrated. Making a fast round of the
perimeter, the Marine uncovered alarms, then joined her on the porch, careful to keep his distance.
Angela didn’t meet his observant eyes, didn’t want him to see how scared she was. “I have to warn Kenny this is coming," she thought, but only said, "I’ll be out
here for a few minutes.”
Marc heard both statements. He wanted to stay and listen, but gently, closed the door instead, jealousy burning in his heart. He could feel it a moment later,
powerful waves of warning that seemed to vibrate in his head as they rushed over miles and miles of broken American ground. He was hit with the urge to interrupt, to
make his presence as her new protector known, but that would give away the element of surprise, and the Marine inside held him in check. Longing to at least hear what
was being said, Marc began to clean his guns…again.
Angela slammed the door in her mind, trying to stop crying and shaking. Kenny was so mad!
His anger had slapped her, terrified her, and she wiped at her eyes as she turned toward their warm den. He wanted her to go back to Ohio, said he would come
get her when he was ready, but she could hear him wishing she would die there or anywhere along the way. Under the layers of fear, she was furious and more
determined than ever. She would never turn back now. Never!
Marc saw her face as she and Dog came in, and acid burned in his gut. Her man couldn’t reach her physically, but he could reach her emotionally, and he had.
“You okay?”
She shook her head, face tear-streaked, beautiful black hair flecked with snow. “No, but I can’t fix it from here. Montana by the end of March sound right?”
That was exactly what he had figured when she’d told him where her man was headed. “Yes, quicker if we do some night traveling too.”
Angela sat on the couch and pulled the quilt around her shoulders, unable to stop hearing the threats, the ugliness. Kenny had been angry from the start, but had
spun out of control quickly, suddenly screaming, and she wondered why. Heart now skipping rapidly in fear, she paled even more. Had he seen something he shouldn’t
have when she’d shown him the storm? Icy terror sank deep into her heart. Did Kenny know she wasn’t alone?
Angela flinched as Marc pushed the heater closer to her, kneeling down to turn it up higher. Not mentioning it, he wished there was something he could do to make
her feel better. When he looked up, her eyes were locked on his, a desperate glare in her blue depths.
“Tell me you’ll back me up, no matter what. Tell me the code, the Corps, and everything else comes second to me.”
Marc smiled bitterly, but answered without hesitation. “Wasn’t it always that way? According to our family, I went against them and God to have you, and there
was never a second that I wouldn’t have come if you’d called.” He dropped his eyes, sighed. “Still isn’t.”
Angela gave him a shaky smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Marc clamped down on another attempt to get her to change her mind. “Me too. Fifteen years was a long time.”
Angela shuddered, closing her eyes and mouth on the hell she’d been through. Only the future mattered, and that was Kenny. He was a violent man and seeing her
and Marc together might be enough to send him over the edge. Especially if he snuck up on them and saw anything, like the sparks that flew when their eyes met. Blood
would spill then, and her boy's parentage wouldn’t be an issue.
6
Two pairs of dark, frustrated eyes watched the couple move about inside the cabin, both unhappy with the lesson they had just witnessed through shared binoculars.
The snow had Dean and Dillan pinned down in a thermal tent. They were unable to get any closer because of the wolf and the tracks they were too injured to cover.
Forced to wait until the storm broke and their wounds healed more, the brothers watched every move of the man and woman, plotting their revenge.
Shooting them was talked about, as was an open ambush during their next lesson, but neither plan was acted upon. In their conditions - both of their wounds angry
red and leaking blood - they couldn’t be sure of victory. The evil twins wouldn’t underestimate their prey again though, and hunkered down to wait for their moment of
triumph.
7
Angela’s dreams were worse than usual, and she jerked awake to see Marc already sitting up, watching her with concerned eyes.
“Is there a problem?”
She shook her head, keeping the thick quilt around her shoulders as she headed for the door. Not bothering with her shoes, when she slipped outside, Marc waved
the wolf after her and got up.
She was jumpy, more so now than the night they’d been reunited, and she never slept for more than a few hours without her nightmares interrupting. It made him a
little more nervous and a lot more pissed with each passing day. Her man was definitely going to be taught a lesson. How hard it would be was the only unknown.
Marc put his hands to work, caring for his guns yet again, as his ears strained to hear any noise outside. He finished with the beautiful, matching Colt’s and slid them
onto his hips with a feeling of completeness he knew not to put much faith in. Being good with a gun wasn’t nearly enough now. It took listening to everything around
you, but mostly to your gut. His was telling him that this mess was all his fault, and the time had come to fix it. He was a United States Marine, and it was his duty to
open the door to her cage.
Shivering, Angela sat in the back seat of her Blazer, the open door letting the wind swirl dark flakes inside. Her mind was awash with the past - her man’s violence,
mixed with childhood demons, and the horror of seeing the War up close - and she wished she didn’t have to sleep. She would never have an unbroken night’s rest
again until she was with her son.
"The arms of the man, your new guardian, would ease these things. His heart is pure."
Angela frowned at the wolf, shaking her head. She had little doubt it would work, but Marc would never just offer, and she couldn’t imagine asking. It went against
everything she’d had beaten into her.
"This man is not the same. He is yours."
She shook her head again. “Not anymore. That was a long time ago.”
"Then why does it feel like it was yesterday?" the old Angela questioned.
Her heart sobbed, giving the answer that Kenny must never, ever be allowed to discover. “Because I still have feelings for Brady. They never went away.”
Chapter Twenty
February 24th, 2013
Wyoming, near Kemmerer
1
Kenn listened to the early morning chatter at the boss’s center table with only half an ear - something he usually never did. His clever mind was busy searching for a
way to tell Adrian about the coming storm. He had no doubts, had seen the deep snow drifts around the tarp-covered outlines of two vehicles (two!), but how could he
convince Adrian, without telling him about Angela?
"Lie," his mind whispered and Kenn looked up guiltily to see everyone staring at him.
“Sorry, what?” he sputtered.
Adrian frowned. “Supply list?”
Kenn handed it to him from the stack on the table, being careful not to let the stiff wind rip it from his fingers. “Here ya go.”
Adrian looked it over, nodded, and turned to Neil. “Who’s going with you?”
The cop handed him a smaller sheet of paper as a bird’s wild call echoed, and they all looked up at the grit-covered sky. Tension gripped the crowd in the Mess,
but when it wasn’t spotted, the normal noises slowly resumed. Wind blowing tarps, the clink of dishes, footsteps, vehicles lining up for a full days travel - Adrian told
himself he was just feeling jumpy.
“There are the names and some other details. Do you want…”
Kenn let their conversation fade away from him again, mind clearly not on the meeting.
Adrian sighed, banging his cup down hard on the picnic table. Everyone jumped and the Marine’s eyes flew to his. “Is there something I should know?”
“Yeah,” Kenn confirmed quickly, and Adrian was glad to see relief on his XO’s scruffy face instead of the guilt he’d been expecting.
“It’s gonna snow tonight and we’ll be caught out in the open unless we get ready,” Kenn announced, then waited, dreading the questions that would force him to lie
to Adrian.
“Snow?”
Kenn set his cup down and squared his shoulders. “From the South, at least a foot by midnight, maybe more. We need to hole up somewhere.”
Kyle, Doug, and Neil were looking at him with open mouths, but Adrian’s tone was thoughtful.
“And what do you suggest?”
“We passed a mall in Green River, a the roller rink back in Rock Springs, but really, Kemmerer’s only a few miles away, and it has a bowling alley with a mall
across the street. We’ll hook up heat, maybe even get a few lanes going,” Kenn stated casually, ignoring the frowning guards. Adrian’s opinion was the only one that
mattered, and he looked at Kenn now, deep blue eyes shuttered.
“You’re sure?”
Kenn didn’t look away. “I must be. I’m risking my new place here on it, right?”
Adrian cocked an eyebrow and looked at him flatly, “Yes, you are. The bowling alley in Kemmerer?”
“Yeah, Sage Lanes. It could snow for a week and we’d be okay there,” Kenn said, not hesitating, still seeing the snow-covered vehicles in his mind. Not one, but
two. Angie wasn’t alone.
The other three men clearly wanted to question, but didn’t because they also knew that only Adrian’s decision really mattered. They could feel him weighing it, even
as all five of them turned to watch money - a large number of twenties - go blowing by with the gusty Wyoming wind. Two of them still felt the natural urge to gather it
up, despite its uselessness.
Adrian looked around. They had a great view of the Rocky Mountains, where grizzly bear and elk were no doubt hiding from the survivors, but down here in the
basin, there were bodies of lizards and gophers scattered among the mesquite shrubs and cactus with their yellow and red tinged flowers, and not a single tree in sight.
There were barbed wire fences, rows of unturned fields, and garbage littering the area, but as for civilization, there were only the distant outlines of two farms, and they
looked boarded up, like they’d been condemned before the War had come. No other shelters. They were very exposed to the weather here, and if his Marine was right
about the snow, they were in danger.
“Notebooks open. Plans have changed.”
They did it reluctantly. A Gulf War Veteran, a State Trooper, and a Mobster getting a taste of crow, Kenn thought.
“We’ll need all three generators, a full fuel truck, the big tool chest, and a crew for bathroom setups, since those scheduled for here already did theirs.” He looked
at Kenn, not scowling like he wanted to, when the wind blew a fresh wave of recent decay over their table. “You’ll do the hookups?”
Kenn nodded, and Adrian lit a smoke. “Good. Go spend some time on the radio. Tell Mitch and Matt I want them.”
Kenn moved right away, figuring ‘he heard it while monitoring the CB’ would be his excuse to the camp. While he was glad he hadn’t had to lie to Adrian yet, he
knew the questions would come and he would need to have an answer ready.
The camp around them now murmuring, watching. Adrian gave his closest men understanding looks, sure their light beards hid suspicion and dislike. “I know you
don’t trust him and that’s all right, as long as you trust me. Do you?”
“You know it,” came the unanimous answers, but all three black-uniformed men were indeed hiding frowns under light stubble and blank looks. They didn’t even
like the Marine, let alone trust him.
“Good. We’ll see what happens, and in the meantime, a day in a bowling alley with heat and real lights sounds good. You guys gonna be on my team?”
There were boasts and grins, Adrian in the thick of it, and his inscrutable eyes never hinted at how much he wanted, needed the Marine to be proven right. It would
cement Kenn’s place here, but more than that, the ability to predict foul weather headed their way was invaluable. It was a skill he hadn’t suspected the man of having.
The camp had no problem with getting a break from the expected hours of traveling, and nearly all the Eagles cracked jokes about the calm skies and temperatures
that were currently above freezing. Kenn only told them to wait and see, but inside he was terrified of being wrong. He knew Angela wasn’t trying to trick him, but what
if the storm had gone past them or dissipated? His face hurt from forcing himself to laugh at the remarks, and through it all he could feel Adrian's thoughtful blue gaze on
him, watching and waiting.
2
A small town, Kemmerer appeared to be empty, the roads surprisingly clear of abandoned traffic, but there was heavy damage from looters, and even the animal
population hadn’t been spared. The town’s dog pound was the site of a horrific battle that made Adrian drive faster past the decaying canine and human cadavers
littering the charred, glassless, brick complex.
Like the other towns they’d been to, Kemmerer had a lot of bodies, dozens of rotting, gruesome corpses, and Adrian was glad to see that none of them slowed
obvious signs of radiation sickness. The town itself held burnt frames, broken windows, looted stores, but no wrecked military vehicles, no kicked-in doors. Apparently
riots, not the Draft, had conquered this American town.
The parking lot at Sage Lanes was deserted until they pulled in, and Adrian steered into the hard breeze as he keyed his mic, “Back the Mess truck up near the
door. Supply trucks in the rear. Double the watch. Eagles ten, seven, and twelve, secure our campsite. Eagle Three, escort and assist Kenn. Everyone else, stand by.”
Adrian stepped inside with a frown, running his eyes over arcades, cleaning machines, rows of welded-down tables and hard swivel chairs behind racks of balls and
lined-up pins at the end of wide, dust-covered lanes. The maroon carpet, its fine layer of sand devoid of footprints, led to separate bar and food areas, their wooden
counters and brick walls covered with glittery signs and unopened party favors. Tired of seeing the heartbreaking reminders of a world gone by, Adrian’s sharp gaze
picked out mouse droppings on the bar, a ceiling full of New Year’s confetti, and he nodded as calls of ‘all clear’, echoed.
“It’ll do. Set us up.”
3
Kenn set the mouse trap in the corner, hitching up jeans, as he stood, aware that they were no longer too tight. He watched Doug and Neil move toward the steps
leading to the basement, about to do a second sweep. The limping redhead in the green army jacket was shaking long, wild hair in response to the tall, thin Trooper, and
Kenn caught Zack’s eye.
Reading him easily (the career trucker now wore the clothes of a rookie Eagle trying to make Level One status) Zack trotted quickly across the wide, dusty room.
“Hey, Neil, wait up. I got a question about yesterday’s lesson.”
Satisfied there would be no unauthorized plotting done with the rookie’s nosey eyes on them, Kenn ran a hand over his neck-length black hair. “Next?”
It took the camp nearly an hour to get everything inside and set up. Dozens of lanterns gave the spacious room a dim, flickering light and a harsh odor that Adrian
knew wouldn’t mix well with the other smells they would create. He hung smoke detectors, air-fresheners, and signs requesting that the bathroom doors be kept closed,
then headed to the basement while the camp ate lunch and picked out their sleeping areas - women and kids away from the doors and windows.
Adrian waved a hand at Kyle, and the stocky Eagle fell in step. The two men kept their eyes open as they moved down the long, dark hall, flashlights on their belts
casting eerie shadows.
“You been back out since we got here?”
“Few minutes ago. Looks like snow moving in from the South. Temperature’s dropping fast,” Kyle wasn’t exactly gunning for the Marine, but he’d never trust him,
never be one of his many supporters. He liked it that Kenn had been behind the 8 ball, even if only for a few hours. “Don’t think it’ll hold till dark.”
“It won’t matter, if Kenn can get the lights and heat on.”
Adrian’s words were still hanging in the chilly air when a deep rumble started under their feet, rattling the whole building. It grew steadily louder, drawing yells as
dust began to fly from vents, and then changed to a long, loud hiss that died out gradually. There were a few seconds of tense silence and Adrian waited in the darkness
with his hand on his holster as he listened to the unease of his herd.
The rumbling came again, much quieter this time, and the two males got moving, grinning when the dusty bulbs overhead flickered halfheartedly, then began to glow,
bright and beautiful. They now had electricity.
A hearty cheer went through the bowling alley, echoing to Kenn and Neil, who had heard voices in the dark and drawn their guns. No one else was allowed down
here. Relaxing when Adrian and Kyle came into view, Kenn flipped a switch as he reholstered, killing the lights and drawing a loud moan of protest from upstairs.
“What about heat?”
The Marine smothered a curse, wiping sweat from his eye. “Our cords aren’t strong enough. We need something heavy duty. After that, should just be a matter of
bleeding out the system. We’ll have to make sure all the outside vents and ducts stay clear.”
To Kenn’s pleasure, Adrian wrote it down and the two guards watched jealously.
“We passed a big laundromat on the way in. Wouldn’t they have the industrials?”
Kenn was glad it had been Kyle, and not Neil, who made the suggestion. He and the mobster got along better now - handling Leon together had helped - but he
couldn’t make peace with the state cop at all, and he had officially given up trying.
“Good. Give them the lights back and you guys go get what we need. The space heaters will hold us a bit longer.”
Kenn got another cheer when he flipped the switch.
Though they were grinning as they went up the hall together, under real lights for the first time in nine weeks, it was an odd feeling. None of them spoke until they got
to the loading docks where the trucks were neatly lined up.
The guards tensed when they saw the four men come out of the dock doors and immediately began sweeping the landscape harder, paying more attention. Kenn’s
words had indeed drawn them to an awareness of their unique positions in his army, but it was Adrian’s guidance, his strong leadership, they were protecting, and in
doing so, were securing their own places in this hard new world. Kenn had eyes on Adrian almost all the time now. Even the new guy, Seth, was doing it, without even
being an Eagle. The guards were all relieved when Adrian went back inside where it was safer. To these men, their leader was invaluable. He was the last of his kind,
and no one could take his place.
4
By dark, Adrian's camp was being fed, and those finished were taking their turn on the 25 lanes that Kenn and Doug had managed to get working. Beautiful, warm
heat was gushing out of the vents while snow fell heavily outside, and nearly everyone who had cracked a joke had now given Kenn apologetic words and claps on the
back for saving them. If they had been caught out in the open, even a little snow and cold might have cost them lives. There were a lot of questions, but the story of
hearing it on the radio had already flown through the camp, and Kenn was glad not to have to repeat it. One lie was already going to be too much.
Adrian, Kenn, Kyle, Doug, and Neil were sitting at a round table on the top deck of the bowling alley. The Eagles were watching, laughing, and letting the camp
have their fill first, but the leader’s eyes were on his right-hand man.
Kenn was playing with a new deck of cards, fanning them out in different shapes and scooping them back up like a pro. His face was pale, uncomfortable, and at
that moment, Adrian found it hard to accept that the Marine might be...special. Loyal and hardworking? Yes. Psychic? No, and it wasn’t because Adrian didn’t believe
in it. He did, deeply, and while he longed for one of his circle to have such a gift, he just couldn’t place it with Kenn.
Then how did he know? Adrian asked himself the important question, and the blunt, quick answer made him frown. Kenn was in contact with someone not in
this camp, and he was either lying, or about to.
Almost as if Neil had picked up on that thought, Adrian’s most steadfast man turned to the quiet Marine, unable to hold back any longer. “So, come on, Kenn.
How’d you know?”
Neil’s question had the attention of the entire table and the Marine dropped his eyes. “I’d rather not say.”
“Why? You’re the hero now,” Todd insisted.
Kenn didn’t look up. “You won’t believe me.”
There was a thick silence as everyone looked at Adrian, and Kenn understood his moment of betrayal had come when those sharp eyes turned to him, searching.
He sucked in a breath. “I feel things...sometimes," he said carefully, not looking up.
It was the answer Adrian wanted, the magic he’d been looking for, but it fell awkwardly from the Marine’s lips. He was right. None of them believed it.
“Oh.”
“Okay.”
No one questioned though, that was Adrian’s chore, and the leader said nothing yet, still evaluating.
“Who’s ready to bowl?” Kenn asked cheerfully, distracting he hoped.
All but Adrian agreed and started getting up. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up after I make rounds.”
Kenn opened his mouth to offer his company and snapped it shut, sensing Adrian’s unease. Let the boss man have some time to think about how big an advantage
it would be to have a bad weather alarm that was never wrong. With that skill on his list, he’d never lose his place here.
"Until the real deal comes," his mind reminded, and Kenn pushed it away. She wouldn’t make it this far west even with help. There was no way one of her weakassed
hospital friends could keep two people alive through a thousand miles of this. She might even be dead now. Kenn grinned widely and went to be admired by his
followers.
Adrian did continue to think about it, not how great it would be, but about the lie they’d just been told. He stood inside the glass doors, watching the snow fall
harder, feeling the alert eyes of the guards on him as his mind worked it. Clearly it wasn’t true. The Marine was in contact with someone, and he didn’t want them here.
That was the only thing that made sense. Why?
Because they know the old Kenny, he guessed, frown growing. They knew what Neil suspected, and Kenn was leaving them out there to die, rather than bring
them to safety and deal with it. Adrian’s face darkened. If that were true, he would have to change his plans for their future. By his own actions, the Marine would be
unworthy. The one Adrian left leadership to needed to value life the way he did.
The thick, dark flakes fell harder, and Adrian pushed Kenn from his mind for the moment as he looked over what there was to see of the town around them.
Pleased to see his Eagles doing Recon nearby, taking pictures, and widening the perimeter as they’d been taught, he concentrated. A foot or more - were they prepared
for that? No. Livestock trucks would have to be heated and covered; water and main supply trucks would have to be brought around front. Warmer clothes and shoes
dug out, shovels too. Mind racing, Adrian stepped back inside and began putting his sheep to work.
As Adrian talked to people, got them moving, he noticed Kenn’s boy, Charlie, hanging around. When they were alone for a moment, the leader stepped over to
him, thinking he needed to eat more and have some fun.
“You okay?”
The teenager nodded, but said nothing, and Adrian frowned, lowering his voice.
“You sure? I’m all yours right now.”
Charlie shook his head, eyes saying different. “No big deal. Just bored.”
Dark circles under the teenager’s eyes showed he still wasn’t sleeping well, but Adrian was encouraged that he wasn’t constantly standing at attention anymore.
“Sounds like you need a job.”
The 14-year-old agreed right away and Adrian wondered if he should give him make work or something that really mattered.
“Something that matters?”
Adrian nodded, smiling, “Everything matters now, son. I’ll change your schedule when I do the next set. In the meantime, how about some snow shoveling? We
need to keep a clear path to the trucks.”
There was no reluctance on the boy’s pale face, “Sure. Now?”
“No. We have to get some supplies first. You can beat me up at a game like your dad will, I’m sure,” Adrian joked. He wanted to question the slight grimace that
came over the boy’s face but didn’t.
“Sure. Can I be on your team?”
“Absolutely. Lane 17 in half an hour. Bring coffee.”
Charlie shoved his hands into the deep pockets of the baggy, hooded shirt he wore over dusty jeans and left Adrian alone in the dim hallway outside the main office.
The leader watched him go, almost certain the child had wanted to scream at him. That Kenn wasn’t his dad, maybe? Adrian yawned and stepped into the cool
darkness. It was yet another sign something wasn’t right with his newest man, and it didn’t occur to him until later to replay their conversation and listen to the way the
boy seemed to read his mind.
Adrian moved inside the stale darkness of the office, but before he could flip on the light, a voice with a fake, southern drawl mocked him, “Avoidin' people is bad
for ya image.”
Adrian turned quickly, an annoyed scowl on his face, and Tonya took a step back at his glare of distaste. “Not if they’re bad news.”
The sexily-dressed redhead gave him a knowing smile. “Wasn’t what ya were sayin' when ya were between my legs.”
His body was tempted, the office pitch black, but his eyes were emotionless, and he returned her mocking tone. “Musta dreamed it. Never happened.”
Tonya gave him a sexy grin, but her green eyes were unsure. “We’re alone. Ya can’t deny it ta' me.”
Adrian gave her a tight smile and sneered confidently, “Yes, I can. Prove it.”
He gave the door a gentle shove with his boot and couldn’t resist a parting blow, voice full of contempt. “Find someone else to spread those legs for. I’m busy.”
“Maybe I will,” Tonya muttered, accent dying as she moved back to her sleeping bag near the basement door, “And maybe you’ll be surprised by who.”
Adrian was more worried about the fiery redhead, than he’d let on and was glad no one had heard their short exchange. He knew she was currently looking for a
way to pay him back, ‘hell hath no fury’ and all that, but even more, her kind had been a bitch before the War, and that hadn’t changed much. Adrian tensed at the
creak of steps outside the barely open door.
“Can I talk to you?”
Adrian flipped on the lights, waved him in. The small room had only a chair and a messy desk, a single filing cabinet in the corner, and a layer of dust on the floor
that they were leaving tracks in. Good thing he hadn’t taken Tonya up on her offer. Those heeled black boots she wore left unmistakable prints and his Eagles were
getting sharper. “What’s on your mind?”
“Kenn.”
Adrian brushed absently at the layer of dust, sitting on a corner of the cluttered desk. “As in, how did he really know?”
The former cop’s green eyes were full of suspicion. “Exactly. Mitch and Matt cover the hell out of that radio. No way that he heard it and no one else did.”
The leader nodded a second time. He’d already gone down this road with himself. The sheep would believe it, though, and that was all that mattered. They would
never hear Kenn’s real answer. “How do you think he knew?”
Neil shrugged, his hat twisting in his restless hands. “I don’t have a clue, and that bothers me. He saved our ass, that’s for sure, and now these people love him,
but…” Neil paused before pushing on carefully. “Something isn’t right with him.”
Adrian lit a smoke, waiting, and the cop looked at the man he respected more than anyone he’d ever known, hoping he wasn’t about to make a big mistake. “I
know he’s your choice, and you have my complete support, but him, I plan to watch. You should know that.”
“Good.”
Neil blinked, and Adrian grinned, stood up to clap him on the shoulder. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?”
The trooper shook his head, stern face confused. “No. I thought I’d be in trouble.”
Adrian’s pale eyes were serious. “I expected no less. I want to be told about the smallest thing that catches your attention, Eagle. The smallest thing.”
“You know it.”
“He knows what?”
Neither man flinched, but both were caught off guard, and turned with nearly identical frowns. What was it with women and lurking in doorways?
“You need something?” Adrian demanded.
Cynthia’s shrewd brown eyes lost some of their eagerness at his bark and she nodded quickly. “Yes. Sorry. The door was open.”
Adrian went from pissed to bored in seconds, and he stared back at the Asian-American reporter with shuttered eyes and a cold smile. “Yes, it was. What can I
do for you, Ms. Quest?”
The thin brunette looked at Neil, but apparently thought better of asking him to get the hell out. “I have some questions.”
“There’s a surprise,” came his response, and the dry tone made the normally unshakable reporter flush and hesitate, unsure if she should go on. He was a hard man
to read.
“What, Cynthia? Tell me your deepest desires.”
The words hung in the dusty room, and now she was the one caught off guard, unable to give him anything, but the honesty his eyes were insisting on. The truth flew
out of her mouth like a bullet.
“You. What kind of monster were you before? What are you atoning for?”
Cynthia missed Adrian’s flinch, horrified to hear those private words spoken, the ones she wanted known the least, but the trooper noticed it, felt the change in the
man at his side.
Neil scowled darkly, automatically protecting his boss. “None of that old shit matters anymore, in case you haven’t noticed. Only our survival does. You should
wake up before you piss off the wrong person and find yourself on the outs. See ya later, Boss.”
Adrian watched Cynthia step hurriedly back as the angry trooper moved past and there was a tense silence where he let her squirm for a long moment.
“You have questions?” he asked finally.
Glad he was willing to pretend she hadn’t crossed the line when they both knew she had, Cynthia took a small step inside the dusty office. “Yes. I’d like to
volunteer to teach a class when you get them going.”
Adrian’s cool eyes never left hers, and she could feel his pull, her woman’s body softening under his gaze. “Maybe a teacher's aide or something?”
Adrian opened his notebook and wrote it down, and Cynthia held herself in check. She was hard too, an old dirt-digger, but she wasn’t immune to his spell any
more than Kenn or Neil were. Just like them, she wanted to be close to Adrian, wanted to be useful.
“What class?”
The reporter controlled herself tightly, itching to ask, demand, trick, trap, and badger until he broke, but knew he wouldn’t, even if she didn’t care about being
banished, which she did. He wasn’t like the others, wasn’t part of Before, as far as she knew, and treating him like he was, wouldn’t work. “I’m quick at basic math
and I have a Pulitzer Prize for my writing. That should be worth something, right? My contribution to your New America.”
Instead of correcting her wording as he might have done with nearly anyone else, Adrian used the moment to pay back just a little of what she’d given him. “And,
what do you get out of it? How are you benefited?” he mimicked her accusing tone perfectly.
She flushed, but didn’t drop her eyes. “The chance to teach a journalism class once we get settled somewhere.”
“You realize that’s a camp vote, because of the material?”
Cynthia’s brown eyes were bitter as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Why do you think I came to you? With your support, they’d agree to
almost anything.”
He didn’t confirm or deny, but was pleased she knew it. Cynthia had been a White House reporter before the War, a dangerously good one, and while she had
only been here a few weeks, she already understood how things worked. Then, there was Tonya. She'd been with him since Nevada and still had no clue how to legally
get what she wanted.
“Deal. And just maybe, I’ll have more important things for you later. If you’re interested?”
Cynthia agreed right away, surprised, suspicious, and he smiled at her, one of his genuinely beautiful moments that made her heart thump. There wasn’t a man in
camp who could compare.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. I’d like to go the mall across the street. I’m out of supplies.”
“Alone?”
Cynthia hesitated again, not wanting to tell him she hadn’t really made any friends yet. She did have the eye of one of his guards, but she said nothing. Jeremy was
on duty outside and would never leave his post.
“No one wants to walk in a blizzard just for notebooks and pens,” he guessed. Then surprised her again. “It’s nasty out there. I might be able to find you an escort.”
Adrian watched her quickly hide the relief in her eyes, and was glad to know the Ice Queen could feel fear too. They had found her sleeping in a school bus, and
she hadn’t hesitated to speak her mind even then, alone, with only one bullet left in her gun.
“That would be great. I’ll be ready when they are.”
He looked at his watch, thinking she wore too much perfume. The room now reeked of flowers she’d probably never even seen. “The truck leaves in ten minutes.
Kenn and the Eagles are heading over to collect our reserves. You’ll be expected to help and do what you’re told.”
“No problem. Thank you.”
“Anything else?”
“No. See you later.”
Cynthia left quickly, glad she’d heard good words about her future here, but disappointed she hadn’t gotten anything new. She still had no clue who he had been
before and that question ate at her some nights. If it was the last thing she did, she would find out.
Adrian watched her go, thinking he would reward Neil for the unknowing distraction, but she wasn’t going to give up because of a warning or even a mysterious
possible offer somewhere down the line. Cynthia was going to keep digging, keep watching, and he would have to be careful. Because that female was smart enough to
figure out his puzzle if given enough pieces.
Hearing footsteps near the door again, Adrian looked up with a frown. One of the new men, Seth Daniels, appeared, green eyes much more excited than his even
tone. “We think something’s happening outside. It sounds wrong.”
Adrian immediately got up, reaching for his jacket.
Seth moved aside to let him through. “I guess you know I was an undercover cop, before. I’d make a good Eagle.”
Adrian met his eye as they went up the dim hall. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
Seth nodded, dropped back to allow him the lead. “I’ll be here.”
As they neared the front, glass doors of the alley, Adrian stopped, listening to the noises growing louder, closer.
Crunch...Snap!
Recognizing the sound, his eyes widened, and he waved to Kenn and Kyle, “Get them all in the hall, bring the heaters! Perimeter men too!”
The next three minutes were total panic and chaos as a hundred sheep ran for the cover of the windowless hallway. Adrian watched with worried eyes, hoping the
generators wouldn’t freeze, but there wasn't time to bring them inside.
Heavy tree limbs were snapping off, slamming into banks of ashy, black snow, and when the windows in the mall across the street began to shatter, the din of fear
increased. Adrian moved the Eagles to the front and rear of the terrified crowd, keeping his herd together.
Not as severe as in other places, the wave of freeze didn’t take out all of the bowling alley’s glass. Layers of plastic and mats were sealed over drafty doorways,
and the temperature inside continued to climb despite the below zero winds that forced the guards to watch from the few trucks that hadn’t frozen. Because of Kenn
and Adrian, more than a hundred people were saved, and the camp relaxed quickly, went back to enjoying the light and heat when Adrian led them out.
5
The noise in the 34 lane alley was almost deafening, awful, and totally beautiful to those making it. Pins fell, balls thumped and rolled, voices talked, laughed, argued.
Arcades dinged wildly, music blared from the speakers, and outside, snow fell in heavy sheets, blanketing everything. Other than the guards now watching from snowcovered
trucks and the plastic hanging all over the inside of the alley, it was as if the crisis hadn’t happened. Adrian was pleased that they had handled it so well.
Chris, Daryl, and Jeremy were the only Eagles on guard outside, all Level Two, and very uneasy as they kept the rest of those on duty alert. The noise was loud
even through the muffling effect of the snow storm, and the lights glared out in the darkness. If anyone was still around here, they were hearing and seeing it too.
Temperatures hovered in the low teens as full darkness settled over the slick, ashy gray town, and the supply trucks couldn’t be seen after only crossing the street.
When they returned promptly, it wasn’t just Adrian who was relieved. The Eagles came in with quick steps, arms loaded with warmer clothes and boots, and with
boxes of extras, like books and music, all of them eager for the warmth and comfort of camp. This town, like so many others they had come through, was full of the
dead and empty of signs of life.
The guards changed shifts at dinnertime and their fresh eyes swept the blowing darkness around their people, as uneasy as the last men had been, but inside there
was confidence. Kenn would get the credit for the good day, but it was Adrian who had listened, Adrian who had made the right choice, and once again, his people
were safe because of it.
Kemmerer appeared to be empty, but it wasn’t. The noise of Adrian’s camp was a reminder of happier, lost times, and it rang through the small town, drawing the
attention of the 30 or so people hiding there. They existed mostly in basements and schools now, connected by walkie-talkies. By 10 p.m., a small group of these
survivors had gathered, agreed to beg for help. Their town was dead around them, and while they were hoping the Alley people were from the government, they knew it
wasn’t likely, and were willing to settle for just normal survivors who could offer them a little hope for the future.
6
“Strike! Beat that kid!”
Adrian sat down to record his score as Charlie stepped up to the sparkling, confetti-covered lane, and the leader was glad he’d had Zack cut it down before dinner.
He hadn’t wanted his sheep trying to eat while the party decorations had hung over them like a neon sign that said "Your world is dead, you’ll never get this back."
All the other reminders had already been put in bags and tossed in the dumpster.
Adrian hid a wince as all the pins fell again, grinning instead. He had a terrible headache, longed to spend some time in his silent semi, but it pleased him to see
everyone happy and he wouldn’t tell them to tone it down for a while. They needed this, and right now, he was trying not to get skunked by a 14-year-old with the arm
of a pro. The boy was better than Kenn.
That thought made Adrian look around, and he was a bit surprised not to see the Marine. Kenn liked to be the life of the party, and when he wasn’t, he was
working on things they needed. Was he back in the basement? Suddenly anxious, Adrian stood up, meaning to send someone for him. That ripple of unease grew as
heavy footsteps echoed over the noise of the din before he could.
“Adrian! Headlights!”
Jeremy and Seth were running toward him, people moving out of the way, and everyone stopped to watch, to hear. Strikes and cups fell unnoticed as men went for
their guns, his herd watching nervously to see if they should stampede.
His eyes found Neil and Kyle in the twitchy crowd. When he motioned, the men went quickly to the front doors, and both of their teams fell in behind them without
being called. This was their job.
Adrian pulled the plug on the music and looked over his scared camp, the silence almost a relief. “If you’ve passed the gun class, form a line inside the door. Do not
draw your weapon. Get behind the guards. Everyone else, stay behind them.”
Aware of Seth on his heels, Adrian pulled on his jacket as he went out and opened his holsters, taking the safety off both guns. Just in case. He was hoping for
survivors, but the odds were high they had drawn a threat instead, and he would die defending his sheep if he had to.
7
Down in the basement of the alley, where most of the bulbs were burnt out, Kenn was checking cords and connections, glad to see nothing overheating. He heard
the music stop and assumed Adrian had tired of the noise. He also noticed the lack of balls and pins falling, but didn’t understand what it meant.
“All by your lonesome?”
Kenn’s spin was fast, gun in hand, and Tonya held up a hand, eyes saying she liked it that he was dangerous. “Easy there, big boy. It’s just the one ya been watchin'
when ya thought no one was lookin'.”
Responding to the sexy accent, Kenn reholstered his gun, eyes crawling up slender ankles to creamy thighs. “The party’s upstairs. And I’m no boy.”
Tonya slowly moved towards him, hoping Kenn would be at least half as good as their fearless leader. “I’ve noticed.”
The Marine frowned at her, ears straining to hear if they were really alone. “What do you want?”
Tonya sauntered closer. “I never got to congratulate you on making XO.” She wiggled a finger, other hand slowly sliding her short skirt up, and Kenn didn’t
hesitate, his need overflowing.
Tonya melted against him, lips finding that sensitive spot on his neck, and he lit up, arching against her. Nose full of pot, whiskey, and woman, he locked their
mouths together. He’d gone without for a long time.
Head spinning, Kenn grunted as his jeans fell to his ankles and groaned as Tonya’s soft hand closed over his hard flesh like a glove. His eyes closed as her lips slid
from his neck, and his big hands tangled in her thick curls, pushing her to her knees. If anyone had come down the hall, it would have been too late to hide, but luck was
with them and they remained alone while Adrian met the new people.
8
“Where?” Adrian stepped into the storm, Doug and Neil flanking him, but didn’t really need them to point out what could only be the headlights of a big truck
moving carefully through the heavy snow. Adrian’s gut immediately said sheep and he turned to Doug, storing the fact that Kenn was still nowhere to be seen. “Tell the
doctor he has patients and put up tents in the lea of the building. Get some heaters in them too. Also have...Maria, start a fresh batch of meals.”
The big Gulf War Vet was still scribbling the information down and as he and Neil moved away, they were dividing up the list. Adrian watched the semi get closer to
the only part of the alley’s entrance that was still visible through the eight inches of gray slush. Their noise had drawn more of his own and he wanted them, but maybe,
just maybe, there was another of his circle in that truck, too.
“Get everyone back inside. This is now a quarantine zone!” Adrian barked to the Eagle on his flank.
Kyle waved his men over, and Adrian watched the semi turn into the lot, weaving past deeper looking drifts that were concrete blocks. The inside light of the red rig
was on and he counted four white, middle-aged males crammed inside, their hands in plain view.
“Lesson three, Eagles. Move.”
Nothing happened for a second and then Kyle, drawing his Glock, stepped forward. “Weapons out. Don’t shoot unless I do.”
The other eight men immediately dropped back to form a neat, wide V-shape in front of Adrian, aiming their guns at the truck’s huge tires.
The driver reacted fearfully, gears squealed in protest as the semi shuddered to a stop about 40 feet away, sliding a little in the thick slush.
Adrian nodded, pleased. “Very good.” He said nothing else, only waited.
Kyle stepped forward. “Secure and disarm. Move out.”
They went in a hurry, like the professionals from before the War, and the faded truck was surrounded before Adrian finished grinding out his smoke.
9
“Damn, that was good. Wanna do it again.”
Kenn grinned, nodding against her sweaty neck as his body twitched inside hers. He slowly moved out of her slick depths and let her slide down the wall, mouth
running before enough blood had made it back to his brain to allow thinking. “Later. We got lucky no one came down.”
Tonya hadn’t expected to be claimed right away, but his obvious reluctance hurt her, drew claws seeking a taste of his blood. “They’re busy in the parking lot,
talking to the new people.”
Her green eyes were lit up with satisfaction and spite. “He’ll wonder where you were, but he’ll understand leadership comes with...perks.”
Tonya’s tone was gloating, and Kenn kept himself from hitting her by only a hair. Tonya seemed to sense it and ducked under his arm, moving away.
“If I lost ground, I’ll claim you to make you pay. Don’t ever come between us again! You’ll be sorry.”
Tonya acted unafraid, though inside she knew he wasn’t bluffing, and the greedy redhead gave him a seductive smile as she fixed her clothes, tossed him his shirt. “I
won’t. You gonna...cum to me tonight?” she asked, eyeing his chest as he pulled the shirt on over mussed hair.
Kenn jerked her up against his hard body, grinding his mouth against hers. Her arms curled around his neck and Kenn tasted her again before shoving her away.
“Yeah. Here, late. I’ll bring a blanket.”
10
“Hi! I’m Chris. This is Tim, Carter, and Paul. We live here.” The man paused, eyes full of horror. “Or at least we did. Now we hide here.” The thin face was lined
with worry, and Kyle waved toward Adrian.
“Hand over that shotgun and you can talk to the Boss.”
Chris did, with little hesitation and motioned for the others to do the same. “Give ‘em up, boys.”
The other three were less trusting, and without their guns, they all looked scared and desperate. Heavy beards and thin bodies said they were, and Adrian greeted
them with friendly, compassionate tones, handshakes hiding his disappointment. Only sheep in this batch, no shepherds.
“I’m Adrian. Welcome to Safe Haven. You come in peace?”
All the thinly-jacketed men nodded, but Chris was clearly in charge and they let him speak. “You bet your ass. Peace and hope.”
Adrian grinned, aware of Seth’s disappointed face as he waited by the front doors with the others who weren’t Eagles. Whoever the undercover cop was looking
for, he already sensed they weren’t with these people.
“Then you’re welcome here. What do you need?”
Relief fell over the man’s face, and he let out a sigh, “Help, son. We need help.”
“We need food! They’re starving!” Paul blurted.
The other three men turned to stare disapprovingly at Paul’s red face, before turning back to Adrian.
“I’ll beg if I have to. We’re dying,” pleaded Chris, shame in his tired brown eyes.
Adrian shook his head, words full of conviction, “Not another one of you if I can help it. We offer you sanctuary so long as you follow the rules. Be sure, though.
We consider ourselves a Red Cross convoy and we gather survivors while we search for safety. Travel four days out of seven, sometimes more.”
All of them nodded again, eyes relaxing a little at his words, and while Adrian was glad to see they weren’t a problem, he knew he wouldn’t be finding any of his
own in this group. They were clearly in need and he would help them, but damn it, where was his help?
Neil leaned close, whispered, and the four townspeople moved back nervously as Adrian turned to them with scowling eyes. “Who’s in the truck?”
Their faces fell at the accusing tone, and Chris hurried to explain. “Our families. We couldn't leave them while we came to talk to you. It’s not safe here.”
“Or anywhere else. You should have mentioned them already.”
Adrian gave Neil a look that said to watch them, and moved to the rear of the long vehicle before the man could defend himself. All four of the locals followed at a
distance, very aware of guards who had yet to reholster their weapons.
“Eagles. What is part B of lesson three?”
There was silence, and then Kyle’s dismayed voice. “Never assume cargo area is empty. Approach and handle as if it is full of the enemy.” They hadn’t secured the
entire threat.
“No harm this time, and while you’ve done okay, this won’t be considered a success. Open these doors.”
Knowing they’d all just lost Level Three status, Kyle smothered his own disappointment to unlock the heavy door and shoved it upward. He took a quick look,
nodding calmly, and then moved back to allow Adrian inside.
The reek of unwashed bodies hit them hard, but the slicked-back hair and messy braids told Adrian they’d at least attempted to make themselves presentable. He
looked hard at their worried and hopeful eyes, seeing hunger, but not starvation; need, but not the desperation the four men had alluded to. Why the lie? Protection from
the gangs? He could provide a little of that.
“Eagles, these are our newest camp members. We’re going to feed them, give them medical care, and protect them. In return, they’re going to follow our rules and
help each other survive.”
The women and children - there were only two, but Adrian was glad to have them anyway - were huddled on blankets on the truck’s dirty floor, the elderly sitting in
chairs with pillows and blankets. The oldest among them, her long, white hair almost silver, raised a thin, arthritic arm. “Will ya help an old woman up, young man?”
Adrian and Kyle moved at the same time, gentle with her, Seth on the footrails to assist. “Yes Ma’am, and so will any of us. Eagles, assembly line and someone find
out how long before the food’s ready. Welcome to Safe Haven. May it become your home.”
When the truck was empty, Adrian went to Chris, who was still waiting by the tailgate.
“You lose your men and boys to the Draft?”
The man nodded, dropping his eyes to the left. “Half our females too.”
Adrian frowned. What else was he lying about?
“Thank you for taking us in. I’ll make sure they behave.”
“No, you won’t. That’s my job now.”
Chris gave in quickly, meeting his eyes with relief, “And thank you for that too. I thought I wanted to be in charge, but I’m not enough, and I give it up with a grateful
heart.”
Chris on his heels, Adrian moved toward the fullest tent, glad the doctor wasn’t being overwhelmed, and when Kenn appeared at his side, Adrian said nothing
about his tardiness.
“We now have 28 new camp members. This is Chris. This is Kenn, my second in command. There’s little he can’t handle, so if you need something, he’s the one to
talk to. We’ll need names, ages and occupations, and they’ll need the medications John prescribes, lists of rules, clothing, and sleeping gear for tonight. Chris will go
with you to get them settled. They’ll also need porto-cans and some kids to run errands for them - your boy too, if you’re all right with it.”
Adrian paused to let him catch up and took in the messy hair, the corner of his shirt untucked. If Kenn found a woman here, all the better. “We’ll work out tent
arrangements first. Double the watch again and tell everyone inside to go back to what they were doing. Lights out at 1 a.m.”
11
The tired leader was back in the office hours later, writing in his journal, and looked up at yet another creak of footsteps outside the open door - where over a
hundred of his sheep were resting, finally calm enough to sleep.
“You busy?”
“Nope. What’s up?”
Charlie hesitated, took a step inside, but only after looking up and down the dim hall first. “I heard something while I was shoveling…about the new people.”
The question was there and Adrian nodded. “Tell me.”
“It wasn’t the Draft. They left to find help.”
Adrian’s sharp mind added up the clues. “They tried to stop them? Made them run?”
Charlie's voice was low. “Some of them escaped, and died. They chained them.”
Angry, Adrian asked before he knew he was going to. “Should they be allowed to stay?” Once it was out, he didn’t pull it back, waiting for this curious child’s
decision.
Charlie shrugged, aware that it had become his choice, but not why or how. “They’re sorry. They hope some of them might come back, left them notes about us.”
Adrian considered. Sometimes guilt would make changes where little else could, and sometimes your instinct was all you had. The boy thought they should be
allowed to stay, would feel guilty if his words got them thrown out. “It’s not always wrong now, death. Your mom might tell you that, I think.”
Adrian was taking a big guess and knew he was right by the silence. If it were anything else, he would have denied wanting his mother.
Charlie hesitated, lonely and wanting to trust, but his fear of Kenn was as big as his mother's and it made him turn away without saying any of the things he wanted
to, without offering a ...special, kind of help.
Kenn was busy getting the new people settled and his mood was good despite missing his rendezvous with Tonya. He had plenty of help without having to ask and
the Marine was confident his place here was sealed. Right-hand man belonged to him now, had all along according to Adrian, but the camp’s approval could make or
break you, and now he had it.
Adrian’s other men, those who had been here longer (and still wanted what was no longer available) tried not to be bitter or hateful, accepting that Adrian saw
something in the Marine that they did not, something they themselves were lacking. Their desire for Adrian’s approval and recognition would make them uneasy and
awkward with Kenn at times, but only Neil had spoken against it and not openly. Adrian had made his choice, and now Kenn could openly give what the job demanded
- everything.
Chapter Twenty One
February 25th, 2013
Pitcairn Island
1
Kendle’s exile in the wilderness lasted for 60 days and 60 nights, and then, as suddenly as her nightmare had begun, it was over. The small, weathered speedboat
washed up on a sandy shore while she slept, and it was the painful twisting and cramping of her stomach that woke her.
The adventurist crawled clumsily to the side of the boat with her eyes still closed and retched until her belly was empty and her throat burned. She didn’t notice the
lack of motion that was causing her misery and dipped her hand to splash her face, crying a little at the abrupt beginning to her day. Instead of debris-filled waves, there
was only the warm wetness of her vomit and the hard grit beneath it.
Caw! Caw!
Kendle’s eyes flew open. Trees, thick and green, waving over a vast, sandy beach, greeted her.
Birds called curiously above her head, flew into the thick palm trees with annoyed chirps, and she blinked, smelling fragrant flowers and earth. Her eyes went to
steep, green and orange cliffs, and hills of waving trees. Land?
Kendle stood up in a quick, jerky movement and her stomach twisted again, knocking her off her feet and out of the boat. Her hands and legs flailed, tried to keep
herself afloat, and she hit the sand with a hard thud that knocked out the instinctive breath she’d sucked in. She lay on the warm, dry beach, coughing and crying as she
cradled her aching stomach. Land! She was on land!
Kendle forced her shaking knees together and stood on dirt for the first time in eight weeks, her muscles protesting as they struggled to hold her up. Her entire body
felt weak, wrong, and she swiped distractedly at tears. She hadn’t thought she would ever feel safe again, and her eyes repeatedly returned to the bright green treetops.
She was on land! She could survive here.
The model-turned-actress forced her new legs to carry her into the hated floating coffin for her meager supplies, swearing it would be a long time before she got
back into one. She’d been afraid to fly before, but what was a quick, fiery plane crash compared to the hell she had lived through?
It took Kendle a while to gather her things and she cringed each time the rough surf caressed the battered boat, terrified the waves would pull her back out. She
picked the middle of three paths into the dense jungle, and dragging the pillowcase behind her, began to walk, heart lighter than it had been since losing her sister. Her
tender feet protested the cool, sharp, forest floor and the pain sent joy rushing through her. She knew how to survive in this world. She was safe!
2
Luke Johnson gently set his pole into the small holder he’d dug in the lush paddle grass, absently watching his line twitch as a fish toyed with his bait. He leaned
back, clear eyes full of worry, as bees and other fat insects buzzed around the beach and moved on, drawn to the waves rushing ashore with more garbage.
The monthly supply plane hadn’t come since December, and they hadn’t been able to raise anyone on any of the CB’s or satellite phones. And now, Frank hadn’t
shown up for their annual week together. The two men had forged a strong bond in the jungles of Vietnam and the retired pilots, who’d both been shot down and lived
through 18 months in the same POW camp, never missed their week together. Not once in 30 years.
The retired soldier stood up to stretch, wishing he had one of those internet hookups all the tourists had been attached to last summer. It was just a little black case
that opened up like a Battleship game. Sometimes technology was great, but out here, it was nearly nonexistent.
This island was about as cut off from civilization as anyone could get. The whole island had only one bay for ships, the rugged cliffs foreboding, and there wasn’t a
single telephone line. The lack of communication to the outside world was frustrating sometimes, the island taking back as much as it gave, but for the most part, it was
why people came here and stayed. “It makes us uneasy though.”
Luke thought of the silent Coast Guard, who they could normally hear even during storms, and then the ocean itself. Not one cruise liner in the distance and he’d
know, he was on the ‘traffic’ side of the beach most of every day - fishing, reading, swimming…forgetting. There was nothing but static and debris. Pitcairn Island
seemed to have been completely forgotten.
It wasn’t a crisis here. The 61 people calling this tropical paradise home had learned to pull their needs gently from the land around them, but it was causing unrest
and lowly-spoken conversations in town. What had happened to their old lives? Blown away? Luke nodded, almost sure. He’d spent time in a war zone and knew the
signs. No contact, strange sunsets, rough storms despite it not being the season, and of course, all the debris.
The water levels had risen, bringing in load after load of garbage until they’ had to expand the town dump. Even now, Bounty Bay was alive with crawling crabs,
booby birds, and broad-winged albatrosses that were pillaging the trash. The explosions that had left behind this much wreckage had surely cost lives, he thought,
packing up his gear. What the hell had happened? Had America gone to war and lost?
Sinking below a green and purple sky, the dim sun cast hues of blue and orange over the waves, the beauty almost hypnotic. Luke turned on his flashlight as he
headed back to his one room cabin to brush his grill and hit the rack. He suspected the entire world was AFU and while there hadn't been any proof, he'd already
begun to grieve for his country. He wanted to know for sure and planned to be on the north beach at daylight with the town’s strongest CB.
3
LJ found Kendle before he hit the beach and recognized her immediately in spite of her rough condition. He had noticed her tracks, followed them on a whim, and
now stood quietly in front of the crude shelter, thinking it looked very sturdy for being handmade.
Shoe strings around thick branches formed a frame, a green tarp covered with Johnson grass for a roof, palm leaves as the walls. She’d even dug a drainage ditch
to keep drier. It was clever. This 26-year-old female of mixed parentage was clearly no timid brunette, though right now she didn’t seem much like the outgoing,
vivacious woman he’d watched on TV either.
The thin, infamous woman sleeping barefoot and restless inside her shelter, would probably come to the chin of his 6’1” frame and she looked sick. Her short black
curls were sun-streaked, as were her long, dark lashes, and her skin was an unnatural shade of red that made him frown. Where had she come from? He knew
everyone in this community and the Survival Challenge star wasn’t a resident.
Kendle woke slowly, mind and body protesting. Her inner alarm had jolted her, telling her she wasn’t alone, something she had been for so long that there was no
mistaking it. The man’s lean shadow (and it was a man, she felt that clearly) was blocking the sun from her eyes and she groaned as she sat up, stomach rolling. Had a
boat found her? Was she rescued?
Her haunted, bluish-gray eyes locked on the tall, leafy greenness behind him, where a teal fruit dove sat on a low branch, watching them anxiously. Tears welled as
she remembered. She was on land!
“You real?” she croaked, slowly climbing to her feet and he nodded, watching the pulse in her neck pound.
“As can be. Luke Johnson, LJ, at your service.”
Kendle stumbled forward on shaky legs and fell into his plaid-covered arms, sobbing, and Luke was unable to stop himself from being glad her smell wasn’t strong
despite her faded, mismatched clothes.
“So glad...to see you! Been alone...soo...long!”
There was total horror in those last two words, the kind that drew him instantly. It said she, and she alone, might be able to understand him. He held her close,
forced his mind to stay where it belonged - in the present.
“Sshh... It’s okay.”
Kendle trembled in his arms, tears falling hotly on his weathered skin. “I’m K-K-Kendle Roberts. Nice to meet you.”
Luke grinned as her arms tightened around his waist and he slowly turned them toward his cabin, her heat baking into him. “Likewise. You need a doctor, little girl.
How’s about we go to town and...”
She sagged against him and Luke swung her into his arms, aware she was very sick and might be contagious. The thought didn’t scare him. He’d faced death
before.
Luke headed home, frowning at not only her appearance and heat, but also at how light she was in his arms. His mind connected her to the tides and sunsets,
already sure she was a survivor of whatever had happened…a survivor who might have answers.
A shudder wracked her thin body, and he increased his pace, not out of breath. She weighed almost nothing and he’d maintained a strict workout routine since
exiling himself here.
“Ship's dead,” she croaked, “all dead.”
Her words gave him a chill. Her story would be no cakewalk and as much as he needed to know, he was dreading it.
“You okay, Sweetheart?” There was no response, and once he put her in his bunk and stoked up the fire, he took the dirt bike into town.
4
The next few days were a blur for Kendle as the pneumonia raged and she fought for her life again, her immune system weakened by her exposure to the
radioactive flash. She had only brief periods of alertness, where she tried to tell him what happened, but wasn’t sure if he understood. It was a full week after washing
up on the north beach, that she came to, feeling alert and aware of who and where she was.
Kendle knew instinctively she was alone with the gently snoring man in the recliner closest to her - the fat, loud female healer gone - and she stared at his face in
wonder. He looked so healthy! The sickness hadn’t come here?
She closed her eyes as her head thumped. She was alone, but that death ship was still out there. Would they (she) spread it? Huge tears began to roll down her
cheeks.
The quiet sobs woke LJ from his unsettling dreams. He couldn’t ignore her misery and went to her with his blanket. As he pulled it to her shoulders, her claw-like
hand flew out and locked around his wrist with an iron grip.
“We’re on land?”
Her pain rushed over him, and he longed to erase the desperation in her panicked eyes. “In my cabin, on Pitcairn island.”
More tears slid out, and when the Island Outcast held his arms open, she went without hesitation, feeling the connection of survival with him.
“You’re safe here, Ms. Roberts. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She nodded against his shoulder, and Luke eased them down, holding her close. He hurt for her, wanted to tell her it would fade in time, but he didn’t. it hadn’t for
him and it had been half a century.
After a while, her tears eased, and her even breathing told him that she had cried herself back to sleep. Her feverish body pressed tightly against his, Luke knew he
should get up, but only pulled the blankets over them and let her warm nearness lull him into a slumber that was, for once, without nightmares of being stalked by his
mistakes.
Chapter Twenty Two
March 5th, 2013
Outside Versailles, Illinois
1
Angela flinched as Marc slammed the hatch on his Blazer, trying to get it to close over the full load of gear in the back.
“Can’t we do something else? What can you teach me that won’t land me on my back?”
Brady swallowed his first thought, and said, “How about a new weapon today, instead of hand-to hand? We could try a knife or even a crossbow. I have one.”
“Okay. Knives are quiet.”
Before she could blink, he drew the blade from his muddy boot and threw it where it landed deep in a nearby oak tree, the handle vibrating. “They’re also deadly.”
She watched him pull it out with a smooth motion.
“This is a K-BAR, Marine combat knife. You try.”
Unsure, Angela took it and threw too quickly. The knife’s hilt bounced off the tree’s rough bark and skidded across the ground, landing in the damp dirt. Bracing
for a correction, she was relieved when he got it for her without comment, handed it back.
Angela slowed herself down and tried to aim, but was very nervous with his big body standing just behind her, and the blade sailed past the tree. It skidded into the
dense undergrowth next to the bare squares where their tents had been set up along U.S. 51.
“Sorry. I’ll get it.”
She moved out of his reach fast, wading through the drifts of sticker bushes and he watched her, remembering a blizzard and their house of snow. That had really
been the beginning of them, of stolen, stunning moments and he hadn’t forgotten any of it. Had she?
No, but she didn’t say so and her confused heart distracted her. Angela threw the knife harder than she meant to, wrist twisting. It bounced off the edge of a
different tree and flew back, the sharp edge hitting Marc’s arm. Deflected to the ground, it slid back into the stickers as blood welled.
Angela gasped, taking a fast step back. “I...I’m so sorry! I’ll get my bag.”
She didn’t seem to hear him say it was only a scratch, and when she came back out, he saw her hesitate and knew she expected him to punish her.
“Can you slide your arm out?” She knelt at his feet to dig in her bag, tense body waiting for the blows to begin.
Marc did it quickly, not really in pain despite the increased bleeding from the movement. The air was thick with tension and he watched her closely, sure he was
about to learn something important.
Not seeing him get mad calmed her a bit, and Angie let the doctor take charge, instinctively hoping if she did a good enough job, he wouldn’t hurt her for it. “Bend
down here, please, and keep your arm up.”
He did what she said, eyes watching her face as she tied an elastic band around his upper arm. Blood dripped from his elbow in scarlet splatters as she opened
sterile packages with an ease that told him she’d done it many times. She was a nurse?
Angela dumped water over the wound, and then spent a moment examining the cut. She placed a large gauze pad over it, pressing hard. “Hold this while I thread a
needle.”
She made seven small, neat overlapping stitches, and as she finished, Angela became aware of how close they were standing - of the thick tension around them.
She didn’t look up and her hands shook as she put on the medicated bandage. “I’m sorry, Brady. I guess knives aren’t such a good idea.”
Marc smiled, tossing his torn coat into the Blazer's open window. “We’ll keep working on it. I’ve gotten worse from new recruits.”
She nodded. Kenny would have been using his fists on her right now, for drawing his blood, intentional or not..
“I’m not him.”
Her eyes flew up and he shrugged. “Sometimes, I can see it in your eyes and know what you’re expecting, but that’s not me, not ever, for any reason.”
She sighed, eyes haunted as she allowed herself to open up a bit to him. “I used to know that but I….I can’t help it that I’m afraid.”
“I’m gonna keep proving it to you.” His words were almost a promise, and he grinned. “In the meantime, where’d my knife go, and what in the hell were you aiming
at? A rain drop?”
He moved to look for it and her laughter was good, genuine. “So how much medical training do you have?” he asked casually and frowned when her tone
immediately became defensive.
“I’m a certified M.D.”
“A real Doctor. I never would have guessed. Didn’t you want to be a writer?”
“Yeah, but I needed something dependable, and I found I could help people who couldn’t figure out what was wrong.”
Brady was still frowning, and when she carefully handed him a pain pill, he surprised her by dry swallowing it without asking what it was. Clearly, he trusted her.
“How can you be something like a Doctor and a battered woman at the same time?” The question was out of Marc’s mouth before he could stop it.
She flushed, but didn’t drop her eyes. “We often become masters of disguise - to do anything else, means bringing the wrath down on your head.” She looked at
him with her head held high. “And I had good reasons to keep my head down and do what he said. My innocent son.”
“What about him? Wasn’t it a challenge to his… authority, to have you be a doctor?”
“He would say it’s because of our deal, that I had no choice but to go back to work because he said so. That’s partly true, but mostly, it was the money. He hated
my name on the check, but he didn’t hate spending it on war games or a new gun. He insisted I finish my medical training. He said ‘Any woman of his had to
contribute’.”
Marc heard no real bitterness and was offended for her.
“So keeping your career was part of the deal, but not marriage?” he asked, finally seeking confirmation of his suspicion, one he’d been working hard on. He'd never
once heard her say husband. He was unprepared for the wall of guilt her quiet answer caused.
“He wanted it to be, but even then I understood if I said yes, he really would own me.” She turned to look at their surroundings. Corn. “You gonna workout before
we leave?”
“Yes.”
He said nothing when she joined him, help him set it up, but his eyes were full of questions that made her shrug and look away.
She didn't want to tell him (or anyone!) about her baby, but was sure he’d soon know. She wasn’t sure how well she could hold up under the routine he did every
day, but she was about to find out. “I wasn’t ready before.”
He didn’t ask and she was glad, but knew by the look in his eyes that he already had his own suspicions.
“Should you be doing this yet?” Marc knew by her wince he was right, respected her for the quick, honest answer.
“No, probably not.”
“Then why are you? You don’t think I can handle things without your help?”
She frowned, shaking her head. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have called. To be free, I have to learn, and I can’t do that while I’m resting. Time is a luxury I can’t
afford.”
Marc studied her with cool eyes, but inside she continued to impress him. “Quit when you know you should. I do a hard run and you’ll need to build up to it.” He
was already sure she wouldn’t stop until he did, and when she agreed absently, clearly not listening, he waved a hand at the steady drizzle that had begun to fall. “After
you, my Lady.”
2
“You should go back.”
The rain was hard now, the slick ground throwing up nasty brown sprays with every step.
Angela shook her head, winded. “Not... maxed out yet.”
“Fine.” Marc picked up the tempo like he always did for the last ten minutes, and was surprised when she managed to keep pace. The sit-ups and pushups had
been hard on her, as were the meditation positions, but she hadn’t complained once, and he’d enjoyed her quiet company.
Angela winced as she stumbled against a muddy rock, catching herself awkwardly, and masked her discomfort.
“You okay?”
She nodded, not using her breath for talking, and he frowned. “Damn, stubborn woman.”
It made her smile, gave her the last bit of determination she needed to hang the full hour with him. When the pain began to radiate through her abdomen, she hid that
too.
Marc knew she was struggling as they went over the garbage obstacle course he’d set up, but he didn’t realize how badly until they hit the end and were done.
Angela closed her eyes, body suddenly cold and foreign, and she swayed on her feet, hands going out to clutch at the nearest support. Brady.
He saw her legs start to fold and swung her into his arms, ignoring her feeble protest as he headed for their vehicles. “Angie? You okay?”
She muttered something indecipherable, but gave a nod against his shoulder. “...can walk.”
He ignored her mutters, putting her down only when he got to the door of her 4x4. Her hand grabbed at the handle for support, missed.
“Angie?”
Her lashes fluttered briefly, then she was falling and he was scrambling to catch her.
3
Marc’s handsome face was the first thing she saw as she came to, and his deep frown sent Angela to other waking moments - of not knowing what to expect. Fear
flashed in her eyes, and her hand tried to grab at her gun, before she controlled it. Brady wouldn’t hurt her. She had to believe that.
Marc waited for the fog to leave her hazy eyes, relieved she’d woken so soon but still very worried. She looked weak, the heavy bags under her eyes purple and
black, and he felt his heart clench. One of the things that caused her symptoms was pregnancy. If she was carrying her man’s child, this had just gone from bad, to not
winnable.
“I’m not.”
Marc met her eye. “Say it again and mean it.”
Instead of the anger he wanted, there was only unfathomable grief and he knew before she spoke. There had been another child. She’d been pregnant and her man
still hadn’t come.
“I... I lost a son during the War.”
“Miscarriage?”
She nodded, eyes haunted, voice was emotionless, “It was a lot to handle, and I wasn’t very strong… before.”
It was as close as she’d come to directly mentioning the abuse she’d suffered, and knowing how much she must ache and burn inside allowed him to put her need in
front of his fury. “You were alone?”
“Before, during, and after.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then looked at her, sure she needed to hear these things, and not just in her own head. “You should have died too, right?”
Tears welled in her eyes, and Angela controlled herself, not telling him that she sometimes wished she had. He already knew that. “I’ve assisted in over 50 births at
the hospital. It saved me.”
Marc gave her a gentle, comforting smile in the morning fog that still lingered around the Blazers. “I’m glad.”
She smiled back, wondering who would die when they found her man. There was no way Kenny would miss the sparks that flew when their eyes met.
“Me too, sometimes.” She stood up slowly, waving off his protest.
“You should rest.”
“I’m fine, Brady. I just pushed a little too hard, that’s all. I’ll ease into it from here,” she lied, smoothing her curls back. “This first time, ...I just...” she hesitated, not
telling him the ache to hold her boy was almost as overpowering as her fear, and Marc finished it for her.
“You had to do it all, like me.”
She tried to seal that gaping hole back up, not looking at him. She was maintaining a kind of radio silence with her son to keep Kenny from knowing she was even
alive, let alone where she was, and the lack of contact was awful.
“I needed to prove that I could.”
“Not to me.”
“No. To me.”
4
“We have to make a stop.”
“Copy, on your six.”
Marc wanted to tease her about her near perfect response, but made himself pay attention as he pulled into the deserted, gravel parking area of the Versailles,
Illinois, RV resort.
The large lot was empty, not a single camper on any of the hundred concrete pads, and Marc rolled slowly past them to the main complex of shadowy cabins and
sheds. He stopped near the largest storage building, eyes seeing an older spigot setup.
“You overheating again?”
Marc got out and opened the hood, nodding at her as he stepped over broken glass and piles of muddy rubble. Pockets of steam were escaping from under the
hood of his Blazer, and Marc turned around to tell her to stand watch, only to find her already doing it, Dog pacing a wide perimeter around them both. There was
better color in her face, but her movements were careful, as if she was hurting, and he tried to hurry.
Angela ignored the bodies she could she see - an old woman, young boy, and three adult males, their corpses riddled with bullet holes - and sent her eyes over the
traffic and trees, the distant outline of yet another dead American city. Debris moved with the wind, gravel crunched under their feet, and though she saw no mutations,
nothing was growing here, not even the bluestem prairie grass Illinois was famous for.
Marc broke the plastic end off of his screwdriver and held the flat part against the top of the 6’ x 3’ white water tank. Using only two sure hits, he drove the metal
shaft into the tank. Water came rushing out around the tool, and Marc grabbed the jugs as Dog helped himself to a drink.
“Are those recent prints?”
Marc looked away from the sign in the lot’s main office that wished them a “erry mas & no year” and eyed the deep ruts.
“Yeah. You can tell from the depth and clarity. Elements haven’t changed ‘em much yet. A day old at the most, probably only a few hours with the way this wind is
blowing.”
He frowned, noticing more tire tracks nearby. “Movin’ fast too, or they’d have taken the water. Keep your eyes open.”
Angie helped him collect the valuable liquid, and a few minutes later, Marc waved a hand at the raised hood. “Fill me up. Just like yesterday.”
Angela was still a little self-conscious, though proud that she had learned something. As she finished, she wished it were more. They’d been together for three
weeks, and she had spent most of that time just regaining her strength and adjusting to the daily traveling. A third of their journey was over, and she wasn’t anywhere
near ready to face Kenny.
“Can we do some shooting? With real bullets this time?” she asked, liking Marc’s freshly shaven face and sexy black hair more than she would admit to. They’d had
to spend nearly five days at the cabin, waiting for the rain to come and melt the snow drifts so they could drive, and as a result, he had only gotten to show her basic gun
care and hand positioning.
“I’ll set it up.”
5
“Ready to shoot something?”
Angela gave him a rare, genuine grin, looking at his bandaged arm, and he shook his head, smiling back.
“I said shooting, not stabbing.”
They laughed as he set up a dozen empty Coke cans on a long, wide, muddy log. “Your weapon loaded?”
She nodded nervously as the damp wind played with her curls. “Yes.”
“Good. Check it again. Always look for problems.”
She did it slowly and carefully, as he had shown her.
Marc held up his own weapon, demonstrating. “Hold it with your right and cup it with your left. Curl your finger a little more. Good. Hold it a little higher. Now, see
where you want it to go, and put it there.”
She pretended not to be bothered by having him so close, but she was, couldn’t help but think maybe Kenn was around the corner, watching...
“Angie?”
She looked up at Marc’s frown and quickly dropped her head. “Sorry. I’ll pay attention.”
“Maybe you can’t do this,” he stated quietly, knowing she would rise to the challenge. That much of his Angie hadn’t vanished.
Marc was rewarded with a tilt of the chin and straightening of the shoulders that reminded him of the past.
“I can. I will.”
He shrugged like he had little faith, made his tone just a bit patronizing. “Pull the trigger slow, aiming makes all the difference. Go ahead.”
Angela’s hands were shaking despite her efforts to be steady, and his frown made her flush. Embarrassed, she flipped off the safety and pulled the trigger.
Marc was fast, moving behind her as the recoil rocked her back and into his waiting arms. The bullet slammed into the hood of his Blazer with a loud thud and he
dropped his head to her sweet-smelling shoulder, loving being so close.
“The cans, Honey,” he groaned against her. “The cans!”
His breath on her neck gave her a chill and Angela moved out of his arms, still waiting to be punished and hating to be touched.
“Do it again.”
His tone was more amused than anything else, and she moved back to him cautiously, thinking she hadn’t been quite as afraid this time. If he hadn’t hit her for
drawing blood, what was a bullet hole in a car?
This time Angela expected the jar and managed to keep her feet on the ground as the bullet dug into the log, rattling the cans.
“Better. The recoil will kill even a perfect shot, so you have to adjust for it. Aim a little below your target until you don’t jerk as much. Go ahead and empty the
clip.” Angela felt the zone this time, felt that moment when the gun was perfectly in tune with her hand, and cans flew off the log.
“Yes!” She grinned in satisfaction under a dim afternoon sky. “Third time’s a charm.”
She began reloading, and Marc took a quick look around, impressed with how fast she had settled into it. He hadn’t expected her to hit anything yet, even though
she’d adjusted well to the size of the .357 during their dry-fire sessions. Challenge was definitely the way to calm her down.
“That’s great. I’ll see if you put my Blazer out of its misery, and then we’ll go.”
She blushed and he grinned at her, not thinking before he spoke. “Accidents happen, Honey. Don’t worry so much. You should have seen the cut this woman I was
sleeping with gave me…” he stopped at her stunned, pain-filled eyes, and she turned away before he could try to take it back.
Marc cursed his thoughtless tongue, thinking none of those women compared to Angie. Even after all these years, she could still make him feel more with a single
look than anyone else ever had, and it hurt to think their chance had come and gone. What a hard, lonely future waited.
6
They headed west, both seeing and not mentioning a wrecked limousine on the side of the road heading into town, its plates (J. Lo) smeared with reddish mud. As
they rolled through the empty farmland, miles of it, Angela felt a chill that quickly grew into a bad feeling. Like they were walking into a new danger.
They had made almost ten miles today despite the flooding that had kept them detouring, and she should be happy with it, but wasn’t. The sky was calm, the
temperatures in the 40’s, and she hadn’t seen much in the way of fallout damage or mutations. All of it was good.
Versailles looked pretty clear on the other side, and that was great too, but the feeling of danger was strong and she was torn, doubting herself. She said nothing to
Marc, not wanting to without having a reason or a sign to back it up. It was something she bitterly regretted later.
Just before dusk, Marc pulled them up to an Amish school house surrounded by barns, sheds, and empty, weed-dotted soybean fields. Lofty willow trees on either
side of the school hung over the long, white fence and partially obscured a rustic liberty bell hanging from the small porch eave. There were no homes in sight, only the
barely visible outlines of the city they’d rolled carefully through, but they were encouraged to see a healthy-looking white rabbit dart from under the school’s steps.
The rabbit dove under a broken board of the decrepit gray shed behind the school as they got out, but inside the moldy shelter, the hare drew up too late and a very
large hand snatched it by the neck and twisted, snapping bones.
Smelling more nature than rot for a change, Marc secured the one-room school, not thinking it necessary to sweep the barn or farmhouse almost half a mile behind
it, something he too regretted later.
“I can take the stuff in, if you want to go check that coop we passed. I’m almost sure a couple of them survived.”
Marc’s eyes lit up at the thought of fried chicken, and he nodded eagerly, even though he knew not to leave her alone. “Deal. I’ll go after I set the disks.”
She nodded and got busy, smiling as he carried the heavier items to the porch for her, and then set the alarms. He was very considerate, and it worried her to think
of how close they might be by April.
“Stay, Dog. Guard.”
Brady gave her a questioning look, uneasy all of a sudden, too, but not sure why, and she waved. “I’ll be fine. You gonna pluck it?”
He grinned, sliding behind the wheel. “That’s woman's work.” He laughed at her amused look and was gone a few seconds later, leaving a trail of thick dust in his
wake.
Angela looked around, suddenly scared, but shook it off and picked up a box to take inside, telling herself she was just jumpy as usual. This time she was worried
over nothing. There was no open door, no voices whispering. Everything was silent, dark, and that meant okay, right?
The dirty, dangerous man came from behind the barn, watching them with cool calculation, and when he saw her mate leave, he moved quickly and quietly toward
the woman.
In one large hand was the freshly killed rabbit. As the man entered the schoolyard, breaching alarms, he flung the bloody meat past the wolf’s nose. The animal went
for it, fooled at first, and he moved swiftly across the porch before Dog turned and lunged for him.
Angela jumped at the door slamming, turning as something heavy hit it hard, and yelped in pain.
“Is that Do…?” Angela froze, heart squeezing as death bells echoed in her mind, and she sent out a silent scream for help, backing toward the gun she wished she
hadn’t yet taken off. “What do you want?”
The filthy mixture of man and nightmare moved closer, making her skin crawl as he smiled. His dead brown eyes told her he’d been alone for a very long time even
before the War.
“Pretty, pretty,” he called softly, eyes running up her body as rotted teeth grinned, and icy terror rushed through her body. Frozen, all she could do was scream
silently for Marc as the wolf hit the door again, snarling furiously.
Brady dropped the pecking chicken and threw himself back into the driver’s seat as Angela’s piercing screams echoed through his head. "Think Angie! You have
to think!" Dirt and gravel spewed from his tires as he hit the gas, already knowing he would miss most of whatever was happening.
Angela dove for the gun as the dirty stranger shoved her roughly to the floor. She cried out as his nails ripped her shirt off one shoulder and sank into her skin,
drawing blood.
He fell on top of her, pinning one arm under her stomach, and she tried to roll over, but he shoved heavily against her, hands fumbling with her jeans.
“Get off me!”
Her shriek was piercing, and he punched her in the head and back, curling her into a ball. His rough hands pulled at her pants as he humped her from behind, biting
her neck and telling her that her ass was first.
Frustrated, he yanked her jeans down with brute force, ripping the zipper, and Angela felt hot tears of hate and shame as his hardness touched the back of her bare
thigh.
“Be still, Bitch,” he growled. “Don’t you move!”
"Distract and get the gun," the Witch ordered, but Angela continued to grapple with him, knowing she couldn’t reach it.
"It will come to you."
The man thrust excitedly against her. When he moved back to get into a better position, Angela automatically locked her ankles, and was able to lift him enough to
roll over into his surprised arms.
He immediately ground his nasty mouth against hers, teeth scraping her tender lips as he shoved between her legs, hands grabbing at her shirt, ripping it again.
"Now!”
Angela extended an arm toward the table above her head, curling the other around her attacker’s neck. She pulled hard from him, stealing his energy. When the gun
began to slide, they both heard it and looked up, him in disbelief.
Her attacker saw it falling, saw she would catch it handle first, and before he could move back, her arm tightened like a band of iron around his neck, holding him
close as the Witch’s furious red eyes blended with hers.
“Oh, no! You wanted it! Here ya go!” She shoved the barrel against his throat before he could bring his hands up, and pulled the trigger.
Warm wetness exploded, blood spraying as he collapsed on top of her, and Angela rolled him off, gagging. Outside, tires slid to a stop, footsteps crunched, and she
staggered to her feet, spitting, wiping at her bloody face.
“Angie!”
She wanted to answer, but was gagging again as she pulled up her ripped jeans and stumbled to the door, jerking it open as Marc came flying up the steps. She fell
into his arms, coughing and crying as Dog streaked inside the cabin.
“Angie!”
She clutched his shoulder like a life raft, smearing his shirt with blood. “He tried to hurt me, Brady! I...I shot him.”
Her head spun from the beating she’d taken, heart screaming she was a killer now; a murderer.
Her battered face told Marc it had been a fight for survival, and he swung her into his arms, heading for the passenger seat of his Blazer. His heart beat furiously at
all the bruises, scrapes, and cuts he could see on her hands, arms, and face. Her clothes were ripped, shirt nearly off, hair and eyes wild, jeans ripped and undone. How
far had he gotten? Had she been raped?
“No, but I feel like it. Give me a minute, huh?”
Marc ignored her chilly tone as he slid her onto the seat, digging towels and water out of the duffle bag at her feet.
“Dog. On top. Guard.”
The wolf leapt to the hood and then the roof as Marc closed the door on her pale face, motioning for her to lock it. He was only inside the cabin for a minute to
gather some of their things (the heater, the gun she’d dropped) and was horrified at the death scene she had been a part of.
Two minutes later he had finished hooking her Blazer to his and watched as she got out of the passenger seat. Moving like she was in a daze, she took the one
remaining gas can from the luggage rack, and his heart burned when he saw she hadn’t cleaned herself up at all. Her face was terrible to look at.
He was surprised by her strength as she calmly dug her lighter out of her torn jeans and headed back into the reeking cabin, tilting the can as she went. Bright flames
shot up seconds later, and Angela kept the gas flowing as she walked back out and down the stairs, the fire following hungrily. She tossed the can into the sweltering
flames and didn’t flinch at the almost instant explosion of plastic, though she was being showered with hot sparks.
Marc watched her worriedly. "It’s because she’s been through this before," the Marine inside stated. "This hell isn’t new to her."
The heat where she was standing was beginning to scorch the ends of her wild hair, and Marc took her gently by the arm, led her back to the Blazer. “Come on,
Honey. Let’s get out of here.”
She didn’t respond, but didn’t flinch or resist either, and a minute later, the fire’s glow was falling behind them. When she began to cry huge, silent tears, Marc
moved the towels closer and left her alone. This was her First Kill, and his heart ached for her, remembering his own. He’d thrown up afterward until his stomach hurt.
“Stop!”
He hit the brakes and her door swung open just in time to avoid the hot streams that flew from her mouth.
Marc put it in park and got out to give her some privacy as she emptied some of her pain. His eyes watched the fog rolling over a dark, foreign landscape where
anything or anyone might lurk, listening. She’d been hurt on his watch.
7
Angela sat with her knees to her chest, sipping water and pushing away flash after horrible flash in her mind. She was hurting, horrified, ashamed, guilty, and still full
of furious rage. She wanted to go back and shoot him again!
Her years of abuse had filled her mind as she was attacked, and it had been Kenny’s face she was seeing as she pulled the trigger…always Kenny. In that instant,
she had seen the true feelings of the old Angela, and not only was there no way that girl would ever let him touch her again, she also knew both of the females inside
wanted him dead. More importantly, if he pushed her enough, hurt her enough, she could do it.
Angela shuddered as the man’s cold, dead eyes slammed into her mind, and she wished again that she could kill him twice.
Marc walked a wide perimeter, the wolf watching from the roof. After a while, he heard sounds that told him she was changing and cleaning herself up. Good.
She’d have to feel a little better with the man’s stink off of her skin.
“Will you help me with my hair?”
Her voice was shaky, and Marc moved slowly to the jug at her feet, keeping his eyes on the fog-covered ground. “Hold the door and tilt your head back.”
She did it with her eyes closed, standing with only a large white beach-towel around her naked body, and he was shocked by her trust in him as he lathered her hair,
face, and neck, avoiding her slender shoulders.
Red suds soaked into the towel and pink water pooled at her feet as he clipped her clean hair on top of her head. When she picked up another jug and handed it to
him, letting the drenched towel fall to the ground, Marc spun around and began mentally reciting the phonic alphabet. Alfa. Bravo. Charlie. Delta. Echo.
“Rinse, please,” she instructed, tone emotionless - shock settling in, he thought, not looking at her. Foxtrot. Golf. Hotel. India. Juliet. Damn!
He poured the cold water over her head, her gasp pulling at his male side, and he recited faster in his head. Kilo. Lima. Mike. November. Oscar. Papa. Quebec.
Romeo.
Marc saw her sexy outline under the water from the corner of his eye, pert nipples and creamy, water-flecked skin, and then he was moving away from her,
dropping the empty jug and the distraction attempt. He was ready, though not willing, and there wasn’t a worse time for it. She was more off-limits now than she’d ever
been before.
Angela smoked, drank, and watched the dark houses roll by, yet her tone wasn’t right, and Marc knew her eyes wouldn’t be either. Everyone dealt with death in
their own way. It was harder for someone who’d sworn an oath to protect life, but she hadn’t had a choice, and he hoped she would realize that and not let it eat her up
inside. Killing wasn’t easy, even for a trained Marine, and he’d help her if he could.
"Thank you for understanding, but I’ll be all right. I just need some time."
Marc nodded, thinking even her voice in his head didn’t sound right again. “I’m sorry, Angie. I never should have left you alone.”
She didn’t look at him, didn’t want him to see what she’d become, that at the moment of decision, she had chosen to be a killer after all. “It wasn’t your fault.
You’re always telling me to not let my gun get out of reach. I should have listened.”
Marc said nothing, thinking that was something she wouldn’t forget now.
Angela turned on a Pink Floyd CD and leaned back, exhausted and eager to escape into sleep, but there was only darkness for a brief half hour and none of it was
comforting.
“Brady!"
Angela jerked up, eyes flying open and she looked around wildly, fingers dropping to the handle of the deadly gun on her hip.
“It’s over, Honey. He’s dead.”
She frowned, the wild look slowly fading from her bloodshot, blue eyes, and she lit a smoke with shaky hands. “I need to talk it out.”
It was something Kenny couldn’t do, but Marc immediately turned the music down. “You can tell me anything, Angie. You know that.”
She nodded. She did. “I thought it was you at first, when the door closed, and when I turned and saw his eyes, I froze. Just like I always do.”
The longer she talked, the guiltier and angrier Marc felt. He never should have left her alone. He should have swept the other buildings. He should have been the one
to pull the trigger, and then she wouldn’t be hurting so badly! As it was, all Marc could think to say was the same thing his CO had quietly told him after he'd finished
throwing up. “He was the enemy. Don’t doubt that. This is War and he got what he deserved for his crimes. He should have chosen better.”
Angela found his words did help a little, and this time when she closed her eyes, sleep came without dreams.
8
Around 3 a.m., Marc pulled them carefully into a far corner of Siloam Springs State Park, the nature preserve very isolated. He wasn’t surprised that she awoke the
instant he shut off the engine.
“Where are we?” she asked groggily, pulling on her sweater with slow movements and tired eyes.
“Couple miles from Stonington. I’ll set up camp and Dog will stay here with you until I’m done.”
She dropped her head back against the seat, and as he got out, locking the doors, Dog took his spot. “Brady?”
He stopped, looking back at her.
“I don’t really want to be alone. Y’know?”
Marc nodded, thinking he hadn’t planned on separate tents or cars until her voice and eyes were normal again. He used his key to get in and out of the back and
quickly had the small Marine tent up and ready. He put the blankets and heater inside, and as he stepped to her door, she opened it.
Angela didn’t flinch when he offered a hand, and he noticed it, saw she didn’t hesitate as she stepped out into the chilly fog and stiff breeze, but she stumbled, and
almost fell. Marc swung her into his strong arms, thinking her face looked like the man had used her for a punching bag.
He headed for the tent, loving the curl of her arm around his neck, but Angela gasped in pain as images of holding her attacker that way flashed in her mind.
Holding him tight so she could…
“Angie?”
Marc had stopped. When she nodded against his shoulder, he got moving again, holding her closer. For a brief minute, Angela was distracted from the pain in her
mind by the skin under her fingers, able to feel his strength as he ducked into the tent and gently laid her down.
He moved back too quickly, and she barely stopped the old Angela from asking him if he still loved her. Her heart clenched, and she covered herself up, shivering.
She didn’t have to ask. She already knew and it changed nothing.
Clink!
Her eyes flew to his in alarm, and he smiled soothingly, pushing the heater closer as the light drizzle began to fall. “It’s just Dog, looking for his dinner. I’ll be right
outside.”
She nodded, shivering harder, and closed her eyes, feeling small and alone as he left.
Half an hour later, Marc had placed three rows of disks, secured the area more fully, and was sitting just outside the tent flap, finishing a smoke, beating himself up.
It would never happen again. If there was danger from here on, it’ll be me that faces it, not her!
Marc sighed, knowing he couldn’t make that promise, even to himself. This new world was a nightmare, and he couldn’t protect her from all sides.
“Can stop being stupid, though,” he muttered, causing the wolf to stare questioningly. Marc shook his head. She wouldn’t be left alone again, it wasn’t a mistake
he’d let happen twice, and he would step up her training too. She was like a sponge, making it clear she wanted to know anything he could teach her, and he would
after she recovered.
Marc grinned bitterly. She would insist on a workout tomorrow, he had no doubt. She was stronger than anyone he’d ever known, and that included hardened
Marines. His smile faded. Because she’d already lived through worse. Her man was going to pay!
It was dark, cold, and silent except for the restless mutterings of the woman in the vinyl shelter when Marc finally went to bed. The wolf was asleep at the doorway,
and Marc took off only his coat as he crawled in next to her. His matching .45’s went under his pillow.
When he curled his body protectively around hers, Angela relaxed against him and fell into a deeper sleep almost immediately, her fear of Kenny overpowered by
the need for comfort that only Brady’s arms could give.
9
“Do we keep following?”
Aching with the rain, Dillan shook his head, dark, angry eyes studying a wrinkled map as Dean eagerly fanned the fire to life. With the cabin still smoldering hotly,
their smoke would appear to be part of it. They had been running a cold camp to avoid being spotted and both men were ready for a hot meal and a strong cup of
coffee.
“No. They’re still moving northwest, just like every time they head out. Going somewhere. We’ll be able to track them down. He’s not covering their trail at all.”
“Back to Cesar, then?”
Dillan nodded. They had been tracking the couple, waiting for the right moment, but it had never come. The Witch and her soldier were very careful. The one time
they might have been ambushed while they were traveling, the two Blazers had stopped for a moment, and then went a different way. Like they'd known there was
trouble waiting ahead.
Tonight, the twins had been nearby, planning to try again after dark. When the hunter had cleverly distracted the wolf and snuck inside, they’d moved even closer.
Hoping to kill her soldier and then her attacker, it had only taken a few seconds to feel the waves of power in the air and realize it was the man who wasn’t coming out.
Dean and Dillan might have gone in anyway, if not for the single gunshot, which either meant the woman was dead and there was no reason to stay, or the hunter
had given his life, and the Witch would be ready for anything. They had watched her stumble out the door, looking like easy, terrified prey, but they knew she wasn’t.
They also hadn’t missed her fast recovery.
The twins had finally accepted that they needed help. It was something they’d rarely encountered, even before, when only a cell had controlled them, stopped them
from doing what they wanted. Now, a mere woman had hurt them, had made them feel fear, and they loathed her for it.
“Where do you think the deformed bastard is?”
Dillan’s glassy eyes went back to the map and then checked his watch for the date, wincing at his mangled arm. He had splinted it, and it was healing, but it would
always be useless. “He said every big town along 25. Maybe three days each, four on the bigger ones, skip every other, empty... He should be near Denver. We’ll just
follow Interstate 80 until we pick them up on the CB. Or until we see smoke after a storm.
Dean grinned as he stood up. “’Cause where there’s a storm, there’s Cesar.”
10
Ccrrraaackkk!
The thunder from the fading storm rattled the ground, shaking the tent, and Marc woke suddenly from his dreams of thick smoke and desperate screams. He was
alone.
Surprised he hadn’t noticed Angela leave, he quickly stepped out into dawn’s early dimness, immediately finding her standing by the open passenger door of her
Blazer. Medical supplies spread across the seat, she was using the mirror to see in, as she cleaned her injuries.
Marc moved to her side slowly, making sure she was aware of his presence. He gently took the alcohol pad from her trembling fingers, wincing when she did, heart
breaking at the pain in her eyes. She didn’t seem afraid of him like she had been, wasn’t nervous about being hemmed in by his large body, but he was very careful not
to crowd her as he applied the gel she handed him.
He saw her tears, could feel the pain coming off her in waves. When she started to turn away, he gently wrapped his arms around her. “It’ll get easier, in time.”
Her tears were falling thickly, yet even in her misery, she noticed the body pressed against hers. Noticed and compared it to what she remembered. Angela stepped
back slowly.
“You want to stay here a day or two?”
“And do what?”
Marc pulled a thoughtless answer out of his head, not expecting the question, “I could teach you to hunt.”
He winced as he heard himself, bracing for anger or more tears, and was amazed by her strength when she gave him a tiny, rueful look of accomplishment.
Might as well. I’ve passed the gun test.”
They spent two full days at the preserve, and Angela improved quickly, telling herself over and over that she’d had no choice. They spent the days working out,
drilling on what she’d learned, and Brady’s arms during the darkness kept her nightmares at bay and her heart frustrated by the walls still keeping them apart.
They were back on the road soon after, and then to separate tents without a word spoken about it, but things had changed between them. Angela felt it and worried
over who would survive the resulting firestorm when Marc realized it too. Everything was getting closer now.
Chapter Twenty Three
March 7th, 2013
Wyoming, mid-state
1
Waking with the feeling that something very valuable had been stolen from him, Adrian listened first for the sounds of his flock - tents flapping, dogs yapping almost
casually, a soft, calm crunch of footsteps, the moderate murmur of voices - and allowed himself to relax, the sounds were there and normal. He sat up, reaching for his
cigarette pack.
Naked except for his green boxers, Adrian lit a joint, not cold but aware of the chill in the tent. His watch showed it was 5:33 a.m - time to get his busy day started,
and he took an extra five to get ready. The day’s list was almost double what it usually was, and everyone would be busy right up to the shooting contest after dinner.
He hit the joint hard and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, thinking his goatee needed a trim. He coughed at the lungful of smoke and smiled. Tonya sure knew how to
grow it. Too bad that wouldn’t be allowed when they settled down somewhere, but if he let in one, all the rest would follow. In the meantime, stashes and supplies
would run out like everything else, forcing people off of their habits without him having to be a cruel leader.
Adrian inhaled harder, until his lungs burned. He was tired and worried, his usual state of being since the War, and it took only a few hits for him to feel the effects.
He closed his eyes, lower mind planning the day, fitting things together for convenience, his higher mind searching for those he had to believe were still on their way.
Maybe they were already here, just overlooked. Maybe he’d passed them by.
"I need help!" Adrian shouted silently, "I can’t keep doing this alone!"
The leader let out a harsh sigh, knowing he would keep trying until he was used up, and probably even beyond that. He wouldn’t give up as his father had. The guilt
rolled over him at that, and behind it, came the overwhelming need to right the wrongs that he could.
Adrian got up, again listening for his people, something he did when he woke each morning. They were the reason he worked so hard, and he began to move faster,
eager to be with them.
Pulling on his black jacket against the chill of mid-40’s, he stepped out into the strong wind, and his eyes went immediately to the sky. Adrian frowned at the ugly
look of it. Something was racing their way. Rain? Snow? Both? He would have to look, and that meant using his own magic, something all of those he was searching for
would also have - to one degree or another.
The leader took a careful look around, seeing only the guards’ eyes on him, and he closed his own, concentrating. “Show me!” he demanded silently, and as his
lids opened, the wind gathered strength. A two-foot dust whirl rose off the dry ground, spinning wildly toward him. It broke apart against his legs, covering his jeans in
thick dust, and Adrian’s heart thumped. A sand storm.
Observant eyes watching, Kenn joined Adrian and opened his notebook without being told, erasing his neat mental chalk board with one swipe. He wasn’t sure
exactly what had just happened, but it gave him a flash of the determined woman on the way to her son, and he kept his eyes on the page, so Adrian couldn’t see the
guilt there.
“We’ll only have an hour. It’s moving fast.”
Kenn’s eyes followed Adrian’s, and he too frowned. Their mountain view to the South was becoming obscured by the wall of danger racing towards them, the
sandy wind beginning to beat on their tents, tarps, and cars. The dogs were now barking in an agitated manner, the livestock trailers able to be heard too, and the
Marine’s gut unclenched from the boring resignation he’d woken with. This would not be an average day. “I’ll keep ‘em rolling.”
Adrian lit a Winston, working on details, and Kenn shook his head at the Level Two Eagle from Neil’s team, who’d stopped nearby. Jeremy kept going at the
denial, frowning.
“We have to roll in the camp by at least half a click. It’s too big to protect.” The leader took his knife from his boot and knelt down to draw in the dirt. He made
deep marks to keep the wind from distorting it, thinking the sound of tent flaps smacking harshly in the heavy wind was a warning few would understand. This storm
would kill as many survivors as the blizzard had. Nature was pissed.
“The Mess in the center. Line up seven rigs on the redline in front of it; back them in as close as you can get. Make the wire tight and put a bathroom camper on
each end. The weight of the water will hold them better than a semi. These two ends have to be right up against the corners of the Mess, and then line the other vehicles
up behind us, sideways, big to little. It’ll create a barrier. Put tarps on the sides to close it off. Tie ‘em to the trucks, but watch for gaps. If they billow in the wind, we’ll
be one big sail.”
Both men looked up at an odd whine to the wind, just in time to be hit with a small tornado of dust as high as a car. It slapped at them with hundreds of bits of
stinging sand, and Adrian’s dirt map disappeared.
Wiping his face with a gritty hand, the blond went on like it was still there. “Put the ends under the tires and heavier stuff. Make sure it’s secured right. Everything
else has to be broken down and shoved into the outer trucks to add weight. Cover the livestock and dogs. They go in the very front.”
Kenn was copying – orders and the map - and those nearby watched alertly in the gritty dimness as the wind increased. The sense of something big about to happen
was starting to spread.
“The sheep in the center trucks?”
Adrian’s blade flashed through the dirt again, ringless fingers nicked, scarred. “Yes, here and here. Make the weight as even as possible. Do the best you can. One
bag allowed and put those stickup dome lights inside, so there are no fumes or flames. Gear: goggles, boots, ski masks, orange safety vests - all Eagles on shift inside
the area.”
Kenn finished writing, looked up. “What about the guards on the perimeter?”
Adrian’s eyes went back to the brownish black wall of sand that was noticeably closer, vaguely aware of raised voices as people started to see what he and Kenn
already had - danger heading their way.
“Only in the front trucks - anywhere else is voluntary, and I don’t recommend the rear. Even inside cabs, there’ll be flying glass and debris if the windows go, and
they probably will. Make it clear that anyone crazy enough to do it, better bring the right equipment.”
Still writing, Kenn wanted to volunteer just for the credit, but he also knew Adrian would need him to help with the herd. Waving Eagles over, Kenn barely hid a
grin of excitement. He thrived on shit like this, couldn’t wait for it to begin.
2
The dust storm bore down on them like an angry swarm, first invading with fierce winds that ripped tent pegs from the ground, then hitting them with a thick wave of
sand and grit that blanketed everything. The sky darkened, turning almost black as it came over the last ridge. It smothered the land like night falling and they watched in
amazement as great chunks of buildings were torn away from their foundations and sent flying.
It raced toward Safe Haven like a missile looking for a target, and Adrian felt his stomach churn even as his heart thumped. He hated it that his people weren’t safe,
but loved the fury of Nature. There was nothing else like it.
“Here it comes.”
Adrian and the three levels of Eagles were in the much smaller Mess, thick telephone poles a great anchor. The tarps kept out a lot of the grit, but all the men wore
the gear they’d been given, ready to assist wherever Adrian told them to.
“Brace for impact!”
They moved to the center as the winds picked up, tarps slapping violently, and then the air came alive with tiny, stinging bits of sand that filled every inch of the
rolled-in camp.
“Damn!”
“Look at that!” Kenn pointed excitedly to a shed, faded red and breaking apart, rolling by in the thick grit, and just missing the end truck. The winds increased; dust
burning its way through their masks, and men began to cough.
“Bandana’s too! Use your shirts!”
Adrian pulled his turtleneck up over the bottom of his mask, struggling to stay on his feet as the storm engulfed them. The wind was awful, whipping, slapping at
them, pulling violently, and the air around the area and trucked-off camp was alive with flying debris of every shape and size.
Caruunncch!
“What the…”
Bang! Rriippp!
Baammmm!
The men closest to the actual Mess truck stumbled at the impact as the rig was hit, pushed forward on its side. Only the two trucks on the end kept it from going
further.
Dust flew up in monstrous clouds, filling the area with a blinding whirl of dark sand they could hardly see through.
“Get those edges closed! It’ll rip us apart!”
Men rushed to grab the ends of the snapping plastic, tying it back to the poles. It immediately became easier to breath, the dust sinking down to their knees.
Adrian nodded, keyed his mic. “Check-in. One, clear.”
“Two, clear.”
“Three, all good here.”
“Four, no problems.”
There were a lot of trucks, and noises in the background of each that made Adrian wince. Crying kids, voices on the edge of panic, arguments, and as soon as the
last one checked in, he hit the button again. “Turn your radios up, Eagles. Let them hear me.”
Adrian lit a smoke, knowing his herd needed good words and calm tones. “We’re watching the storm from about ten feet away. It’s unbelievable, scary. We can’t
see anything outside the Mess, but we’re hearing it, same as you. Lots of stuff flying through the air, slamming into the trucks. That’s the noise you hear, but so far,
everything’s good here. I repeat. We are five-by, and so are you.”
Adrian turned to watch a huge sheet of wood go tumbling around the edge of the far truck, barely missing it. He fought to keep that close-call out of his tones.
“We’ll do bathroom breaks now, groups of four from each truck, women and kids first, as usual.” He paused, eyes growing hazy as he sang to his herd, pushed his
calming magic over them. “I’ll be by each truck in the next few minutes, and I know I’ll see card games and people spending time together, not working themselves and
others into a panic. This is nothing we can’t handle.” His voice deepened, “Nothing I can’t handle.”
As if to prove him wrong, the wind whipped through the Mess from a billowing gap, ripping the tarp free, and they were again covered in a vortex of spinning sand
that tried to invade every inch of space available, and then space that wasn’t.
“Grab that!”
“I’ve got it!” Kenn rushed to the loudly flapping tarp and hauled it down, securing it better as he fought against the wind trying to pull it out of his grasp.
The Marine had a huge grin on his face, Adrian could almost feel it under the mask, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Was he ready? Only one way to find out.
The leader looked around, saw men helping with the tarp, Eagles watching alertly, trucks holding against the wind. Rigs, seven of them, full of his sheep and
protected, but still vulnerable because they had no one on duty in the rear, where the sand was hitting them the hardest.
Anyone could sneak up on them just by following the wake of the storm and they wouldn’t know until it was too late. There was almost no visibility and the tales
from the refugees they’d been picking up were a warning Adrian wouldn’t ignore. The Slavers liked to hit during bad weather, and they were only two hundred miles
away as of last week, which wasn’t nearly far enough. Sooner or later, Safe Haven would attract their attention, may have already. The pictures Kenn and Kyle had
brought back from Cheyenne Mountain had indeed been worse than the other places, and they’d been keeping a weekly watch on the big group.
Adrian waved a handful of Eagles off to start the bathroom breaks, hating the thought of so many using only two campers, but there was no other solution in this
wind and it had been his experience that sand storms usually took their time to pass through.
He looked at Kenn, seeing the excitement held under perfect control, the leadership rolling off him in waves, and he waved a hand. They’d find out now if he was
ready for leadership. “Eagle Two has point. I’ll be around.”
Adrian stepped out into the storm, leaving surprise among his army.
“Boo’yah, baby!” Kenn’s grin had widened. It was official to him now. He was second in command.
Adrian ran to the trucks first, calming, assuring, jumping and grinning with them, taking care of his flock as debris slammed into the trucks and sent clouds of sand
rolling. He didn’t hurry the stops, understanding people needed him, but he didn’t let them cling either. They had to learn to stand on their own.
Yanking his shirt back up, Adrian went next to the animal area they had covered with sheets of plastic, frowning at the sloppy job Danny and Zack had done. The
dust was coming under the edges in small waves, and the animals were coughing, pacing.
“On a dark, desert highway, cool wind in my hair…” Adrian sang as he weighted down each side with the heavy cages, adjusting the edges until the dust began to
settle and the animals began to relax.
“Last thing I remember, I was runnin’ for the door…” The sand he’d already been blasted with gave him a rough rasp, and the blond grinned in the dimness of the
vibrating plastic dome. Kenn wasn’t the only one who felt alive when confronting danger.
Holding his breath, Adrian headed for his semi. The winds back here were so strong he had to punch his way through with low, powerful steps.
Doing what no one expected despite all he’d done for them in the beginning, Adrian watched over them, staying in his rig throughout the storm. He’d secured the
lives he needed to, the camp now in Kenn’s capable hands, and he rode out the fury in his truck, marveling at the unchecked power while he watched for trouble.
Adrian was one of three men to take the Drag position. Seth - who wasn’t an Eagle, but wanted to be - and Kyle, were on either side him. The cop and the
mobster guarded him, as he guarded his sheep, and neither mentioned, not even to each other, that they heard the warning he sent out.
Not over a radio, but rushing out in powerful mental waves designed to get ahead of the storm, it rang through the air and into their heads until the urge to go to the
blond’s truck had them both fighting tight grips on the door handles. There were times, later, when both men doubted themselves, but at night, while watching their
leader do rounds after a twenty hour day, they’d think about it, and admit the truth to themselves - that he had tried to save survivors in the storm’s path, cared enough
about the loss of life to risk using his gifts and maybe be banished…to help people he didn’t even know. He wasn’t like the rest, he was...special.
The secret bonded the two men, and earned Adrian their complete loyalty. Both males were sure he’d known they were there, trusting them with his secrets. He
was their Guardian, and either would give their life if called upon.
3
The storm raged around Safe Haven for hours, wind forming and then moving tiny cities of sand that vanished as quickly as they’d appeared. The Eagles handled
themselves well, rushing to anchor tarps, secure trucks, and comfort their people during the nonstop bathroom breaks, as the storm grew stronger. When the winds
finally began to die down, everyone was glad, even those who loved the excitement.
It was almost lunch before Kenn decided it was all right to come out. The Eagles noticed that Adrian waited for the Marine to make the call, and that Kenn didn’t
look to him first for an okay when he did. They used snow blowers to clean up the piles of sand, moving them outside the shrunken camp’s perimeter.
Adrian’s eyes took in the damage with worry deep in his heart for his country and her people. The landscape had been completely altered; nothing looked the same.
Piles of brackish sand in feet-deep drifts covered ripped-up tents, and grit blanketed everything, including his army. The damage was extensive, total. How many more
American lives had been lost?
“Eagle Two will keep point. Everyone else, shift.”
Kenn nodded at him from across the camp, and then motioned Seth to go along on his rounds. In time, the redhead would be one of his, too, Kenn thought, like
Zack and maybe Kyle. No one else knew Seth was Adrian’s undercover guard and Kenn supported it completely. The detective was good and someone had to do it.
Adrian had to be protected.
Kenn knew what his Boss wanted, knew how to get things done, and three short hours after the storm was gone, Safe Haven looked almost like it hadn’t been hit, a
stark contrast to the destruction outside the perimeter. Full-sized again, retaped, clean, and running normal, Adrian was more than pleased. They were growing stronger.
Soon, more would be expected of them.
By 1 a.m., Adrian was once again roaming the sea of tents, unable to sleep. He was satisfied with the way they’d come through, happy with the job Kenn had done,
but he hated the aftermath more than the actual storm.
The land around them now looked totally devoid of life, instead of just isolated. It was foreign - like what the surface of Mars might be like. Even the smells had
changed. The rot was still here, along with a hint of salty smoke, but the strongest was a thick, stomach-tightening mildew he didn’t need John to tell him was from all the
dead. The sand not only covered them, it scraped away tiny bits of decaying flesh that were flung about by the wind. It wasn’t comforting.
“Did anyone see you?” questioned a man’s voice, one he knew well, and Adrian’s sharp eyes found the shadow just outside a dusty supply truck.
“No. Let me in.”
The woman’s voice was also familiar and the leader wondered if the guards had seen them. Probably not, but they would if Kenn wasn’t more careful. It didn’t
bother him, but it would the camp. Adrian grinned suddenly. Hell, maybe Kenn could straighten her out a little and put her to use. Surely Tonya had a skill that didn’t
involve her knees or her back.
4
“You look tired.”
The Marine had fallen in step as Adrian came out of his tent. He nodded, but didn’t offer details as he opened his book. He had dreamed Angie was here. After
that, sleeping again had been impossible. “I am a little.”
Adrian eyed the three-foot gray and brown piles of sand that were now their perimeter, the caution tape gone again during the night. “I need Seth and Mitch to
come see me around 9:30 and make sure he doesn’t leave the radio unattended again. I need ten minutes with the doctor around noon, and then we’ll do a lesson with
the rookies at 3. We’ll have a little surprise waiting for Kyle and his team right after that.”
Kenn nodded. Adrian had sent them out immediately following the storm to do a recon to the Southeast. The blond wanted to know if the Slavers were closer, and
of course, to search for any survivors.
“We’ll keep it simple. Use the laser tag vests.”
Kenn wrote, and Adrian ignored the stomach wanting light toast with heavy butter. His people ate before he did, and they were low on bread. Flour was one of
those things they just didn't find much of.
“We’ll need crews to clean up after the contest and to help with the targets during. You’ll have to look through the schedules that end today to see who’s already
got their hours in or has a shift tonight. Set the contest up just like last time, over in that softball field. People not shooting will stay behind the gate.”
Adrian paused to sip his coffee, eyes on the line where Kenn’s boy was. All of his people looked healthy, normal, and he knew they had been lucky to have so few
medical problems despite spending so much time on sour ground. They’d had a couple of deaths in the last weeks, mostly heart failures, and an EKG machine was one
of the things on his constantly growing list.
“That it?”
Adrian snorted, watching the lines grow as more people started to come to the Mess and the noise levels increased. Coughs, moans, groans and laughs - to Adrian
it was beautiful, the sound of normal life continuing. “Until lunch. Here’s some FND work - a faster Mess, one that has them in line for less than five minutes for both
food and drinks.”
Having finished writing, Kenn picked up Adrian’s cup. “Refill?”
“You know it.”
When Kenn moved toward the line, Charlie slid by and put a small plate in front of Adrian. He kept moving toward the table he usually shared with Timmy and
Mike, one of the guards’ teenage boys, but Adrian stopped him with a question. “You busy later?”
Checking to see that Kenn was busy, the boy moved back toward Adrian, shaking his head. Crew cut like Kenn’s when they’d first come, the leader was glad to
see the boy loosening up, dressing in what he wanted.
“No. Do we get new schedules tomorrow?”
Adrian watched closely, despite appearing absorbed in taking the plastic from his light toast with heavy butter. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about their talk in the
bowling alley, and had come to the conclusion that Kenn was not gifted, but was in contact with someone who was. This quiet, blue-eyed boy perhaps? Claiming it to
protect the child? If so, the lie was acceptable...almost. At least it explained why the Marine had flat out refused to use his “gift” when Adrian had mentioned it a few
days after the freeze.
“Mug of coffee, fresh pack of smokes and a cardboard box this big.” Adrian showed him with his hands. “Bring those things to my tent around 10:30. We’ll do
some rounds and you’ll get your schedule then.”
The boy nodded eagerly, scuffed gym shoelaces dragging the inch of sand covering the Mess floor as he shifted restlessly from foot to foot. “Sure. You need
anything else?”
Adrian grinned, still watching closely from under lowered lashes. “Yeah, a ton of food and water. You get an idea, make sure I’m told quickly?” he half joked. His
alert eyes saw the boy’s serious nod.
“You know it.”
“He knows what?”
Charlie jumped, and Adrian waved him on as Kenn returned with two full cups and sat down.
“Kids need to be kept busy. We have to pick the next list of places to look. Bring the maps by after lunch and we'll....”
5
A short time later, stomach pleasantly full of toast, Adrian sat in the lea of his tent - chair, folding table, and notebooks in front of him. The wind had finally calmed
down, and he got started making schedules for the next week, glad he wouldn’t have to spend the extra hours trying to figure out who didn’t have all their shifts in yet.
As of midnight, everyone was back at zero.
He worked on them in alphabetical order, trying to fit the person with the chore by their skills, and all the while, he was listening to the voices of his people as they
walked by, approving of the long pants and sleeves most of his camp was wearing. Both John and his suggestions had been accepted.
“Those eggs was nasty and it’s still the best meal I’ve had since January.”
“Glad we’re back on full water rations.”
“Oohh. Imagine a hot bubble bath.”
“Girl, a hot shower would be heaven.”
“Yeah, like that’ll happen. It uses too much water.”
Adrian turned to a back page and scribbled a note, then went back to the schedules.
Mitch showed up ten minutes late, giving the CB updates personally, and Adrian handed him a sheet of paper, still not totally sure he’d chosen the right person for
this job. They had given a dozen men the radio test, but only this sloppy drunkard hadn't flunked.
“This is the way I’d like things run from now on. What we put over the air matters.”
The red-nosed man gave it a quick read over, nodding. “Sure.”
“Kenn will be installing a more powerful CB system in the next week, so when he’s ready, move to another truck, til he’s done.”
“You got it, A-Man. I’ll catch you later.”
The hung-over man left, eager to start using the bolder system, and the leader was relieved to see the ass-kisser go. He hated it that the camp saw him dealing with
someone that no one really liked, but it couldn’t be helped. He suspected Mitch was too good to waste and he’d leave him where he was, until he knew for sure.
When he was gone, Adrian waved Seth over and began gathering up his papers. He lit a smoke and gave the tensely waiting undercover cop a hard look. “Long
wait.”
The redhead gave a tight smile, taking off his black cap as he sat down. It didn’t escape Adrian’s attention that he was wearing the uniform of an Eagle, despite not
being one. Yet. The redhead had been busy, trailing him almost continuously for the last week and he was good, right up there with Kyle, but the question was, why?
“I don’t mind. It’s better we’re alone anyway.”
Adrian finished off his cold coffee with a grimace of distaste. “Because you want to know why I passed you up for the new Level Ones again, but don’t want
anyone to know you’re questioning my judgment?”
Adrian’s words were brutally honest and Seth nodded, not sure whether he was ready for the truth he’d come for, or if the things he needed to say to this man, who
he now respected above all others, would get him asked to leave.
“Because I’m not sure about you yet.”
The cop's hurt green eyes flew to his, and Adrian shook his head, thinking of his surprise when it was Seth who joined Kyle to watch with him during the storm.
“Not like that. Not sure where I need you the most.”
“I do.” Seth clamped his mouth shut and waited to be told their conversation was over.
Adrian didn’t speak for a minute, thinking that right there was what concerned him. Seth was a good man, he knew that, but he also had a short fuse, which was not
a great trait for a bodyguard in this new world. “Have you thought about something else? There’s a lot we need.”
Seth didn't look at him, but said, “Yeah.”
Adrian's cool eyes searched the man. Seth was often the first one at the tape to look over the new people when there was a call, never skipping it, and his devotion
had gotten attention. He hadn’t been surprised to find out the undercover cop had been planning to apply to the secret service academy, had wanted to guard the
President. In time, he might still get his chance.
“Why a Level guard, Seth? Why does it matter so much?”
A little surprised at the easy opening to what he needed to say, the 30-year-old cop found the truth with no problem, didn’t hesitate to meet Adrian’s waiting eyes.
“Because you need help, and I need to serve. Because there’s no one watching your six and I want the job.”
Adrian's eyes were full of warning. “You sure? That may be a very dangerous job in the future.”
Seth grinned. “More than anything. It’s what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Adrian looked at him for another long moment, before shrugging like he wasn’t sure the cop could do it, when nothing could be further from the truth. “I’ll change
your schedule, but keep in mind it takes more than just good aim and confidence. It’s hard work and it's dangerous.”
“I belong there. You’ll see.” the cop stood up, holding out his hand, and Adrian returned the gesture. “Thank you.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“So do I.”
Adrian watched him leave and noticed Charlie heading his way, right on time and hands full.
“What do you think about him?” Adrian asked the boy, indicating Seth. He didn’t know he was going to, and saw the boys deep blue eyes grow hazy.
“Seth’s okay. He never found his little girl and he’s still upset.”
Adrian didn’t comment, thinking he’d have to be careful how he handled the special boy. As for Seth, the redhead was another above-average sheep trying to
become a shepherd, and he would help him make the transition, but where were those who had been born to lead?
“I’ll put this stuff inside and you can go with me on rounds.”
Charlie nodded, not sure why the Boss wanted his company, but eager to help if he could and be seen doing it - like everyone else here.
Adrian folded up the table, taking it and a chair to the flap, and the boy automatically carried the other one, but didn’t step inside because he hadn’t been invited.
Adrian nodded his thanks. Well-trained…and it bothered him - a lot.
“Grab that box and come on.”
The first stop was the Mess, where 30 or so people were in line or already sitting down to canned chili, crackers, and applesauce. Adrian stopped near the flagpole
ropes.
“Raise our colors, boy.”
Charlie and Adrian saluted, as did others, and the blond man’s quick eye saw those who looked natural, like they’d done it before. It likely meant they had military
training or a history of service. He saw two, maybe three, and mentally added them to the list of interviews for the next set of Level One guards. There was work for
them if they still had the desire to serve. He wouldn’t respect them as much if they didn’t. In the Corps, in for life, but he definitely understood, and wouldn’t treat them
differently.
Kenn fell in on Adrian’s right as they moved on and Adrian noticed Charlie dropping back out of eye, but not earshot, pretending to be very involved in kicking a
path through the sand that had blown back into the camp during the night.
“I have a great idea.” Kenn handed Adrian a slip of paper. “That’s our next supply run. Everything we need for a while, depending on how lucky we get.”
Adrian’s mouth curved into a smile and he clapped Kenn on the back. He really should have already thought of this. “Great is an understatement. Kyle’s men will be
your escort. Leave day after tomorrow. I’ll need a list of people and supplies by tonight.”
“You know it,” Kenn answered, writing the directions down.
Adrian saw a look of satisfaction on young Charlie’s face. Had the boy helped Kenn? It was a brilliant idea, over half of America’s goods transported by rail and
the massive boxcars would just be sitting there, waiting to be found and emptied. Some, say half even, would already be cleaned out or too damaged, but the rest would
still be on the tracks where the EMPs or lack of fuel shut them down. It was a terrific idea. Kenn’s or the boy’s?
“What else?”
They moved to the parking area, Charlie trailing them, listening hard while appearing not to be.
“Last thing, I know you do fuel-ups by yourself on days when we’re shorthanded, like at the end of the month, and I thought maybe you could change things a little.
Like for the Eagles to graduate to the next level, they have to put in hours on a teaching class. That would free up six or seven short shifts.”
“We are always short ten men.”
Kenn nodded, ran a beefy hand over his short black hair as the gritty wind ruffled it. “Give me one of the extras. That’ll still leave you two.”
Adrian laughed. “Two instead of ten. I won’t know what to do with the extra time.”
“Sleep,” Kenn said immediately, and they shared a grin of commiseration. Both of them averaged less than five hours a night.
“I’ve given your boy a full-time job.”
The wide-shouldered Marine nodded, okay with Charlie being distracted. The constant whining about his mother was relentless, and Kenn had found himself
spending as much time away from the sulky teenager as he could. “He’s a hard worker.”
“I’ve noticed. You take the hand-to-hand test yet?”
Kenn shook his head, not reminding him they’d both passed one in basic training. What had happened before the War was mostly that: before.
“Doug’s class should still be going. Tell him I said to give you a quick run, but you should watch for a bit first, so you know what you’re up against.”
Kenn snapped off a quick salute as he left, and the boy moved back to Adrian’s side.
Adrian frowned, thinking the Marine couldn’t really help him teach the guards unless he was willing to go through the same things they did. He had decided the man
wouldn’t have his own team of Eagles; he would serve the Boss instead. Kenn couldn’t do both, but he still had to do everything the teams did, in order to help teach
them. A little less confidence for the match tonight wouldn’t hurt either, Adrian thought. The Marine was sharp and had only lost last time because the wind had
gusted at the wrong second and ruined his shot.
Charlie felt sorry for whoever Kenn was cursing in his thoughts. When he did that, someone (usually his mom) ended up bleeding.
“Come on. Grab that box.”
Charlie did as he was told, clamping down on the request for his schedule that wanted to fly out of his mouth. Adrian would give it to him. He never went back on
what he said, like most people.
6
An hour later, Adrian was almost sure the rail yard had been the smart, observant boy’s idea, was coming to think that the magic that fate had hinted at, was already
here - had been for a while. It was just too young, too raw, to really be useful yet.
“So what’s this box for?” Charlie asked as they moved to the Mess line for bowls of soup and fresh biscuits.
Adrian grinned at him. “I thought you’d ask long before now. Line it with a garbage bag from the truck and put a note on it. Set it by the cans. ‘Food only’. It’s for
the pregnant dogs.”
The boy had just finished and joined Adrian at the table when excited voices echoed, causing people to turn and look. A small group of talking men came by,
helping a bloody Doug towards the medical tent, and Adrian grinned wryly, shaking his head as he and the boy went back to eating. He had underestimated Kenn. He
wouldn’t do it again.
A second group of noisemakers arrived a couple minutes later, Kenn happily in their midst.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw.”
“Shoulda seen it!”
“Two hits! Just two hits!"
“Broke it. I heard it snap.”
Kenn was saying nothing, just grinning as they got in line, and Adrian looked to Charlie, noticing how he’d tensed. “Ready?”
The boy immediately got up, and they slipped out before Kenn was even halfway through the long, loud line.
Their next stop was the new livestock trailers and even newer vet, Chris. The Utah man had only been out of the QZ for a week and hard at work most of that time
- alone, because of his surly attitude and smart mouth.
“Anybody home?”
There was movement from inside, but no answer, and Charlie raised his hand to open the semi's faded white door.
“Not a good idea boy, but you do what you want.”
Charlie dropped his hand, and they turned to see the tall, thin veterinarian step out of a nearby tent, his neat white coat and handsome face not hiding the frosty
green eyes of a born loner.
“Star’s in there giving birth. She’s not in the mood for company.”
Adrian stepped over to him. “You see them yet?”
Chris tossed a small, white bag into the teenager’s hands. “One, normal as far as I can tell. When she’s done, we’ll knock her out and run the blood work.”
“Good.” Adrian shook his head at the offered envelope. “Kenn's job now. He’ll be by.”
Adrian turned to Charlie, eyes intent. “What’s your job that matters, son?”
“I’m a Dog Handler. Or at least I will be.”
“And do you know why this is a job that matters?”
Charlie thought about it, then shook his head. “No, sir.”
Adrian smiled, pleased. The boy would probably turn out to be very helpful in the future, reminded him of… Adrian stopped the stray thought. Not till they hit
Arkansas. He wasn’t allowed to think of it (be distracted by it) until then, and that was still a lifetime away.
“That’s okay. When you do, come see me. In the meantime, Chris is the boss and teacher, so pay attention.”
Charlie snapped off a salute. “You know it.”
The very smart teenager stepped over to Chris with his hand out. “Hi. I’m Charlie, your new slave. What should I do first?”
Adrian grinned, and the stern-faced vet nodded, hiding his own smile.
“That’s a real good start, boy. Put on the clothes in the bag and then come in the truck. I’ll have her chained up by then. Today, we help dogs repopulate the earth.”
“Cool.”
7
On his way to the next stop, Adrian caught sight of movement in the gritty sky and watched an Eagle fly over his camp. It glided at an odd angle on the wind,
swooping in sickly circles, as if she were lost, and Adrian mourned the bird and the country it unknowingly represented. Like the Eagle, America wasn’t doing well.
Suddenly feeling weighed down with the burdens he was carrying, Adrian went to the medical area, not happy to see all the seats empty. People were afraid to hear
what might be wrong, and soon he would have to enforce the testing law unless he thought of another way to get them in. Too bad Anne wasn’t a doctor too. Being
female would automatically draw in the women.
“Coming in.” He ducked inside and smiled at the uniformed doctor and nurse kissing in a dim corner. They parted slowly and Adrian smiled at Anne when she
blushed. Brown eyes twinkling happily, she stepped outside to give them privacy without being asked.
“Guess you’ve been a good boy,” Adrian joked.
John nodded, faded eyes grateful. “Me and you both. She’s glad we came now, and it does my heart good to see her happy.”
Adrian perched on a stool, seeing the slight shake of scarred hands as the stocky man sat down across from him. “I’m glad too, John. We need you both. I guess
by now you’ve pretty much got things figured out?”
The doctor shrugged, eyes alert. “Enough to know we came to the right people, the right leadership.”
“I appreciate that. There’s a question I need to ask. Any idea?”
John nodded without hesitation, glad he could. “Yes and you have it. We’re with you. I’m with you.”
Adrian handed him a glossy black notebook and an envelope from the unusually light inside pocket of his jacket. “These are some things I need answers to if you
can. I’ll get the equipment - just tell me exactly what you need. Most importantly, this stays between us.”
John took it, slipping his glasses on and he read the paper quickly. “These are smart questions. I’ve got some of my own work I’ve wanted to do that will help you,
especially with effective treatments. I’ll need specimens.”
Adrian moved toward the flap. “I have a few coolers in the back of my semi. I'll tell Kyle to give you free access."
John watched him leave before hiding the paperwork. Adrian was being very careful, knew how to sing to his herd and still get things done, and the doctor was sure
that their young leader bent out of shape would be something to see.
As Adrian left the medical tent, Kenn was there.
“Kyle’s three hours out. Mitch just talked to them.”
“Good. He mention where they are?”
“No. Call them back?” Kenn made a note to himself not to ever have to give the same answer again. From now on, he’d have the information.
“No.”
Adrian climbed under the broken fence, moving steadily through the sand he’d already had two boys rake and clear of debris, thinking the dust storm would be the
burial for those who wouldn’t otherwise get one.
“Game?”
Kenn shrugged, still a bit disappointed Adrian hadn’t said anything about him sending Doug to the medical tent. “If you like.”
Adrian dug through the dusty, but otherwise untouched box of sports equipment that they’d put out this morning, and came up with a football. “Go long.”
Kenn immediately took off running, and the blond threw the ball high and hard, hoping to draw some interest from his sheep. These games were good for them, but
hard to get started. Most of the refugees kept to themselves as they dealt with their grief, and Adrian scheduled regular times for things like this, knowing they needed it
as part of their recovery.
Kenn hurled the ball with a hard spin that made Adrian pay attention, and for the next few minutes, he left the heaviness of leadership on the sidelines and lost
himself in having fun. The passes were hard and long, punishing catches, and it was the echo of their laughter and taunts that drew people.
A small crowd slowly gathered, and when there was enough for teams, Adrian moved toward them. “Game anyone?”
He and Kenn were the quarterbacks, and it got rough from the start. The Marine, who still sometimes struggled to hide his true nature, slammed his way through
three other players, knocking them back to run by for a score.
“If you bleed, you’re out. Eagle Two’s team has six. Our turn.”
Adrian’s team let out a shout of approval and the game became an outlet for them as they tripped, shoved, elbowed, and harassed each other. Sweating, shirts
coming off, they drew in more of the camp’s people who were very sensitive to noises now. When Adrian looked up, nearly 50 people were watching, with about half
waiting to play.
“Time out!”
Adrian waved Kenn over as he headed for the sidelines, the stiff wind cooling his sweaty skin. “Pick your replacement. We’ve got a level test to give.”
Adrian threw the ball to Zack, knowing it would please Kenn. “Take my place, will ya? I’ve been knocked down enough.”
Everyone was laughing as the two men left. The leader had been tripped and hurried, but hadn’t hit the ground even once due to great protection, deft footwork,
and respect.
The game went on behind them, and both men were pleased, Kenn mostly because his side had been up by twelve when they stopped.
“Gather the Level Ones, Seth too. Send ‘em to that barn half a mile back and have them put on the vests. Neil is their supervisor, but not their leader. We'll find out
who that is today. Their mission begins with securing a 200 foot perimeter and staying out of sight. If anyone sees them leave, they fail. Meet me at the house next to the
barn in half an hour.”
Kenn nodded eagerly, hoping the Boss would like his plan, and handed him the paper as he left. It was his first attempt at tests like these, though he had worked
with the Man, before the War. Nobody had been better than Brady at high-casualty ambushes.
Adrian gave it a quick look, then put it away, heading for his tent. In and out, he was in the parking area a few minutes later talking to Daryl, the only Level Three
Eagle not out of camp with Kyle.
“Anyone come in?”
The tall, thin football coach shook his head. “No, it’s all quiet.”
Adrian sighed, not showing his disappointment. The help he needed wasn’t coming today. “Kenn will be by for the paperwork. That’s his job now. When’s Kyle
due?”
Smothering a frown, Daryl checked his watch, “Little over an hour.”
“Great. Let’s give them a call. Message is to put on the vests and pay attention before reaching camp. Mission objective, shake my hand to pass to Level Four
status.”
Daryl grinned and keyed his headset, one of a dozen Kenn had finished this week. “Base to Eagle Four.”
There was only a few seconds of silence, then Kyle’s calm voice, “This is Four, base - go ahead.”
“I’ve been instructed to tell you to put on the noisemakers and look alive before you hit camp. Copy?”
“Copy. What is the mission objective?”
“Physical contact with Eagle One.”
“Copy. Four out.”
Daryl took a quick look around the dusty landscape before turning back to Adrian. “Can I help?”
“Absolutely. You’re the instructor and then the hostage. The barn half a mile back. The rookies are headed there now. Go now and...entertain them - the way I did
at your first test.”
Daryl grinned at the memory and the responsibility he’d just been given, and Adrian slipped into his truck as the guard left. The leader changed clothes, made
contact with the next shift coming on, then snuck away to play with his army.
8
All the guards entered camp the way they’d left, Adrian and Kenn following more slowly behind.
“No one asked any questions. Big mistake. Seth’s team got lucky to win.”
Kenn was eager to help another of his picks. Zack was about to graduate to a Level One Eagle and had Kenn to thank for his name even being on the list. Now, all
the truck driver had to do was live up to it. There would be no slacking off allowed. “True, that. Seth sure surprised ‘em all.”
Adrian lit a smoke. “Yes, he did. Give him a level test tonight. If he makes it, bump him up to Level Four and we’ll catch him up. I always thought that team should
have been ten strong, just didn’t know who went there. Do it after dinner.”
Kenn didn’t look up from writing, glad for the redhead and hating the jealous part of him that wanted to say he’d done well with Doug, ask for his reward.
“So who’s our MC tonight?”
Kenn gave a tight smile, tone even, “Doug said he’d give that to you at Mess.”
Adrian met his eye, feeling his man’s need, meeting it. “That’s your job now. Once an evening you’ll do rounds and collect envelopes. Organize it into something I
can read quickly.”
Kenn kept his head down again, realizing he was being rewarded, and his heart eased. “Sure. That’s it for the list. See you at Mess?”
“You know it.”
Their radios crackled to life. “Mitch to Eagle One. Just took a call, A-Man.”
Adrian’s heart thumped, and he and Kenn exchanged a look. The drunk’s tone wasn’t encouraging.
“Still on the air?”
“No, low battery. Said they’d call back.”
“Copy.”
Kenn stayed at Adrian’s side as they headed to the COM truck, where Kyle had just taken up his post on watch. The cabin reeked of whiskey and Mitch rewound
the tape without saying as much as usual, able to feel Adrian's disapproval.
“This one sounds legit to me, but I just roll your waves.”
Adrian had to force himself not to frown. Mitch Hopkins was one hell of a radio man, but he was still too often just loud, crude, arrogant, and intoxicated. All things
Adrian and the camp had little tolerance for because it reminded them too much of what had been wrong with the old world when it had fallen. “Play.”
The fat-faced man nodded, green eyes smiling at all the people watching, seeing him with the Boss.
“This is Safe Haven. We are a convoy of American Red Cross survivors who will help if we can no matter your age, race, location, or injuries. Does anyone copy?”
There was silence after Mitch’s loud voice, and Adrian could feel the alcoholic fingering the button, wanting to move on and be done with this round of calls. Then,
there was a pause when Mitch had known instinctively that an answer was coming, and waited instead of garbling the transmission. Definitely one of the best before, and
despite his glaring flaws, probably was the best now.
“SOS, Safe Haven! Need a military escort to the nearest compound! Will pay any price!”
The words were surprisingly clear considering the awful clamor of background noise and static, and Adrian liked Mitch’s answer.
“Americans help first and ask questions later. Stand by while I get the Boss.”
“Can’t. Battery’s dyin’. There must be some place taking in refugees.”
The ex-dispatcher’s voice was quick, pointed, “Yeah, us.”
“But if you’re Red Cross, who do you get your orders from? Where are they?”
“Those aren’t questions for me. I just work the radio. What’s your situation?”
“Bad. People are hurt, sick. Supplies are gone, food’s real low. Where are you? Close?”
“That’s another one I won’t answer on open waves. You need to talk to the boss. Call back and we’ll get him quick, but for now, what’s your message?”
There was a long pause and then there came a tired voice full of despair that made Adrian’s heart demand action.
“I’m overloaded. I can’t describe it. We need protection, a way out to someplace safe. Tell him we’re American citizens begging for his…”
The transmission ended suddenly, and Mitch shut off the tape. “Figured they went dead.”
Adrian looked at the waiting alcoholic. “You did a great job. Get me right away when he calls back.
Red nose swelled, Mitch was all shit-eating grin at the praise. “You got it, A-Man. Catch you later?”
Adrian forced himself to nod and was glad to leave the drunk behind.
Kenn and Adrian went to his semi (always in the lead) and the leader climbed behind the wheel, leaving the door open. Time was running out, he could feel it
threatening what he held dear, and yet, he couldn’t ignore the call.
He motioned at the glove compartment, at the maps crammed inside. “Find out how far to Cheyenne and what’s between here and there.”
Kenn got to work as Adrian picked up the mic, knowing the leader was hoping for a reason to get the camp behind a rescue.
“Let’s do a count, Mitch. Eagle One, all clear.”
The count-off always took a while, people forgetting or going in the wrong order. Usually Adrian handled it, straightened them out, but today he let it go, waiting.
After a full minute of not getting by thirteen, Mitch took control, knowing Adrian wanted the radio clear, and again, he pleased the Boss.
“Fourteen, ready.”
“Okay Fourteen, but Thirteen goes first. Thirteen, you ready?”
“Roger that.”
“Good. We know fourteen is ready, so let’s move on.”
“Rogetssscccfourteenssch,”
Mitch’s voice boomed over the radio. “Fourteen! Put your mic down! Hang it up now!”
“Roger.”
The two men shared a grin, as the check continued more smoothly, everyone knowing Mitch had little patience, and now, Adrian's blessing to keep them in line.
“Three hundred miles. Laramie and Casper are the only big towns.” Kenn peered closer at the small writing. “Damn. There are only a couple of reservoirs. Not a
good enough excuse to go.”
Adrian's cool eyes looked over the dusty Wyoming land around them, as Kenn got his notebook out, shaking his head at the radio.
“Come on Twenty! Why are you calling out of order?”
“Because I’ve got too many kids in my area!”
“Did you check the…” The radio went quiet for a moment as the guards straightened out the mix up.
“Your impression?”
Kenn’s voice was flat, “He said protection before food or water, like we might be walking into something and have to fight for them.”
“Are we able to do that now?”
Kenn shrugged, sounding more confident than he really felt. Marines, these people were not. Most were more like showers shoes – not even a boot camp graduate.
“Maybe we could be. Kyle’s team might be now.”
“Just a simple plan, a team of a dozen,” Adrian said, leading him, and Kenn’s pen started moving, copying his own words as he too settled into the groove and gave
Adrian exactly what he needed at that moment - signs of progress.
“We’d need to start more men as Eagles, snipers, a long-range communications system, and we would need to be running full-time gun classes…wish we could find
ammo for the rifles, but we’ll make do.”
Adrian waited, wanting to see if Kenn would get the most important parts.
“Also need more tents and some practices for the camp, a drill of some kind.”
Kenn looked up suddenly. “Cheyenne’s close to the Slavers’ path, on 25. Will the camp go, with the base in Montana so close?”
Adrian looked out the dirty window, voice like stone, as Kenn spoke what he’d been thinking. Even his right-hand believed they were still going. He would take
care of that at the next camp meeting. “All the Eagles will. The camp would feel extremely unprotected while we’re gone.”
Kenn said nothing at the threat, not doubting. Those words wouldn’t be used, but the message would be clear. Adrian was going, and those who were with him,
would follow. The rest would have to fend for themselves, until - if - he came back for them. “When will they be told?”
“Right after the next call, but it’s best to start with little hints now. Have people ‘overhear’ the men say it’s our duty. If not for that, none of them would be safe right
now. Remind them that Americans don’t turn away from doing what’s right, just because it’s hard.”
9
The sky was full of vivid shades of purple and green that were mesmerizing, and Adrian saw people taking long looks at the mysterious beauty as he headed to
dinner. There was a large crowd in and around the Mess, most people talking of the shooting contest to come and of Kenn’s match-up with Doug.
There were still yells and groans from a late-running football game, garbage cans full of trash burning at the four corners of the camp, and two warmly-dressed
women were playing their guitars softly around the large bonfire. It felt like early October as Adrian got his tray and headed for the already full middle table. The smell of
salt came to him, bringing flashes of an angry sea, and he wondered where and how many they’d be come Fall.
The rookie guards were at a double table nearby, still congratulating and welcoming Seth, and the Level Threes were on the other side of the Boss’ table, looking
glum, as they listened to the happy voices.
Doug and Neil sat across from Kenn, and when Adrian pushed his mostly finished tray aside, the others did too. “Mini meeting and we can skip it later.”
Notebooks and pens came out, and Adrian got busy, not lowering his voice. It was crucial to his plans that the camp thought they knew how he ran things. “Sitrep
on your run.”
“We got everything on the lists, except gas. All the stations were dry or destroyed.”
“Alpine?”
“Just like all the rest. Nothing alive. We took pictures.”
“Okay. That’s it. Who’s ready to shoot something?”
The men laughed, the boasting loud, and Adrian saw Doug hand Kenn his envelope with an apologetic nod that he was glad to see the Marine accept casually, as if
Doug hadn’t insulted him, when clearly he had. Things were looking up.
10
“All right, let’s get to it.” Bonfire warming his back, Adrian stood in front of two teams of men, his Army, and raised his bottle. “Rookies! Congratulations on
passing!”
All the men cheered, one group much louder than the other, and they all drank together.
“You are now Level One Eagles. You boys get to choose your leader tonight and I’ll need a name before this meeting’s over.”
He raised his bottle again. “Level Three Eagles, congratulations on passing!”
There were a lot of surprised looks with the cheers and Adrian waved a hand at Kyle. “You made it past Kenn and while there were mistakes, you couldn’t have
won anyway. Seth was the wild card that you can’t always be ready for. I consider it a success.”
Both groups cheered fully this time, drank, and Adrian held up a hand as it lingered this time. “We have one more challenge tonight, a personal level test.”
The leader waved a hand. “Come up here, Seth.”
The cop left his beer and new friends, approaching Adrian with pride and confusion.
“You have demonstrated great thinking skills, excellent teamwork, and an above average slyness that American men have used to protect this country for centuries.
As a reward, Kenn will give you a test. If you pass, you’ll graduate straight to the top level and start with Kyle and his Eagles tomorrow.”
The men all cheered, glad for him, and Seth raised a brow as he grinned. “When?”
Kenn stood and Adrian grinned back. “Now.”
The leader tossed his dog tags at Kenn’s booted feet, and the wind immediately began trying to cover the shiny metal with sand. “All you have to do is pick ‘em up
and hand ‘em to me.”
“That’s it?”
The newly-crowned Level Four men groaned, snorted at the question. Kenn’s look was menacing enough to make Seth get serious, as he realized this wouldn’t be
a give-me. The Marine had beaten Doug.
“Just get by me, is all,” Kenn sneered.
Seth nodded, handing his gun to Adrian. The second he let go of it, he spun and dove for the tags.
He came close, but Kenn kicked his shoulder with the flat of his boot at the last second, sending him rolling through the grit.
Seth got easily to his feet, eyes on the prize, and this time when he rushed Kenn, the Marine used his own weight to throw him across the ring of now standing and
shouting men.
He gained his balance, rolling as he landed. When the cop rushed a third time, Kenn planted a hard fist in his ribs that had him grunting.
“This is for real! If you don’t want it, quit now!” Kenn growled, not about to take it easy on the redhead even though he hoped for another ally in him.
Seth shook his head, side hurting and heart waking at the challenge. His body language changed, became intent.
Each of the Level men watched him, remembering their own tests, and that moment when they too had realized they wanted it almost more than anything - because
of Adrian.
Seth moved closer, circling, no longer eyeing the metal under Kenn’s feet, but keeping track of it. This time when the redhead rushed, he came in low and hard,
making the Marine take a step back as they shoved against each other.
Kenn quickly delivered a vicious kick to his knee, then another to his ankle, and Seth fell, grunting in pain.
“Just quit,” Kenn ordered. “Give up!”
Seth’s face hardened, and everyone watching knew that he wouldn’t. The feeling of failing Adrian was one that would never go away, not in this new life.
The redhead got to his feet for a fourth time, and Adrian watched with real interest, as fire grew in the cop’s eyes. Seth stepped straight at Kenn, like he meant to
rush again, and instead, swung a roundhouse that landed on Kenn’s jaw, rocking him back.
The other fist came around, slamming into the Marine’s cheek, and then Kenn was hitting back, and Seth went to his knees in the sand as the Marine beat on his
face. Seth sank his head into Kenn’s hard gut, shoving with his legs, and as they rolled over, his fingers clutched at the dusty ground. His pinky snagged the chain and
when he got to his feet, the dog tags were securely in his grip.
He flashed them at Kenn, who was moving determinedly in his direction. “I got ‘em! It’s over, right?” he panted, and then ducked as Kenn swung.
“But, I’m done. I...”
No one spoke, waiting for him to figure it out.
His eyes narrowed at Adrian’s outstretched hand and then he was moving, ducking, darting, and shoving his way to the man whose life he often dreamed of giving
his own for.
Kenn spun him back by the shoulder, and Seth threw out a fist, punching him hard and Kenn swung back, rocking the cop on his heels.
Pissed now, Seth returned the hit, putting his weight into it. When Kenn did the same, the Eagles watching were impressed that Seth stayed on his feet.
The two men kept swinging, trading blow for fast blow, but when Adrian gave him a subtle nod, Kenn delivered a nasty hit to Seth’s forehead that knocked him
face down in the dirt at the leader’s feet.
When Seth’s hand rose, Adrian bent down and retrieved his property. “Pass. Effective immediately, you are a Level Four Eagle.”
“No.”
There was a shocked silence as Seth climbed to his feet, covered in sand and blood drops.
“Because?”
“Because…they...voted me team leader...earlier. Can’t have… that as a Level Four.”
Adrian grinned, and Kenn slung an arm around the cop’s tense, gritty shoulders. “If you knew you didn’t want it, why did you go through with the test?”
Seth grinned at his fellow Eagle, but the look in his eyes said his words were for Adrian. “To prove…that I could.”
11
The call came just as Adrian was grinding his hard body against a very willing ass, breath coming in short rasps. He pressed a quick, apologetic kiss to her neck as
he stepped back, zipped up.
He left without a word, heading quickly through the blowing grit to the communications truck - sliding into the sandy seat a minute later.
As he keyed the mic, Adrian was aware of Kenn waiting nearby to help him. Good. The Marine would make it easier. “This is Eagle One. Go ahead with your
message.”
“We need help.”
“Tell me what exactly.”
“We have to leave no matter what, but we need an armed escort. Things are rough here.”
“How rough? Don’t send me in blind, but be careful what you say.”
“Slavers.”
That one word brought mutters from the half a dozen men now lingering around the radio truck and Adrian keyed the mic, “Do any of you know Morse code?”
“No... Wait.”
There were a few seconds of silence.
“We know it.”
Adrian waved a hand to Kenn and the Marine opened his notebook, slid into the other chair. “Get ready for a message. Word for word, Marine. Don’t miss one.”
“Go ahead, Safe Haven.”
Adrian gave Kenn the mic. “Say the number, five.”
Kenn tapped and they waited.
“Five.”
“Say the state, Nevada.”
“Nevada.”
Kenn gave Adrian a nod and got ready to work.
“We will fight for you, protect you, and feed you. In return, you’ll be expected to obey and work for it.”
There was a lot of tapping and silence, and Adrian waited impatiently for this part to be over so he could get to the information he needed.
“Agreed, but everyone goes.”
Kenn handed the mic back to Adrian, and the leader’s voice was flat, “We don’t leave Americans behind. I’ve got some questions. Ready?”
“Roger that, Safe Haven and thank you. You’re the first Americans we’ve heard, who aren’t in the same boat as us.”
Kenn took the mic back, frowning. “Tell exactly double the number of people you have. Include everyone.”
“Seventy.”
“How many fighters? Double it.”
“Ten.”
Both men winced. “Weapons?”
“Limited.” Tap tap tap tap tap. “A few hand guns. No ammo.”
“Have you seen the Slavers?”
“Yes. Twice, from a distance.”
“How many are there? Double it and add a hundred.”
“Not exact, four hundred?”
Adrian’s frown was deep. “Where are they now?”
The taps went on for a long time, Kenn’s hand flying, and then he was circling an area on the map and holding it up for the boss to see. Adrian counted quickly.
Tap tap tap tap tap…
He looked over his Marine’s shoulder, reading out loud: “Heard them this morning. They spend a few days each time they take a town. Most people here are from
the places they’ve invaded.”
Kenn gave Adrian a look. “Based on his calculations, they’re only four towns away from Cheyenne. Two and a half weeks.”
Adrian nodded, the plan falling into place in his head. He didn’t like it, but it was the only thing he could do. “Tell them to be ready from the 21st. Radio silence until
then, unless they see or hear of the Slavers reaching Wellington. Switch to channel 18 and say double the date I’ve just given you.”
“Forty two.”
Adrian took the mic back, hoping the Slavers weren’t listening. Hundreds of channels and both calls had lasted less than seven minutes total. Maybe they would get
lucky. “Hang in there, Overloaded. Liberty and Justice will prevail.”
“Roger that, Safe Haven. Cheyenne, out.”
Adrian looked at his right-hand man, “It’s yours, Marine. Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.”
Kenn’s eyes were confident, “We’ll come and go like the wind.”
Chapter Twenty Four
March 10th, 2013
1
Still alone and once again in danger, Samantha’s heart was pounding, as she waited motionless in the dank basement of a farmhouse on the outskirts of Boulder,
Colorado.
Her worried eyes watched the drunken passage of a very large group of dirty, well-armed Mexican men, rolling down the street like they owned it. Praying none of
them looked her way, she listened to shouts, glass breaking, and wild gunfire that made her duck down a bit more.
These were the stragglers, hurrying to catch up to the main group she had already watched go by, the sky behind them warning of another nasty storm coming. She
ignored the throbbing leg that confirmed the forecast. Samantha had been moving very cautiously since surviving the battle with wolves, and her alert eyes saw the
billowing, black smoke filling the air in the direction the Mexicans had come from. Were they the ones who had taken NORAD?
The small cellar room Sam had taken shelter in was cold and stank of mildew. The floor was covered in standing, stagnant water, but she only had eyes for the
dangerous men moving through the devastated neighborhood bordering the big, dark city.
Samantha didn’t know who they were, but it was clear they were trouble. Not that she would have made contact even if they’d looked okay. She hoped to be left
alone until she got to Cheyenne, and it never crossed her mind that this group might be headed there, too.
Samantha had seen more bodies around here than in other places, the dead carrying sores that made her push away horrible flashes of the bunker where she had
killed her first man, but there had been live people, too - brief, distant glimpses of her fellow survivors that sent her dropping out of sight as fast as she could.
Sam was heavily-armed now, shame and paranoia her constant companions. The pair had settled onto her shoulders, making her prefer the lonely solitude to the
conversations she would be forced to have. What would she say? “Hi. I’m Sam. I had a pass to the government’s safe bunker, but my chopper crashed, and now
I’m stuck out in this hell with you common folk.” Not a good idea.
She did want to be with others again, longed for her normal life back, but there was only one type of people she could live with, she understood that now. The
thought of being alone didn’t bother her nearly as much as how everything had changed, how dangerous even living had become.
Sam’s eyes looked over the last of the vehicles driving though the dirty slush, lingering on the very distant shadow of purple mountains with dull, white peaks. They
would be full of lavender columbine by now, gigantic ash trees and evergreens providing homes for the rabbits, cranes, and larks she hadn’t seen down here. Up there
was a whole different world.
Her leg had healed slowly and painfully, forcing her to spend two full weeks at a farmhouse just south of the hunting lodge. She was glad the morphine had only held
out for the first six days. Any more than that might have turned her into a junkie. Almost had anyway, she thought, still wanting that liquid gold buzz, even though normal
Tylenol was controlling the pain.
Traveling was hard though, and she had only been able to keep going because of the cart she’d found in a shed behind a vandalized golf course. She had been back
on the road for almost a week now and still wasn’t sure if it had been hunger driving the wolves, or something else. The way they’d tracked her, surrounded her, and
waited for the storm’s cover, implied organization.
“Almost like they planned it,” she muttered lowly, pulling her trench coat closer as the last of the muddy jeeps fell out of her view that was distorted by the light rain
on the dirty glass, and the tier of dark Hanukah candles that would stay that way forever. “They were the hunted before. Now they’re the hunters.”
Her words, spoken quietly, disturbed the occupants of the dank basement that she hadn’t noticed when she’d quickly limped down the steep wooden steps,
seeking refuge from the large group of obviously dangerous men. Suddenly, Sam realized her safe shelter wasn’t so safe.
There was movement in the corner and she froze, heart thudding. A soft slither around a cobweb-covered ceiling beam - long and drawn out as it slid closer,
another ripple of movement along the floor, a dark, weaving shadow under the inches of water - and Sam’s paralysis broke. She had to get out of here!
Staying low, Sam swung the sharpened walking stick in front of her as she limped to the steps, able to feel the snakes gliding toward her from above. There was no
hissing, no noises except for hers, and it was menacing.
Samantha took the steep stairs two at a time, seeing another, larger snake coming from behind the wooden steps and she lunged up the last three.
Unable to stifle a cry as she rolled, she lost her cane, her bad leg taking the brunt of her weight.
The air moved near her head, and she rolled again, hitting the wall. On her feet a second later, Sam quickly limped to the door, not able to see anything following,
but sure the hungry reptiles were there.
The feeling was gone as she moved through the heavily-decorated front door, but she didn’t slow as the rain pelted her, only slid her goggles over haunted blue
eyes. The ghost town around her was silent, smoking heavily in places, and Sam wondered if the fallout that was changing nature’s routines and habits, was also
affecting the people.
She had seen things since the War that made even Stephen King’s stories seem tame, and it was everywhere. Dead corpses full of bullet holes, female bodies still
lying with their legs spread and mouths open in mi-scream, the family dog impaled on a broken porch rail, blood smears in the shape of a small hand on the stone walk.
Her eyes landed on these things and flew away each time, but she knew she’d see them ‘up close and personal’ in her dreams. There was no escaping it.
2
Cesar and his Slavers were indeed headed toward southern Wyoming, where survivors had been heard calling for help, attracting his attention instead. These
refugees read the American Pledge of Allegiance and sang the anthems over the radio. Cesar couldn’t wait to show them who this new America belonged to.
Chapter Twenty Five
March 11th, 2012
Pitcairn Island
1
Kendle winced at a brilliant bolt of white lightning forking across the cloudy sky, her stomach churning as the storm roared down on them.
“Nice night for a ride. Come on!" Luke shouted over the thunder, grinning, and Kendle moved faster, fighting the stiff wind and driving rain. She pulled the cabin
door shut and shouldered the backpack while she ran for the idling bike.
The storm had been growing all day. When Luke had said to pack a bag, that they were going to higher ground, she hadn’t argued, despite not wanting to be
soaked and get a chill from a midnight ride. She would face anything that kept her off that merciless ocean. She threw her leg over and grabbed hold of his belt buckle.
The bike jerked forward, throwing her back, and Luke grabbed for her blindly. He snagged her jacket and pulled her back on behind him. He found her hand,
wrapped it around his hips, and she buried her head against his strong back, heart skipping in her chest. The angry sky above them lit up again, lightning flashing wildly,
and Luke wanted to comfort her when she jumped, but already had his hands full keeping the Yamaha moving steadily on the muddy path.
Kendle knew to mold her body to his so their matched movements would help him keep them balanced. She held on tight, feeling his muscles flexing, controlling, his
heartbeat comforting against her ear, and these things were a relief in spite of the fear. All in all, she’d much rather take her chances on land, with Luke. There wasn’t a
road or any lights that signaled other people, the island natives miles apart, and she closed her eyes when the path they were on narrowed suddenly by more than half.
Soon they were under the protective canopy of a thick forest of tall, leafy trees. Sheltered from the worst of the weather pounding on the thick vegetation far above
them, he took a moment to check on her. “You okay?”
She pushed closer against his back, not looking, as lightning flashed again.
“Be there in half an hour.”
She nodded, miserable physically, but emotionally, she felt only unbelievable gratitude that someone else was in charge of this crisis.
They moved through the thick, black jungle at a steady pace for what seemed like hours to Kendle. Muddy, unseen, leafy plants and vines slapped at them from the
dense darkness around their speck of a headlight, and the rain began to beat on them again when Luke turned onto an extremely narrow path that veered out of the
trees and down a steep hill.
The fast-moving bike hit the bottom, and Kendle clung to him as they shot upward, very close to tipping over. They evened out onto a rocky path that led gradually
up a tall hill dotted with heavily-swaying banyan trees. Rain pelting their faces, wind stealing her breath in little, painful gusts each time he rounded a curve, Kendle held
on tight, and waited for it to be over.
Blindingly vivid lightning flashed overhead abruptly, moving toward them at thousands of miles per hour, and their ears were filled with a roaring thunder as it
slammed into the ground, exploding in a ball of vivid red and white light.
Ccrraaacckkk!
There was no way to avoid the flaming, bushy tree that crashed to the ground across their path, and the bike tire hit the thick log at full speed, flipping them into the
air.
Arm still deadlocked around his waist, Kendle screamed, and then the breath was knocked out of her as they hit the mud and slid toward the edge of the steep hill.
Kendle sucked in air to scream again, hands clawing for purchase as she felt herself start to go over, and the small breath shot out in another piercing shout as she
started to fall.
Luke snagged her slick wrist, pulling it out of its socket for a second of awful pain, before hauling her up and into his arms. “You all right, Darlin?”
She buried her head against his chest and Luke held her close as he got to his feet. Moving back to the muddy path that he had no trouble seeing in the dark, Luke
had a brief, horribly real flash of trying to carry each villager out of ground zero and shook it away. Now was not the time.
The rain fell harder, washing away some of the mud on their hands and faces, and Luke didn’t stop to look at the bike, but carried her to a dark hillside before
setting her gently on her feet.
“Hang on a minute, little girl, and we’ll be inside.”
Kendle saw nothing that resembled a shelter, and her eyes widened when he pulled aside a large patch of grass like it was a carpet, revealing a wide, steel door set
into the earth.
Realizing carpet was right, she watched him twist the combination lock into place. When he disappeared inside, she followed with only a little hesitation. She had
that unnerving sense of wrongness as she went in, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been previously and she guessed that was one of the few wounds that might heal
completely with enough time. She had been back on land for a little over three weeks, but a lot of the horror was still there, lurking just under the surface of her polite
smiles and casual words.
The storm’s sounds were muffled by the dirt, and when a light flared in the darkness, then brightened, allowing her to look around, Kendle was glad to know they
wouldn’t be laid up short.
Luke lit the lamps hanging in each corner of the 8’ x 10’ x 30’ room, and Kendle stared in approval. Everything they needed was here. The walls were concrete, the
floors, ceiling, chairs, and small table all made of plain yellow wood - as were the long rows of shelves running the length of the back wall, and everywhere she looked,
there were supplies. Serious survival supplies.
Lamps, batteries, weapons, a gas stove hooked to a grill, lots of dusty boxes marked ‘fragile, handle with care’. It was all neatly arranged, and there were personal
touches here that were missing from the bare walls of his small cabin, like the pictures of a jungle, behind American soldiers holding rifles up and grinning.
Were these the men he had served with in ‘Nam? LJ hadn’t said he’d been there, hadn’t even told her that he was a soldier, but she knew. He was way too tightlipped
and organized to be anything but military, and she’d figured the place by his age. He had told her he would be sixty-one on the sixth of July, but she was pretty
sure that back in the day, Luke had been a badass. The young man in those pictures certainly looked the part.
“This is amazing. You built it yourself?”
Luke unfolded a blue tarp behind the open door as she got a towel out of the backpack to wipe her face. “Dug it, mostly. Frank helped when I started putting in the
walls and ceiling. We’re only three miles from the cabin, but we’re almost a hundred feet higher. Even a rogue wave won’t reach here.”
He ducked back out into the storm, and Kendle forced herself to wait, hating the awful loneliness that swept over her every time Luke was out of sight. She could
follow. He'd made it clear he liked having her around. He hadn’t even wanted to tell her that the doctor had a room in town if she felt uncomfortable staying with him.
She got the sense that he was lonely too, and his full days backed that up. It spoke of someone wanting to be too tired to think or even dream when he went to bed,
and that, she understood completely.
Kendle covered her face with her wet sleeve as she sneezed. Wrist aching, swelling a little, she looked around for a place to change. Seeing nothing private enough,
she settled for peeling off her drenched shoes and socks and hanging her dripping jacket over a chair. Shivering as she listened to the rumble of the storm, the castaway
waited nervously for her host to come back.
Luke rolled the wrecked, but fixable bike inside and leaned it against the wall so that the mud would drip onto the tarp. His very male eyes quickly looked away
from Kendle’s see-through shirt and slacks. He got a coil of rope and a blanket from a shelf, aware of how her gray eyes lingered on him while he attached the rope to
the ceiling near the bunk beds.
He threw a long blanket over it to duplicate the area he had made for her back at the cabin when she’d said she preferred to stay with him, if he didn’t mind. “I’ll
make some coffee while you change,” he offered, going to the tarp to take off his muddy boots.
Kendle smiled gratefully, moving behind the blanket. She couldn’t wait to be warm and dry again. Being wet reminded her too much of her nightmare on the ocean.
Luke tossed his soaked, mud-streaked coat over the other chair and couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to the slender shadow on the wall as he wiped his face
and got the water heating on the stove. He was decades older than her, with blood on his hands that he could never atone for, but he couldn’t deny the want. He’d been
alone for a long time, and she was beautiful, young, brave… he’d found his eyes watching her for signs of interest.
She had told him that her career had kept her busy, that there was no husband or even a boyfriend to mourn, and he had been able to read nothing else. She was
nice, friendly to him, good company, but very careful and closed-off. She’d clearly been through hell, had a fortress around her heart, and Luke had decided he
wouldn’t even try to breach those walls without at least knowing whether she saw him as an eligible man or just an old man.
“How long did all this take?” she asked from behind the blanket, and Luke forced his eyes away from her alluring shadow, thinking she had to be the strongest
female he’d ever met. Even the resourceful island women would still be in tears over that close call, and she sounded like nothing had happened.
“Over four years.” He got the cups out, wiping the dust from them, ears listening to her movements.
“Anyone else know it’s here?”
“Probably. Everyone out here has a hole-up. It’s the way you do things on Pitcairn.”
“How long have you lived alone out here?” It was one of the first personal questions she’d asked, and his reluctance to answer was clear when he finally did.
“All my life it seems like sometimes.”
Kendle tossed her dripping sweater over the rope, hiding her underclothes beneath her slacks, and her eyes found his, locked.
Luke felt his lungs tighten. Her vivid red skin was a sharp, sexy contrast to the simple white dress that outlined a perfect young body, and for an instant, Luke
considered just asking her outright to be his woman. Common sense returned quickly, with guilt on its heels.
He turned away, missing her look of relief. Those were choices she definitely wasn’t ready to make yet. She was weak, vulnerable, still dealing with the grief of
losing her sister. Men and sex were the last things on her mind…right?
“How long do you think we’ll be here?”
“Day or two probably. We’ll be able to see the beach come dawn. If the crabs and sandpipers are out, I’ll know for sure it’s okay. Likely, I overreacted."
Kendle smiled, pulling dry, white anklets over slender feet. “I’m okay with it.”
Luke ducked behind the blanket while Kendle wandered the far ends of the long room, impressed. She and her parents had each had an area in their homes, but his
was the King of all shelters - medical supplies, survival books, a long box with a picture of a thermal tent on the side, and a generator in the back corner. All these things
said Luke was a realistic, reliable person - but the creature comforts, like the cigars, the chocolate bars and music, said life with him wouldn’t be cruel either, and it
pleased her.
Life with him? Kendle asked herself sharply, hearing the clink of pants with a belt still in them hitting the wooden floor. Are you conceding your real life for this?
Not even planning a single, foolish attempt to get back?
She shook her head. No. Going back on the water was unthinkable. Unless a plane came, she was here to stay. With Luke? Kendle wasn’t sure yet, wasn’t sure
how much she could give him. There were younger, more arrogant men here. She’d met them and been asked out by a couple, but had said no, even letting one think
she and Luke already had something going on, so he would take the hint and leave her alone.
She felt safe with Luke, knew instinctively he was her own kind, and while she knew people who’d started relationships with less, she didn’t think she was ready for
all the complications that always came up. She owed him a great deal, and he was definitely one of the good guys, but his eyes said he’d done terrible things in the past,
and she often wondered if his solitary life here was a self-imposed penance for it. He was closed-off, giving few details about his life, and she wasn’t sure yet how close
she wanted to be to him.
There was a choice coming, though. She saw it in his heated blue eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking, felt it when shared a meal over flickering candlelight, and
while it flattered her, she didn’t encourage him or lead him on. Luke was a full-grown man who could easily take what he wanted if provoked, and that was nothing to
play with when you were almost alone together on a deserted island paradise.
“Where did you get all this stuff?” she asked, needing to fill the silence as he stepped from behind the blanket. His big, scarred hands were tucking in his plaid shirt
around lean hips, and Kendle quickly looked away, thinking he really was in great shape for being sixty.
“Plane used to come. Some from crashes and what the tide brought in. Little from people leaving, not wanting to take it back to the mainland with them.” He
paused, looking at her with dark eyes lined by the coming of old age. “Some from my time in the service.”
Kendle nodded, recognizing the first information he’d offered about his past. She stopped herself from asking anything, knowing he expected it, but didn't really
want to give it. Instead, she sat down, still shivering a little.
Luke took a long suede jacket from a wall peg and draped it over her shoulders, not letting his restless fingers make contact with her skin.
She pulled it close, smiling her thanks and noticing the light smell of whiskey before he moved back. Luke had been a complete gentleman the entire time they'd
been together. Weak most of the time, she felt guilty, wanting to help with the chores, but the doctor had told him to make sure she took it easy, and he did. He cooked
and cleaned, did the laundry, and sometimes, let her dry dishes or set the table.
As a result, she was starting to regain the weight she’d lost and was feeling better every day. Even the tears at night were coming less frequently. It had been almost
a week now since her last nightmare, and she was grateful to him for everything.
"Enough to give your body? When a man’s been alone as long as he has, that’s a powerful thing to be used."
No. Her virginity was worth more to her than just the payment of a debt or a bond to keep from being alone.
The storm outside their den grew stronger, and Luke turned on the CD player, surprising her with Aerosmith’s greatest hits, then left her alone, knowing she needed
time to heal. She reminded him of how bad off he’d been when he first came here.
He too, had been on the edge of death, on the line of putting his gun in his mouth, but this simple life had healed him enough to go on, and it would her as well, in
time. He’d had Frank and she would have him. It would be enough to keep either of them from ending it when the nightmares got bad.
2
Hours later, Kendle jerked awake in the warm darkness, eyes flying to the shadow of the man standing over her. Her eyes locked with his, seeing the terror that
would probably never be spoken of. Being here, around the mementoes of his past, had hurt him.
Responding to his desperate need, she slowly pulled back the blanket, inviting him in. They’d passed many nights in each other’s arms, usually when he couldn’t
stand the sound of her sobs anymore.
Luke curled away from her, embarrassed, and Kendle molded herself to his back. Feeling his rapid heartbeat, his quick rasps for air, had her holding him tighter,
lending her comfort. Laying there, listening to his struggle, she thought that maybe together, they might teach each other to live with all that had happened, and go on
despite the scars they would always carry.
Earlier, she’d been sure she wasn’t ready to handle any type of a relationship right now, but the feel of his pain made her accept that she was already in one. She
cared for Luke, wanted him to find a measure of peace with whatever demons were tormenting him…and he wanted the same for her. It wasn’t a traditional
relationship, but there was something about it that was comforting.
Luke’s body shuddered as his control gave a little, and Kendle comforted him as best she could, not quite daring to tug him into her full embrace. Physical contact,
she definitely wasn’t ready for yet, but being alone…away from Luke, just wasn’t an option anymore.
Chapter Twenty Six
Bad weather sensors and alarms on buoys out in the Atlantic Ocean were storing data on a system of unparalleled size, but the warnings went unheeded, those
operating the stations long gone; their dark halls abandoned.
Most water front areas had emptied out right after the War. Storm surges, tidal waves, and horrible flooding forced the tourists and vacationers to go, but there
were still people surviving along the coast. They were the longtime residents who had stayed for Hurricane Camille in ’69 and again for Andrew in ’92. These were the
die-hard survivors who abandoned their homes for nothing…and now, they were leaving.
The ocean was telling them there was a monster on the way, though it was over two months before the season officially started. Some of these residents held hopes
of returning, but most suspected there would be little to come back to. They had seen the signs and understood.
Before, they might have had three or four days of warning. Now, they had one if they were alert, and only a few hours if they were not. The days of city pumps and
mandatory evacuations were gone, but the natural warnings were abundant. Flocks of brightly-colored birds that normally spent a few days in the area, kept going, their
cries uneasy, upset. The surf was growing steadily rougher, pushing further onto the debris-littered beaches, despite no visible storm clouds. The wind threw out sudden
downdrafts and heavy rain bands that had gust sensors reaching 70 before settling back down to 35. The barometers were dropping sharply; the tides almost impossible
to distinguish as the rough surf moved further inland, and animals had begun to beach themselves.
It was enough to convince even the most foolhardy. Sharks, whales, dolphins, all fleeing and panic-stricken, were willing to suffocate themselves on the beaches,
rather than face whatever was coming. This was no tropical depression, and alert coastal survivors raced to get out of its path.
Some people however, had no idea danger was once again approaching. Large parts of Georgia, made oceanfront property in the War, were underwater, and
Valdosta, where the crack had split the land, was full of people who had been on the road for the holiday. Stuck with no way to go forward and no way to go back,
they had no understanding of the ocean’s dangerous fury and the cost of the lesson was high. The group of survivors in Valdosta only numbered a hundred, but they
were unrelated families who could have repopulated the entire country without any fears of inbreeding. Their laws might have been drastically different, their future
waiting for them…
Out in the toxic waters of the Gulf, a monster had honed in on American soil. Hurricane Amanda, as it might have been called if anyone had been left to name it, was
bigger than anything on record and it surged due north, powered by a hot ocean current and violent winds full of radiation.
It had churned for weeks, drawing smaller storm systems in, and at its peak, the outlying winds were sustained at 300 mph, with gusts upwards of 375 mph. The
storm surge was 25 feet high in places as it pushed into southern Georgia, and ten inches of rain fell from the angry sky in the first hour. If satellite pictures could have
been accessed, they would have shown a storm that, at its height, covered over half the United States, with rainbands touching both Mexico and Canada.
Amanda moved northwest as she came ashore, submerging whole towns and leaving an immense path of destruction in her wake. The parts of the Bahamas, the
Florida Keys, and Cuba that survived the War, were destroyed - flooded with high water that receded slowly, reluctantly giving back only half of what it had taken. The
War had raised ocean levels as much as ten feet globally, and those lands already at or below sea level, were wiped off the map by Hurricane Amanda, becoming a part
of the vast, angry ocean.
Nearly no one survived in these isolated havens of “fun in the sun”, yet not all the victims came from the land. Boat after boat was flooded, rolled and sank, including
battleships and Coast Guard vessels, which, having survived the War, could only drift on the tides without their engines and compasses. These people joined the millions
of others already under the salty waves.
The eye of Hurricane Amanda hit Valdosta, GA head-on and moved inland like a wall of liquid destruction, leaving not a single structure or tree for ten miles inland.
It was shocking to see a seven hundred foot long cargo ship sitting evenly atop a school building half its size. Upon closer inspection, it was not a container ship but a
former battleship that had been turned into a floating hospital of aid; the boxes littering it not pods, but crushed cars and homes. The USNS Comfort had crossed the
oceans on thousands of missions of mercy, but its days were over now; gone like the police, 911, lottery contests, and elections. Gone like Hollywood, American Idol,
and the entire west coast. The Survivors, the War’s desperate refugees, now have only the simplest of goals: they want to live, to continue, and if enough of the right
people can find each other, they just might stand a chance.
Hurricane Amanda did give the survivors one benefit: it brought in warmer air from the South, where there was less grit in the sky to block out the sun’s rays. For
the first time since the War, it began to feel like the season it was.
The downside - with these fresh winds, came violent storms. Mother Nature was still furious, venting her rage indiscriminately, and America’s losses continued.
Chapter Twenty Seven
March 18th, 2013
Somewhere in Missouri
1
They were lost in middle-America. The storm battered their vehicles, lashing out at them violently. The rain came in sporadic bursts, cold droplets that set skin on
fire, and thick, orange clouds rolled menacingly overhead.
Marc and Angela had been making good time until they’d gotten to Kirksville, Missouri, but getting past the tangled piles of wreckage was impossible. Stretching as
far as they could see, even to her untrained eye, it was clear a massive flood had destroyed this town.
Boats were on front porches; heavy river barges piled against a Don Pablo’s restaurant like firewood. Homes and businesses were collapsed and scattered,
ambulances and fire trucks crushed together, and for the first time, Marc wished for a navigation system, forgetting for an instant that they wouldn’t work without access
to the satellites.
Their way blocked, they had doubled back, but the route was closer to the North Fork Salt River, and when the storm broke over them, the water had begun to
rise, blocking their way. As Marc moved them to higher ground, he jumped from one unknown street to another in order to escape the churning water, and now they
were lost.
Marc surveyed the area with a careful eye and a thumping heart. He didn’t want to stop now despite all the debris flying through the storm. He hated how low this
area was.
“Let’s try that parking garage,” Angela suggested.
Marc frowned. “It’s kinda low.”
She pulled around him to take the lead, trying not to react to the Santa hat that blew by her windshield as she looked for a marker or a name. They were driving
over glass and jewelry, passing downed telephone poles. The signs that they could see, they couldn’t read because the paint was too faded. “Sturdy though,” she finally
answered.
The four-story garage sloped gently upward in circles and they were surprised to see only half a dozen cars in the whole place as they did a drive through check
first. The vehicles were dusty, a couple with notes still taped to the inside of the windows and there was a lot of garbage cluttering the lanes, including broken neon bulbs
and the shredded exit sign on the first level.
Marc didn’t like it that they couldn’t see out once they were inside, but although there were bodies all over this town, there were none in here. The smell of them
however, was under the salty, smoky rain.
“Up here should be okay for tonight, right?” Angela turned to face the exit and backed in, frowned when he didn’t answer. “Brady?”
Silence, and she looked to see him gesturing at his mic, and then the ceiling, and understood they had no radio in here.
Angela put her vehicle in park, but didn’t turn it off as Brady backed in next to her. She’d put them in a far corner, like he would have, but the rain was still dusting
the hood and front windows and the wind was strong, rocking both Blazers.
Marc stepped out and disappeared, securing the perimeter with Dog at his side as Angela watched the darkness around them, gun in her tense hand. She knew the
open area wasn’t to his liking as he moved back toward her and waited to see if he would override her decision. If so, she’d go along with his choice. He’d been
surviving out in the world a lot longer than she had.
Whammmm!
They both ducked as something heavy slammed against an outside wall. When he opened her door, his face was relaxing, “Probably the best place we can be, as
long as nothing collapses. We can go up two more floors if we have to.”
Angela nodded, reaching back in for her duffle bag. The wind gusted against her door, and only Marc’s quick reflexes kept it from hitting her leg.
“Damn. We need to get out of this wind. We’ll make camp over by the elevators, in that hallway.”
Marc grabbed each item as she removed it from the back seat of the blazer, and when she closed the door, empty-handed, he gestured toward the dark hallway he
had already checked over.
“Light and gun. Let’s go.”
Angela started to tell him this was no time for a lesson and then stopped, realizing this was the perfect time. “Okay.”
Dog now alertly at her side, she tried to concentrate as he’d shown her, tuning out all the distractions. She slipped quietly through the loud darkness and Marc’s
sharp eyes watched their rear…and hers.
A short time later, Angela was unpacking just what they needed, preparing to hunker down and wait out the storm while he went back for his things, thinking she
wasn’t as nervous as she had been just nine days ago. Killing had definitely changed things, changed her. She was suddenly a much harder person than she’d ever been
before.
Angela set the heater against the wall and made up one large sleeping area between it, and the cooler and boxes, creating a wall to block the wind. She started
getting settled as he came back with his arms full, the wolf at his heels.
“Great idea.”
Angela took off her sweater, listening to the wind howl, as he added his own items to the barricade.
“Hungry?”
She shook her head, setting up the stove. “Not really. You?”
Marc dropped his trench coat on top of a box and pretended not to see how her eyes went to his chest, lingered there. “No, but we should eat.”
She nodded, but only put on water, and he left her alone. “I’m gonna mark the water levels. Be right back.”
She pushed off her shoes and sat down against her pillows - journal, pen, and cup on one side, gun and ashtray on the other. She was calm. She had already seen
them, safe and sound, in this very spot as dawn broke, preparing to leave. They had seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, but she hadn’t sensed any real danger and was
able to relax. Trusting the Witch inside was a lot easier since Versailles.
Brady wasn’t as confident, using a can of waterproof chalk to mark where the water was, and then every ten feet, all the way to their Blazers. A quick look would
now tell him how fast it was rising.
Angela was lighting a joint when he came back, and he smiled as he saw his own side of the big bed had been set up identical to hers. Even Dog’s quilt was lined
with a bowl of food and water. Neat and organized. He put his gun next to the ashtray on his side of the makeshift bed. When she casually held the joint out, not looking
up from her writing, their fingers brushed, sparked.
Angela pulled back without looking up, but Marc saw her nostrils flare and his heart pounded, wishing she’d meet his eye. That hadn’t felt like fear to him, and if she
wasn’t scared anymore, then it was proof he had made some progress by being her friend; by waiting and holding back all the things his heart still longed to say.
They were traveling well together now, starting their days with a quiet meal and then a workout, where he taught her things, like how to breathe and read the
ground. Afterwards they would do a training session; first, hand-to-hand and then weapons, which would put them on the road around 10 a.m. They traveled until it was
too dark to see, and then he would pick a place…if she told him it was okay. Her magic was something they usually shied away from, Marc having no experience with
the subject, but her gifts were used when they made camp. He wasn’t taking any more chances with her life.
“So tell me about him.”
Angela’s eyes immediately met his, before she realized who he meant.
“Charlie’s a great kid, warm, funny.” Sadness was in her face. “Probably looks different now, older.”
Knowing he wanted more, Angela let her worried mother’s heart speak, and the father felt it in his gut, how much she loved her child.
“He’s smart. So much that it makes me ashamed I’m so dumb, and I’m a doctor. He’s loyal, hardworking, and cares about things like saving the whales. It’s agony
for me to not be with him after all that’s happened. Sometimes a boy needs his mom, and sometimes a mom needs her boy.”
Not wanting to let emotions get the best of her, Angela dug through her bag and tossed a yellow packet onto the blanket by his leg. “These are from his first
birthday. I still love the clown outfit.”
Marc looked up. “He was born on Halloween?”
“Yes, on 10/31, at 10:31 in the morning.”
Her voice was rough, sexy, and he let his eyes go where they wanted while she wrote in her journal. “Is he special too?”
She tensed before giving a quick nod. She could trust Marc. “Yes. He’ll be stronger than me.”
“Is it because of being born on Halloween?” He inhaled as she shrugged, passed it back to her.
“I assume because he’s male. Fate controls, not the moon and stars.” She inhaled deeply again, closing her eyes against a sharp curl of smoke.
Marc thought about how erotic it would be to give her a shotgun. “You still believe in destiny and the great plan?”
Angela hesitated, not wanting to stir up that old argument, still not sure who would survive the encounter with her Marine. Marc was good, she’d seen that, but so
was Kenny and her fear of that reunion was great.
“Yes and no. It’s not a set plan. People miss their purpose in life and have to spend an eternity repeating it, looking for that one moment they’ve missed.”
“And do they find it? Does fate give second chances?”
The implication was clear and while she didn’t want to encourage him, she couldn’t help it, couldn’t lie. “Yes, almost always. Fate wants the world to be perfect,
and each correct or corrected life, is a step on that road.”
He met her eye, taking the joint back. “You know that for sure?”
She shook her head at his question. “No, but I look at the world around me and get my answer there. Everything on this planet dies, ends, and usually violently. If
not war, maybe it would have been the plague or an asteroid. For some reason, it was all fated to die.”
“But why everyone? Why not just the bad?”
Angela shrugged again, tone resigned. “That’s a question I can’t answer yet.”
Marc held up the pictures as she eased down. “You want these back?”
“No. I’ve got the memories.” She closed her eyes, covering herself up to her neck. “Goodnight, Brady. See you in the morning.”
“Yes, you will. Sweet dreams, Honey.”
Not likely, she thought, the nightmares a lot of the reason she smoked just before bed. Her heart whispered again about his arms. She couldn’t help thinking about
it, but there was no way she could accept that comfort this time. She already had a fear that Kenny would sense it if she even touched the line, let alone crossed it, and
try to kill her. In her dreams, he succeeded.
Outside, the storm showed no signs of letting up, and they were up until well after midnight before finally lying down. Marc set his watch and checked on the water
every half hour, and each time his footsteps faded into the darkness, red and black-eared wolf at his side, Angela knew it.
Around 2 a.m., Marc and Dog went to check the markers again, and Angela snuggled deeper into the thick blankets, trying to ignore the heart crying for her to
move into his spot. She sighed sadly, feeling guilty that hairy legs and maybe bad breath were the only things stopping her from sleeping in Marc’s big arms. Being
attacked and not only surviving it, but also killing the man responsible for hurting her, had unlocked the last of the old chains, freeing the young girl who feared nothing.
Slowly, Kenny’s timid mouse was disappearing.
How was she ever going to face her Marine after being with Brady again? Kenny would use her up quickly in this new world, and she would die young. With Marc
though, the Witch said there was a chance for the love and future that had been stolen from them. She wanted to talk about it, to ask and tell, but didn’t encourage him.
It didn’t matter that she was falling...
Angela stopped herself, trying to imagine telling him how she was feeling. "I can’t stop thinking about you, about us and how good we were together, and I
may want another chance with you once I get my boy back and find a way to ditch my man."
Never in a million years.
Even if Kenny was out of the picture - and he wasn’t, not by a long shot - there were other walls between them. Still, the young girl who had believed in the dreams
began to whisper and it was hard to ignore as sleep refused to come. They were still a great match, and she still cared, still wanted the life he had promised her so long
ago. Soon, he would figure that out and do something about it. Then, they would all be doomed.
Marc returned to his side of their bed, thinking they were getting closer despite her trying not to let it happen. She was so strong! Any other woman would have still
been crying over being attacked, but not his Angie. She not only recovered quickly, she grew stronger and more confident from each encounter.
She wasn’t afraid to meet his eyes now, to walk close to him, and when he wasn’t looking. He could feel her watching, thinking about him and their past. She felt it
too; he could read it on her pretty face. She felt the... What? Love? Maybe. Lust? You bet that sweet ass, he thought, slipping his belt and buckle loose. For him
anyway.
He had never lit up around a woman the way he did with Angie. He had no doubts about his feelings, but he would accept nothing less than all of her. He had
roughly four weeks left to convince her that giving into her man’s will wasn’t her only choice anymore.
2
Waking with a feeling of revulsion, Angela brushed at her arms as she sat up, eyes still closed in the damp morning air. Her skin prickled with tiny irritations, and her
hair seemed to be moving on its own…she was so tired!
“What the hell?”
It was the sound of Marc’s voice that got her eyes open, and Angela couldn’t stop the yelp of disgust that echoed off the concrete.
“Spiders or crickets; trying to get out of the water. Not sure which. Come over here and let me brush you off.”
His tone was soothing, and Angela stood still while Marc rid her of the black and brown, nickel-sized spiders that had legs twice as long as their bodies, that were
bent over them like grasshoppers.
“They’re under my clothes!” she moaned, horrified.
Marc immediately grabbed the edges of her shirt and yanked it over her head. He shook it out and gave it back, eyes watching Dog avoid the mutations instead of
snapping at them as he did with normal insects.
“Do under your pants and I’ll get our stuff loaded.”
“It’ll all have spiders in it.”
Marc listened to the storm still rumbling overhead, sure they should stay, but the water was rising again and they couldn’t share their shelter with mutations. He had
to get her out of here. “Yeah. When you put those back on, tuck the cuffs into your socks and come get what you really want. We’ll leave the rest.”
As he stepped past her with the heater and their duffle bags, it occurred to Marc that she hadn’t jumped when he’d reached for her shirt, and his heart stirred.
Things were changing.
Half an hour later, they were passing through Matenea, Missouri, and Angela listened to the voices in her head as the wind pushed them along, little black balls of
hail (acid balls) pinging off their roofs and hoods.
“I think we should take cover.”
“What’s...? Oh, shit! Stay on my ass!”
Angela spotted the funnel cloud by following his line of sight and for a second, couldn’t move. The twister wasn’t very wide, but it was moving incredibly fast and
closing in, like it had sensed the presence of humans and dropped out of the sky - just for them.
“Come on!”
His shout startled her, Dog’s piercing bark through the radio breaking her daze, and Angela hit the gas, heart pounding. It was a real tornado and moving their way!
“Thought this only happened in the movies,” she whispered, scared as she caught up to Marc’s bumper, but the raw fury of something they had no chance of
controlling was beautiful too, and Angela knew she would never forget it if they got away.
Marc turned them into a large, mostly empty parking lot, speeding up. When he sent his Blazer crashing through the front glass windows of the theater, plastic and
glass flying, she followed.
Behind them, the tornado churned across the small city, smashing through anything in its way as it headed for the enemy: Man.
“Get as far in as you can!”
Angela swerved in next to him, lobby props tumbling, and they both ducked down as the tornado hit the theater.
The building shuddered, and both Blazers lunged forward with the wind, bashing into the concession stand’s high wall. Glass sprayed as the display shelves caved
in, large chunks of debris banging off them as the roar grew louder.
A blast of straight-line winds swept through the cinema on the twister’s heels, grabbing and spinning Angela’s Blazer in dizzying circles before shoving it into a line of
heavy arcade machines. Marc watched helplessly as the big games were sent flying into the air and each other from the hard impact, glass and coins erupting like tiny,
silver volcanoes.
Bouncing back with a jarring thud, her muddy Blazer slid the length of the lobby before coming to a tire-squealing halt just inches from his front bumper.
A second later, it was over except for the rain, and Marc was scrambling over wet debris to open her door, help her out. “Are you hurt? Are you all right?”
“I don’t remember asking for the tour,” she joked breathlessly, eyes wide, and he grinned at her.
“Me either. You’re okay?”
Angela trembled, a bit shook up, and didn’t tense when he surrounded her with his arms, just buried her head against his hard, comforting body and held on tight.
She couldn’t stop herself from trembling.
Marc rubbed her arms to warm her, knowing it was the shock of being woken so abruptly and forced to deal with the fury of their environment before she’d even
had a cup of coffee that had shaken her, made her a bit vulnerable.
“Dog, up. Sshhh... It’s okay, Honey.”
Angela kept her arms locked around his waist as the wolf went to the roof of his 4x4. Marc held her close, watching the drumming rain continue as his body tried
hard to ignore hers. It was still a perfect fit.
“Are we safe here?”
Marc recognized the moment. If she could ask him that, and be prepared to believe it, things really had changed. “I think so. I need to do a quick check.”
Angela shivered when he stepped back, immediately feeling colder as he disappeared into the dim shadows. The wind blew her hair back, and her heart whispered
this storm was headed northwest, toward her boy. She had to send Kenny another message, had to warn him again. Heart thumping, she gathered herself quickly, doing
it before the fear could make her change her mind.
Marc could feel the waves of energy humming through the cinema. Without knowing he could or that he was going to try, he stepped directly in front of her and
closed his eyes, concentrating.
He was blocked at first by a wall of crumbling mental bricks, but he sent his want ahead of him and it fell easily enough. Angela’s lashes fluttered, but she didn’t
protest, and then he was in and frowning.
“Where are you?” The man’s voice was loud, intimidating, and familiar somehow?
“You have to take cover. Bad storms headed your way.”
“One more time, Bitch! Where are you?”
It was a struggle for Marc to remain silent, but he did.
“A lot closer. How’s my boy?”
“Happy with me. How close?”
The barely-controlled anger was clear and Angela forced herself to stand, emboldened a little by Brady’s presence, “I’m coming for my son just as fast as I
can.”
“You’ll never get him back. Not unless you do what I say.”
Searing rage filled Marc, but it was nothing compared to the fury coming off Angela in clouds of heat he could actually feel.
“You won’t keep me from my boy, Kenny! That was the old world. Things have changed, and you’re the one who should be careful!” She sucked in a
breath as he screamed obscenities, then overpowered him with her anger. The words blasted out in a furious snarl. “If anything happens to my boy because you
didn’t listen, there won’t be a place on this fucking planet that you can hide from me!” she slammed the door before he could respond in kind.
“He’s in a good mood,” Angela said with a shaky smile, forcing her demon back.
Marc’s voice and eyes were hard. “I won’t let him hurt you or the boy. I’ll protect you. My word on it.”
Angela turned away as her heart continued to thump. That was the first time in over a decade she had stood up to Kenny so openly. There would be a payment for
it.
“You can’t promise that. You think you know what you’re up against, but you don’t. He’s a violent, trained killer, and in the end, someone’s blood will spill.”
“His, not yours,” Marc stated flatly and she shook her head, hating it that he was thinking of murder again.
“Please don’t, Brady. It’s on my hands if you kill him, and it would destroy me as sure as losing my boy would. My freedom’s not worth another life. I need you to
swear to me that you won’t.”
“I can’t. You don’t deserve to be treated that way, and I won’t just sit by and watch.”
“I’ll figure something out. For now, you think we can stay here until the storm’s gone?”
He sighed at her obvious distraction, looking around as he ran a hand over neck-length black waves in frustration. Wasn’t he getting to her at all?
“Sometimes too much.”
He flinched guiltily, and she waved a hand. “Well?”
“I don’t know. Let’s have a look around and we’ll decide.” Marc let it go, didn’t tell her he could make it look like an accident and not feel any guilt. He too, was a
violent, trained killer.
“Dog, in.” Marc closed the door behind the big animal, not wanting him to get distracted by things blowing in the heavy wind and run off into the storm.
“Guns and light. Move out,” he ordered, thinking if he decided to handle her man that way, Angie would never know. He’d lock it up so tight, even he wouldn’t be
able to access the memory.
3
A few minutes later they were on the upper balcony, the ghostly smell of popcorn and butter that still haunted the stale air, almost covered by the fishy rot blowing in
through the broken glass doors with the rain.
“Wanna watch a movie while we wait?”
Angela smiled sadly. She hadn’t been to a movie since Charlie was a baby and kept herself from saying it only by looking at the poster for A Miracle on 34th
Street, trading one pain for another. “You know how?”
Marc listened harder, fighting the urge to find a room with a window. “Think so. Just have to find the generators, add some gas.”
Angela was reading movie posters, ignoring the unease of her stomach. After the morning they'd had, that was to be expected. “Okay. How about The Shadows of
Fate? I loved The Chronicles of Riddick.”
Marc grinned, feeling unworthy of her beauty with his long hair and unshaven face. “You just like Vin Diesel.”
Angela laughed at his joking accusation, eyes admiring his sexy goatee. It added to his image of an old west gunfighter. My own John Wayne, she thought, smiling.
“It was a good story.”
“It was crap with a lot of eye candy.”
She turned away, grinning. “Not just for the eyes.”
Marc stilled suddenly, looking over the destroyed lobby and dark, shadowy hallways where he thought maybe bodies should be, but weren’t. This would have
made a good place to hole up, but until they’d hit it (literally) there hadn’t been… “You hear that?”
She listened for a moment, hearing only the storm and things moving with the wind, then shook her head, “No. What?”
He turned, shrugging. “Sounds like someone clearing snow with a metal shovel.”
The image made her frown, and she pushed at the door in her mind, as her stomach dropped. They had made over a hundred miles in the last week, and she was
tired. The door hadn’t opened on its own. Something was happening.
“Up, I think. We should go up,” she whispered, eyes narrowing, ears open.
BOHICA, Marc thought. Bend over. Here it comes again. “But Dog and the Blaz…”
“No time.”
Then they both heard it: that headache-causing sound of metal and stone meeting, but instead of a distant echo, it was loud and close. The vibrations rattled the walls
and pounded through the floor under them.
“Up?”
Angela nodded, heading for the employee door to the right of the upstairs concession area. “We have to…”
The grinding noise was suddenly deafening, and Marc grabbed her arm, shoved them both into the dark stairwell as the building around them moved, knocked
forward on its foundation.
A twenty foot wall of mud and debris slammed into the back of the movie theater like a bomb, blowing out walls and windows. The sound of it was like a tanker
truck jackknifing, and the space immediately began filling with feet of sliding ooze. The entire back wall of the cinema crumbled under the onslaught, filling the rows of
seats with thick, dark mud. The side walls held against the wall of mud, which slowed and then was finally stopped by something bigger than it was: the strip mall around
the theater, which was more than a mile wide.
Sludge continued to invade, flooding the theater and parking lot around it with ten feet of thick, lumpy glop that poured around. It gushed over counters and ticket
booths, shoving the two vehicles against the glassless front doors and then out of them.
Angela and Marc flipped on their penlights to see the dim stairwell and bowed-in door below them.
“Is that mud?”
Marc shined his light on the bottom of the door, where thick, blackish silt was gushing under and he waved a hand, looking upward. “Yeah. A slide.” He waved her
up the steps. “That door’s not gonna ho….”
CCrraack! Sswwwooosh!
The door gave way, buckling under the weight of the sopping mud that began to flow into the dark hall from a doorway. The soggy dirt was almost up to the ceiling,
and pale worms the size of pencils squirmed all over each other and the debris, trying to rebury themselves. It horrified Angela. It was normal that the smallest and
fastest breeding animals would begin to change first; snakes, rats, worms, but the sight was enough to wake that steel in her spine.
“Those are wrong. They shouldn’t be that big,” Angela stated with an odd tone to her voice, feet rooted to the spot as the desire to kill them flooded her. They were
a future danger, an abomination. They needed to be handled.
“Not by us, Honey,” Marc nudged her further up the steep, twisted stairs. “Keep going. It’ll take a full day to go back that way.”
She turned reluctantly, and they moved to the roof’s exit door, but Marc pulled her back before she could step out, both of them listening for Dog in the light wind.
“Wait. Check it out first. Always.”
“Teach me how to do this.”
He nodded, leaving his eyes on hers. She really would have made a good Marine, a strong fighter. “Stay no more than two feet away and step where I do. If I were
to fall, you should come back here and start digging your way out with boards or whatever you can find.”
Angela kept her head down at the thought of losing him, and her mind flew to her gifts. She’d do what she had to, no matter how forbidden it was.
“The whole hillside’s gone.”
They stood just outside the doorway, the rest of the roof cracked, crumbled, missing in places. The Show Me state gave them an awful view of missing homes,
businesses, and roads that had been between the hill and the theater. Even the reeking turkey farm and rye field beside them was now a twenty foot high pile of uneven,
treacherous mud and debris as far as they could see to the east. Small puffs of smoke and dust rose eerily in the early morning chill.
“Look.” Angela pointed to a black corner, where thick, sloppy mud was still spilling around the front of the theater. “Is that a Blazer?”
Marc sounded relieved. “Mud must have pushed ‘em out. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Angela smiled. “Think we already did. I hear Dog.”
“Come on. Let’s get down from here before the whole mall collapses.”
“We need rope.”
“It’s in the Blazer with my bag.”
Marc was reprimanding himself for leaving his kit when she pointed to the dead telephone wires. “Can we use those?”
Marc frowned. “It’s the grip that’s hard. The poles and wires are sprayed with a flame retardant chemical that makes it slippery. We’ll have to braid a rope
together.”
He began fishing in his pockets. “We’ll hope the pole wasn’t loosened by the mudslide.” He cut the phone, cable, and electric wires, and quickly wove them
together.
“Will this work?”
He shrugged. “We’re gonna find out. If it breaks, try to go limp.”
Angela watched as he stood up, eyeing a dark patch of brackish mud that she was sure covered a deer that had been impaled by the thin branch of a walnut tree.
Marc wrapped the braided cord around his fist, and then his waist.
Angela scowled fearfully. “Is this the best we can...”
“Hang on!”
A second later she was tight against his body, feet in the air, and then they were dropping off the side of the building.
“Semper Fi!”
His shout gave her the courage to wrap her legs around him and keep her head up as the ground flew closer.
Marc had swung them toward the pole, hoping to slow their descent. He put his feet straight out so that they slammed into the wood with a jerk that had their grip
on each other tightening painfully.
Legs holding them to the slippery pole, Marc’s eyes picked out a shallow-looking patch of mud and swung them for it just as the braided cord snapped under their
weight, dropping them to the ground with a hard, wet thud.
They landed with her on top, legs pinned around his waist, and she winced as the layer of mud shifted beneath them, putting more pressure on her knee.
“You okay?”
His eyes were closed, and she leaned closer, muddy hands feeling his pulse. “Brady?”
Dazed, but aware she was getting upset, Marc opened his eyes and said the first thing that came to mind, “Never have I seen anything so beautiful.”
Angela blushed, fighting the urge to lean down and kiss his pouty lips in relief. “If you say so. How about getting off my sore leg?”
They were on their feet a second later, and he was reaching for her. “Let me see.”
"I'm fine." Angela moved back, turning away as she slung mud from her hands. “Let’s see about Dog.”
Marc followed her, frowning. Another side effect of her man or the life she’d had? "Neither," his heart whispered. "She feels the attraction too. She’s not
scared. She’s interested and feeling guilty about it." That made sense. Angie and loyalty went hand in hand.
While Marc let the anxious wolf out, Dog eagerly rushing to check them both over, Angela took a minute to scan what was left of the town for people, for survivors.
She still hoped they might be able to help if someone was stuck, or leave food, but there was only silence. Kirksville was a ghost town, and it made her think of the
History Channel. All the bodies that had to be buried under that mile-long stretch of thick mud - would archeologists find them hundreds of years from now and try to
figure out what had happened?
“We got lucky.”
Angela nodded, but didn’t say anything, sure it was more than luck. Fate had allowed both of them to survive again and again. Was it because it wanted something
from them, something bigger than just their tiny lives?
The two Blazers were mud-splattered, the glass on Marc’s side window cracked, but other than dents in the fender and bumper, both vehicles had held up despite
being shoved through the glassless windows by a wall of mud. They climbed into driver’s seats with squelches, grimaces, and shared grins. They were alive and on the
move. It had been a good day.
As they drove, Angela’s mind was on her reaction to Marc reaching for her. She had wanted to step into his embrace! She was no longer able to ignore the
closeness that was growing. He’d broken through her walls, and the old Angela was now wide awake and longing. They had traveled well together, even with the
occasional awkward looks and searing tension that sometimes happened. He was still a good man. "Your man?" the Witch questioned and Angela was glad when
Brady interrupted.
“You okay back there?”
She flashed her lights in response and saw he wanted to say something, but wouldn't. She’d been a fool not to call him all those years ago.
“Ready to go till dark?”
She smiled, picked up the mic, “And then some. You lead, I’ll follow.”
“Copy that.”
They had been traveling together for a month now. Five hundred miles of heartbreaking, gut wrenching, unbelievable horror, and Missouri was no different than
Indiana, Virginia, or Ohio. Except that the ground here felt bad; smelled and looked worse. They had even seen their first mutation yesterday. Only a single ant, pitch
black and the size of a baby’s shoe, all six of its eyes had watched them alertly as they went by.
When she’d stopped, Marc hadn’t said anything, just waited while she squashed the freak under her tires. It had been a powerful moment for him, seeing Angie so
appalled by something that she would decide it didn’t have the right to exist, and he had never felt closer to her than at that moment. It was how he’d spent most of his
adult life.
“Three o’clock, down low.”
Angela narrowed her eyes and immediately hit the brakes, looking for a clear way over.
“Use your gun this time,” he instructed and Angela didn’t fight the urge to destroy, the need to do something overpowering. She’d had to let the worms go. These
she wouldn’t.
“Slow down. Don’t scare them off.”
The small pack of mutated ants didn’t stray from their slow, disorderly course through the dying switch grass, and didn’t seem afraid of the tires and engines that
moved closer, but the Witch said they were aware, that she could feel the scent of alarm coming from them. Angela slid her window down and took the safety off her
gun.
“That’s close enough.”
The Witch frowned at the distance, but Angela nodded. She could hit them from here if she really tried, and he knew it, wanted her to use this as a lesson too.
“My how we’ve changed,” the Witch commented as anger and revulsion took over her trigger finger. “Not a killer, huh?”
Angela ignored the hurtful jab. These mutations were in reach and couldn’t be allowed to endanger more of her people, couldn’t be left free to turn America into a
cheap slasher film.
Angela opened fire and ants began falling. They tried to flee, squealing, and panic-stricken and she took a savage, guilty pleasure in their destruction, getting the last
one with her tire as it darted for cover under the Blazer.
Marc was impressed, turned on, and he struggled to keep it from his voice as he keyed the mic, “Very good. Ready?”
“Let’s roll.”
4
They traveled until it was almost dark. The land around them was wet, deceitful-looking, and by the time they hit higher, dryer ground, the mud had molded to them
like a second skin. Marc had chosen to make camp out in the open, on a flat, almost deserted stretch of highway because of the mud, and their only cover was two
moss-dotted dogwood trees, both without a single bloom.
“You look like an abused dog.”
Marc grinned, moving to the rear of his Blazer. “Feel like one too.”
“Let's make a shower.”
He thought about it for a minute, then began to gather a mental list. “Got an empty gallon jug?”
An hour later, the wolf was out roaming the breezy, almost warm darkness around them, and they had tested their crude invention on the dinner dishes, sharing a
tired grin of accomplishment. It had been a long day.
“Where should we set it up at?”
She didn’t answer, just tossed a blanket onto the roof of his Blazer and moved one of the jugs they had warmed to the hood. When she turned, he was frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
It amused her to see his face was red in the light of their small fire. “Who’s gonna hold the towel?”
She grinned back, starting to get a bit nervous but hiding it. “I’ll pull my Blazer alongside. Once we open the doors and hang a couple of sheets, it’ll be fine.”
Thinking this was probably going to be hard on her, Marc got busy. The privacy was for her, not him. He had showered with ten other naked men in the room
nearly every day for years.
When the jugs were ready, Angela climbed confidently onto the roof and sat down, supplies next to her. Marc took off his Colt’s and stepped inside the cozy little
4x4 area. As he began undressing, Angela lit a smoke, trying not to imagine his every move but failing, as she kept watch on the dark, Missouri sky.
Her sharp gaze picked out shadowy forms of mountains to the east that she assumed were the Ozarks. It looked normal from here, but she wasn’t fooled, and went
back to keeping watch.
Rap-rap-rap-rap!
Angela fumbled for her gun, felt Marc's frown even though she couldn't see it.
“It’s just a woodpecker.”
“This time of night?”
“Everything's screwed up right now for them, too.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Don’t be, just remember it. Once you make yourself familiar with the sounds of your surroundings, you’ll only react to what’s not normal for that situation. Your
mind will sort it out for you.”
She smiled softly, grateful for him and all she was learning. He was the perfect teacher, never made her feel stupid, or acted like he was better, and she loved being
with him. Angela heard his dog tag clink and felt her mouth go dry at the thought of his naked chest. His belt buckle was next, then a zipper, and a rustle of jeans that
made her heart pound.
“Hit me, woman,” he called cheerfully and Angela slowly began pouring warm water into the “shower” they’d made, thinking she hadn’t heard any underwear. She
sucked in a surprised breath when her body responded to that image. He was the only male she had ever been physically attracted to.
“Liar.” She ignored the Witch.
“Soap, please.”
That brought a new set of images, and she was careful not to touch his wet fingers as she handed the blue cake down.
“Washrag?”
She got it quickly, wishing he would hurry. When he finally called for a rinse, her mind was glad. Too many feelings and memories were coming to her, and it had to
stop. A spark hadn't been enough then and it wouldn't be now, either.
“I’m done, so you can stop drooling.”
Angela flushed, shaking her head in embarrassed denial.
Marc laughed, drying off. “Well, I thought it was funny. Come on down. Your turn.”
Angela moved slowly, fear creeping into her veins at the thought of being defenseless with a man above her.
Marc sensed it as he stepped out, pulling on his shirt. Their eyes locked, spoke.
"I’m scared."
"You can trust me."
"Prove it."
Marc nodded. “Hang on.” He pulled on his shoes and then dug out another blanket that he tossed over the opening, making her smile gratefully. “If it gets lighter,
you’ll know I’m peeking.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes darkened. “Anything for you, Angie. You know that.”
Marc kept up a steady stream of chatter, from their travel plans to breakfast, and Angela hurried, her body tingling from her hands and thoughts.
By the time she finished, Marc pouring water through a very small hole, she had relaxed a lot more than either of them had thought she would. She trusted him.
Marc had always been hers, and that hadn’t changed.
5
A bit later, they settled closer to each other than usual, sharing a pot of hot chocolate by the fire. Angela was trying to comb out her hair, the length making it
difficult. Darkened eyes watched her while he cleaned their weapons, never looking away as the flames danced over her golden black curls and pale, white skin.
“I can do that without ripping all your hair out. The birds could make a nest with what you’ve thrown into the fire.”
Angela’s first thought was no, and she was shocked to hear her own eager voice. “Deal. You battle the tangles, I’ll roll.”
His surprised, happy look kept her from taking it back, and she surrendered the brush reluctantly when he held out a hand for it.
Marc moved behind her and knelt down, then began to gently work the tangles out. He started with the damp ends, aware of how shallow her breathing had
become, how tense her posture was.
It was an uncertain moment for Angela, and she listened with a thumping heart, hearing leaves rustling in the soft breeze, the gravel crunching under Dog’s paws as
he returned, panting. And all the while, her heart waited for the footsteps and gunfire, fear insisting Kenny could be here by now.
Dog sniffed their feet, their beds, and then curled up near the fire, eyes on the darkness, and Angela told herself to relax. The wolf would hear anyone sneaking
around, even a Marine. Besides, she wasn’t really doing anything wrong. Marc was just brushing her hair.
By the time he had gotten a third of the way up, close to her small waist, Angela had adjusted and Marc eased down, legs on either side of her. She tensed again as
his big body surrounded hers, but when he only continued to work on her damp curls, she went back to what she was doing.
Marc wondered if she would note today’s escape in her journal. She’d had him telling stories every night for the first few weeks, but hadn’t asked for one lately and
he suddenly wondered why. Had his tale of betrayal and self-preservation during Katrina bothered her that much?
“Not so much your part, you followed orders. It just makes me sad all those people had to be hurt.”
Marc agreed. “I almost left the Marines over it. I mean, we could hear them screaming for help. How’s a guy supposed to live with that?”
Angela shook her head, wanting to comfort him, but afraid to say the wrong thing and break the peacefulness of their camp, knowing “You signed with the wrong
guys.” wouldn’t help. She did the best she could, sure it wasn’t enough. “They wouldn’t let you; you were knocked out when you fought. Nothing you could do.”
Marc sighed glumly, wishing he had… He sighed. If he had shot his way out, he’d be dead now too.
Pop!
Angela jumped back into his arms as the log in the fire exploded into a shower of sparks, bodies brushing as they laughed.
Marc was pleased when she didn’t move away. He kept his hands working, almost holding her. When he finished, he laid the brush down and rested his chin on her
shoulder. “You got that rolled yet?”
She held it up, and they both laughed at the misshapen joint. Angela’s stomach tightened at the feel of his warm breath on her cheek, but she didn’t pull away. “It’ll
burn, but it won’t be pretty.”
He grinned, fishing in his pockets for a lighter. When he leaned closer to hold out the flame, their bodies made full, willing contact for the first time in fifteen long
years. Angela inhaled, closing her eyes as her heart settled into a normal rhythm of a peace she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
“Look, Honey. The moon.”
She leaned her head back against his hard chest to peer up and was happy to be able to see the dim outline through the grit. “It’s a good sign.” She closed her eyes,
didn’t move her head. “We need more of those.”
They smoked in silence, and Angela let the warmth and comfort of Marc’s body carry her away. She was safe with him, if only for this moment.
Her lashes fluttered when he slid an arm around her to pass the joint back. Caught up in the good moment, Marc couldn’t resist putting a soft kiss on her smooth
cheek. “Never did I see such beauty, such courage, such passion, and such fear in her eyes. The lonely heart demands and the mind refuses, but the body, the core,
pulses with need.”
He inhaled and passed, continuing to speak his heart’s poetry as they relaxed in clean jeans and matching Marine sweatshirts.
“Never did I see such hair. Dark as the night, and lips of love, red as a rose. A body that tempts me, begs me, and blue eyes that follow me into my dreams and
beyond. Forgive me these careless slips of shameless flattery, for I cannot explain in mere words what you mean to me. Hold to the truth, to your heart, to love…to us.”
“It’s beautiful.” Angela let her head rest against his chin, pushing away the voice screaming of Kenn’s anger.
“It’s the way you make me feel, what you make me see. My life was so empty without you.”
Hers too. Other than her son, she’d had no one she could love or trust for a very long time, and when Marc wrapped his arms around her, she relaxed against him,
the long day wearing her down.
“Don’t lie to yourself,” her heart scolded, and she faced it this time, too aware of the man behind her to deny it. Brady was the only one who had ever understood
her, what she needed. When he kissed her jaw again, she closed her eyes and said nothing to make him stop.
“You smell good,” he mumbled against her neck, sweet vanilla assaulting his senses. The feel of his lips on her skin sent an unexpected shiver of pleasure into her
stomach.
“Are you cold?” he asked, tightening his arms around her.
Angela flushed, nodding so he would pull the blanket around them and make their innocent embrace more private, romantic.
Aware that things were going fast, knowing tomorrow she’d probably be standoffish again, Marc wrapped the quilt around them anyway, pulled another cover over
their legs.
As he wrapped himself around her, she slipped her hand into his. Marc sucked in a breath at her movement, heart skipping at the feel of her, and they sat together in
silence, both very aware of the other, yet content to just be so close.
The day caught up to her quickly. When Angela was asleep in his arms, Marc gently laid them down, pulled the covers up. He cradled her, loving every second of
having her so close. As he buried his face in her hair, he placed a long, slow kiss to her neck that gave him chills and sent her eyes flying open.
Marc put his head down, forcing himself to stop despite how hard it (he) was.
“Night, Honey. See you in the morning.”
“Yes, you will,” she mumbled groggily, already falling back to sleep, and he joined her, the wolf at their feet. They would face their demons together when the time
came.
Chapter Twenty Eight
March 19th, 2013
1
Dillan and Dean made it to the filthy Slavers camp just before dawn, pulling three middle-aged (used up) women and a strikingly beautiful teenage girl behind their
horses on long, tight, rawhide ropes. The females had all come from Kimball, Nebraska, where the brothers had spent a few days waiting out a dust storm.
Surrounded by a thick wall of mountains, the Slaver camp was a sprawling, unorganized mess of mud-splattered, bullet-ridden vehicles and torn, dusty tents
camped across 287, just out of sight and sound of 25, and the next town.
There were burnt frames of cars around them and ranches with crushed mailboxes. One house was completely reduced to only a charred frame with anti-religious
phrases sprayed on its sheds and outbuildings; targeted due to it being covered in Christmas decorations. The hundreds of statues and displays were riddled with bullet
holes and melted by Molotov cocktails, but there had simply been too much to destroy all of it. Now, it stood as a warning: That world of rich, white excess was over.
Smoke swirled sharply with the wind from burned-down fires, and hordes of flies buzzed and landed, swarmed and resettled over the garbage dump just behind the
camp, where small corpses lay rotting in the foggy drizzle. The females on the ropes didn’t react to these horrors as they stumbled by, concentrating only on moving their
feet so they could draw another breath. The rawhide was constantly shrinking, rubbing away the skin on their necks until they were slowly choking all the time. Even
rape was secondary to breathing.
The brothers came into the camp openly, not expecting to see guards – and they didn’t. Word had spread, and many of the places ahead of the Mexicans would
probably already be abandoned by the time they got there. That would work in the twins’ favor. Empty towns meant no women or fun, and for these men, that might
lose Cesar leadership if it went on long enough. They had an offer that would be to the Mexican leader’s advantage. Or so he would think, if they did this right.
They had made it over four hundred miles in two weeks, alternating driving, always on the move until they stopped near the Nebraska-Colorado state line to rest up
and to pick up some females (peace offerings) for Cesar. His uncontested rule had given the Mexican a sense of power and control that few would be stupid (brave)
enough to challenge and it was that strength they had come for.
Despite owing the Mexican their lives, Dean and Dillan felt no loyalty towards the mean little man. There was respect for his quick, brutal methods of control, but if
not for their failure with the Witch, they likely would have never come back. It was one more thing they hated her for. They had been gone a long time and Cesar was
unstable, making it hard to know how well they would be received. He might order them killed before they had a chance to make him the offer.
Very few of the passed out/sleeping Mexicans noticed their arrival and those who did, acknowledged them and ignored the bandages, ran a quick eye over the
women, then averted their gazes. Word had also spread about the black brothers, and despite their long absence, now was clearly a bad time to draw their attention.
Even the camp mutts, starving mixes of indecipherable origins, shied from them, and their menacing air.
Dean and Dillan walked around the back of the dirty camp, past the reeking, rusted semis. They shoved the cringing captives into the back of an empty one, locking
them in. These were the holding pens for slaves, and there was no guard. Those already broken had no courage left to run, and those who were fresh wouldn’t make it
far before every man in camp was on them. A loose slave was fair game.
With their noses full of the holding cells’ decay and the harsh odor of gasoline, the twins headed for the center of the muddy, stinking camp, certain they would find
the leader there. His tent would be surrounded by his men so that if they were attacked, he wouldn’t be hit first. Cesar was smart, ruthless; and exactly what they
needed.
The grungy green tent was indeed in the middle and it was one of only a few dozen vinyl shelters. Most of the men preferred the open sky above them after years of
not seeing it at all from federal detention centers. It was also a lot easier to just wrap up in a blanket and sleep under a big truck.
From outside Cesar’s tent, the twins could see the Loveland, Colorado skyline, lit up with flames and thick, black smoke. Their eyes were drawn to the charred
frame of the hulking jumbo jetliner resting in a thicket of piñon trees to the right of the burning town. Backdropped by a muddy, devastated landscape, covered in inches
of reddish, ill-looking dust, the crushed plane was still more unbelievable than the destroyed city.
Loud snores were just audible over dogs yelping, women crying, and the pop of neglected campfires, but there was an instant silence as the twins slid inside the
center lean-to…and then the sound of a gun being cocked.
“Who ees there?”
The smells of sex, blood, and violence mixed badly with the cigar smoke in the dark tent, and the cautious brothers stayed in the shadows so that there was no clear
shot. Their dark eyes lingered on the naked teenager chained to the center pole of the filthy tent like a dangerous, white dog. She was curled into a ball against it, showing
a body they immediately wanted.
Jennifer felt it, tensing. Other than that, she didn’t move.
“We have an offer for you.”
“And an untouched gift.”
Cesar grunted in recognition, putting his weapon back under his pillow. When he yawned lazily, the twins grimaced in distaste as bad breath mixed with the other
strong odors.
“So, you have returned. I did not think you would.”
A candle flared to life, giving them a better view of the Mexican and the thin, bloody girl at his feet whose swollen face and blood-crusted thighs said she had passed
a rough night in Cesar's tent.
“What happened to you?” the slaver demanded, getting a look at their bandages as he pulled up his cruddy jeans. The material was tacky with dried blood - the
girl's from the look of her. “Who attacked you?”
“A Witch,” the bald brothers answered together.
The lightly-bearded Slaver grinned hesitantly as he lit a cigar. Cesar had never really sure about these two, and he studied their faces while pulling on muddy boots.
If not for the good work they had done for him in the past, he would kill them here and now. “A bruja?”
They nodded at the same time, dark eyes full of hatred. “Yes, magic.”
“Spells. A Witch.”
Cesar’s slanted eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what they could hope to gain from such a lie. When he found nothing, he let himself consider what it could do
for him. He was no stranger to the occult and its mysteries, and if the twins were telling the truth, if they had found what the old world hadn’t, his plans to seed America
with his bastards and control it through them would be unstoppable. “You have seen this?”
The twins nodded together and told him everything that had happened. They offered no excuses for their failure, didn’t talk up their actions, and it convinced the
Mexican. The mercenaries believed what they were saying. Was it possible? A real Witch?
The three men tensed suddenly, turning as the flap opened to reveal a stocky, gray-eyed Mexican with crisscrossed gun belts, and an ugly scar that stretched across
his forehead and ran over the top of his right eye. It cut his face in half and gave him the appearance of someone who liked causing pain. “Everything is okay?”
Cesar waved him in with his deformed hand. The twins ran scornful eyes over his broken, yellow teeth, baggy shirt, and torn, muddy pants, but saw him for what he
was - a possible threat to their plans.
“No, but it cannot be helped. Get the men up and ready for tomorrow - then give Richard the signal. Trace light red ‘e uno green.”
Cesar hated the sound of the broken English coming from his mouth, hated anything American, but with so many of those here not knowing their native language, he
had little choice if he wanted to be understood.
José’s slanted eyes went over the negro hermanos with clear dislike. He had been openly against Cesar letting these two live, even though he had voted to spare
Rick. The mercenaries smiled back tauntingly. “We have esclavos in truck six.”
“See to them.”
The heartless killer bared his broken fangs at them before ducking out into the heavy wind and mud. He was scowling openly as he slapped at a snapping fly the size
of a milk jug lid. Men about to move toward him with questions, turned around.
José was only a cousin and not nearly as deadly as Cesar, but had earned a vicious reputation with his temper. He was left alone when he headed to the trucks,
worrying about the twins. They were hard-asses and if they decided they wanted control of Cesar’s camp, there was a good chance they would get it. Back in Mexico,
they were the ones to call when no one else could get the job done.
The wind beat against the tent and in the thick silence after José ducked out, all three men could hear the girl’s nervous breathing.
Jennifer had been with him since the week of the War and fear for her life was a feeling that never really went away, even when she was alone.
Cesar looked at the brothers with hard, calculating eyes. “There is no way to explain these things?”
”No.”
“We followed for almost a month. She was alone until she sent out the wave of power.”
They looked almost desperate to Cesar, clearly not the same men who had left him in New Mexico. “You know where she goes?”
“She’s only headed northwest, never deviates.”
“Toward Montana?”
They saw the determined anger in the Slaver’s eyes.
“There is a group near Yellowstone that calls for survivors.”
“You hear them this far away?”
He frowned, pulled a beaten-up sombrero from the debris-littered floor and slapped it on over his tightly-kinked black hair, “Si. Your bruja is headed to them?”
“Maybe. We think she’s looking for family.”
Cesar’s frown grew, eyes going over burnt spots on their clothes and the grimy red bandana wrapped around Dillan’s bandaged wrist. The white of the gauze had
long since turned black. “We must get her before she reaches them. This group is big, organized. A Witch would make them a threat to me.”
He looked up, mind racing. “You can take her?”
Dean shook his head, while Dillan shrugged, neither of them meeting his eyes, and Cesar felt a tremor of worry in his gut. He had never seen or heard of a time
when the twins had disagreed on anything. The woman’s soldier must truly be strong.
“Not by ourselves,” Dillan stated finally, and Cesar saw his grimace when he moved his hand to deflect a determined fly. The injury to his arm was obviously bad.
That was it, Cesar decided. It was her man they wanted, her soldier. Surely he was the one responsible. Then why say a woman? That was worse. Either way, it
came down to revenge.
“So, this is why you’ve come back.”
It wasn’t a question and he looked at them with cool, dark eyes, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to agree…for now. “Mine during the day, yours at night?”
They both nodded eagerly at the lie and Cesar grinned, his gold front tooth flashing. “It will be good. We will lay a trap, kill her soldier and have her.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“She knows things.”
Cesar fingered the handle of his hoja, hating it that they were always so disrespectful.
The injured brothers waited for him to pull the knife and hand over his camp. Either way, they would lead these men against the Witch.
“You have a plan?” the Slaver asked finally, eyes full of controlled anger. Anyone else, he would have already challenged, but against these two vicious assassins, he
wasn’t sure he could win with only the blade he was sitting on, and a hangover. He was too far from his gun.
“Yes.” Dean’s hot eyes lingered on the chained girl, but he was aware that the evil Mexican was now an enemy instead of an ally and would need to be handled as
such. “We’ll follow her, see where she’s headed. If it’s a good place, we can take shelter there for the winter.”
“You are estupido to let her reach familia. Then you face dos brujas, yes?”
The twins were clearly pissed at the insult, had killed for less, and Cesar kept his hand on the knife, thinking he would at least be able to take one of them with him.
“It’s better to control them both, than to have the missing one ambush us, and we can’t find the other until she does.”
“How will you get them once she reaches the safety of this camp?”
“You’ll surround them and demand they hand over both. We’ll pick off a few easy targets, use your inside traitor to cause chaos, and then make it clear we
followed her so they will be more likely to hand her over to save themselves.”
“Once they do, we’ll make her use her power against any defenses they have, and you’ll be in control of a safe area, new supplies, a Witch, and slaves - all without
having to fight and lose men.”
Cesar was nodding, but thinking he would need proof to go through so much. Their word wasn’t enough. Surely this was a trick?
“The men will not believe.”
“They will later, but for now it doesn’t matter. They don’t even have to know. Just keep heading north and give them whores and whiskey.”
“Didn’t you tell us you wanted to take Cheyenne and Casper by May?”
Cesar’s eyes lit up greedily. “Si, and my men know it.”
“Good. That will put us on an intercept course. Dean and I will keep an eye on her in the meantime, track her, and we’ll also find some bait to send in with Rick.”
Cesar considered it. He had used the betrayer again and again, and no one ever suspected him until it was too late - because he was white. The Americanos should
have remembered their own history. Whites were not any more trustworthy than the Russians or even himself for that matter. They were just a bit more careful to cover
their asses.
“Less than a month from now, you’ll own Wyoming, probably have a good start on Nebraska, and be only a day or two from the tank hidden near there. Best of
all, you’ll rule the entire western half of this country, from the Nevada wastelands to the Midwest corn belt,” Dillan stated.
Dean finished it off. “Plus, this group you want will know you’re coming and lose courage.”
Cesar grinned savagely and the brothers knew they’d won.
“America is dead and I will show them that!” He gestured violently, the missing fingers making it a grotesque motion. He didn’t see the looks they were giving his
young slave. She was his personal property, and he didn’t share. He wanted to be sure the bastards he left were his, and every man in his camp knew he would kill (the
girl and the man) to be sure of it.
“It shall be as you say. Drink, smoke, rest. Tomorrow we take Windsor and then you shall have the revenge you deserve. Now, let us go see my gift and you will
prove she is pure.”
2
Cesar invaded the untouched town of Windsor under the cover of darkness and a violent thunderstorm, ruthlessly directing his men to block escape routes at all four
corners of the city.
They split up and began moving in at the stroke of midnight and gave no mercy to anyone, just like they hadn’t in any of the twenty other towns and cities they’d
taken along Interstate 25. Moving inward, the Mexicans slowly took over Windsor for the next six hours, burning everything as they went. Those few who managed to
escape would have nothing to return to.
Doors were kicked in and terrified girls and women dragged out into the rain, floors and bed clothes soaking up the blood of their husbands and fathers. Those
found with the radio broadcasting good old American values were tortured, beheaded, and dismembered, left with Mexican flags draped over their faces. All the males
were killed where they were found, babies left to die alone, and female after female was raped, beaten, broken.
During the first hours of this hell, the twins were in Cesar’s tent, taking what was his. They snuck back to join the battle (slaughter) after they filled her with seed
over and over again, and Cesar never knew they hadn’t been with him all the time. A few of his sharper men could have told him, but that might mean a confrontation
between the three and Cesar’s men weren’t sure he would come out on top.
The twins were hard, and none of Cesar’s men wanted them in control. Their way of life now was perfect, without rules, and the stocky Mexican was still followed
without hesitation even when they got to Ft. Collins and found it abandoned. Word had spread through the area, and the survivors were scared. The Slavers were
coming.
Chapter Twenty Nine
March 21st, 2013
1
This was going to have to be close enough.
Adrian waited for Kenn to finish updating the newest Eagle who was about to take over his post for the 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift. Jeremy was on Neil’s team, Level
Three status, and the right to have point had only been earned last night.
Adrian sighed, tired and worried as the camp got ready to head out for another day of hard travel. They were on the edge of the Thunder Basin National
Grasslands, just off 387, and while he was glad to be east of 25, pictures had verified that Casper and Buffalo were ghost towns.
It made his stomach burn. One was buried, the other submerged. His warning hadn’t been heard, hadn’t mattered. They hadn’t picked up a single survivor since the
dust storm, which made these people in Cheyenne all the more important.
Sighing again, he turned his eyes to the mountains that surrounded them. Would the evergreens up there have the mold that the fir and pine trees down here did?
Would it smell like smoke and unburied dead? Were there bodies of deer, moose, and people? He was almost sure they would find out for themselves. People were
talking about it.
“You’re the Man on this one, Marine. You ready?” Adrian asked as the Marine came to his side, sharp tone of a drill instructor replacing the calm demeanor the
camp always saw. The Slavers’ rampage had moved up Interstate 25 faster than they had estimated, and Cheyenne had called again.
“Locked and Loaded. Kyle’s team is stowing the beans, bags, and bullets.”
“They’re good to go, eager to prove themselves. What about you, Jarhead? How do you feel?”
Kenn’s smile was hard as his eyes took in Adrian’s dusty jeans and wrinkled camouflage shirt. He’d been up all night, again. “Good, ready.”
“In and out, Marine, just like with the old lady but if not, if something goes wrong and you have to fight?”
Kenn’s eyes were intent. “Then we’ll kill as many as we can.”
It may have been wrong in the old world, but it was all that was left to them now, and Adrian preached it, made them believe in it by doing it when he thought the
man’s crimes (it was almost always men who committed the big transgressions now) warranted it. This definitely did.
The Slavers were a growing threat he felt duty-bound to challenge, to eliminate. Yet he couldn’t, at this point, not against 150 well-armed men who had become
good at conquering large groups of survivors. The terrible stories of the refugees who escaped, town after town, neighborhood after neighborhood (life after life!) made
him burn to do something.
It pleased him that Kenn seemed to feel it too, repeating himself to make sure his boss knew. “If any opportunity comes up to do damage, we’ll take it. I’ll take it.”
Adrian clapped him on the back, satisfied the wide-shouldered Marine meant it. They had been falling behind, and would arrive later than expected. That made the
mission more dangerous, putting the Eagles and the Slavers near Cheyenne at about the same time.
“Watch your six. We need you.”
“Semper Fi.”
“Oorah!”
A deep frown planted itself across Adrian’s forehead as Kenn and the Eagles left camp. He hated it that their first encounter with these dangerous men would
happen without him there to judge the threat. Adrian hit the button on the tape player in his pocket, listening intently. Was he missing anything?
“SOS, Safe Haven! This is Cheyenne! SOS!”
“Go ahead, Overloaded.”
“They’ve hit Wellington! We can see the smoke and people are coming here, and I can’t care for them! We need help now!”
Adrian hit stop, the desperation making him consider changing places with Kenn, but shook his head. He couldn’t. The Marine wasn’t ready for leadership of an
entire camp yet. For this mission though, he was perfect. Kyle and his team were good, making steady progress every day, and though only ten men were getting into
the armored vehicles, they would still be a force to be reckoned with.
Fighting a migraine, Adrian headed for his tent. Another forty souls would bring their number to a hundred and seventy seven. They were only a week from
Cheyenne, but there was no way the whole camp could go and get out without being seen. Kenn and Kyle would make it in two days, and he would worry the whole
time.
2
“All those jeeps worry me,” Kyle stated quietly, lowering the binoculars.
“We’ll have to draw them out,” Kenn replied, sharp eyes watching the heavily-armed Mexican men patrol the top and four sides of the large brick school house
where the refugees were hiding. Two on top, one each on the sides and rear, and two more on the front doors - maybe four inside, but judging from all the jeeps parked
wildly along the exits, probably more like six or ten.
They were outnumbered, but not by much, and Kenn frowned in concentration as the thick clouds rolled overhead, colored lightning flashing in the distance. He sent
his sharp eyes over it again, seeing holiday lights torn down and Christmas pictures that had been used for target practice, but underneath, he was evaluating how best to
kill them all.
”You and me covering the top?”
Still missing his rifle, Kenn merely answered with his eyes. They hadn’t found any ammo for the M16’s, so that meant getting close enough for handguns. When it
started, a few of the Mexicans would come out, but most of them would take up positions around the hostages and they’d have a standoff. For a little while. Then their
reinforcements would come. This was only a scouting party, and it bothered Kenn that neither he nor Adrian had expected this level of organization. They would have to
do it quietly. No telling how far out the big group was.
It had only taken Adrian’s Eagles 30 hours to get here, driving straight through in six five-hour shifts. The men who hadn’t driven, stood watch when they arrived, to
let the others get a short rest. They had snuck close, as dusk slowly closed in.
The Slavers weren’t the only ones who knew how to use nature as a cover, and the ten men watching hated how it looked, how it smelled here. It reeked with
decay, and even the constant gusts of salty, smoky wind couldn’t knock it back. The awful odor came from all the bodies. Thousands of them, fresh and old, littered the
city, along with lines of burnt houses, cars, and businesses. There were thick drag marks in the dust left by the storm, garbage and mud-covered streets, and little pillars
of smoke rising that signaled the path the Mexicans had taken to get here. It was a war zone.
“What do you want to do?”
The edge of frustration in the former mobster’s rough voice was what Kenn had been waiting for, and he stood up, always feeling the need to prove who was in
charge when they went on missions together. To the listening men, he said just the right thing. Only Kyle would sting afterwards when he remembered almost losing his
cool with only silence used against him. “We kill them all.”
Kenn knelt in the dirt, flipping open his K-BAR to draw in the damp dirt behind the big storage sheds they were using for cover. He hadn’t created this plan, but
these men wouldn’t know that. “We go with silencers. Take out this side and corner, and as they come out, we pick them off. If the Man comes out too, it’ll all be
over.”
“And if not?” Kyle kept the bitterness out of his tone, but not his eyes. He almost hated the smug Marine leading his team today, was now actively keeping an eye
out for someone who was a match to throw his support behind.
Kenn shrugged, sliding his knife back into his muddy black boot. “We’ll have taken out at least half these men and that’ll leave a lot of exits with light or no cover.
We’ll look from those trees along the windows first, then slip in, and nail ‘em as we find ‘em. Once inside, we head for the gym, ‘cause that’s where they’ll be with a
group of sheep that size. From there, we’ll do what we do best.”
“They might negotiate, surrender.”
Kenn stood up, automatically checking his gear and gun, and the other Eagles followed his lead. They had been on a few missions where hostages were involved,
but only once had there been a shootout, the small gang of Aryan Brothers not wanting to give up their captives. They had given their lives instead, but the newness of
doing battle hadn’t worn off for the Eagles yet.
Kenn tapped his good luck charm, a Zippo lighter he kept in his pocket, voice hard. “Adrian wouldn’t and we won’t either. Top four shooters with me, the rest to
the sides and meet up. I’m man in the middle. On my mark.”
Kenn’s timing was perfect. He and Kyle fired as they ran, and the two Mexican lookouts jerked at the same time, fell together. The other dark-skinned man on the
roof ran toward his comrade and then he too arched, stopped, falling as the second rush of black-clad Eagles hit the building.
They came to the wall in two, fast waves, Kenn and Kyle stepping into view as the front doors opened and two short, hard-looking Slavers walked out.
Kyle whistled and then waved a ringed middle finger at their shocked faces. The two men drew their guns, and the Eagles ducked back out of sight as they gave
chase.
“One...two...three. Now!"
Jumping out together, their guns took down both men before they could return fire, Kenn shooting twice.
The two Eagles quickly dragged the heavy bodies around the corner as Chris, Kyle's second Eagle, pointed to the other row of trees. “The Banners center there.
That’s probably the gym.”
Eight men carefully eased up the trees a minute later, using the thick branches for cover from the ground and windows, glad they were gloved against the moldy
bark.
“Bulletproof glass.” Kenn's voice was barely audible.
Kyle grinned, showing white teeth, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Not today. All the Eagles are packing armor-piercing rounds. Your gat clips, too.”
Kenn's mind raced as he peered through the dirty glass, seeing only five armed men around the circle of roughly 50 civilians on the filthy, gymnasium floor. Which
one was the Man?
A door opened on their side of the building, and a tall, thin Mexican with a face completely hidden by his bandana stepped out, saw the bodies. “Dedro!”
“Aaahhh!”
Kenn’s shot connected, but the guerilla’s yell ruined their element of surprise. Eyes were now on the windows, footsteps running toward them.
Kenn aimed for the jeep in front of the glass doors, trying to time it as the next rush of men came out.
The Marine’s earlier shot to the gas tank was already allowing a long stream of the pungent liquid to escape, and Kyle and the Eagles were still, waiting for the
distraction Kenn was providing.
Woosshhh!
His shot sparked the puddle of gas, and they watched bright, orange flames flash eagerly over the concrete and scorched their way up the fuel dripping from the gas
tank. KKkaaaablammm!
The explosion shattered half of the windows along the front of the building, throwing the jeep through the doors just as they opened. The slavers rushing out were
consumed in a cloud of twisted metal and hot flames.
“Fire!”
“We hafta get out!”
“Sit down!”
The gym was in chaos, people pushing for the doors. The slaver’s orders were ignored in the panic, causing the guerillas to raise their guns and take aim at retreating
backs.
“Now, Eagles! Open fire!”
Bullets began to fly, raining down on the Mexicans before they could retaliate, and the shooting was very, very good. Their targets were moving and mixed in with
the small sea of terrified civilians, and slugs found foreheads and throats amid total chaos. Despite the people all trying to get out of the chained doors, only slavers were
killed.
“Damn!”
Kenn turned to see Chris examining his arm, blood dripping down the thick tree trunk in steady streams, “I’m trimmed - that’s it.”
Kenn and Kyle were both relieved, ignoring the refugees who continued to panic. Neither man ever wanted to tell Adrian they’d gotten one of his army killed.
Seeing no more enemy movement, Kenn leaned inside the window he’d shattered with his shots. He saw shaggy, unkempt hair, cold sores, gloves with holes, and
smelled body odor that made him grimace. No threats to his place in this group.
“U.S. Eagle Force! Safe Haven!”
The shout echoed in the concrete room, getting attention, and Kenn grinned at them as they looked up warily, quieting. “Someone here named Overloaded? Your
taxi’s waiting.”
Kyle and his men were dropping ropes, lowering themselves to head for fire extinguishers, as a tall, thin man with a long staff and a dirty bandage over his eyes
slowly moved toward Kenn’s window position, voice hopeful. “What’s the word?”
Kenn's eyes went to the bodies on the floor and then to the door, where Kyle and Chris were getting the small fire under control. He keyed the mic on his belt.
“Freedom. Mission accomplished. Let’s do some cleaning and get these people back to camp.”
It took Kenn and Kyle under an hour to evacuate the filthy American school; would have been one hour exactly if the Marine had swept every room, but they didn’t
bother with the basement, where the dead had been placed. As they pulled away, no one saw the hysterical blonde woman running up a nearby road, her arms waving
frantically. They never looked back.
3
The constantly growing camp seemed almost empty to Adrian once Kenn and the Eagles were gone, and the leader threw himself into the work, forcing a faked
optimism that only his men noticed.
Adrian didn’t like the feeling of being incomplete, but never doubted that they were. He hated to have people out of camp, only relaxed when the entire flock was
under his watchful eye, and he knew they'd been lucky so far that everyone who had gone out had returned. He’d increased their chances with the addition of armed
escorts, but looked forward to a time when he could settle them down and show them how to provide for their needs, instead of scouring this broken land like
scavengers.
Now camped in the heart of the Thunder Basin National Grassland, they were only fifteen miles from the South Dakota state line. The tall pines, blue grass, and
Forget-Me-Nots were a comforting sight after all the horror along 387. If not for the heavy fog, they would be on the road now, sheep gawking out the windows at the
vividly-colored lightning flashing in the sky over a muddy landscape that included a crashed government chopper.
Adrian tensed suddenly, feeling that uneasy mix of power and magic fill him. The landscape wavered, changed, and for a moment, he could see a survivor of the
crash, her outline tall, thin and tough. He looked away from the vision, thinking it had been so long since he had one that he’d forgotten how it made his heart feel
squeezed.
Hoping she was one of his, Adrian got moving again, feeling a little bitter with Fate. He had been promised magic, and so far had only gotten a gifted teenager who
was too young to really be much help.
Adrian lit a smoke, telling himself it didn’t matter. When the boy was needed most, at least he would be here, already under the discreet eyes of the Eagles, who had
been told to watch him right after the restless teenager had gotten his own tent. The result of a noisy fight where Charlie had almost hurt one of the other boys he was
bunking with.
Kenn’s cadet was a bit unstable. Unhappy, Adrian corrected himself. Even the job with the vet wouldn't be enough to hold him here. Something had the teenager’s
mind, pulling at him, and when Kenn got back, Adrian hoped to find out what it was.
The busy leader moved a little faster, looking things over. There was a full day of activities planned – the biggest: a towing contest. Their clearing times had
improved because he’d made it into a race to see who could do it fastest without breaking any safety rules. Tonight, the first crew leader would be picked by whoever
won and with his Marine out of camp, more people would be willing to try. There was very little that his right-hand man wasn’t good at and it sounded different without
him here. The people were subdued somehow without his energetic, boisterous XO.
Adrian kept walking, sick of hearing tents flapping in the wind. It was slow going right now. He was organizing them, teaching them to survive, and the whole time,
he had been moving them north, toward Montana. That had changed last week when he’d convinced them that going any further north would run them into a ground
zero and probably give them lethal doses of radiation. Stories from refugees they’d picked up, backed him up. They were moving by vote now, picking a long list of
places to try, but he would have headed them east even if they hadn’t voted to. It was bad here. They couldn’t stay in Wyoming any longer.
The packs of mutated ants were thick throughout the state, and once he got the camp a couple hundred miles further from 25 and the Slavers, he planned to head
southeast for a while, toward Georgia and the miles of caves hopefully still waiting there. He hadn’t thought of a better place yet, and dreaded having to confirm that
going into the mountains was the only way they’d see the first year's end. There had to be somewhere else!
Comforted by the steady whoosh of footsteps guarding their perimeter, Adrian moved past Kenn’s improved Mess - where coffee and food lines were now open
on both sides - coming to the traveling emergency class. Tents flapping mockingly in his ear, he paused to listen to part of the lesson and was immediately assaulted with
the odors of cologne, sweat, and cigar smoke. He grinned. It was the smell of people, and it beat the hell out of all the other shit they were usually inhaling.
A small group was gathered around the side of a big red van, watching Peggy Ann Kelly, the single, forty-something, redheaded mother of little Becky, change a flat
tire. This class had solved the need for one crew to do all of the work, all of the time. This way, the entire camp did it.
The cute, reddish-blond woman was sweating and greasy. Most of the men watching would have gladly done it for her, to get her attention, but Adrian had made it
clear that each person needed to be able to fend for themselves as well as function as team, and the males offered advice, but no actual help.
Peggy struggled to break the last lug nut and Adrian shook his head at the bald, black professor who stepped forward to help. The portly man carried his profession
proudly, from his thick glasses to his plaid-patterned suit, and Adrian didn’t look away from the baleful glare the teacher sent his way. He also didn’t keep his voice
down and the gusting wind carried it further than just the class.
“She has to learn. What if she gets separated?”
The dark man frowned, able to feel the thick, disapproving silence from the others, “You sure it ain’t ‘cause I’m black and she’s white?”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed at the accusing tone. Joseph had been here long enough to know how things worked. Was he still holding onto that shit? They didn’t have
many of the other races represented here yet, but that wasn’t because he didn’t want them. The War had split more than just families. The old segregation lines had
slammed down, making most races look for their own kind. It was something he needed people like this bitter teacher to help him with.
“You’re from Salt Lake City. You were almost dead when we found you. Group of white men had beaten you up so bad, we didn’t think you’d live at first. There
were only twenty of us then and no one knew what to do with you. About you.”
“Because I’m a nigger."
It wasn’t a question and Adrian’s tone grew sharp as the people around them frowned at the word. No one used it, not even in joking. Adrian would throw you out
for that, even if you meant it affectionately.
“We had only our basic laws and race was something we hadn’t even talked about. We saw you bleeding and had to make a choice. Let you die, and continue
America’s ‘quiet’ racism, or let you in and find a way to deal with all the problems ‘your’ people inevitably bring with them.”
Adrian’s words were blunt and he had the attention of everyone close enough to hear. “We made the choice in about fifteen seconds. Because you’re a survivor
first, not black or white, but American, and that’s the only one that matters to me.”
Kenn brought home forty-one survivors and Adrian met them eagerly with Seth at his side, but both men were once again disappointed. They now had a
hairdresser, yet another bank teller (it wasn’t surprising to Adrian how many of them had survived: they were used to having their lives threatened), and a lot of other
careers they didn’t really need, but none of them, not even Greg, the blind radio man, had what he was looking for.
There was no fire burning in these people, only bright fear and desperation, and he was unable to sleep until very late, sure he had passed one of his own
somewhere. He chose to linger a bit, knowing it was a dangerous thing to do considering how close they were to the Slavers, but he needed the help as much as these
refugees needed him, and he would hope their calls were heard.
Chapter Thirty
March 22nd, 2013
Pitcairn Island
1
“I can’t handle that. Server’s been gone for months.”
Kendle slid the credit card back into her pocket and pulled out money, ignoring the dumpy island woman’s abrupt tone. “Cash okay?” she asked evenly, but her
pale eyes were defiant.
The middle-aged store keeper frowned. She darted a tense glance toward Luke as he waited, lounging carelessly against the small shop’s front door.
Kendle gave her a sharp look of warning, pulling her attention away from LJ. “One of those caps too.”
It was up on a shelf that required the heavy woman to climb for it and Kendle smiled sweetly when the pie-faced female glared at her in the almost stifling heat of the
general store. “Love the Dodgers. Gotta have it.”
Storekeeper or not, the woman clearly wanted to tell her to go to hell and Kendle flashed her a look that said do it at your own risk. The air in the musty little shop
was cold despite all of them sweating.
Luke shoved his hands into his jean pockets, embarrassed and yet impressed with the way Kendle was handling things. Plump but scrappy, with the air of a born
snob, Mary Jo had been born on the Island and hated outsiders. The fact that Kendle’s show had been popular even here made the frumpy spinster more jealous. LJ
sighed. She also hated him. That didn’t help.
The moment was long and tense and it was the vivid, reddish-brown skin of the movie star that convinced Mary Jo. She was obviously tough, and the Island native
turned to climb the ladder for the ball cap, muttering under her breath.
Satisfied, Kendle took a moment to look around as the sharp odor of cleaning products stung her nose and smothered the light hint of LJ’s sexy cologne. There
were neatly stacked baskets and racks, tasteful signs and pictures, and not a speck of dust to be found. The front glass windows were spotless as well, the white
curtains closed to dim the bright, noonday sun, and Kendle was suddenly sure the woman now jabbing at numbers on her tiny calculator hadn’t been the one to clean
any of it.
“A hundred even.”
Kendle laid the cash on the spotlessly neat counter with a frown, but said nothing at the too high price, wanting only to go. Not for herself, but for Luke, whose
embarrassment she could feel. They didn’t like him here. Why? Did they know his secret? It explained his reluctance to go into town to replace the things they had lost
in the storm. Kendle turned to meet his eye in the dimness of the store.
When sparks flew between them, the storekeeper shoved the full bag at her. Kendle spun back around in time to catch it just before it fell to the tiled floor. “Is there
a problem?”
She saw Luke’s wide shoulders tense from the corner of her eye, wondering if they were about to mix it up, and knew the clerk did too.
When the woman’s brown eyes went from unfriendly to mean, Kendle held up a hand. “Of course there is. Let’s do it like this. I plan to be here a while. Should I
spend my money with the crazy lady across the creek?”
The storekeeper seemed surprised she knew there were other options and shook her head, voice hateful. “No. Come back anytime.”
Kendle smiled sweetly as she turned away. “Not even if you bent over and kissed my red ass! Have a great day!”
Luke held the door as she swept out, regal as any Hollywood snob he’d ever seen, and he grinned at the speechless clerk. “I’d pay to see that!”
He slipped out before she could respond and went to help Kendle store their things on the cart attached to the back of the bike.
“She always act like that?”
Luke nodded, waved at one of the four other shack-like, brown and green stores that made up town proper on this side. The Bounty Bay the tourists saw wasn’t
the real Pitcairn Island. “Yes. Wanna go to Baxter’s? They have shoes.”
Kendle met his eye, hand on her slender, jean-clad hips, and Luke’s gaze moved to her tiny waist.
“Same attitude, right?”
He looked away, voice a low mutter of embarrassment. “Probably.”
She frowned, looked around the tiny town again. There were patches of wild roses amid small clumps of Miro trees with multi-colored parrots in the tops that hung
over every inch of the town, creating shaded canopies. There were no cars, only two dirt bikes parked by theirs, and she saw the outlines of neat, white-fenced shacks
in the distance she assumed were the storekeeper’s homes. There were no mailboxes, no addresses on the doors, just gravel walkways and rocking chairs on the
porches. There was a striped barber pole on the last shop that made her stomach clench with longing. She missed her home, her country.
“How about we go fishing instead?”
Luke’s eyes lit up and Kendle felt her first response to him, to his happiness. There was something there.
“Sounds like a plan. Now?”
She grinned back, feeling soft and attractive for a change, instead of just being grateful to be alive. Another spark flew between them that the people lingering in
shop windows felt. “Yes, the sooner the better.”
Eager to be in the cool, quiet jungle, Kendle swung her leg over the bike, staying back to leave him room, and she blushed at the thought of holding close and tight
to him while they were flying along. They were getting closer now and it surprised her. She never would have seen herself attracted to a calloused, big handed,
suspenders and plaid-wearing war veteran.
It was a beautiful day. Sunny and warm, cloudless blue sky above and a saltwater breeze that made her shiver. She couldn’t...
“Leaving so soon?”
Kendle saw Luke tense at the male voice and immediately knew he not only disliked the owner of it, he hated him. When she turned, it was easy to see why. The
man was everything Luke wasn’t.
Pretentious shoes, expensive slacks and Polo top, deep scorn in the 30-something island god’s dark green eyes. Great body and teeth; deeply tanned, manicured
hands; a watch on his wrist that had probably cost more than she had made on her last show. Instead of being impressed, Kendle only wondered vaguely if it still
worked. She had no interest in a trust fund baby.
“Introduce us,” Ethan ordered.
Kendle stood up when she saw a muscle in Luke’s stubble-covered jaw twitch.
“Be careful, Pasta Boy or...”
Kendle stepped between them before Luke could finish the threat, holding her hand out. The menace in LJ's body language was a surprise to Kendle and like a
whiff of cooking meat to the lonely woman inside.
“Roberts, Kendle. And you are?”
“In awe of your beauty,” oozed the tall playboy as he gently kissed her hand. Keeping hold of her it, he introduced himself, flashing expensive veneers. “I’m Ethan
Kraft, oh Goddess of survival. I own this island.”
“Just the town, Fader.”
Kendle pulled her hand away with a warning look that said not to get too friendly.
Ethan frowned at the nice term for someone who can’t follow through and pretended not to see the red-skinned movie star wipe her hand down the side of her
jeans, like he might have contaminated her.
Luke saw it though and his grin widened.
“Give me time,” Ethan boasted arrogantly, flashing beautiful dimples at Kendle, and she frowned at the unspoken implication that he would have her too. Not in a
million years.
“You ready?” Luke interrupted, indicating the bikes.
“Yes.”
Ethan stepped forward as she turned away, meaning to take her hand again.
Luke, unsure of his intentions, slapped both palms against the playboy’s hard chest and shoved him, forcing him to move back to keep from falling. “Don’t ever
touch her unless she says it okay! You got that?”
Ethan bristled, but wasn’t sure about crossing LJ, despite being 20 years younger. “Sure.”
His eyes were hard as he watched them ride off together. Maybe she just didn’t know what kind of man she was staying with. Ethan turned toward the store he had
spotted her coming from, steps lightening. Maybe he would have to make it his job to see that she found out.
2
Later, with the sun fading behind a light layer of ugly-looking clouds rolling in from the southeast, Kendle watched Luke cast out over the calm water of the second
fishing hole they’d tried, the first full of debris.
“You never talk about yourself. You know everything about me.”
Luke turned to look at her with unreadable eyes, wondering how he’d fared in her comparison to Ethan. “Does it matter?”
Kendle sent her eyes back to her twitching line, vaguely listening to frogs and gulls calling to each other. “Sometimes.”
She heard him sink the pole into the ground next to his chair and then there was silence, but she knew he was nervously waiting for her questions to begin. So, she
didn’t ask. Not only was she living on his dime out here, he had been good to her, understanding, and she wouldn’t push. If he wanted to tell her, he would.
Kendle dug her bare feet and hands into the bur grass around them, still in love with the land. She closed her eyes, hearing the rustle of a small animal in the
underbrush, dragonflies zipping over the surface of the water. She thought she could even hear the ants and beetles crawling over the salty soil and she held back the
tears only by will power. She was alive!
Luke outwardly relaxed when she didn’t speak, went back to enjoying the beautiful day, but inside, he was worrying over what to say. He had a horrible secret and
while she hadn't found out today, sooner or later, she would. He needed to be the one to tell her.
“You want to go back to town for lunch? Stacey’s place has good chicken sandwiches.”
Kendle jerked her line hard, felt the fish get hooked. “Not really. Fish is fine,” she lied, thinking if she never ate another piece of any kind of seafood, it would be too
soon. Luke stood to get the net for her. He was very aware of her as a woman, of how tiny she was compared to him, and his eyes roamed her curves as she fought
lightly with their dinner. A lot more comfortable with each other now, the strength of his attention had grown since that wet ride in the dark and he’d felt her looking at
him, too. Slow and easy was the ticket to win her over, and he could probably try now, but he hesitated to get closer to her than he already was. She was pure, he was
tainted, and when she found out, their time together would be over.
The end of her time with Luke was something Kendle had found herself thinking about more and more. It wasn’t right for her to stay with him. It didn’t look good to
the townspeople, but the thought of not being close to him made her heart hurt. Soon, she would have no choice, unless she flaunted convention and did what she
wanted.
Her health had dramatically improved, red skin finally starting to brown, and she was better emotionally too, unless a smell or sound hit her the wrong way, flashed
her back to the ocean and its relentless grip. When that happened, it was Luke's comfort she sought, instinctively knowing he understood what she was going through.
Some nights she still crawled into his bed and huddled against his warm back, shivering, sweating. He never mentioned it in the morning, just gently moved her off his big
chest so he could get up. He was easy going, didn’t expect much, and the only time she’d even seen him even close to upset was today. With Ethan Kraft.
“You don’t really like the people here much, do you?”
Luke dropped the small grouper into their catch holder. “No. We don’t care about the same things.”
Kendle understood. The people here were rich, ostracized from civilization for one reason or another, while Luke was...what? A hermit? Definitely. A criminal?
Maybe. Either way, he’d been nothing but great to her and she would respect his privacy and not ask what his crime had been. It would eventually come out and she
would face it head on, but for now, he was a comfort that she wasn’t ready to give up. She knew there were choices coming, hard ones that would take strength she
wasn’t sure she had, but for now, it was just the two of them in paradise.
Luke’s thoughts were again in line with hers, eager to put it off, but he was dreading her finding out the truth. It was a sin he could never atone for.
Cawwww!
They both looked up to see a scattered flock of dingy cranes heading for open ocean and doubted the birds would see land again, their movements implying
sickness. Neither of them mentioned it. It wasn’t an uncommon sight anymore and only served to remind them both of the homeland they'd left behind.
“How did he know who I was?”
“Same way I did, I guess - T.V. reception out here was good for a while. Easy for him this time.”
His tone implied the playboy hadn’t had such an easy time finding out who he was and Kendle smiled, thinking his light cologne was so much better then Ethan’s
heavy Polo. “Took him a while to find out who you were, huh?”
Luke chose his words carefully. “Yeah. He finally had to go through my garbage to get my fingerprints for Daddy Kraft to run.”
Kendle was horrified for him, at the invasion of his privacy, and Luke threw her a grin. “He got a mud bath for it. Ruined his four hundred dollar shoes.”
She grinned back, almost stealing his breath at her innocent beauty. It was a good moment for him and he memorized it studiously, from the muddy tennis shoes
sitting by her bare feet and the face that was great without makeup, to the sound of water lapping and a rock falling somewhere nearby.
“Did he cry?”
“No, but it was close. One of the best days I’ve had here.” He looked away. “Until you came.”
Her mouth opened and he tensed for questions he knew he’d at least try to answer.
“It’s really bad, right?”
Luke met her eye, prepared to have it happen now, before he got anymore attached than he already was. “Yes.”
Kendle studied the eyes that waited, expected no mercy.
When she spoke, Luke felt her words reach the cold, barren part of his heart he’d been carrying for most of his adult life.
“That was the old world and it's gone. The people here may not believe it, but I do. You’re no longer that man.”
Chapter Thirty One
March 23rd, 2013
Western Missouri
1
“…is Safe Haven…Red Cross convoy…survivors. Does anyone…”
Angela froze at the static-laced transmission. The Witch in her head whispered that her boy, Kenn, and grave danger, were much closer.
Marc came to the open passenger door, jarring her from her thoughts. “Everything okay?”
Angela’s voice was impatient as she pushed a stray curl back behind her ear that the warm wind had dislodged. “That’s them. That’s who we’re looking for. You
ready?”
Marc shook his head, thinking that group had to be within a few hundred miles for them to hear it. “Few more minutes.” His heart thumped and he fished in his long
black coat pockets for his smokes. Only another three weeks alone with her.
Angela got out and closed the door, ignoring the gray and black wolf on the roof that edged closer for her attention. “I’ll help.”
Marc understood her hurry, but wanted to linger over the radio, hoping for a location. She always pointed him in the right direction, but in this big empty, it would be
easy to miss them.
“We won’t,” Angela answered firmly.
Marc lit a smoke, watching her quickly take care of their lunch mess, wiping her hands down her jeans as she finished. It was something she wouldn’t have felt
relaxed enough to do during their first weeks together. She was constantly growing, learning, changing, and on some things, she was already as good as he was.
“They’re near Gillette, Wyoming. We’ll catch up in South Dakota I think, somewhere around Interstate 90.”
Marc frowned. They would be facing her man by the end of next week. Ten days left. His heart twisted.
“Come on, Brady. I’ll back it up and can do the chains.”
Marc cracked an imaginary whip, making them both grin as he got moving. They’d made good time, eating up nearly three hundred miles, and had chosen to tow
one of the Blazers to save on fuel, something they were low on again.
“That’s it. You drive. I’ll check the maps for what’s between us and them.”
Angela got settled quickly, glad he had interrupted her thoughts. Instead of relief that she was about to be with her son, all she could feel was the fear of facing
Kenny. Time to pay was very close now, and she wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to do it yet.
A minute later they were leaving Corning, Missouri. They were both uneasy as this was tornado country, part of the Alley, and it was eerie to see one block looking
totally normal - if you could call looted, burned-down businesses normal - and the next street knocked flat with nothing but piles of debris standing. It was also farm
country, crops of tobacco and river oats everywhere, surrounded by Indian grass and milkweed. There was no traffic in sight though, hadn’t been for the last day, and
she held back a shudder, almost sure she knew why. Not many people had made it through the last town.
Pattonsburg, still fully decorated, had real bodies in every Christmas scene, even those on lawns, with each corpse painstakingly put in the place of the person they
most looked like: Mary, Santa, Wise Men, even the baby Jesus. She and Marc had turned around immediately, the feeling of evil too strong to ignore. They had
detoured an extra day, sure each of the scenes’ “actors” had been survivors of the War, not victims. They were just too fresh.
Pattonsburg had become, or maybe always had been, home to a serial killer now reigning unopposed, and she had marked it in her journal, then tried to let it go.
Later, when she’d kept worrying over it, aware Marc wanted to go back and challenge the mad man just to ease her horror, the Witch had asked, and she’d said yes
with a heavy heart.
After her own encounter with evil, she now understood that some people had earned death. The nut job in Pattonsburg was certainly one of those, and she had let
the Witch hunt him down while she slept. The fact that it hadn’t been by her hand was helping, but death was something she couldn’t handle, and if she ever had to
personally do it again, she might…
“Angie.”
She looked up to find Marc staring at her.
“Try to let it go.”
Angela closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The fact that she had saved future travelers was also helping. “I will. What did you say?”
“We’ll have to cross the Missouri to get into Nebraska, unless you want to parallel it until we get below Kansas City. Flatter land, might have a better chance of
finding a shallow.”
She was already shaking her head, raising her sunglasses, “That’s another week. Let’s try to find a dam or a bridge around here that looks okay.”
Marc just stared, stomach suddenly very uneasy, and Angela gave him a quick look that revealed an almost desperate glare in her eyes. “I feel it too, but I can’t
waste another week. I just can’t.”
“I won’t ask you to unless we can’t find a shallow or dam, like we did when we came over the Mississippi.”
Angela studied the mud-streaked lanes of Interstate 29. The cracked pavement was full of potholes and mud that was slowly drying in the steady breeze now that
the temperatures had stayed above freezing for a few days. The wind was calm, the weather clear for a change, and Angela lit a smoke, not sure what was wrong, but
sure something was since there was only darkness when she looked.
“Do you…”
The ground under them began to shake, and she slammed on the brakes, jerking them to a stop. Eyes wide, she started to get out as the vibrations increased.
Marc put a gentle hand on her wrist, “Wait. If it gets worse, we’ll get out. Watch for big cracks.”
His touch was soothing, exciting. He let go slowly, feeling her interest, and she sighed.
The ground under them rumbled and swayed, shifting nearby debris piles, and from the distance came the distinctive sounds of buildings collapsing, and telltale
plumes of dust rising.
The shaking eased gradually, quieted over a period of maybe a minute, before finally going still. Angela looked at Marc, who was busy studying the map like nothing
had happened. “Should we go on?
“Yeah, just stop if it starts again. Always stay clear of anything that can fall on you and watch for cracks. They open up fast.”
Angela eased back on the pedal, her mind shocked to find out that the fault line under St. Louis was not only there, but now active. They had felt other tremors of
course, but not while driving, and not this strong. In the Midwest, the big one hadn’t come yet, but things were warming up.
They listened to Pink Floyd as she drove over weedy, debris-littered streets, rolling around the abandoned cars with indecipherable notes now mildewed to their
dashboards, and the conversation was about anything other than the destruction all around them. Mother Nature was clearly the cause here.
Marc’s heart was aching. Time had begun to look very short for them, and though he could say they were true friends again, he wasn’t sure if there was more. She
had been keeping the space between them since waking up in his arms in front of the burned-out fire, one of the best memories for him from the whole trip. She had
been so peaceful in his embrace, so relaxed (sexy), and he was feeling discouraged. Appearing to look back at Dog, who was curled up contentedly on the backseat,
he stole another look at her profile as she drove. She was still so far out of reach he didn’t think he’d ever have a real chance with her again, but that didn’t stop the
want. Angela could feel his hot looks, but was blocking so she didn’t pick up on the exact thoughts unless he sent them to her, and she tried not to fidget or look over. She
loved that he was so close, but hated it too. Her female body was acutely aware of him sitting next to her and she was reminded of a time when the mere thought of sex
didn’t make her cringe. She had loved to touch him, to kiss him, to run her fingers through his feathered black hair. They had stolen dark, shadowy moments of heaven,
and the voices were whispering that he could conquer her fears and make her feel it again, that he could have a part in healing her that way too.
“You have to trust me.”
Angela threw him a startled look. “What?”
“You have to turn by that tree.”
Her eyes darted away, face red, and Marc thought again that she had done so much better on this journey than he’d thought she would. They both had.
2
The couple made it to the Nebraska-Missouri line just before dusk and stopped to look. Marc wasn’t encouraged.
The bridge they’d hoped to cross was almost completely submerged. The river was well over its banks, covering even the roads leading to the blue metal structure,
but the water was only dammed up on one side, the south end nearly empty. It was so low, they couldn’t see it from where they were, and as a result, the ground
between them and the bridge was mostly covered with water. Nasty, stagnant, reeking liquid, the edges were pushing up onto the road they were sitting on.
After a long look, Marc handed her the binoculars. “No way we could cross that, even if we found a way in.”
“Damn. I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen yet. Is that a bulldozer jammed up against the railroad trestle?”
“What’s left of one. The water backing up like that behind the bridge might mean there’s a shallow a bit downstream, though.”
The Blazers rolled slowly, and Marc’s sharp eyes searched, picking out places that looked solid as he guided her closer to the river and avoided the spots that were
a quicksand-like mud that would suck them under.
Half a mile from the doomed bridge, Marc had her stop so he could get a closer look, and she waited nervously, stomach full of spiders. Angela grimaced at that
thought and hid it as he came back to her window. There was danger here.
“It’s steep, but maybe we can make it. Tracks say someone else did recently, and if I had to call it, I’d say they did it in a small, light car, like a Toyota. Look at it
while I unhook my Blazer and then we’ll try. You first.”
Angela did as he said, hating the way the damp ground gave under her weight, tried to steal the boots from her feet. She felt a little better when she saw it wasn’t a
straight drop into the riverbed, but it looked rough. She could see the tire ruts someone else had left a bit further down, and the shallow water rushing by with bits of
debris bobbing along furiously.
Not feeling the peeks of sun anymore, Angela tightened her seat belt and slowly headed for the muddy bank, heart thumping wildly. This wasn’t going to go well.
The danger was close now. "Better tell him," the Witch warned, and Angela shook her head. It was too late to go back now. Nothing would keep her from her
son!
“Nice and slow until you hit the flatter part just before the water, then start picking up speed.”
Heart in her throat, Angela rode the brakes as she started down, and the 4x4 bounced over the big rocks, jarring her.
“A little faster, Honey.”
She eased off the brake, let it coast as the water rushed by. It was deeper than she’d first thought, maybe two feet, and moving fast, and then she was out in it.
Easing on the gas too late, sprays of water flew up from her mostly submerged tires, creating small rapids that rippled and surged outward.
Her tires slipped near the middle of the wide riverbed, going sideways with the water, and then she was back in control and shooting across, heart pounding.
Marc was now coming down the incline behind her, and Angela felt her tires slip again as she hit the muddy embankment on the other side. Pedal now to the floor,
her tires dug into the wet ground, and the Blazer came to a stop with a jerk that snapped her seatbelt painfully against her chest.
Angie let off the gas and hit reverse, but only sank further into the thick slop. She got no response from 4x4 mode. Slamming it back into drive, she was
overwhelmed by a feeling of danger, the Blazer fishtailing as the ground began to shake again.
Out! They had to get out! Angela mashed the pedal, eating up stuck tires, and a cloud of white smoke billowed into the sky.
Marc didn’t warn her as the rumbling increased, just hit the gas and slammed into the back of her smoking, sliding Blazer, knocking it up and out of the thick mud
with little visible damage.
The sound of the bridge collapsing was extremely loud, painful as it echoed.
Angela was suddenly hit hard and moving again, and as she cleared the edge, she picked up her mic, stopping to look back. “Damn that was... Brady! Get out!”
Marc didn’t need to look, knew the wall of debris-laden water was now surging toward him hungrily. He’d been here before. When his tires bogged down where
hers had, he shoved himself out the window and got onto the hood, glad Dog was already up on the hill, out of reach.
“The tree! Grab the tree!”
Angela’s scream was frantic and he ran across the protesting hood, jumping just as the water slammed into the Blazer.
The 4x4 was snatched from its tires and turned against the current, rolling violently as the thick waves carried it under.
“Brady!” Angela was out, rope in hand, running to the embankment. “Marc!” She leaned over the edge, eyes frantic as Dog yapped furiously next to her.
“Here!”
Her eyes found his arm and head still above the churning, rising water, and she threw the long cord hard, landing it on his outstretched fingers.
She saw him double it around his wrist, and then she was moving, tying the other end to the bumper hook of her Blazer. She headed for the driver’s seat, not
thinking, just doing what the Witch told her to.
Marc held the rope and then his breath as the water closed over his face, body submerged, scraped, bumped, sliced, battered.
The rope tightened, jerking his shoulder brutally, and then he was out like a fish caught by a boater, gasping for air. He coughed violently, feet and hands digging into
the mud, clawing at the grass for purchase as she hauled him up.
The angry roar of the water echoed in protest at the escape.
Angela saw him collapse in her mirror and had her bag in hand as she rushed back to him. “Brady!”
She saw him move and remembered to breathe. “Are you hurt?”
Marc shook his head, pushing up onto his knees as he coughed out mouthfuls of diseased river water. She ignored his protests, running her hands over him to
check for injuries.
“...finger or should I give you something?”
Marc looked up, confused as he tried to get his air back, and she gestured at the rising water that was rushing loudly by. “Some of that’s inside you now. We have
to get it out before it can settle in and do damage. I’ve got a shot of something that’ll do it.”
She set a tiny vial on the ground by his feet, swatting at thick flies hovering around them. “I’ll get camp set up.”
Marc stammered as he blew out a disgusted sigh, pushing up onto shaky legs. “Fucking quake. Some great joke.”
“...swallow it all and then take a deep smell of the bottle. Are we okay here?”
Marc’s blurry eyes looked over the muddy ground and a park-like area about 200 yards away. No buildings in sight, crooked elm and willow trees behind plum
fields, and thick, lush grass sprinkled with poppies. It actually looked pretty good.
“Over... there. Should be... part of the Brownville... State Rec area. Leave my duffle bag... couple jugs of water. No fire ... stove’s okay.”
Angela left him alone, glad that the sound of the water crushing anything and everything would drown out his misery, and provide a little privacy. She took a good
look around before getting anything out, and watched the wolf jump up onto the roof to watch, though clearly he had wanted to stay with his master.
Angela turned to check on Marc and saw his torn shirt hit the ground, exposing a wide chest that she was drawn to even over the distance. When his hand went to
his belt buckle, she spun around, clumsy fingers getting the Coleman lit. She’d almost lost him. Her impatience had almost killed them both.
"If it was supposed to be, it would have been," the Witch tried to comfort, as Angela set up camp.
Her wide eyes found Marc’s naked body across the distance and couldn’t look away. His hair and face were lathered, and as he poured the clean water over his
head, Angela felt a chill of desire shoot down into her belly. He was a truly beautiful man, and they would be sharing a bed tonight to stay warm.
She should have been afraid of getting so close to Marc so openly, but she realized things had changed for her again. She certainly wasn’t afraid of Marc as a man,
was almost eager to be close to him. It was a very welcome change from the paralyzing fear that she had lived with for so long. The question was, would she feel this
confident around other men, or was it just Brady she could respond to? Their bond of trust was one of those blind comforts that might mask the truths she wasn’t
ready to face, she thought suddenly. It would be too easy to fall back into a submissive role with Marc and forget her own needs in order to make him happy. Also,
knowing she could feel a normal attraction to a stranger, would give her hope that Kenn hadn’t damaged her beyond repair when it came to things like love…and sex.
Marc could feel her staring, his body responding immediately, swelling to thickness in seconds and he took his time rinsing, drying, dressing, and brushing his teeth.
He felt a little better already, though he hurt all over, and he was still alive, so let her look all she wants, Marc thought to himself. Maybe she’ll see something she likes
and hold me down and take it.
Angela grinned, picking up on the thought. The block between them had crumbled when she’d seen the water reaching out for him like alien hands, and she frowned
at all the scrapes, cuts, and bruises on his arms, chest, and face. As he moved closer, Dog jumped down to meet him, welcome him.
Marc walked slowly, shirt open, bag over his uninjured shoulder, and their eyes locked over the distance, speaking louder than the water still rushing by.
"I almost got you killed."
Marc shook his head, full of fierce gratitude he would never be able to express. "You saved my life."
"I’m sorry."
“Don’t be,” Marc stated firmly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead that allowed her to smell his clean, sexy scent.
“No way to know the smart-ass upstairs was gonna pick those 90 seconds to shake the ground again. Your quick actions saved me. You deserve a promotion.”
Angela grinned, waving a hand at the tailgate, “Have a seat. I’ll patch you up while you tell me about this raise.”
He took the Irish coffee she pushed into his clammy hands and the red-flecked wolf sat on the ground at his feet.
“All right. In the Corps, you’d start out a private, but you would have been a Private First Class after Versailles.” He watched for signs that it still bothered her but
saw nothing as she raised a brow.
She’d felt him fishing, but that bait had long since been stripped to the bone by her own guilt. “And now?” she asked, opening the packages from her bag as the sun
sank, leaving a pale orange and purple sky that looked almost normal.
“Now, I’d say... a Lance Corporal.”
She laughed, hiding her wince well. Kenny was a Lance Corporal. “Better get a good raise with that. What about you?”
Stifling a sneeze, Marc shrugged, concentrating on the blue of her eyes and the red of her lips instead of the stinging from the alcohol pad. “Happy where I am.”
Angela heard it all in his voice: the need, the respect, the fierce joy to be alive. She kept her eyes from his as her fingers tenderly moved his dog tag14 aside to
smear gel over his cuts and scrapes. It was Heaven and Hell, being so close, touching him, and she barely kept the old Angela from doing something they might regret…
like letting her hands wander freely over his hot skin.
“Soup when you’re ready for a bite to eat, then pills.”
Angela tried to hurry, to ignore how he felt, and her pulse was pounding when she stepped back.
“Ready for….” she fell silent as the ground under them lit up again, rattling the Blazer and everything inside it. She met Marc’s eyes in the fading light of dusk.
“Just a tremor. We’re all right.”
She hated the way the ground moved under their feet, and when it pounded through her legs, the dirt giving a little, she stumbled, and Marc caught her.
Angela sucked in a breath, tight against his bare chest, but instead of immediately pulling away when the ground stilled under them, she was drawn by the devotion in
his dark gaze as he looked back at her. His heart was pounding as hard as hers was, body warm under her fingers, and she saw his nostrils flare, like he was scenting
her. The image made her flush, and her pulse raced. She wanted him. What a wonderful feeling!
Marc let her have the lead, patiently waiting, knowing desire would have its way eventually, and she’d make the first move. Inside he was dying to kiss her, craved
it. He swore to himself that before she got back to her man, he’d have at least one taste of her to remember when he was alone again.
Angie felt the wave of sadness fall over him and when she pulled away, he let her go, tried to keep it from his face. Who was he kidding? He would never just take
it and she would never just offer.
She pushed a bowl of hot soup into his hands. “Any other cuts?”
He shook his head, stirring the warm noodles. “No. I didn’t even tear my jeans. Lots of bruises though.”
She handed him a small cluster of pills and a cup of water. When he heard ‘painkiller’, Marc smiled. His body was sore all over, aching, but it was his shoulder that
really hurt. Throbbing sharply, it continued to swell. He was surprised it hadn’t been dislocated, but didn’t complain or even mention it. There had been little time for
anything else.
“We’ll stay here tonight.”
Marc agreed, watching her set up a lawn chair next to the stove.
She waved a hand, and he moved to where she wanted him, leaning back and closing his eyes with a small smile she had to turn away from. Would his kiss still light
her up, or would it repulse her, the way Kenny’s did?
Angela dropped a blanket over his legs and held up another. “Lean forward a little bit,” she coaxed, laying it over the chair and when he sat back, she pulled it
around his wide shoulders, not meeting his eyes when their fingers brushed.
Angela stayed behind him, and Marc couldn’t stop a small moan of pain when her hands settled firmly on his shoulder. Then she was rubbing, soothing, pushing,
manipulating it back into position, her fingers like fire one minute and ice the next as she healed him.
Exhausted, drained, Angela stepped back. “I’m gonna put the discs out. Twenty feet?”
He nodded, smothering a yawn as he handed her the wrist band controller. “Two rows. One at 20 and one at 30.”
She did it like he had shown her and Marc watched for a minute, then got slowly to his feet in the light breeze. “You want a cup?”
The wind gusted as Marc’s eyes went over the distant, but clearer shapes of the mountains to their south, bringing the stench of rotting fish. He kept himself from
gagging only by sheer will, his whole body suddenly feeling foreign, clammy.
“I’ll get it. Sit back down, will ya? That was enough dope to knock you out,” Angela scolded, finished.
When he didn’t answer - only put a hand on the hatch for support - she went to him, slipped an arm around his lean hips. “Come on, Brady. Time to hit the rack.”
“Been waitin' weeks to hear that,” he joked tiredly and she surprised him by laughing. “Well, wait a while longer, Romeo. Come on now, slide in.”
Marc eased onto the stiff bed, and she tossed the two top blankets over him. When he looked at her, his deep blue eyes were full of fear instead of the male pride
she had been expecting. “I’ll get sick now, right?”
She didn’t even consider lying to him as she brushed dust from her jeans and then leaned inside to pull up his blankets. “Maybe.”
“Will I die?”
“Oh, God no!” she exclaimed, sliding in to sit next to him. “At the worst, you’ll be tired, have diarrhea, and throw up, but it’ll only last a couple weeks because
you’re in great shape.”
“So, I’ll just feel like I died.”
She grinned, running her hand over his clammy brow to smooth his hair back, loving the feel of it against her fingers. “That’s the worst. We handled it quickly. You
might be a little queasy for a couple days, but probably not even that. You’ll be fine.”
Marc sighed, relieved, and she stayed with him until he fell asleep, staring at her until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.
The chill in the wind made Angela shiver as she stepped out to repack everything, and she loaded it quickly so he wouldn’t get a draft. The heater’s batteries were
dead, all the propane cylinders gone, and they couldn’t waste the quarter tank of gas they had left to run the engine while they slept. Body heat would have to do.
Finished, Angela ignored her racing pulse as she closed herself back inside the tepid Blazer with him and laid down, Dog still outside. She slid carefully against his
back, covering up, and closed her eyes as the horror of the day washed over her.
The constant voice of fear was whispering that she would pay dearly for breaking Kenny's rules, that it wasn’t just her life in danger. She wasn’t allowed to talk to
another man, let alone crawl into bed with one. The past rose up to assault her weary mind, thoughts of being separated from her children flashing, and she let herself cry
a little against his warm comfort. What was she going to do? She was chained to one man but loved another.
Marc had woken the second she’d gotten back out of the Blazer and her pain was something he couldn’t ignore. He slowly rolled over and wrapped his arms
around her.
“It’ll be okay, Honey,” he whispered, and she hoped he was right.
“I am.”
She looked at him questioningly, and he brushed away her tears.
“We’re connected. Always were. No one can stop that.” He kissed her cheek, felt her shiver. “We belong together Angie and right or wrong, I love you. Always
have.”
Her tears fell harder. “There’s no future for us, Brady. He’ll never let me go.”
“We’ll find a way to convince him.”
“And if we can’t?”
He didn't hesitate. “Under no circumstances will I allow you to just give in. You’re going to fight back and he’s gonna get a wakeup call.”
Chapter Thirty Two
March 26th, 2013
South Dakota state line
1
Danger to the herd!
Adrian woke to the ground beneath his tent grumbling, groaning in protest. He grabbed for his boots as the tremor strengthened and the panic started.
Things were falling, breaking, feet were running, an engine started, and radios crackled, but the silent roar of the quake distorted the sounds somehow, making his
ears vibrate.
Adrian pulled his jacket over his bare chest and ducked outside as he zipped it up, sharp eyes finding those of the nervous, unsure guards. They’d had tremors
before, but not as strong as this, and he keyed his mic. “Hold your posts, Eagles.”
Adrian waved Neil and Kenn over, the two black-clad men roughly the same height. They came to him quickly, dodging camp members in robes and slippers who
were fleeing - most toward the parking areas.
He hit his radio again. “Empty your clip, Doug. Turn ‘em around!”
The towering, red-vested giant didn’t question, just fired into the air above the small mob of about 30.
Ground no longer rumbling, the gunfire got immediate attention. The panicked herd of sheep pulled up short and stopped, eyes wild with fear.
Doug’s heavily-bearded face was full of disapproval, but he only waved a beefy hand to where Adrian stood, before limping back to his post.
The crowd slowly turned, staring at the sight of Kenn and Neil hunkered down to let Adrian stand on their shoulders. It was such an unexpected thing that it
instantly captured the twitching crowd, and the red-vested giant watching it all had the thought that Adrian had expected this, had planned his reaction perfectly. It was
simple - distraction.
Seth, a quiet shadow ready to protect the boss, had the same thought, and he shared a grin with the Eagle on point, Kyle, who knew where he was hiding. Nearly
everyone was watching, the crowd growing as more people came out of their tents.
Adrian tapped the dark heads below him. “Up.”
The Eagles moved slowly, but there was little teamwork, and Adrian swayed dangerously - amusingly. His wild face and arm movements drew small titters from the
calming group of nearly sixty, most of them refugees from Cheyenne who had broken their quarantine.
The leader grinned as they lifted him up and the watching people gave a small, uneasy cheer in return.
“We had a tremor. This is how it feels.” Adrian lowered his voice. “Walk, guys, and do it together for God sakes or I’ll break my friggin' neck!”
He raised his voice, “We survived it.” He swayed, almost fell, and the two tall Eagles grabbed at his legs, pulling more laughter from the people.
“Damn it!” Adrian hauled himself up by sheer will, struggled to stay there. Hearing real calm now in their reactions, he gave up the fight, wobbling.
“He’s gonna fall!”
“Grab him!”
“Down, guys!” Adrian rolled forward with the fall as Neil and Kenn bent down, and ended up on his feet in front of the crowd that let out a cheer, clapping.
Adrian waded into the thick of them, and they quieted, most of them realizing they had overreacted, and were due a scolding.
His men watched silently, thinking they were beyond lucky that once again Adrian had known how to handle the crisis - nothing broke the spell of panic and fear
like laughter.
Nose full of sulfur and smoke, Adrian felt the air shift, knew by their downcast eyes and silence that they understood, and said nothing, only looked back with hard,
blue eyes. The silence stretched out.
When many of them were about to start offering apologies, Adrian stopped them with a shake of his head. “During a quake, you get away from anything that can fall
on you and then stop. Wait and look for cracks that often open up.”
He pointed to the jagged, gaping hole in front of Doug that a lot of them would have fallen into if he hadn’t stopped them. “Like that one. Panic makes people do
stupid things, and sometimes, it costs your life, something I can’t give back.”
Neil watched with the other Eagles, hands on his narrow hips, thinking Adrian was giving them what Kyle like to call the “lay”, or how things stood.
“All of you have broken Quarantine and will have extra time in it, along with all the camp members I’m looking at.” Adrian paused to spot them out with his sharp
gaze, and the crowd was silent, ashamed. “This is nothing we can’t handle, if we use our heads. It's over now and I want this camp back the way it was and everyone
accounted for.”
There was only silence and Adrian scowled, letting them see how displeased he actually was with an impatient jerk of his hand. “Move.”
The commanding tone had them all rushing off and he turned to Kenn and Neil as people went by, torn between talking of the tremor and his juggling act. “Sitrep in
five. Check-in of the guards is first. Gather your team, Neil, and round up the strays. Kenn, get Mitch on the radio. Have Zack and his guys oversee the cleanup. I
heard engines. Try to call ‘em back. Have Doug handle the count and tell the cook to start chow. Almost dawn anyway. Kyle keeps point. I’ll be around.”
Neil saw Seth’s tall, thin shadow go with Adrian, and the Arizona cop sent his gaze over the camp that already looked and felt better. He and Seth had hit it off, and
he knew the redhead would cover Adrian’s overloaded back.
Five minutes later, Kenn and Adrian were in the Mess, the camp a flurry of activity in the foggy morning. They’d had no serious damage, no injuries, and all but two
people were accounted for.
Adrian finished his coffee with a grimace as the stench of rot wafted through the crowded, loud, Mess. About three miles southwest of their camp, a large herd of
bison lay dead. John was testing the bodies for radiation since there was no obvious cause of death. The big ants (that Adrian sometimes thought might be following
them) were also here, along with a burgeoning population of field mice that they had set out traps out for.
This area was all nature as far as they could see, no sign that mankind had ever been here, except for the corpses. Adrian dreaded dropping south into the
Badlands, but knew he would if John said fallout had killed the bison. That strange, eerie landscape would be better than sickness, but the barren area had little they
needed. South Dakota was the sunshine state no more.
They wouldn’t stay long, only a couple of weeks total instead of the month they usually did, he decided. There wouldn’t be any camp tours of Mount Rushmore or
any of the Wild West sites that featured Annie Oakley and Wild Bill Hickok. That world was gone.
“Everyone accounted for?” Adrian asked a short time later, and Neil opened his book.
“Almost. We had five cars leave camp. All but one is on the way back, and we made contact with the supply team. Chris said he hasn’t been able to reach the 5th
yet.”
“They were together?”
Neil continued his report, “Says he saw two people in her convertible. They’ll probably show up at dawn.”
Adrian’s eyes spoke for him as he looked to his XO.
Kenn waved a hand for Kyle to join them from his post on the Mess. “Get your team and do a recon for Tonya and the Bitch. Half hour check-ins.”
Kyle’s eyes narrowed, but he swallowed his dislike, knowing the orders actually came from Adrian. Kenn didn’t like the reporter, few of them did, and though he
was screwing the redhead, the mobster didn’t think he really cared for her. Women were possessions to the Marine, Kyle thought, calling in his relief early. He pitied
the female who had shared Kenn’s bed before the War, when there had been no Adrian to keep him in line.
Kenn waited until the stocky, uniformed Eagle was out of earshot, noting the body language indicating the Mobster’s displeasure, but even that didn’t ease the
thumping of his heart as he turned to Adrian. Angela was close. He had to leave.
“Mitch took a call. Thinks I missed someone in Cheyenne. A woman named Samantha.”
Adrian looked at him, saw the edge of fear in his Marine’s eyes. “Could you have?”
Kenn’s face was miserable. “Yes.”
Adrian knew instinctively there was more and waited unhappily when Kenn looked to the black hills that surrounded their camp, instead of maintaining eye contact.
“I need to leave for a while. Charlie’s stayin' here. I’ll recheck Cheyenne first and bring the woman back if she’s still there.”
His tone implied he doubted she would be, and Adrian hid his grimace as his heart skipped, sending pain into his arm. He couldn’t keep it from his eyes, and Kenn
mistook it.
“I’ll be back. Soon.”
Chest slowly easing, Adrian gave him a hard look, mind and body already dreading the Marine’s absence. He had been more help than he knew. Fresh out of the
quarantine zone, Kenn had only been back in camp for half a day as it was.
“When?”
Kenn didn’t want to look at him. “Now.”
Flat, devoid of emotion, and careful.
Adrian stopped, looked at him. “I told you once that everyone here is free to go anytime they please, and I meant that. If you have something to do, somewhere to
go, come back when you’re ready. Just don’t forget about us. And watch your six. We need you.”
Kenn, light beard covering his guilty flush in the windy darkness, responded, “I hear that.”
Adrian frowned. It had been his experience that when someone said that, the opposite was true.
“I’m comin' back,” Kenn repeated, addressing the uniformed shadow who had given himself away by his quick breath at the news. “Hold my place.”
“You know it.”
The Marine hadn’t been sure how to bring up the subject, didn’t want to give details, but in his heart, he was sure the lone female had been Angela, not Samantha,
the radio static making Mitch misunderstand. She was close. He had to go now and set her straight before the camp (before Adrian) met her. They could never be
allowed to know who she was or what she could do.
2
As dawn finally broke, Tonya and the reporter rolled into camp, flanked by Kyle’s team, while Kenn waited nearby. He lingered in dawn’s last shadows, waiting for
the camp to get settled around the Mess for chow.
A few minutes later, her tent flap opened, revealing a dim, smoky interior. A small red glow winked on and off, and he moved forward. No one else was around.
Not that it mattered anyway. If she and Adrian had been an item, it was over now.
Kenn stepped inside the pungent tent, inhaling from the thick joint that slid between his lips. The flap closed them in darkness, and he remained still, smoking as
unseen hands rubbed him, opened his jeans…stroked.
The redhead was aware that something was happening with Adrian’s right-hand man. She’d seen his loaded Bronco, and wanted to be sure her place with him was
secure before he left. Kenn was her ticket to power here, and Tonya gave him an amazing effort, trying to dig her hooks in deeper. For a little while the hard new future
was forgotten by them both.
Chapter Thirty Three
March 28th, 2013
Pitcairn Island
1
“Want to sleep with me?”
Face sweaty and flushed, Luke stopped in the middle of a sit-up, shocked before his mind replayed what she’d really said, what his male mind had misheard.
“Want some company?”
The smile in her eyes made him look away. Her skin was evening out, weight finally coming up, and these awkward moments of tension were happening more and
more as she recovered. “I’ve got more books if you’re bored,” he offered, finishing number eighteen.
He’d already done the 40 push-ups, Kendle forcing herself to pretend to be reading, but her eyes had stayed mostly on him and she wondered if he knew. “I’d
rather get back in shape and that looks like it works.”
LJ grinned at her, at the compliment, and she blushed, but didn’t look away. He might be 50, but he wore the frame of a very healthy 35-year-old. “I mean it. I get
out of breath just carrying our basket to the fishing hole. I used to be so…” she trailed off, eyes wistful as memories swirled over her, something Luke understood all too
well.
“In the morning?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She dropped her eyes back to The Stand, the last book on his wall shelves that she hadn’t read yet, but her mind was on leaving…on going home. She dreamed of
it most nights that the ocean didn’t claim her, of facing her terror and trying to get back. It made her stomach clench painfully and her spine look for a place to hide, but
so help her, she really was considering the attempt. She wasn’t pushing herself much and Luke wasn’t pushing her at all, but she wasn’t going to be content here for very
long. She had to get healthy. Right now, she was weak, tired, and it would still be at least a month or two, on top of the seven weeks she had already spent here, but in
that time, she planned to find a way back to America that didn’t involve those awful waves that called to her…mocked her.
“Lotta hard words?”
Kendle looked down into his understanding face, thinking she might not go if Luke wouldn’t come with her. Being alone was something she didn’t ever want to face
again. “I’m sorry?”
“You haven’t turned a page. I thought maybe you were stuck.”
She smiled sadly, closed the book of death and destruction with gentle, reddish-brown hands that her eyes lingered on. “It’s too depressing.”
Luke wiped his face with the towel from the pocket in his cutoff jeans, and then slid it back. “Great writing, though.” He fell silent, thinking America was now
experiencing it firsthand and knew she was too.
“Alright, enough of this,” Luke said, “Let’s do something.” He was pulling on his running shoes, trying not to stare at the long legs her dark shorts allowed him to
see. “I’ll skip the run and we can play some cards or something.”
He paused, looking around the neatly-cleaned cabin. No carpet on the wooden floor, two recliners, a table, two beds, two doors, four walls, white curtains she’d
sewn, a three drawer stand he’d made for her things, all of it dusted, washed, and made up. They were inside too much. She needed to get out there again if she was
going to recover. What had helped him when he’d first come here?
“Hey. We could work on my garden.”
That got Kendle’s attention and she smiled eagerly, forgetting how loud the ocean was outside the safety of his small cabin. The only time she was alone was to get
a shower or relieve herself and she liked it that the small generator would come on anytime they used water in the M*A*S*H-style shower and outhouse set up because
it drowned out the noise that tormented her.
“Now?”
Warm breeze blowing on his skin, Luke shrugged, trying to remember the last time he’d broken his exercise routine, but couldn’t. Making her happy here was
important, and sometimes, like when they were sitting in his leather recliners, reading, listening to his records, it was hard to remember how quiet (lonely) his life had
been before she came. “After lunch. We’ll have grilled salmon hoagies and then play in the dirt.”
Kendle’s spirits picked up a bit, adventurous soul long since bored. She was looking forward to having work to do, instead of just staring at him when he wasn’t
looking her way, and staring at the walls when he was.
2
Hearing albatrosses and seagulls fighting over a beach full of small, red crab hatchlings and the dull roar of an upset, unhealthy ocean, Kendle’s eyes were wide as
she looked over the terribly tangled vines and sticker bushes. They were at least five feet high and so thick, she was unable to determine where the brambles ended and
the jungle began or how big the area behind the cabin was.
“When’s the last time you came out here?”
“Couple years. Planted a big garden when I first came, spent a lot of time letting the earth soak into me. It seemed to help.” Luke let out a sigh. “Then the ocean
took it back.”
Kendle heard the haunted tone and understood more than anyone else could have, but she said nothing as she dug through the box of tools he’d pulled from a small
attic space. “Clippers?” she asked, holding them up.
She saw his eyes darken. Clearly, he was struggling with something, a deep frown planting itself on his forehead. When he turned back toward the cabin without
saying anything, she wondered again what crime had made him choose the painfulness of solitude over the quick end of suicide. He wasn’t a coward, but he was doing
penance, she was sure of it. Luke had been hurting himself for a long time and Kendle wanted it to stop. He’d done so much for her! She almost felt like a normal
person again. There had to be something she could do for him in return, some way to ease his pain.
The jungle was alive around her, monkeys and squirrels chattering from vine-covered banyan trees and leafy palms that waved in the warm, dry wind. The sun was
shining comfortably, the breeze light, and sometimes, like now, it felt like they were the only ones on this nearly deserted southern island. If not for the heavy, hurting
heart that needed to know, she thought she could be happy here.
Luke came back out carrying a long, black sword case decorated with Marine patches, an American flag, and the initials, L.L.J. His blue eyes were dazed, far
away, and Kendle watched curiously as he unzipped the bag, removing a worn machete. Shiny and no doubt deadly, he dropped the empty sheath into the thick paddle
grass by her feet, mind clearly not in the present. She left him alone, eager to inspect the markings on the case.
The past instantly, vividly, came alive for Luke as he held the machete, the memories running up the blade and into his heart. He hadn’t touched it in years, not since
clearing the land where his cabin sat. After that, he had locked it up with the rest of his old life. The first swipe was sweet, powerful, and Luke was jerked through time,
suddenly facing his greatest joy and his biggest bête noir.
The other men in his platoon had hated cutting a path through the dense jungles of Cambodia, griped constantly about the back-breaking, mind-numbing work, but
not Luke. He understood that clearing their own road meant they were there before the enemy, before the mines and homemade traps meant to blow their legs a mile
away. He’d been known as Whacker then, had used that excuse to explain always volunteering for point, but more than safety, hacking his own path gave him a feeling
of power and control that the 16-year-old runaway had fallen in love with.
Sweat rolled into his eyes and Luke automatically pulled off his white tank top and wiped his face, keeping the deadly weapon in hand. He pushed the shirt into his
pocket and went back to work, enjoying the only good thing that had come from his time in the service.
Frank, his mind insisted, Frank had been good. The POW hadn’t been from Luke’s platoon, but he had been another American soldier (teenager much too
young to be killing people) and they had formed a bond that was stronger than with the other prisoners. They had been hostages together, tortured together for their
friendship, and when they’d gotten the chance, they had escaped together, taking nine other survivors along.
It had gotten them both medals and citations, but there was no erasing everything that had happened during the escape. An award couldn’t bring back all those lives.
Regret rolled over Luke in waves and he stopped swinging, breathing harsh. That world was decades gone, but it always seemed much closer.
Bright blue-gray eyes drawn to Luke’s bare back, Kendle was surprised by her reaction. She hadn’t expected the hard, sexy muscles or narrow strip of hair running
down his flat stomach to capture her attention so completely. And then he’d started swinging again, tan, naked back flexing gracefully, and her mouth went dry.
Luke turned in time to see her staring and there was no way he could mistake the desire as a light breeze blew deliciously over his sweaty skin. The male inside him
demanded he grab her, kiss her…claim her.
Sun beating on his gritty neck, LJ took a single step before stopping, pulling back. He turned away instead, putting his shirt back on. Would she have denied or
welcomed him?
Kendle’s face was red, but with his sweaty, sexy skin covered, her mind seemed to wake from the sexual daze she’d fallen into. Her eyes went back to the
machete, realizing the weapon hadn’t left his hand once. Must be special to him, she thought, and was surprised when he came over and gently pushed the handle into
her grip.
“You can do the rest.”
She hesitated. “I don’t have a clue.”
Luke threw her a challenge in response, very aware of the salty air and the thick green jungle around them. It felt like he was caught between the past and the
present. “I’ll show you. Unless you don’t think you can?”
Kendle carefully took hold of the sharp weapon’s worn handle; stepping over to the area that was almost a third cleared, and looked back at him expectantly.
Not quite smiling, Luke answered by stepping behind her and tugging her gently into his big arms. Barely suppressing a groan of pleasure, he wrapped himself
around her and guided them, mouth near her ear, giving soft instructions.
It went awkwardly at first, Kendle too aware of the hard male body molded to hers to work with him, and the images of his naked skin flashed through her mind as
they bent and swung, dipped and cut.
“Close your eyes.”
She did it reluctantly, hating to give up control, but almost immediately, the feeling hit her. Total power, it was undeniable and consuming. She grinned against his
jaw, not opening her eyes as he led.
They settled into a rhythm that made her stomach jump, as primitive and sexual instincts converged stunningly with each carefully controlled and yet harshly violent
swing.
For Kendle, it was the release she needed and the attraction she’d long ago lost hope of finding. She had wanted the real love that her parents had shared, the kind
that set off bells and whistles in her heart, and while this wasn’t that, it was definitely lust and she let her body melt against his as they ducked and swung, bent and
rubbed.
The area was cleared too quickly for both of them and they stopped reluctantly, neither of them moving away as sparks flew.
Kendle was lost. Even the sand in her shoes felt right. When he placed a light kiss on her jaw, she turned toward him, eyes still closed.
Moving slowly, the lonely Pilot slid his lips to the corner of her mouth for a chaste, erotic kiss that gave her chills of want, and drew a moan of frustration when he
started to move back.
Luke felt the denial, her need, and tilted her head up, sealing their lips.
It was the sweetest kiss he’d ever had, one to remember a lifetime later and he leaned back to look at her dark blue eyes, thinking it shouldn’t go any further yet.
Liquid pools of desire looked back and Luke forced himself away from her, putting the machete back in its case. Would she want that room in town now? A line had
definitely been crossed.
Kendle could still feel his lips against hers, his hardness behind her as they moved together, and she went to the box of tools with a smile of pleasant discovery. It
was what she’d been looking for since high school and she was a bit stunned that she had found it here and now, and without even looking.
She glanced up to see his sexy eyes watching her warily and she blushed, smiled. “Sorry. Guess I got carried away.”
“Me too, Darlin'. You’re safe here with me. It won’t happen again.”
Luke grinned at the protest in her eyes and saw her clamp down on her first response, giving him another smile instead.
“I know that. If I have to be stranded in paradise, I couldn’t have better company.”
They let it go, got back to the gardening, but it stayed on both their minds and Luke was very aware of how often her eyes were on him. She was young, innocent
(despite being a star from California) and he would try to give her time to adjust to the new feelings before taking advantage of her…but time was running out.
He could feel it pulling them along, and he wanted to tell her what was in his heart but didn’t, still not sure of what response he might get.
3
Not one to wait, Fate stepped in. A few hours after their first embrace, they were forced to confront their future directly.
“Is Miss…Roberts about? I thought I’d take her on a tour of my estate.”
Luke clamped his jaw shut against his first thought: No, Jackass, not if she has any taste, and used a polite response instead. “Hang on, damn it.”
Spinning away, he slammed the door in the surprised son of a millionaire’s face, hard enough to rattle the frame. Luke longed to order the playboy off his property,
but knew he couldn’t. All the island males had come sniffing around (Ethan Kraft the most determined) and though it was her decision to make, Luke couldn’t help the
jealousy that filled his heart. His! She was his!
“Kendle! Company!” he shouted out the back door and her soft words made him grin, like her even more.
“I’m not here.”
Luke shook his head, not bothering to lower his voice. “Too late. Come say ‘Hi’ to Ethan.”
“Shit.”
Luke was laughing as she came to the door and stepped around him, muttering about people with more money than brains. He settled in his chair with a drink and a
cigar, shamelessly turning off the record player to listen.
Kendle yanked the front door open with a frown and held it, not inviting him in and not stepping out. This was the fifth time he had “dropped by” in the last two
weeks, becoming more and more frustrated that none of his power and money seemed to matter to her. He’d finally reached annoying.
“Hello, Ethan.”
He blinked at her tone and flashed a brilliant smile meant to blind so that she wouldn’t see his pale, green eyes crawl up her jeans, go over her chest, and finally
make it to her face. “How lovely you look, Ms. Roberts. I’ve come to sweep you away for that tour I’ve been promising.”
She shook her head, held up dusty gloved hands, “I’m gardening. It’s slow work.” She hoped he would take the hint and frowned when the tall, curly blond,
daddy’s-boy moved closer, eyes almost leering.
“I could help.”
“Do what? You ain’t no farmer,” Luke grunted from his chair in the corner.
Kendle flushed, hoping the snobbish fop hadn’t heard. “Thanks, but I already ran Luke off. It’s very relaxing.” Kendle looked over the tropical jungle that was alive
with life, bushy leaves waving in the soft, warm breeze, and tried not to respond to his smug, patronizing tone.
“You should be resting. Let me take you to my estate on the bay. I’ll pamper you…show you what the red carpet treatment is.”
“And, probably every venereal disease known to mankind,” Luke muttered.
Kendle couldn’t stop the smile that mistakenly encouraged Ethan to begin telling her what he would “introduce” her to, like she were some backwards bush-baby he
had to tame.
After a full minute, Kendle found herself getting angry. Didn’t he know who she was? She had once done a two week stretch in the South American jungles of
Brazil after her plane crashed, and she’d photographed the entire event - turned it into an award-winning documentary.
“I’ve also got a rock-wall I’ll show you how to climb. It’s the biggest one the company ever made,” Ethan stated arrogantly.
Luke’s scornful voice echoed, loud and clear, “Yeah, forty grand for a wall when he could have climbed these hills for free. Bet daddy’s real proud.”
Ethan’s handsome face disappeared behind his scowl and Kendle turned beet red, embarrassed, but struggling not to laugh.
“You said you’re busy. I’ll come back another day.”
“Ethan, wait.” She stepped out, but left the door open. “I’m sorry. I know you want to be my...friend, but really, I just need a little more time to myself.”
Keeping his voice even, he answered, “I should think you would be eager to be with your own kind.”
Frowning at him, Kendle crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s that mean?”
The dandy’s green eyes were eager now, mean, and she suddenly wished she’d let him go away mad.
“It means normal people, Miss Roberts, not an old man who hid here from crimes he was never punished for. Be careful. You could be in danger.”
He left before she could think of a response. As she stepped back in and closed the door, Luke’s shuttered eyes met hers.
“He’s right. Not about you being in danger, but about my past. I did something awful that cost a lot of lives, and I was never charged, barely even investigated
because of the scandal it would have caused. It was swept under the rug and I was sent to a different part of the world in a new unit.”
His voice was careful, expecting the worst, and Kendle nodded calmly, hating the Kraft heir just a little for the pain in LJ’s eyes. There was no comparison between
the two men and she liked the fact that Ethan had backed down. It said she was safe with Luke, that he could handle things.
“I knew it was something like that. How terrible to have carried it so long. Alone.”
Surprised by her reaction, or lack of, he repeated his words, “He’s right. You should be with your own kind.”
Kendle sighed, shaking her head as she pulled off the dirty gloves. “You’re my kind. He just can’t understand how it is with us. He only wants me because I say
no.”
Luke’s eyes darkened as tension invaded the room. “How is it with us, Kendle? Tell me, so we’ll both know.”
Face red and heart thumping, Kendle stared at the floor. “I don’t think we should do this yet.”
“Too soon?” he asked, trying to steal himself for her words of rejection, despite the kiss he couldn’t stop thinking about.
“Too awkward. It…may not be what you’re hoping for and I... I don’t want to hurt you.”
Luke smiled at her, voice sad. “You’d be surprised by how little I’d settle for.”
He let out a gentle sigh filled with resignation, as if he knew he wasn’t worthy and it broke her heart to see the hurt lurking in his face.
“I understand. I’m content with our friendship.”
“Really?”
He bent down to place a soft kiss on her cheek that sent chills into her belly. “Yes. Anything more is up to you.”
Unsure where the future would take them, Kendle followed her heart. They would take what Fate gave them. “I know I don’t want any strings. I haven’t made
plans for the future.”
“And you don’t have to. We’ll keep things like they are.”
Kendle shook her head, heart saying it would never be enough. Not now. “I’d like to try a little more.”
Luke’s breath caught in his chest at her words, “What do you mean by a little, Darlin’?”
She flushed at the grin. “I want you to follow your feelings, stop holding yourself back from me. I can handle it.”
“I hold back out of respect for you and your reputation,” he hedged, knowing it was really the stain on his soul and the feeling of worthlessness he wore like a cloak.
“People will see it as wrong. I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”
Kendle's mind flashed to their embrace in the garden and she shook her head, telling him what the male inside had been longing to hear.
“I don’t care what they think. I don’t see you that way.”
His dark blue eyes seemed to light up and he moved forward slowly, eyes on hers. “How do you see me?”
Kendle smiled, face hot. “I see an attractive, resourceful man I’d like to know more… intimately. If you’re interested?”
Luke pulled her into his arms and this time, when their lips met, he let the man in him have control. He held her with a hand tangled in her short, dark curls and the
other on her slender hip, keeping her close as his tongue tasted her.
He broke the kiss reluctantly and her lashes fluttered open, eyes full of hazy desire that made him grin. “I’m interested.”
He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and she smiled sexily. “How about another?”
Luke chuckled, body under tight control. “I’ll need an ice shower.”
Kendle slid her arms around his neck and pressed her soft woman’s curves against him. “No need. I’m not a tease.”
She kissed his lips softly, breath catching against his mouth when he slid a hand down her hip to her cheek. As he deepened the kiss, Kendle was swept away,
tightening her grip around his neck.
The wind gusted against his hot skin and Luke held himself in check as he swelled, wanting to push against her like a horny teenager. He made himself pull back,
move away from her hot, sweet embrace.
“We hafta slow down, Darlin’,” he said and put a little more distance between them. “This is one of those moments you can’t get back. You should be sure.”
“I am,” she protested, moving closer.
Luke forced himself to do the right thing. He lied. “I’m not.”
Kendle’s desire fell under an immediate wave of self-doubt. What was she doing? Acting like a whore came to mind and she turned away. “Yeah, okay.”
Embarrassed by her actions, she was gone a second later and he watched with regret in his eyes, sorry he’d hurt her, but sure it was happening too fast. He
wouldn't be able to stand it if they made love and she was sorry when it was over.
Kendle was horrified by the way she’d thrown herself at him and couldn’t stop the hot tears. She told herself she had been treated worse by people she was related
to, but the feeling of rejection was heavy in her gut as she went back to the garden.
“Stupid,” she muttered, wiping at her eyes,.“Red skin, no hair. No wonder he didn’t want me.”
“That’s not even close to true.”
Kendle jumped, but didn’t look up. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.”
She wiped at her face with the sleeve of her shirt, “Doesn’t matter. My fault for thinking I could have what I want and not consider how you feel. I put you on the
spot and I apologize. I used to have better manners.”
“Don’t do that to yourself!” Luke stated sharply, moving toward her. “You did nothing wrong.”
She looked up, pretty blue eyes streaming with tears that the sun lit up like sparkling jewels as they rolled down her cheeks. “Then why don’t you want…”
“What? You think I don’t want to make love to you?”
Flushing scarlet, she didn’t answer. When she started to turn away, Luke pulled her back, forced her to meet his eyes. “I want you so much I dream about it,” he
whispered, leaning close to slide his lips along her jaw.
“I want to be with you more than any woman I’ve ever known and the next time you invite me, I’ll do my best to love you the way you deserve.”
Luke kissed her damp cheek and moved back to the cabin, afraid he’d fallen in love with someone who would never be able to feel the same. It’ll be enough, his
heart said. He would love her a lifetime's worth in the weeks or months that Fate let them have, her fears of the future groundless. Death was in the air. His…and the
only time he wasn’t scared was when he was close to her.
Chapter Thirty Four
March 29th, 2013
1
“You forget who I am! Never talk to me that way again!” José snarled, hand dipping toward his belt.
Dean’s dark eyes narrowed as he looked up from the muddy ground. The thin layer of grit was still keeping most of the sun from peeking though the windows and,
without the glare, he had a perfect shot.
“Whoever did this might still be around. Listen to my brother, Josey, and shut up, or maybe your body will join that one by the burnt jeep. It is one of your
hombres, yes?”
The school had obviously been the site of a battle. Blackened jeeps, fly-ridden Mexican corpses, puddles of drying blood, drag marks in the deep sand - and the
front of the red brick building looked like a bomb had gone off. The stocky guerilla picked it all out through his binoculars. Seemingly concentrating on the scene in front
of them, he stored the insults, thinking one day, when he was in charge, these two negro hermanos would be muerto.
Dean seemed to sense the thought and snorted, “You’d better bring help, Josey.” Mounting his solid black horse awkwardly, he silently cursed the wound which
had healed, but left nerve damage that prevented the smooth control he used to have over his leg.
At the second intentional slur of his name, the scarred Mexican considered trying anyway.
Dean saw it in his slanted eyes, and he grinned at Cesar’s ugly cousin. “Don’t miss.”
It was a long moment between them, and Dillan reluctantly distracted his brother. They needed Cesar. Killing his reckless second in command wouldn’t help. “Fresh
tracks. Not ours.”
Dillan stood up from his perusal of the hard ground and Dean continued to eye the Mexican who abruptly turned his back to them. He was pretending to watch
mutated ants the size of an infant’s shoe, climb in and out of a huge, two-foot high hill of dirt, but both brothers knew he was really like a coiled snake, waiting for the
right moment to strike. If he could conquer his carelessness, José might eventually gain the deadly air his cousin carried, but for now they weren’t impressed.
“They were overpowered?” José asked, lighting a thick cigar with hands that were steadier than the brothers expected.
Dean realized Dillan had been right to stop him. For now. “If they had won, they would have maybe stayed, held your men as hostages. They fled,” Dean stated
curtly, annoyed they had to ally themselves with such amateurs. Cesar was the only real threat; the only reason José was still drawing breath.
“They had help. Casings are from 9 millimeters.” José’s plump, scarred face screwed up in anger as cigar smoke swirled in the gusting wind.
“Safe Haven,” Dean stated flatly, sliding his coat back to finger the sniper rifle on his pommel. His rage towards the Witch grew as he watched his brother swing up
onto his horse and wince. The painful pressure on his mangled wrist was too much to hide.
“Only group we know of organized enough to use those and do this. Go tell Cesar to make camp here. Last call said he’s three hours out,” Dillan ordered, knowing
the Slavers were still finishing up with stragglers in Wellington who had barricaded themselves in. Rick had been sent to take care of it. “And tell him we’ll track them,
find out where they’re camped.”
Hand holding the dirty white sombrero on as the wind gusted sharply, the Mexican spun away angrily, and the twins rode off in a cloud of dust purposely kicked up
to insult him further. When he was in charge, these two were dead and he would do it himself!
2
“Who has done this?” Cesar shouted furiously, brown face red with anger.
The dozen men in the gymnasium with him looked at the filthy, bloody floor and the bodies of their men, instead of meeting his eyes. They were glad when José
hurried in.
José was Cesar’s right-hand man, the scarred guerrilla the only one to speak his mind when choosing time had come, but all the men knew the Kelly twins (when
they were here) were really second, and everyone else was behind them.
“Safe Haven. The twins are tracking.”
“I want them dead!” Cesar screamed in frustration, stomping down a long, dim hall that should be full of bound slaves, but held only dust and cobwebs.
“I will get el los solsados ready to attack.”
Cesar didn't slow, and José hurried to catch up, eyeing the gold-handled pistols in the Slaver’s crisscrossed gun belts. Was this the moment?
“No.”
“But now, while they don’t...”
“No,” Cesar lowered his voice, reluctantly confiding. “They have a powerful weapon. We will send in el traidor to take care of it.”
“What kind of...”
Cesar scowled, shaking his tightly-kinked curls. Would the young never learn? “Not here.”
He used his deformed hand to open a door marked Office and the two Mexicans stopped short, coming face to face with a tall, blonde woman wearing a long,
unbuttoned brown trench coat.
They saw stunning blue eyes full of hatred, and then she darted between them. Even limping, she was halfway down the hall decorated with Christmas pictures
before they reacted. The two men gave chase, words a mix of English and Spanish.
“Apurarse! Stop her!”
“Grab that puta!”
Samantha made it out through a side door, the men in the gym just as surprised as Cesar and José when she darted by, but it shut loudly behind her, and she froze.
A sea of Mexican faces turned her way at the echo, slanted eyes lighting up. A loose slave was fair game.
Terror ran through Sam’s veins, making her shiver, and she dropped submissively to her knees, heart thudding furiously in her chest as they all moved toward her.
She was in deep shit, even worse than when the chopper went down, worse than when the wolves attacked. Help me, please! she screamed silently.
The doors opened behind her a second later, and Sam cried out as she was jerked backward by her thick braid, landing on her back in the dirt. Cesar gave José a
nod and the evil man swung a knee over each shoulder, pinning her arms as he opened his filthy pants, already hard.
Dark eyes without mercy, Cesar knelt beside them, puffing on a fat cigar to get it red-hot. Then he moved it toward the bare stomach now showing from her
struggles. Sam had time to notice he was missing two fingers on his left hand, and then he was grinding the cigar against her hip, and she was screaming.
José thrust into her open mouth, gagging her as he pushed in as far as he could. With a hand on Cesar's stocky shoulders as his brace, his free paw roamed her
body mercilessly.
“Bite me you die!” the Mexican growled, breath already short, and Cesar held her by her hair so the scarred Mexican could shove all the way down her throat.
“I have questions, chica,” Cesar stated casually as José thrust in and out of her mouth, forcing her to breathe through her nose, “and you will answer.”
José stiffened, hips bucking forward, and Cesar’s evil face filled with delight as he slammed his deformed hand over her nose and watched her choke, unable to
breath.
José pulled out, dark eyes feverish at her purple face. Maybe he would do it again and not stop, he thought, but when Cesar motioned for him to move, he did.
Sam rolled over, gasping, straining for even a thread of air as tears streamed from her eyes.
“Each of my men waits for a turn, puta, and they will get it if you tell a single lie,” Cesar warned, moving toward her as she continued to cough and gag.
“Your name and why were you left behind. You have disease?”
“Samantha...not left. Here... too late. Saw... them leaving.” She stayed on the ground, coughing it up, and cringed when the short, stocky leader jerked her to her
feet.
“Tell me,” he ordered, not letting her turn away from the wind that was gusting sand at them in small clouds.
“Two ... jeeps, three vans? ...Like SWAT,…. only solid black.”
“How many men?”
She shook her head, trembling. “They were leaving when I... came up 210. I only saw them go.”
“She lies!” José exclaimed, stepping toward her with eyes that said her mouth hadn’t been nearly enough. “They left her because she is diseased. I claim her.”
Cesar watched her face, saw how fast the fire blazed in her hate-filled American eyes.
“They did not leave me! They would have loved to have me, but the dumb-ass driver never looked back!”
Cesar swung her around, forcing eye contact, “And why es it that they would love to have you, puta? What makes you so especial?”
Sam dropped her eyes and stepped through destiny’s open door. “I’m a storm tracker. Who doesn’t need that now?”
Cesar hid his pleasure and gave José a nod as he shoved her, tripping her so she hit the dirt. “My tent first. Show her what I expect tonight. Mañana, she does
rounds of el los soldados.”
Samantha's heart clenched with fear like she’d never known, unable to believe they saw no value in her. Escape! Her mind began to scream it, and she immediately
began to make a plan, ignoring the dark hands now crawling inside her torn shirt.
She had gotten out a call and been answered, but the radio had gone dead before she could find out if they would come back. She couldn’t count on that. She
would have to save herself again. Samantha began looking around, desperately searching for anything that could help her. Crooked tents with Mexican flags and slogans
were going up, the smoky breeze carrying the odors of feces, rot, blood, and death, screams echoing from the other side of the big camp…it took only a moment to
understand. These men were evil, plain and simple.
She had stayed in the school because she’d been hoping the men who had gotten the others would come back, had decided to give them a full week to get here if
they were coming, but now her time had run out. A piercing scream echoed, making her jump, and she stopped her light struggles as José led her roughly through one
side of the unorganized camp. There were other whites here, but they were in the same boat as she was.
Sam’s mind suddenly replayed the evil man’s words: show her what I expect tonight. Fear filled her body from the feet up. Melvin and Henry had been bad. This
was going to make her want them back.
José shoved her into a large, lopsided tent. When he followed her in, closing the flap, Sam’s eyes glazed over with terror.
3
The second she was able to move, Samantha forced herself to her feet and began searching for a weapon, ignoring the blood that dripped from her mouth, her nose,
and down her bruised thighs. Longing for a shot of antifreeze to calm her nerves and take the edge off the deep, familiar ache low in her guts, Sam kept looking even
though the tent held only piles of reeking garbage.
Her attacker had chained her ankle to the tent pole like a dog, the cold metal a horrid reminder of her weeks in captivity with Melvin and Henry, and her heart was
blazing with determination to get away. Now. Tonight. They would be expecting it, but wouldn’t think she’d kill to escape. They didn’t know what she was capable of!
Stomach aching, Samantha edged to the flap and slowly lifted a tiny corner to peer out, eyes moving quickly over the men, who appeared unhealthy with cold sores,
coughs, and noses that were wiped on filthy shirt sleeves. They were an ugly group of hardened killers, bruised faces and clothes still streaked with innocent blood that
drew insects. Sam instantly hated the penny-sized snapping flies she could see swarming over the filthy camp, but thought it was fitting the mutations were here, in this
place of abominations.
What she could see of the town around them offered no hope either. Rusting Army trucks rammed through the gates of a charred warehouse, block after block of
damaged, destroyed, burnt homes, and bodies, rotting openly. This place had been gone before the Slavers, and Sam cursed herself for being caught off guard. She
should have known there was trouble coming by the way the rescue party had been so well-armed and alert. It had taken her days to figure out how to charge up the
CB System, and after finally succeeding, she’d fallen asleep in front of the radio, and hadn’t heard the Slaver’s engines over the wind or her own bad dreams.
Samantha shivered as the noise levels increased - cries, gunfire, barking, and shouts. All the men she could see from her tiny peephole were Mexican, most dark
and fearsome in their blood-tacked leggings and long shirts. Help would not come from the town or any of these men. What about the females here? There were none in
sight. As she started to raise the flap higher, instinct took over, and she ducked as a big boot slammed into the tent where her head had been.
“Closed!”
Samantha scrambled back, afraid the guard would come in and hurt her too, but there were only the noises of the camp. A loud, drawn-out scream, a gunshot, and
more shouts in a rough Spanish dialect she was only vaguely familiar with. What the hell was she gonna do? Keep trying. That, she would do until she was dead. It was
who she was. A survivor, no matter how many times this new world tried to kill her. She went back to searching.
At one point, Samantha had lain low in a supermarket full of decaying bodies during a dust storm, the warning arriving only an hour before the sand, but it had been
enough. The waves of energy had made her heart clench in longing, knowing instinctively that it had come from someone who was…different, like her. She had almost
chosen to skip Cheyenne and hunt down that person, but wasn’t sure exactly how to do it. Now, she bitterly wished she’d tried.
Unlike NORAD, the school still had small treasures, like clothes and shoes, and a basement of boxes she’d happily explored after finding a case of fruit cocktail on
top of a crate of bottled water stacked for the vending machines. Apparently, the rescue party hadn’t swept the basement, and neither had any of those hiding here.
Why? Just because of a few bodies? Were they stupid? Those were everywhere they looked anyway. What was a few more if it meant fresh supplies? She shrugged,
running her fingers around the entire tent line. Their loss had been her...
“You won’t find anything.”
Samantha was on her knees in front of the flap, and looked up, scared gaze going wide at the sight of a tall, thin, dirty white man with beautiful, shifty green eyes and
a black bandana around his neck. He stood outside, holding the flap open. He held a jug of brownish water in one hand, and looked so much like one of the Slavers
that Samantha forgot her own plan.
“What do you want?” she snarled, calling him a traitor in her head as she backed up on the blood-splattered floor. She wouldn’t get near that cot again unless she
was dead or unconscious.
“He wants you to get cleaned up and ready for him.”
Sam ignored the words, escape plans reforming in her mind as she watched his vivid green eyes crawl over her exposed flesh. She felt that steel in her spine and
slowly stood up, faced him. Maybe she’d just gotten lucky. If he still wanted her when she looked like this, he was a sexual deviant at the very least and therefore,
weak.
“Are you one of his men?”
Rick shook his head, the lie falling easily as he stepped inside, letting the flap close them in smelly dimness. “Slave.”
Sam took in the fresh and old bruises, dirty, ragged jeans, and shirt that hung on him, no jacket despite the low temperatures. She took a step closer, lowering her
voice as her heart warned this was yet another man who couldn’t be trusted. “Can you get a gun?”
Rick shook his head again, beady eyes on the bare skin showing through her torn shirt. “No. Pills, though. You’ll be a zombie while he’s...using you.”
Her face was pale as she forced her lips to curve into an inviting smile. “Do you have a woman or family here?”
Rick shook his head again, thinking Cesar would be very pleased with how easy this was going to happen. “No.”
She smiled again, and he felt his body respond, the blood and bruises indeed a turn-on for him. That was another reason he’d stayed. Here, a man was allowed to
be just that: a man.
“Do they let you come and go?”
“Sometimes,” he said absently, staring at her platinum hair and pale blue-and-black eyes with a hot gaze that hid a scheming, evaluating male mind. “Sometimes I
have a guard.”
Rick gave a slight wince he made sure she saw. “I got away once,” his voice lowered to a mutter. “Haven’t tried in a long time, now.”
Very aware of the dim daylight fading fast, Samantha ran a hand up his arm, letting her shirt fall open. “You like women?”
His eyes were full of want, mind full of control. It was all part of the plan, and he’d done it enough to know he had already succeeded. He was numb to the guilt as
he worked her. “Hell, yeah.”
“Wanna touch?”
Rick’s breath was coming short. He did want her - unlike the other females, who cried too much and cowered - and he broke Cesar’s first rule: don’t touch until the
deal is done.
Samantha was unprepared for the bolt of lust his gentle hands drew. When she arched into his caress, to her shame, it wasn’t completely faked. She smiled, deeper
this time, with obvious meaning. “Wanna do more?”
His hands slid down her bony hips and she pulled back, closing her torn top as best she could. “Then get us out of here…and I’ll be your slave.”
Rick’s eyes narrowed, hands lowering in mock fear. “He’ll kill us.”
She defiantly held his gaze. “We’re white. He’s gonna do that anyway.”
There was a lot of truth to the statement, and she leaned against him, sensing growing weakness. “It’ll be great. Just the two of us and you’ll never be alone.”
His eyes darkened, and his words surprised her even though it was what she wanted to hear. “It’ll have to be fast and while they’re drinking. Be ready.”
4
“She went for it already?”
Rick told him everything word for word, as he always did, trying not to let the Slaver’s rank odors blow over his scruffy face as they stood just out of sight of the
tent Samantha was in.
“She is smart. Talk to her only a little. Sneak out on one of the twins’ horses.” Cesar fingered the handle of the knife in his belt as the light, cool wind blew by them.
“You will contact me in two weeks. If you do not…”
The Mexican let his words trail off, and Rick gave in with no fight, shame not even in the picture anymore. “You’ll have what you want, just like in Trinidad and
Boulder. This plan always works.”
Cesar met his eye with a cruel sneer. “And what reward do you ask, White man, for betraying your people? Again.”
Rick didn’t deny or even flinch, didn’t feel anything at the jab. They were not his people anymore. They hadn’t been since the War. “The woman, until I’m tired of
her.”
Cesar’s dark eyes narrowed. “There are no white unions here!”
“Not a union. My slave.”
Scowling, Cesar slammed his deformed hand on top of his dirty sombrero to keep a gust of wind from stealing it. “If there were to be a child, it would be killed.”
Rick’s eyes were hard as he snorted. “I want her, not some screaming shit machine. If she comes up pregnant, I’ll make it go away.”
Cesar didn’t doubt the tone. “Deal. Don’t forget. Two weeks and you will deliver this Safe Haven to me.”
5
“You two will follow. Make sure your Witch is with them. We’ll be along,” Cesar ordered quietly, watching Rick go back to the white woman.
The twins hovered in the shadows, eager to do as instructed, so they could be sure she was indeed what they’d said. The tracks from the school might have led
them to her, but the twins had lost them in a sewer drain, and hadn’t been able to find the tracks again, despite checking exits for hours.
The weeks that had gone by had made them doubt themselves, and if she wasn’t what they’d thought, then they would just keep going. Cesar had already put a lot
of time and effort into this now. He’d made strong plans based around the control of such a power, and to be denied, would mean someone's life. It was a big risk they
were taking - knowing they’d likely be caught and killed in the future if they had to run - but the need for revenge on the woman and her protector was undeniable. And
if she was what they thought, then they would gain something any man would risk his life for. Complete control.
Now feeling on top of what could be a future problem, Cesar watched them go. First, the twins as they left to hide and follow, and then Rick and the woman,
sneaking through the shadows. He had no doubts the traitor would contact him. The men here had no rules, no chores, just sex and drinking, with killing thrown in for
fun. It was the real American dream, Cesar thought, gold tooth gleaming as he grinned cruelly. His dream, and he’d kill any group that tried to change things back.
America was in for a long storm season.
Chapter Thirty Five
March 30th, 2013
Near Chadron, Nebraska
1
“We are an American Red Cross Convoy picking up survivors. We offer food, shelter, medical care and protection. Does anyone copy?”
“We hear you, Safe Haven! We’re in Hot Springs. We’re out of food. Are you close?”
The man’s voice that answered was different from the one they’d been hearing regularly for the last week, and Marc and Angela both stopped cleaning up their late
lunch to listen to the conversation. It was nearly three o’clock, and they needed to get moving again, but the waves of authority from that voice were impossible to
ignore. To Marc's ears, he sounded military.
“Close enough. How many people?”
“Twelve. Two are sick. We don’t know what it is.”
“That’s a lie,” Angela stated, able to hear it, read it, in the woman’s shaky voice.
“We offer help to everyone, sick or not. Do you know Morse or phonetic code?”
“I know both, but go slow, it’s been a while.”
“You an ex-sailor by any chance, Hot Water?”
The surprise was clear in her voice, “Nancy, and yes, for seven years. How’d you know that?”
The Safe Haven man’s tone was laced lightly with a comforting humor, “Because of the slight edge of dislike in your words. Marines and Navy didn’t usually
mix.”
“No Sir, they didn’t.”
“They do now. We’re all soldiers in the same fight for survival. Take down this message.”
“He tells his men that too,” Angela muttered, listening in more ways than one.
The taps came slowly enough for Angela - who’d been learning the code from Marc - to understand, and she frowned deeper. “They’re in the Black Hills. That’s
only one day from us.”
Over the hood, Marc's eyes locked onto hers, the words silent and full of longing, "I want more time."
"Me too."
"Can’t we?"
Silence…
Two days would be All Fools’ Day. Was it an omen?
Marc frowned. “You all right?”
Angela stared at the vast field of corn that ran as far as the eye could see on both sides. They were only about five miles from the Nebraska-South Dakota state
line, where there were barbed wire fences and grass struggling to survive along the side of the road, but no trees. Except for a faded red barn with a tall, blue grain silo
on one side, there was only corn here.
“Angie?” She turned to look at him, and Marc hated to see the fear in her eyes. It hadn’t been there much in the last weeks, she had worked hard to overcome her
weaknesses, and he was still amazed by how fast she’d done it. “You could call now. Talk to your boy.”
Angela shook her head, pushing the fear back as her mother’s heart spewed awful words at the refusal. “I don’t want Kenn to know how close we are.”
She turned away with a sigh. “And we need to talk, Brady, about what happens when we get there.”
Marc straightened up, heart thumping. “After we make camp tonight?”
“Let’s stay here. Meet up with them in the next few days,” she stated quietly, eyes wandering over large circles of charred dirt that reminded her of the empty silo
holes they’d seen in middle Nebraska.
Marc’s frown grew. They had just covered three hundred miles in nine days, driving continuously. Last night, he’d had to insist they rest and get ready to face
whatever was coming. They had only made one long stop to replace his Blazer (again they were identical, the only one they had found was the exact match to hers.
Fate…), and she had been pushing them hard to get here. Now she was hanging back. Nerves?
“Are you sure? We could be there by dusk tomorrow.”
“No. It’s already been ninety eight days. A few more won’t matter.”
Marc took a step toward her. “You can’t put it off, Honey. Just face it, and we’ll go from there.”
Angela watched Dog patrol the edges of the shoulder-high corn, knowing she had to let him in on what she was feeling, thinking. “I’m not avoiding, but I am
nervous. I’m cutting ropes, erasing his hold on me, and he’ll hate it, hate me for it. You need to have the details you asked for back in Indiana.”
She met his eye with complete openness. “Will you drill me on the things you’ve taught me, remind me that I can fight back?”
Marc’s heart broke for her. “I think that’s a great idea. You’ve gotten a lot stronger. He won’t know how to handle you.”
2
“Faster. You can handle it.”
Angela pushed the pedal down and the Blazer leapt forward, throwing them back.
“On my mark. Just like before.”
Angela was concentrating, hands and feet connected to the thrum of the engine, the vibrations of the tires.
“Now.”
She turned the wheel, jerking up on the emergency brake, and then they were spinning in the dusty street, seat belts holding them in place.
“Now.”
Gunning the engine, Angela straightened the Blazer out, and it shot forward.
“Again. Seventy this time.”
Angela mashed the gas, emboldened by her repeated successes, and managed to make the emergency turn on her own. She grinned, waved at the line of dirty,
faded targets they had come to a stop facing. “Next?”
Marc nodded and made another mistake that would later haunt him. “Loser has dishes!”
Angela took off at his challenge, heading for the distant line of dented soda cans they’d set up. Grinning, distracted by her obvious happiness, Marc gave chase,
leaving their nearly identical vehicles in the middle of the street for anyone to see.
Angela was able to match him shot for shot until he moved the cans back so far she could barely see them. After missing half and him missing none, she put her gun
away. “That’s not really a challenge for you, is it?”
Marc shrugged, looking at her with shuttered eyes. “Does it matter?”
“Maybe. Kenn’s very good. Go stand by that speed limit sign. I wanna see.”
Their eyes locked for a brief, intense moment. “If you like.”
It was amazing to watch. When she asked him to move farther back, he did it with no comment, just a curious look she chose not to respond to. He was wondering
if she was seeing a showdown between him and her man…and she was.
He didn’t miss a single shot, and Angela knew instinctively that this still wasn’t very hard for him. Marc was good. Better than anyone else she’d ever seen, maybe
even Kenn, who liked to take her to the range, but not let her shoot. Designed to rub in how defenseless she was, it was yet another reaction that said these two men
were worlds apart. Kenn had been her warden, while Marc... He was her protector. He made her feel safe, she realized, watching him reholster his gun and move
toward her. He was a good man; one she trusted, cared about…one she still wanted.
Angela smelled him as he stepped by, smoke, sweat, and deep underneath, sexy, musky man. Her nostrils flared, and she inhaled deeply, instinctively, before it was
gone. Feeling the restless yearning of her heart, she turned away, suddenly lost and hurting. They’d missed so much!
“You all right?”
It was a question he couldn’t stop asking, and she smiled, looking at a thinner layer of sky grit instead of his handsome face. She could almost see the sun again, but
even the good things couldn’t distract her from the fear, the desires. There was no way this would end well. “Just thinking.”
“Care to share?”
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. “No.”
Marc could feel her unease, her sadness, and he tried one last time to get her to take the easy way out. “Let’s just grab him and go. We’ll find some other people to
settle down and rebuild with.”
“I can’t.”
Marc sighed, eyes on her face. “Because you owe him.”
Angela shook her head, choosing to give him complete honesty, whether he was ready to hear it or not. “Not anymore. When he left me out here to fend for myself
- hoping I couldn’t, that I wouldn’t - that cancelled our deal more than anything else he’s done.”
“Then why?”
“It’s hard to explain. I’m going for my son, but there’s something else that’s pulling at me too, at the other side of me. I dream a lot. I’m sure you know.”
He knew very well. The nightmares had come less often, but when they did, they seemed worse. Twice, she’d woken him up screaming about a metal monster.
“I see a refugee camp most nights, and it’s full of people. Our kind of people and they need help. I want to belong there. I want us to be a part of that protection.”
There wasn’t a lot Marc could say. Being alone with her was great, but it couldn’t stay this way. “In the same group as your man? Don’t you think that’s asking a
little much?”
She stuck a cigarette in her mouth. “Of course it is. For now, our son’s all that matters, anyway. We’ll handle it as it comes.”
“Remember the night we made him?” Marc hadn’t meant to say it out loud and was relieved to see her blush rather than get scared or mad.
“No, not so much.”
“Ouch. That hurts.” He feigned being crushed, aware that he really felt it - he’d thought of little else during sex for the last fifteen years.
Her eyes softened a bit. “Don’t ask questions unless…”
“…you’re prepared to hear the answer,” he finished, laughing with her.
“We could talk about it,” Marc teased. “Maybe you’d recall.”
“No need to.”
“So you do?” Marc watched her eyes turn a smoky, midnight blue and tensed.
Angela was unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “All the time, at first, Brady. I’d think about you, and I’d wonder what raven-haired, blue-eyed whore
you were with. I’d wonder if you were able to sleep afterwards, if you stayed until morning and kissed her lips, if you promised to love her forever as you walked out
the door.”
Marc took a step closer, heart aching. “No Angie, to all of it. I’ve only had one love, only said it once, and I meant it. Forever hasn’t come yet.”
A tear spilled from under her dark lashes, “Don’t. It hurts.”
“I’d take it away if I could.”
“You have some of it. Knowing you came back means something to me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t knock.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
“Truce?” He held out a hand, and she shook it, smiling. “Didn’t know we were at war.”
Angela let her hand linger, the contact with another human, sliding across her skin in warmth, was something she had missed. When he moved toward her, she held
still, needing to see if the stray curls of want she’d been feeling were real. Could she be whole in time?
Marc saw her nostrils flare as his hands came up to her face, and she closed her eyes when his palm slid along her cheek, thumb rubbing lightly across her bottom
lip.
“So beautiful,” he whispered, head leaning forward. “A Goddess.” Marc pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, felt her sudden intake of breath. Not sure if it
was fear or desire, he pulled back. “Angie?”
Her hands curled into balls, wanting his kiss, wanting to be faithful. Not sure, either, about that flood of heat low in her gut, Angela stepped into his arms and tilted
her mouth up.
Marc didn’t give her time to change her mind.
Angela stiffened as his hand went to the back of her head, but the mouth against hers was sweet…musky…he tugged her closer, and she curled her arms around his
neck, lost in the first real passion she had felt in too many years.
Marc deepened the kiss, let their tongues touch, rub, and the doors between their minds swung open, thoughts mixing.
“Missed you!”
“Need you!”
“Taste like a woman.”
“Smell like a man.”
“My Woman.”
“My Man.”
The last one made Angela gasp against his mouth, and she slammed the doors, broke the kiss in surprise. So much feeling in a single embrace!
Marc stepped back, turned away to lie. “I’m sorry.”
“Brady.”
Her voice was rough, sexy, and he looked back slowly, prepared to hear almost anything.
“It wasn’t fear.”
Marc grinned as she turned away, body hard, and heart light. It was going to be a good day.
Angela’s thoughts were along the same line, and she was hoping that feeling would stay with her through the hard reunion she knew was coming. She had a plan of
action based on what little she’d picked up about the people Kenn was with. Marc would have to watch his back, but there might be a chance for peace if her Marine
could be reasoned with. She would know within the first few hours of being around his people, if that stood a chance. If not, she would use the backup - they’d run.
After all this time with Brady, there was no way she could go back to being what she’d been before – caged. There was no way the Witch or the old Angela would
allow that. They’d kill Kenny first.
3
Angela ducked under his arm, grunting in effort as she spun and dropped, throwing her leg out to trip him. Anticipating her, Marc jumped, but she’d counted on that
and immediately spun again, her leg catching his ankle as he landed.
Tripping, he rolled forward. Marc was on his feet in an instant, turning, and knew she was already there, and he was impressed.
Angela used the palms of both hands to shove him, hard, and for the first time since he’d begun to teach her, Marc landed on his ass in the dirt, grunting at the
impact. “Very, very good. Now, do it again.”
Angela rushed him the second he was upright, eyes going to his right. When he defended the left, she came straight up the middle, hands going to his big arms, leg
sweeping him again as she shoved and ducked the fingers that tried to pull her along as he fell.
“That’s was great,” he praised, starting to get back up.
“Don’t move!”
Her tone froze him with his hands splayed out in the dirt. He sensed movement near his fingers as she slowly drew her weapon.
“Roll to your right when I start, and come up firing. Targets at ten, two and three.”
Marc heard the soft pad of paws, more than one, and watched her eyes for the moment to react.
“Shit. Two more at 12 o’ clock,” Angela watched the three lanky, gray-and-white wolves, trying to judge their intentions. When a big black-and-gold animal she
hadn’t seen lunged toward from the shadows, there was only time to react.
Angela fired, a bit wildly on the first few shots, and one of the rounds caught the wolf in mid-leap, slamming into its chest. It landed on the ground with a hard thud
as Marc rolled and hit his feet, began to fire.
“Watch your six!” he warned, immediately sure they were pack-hunting. He put them back to back as the brittle stalks around them swayed with barely seen
movement. The sky had begun to darken as they worked out, but neither had worried, used to being in the dark, but this time they had let dangerous predators get
close.
Suddenly, they were under attack, moving eyes gleaming at them through the dusk-tinted rows. They fired at the same time, dropping two wolves that had jumped
from opposite sides.
A dark shadow appeared at her hip, and Angela stopped herself from shooting as she recognized Dog. Her eyes narrowed on a stocky white wolf running in and
out of the distant, yellow stalks. Before she could take aim on the leader, another shadow streaked past her.
“Damn it!” Again, she kept herself from firing by only a hair. “Dog just went to my right, chasing the white one.”
Marc nodded, turning them to face another duel attack meant to separate. They came in low, lunging for legs, and both shots killed, but two more hungry hunters
jumped at Angela, coming fast.
“Duck!” she shouted, firing. She got the low animal in the chest as the other went sailing overhead, and she heard Marc take care of it as more and more eyes
shined mercilessly in the dimness. Wolves were now streaming through the corn like rats.
Making sure they stayed tightly against each other, Marc moved them in half circles, firing and kicking at those not hungry enough to lunge, but still bold enough to
snap. He could feel Angela doing the same behind him, her grunts and shots mirroring his.
Flames rose up behind them suddenly, Marc catching a tall shadow from the corner of his eye as he turned, shot a leaping wolf in the chest, turned, and killed a
snapping wolf going for Angie’s leg.
More fire erupted, along with the pungent smell of gasoline as full darkness fell over them, and some of the wolves hesitated, but not those hungry frontrunners.
Angela jerked forward, stiff-arming a determined predator in the throat. Her gun was empty and she knew by the silence behind her that Marc's was too. Drooling,
fur bushed up, the wolves moved closer with hungry eyes.
Angela fumbled for the speed loader on her belt, and Marc turned them again, slamming his in as two more wolves lunged. He caught one in the neck, blood
spraying, and shoved them backwards in time to let the second animal go sailing by.
“Incoming!”
Reloaded, Angela shot the wolf as it hit the hard ground and fired at eyes in the air, then the flames were between her and the corn as Marc rotated them again.
Shadows lunged, coming through gaps in the wall of fire, and she picked them off, assuming Brady’s silent gun meant he was reloading.
Marc stared intently at the hulking man intently, the 3/4 circle of flames discouraging many of the animals. The newcomer was gigantic, eight by five it seemed like,
and yet he was light on his feet as he poured the last of the gasoline to close the gaps.
“Stay inside,” the big man instructed gruffly without turning, voice heavy under his furs and hood.
Before Marc could say anything, Angela spun around, six shots gone. She gasped in surprise at the big man, but just like Marc, her fingers didn’t stop. She had to
be ready when he turned them again.
“On your right, woman!”
She slammed the clip home and fired without looking, almost able to hear the slobbering jaws about to clamp down on her ankle. A heavy body thudded to the
ground.
“Dog! Guard her!” Marc shouted, firing.
The wolf appeared at her side, bloody muzzle snarling viciously at two more animals trying to sneak through a thin gap in the fire wall.
4
Kenn shifted restlessly in the plush seat of his truck, unafraid of moving alone through the darkness, but more than scared of not being able to find a way to keep
Adrian from discovering what he’d done, who he’d been.
Angela was close. He could feel it, and though it had been a relief to get to Cheyenne and find only the Slavers (he’d watched for an extra day to be sure she wasn’t
there, high in the trees with his scope), he knew she was within a day of him, just not sure in what direction.
She was likely southeast, coming in on a straight line, but instead of heading that way at the highway sign, Kenn kept the Bronco on the path he had taken after
slipping away from the massive Slaver camp. With fresh mags for his M16 - swiped from the Slaver camp - it had been an easy choice, and the Marine was sticking to
it.
Kenn had his lights off, brake bulbs loosened to eliminate the telling glows, and he slowed as loud, rapid gunshots echoed in the darkness. Window down, he rolled
slowly, trying to pinpoint the location. It was her, he was suddenly sure of it. When the noise continued, he edged closer.
More gunshots rang out, a battle for survival it sounded like, and he stopped as movement and light caught his eye. Scope always at hand, Kenn’s eyes narrowed
on what appeared to be a burnt down ring of fire.
She was in trouble, he could feel that clearly, and the plan fell into place with a horrible snap. He would arrive in time to finish off whoever had just killed his wife.
And if she survives? his worry asked, and Kenn grinned in the pitch black truck. The camp would be told she hadn’t. If they even found out how close she’d
been. He certainly had no intentions of telling them.
5
Angela muttered a curse as three more wolves slunk into the ring and heard Brady echo her expletive as he fired repeatedly, hitting them all. They were in deep. It
was time to let the Witch out and worry about the consequences later. “Fire!”
Bright blue flames spewed from Angela's outstretched hands, hitting a gap in the wall just as two wolves tried to dart through, and their fur lit up, the heat of her
power blowing them back into the dark cornstalks as the gap closed.
“Over here!” Marc shouted desperately as the big man took a rifle from the sling on his shoulder, and the Witch obeyed, flames shooting like golden-blue comets
from her fingers. It closed the spaces and each infusion traveled the wall of fire, strengthening it until the ring was solid.
“That’s it, Brady,” she gasped. “I’m low.”
All the animals were outside the ring now, whining uneasily, fighting with each other, and Angela pushed the Witch back as she continued to shoot weak balls of light
that disappeared into the air before they could reach the fire wall. Stop. We can't win this way.
There were numerous dead wolves, but dozens and dozens of eyes still gleamed hungrily at them from the darkness behind the flames. They would wait for the fire
to burn out and attack again.
“Bad time to be bleedin',” the big man stated, before he fired a well-aimed shot that took down a pair of wolves trying to breach the wall, one bullet doing the job of
two.
Marc nodded, keeping just as close an eye on the big stranger, as he was the wolves.
“You hit, Brady?” Angela demanded, keeping her eyes on flickering shadows.
“No. Duck!”
They moved at the same time, dropping low, firing together, and two more wolves hit the dirt, slid through the already dying flames.
Dog jumped suddenly, meeting a wolf as it came over the fire. His powerful jaws clamped down on an unprotected throat, and Angela fired at the second animal
now stalking Dog.
Her first shot landed near its paw, Angie afraid of hitting the wrong dark body, but her second shot went straight between its eyes.
“This is my last clip.”
“Me too.”
The big man was firing a bright red flare into the sky before their words had faded and seconds later, a tremendous howl split the air.
Wwwhhhhhooooo!
It was a piercing whistle or maybe a caller of some kind, the notes melodic and offensive at the same time. Like a wolf's howl, Angie thought.
It seemed to go on forever, and Marc put a calming hand on Dog’s head as the wolves hesitated in their attack, thinking it had come from maybe two miles away,
but no more.
Angela winced as the wailing increased, the animals joining in. The volume continued to rise as the wolf call came again, pulling at them, drawing them.
“That'll be the Missus. She’ll have the bait out, and be holed up with the others. We’ll be able ta go in a bit.”
“Won’t she need help?” Brady asked, amazed to see the wolves starting to leave.
“No. They don’t climb none too well.”
“How will you get to them without running into the wolf pack?” Angela asked.
The man stepped closer, big form intimidating. “You tell me, Witch,” he grunted.
Angela concentrated, feeling Brady tense behind her. “Underground.”
The man grunted, tossed back his hood to reveal a horribly disfigured face partially hidden by a thick, shaggy beard. Deep brown eyes glared at her.
Angela stiffened as the Witch whispered. “What payment do you expect for helping us? Nothing’s free. Not before and certainly not now.”
The man shrugged, eyes darting over her shoulder to Marc. “We got a broken radio and no medicine, no ammo. Got any of that?”
She relaxed. “Possibly. What else? That doesn’t equal the debt.”
His eyes were hard as he looked her over from head to toe. “Girls could use some clothes...maybe some books?”
Surprised, Angela gave him a genuine smile.
Marc heard the man’s sudden intake of breath. He recognized the sound, that reaction to Angela, and rotated them again. “The woman is not for trade.”
The huge man’s hardened face tightened, and he turned away. “Can’t hardly get it up now anyway,” he muttered, stepping over the dying flames. “Damn diabetes.
Come on. She’ll have supper waitin'.”
Angela and Marc exchanged a long look of uncertainty, but chose to follow the big man’s shadowy form in the darkness. The corn around them was empty now,
but not silent. The breeze moved through the hollow stalks, making an eerie moan that resembled the calling howl they’d heard, and Dog followed closely, his blackand-
grey fur still bushed out in warning. Danger wasn’t far.
Once again glad to be alive, Angela and Marc quietly followed the big man through the corn, both still unsure of his intentions. When the rows ended, revealing a
dark stretch of tall, sick-looking evergreen trees, they exchanged looks that said they would be careful. The wind was cool, smelled of shit, and they both spotted the
fresh wolf scat that littered the dead rows of waist high corn. This was part of their hunting ground.
“Almost there,” the big man grunted, moving steadily despite his size. He stopped in front of a large clump of bushes.
Marc stayed by Angela, and Dog did too. His thick fur was flecked in blood, and they both saw the big man casting hard looks at the timber wolf. Marc estimated
they had come about two clicks from the battle scene.
“Grab an end.” The man bent down to clasp a large handful of the damp foliage.
Marc did it while keeping his eyes open, not liking to be unfamiliar with an area, but content enough to let the man’s true colors show when they would. The odds
on him winning weren’t nearly as high as with the wolves.
“Pull!”
Angela grinned in surprised admiration at the cleverly disguised sewer entrance that rose up like a blanket. There were thin, dark green puddles where it met the
ground, a poison of some type Angie guessed, and she was careful not to step in it, wondering if it was the fumes alone that kept the animals from coming through or if
they’d learned to avoid it from seeing their packmates die.
“Close the flap and watch out for the rats. The antifreeze don't tempt 'em, and they don’t scare easy neither.”
As they moved into the damp, stinking air of underground, Marc gestured to the night vision glasses on her belt. Instead of putting them on, she tapped the big man
on the arm, held them out.
He started to take them, and then shook his head, stepped by her. “You keep ‘em and watch out. Your blood’ll likely make fire shoot from their arses, and we’d
never be able ta keep ‘em out.”
Angela heard Marc snort in amusement and she slid the glasses back onto her belt with a frown. She didn’t sense evil in their huge guide, but his knowing what she
was made her uncomfortable, and she dropped back, putting more distance between them.
Marc however, was starting to relax. He was almost sure the man had been military before the War, and he lit a smoke, gun still in hand, as they walked quietly
through the stone tunnels. They moved over and around rotting furniture, mildewed piles of clothes, whole and broken cinder blocks. Gray and green moss climbed the
tall, dank, concrete walls that met a cobwebbed ceiling about 20 feet above them, and their steps echoed along with the distant drip of water.
“About there. Be quiet. She’ll have the little 'uns back ta sleep by now,” he said, indicating that the battle with the wolves was a long-running one.
Angela caught Marc’s silent words. “He thinks we’re a couple. Tell him different, I may have to fight for you when it comes time to leave.”
She too felt the enormous man’s interest, but it eased her a little that there was no sense of him being the one to fear. They came to a stop, and when Marc
gestured upward, she saw a trap door in a wooden floor that was over twenty feet up, an impossible jump.
Suddenly a rock flew through the air to slam into the big man’s cheek and he sucked in a surprised breath at the pain as another, bigger stone sailed down at them
from the damp darkness.
“Damn! It’s me!”
The rock barrage stopped and a woman’s indignant voice called down to them, “Shoulda said something!”
The big man grunted, rubbing his arm where the second rock had hit. “Jealous, I think. Seen your woman in action.”
Marc agreed: Angie was a tough act to follow.
“Come on, Lenore! Did I save ‘em from the wolves to feed ‘em to the rats? ”
There was no sound from above them, and Angela was unable to keep from grinning at the sigh of long-suffering the big man let out.
“Definitely jealous.”
“I am not! The rope’s kinked up again. Hang on!”
Eyes, round and gleaming in the darkness, appeared in the deeper shadows around them.
Angela's gasp was followed by the man’s urgent voice, “Now, woman! They’re comin'!”
The trap door slid open and a rope ladder dropped on top of the man’s head.
“’Bout damn time. Here!” He grabbed Angela’s black sweater and lifted her onto the ladder in one effortless move. As she started to climb, his big hands settled
firmly on her ass, shoving, squeezing, caressing.
Angela jerked herself up and out of his reach, her .357 in hand a second later, pointed at his head. “You ever touch me again, your Missus will use your balls for
bait!”
The man stopped halfway through the opening, glaring at her.
“Angie,” Marc’s tone was patient, resigned.
“What?” she snapped, backing up.
“There’s a rat about a foot long trying to eat my boot. Let him through.”
Angela felt the rage clear from her eyes and reholstered her weapon as she turned to look at the only other person in the big, cluttered kitchen of what was probably
a one floor, ranch style home - Lenore.
Dressed in a stained white shirt and an enormous pair of farmer’s overalls with the pockets ripped off, the large woman was smirking at her man. A grand beehive
of black and white hair hung in every direction like a bad wig and the long, jagged scars on her face and arms told Angela she had fought beside him to protect what
was theirs.
“I’m Missus Lenore Codd.”
Angela held out a hand to the giantess, the name ringing a faint bell. Wasn’t there a fairy tale based on the life of a giant by that name? “Angela. Angie. I hope we
won’t be a bother to you.”
The woman’s sharp brown eyes watched even as she shook firmly. “Me? No. Him?”
She indicated the man leaning down a hand to help Brady, not reacting at all when the wolf riding uneasily on Marc’s shoulders nipped at him. “Probably already
has. T'was me that seen and sent him after ya. Told him I wudn’t cookin' till he got ya here.”
Angela covered the woman’s large hands with her own. “Then it’s you I owe the debt to. Good.” She moved closer, running on instinct. “Maybe we can barter, but
for now, let me start paying on the debt I owe. I’m a Doctor.” Her voice lowered, “Diabetes can be controlled by doing certain things, and then the side effects go
away.”
The woman grinned, clapped her on the back, and Angela held onto her big arm to keep from falling as the reek of corn filled her nose. “Might could be. Let’s get
them men fed and we’ll talk.”
Angela nodded, taking her sweater off in the warmth. There was barely room to walk in the dusty, ten by twelve space and the cluttered shelves full of bags,
canisters, and unpacked boxes told her the couple had come here only recently.
“Can I help? Set a table? Do cleanup?”
“Polite, eager to help. You remind me of the past,” Lenore mused matter-of-factly.
Frowning, Angela didn’t look away, though the stench of corn was making her eyes water. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Wudn’t all evil.”
Angela didn’t agree with her, but the look of understanding they shared said this new world wasn’t all bad either.
“Damn it, woman! Feed me! Them,” the man ordered, dropping down at the long, wooden table in the narrow, lantern-lit room.
His wife waved at a chair over in the corner, seemingly indifferent to the large, wild wolf standing tensely in her kitchen. “Put your man to the right. We’ll stand. Only
got two chairs left now. Keepin' warm’s more important than pass-me-downs.”
Angela shook her head at Marc when he started to offer to take the floor, and her eyes told him to be careful, that the man wasn’t in charge here.
She brought the heavy chair over with no visible effort and knew the big woman was pleased when Marc obeyed her and sat. The feeling increased when Angela
looked at Dog, pointed at the trap door, and the wolf immediately went to that spot and laid down, only his eyes and ears moving. Angela stayed close to the woman as
she served big bowls of what appeared to be stew from a large metal pot on a double burner gas stove.
Marc fell into a conversation with the man about the wolves, he and Angie quietly keeping track of each other.
“Everything's a’gin us now,” the mountain man stated, cracking his knuckles impatiently.
“But so many? Packs are never more than ten or fifteen,” Marc observed.
“We killed the world. They hate us enough to band together.”
“Surely that can’t be?”
The man grunted, spoon already in his beefy hand as Lenore set his deep bowl down with a heavy thud. Angela looked away from the mats of dark hair on his
forearms as he began scooping up huge bites of the steaming stew.
“Tis not just the wolves. Rats, snakes, ants. People’r the enemy.”
Marc was frowning at the picture, and Lenore’s eyes stayed on him. “Must not be that way where you came from?”
He shook his head, military mind calculating the odds of mankind if that were true. “No.” Slim to none.
“How far have you come?”
“So many miles I can’t feel my ass anymore.”
Lenore’s eyes lit up and she leaned closer, sharp intelligence clear. “Tell me. Is it safe? When were you there?”
Wondering if it was the wolves that had scarred them up or something older, Marc eyed Angela. “Wrong one to ask.”
Lenore produced a tight, grim smile - satisfied - and turned to Angela with approving eyes, “He’s well-trained. We can make some deals, trade. I’m Lenore. He’s
Maxwell. Welcome to the killin' fields of Nebraska.”
6
“Ohio, huh?” Lenore grunted, handing her a thick slab of cornbread, and they both ignored the loud belch and male grunt that echoed from the table. “Never been
past the Missi'sip.”
Angela closed her eyes, smiling in delight. Marc frowned when the man’s gaze went to her face, lingered there.
“This is so good!”
“Missus makes the best,” Max stated gruffly, eyes now on her chest. Angela held her ground though she had the urge to put her sweater back on.
“You’ve been here since the War?” Marc asked the man and wasn’t surprised when he looked to his wife first.
“Tell ‘em what ya will. I see no harm.”
Lenore ducked through a heavily-curtained doorway that held a long, oddly decorated horn Marc thought was probably the wolf caller.
When Angela turned to see what he was staring at, Max waved a hand. “She’s checkin' their breathin'. Corn fumes.”
They both frowned, confused, and the man finished his last bite before explaining.
“We have the corn. Keep it from the rats. Fumes build up while it sets. Poison, o’ course, so we sleep in shifts. People start coughing and puking, we get out the
guns and open the windows till it airs out.”
Angela was horrified. “Why?”
The big man’s tone was rough, but his eyes said he too hated it. “Why? To eat. Can’t hunt anymore. Damn wolves get ya or there’s no meat close enough cause o’
them. Gotta eat. Gotta last ‘em out.”
“You could leave,” Marc suggested, which was met with silence.
Angela shook her head when he would have repeated himself. “Not our business. Maybe you should look at their radio now.”
It was enough to fool the man, who immediately responded to the tone, getting up. Angela hid a grin at the warning look Marc slid her way. Up to a point, this could
be fun.
There was quiet except for the wind outside, but all of them tensed suddenly, sure the wolves were out there. Angela turned to Lenore as she stepped back through
the curtains. “You vent the corn?”
The woman handed her a list. “Yes, but the generator is out of diesel. This is what I need and what I have to trade. I’ll throw in cornbread only if you got the last
one on there.”
Angela went over the list quickly. When Lenore handed her a pen, Angela understood the male here wasn’t allowed to know how much of what they had. To keep
down thievery? Control was more probable, and the fact that Max had none, was likely more responsible for his impotence than the diabetes.
“I can spare this much of each, and you can find that one here. This one, I haven’t seen in over a month.”
Lenore creased her brow. “And the last?”
Angela grinned. “Six months worth sound good?”
The giantess’ eyes said it would go faster than that. “Deal. I’ll bake while you sleep with your man.”
Unprepared for the probing comment, Angela flushed and saw the woman’s eyes light up with speculation. She hurried to distract.
“You have room?”
“Too much. You’ll stay?”
Angie didn’t like the hungry look the woman gave Marc, as he removed his coat to work on the radio, big arms flexing. “Yes, but let’s have this clear now. The man
is not for trade.”
Lenore studied her coolly. “Things not for trade are often taken by force.”
Angela felt the Witch surge forward and knew it showed in her eyes when the woman paled. “And often, people die in the trying. Perhaps Mankind will be smarter
this time.”
Lenore grunted, her voice bitter. “Not the men.”
Angela let a bit of the heat come into her words, “And maybe not the women either.”
The giantess flushed at the pointed tone, but didn’t back down. “But, if he’s not yours...”
“He is!” Angela cut her off curtly, prepared to fight if she had to.
Marc was listening intently, ready to help, and both of them were relieved when the woman sighed resignedly.
“I’ve mistaken, maybe. Forgive me?”
Angela waved it away, hoping this was the end of it. “My first time in control. I overreact.”
“First one’s always the best. They still have a hope it will change back.” Lenore grinned, clapped her on the arm again, and this time, adrenaline kept Angela on her
feet.
7
Hours later, as Marc finished changing parts inside the radio, Lenore led Angela through a dark, and blanket-covered room where at least five adult women and
three kids were sharing a very large bed.
As Lenore pushed open a back hallway door, she saw Angela’s look and shook her head. “You’re putting no one out. They sleep together for warmth now that
their men is gone and the snow comes unexpected.”
Angela heard and understood the tone of betrayal in Lenore’s words. “The Draft?”
Lenore recognized a fellow victim. “Aye. Yours too?”
Angela’s eyes were haunted. “My son. I’m on my way to get him back.”
The giantess raised a surprised brow. “Just the two of you?”
“Yes. No one will keep me from my blood.”
Respect laced the woman’s voice. “My prayers will be with ya. Not that God listens any more now than he did before.”
Angela smiled her thanks, suddenly tense as the wide bed, lit by a candle in each corner, came into view. She hid it, and closed the door with relief. A few minutes
alone at last!
8
“Coming in,” Marc called softly, as he stepped in and then locked the door. Dog went straight to Angie, and then began exploring the room. Covered in dust, it
sported a rickety bed, one end table, a plush, dusty chair below a window, and a long, cluttered dresser with no mirror.
Marc frowned when he saw she had a row of medical supplies spread out on the dresser. “You hurt?”
Angela didn’t look up from the needle she was threading. “You are.”
Marc gave her a sheepish look at the dry tone and began taking off his coat and sweat-stained shirt. He tried not to wince as the cloth peeled painfully away from
the wound, the blood long-dried.
“When did I get you?”
Marc shrugged out of the gun belts and laid them on the stand near the bed as Dog curled up under the front corner. “First few shots. It’s just a trim.”
Angela rolled her eyes at the crusted, three-inch furrow along the underside of his arm, “I’m always hurting you, Brady. I’m sorry.”
He noticed that she had cleaned herself up and put on the jeans and black shirt from her emergency bag. They’d gotten lucky to have them close by when the
wolves attacked. “Mistakes happen.”
“I could have killed you.”
Marc tensed as she cleaned the wound with alcohol pads, and Angela found herself watching the way his muscles flexed.
“This world is full of chaos. It was your first real fight. I think you did great.”
She met his eye, needing to know how true it was. “Really?”
"Yes," Marc said, his tone revealing that he wasn’t blowing smoke and Angela smiled, fighting the urge to reach out and run a soft hand along his lightly-bearded
jaw.
“You learned well.”
Her eyes darkened, and she looked down at his injury, letting the Doctor take over. “Hope it’s enough.”
Marc twitched at the needle as it sank into his skin, and Angela moved faster. It occurred to her that she now had stitching in both of his big arms. How many more
times would he be put in the line of fire for her? The wind outside picked up suddenly as if responding, and Angela shivered.
“Damn. It got colder. How would they keep warm in these back rooms?” Marc mused.
Angela kept her tone light, but flushed at the pictures running through her mind. “They don’t use them. They all share one bed for body heat.”
Marc‘s eyes showed understanding: that explained all the people in one sloppy tangle in that center room, and it made him think of how the big woman had held his
arm as she led him through, fingers caressing. Lenore had whispered of being a good master if he was unhappy with his current one.
Angela turned to look at him, anger making the demon’s red eyes bleed through. “She made a move on you when she brought you back here?”
Marc said nothing and Angela moved to her side of the bed as she dried her hands and controlled her rage. She had no real claim to him. If he wanted to sleep with
the woman, he could.
“I don’t.”
Her eyes flew to his in time to see him grimace as he tried to pull on his shirt.
“You sure?”
Marc’s eyes were amused, and it calmed her. “Yes.”
He began trying to button the emergency shirt, but with only one arm and pain shooting through the other, it was slow going.
Angela waved a hand at him. “Leave it open or you’re gonna rip out those stitches.”
“You could do it for me,” he suggested, feeling the throbbing increase.
She frowned, thinking he wouldn’t ask for a painkiller, but he’d take it if she said to. What was it with men and their pride?
“There’s Vicodin in my bag, top left side. Take two, leave the shirt as it is, and go to bed, will ya?”
Marc raised a brow at the curtness and Angela sighed. “Damn. I’m sorry, Brady.”
He moved slowly towards her bag. “You wanna tell me what’s got you on edge?”
Angela turned toward the window, glad for the bars on it as she spotted shadows padding restlessly outside. “Besides the wolves out there? I’m not sure. “
Marc saw the V on the bottle and dry swallowed two of the tiny blue pills without really looking at them, thinking she sounded restless.
“Nerves from today. You wanna talk it out, play some cards? Both?”
She shook her head, shivering. She wasn’t anywhere near ready for that bed, either. “No.”
Marc sat in the chair and began working on their guns, hands always sure and steady.
He was right, it was just nerves from the battle, Angela agreed, starting her own nightly rituals, but she was very aware of the man pretending not to watch her. This
was their first time in a real bed together since they’d made a baby, and the old Angela was harassing her with memories of how good their time together had been. The
mating had been sweet, soft and beautiful, and she’d forgotten none of it.
Marc knew she was thinking about him, but kept quiet, sure he was out of time. If she said her man was close, then he was and that meant this was their last night
alone together. His heart was already breaking, missing her, and Marc burned to remind her of what it was like to be made love to, instead of being taken.
The sparks in the room thickened, and Angie felt him tense when she unbraided her long, black hair and began to brush it.
“Can I do that for you?” he heard himself asking, thinking his heart was pounding harder than it should be.
When she hesitated, Marc smiled. “Please.”
Angela couldn’t deny him or herself. The need to get close to him tonight was undeniable. When he stepped behind her, big body warm and hard, she snapped her
eyes shut and held herself in place.
The feel of her curls running over his calloused hands was like silk, and Marc took his time, using his fingers to gather it, brushing her neck softly.
Angela heard the brush hitting the bed behind them, felt his big hands go to her shoulders, but instead of moving away, she allowed him to rub her. The heat from his
touch was like heaven.
“That feels good,” she moaned, and Marc breathed in deeply of it before moving back a bit, his body hardening.
Angela knew it was teasing him and surprised them both by letting him continue, even when his fingers brushed the curve of her breast, and sent little chills into her
stomach. She forgot to listen to the voice of fear as his thumb brushed her again, the sensation rushing into her gut like a bullet. “Mmmmm…”
Marc’s eyes snapped shut at that sound, liquid heat flooding his gut. He moved his hands away from her ribcage, sending them to her waist, her slender hips.
They had to stop now, Angela knew that, knew she’d probably hate herself later, but the feel of him was comforting, enticing… When he tugged gently, she leaned
back against his hard, bare chest, wishing she had the nerve to give him what he so clearly wanted.
Marc controlled himself, didn’t push against her ass like he wanted to. When she would have turned to get closer, he moved back, not willing to destroy the peace.
Angela stifled a protest at his retreat, her face flushed. She hadn’t meant to lead him on, had done really well so far, but the need was on her, the Witch and the old
Angela crying for release.
Marc realized her confusion. The killing had done it for her. It was something no one liked to admit, but he’d had some of the best orgasms - alone - right after a
battle where blood was spilled. “You okay?”
Her eyes darted to the threadbare coverlet pulled across her lap. “Yeah, you?”
Marc noted the bars over the windows, arm still throbbing. “Sure. You got that rolled yet?”
Angela forced a grin as the temperature dropped lower in the dusty bedroom, blowing grit across the dark, hardwood floor. “It’s in your pack.”
Marc got it and fired it up, body tight. He tried to force his mind to other things as she pulled her sweater over her shoulders. Her long curls hung around her pale
skin, the smell of her was assaulting his nose, and Marc frowned at himself as erotica flashed through his mind.
He moved to the other side of the bed, not really feeling the cold anymore, but he saw her pointed chest and knew she was. Marc got another blanket from his kit
and tossed it on the pillow next to her. “Put that one around your shoulders.”
Angela didn’t look at him as she drew on her courage. “Share it with me?”
Marc felt the need rise up, strong and hungry, as he sat back against the headboard. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Honey.”
He held the smoldering joint out and she took it carelessly, letting their fingers brush. Flames sparked, vanished.
Marc felt like he was sweating, body making it hard for him to sit. He shifted restlessly, waiting for it to go away like it usually did. He had quietly pleased himself
from time to time when she was asleep, but right now, he felt like he hadn’t in years, and he struggled to keep it out of his voice as he took the joint back. “You ready
for tomorrow?”
Angela blew out a thick stream of sweet, pungent smoke. “As much as I can be.”
Marc turned toward her, unable to stop his eyes from falling to her red lips. “You’ve learned a lot. I think you’ll do fine.”
She smiled at him, in a good mood despite the wrongness here, and she tried not to let the thuds and creaks outside the ranch home bother her as the wind gusted
loudly. She was with Marc. They could handle just about anything together. “I had a good…teacher.”
Sparks flew between them, the hunger alive, and Angela felt heat flood her stomach. The passion was new to her, almost like she’d never felt it.
When his eyes darkened, she felt a streak of heat that she knew he sensed by the way his grip on the joint tightened and the muscle in his jaw began to twitch. She
should be scared, she knew that too, but this was Brady. Nothing would happen that she didn’t want.
Marc moved off the bed and settled himself in the wide chair under the window, blowing out the candle closest to him. He left only one flickering flame in the far
corner that gave off very little light, not trusting himself. He lit a smoke, body and arm now throbbing together, one pain, one sharp and sweet. What the hell was wrong
with him?
Angela was asking herself the same thing. She wasn’t some tramp and she was pushing him. Marc was a man, one with needs that hadn’t been met for a long time,
and here she was letting him kiss her, rub her, touch her breast. Her face flamed at that thought, and she heard him shift in the chair, as if he picked up on the image.
Her heart thumped as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His shirt fell open at the movement, and she couldn’t look away, wondering where that furious
wave of need was coming from.
“Angie.”
She heard it in his voice and instead of fear, the woman inside responded. “Yes.”
Marc’s eyes snapped open, but her guilty face had him shaking his head. “No. Go to sleep.”
Angie braced herself. There was one last lesson to be learned. “Come back to bed, Brady.”
Marc groaned, breaking out in a sweat, and he shook his head, not looking at her. His blood was pounding through tight veins, breathing rough.
Angela frowned at him. “Are you all right?”
Marc tried to nod, but the tempo of the lust beating inside him grew, and he shifted again, thinking he’d have to do something about the iron bar in his jeans before
climbing into bed with her. That picture made the need tighten another notch, and he jumped when he felt her cool hand settle on his brow. He hadn’t heard her move.
“Damn, you’re hot. Let me see your eyes.”
Marc grit his teeth as she checked him out, the feel of her hands on him, her hair sliding across him, incredible torture.
“I don’t understand. You don’t ha…” Angela broke off, frown growing. Her bag. She’d told him top left. “I think I know what’s wrong with you.”
He did too. He needed to get laid more often.
”You didn’t take Vicodin. It was Viagra.”
Marc’s eyes flew open again, horrified. “What?”
She opened her worn medical bag. “It got mixed up during the fight. You didn’t read the label.”
Marc watched her step back, hands itching to pull her close. “How long will I be like this? And why the hell do you have that?”
Angela flushed. “It’s for diseases. Lenore wants to trade it for the cornbread.”
Marc groaned again, body on fire. He eyed the white pills she held out.
“This is really Vicodin.”
He swallowed it before she could get him anything to drink and looked at her with wide, glazed eyes. “How long?”
She looked away. “At least four hours, maybe six or eight.”
Marc’s head snapped back, eyes slamming shut. He wouldn’t last that long. “Can’t you give me something to counteract it?”
When she hesitated to speak, he knew there was something, but she didn’t want to tell him.
“What?” he demanded.
“If you...take yourself in…” Face a furious red, Angela indicated the bed, “It will go away once you...” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Marc no longer felt the cold or heard the wind. “Next!”
“Let it wear off.”
Marc stifled a curse, shifting again. “There’s gotta be something else.”
“I’m sorry, there isn’t.”
The tension in the room only continued to grow. After five minutes of watching him squirm (and feeling her own hormones responding), Angela stood up.
“I’m gonna step out in the hall for a few minutes, have a smoke,” she stated, waving off his protests. “I’ll take Dog. You... handle things.”
“Stay?”
Angela froze at the blatant need in his rough voice, looking at him. “While you…?”
Marc looked down, surprisingly embarrassed, and heard himself beg. “Please.” He’d never been so hard in his life, not even during their time together all those
years ago.
His voice was gruff with embarrassment, and Angela was surprised to find herself considering it, woman’s body long denied any real pleasure. “I couldn't...”
“I’ll stay right here. I won’t move from this spot,” he pleaded.
Angela knew she should go before things went any farther, but the heat between them was pulling, stronger than the fear for a change, and she hesitated, torn. He’d
made her feel so alive when they were young! Memories, old and powerful, swirled through the drafty room.
"I can't," he groaned as their lips met again, "I'm sorry."
The beautiful girl shifted restlessly under him, body begging for his touch. "But I want you to!" she complained
The boy held himself in place only by a hair. They'd never gone this far before, and the hormones were in control of her mind. She was too young, forbidden…
When she slid a hand between them, he sucked in a harsh breath. "I can't do..."
"Sshhhh..." her hand closed over him, stealing his voice, and he bucked in her grip as she stroked.
Struggling to think, he let her slide his tense hand under her skirt.
"Love me, Brady," she moaned against his mouth, "as much as you can."
Tortured will crumbling, he did just that.
"One of my favorite memories of us."
Angie flushed at his words. The time after that, they'd gone as far as they could. There hadn't been any holding back.
"I can't, Marc, I just..."
"Shhh...." His beautiful blue eyes were tunnels to the past. "Love me, Angie. As much as you can."
Jerked into the pain and loneliness she'd been forced to endure for so long, Angela nodded shakily and watched his hands go to the buckle of his jeans with wide
eyes. Marc couldn’t stop himself, the lust raging, and he held his breath as he popped the button on his jeans, expecting her to flee the tense seat she was taking on the
corner of the bed.
Angela’s face was red, but there was no denying she wanted to be here. When he raised his hips to slide his pants down, she tore her eyes away, breathing rapidly.
“Throw me a blanket.”
His voice was gruff, laced with need and control, and she did it without moving from her perch. She heard the blankets rustle, hands shifting for comfort, and
couldn’t stop herself from stealing a peek. It was just in time to see his hand go around a rod of flesh that had her on her feet.
Marc saw her eyes go over his body, flashing fear and desire, and tightened his grip. “Mmm…”
The sound woke the woman inside, and Angela found herself returning to the bed to lean against the headboard while she watched him pull the blanket up and start
to stroke…she wasn’t sure she could look away.
Marc watched her through narrowed slits, feeling the need tighten as she stared at the movements the blanket now hid. Slowly, he pulled it back down so she could
see.
Angela’s breath went out in a rush, the sight of his thick flesh sending heat into her gut.
Marc nodded, hand stroking faster. “You, too? You used to love this.”
I still do, Angela though, shaking her head. How many hours had they spent this way before the lust had driven them across the line?
Marc heard the man inside push. “There’s another blanket. I’ll stay right here.”
She shook her head again, shifting restlessly, and he closed his eyes…most of the way. “I won’t look.”
Angela was still shocked to find herself here, in this moment, but fear wasn’t the strongest emotion – desire was. Physical contact was something she’d been
reminded of during this trip and it was one of the things she had hoped to have conquered by now. In all the years since they’d been apart, she’d only pleased herself a
dozen times, and not at all in the last year.
“Please?”
Before she could change her mind, Angela grabbed the second cover and tossed it over herself, but from there…
“Angie, you don’t have to do this.”
The sudden flare of guilt from him had her shaking her head. He had nothing to feel guilty about – and neither did she. With that choice, she put her hand beneath the
cover and went back to watching Brady…like she used to, when it was just them against the world.
Marc tried to slow himself down, not wanting to be done before she was, but he was on that edge already. He saw her arm brush a rigid nipple as she got
comfortable and listened to her small hiss of surprise at the sensation, with fire boiling. She did it again, intentionally this time, and he stroked harder. This was the Angie
he knew, the fearless, sexual nymph he’d eased into womanhood, and it was okay to think of that moment now, of how her tight body had wrapped around him in
willing surrender.
He groaned at the feel of the memory mixing with reality and jerked himself back from the edge by a hair.
Angela had stopped, watching him, remembering. She flushed when his burning eyes met hers. “I can’t wait much longer…”
The fear rose, making her tense, and Marc delivered one of those smoldering looks she had always been effected by. “Scared?”
She nodded, voice rough. “A little.”
He started to pull the blanket back up.
“No!”
He stopped, eyes knowing, and his smile was beautiful to her. “You are free to do as you please, Angie. No one owns you anymore.”
The happiness that gave her! Because it was true. She grinned, cheeks darkening further. “I’ll watch you for a minute.”
Marc wasn’t sure he had a minute after that. Lust surged, sending his hand back to rub and caress in slow movements that he burned to increase the speed of. Her
hands were moving under the blanket now, slowly at first, with her eyes glued to his movements. The urge to storm that bed and have her screaming out in climax was a
hard one to resist.
“Move the blanket,” he coaxed. “Let me see, too.”
She did it slowly, revealing long, sexy legs, and then white panties with a hand pushing the center aside. Her fingers moved in small circles and Marc’s heart
thumped as the edge flew his way.
“Damn, that’s hot. Lay your head back, pretend you’re alone.”
“Mmm…” The sound of Marc’s sexy voice had her convulsing in pleasure and her legs opened further to reveal dark curls and slick skin than began to pulse.
“With me, Brady!” Angela demanded hoarsely as the first wave of fierce light exploded through her body.
“Uuhhh!” Marc arched, grip freezing as he released wildly at her climax. “Yeah!”
Coming down first, Angela immediately rolled over, pulling the blanket up. She’d thought to face fear or even guilt, but there was only a huge relief as her body
continued to jerk and twitch in satisfaction. She was free now.
Very unsure of her mood, Marc cleaned himself up and kept his mouth shut. He blew out the candle and moved toward his side of the bed, intending to give her
some space to think. He was surprised when she held the blanket back and smiled at him.
“After that, I think it’s probably okay to ask if you’ll hold me while we sleep.”
His heart skipped a beat and he grinned as he eased into the bed with her. This was what he wanted the most, what he had longed for at night.
Sated, the Witch and old Angela went away a bit, pushed back by the new person emerging. This new woman belonged to herself, wasn’t so afraid to take chances
that she forgot to live, and Angela smiled, tight against Brady’s hard chest. She fell asleep listening to his heartbeat for the first time in fifteen years.
Marc didn’t sleep at all – just held her and remembered.
Listening from the next bedroom, Lenore was disappointed, but she would keep her word and let them go with no trouble, sure the minute they were out of sight,
she would forget about the handsome couple. There was trouble on the horizon for all of them. The giantess could feel it coming, and she didn't think she would see
them again…at least not alive.
Chapter Thirty Six
March 31st, 2013
He really hadn’t expected to see her again, not even the body.
Fury-darkened eyes watched the couple as they slept, ignoring the unpleasant feel of the tall ash tree between his legs and the darkness that only let him hear the
animals padding restlessly below. They sniffed and pissed, tried to find a way into the truck he had right up against the thick trunk, but the furious Marine paid them little
attention.
Kenn had found the sprawling ranch house just before dawn, hitting shapes in the fog that were either dogs or coyotes as they attacked his tires. He’d taken up a
high vantage point to watch the windows as a dim, foggy morning lit up the area, sure she was in there. His starlight scope had penetrated seven windows, and then he’d
found them.
Covers tangled, limbs entwined, they looked like a night of passion had worn them out. She wore only a sleeping shirt that barely covered her thighs, flashing white
panties, and the man, the wife-stealing, walking dead man, had on a pair of green boxers that the intruder recognized even from a distance. They were Marine issue…
Kenn’s grip tightened on the sniper rifle in his hand, nails digging shallow grooves into the stock as his eyes saw dog tag, familiar Recon tattoos, and that careful look
around upon waking that every Marine did.
Dread and cold rage formed a thick knot of hate deep in Kenn’s gut. The man was one of the few people he’d ever felt threatened by. Brady was with Angela.
Sergeant Marcus Brady was her show of force.
The Marine struggled with himself: the old Kenny wanting to aim and fire, the new Kenn not wanting to kill without justification, and he waited tensely to see just
how close his wife and his team leader really were.
End of book two – On The Road
Notes
Dear Reader,
It took a long time to get them here, but we’ve finally arrived, and with an ugly glimpse of the new world the refugees must now
adapt to. Unable to stop them from gathering, the Slavers and Mother Nature have no intentions of giving up. Neither does
Kenn, whose true side is about to be revealed to Adrian and his Eagles. We can only hope the time he’s spent with the blond
leader has been enough to keep him in control.
I’d like say thank you to my editor and the betas, who spent a big part of their year helping me. Don’t know where I’d be without
you. I also have an enormous amount of gratitude for the folks over at the Zombie Squad. Doc, Kutter, Razor, Swoop, Lex, and
all the rest. You took the time to drill it into my head and I’m in awe of your patience. Honored to have met you, that’s me.
Thanks to the ZS, this edition had footnotes. I’m very curious as to how you liked/hated them. This series is a long one, at least
nine books. I have folders and notebooks that are overflowing with the next steps in this journey and I can’t wait to share them
with you.
Btw, thank you for the time it took to read all this! If you liked the books, I’d love to hear from you. If you hated the books, I
NEED to hear from you. Please leave a review. I check for new ones daily.
Have a wonderful year,
Angela White
http://www.law-angelawhite.com
Extras
Safe Haven
Deleted Scene 1
Deleted Scene 2
DOC Article
Character Bios
Footnotes
Safe Haven
Safe Haven: A place of safety and of light, of duty and honor: A Refuge for survivors.
Also: A place of death and darkness, where magic and murder go hand in hand.
Angie and Marc have made it to Safe Haven and her Marine is already on the edge of murder over their romance. Will Adrian be able to stop the bloodshed, or will
everything he’s built start to fall?
Reunited
"He’s here. Kenny’s here!"
Footsteps crunched behind her, and Angela's hand dropped to her gun as she turned, eyes finding Brady in the barn’s moldy doorway.
Marc snapped his mouth shut on the warning that would have been too late, realizing he knew the Marine now striding determinedly down the middle of the street -
and not just from their time together on the base. The cold look of ownership he threw Marc’s way said this was her man. The piper was here and it was time to start
paying.
Kenn stopped a few feet away, watching with expectant eyes that wished she’d pull the gun so he could kill them both and claim self-defense to Adrian.
“Kenny?”
The Marine knew the joy spreading across her face wasn’t for him and it faded fast.
“You’re alone.”
Kenn ignored her disappointment as he glared. “I’ve come to get you.”
Her brow wrinkled, and he saw a flare of anger on her pale face that was unexpected. She should be scared.
“Little late for that now,” Angela pointed out, aware of the violence flashing in his eyes, but she stood her ground, able to feel him trying to control himself. Would he
end it all right here? Marc was silently telling her just to duck and he’d do the rest, and she didn’t look away from Kenn’s thunderous face, waiting to see who would
live and who would die.
Kenn hated her calm confidence and his sarcasm hid a note of unease when she didn’t blink, didn’t move her hand from the gun on her hip.
“So, you have no welcome for me?”
Angela hesitated. “Of course I do. We’ve been apart a long time.”
The breeze gusted, sending her hair flying wildly, and Kenn was glad to see her wary look as his eyes went there. She wasn’t allowed to have it down in public. It
was another transgression to be held accountable for. “Then come show me you’re glad to see me,” he ordered.
Angela stepped into his big arms with a heavy heart. Could she could tolerate, endure a little (six years!) longer, so no one else would get hurt? Could she just give
in?
Hand resting on his unsnapped holster, Marc watched from the lonely doorway, unable to believe he hadn’t been able to put her clues together and come up with
loud-mouth, sometimes-obnoxious, always-snotty, Lance Corporal Kenn Harrison.
Marc’s stomach was full of white, hot anger and he felt himself preparing for battle, even as the pain of seeing her in someone else's arms flooded his heart. Angie
had her man back, and he didn’t seem at all surprised to see them. Had he been spying? Their moment in the bedroom, right after they’d woken, came to mind, and
Marc’s gut tightened. What all had Kenn seen? Them in bed together, the kiss…too much.
It implied a lot more than there was, and as their eyes locked over Angie’s tense shoulder, the message was clear: She’s mine. Go way or I’ll kill you!
Dog’s thick fur began to bristle, golden eyes filling with dislike. When he gave a low growl, Marc put a hand on the big animal’s head. “Me too, boy. Me too.”
Angela regretted the hug the second Kenny crushed her close. She tried to pull away when his head lowered to hers, but he had a hand tangled tightly in her thick
curls, holding her still as his tongue invaded, conquered, revolted.
Kenn ground his mouth against hers, as that distinctive, addictive scent of vanilla filled his nose, wondering how much more Brady would allow before stepping in
and getting himself killed.
Ah! Not much at all, Kenn gloated to himself, half turning them to be in the right position as he shoved his tongue deeper. Her Tag-a-long was already moving from
his place in the doorway.
Angela picked up the thought and understood he was trying to provoke Marc, catch him off guard. She slammed her boot against Kenn’s ankle, leaning her weight
into it as she elbowed him in his flat stomach.
Not expecting her to fight, Kenn grunted, letting go. Angela stayed between the two men, only backing up a little as she tried to remember what she’d learned. He
would see right now that things had changed.
“What the hell was that for?” Kenn snarled at her, closing the distance between them.
Her eyes narrowed as the Witch said to provoke him now so they could either kill him or be killed, but be done with it. “You wouldn’t let go.”
Kenn’s voice was savage as he leaned toward her, itching to break her crooked nose again, “And I never will!”
His eyes went to the Marine now standing alertly near her bumper, big black-and-gray dog bristling at his side, then back to her. “You have one minute to tell me
what you’re doing with him! Who is Brady to you?”
Kenn grinned harshly at her surprise. “Yeah, I know him! Answer me!”
He was trying to intimidate her, but Angela surprised them all by shoving him with both hands, moving him out of her personal space as she'd learned. “Stop yelling
at me!” she blared, catching him off guard again.
She only lowered her voice a little, finger waving. “We can have a normal conversation or we can spill blood right here and now,” she warned coldly. “It’s your
choice.”
It was dangerous to push, but the old Angela, the one who’d battled him early in their relationship, was guiding them through this minefield. When his eyes flicked to
Brady again and then Dog, she relaxed a bit. Getting Kenny to think before he acted was the key to surviving the encounter.
Shocked at the words more than her actions, Kenn hated it that he might be outnumbered by the tense Marine edging closer, by the bristling animal at his side that
upon closer inspection, appeared to be a wolf, and also by Angela, who had obviously done a lot of changing (reverting) during her trip.
“Fine. We’ll talk,” he sneered sarcastically.
Angela cocked her head as the sun came through the clouds of grit above them as if to back her up. “We’ll start the entire conversation over.”
He grunted and Angela forced a cheery smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hello, Kenn. Good to see you. How have you been?”
The Marine grinned coolly, instantly recognizing her tactics. He should. He’d used them daily on her. “Never better. Enjoy your trip?”
Kenn felt his rage go up another notch when she nodded, shuttered eyes finding her escort before returning to his angry face.
“Some of it, yes.”
Kenn’s eyes promised payment. “Hope it was worth it.”
Angela continued without hesitation, even though his beefy hands were now clenched into tight fists. “It was. Where’s my boy?”
Kenn said nothing, waiting, wanting to hear her beg. He wasn’t prepared for the hate that filled her face.
“I don’t need you to find him! How do you think I got here?” she ground out through clenched teeth.
Kenn was too pissed to be worried, though he had an idea he might be in a little danger. She’d done more than revert. She was using the power! She'd unlocked it!
He had always known she could and the old, thwarted bitterness settled into his stomach like it had never left. Was there a way he could get control of it now? His mind
flashed a picture of her son. Yes. There was.
“That may be, but you do need me to get near him. Charlie’s with my men. They won’t want to kill you, but they will.”
Angela didn’t back down, didn’t look away, and Kenn hated the new knowledge about life and death he read in her eyes. She thought she could handle him and
that was bad. How much practice had she gotten? What had she done, been through, to get here?
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Angela stated tonelessly.
Kenn stared at her in shock, unable to believe she would dare to get in his head so openly, so arrogantly. Didn’t she remember what he’d threatened to do if she
used it on him?
“Everything has changed, Kenn. You broke our deal when you abandoned me for that group of strangers you’ve been lying to!”
On the edge of control at her veiled threat to reveal his secrets, Kenn was surprised to discover that her disobedience, her betrayal, was worse. He hadn’t thought
her hold on him was that strong anymore. “You have six years left! You belong to me!” he hissed violently, moving closer.
Angela, struggling against the fear, fought back. “Not anymore. I want out!”
“No!”
“You don’t own me!”
“How long have you two been sleeping together?”
“We aren’t!”
“Lyin' bitch!”
“You go to Hell!”
Kenn’s hand flinched, and Angela felt herself being brushed aside.
Marc stepped between them, finally eye-to-eye with the man responsible for hurting his Angie over and over. “It’s been a while, Harrison.”
“Not long enough, Brady.”
Marc didn’t respond to the accusation in Kenn’s eyes as he waited for one of them (Angela) to get nervous and start talking, but they (she) remained silent and
Kenn frowned deeper.
“You’re...traveling together?” he asked finally.
Marc took the lead, big shoulders prepared to take whatever came. “Yes. We were both headed this way, and I couldn’t let her go it alone. She was hard to
convince, though,” Marc lied easily. This was indeed a thin line, and he wasn’t the only one walking it. She hadn’t been exaggerating even a little. The LC was deadly
with the M16 on his back.
“Well, thanks buddy, but I’ve got it from here. You can hit the redline.”
Marc’s grin widened into sharp white teeth as the wolf lingered at his hip, dark fur on his back and tail bushed-out aggressively. “Welcome, pal, but a funny thing
happened on the way here. I discovered I want to be with… other people, and I might just stick close for a while.”
Clearly taunting, Angela knew blood was about to flow and stayed out of it, waiting to see if Kenn would force his own death. Brady was eager and while she
wasn’t, doing it now, while Kenn was alone, was best if it had to happen.
Marc took a step forward, bringing them to within inches of each other as the wind gusted through the dead corn. “Real close.”
Kenn’s eyes narrowed and his hairy knuckles inched toward the 9mm on his hip. “She has a man, you fucking Jody! Back off!”
Marc snorted, furious blue eyes full of contempt. “If you want to call yourself that.”
“What the hell's that supposed to mean, boot?” Kenn sneered threateningly, lightly-bearded face full of hate.
Marc put them chest to chest without hesitation, “It means she’s not your punching bag anymore! You wanna hit someone, grungeshit, you hit me!”
Kenn didn’t hesitate either, and he swung hard. The hit rocked Marc's head back and then the two men were at each other, trading vicious blows.
“Like that?” Kenn taunted, following the upper cut with a powerful roundhouse.
Marc ducked the blow, landed a nasty knuckle to Kenn’s temple that made the Marine stagger. “Yeah! More!”
Kenn rushed him, head slamming into his gut, and Marc immediately drove his elbow into Kenn’s shoulder blade.
Kenn jerked, grunting as he was rocked off his balance, and they hit the dirt with a hard thud, swinging, wrestling, trying to get the advantage.
Angela waved a hand at Dog to stay back as Marc pushed Kenn off of him with his legs and rolled onto his feet.
Kenn rushed, and Marc ducked again, foot flashing out at the last minute to trip him up.
The blow the jealous man had been throwing glanced off Marc’s wounded arm and Brady kicked him in the ribs as he went down, wound stinging from ripped
stitches.
Kenn was on his feet in a blur, hand flying toward his hip, and both of Brady’s guns were out before the furious Marine could pull his own.
“Do it!” Marc goaded, fingers tightening…longing to squeeze. “Make it count. I will.”
Book Three: Safe Haven
Deleted Scene 1
12/21/2012
Granite Mountains Complex
Stunned, Press Secretary Pat Michaels sat in the back of the large, crowded room that was embedded under a dank maze of tunnels. Half a mile beneath a secret
military base, the compound was now being overrun with terrified citizens demanding the protection they knew the Essex could (but would not) provide.
The limestone command center was thick with smoke and people, some of them in on the original testing of these weapons. Pat hoped his own punishment would
not be as harsh as theirs. After all, they had known firsthand what a horrible thing had been created. It was so powerful, so unstoppable, that the America above them
was about to be destroyed and a new, hostile world would take its place.
The slyest of presidential defenders since Nixon’s well-used man - Pat Michaels, former Press Secretary - was useless, forgotten in the chaos, and not even sure he
should be here. His family had been in New Jersey... Someone had been with him when he got the news, had brought him along when they had evacuated from the Las
Vegas convention-hall, although he wasn’t sure who it had been. Amanda, the kids! How would he go on? How would anyone?
Panic was rampant. Voices barked orders, people scrambled to get information, papers floated through the humid air, and satellite phones rang continuously,
annoyingly. Thanks to an EMP and a lucky shot from a disgruntled citizen with a grenade launcher, the Vice President was dead. The Speaker of the House was now
the legal recipient of the highest seat in the land, but she wasn’t here and neither was the new Secretary of State. No one had discovered where they had been
evacuated to, or even if they were still alive. Those jobs were no longer in demand, and the result was chaos, fear in control. Maybe that would change later… if they
survived the missile headed for Montana.
Deep and sturdy, this complex had been built secretly during the 1990’s and was not only untested, it was less than one hundred miles from what was about to be a
direct hit. Pat shuddered. They would probably feel it.
Lurking near the back wall of air vents and panels, the Press Secretary broke out into a light sweat as one of the remaining clocks on the cold, sterile walls around
him neared, and then passed, the five minute mark.
Washington, New York, and most of the East Coast had already been destroyed. Of the seven warheads that the long-denied Star Wars program hadn’t been able
to shoot down, three were definitely going to find more U.S. targets and maybe two others that they had lost radar on as well. Their own warheads had decimated
countries around the globe. Now, America would pay the price.
The huge, multi-picture screen in the front of the crowded room changed when the next clock hit four minutes, flashing to a satellite view of the incoming missile
careening towards the Sunshine State, and Pat found he couldn’t look away.
Why, in God’s name, had the former President done this? And who had given the technology-challenged man the disk that would allow him such unforgiving
control? Surely this was a bad dream? If not, millions more were going to die in only:
03:45
03:44
03:43
The computer went to full alert, alarms all over the vast compound warning of the impending arrival. The Press Secretary’s stomach churned as the ceiling lights
began to flicker a hazy red.
America was in the same panicky state as this room, thanks to the convoys of soldiers taking all males, ages 10-60. Told to get a full truck of warm bodies any way
they had to and be back within eight hours, gunfire was filling town after town. They had reports of it in nearly every major city across the country, soldiers and civilian
wars over their sons and husbands and over remaining food and weapons. The end was close… and everyone felt it.
02:50
02:49
02:48
Would mankind survive? Had they really blown themselves up? How much of this new hell was he personally responsible for? Millions of lives were already gone…
so many cultures, and their history!
01:20
01:19
01:18
Pat cringed at a freshly braying siren from the front of the loud, crowded, tactical room. They'd destroyed the world. Was that the red stain on his hands that refused
to wash off?
00:40
00:39
00:38
When was my last orgasm? he wondered suddenly, too scared to recall what it had felt like or what the intern’s name had been. Greg? Gary?
00:25
00:24
00:23
When was my last confession? Pat struggled to remember, heart thumping wildly, stomach lurching. Did I mean it? Is it too late?
00:15
00:14
00:13
He closed his eyes and began the comforting, useless litany from his seat, still unable to make himself get on his knees even though the true hour of judgment had
come.
“Please forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”
00:02
00:01
00:00
“I did it for my country...”
Deleted Scene 2
“Everyone shooting must sign in. Only people that have passed the gun class can enter. Shooters will stay in front of the gate, everyone else behind. Sign in folks and
let’s get started.”
Jeremy was the MC tonight, Neil’s second Eagle, and as Adrian stepped by, he again caught a whiff of perfume he now recognized as Cynthia’s, but said nothing.
He wasn’t worried the Eagle would slip with anything he shouldn’t. Before the war, Jeremy had been a devout Catholic, quiet and observant. He knew the meaning of
secrecy and he’d found his place here, something the church had been unable to provide. The guard would be careful with it.
There was standing-room-only in the bleachers, and a large crowd lined the gate as the shooters signed in, and checked their weapons. Adrian was glad to see no
real fear, no desperation in the faces of his people. The watching crowd talked loudly, betting on their favorites as they sat in chairs in the sand or on thick blankets, and
the men shooting waited behind the gate, eager to start.
“Okay. We have 29 shooters tonight,” Jeremy announced.
Adrian stepped over to the clipboard on the bales of hay. “Make that 30.”
The crowd cheered loudly and the other shooters groaned.
“First, Kenn Harrison.”
The sun was gone now, the night dark and gritty, but the moon’s outline, while not clear, gave some light and made people feel better just to be able to look up and
finally find it in the sky. It was something they hadn’t seen much of for almost a hundred days. The area was still dim, but huge spotlights on top of the trucks lit up the
ball field and roller-bound targets.
The ones set at 25 and 50 feet were hardly a challenge to the men watching his XO get set, but the ones at 100 and 125 were, and all the contestants knew they
would likely be gone before round seven. He and Kenn had dueled it out last time, easily leaving everyone else behind. When they were shooting, no one else stood a
chance.
“As many direct hits as you can, any target. On your mark.”
The Marine grinned, holding the gun steady against the gusty wind, accounting for it, and then he was firing smoothly.
The crowd cheered when the call came and the guards on the perimeter stayed alert, knowing the noise would carry.
“Eight bulls eyes! Next, Adrian Mitchell.”
The leader checked his weapon, and then put it back into his holster, letting his hand hang loosely like an Old-West gunslinger.
The newer people, who hadn’t yet seen him shoot, watched nervously, sure he would miss and prove he was as fallible as the rest of those who had tried to lead.
Adrian’s hand was a blur as he drew and fired, fired, fired. He twirled the black 9 mm a single time and slid it neatly into the holster on his hip.
“Eight bulls-eyes!”
The crowd roared and Jeremy had to shout to be heard as Adrian grinned, stepped over to Kenn.
“Next, Kyle Reece.”
No one missed a shot until the end of the round. Mary and Heather, two females he’d sent to the class for match-making purposes, didn’t get any bulls-eyes, but
Adrian was pleased that they had hit anything at all. For the women here, that was definite progress.
The third woman, Lexa, was a gun shop owner from Los Angeles. Short, with a big chest and a long, brown ponytail, she hit half the targets, making Adrian wish he
could add her to his list for the next Level One Eagles. Her draw was beautiful, almost a perfect copy of his, and with a little instruction, it would become as natural to
her as breathing.
Adrian wondered if he would ever get his Eagles to accept women on the teams. He needed one of these shell-shocked females to be a warrior in disguise that
could hold her own among his army and make the rest of the camp accept it too. For now though, it looked like Lexa was eliminated.
“Last shooter. Rebecca Ann Kelly.”
The cute teenager moved toward the line and Adrian frowned as the crowd cheered and catcalled. Had she made it through the gun class somehow without him
knowing it? There was always a wait because he hand-filled over half the seats.
Adrian was almost certain she hadn’t, but instead of immediately calling her on it, the leader let her have one try, thinking again of how much he needed one of these
timid homemakers to really be Xena, the warrior Princess.
Becky was innocent, sexy, playful, and many of his men were watching the slender girl, waiting for her sixteenth birthday in October, when it would be legal to ask
her out. That included Kenn, but Adrian thought she had a thing for one of his other top guards. Either way, the girl would be something here. What, was up to her.
Rebecca’s reddish blond hair was wild with frizzy curls and she brushed it back impatiently as she took her place, knowing she would only have this one chance to
get noticed, to show these men she was useful too. She’d almost swallowed her tongue when Adrian signed in, sure he’d see her name and single her out…
“Anytime you’re ready, shooter,” Jeremy encouraged, eager to get the next round started, and the nervous girl nodded. She was ready now and she wanted them to
know, needed Adrian to know.
Feeling the magic, the confidence of holding a gun she knew she could use, Becky pulled the trigger gently, lovingly. The light recoil was well controlled and she was
smiling as she aimed and pulled, lined it up and pulled again.
The bullets dug into the targets, and she turned her eyes to the frowning blond man moving her way, while the crowd waited for the call.
“Eight Hits, 5 bulls-eyes!”
They were as loud for her as they had been for Kenn, and she was grinning in satisfaction as the leader stopped next to her, eyes impressed and displeased at the
same time.
“That’s some impressive shooting, Miss Kelly.”
She grinned, face lighting up at his words, and then she dropped her head, remorseful. She hadn’t broken his rules lightly. Now she would pay the price.
“I’m sorry.” She moved toward Jeremy without waiting to be told. “I have to withdraw.”
The Level Two Eagle frowned as the crowd muttered, and those who knew she hadn’t taken the class waited to see if Adrian would let her ruin her own chances
here by owning up to it. If she admitted she cheated, it would be a label she’d carry forever.
“Why?”
“Because I…”
“She forgot she has a shift with the Vet. Right now, we’ll move onto the next round since we’re losing a shooter.”
Adrian’s calm words weren’t doubted and his men were pleased. If Becky had ruined herself tonight, they couldn’t show any interest in her, not without losing their
place by Adrian, and that was now something most of these men would never jeopardize.
“Rebecca is eliminated. Kenn will start round two.”
Becky smiled gratefully at Adrian as she left, very thankful he’d chosen to stop her admission. His men weren’t the only ones who were aware of all she’d risked to
be noticed.
“Three shots this time and only those beyond 25 feet count. Bottom two will be eliminated.” Jeremy looked at Kenn. “You ready?”
The Marine opened fire in answer.
DOC Article
NY & USA Today News
December 21, 2012
Betrayal and Lies are the Foundation of American Politics!
The Gospel of Mary was discovered in Southern France last month and has now been proven genuine by experts secretly asked to test
the parchments. In them, is a tale of murder, extortion, kidnapping, and forced reproduction that scientists claim have kept secret the
descendants of Jesus Christ. The list of powerful families around the globe being accused is staggering…
This story began more than a thousand years ago, with a huge secret that millions have now died to keep. If proven true, it
is a deception so big, it might have changed the world.
The Knights Templar was officially sanctioned in 1190 by the Roman Catholic Church… but what if they existed long before
that? What if they escorted Mary Magdalene out of Gaul, and settled her somewhere safe? We’ve heard the speculation that
her offspring became Kings through the Merovingian line, but what if they were also the descendants of Christ? Reports tell of
a young girl named Sarah that traveled with Mary after the crucifixion. The daughter of Jesus?
The Gospel of Mary implies the wealthy intentionally repressed all such knowledge, creating a secret sect to help hide the
truth. Most of these men, according to the new parchment, believed they were protecting these special females. They took
them to the Cathars, a religious order in Southern France that was also under control of the Catholic Church, content to leave
them there. The Church certainly didn’t expect trouble from one woman, but within a few years, the Cathars turned against the
Church and created a new religion based on love of God without control or wealth. Terrified of the world finding out, of having
to give up all their power and decadent ways of living, the church began the Albigensian crusade and eradicated them.
So, what happened to the descendants that the Cathars died to protect? According to the Gospel of Mary, many escaped
and walk among us, even now, in the form of their offspring. Most of the Knights were for the truth coming out, were
beginning to turn against the Church, as well. They were wiped out the same way the Cathars were, but stories abound of a
few brave souls being able to save the precious remaining descendants, ensuring the bloodline of Jesus Christ. With the church
hunting them down, these groups of saviors went into hiding with their wards. When they finally emerged, they called
themselves the Freemasons… and they were powerful.
If this new Gospel is to be believed, none of them exposed the truth. Various groups of Templar’s, in unnamed places
around the world, and the secret held - because of power and greed. Mary Magdalene’s offspring were now Merovingian rulers
and the temptation was too much to resist. Instead of being the defenders, they had become the attackers. According to the
Gospel of Mary, found during an archeological dig at an unnamed location, these descendants of Christ were forced to
reproduce with the Knights throughout history. Only the special offspring were kept, and the parchment even suggests that
inbreeding was one of the common experiments in hopes of making the kids more gifted.
Skeptics are coming out of the woodwork since the parchment went public yesterday, but so far, no one has disproven the
new allegations of a corrupt political system that traces back to this nation’s very founding. If the Gospel is proven genuine, it
could possibly mean that every President America has ever had, was a descendant of Christ, and bred, not raised, but bred, for
that very purpose. The same would be true of many other governments across the globe.
Here is a quote from a very outspoken civil rights leader, who didn’t want to be named due to his personal safety.
“Imagine how different our lives would have been, if the existence of Jesus Christ and all he suffered were fact, proven by
science. Consider how much control the legitimate churches would have had over the masses. Laws, education, politics, work,
art, music, literature lifestyles - it all would have been effected. Ask yourself if the governments, and yes, all of them. No one
group of people hides a conspiracy this size – ask yourself if the leaders you’ve been listening to, would still be in charge right
now, if it was a documented fact that our Lord and savior really walked this very earth. Wouldn’t that government have been
the first ones fed to those hungry lions? Yes, and isn’t there anything they would have done, to stop it from happening?”
What if these few remaining children of Mary and Christ have been betrayed over and over, killed in every generation, to
hide the truth? When we could have been basking in their light…
Return to Footnotes
Character Bios
Adrian Mitchell is a lifelong Marine with a huge secret, one that might have prevented the War. Full of guilt he can never be free of, Adrian is driven, obsessed
with gathering enough survivors to restart his broken country.
Samantha Moore is a Storm Tracker. Born with a predictive gift that allows her to mentally track the weather, Sam led a sheltered life before the bombs fell, and
her road to Adrian's camp is full of pain and horror as she struggles to adjust.
Angela White is many things: doctor, battered wife, mother, and Witch. She long ago locked up her powers to keep her man from using them for his own gain, but
the War freed the Demon inside, and now it is her best defense as she tries to cross the broken country in search of her missing son.
Lt. Kenn Harrison is a Marine adrift when he joins Adrian's camp. An angry man with secrets, months of trials at Adrian's patriotic side have begun to change
him, but what will happen to all the progress he's made when Angela finally comes for her son?
Sergeant Marc Brady has been in love with Angela since they were kids. Split up as teenagers, he had no idea they’ created a baby. He can't wait to get to know
his son, but it's the thought of being with Angie again, that sends him running to answer her call for help.
Kendle Roberts is a famous TV star, but the survival goddess wasn't prepared for the wave that rolled her cruise ship and left her adrift on the restless ocean with
no land in sight. For two months.
John Harmon has been a doctor for over 40 years. Sure he has terminal Cancer, his wife pretends not to know, and they set off to find safety so one of them can
die, and one of them can live.
All Angela White Titles
Life After War series
The Survivors
On The Road
Safe Haven
Adrian’s Eagles
Bachelor Battles Trilogy
To The Death
The Changeling
Flash Fiction
Twisted Shorts
Alexa’s Travels
A Prelude
Bone Dust & Beginnings
Upcoming Releases
The Network
The Killin’ Fields of Nebraska
Liberation
Footnotes
Read the entire article in the Extras section.
Return to Text
DOC is an abbreviation for Descendants of Christ.
Return
3 Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle.
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4 Gat is Marine slang for a 9mm.
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5 Hardback can mean a cargo truck or MRAP vehicle; slang.
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6 Slang - meaning any coffee that isn’t Starbucks.
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7 The Essex is a fictional government bunker set in the Granite Mountains of Wyoming. This came from NORAD no longer being the preferred Presidential and
Joint Chief evacuation site as of 911. That new location has not been revealed.
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8 Boot - Junior Marine fresh from basic training. Also, an unforgivable insult when used seriously.
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9 FUBAR – stands for f’’’’d up beyond all repair.
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10 Calling a jarhead ‘soldier’ will cause frowns, mutters, and sometimes, a fight. They go through very demanding training to earn the title of Marine, and are very
quick to defend it.
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11 During research, I was informed that a Hum-vee is what a badass grunt used to roll around in. A Hummer, on the other hand, is something received from a
generous girlfriend…
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12 “M9s are often issued to those who don't take care of them. They get used as hammers, and generally by the time they get to the pistol range, jam, fail, and
generally suck like a Hoover.” – ZS Quote.
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13 Pogue bait is slang for candy. In the derogatory sense, it can also mean a woman intent on grabbing a successful man.
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14 You’ll notice this has been singular throughout the book. That’s because the other tag is laced into a Marine’s left boot, for identification if they are killed. It is
SOP and ingrained.
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