The Northern US

Samantha

 

1

“Where are you taking us?” Samantha’s vivid blue eyes encouraged the grim soldier to answer. He hadn’t responded to any of the other terrified civilians crammed into the government chopper.

“We’ve been diverted to NORAD. The Essex Compound is being evacuated.” The soldier frowned at her; the rifle in his hands came up. “I’ll toss you out.”

Samantha paled. “It was just a question.”

“Your file indicates otherwise.”

Samantha shrank back into the seat as she understood. He knows what I am! “I can’t do anything with people.”

The rifle didn’t lower. “Your kind evolves. Stop talking now.”

Samantha had no idea what he meant by that, but his threat had been clear.

The big bird lurched. Its loud blades struggled to cut through the windy Wyoming haze.

Samantha stifled her scream, but not a low groan when it happened again.

The other Seattle civilians aboard the struggling chopper echoed her noise of near panic. They’d been relocated from their jobs at the Environmental Protection Agency by soldiers carrying clipboards and guns. After witnessing a coworker shot when he ran, none of them had rocked the boat despite being abducted by their own government.

Samantha brushed a quick glance over the other well-dressed, lucky few onboard. She recognized the same dawning terror in their expressions, but she could have been alone. She didn’t have a connection to them. I’m different.

Samantha fingered the badge around her neck, almost wishing she didn’t have it. If her severe weather alarm hadn’t worked, the former president turned terrorist traitor–Robbie Milton–would have been killed by a tornado in Nebraska. If he’d died four years ago, none of this would be happening. Does that make it my fault?

The chopper lurched again, bringing her back from the past. She stifled another sound of misery as a city rolled by. That can’t be my country down there tearing itself apart. Shootings, fires, assaults, murders. And bodies were everywhere–in cars, on streets, even on playgrounds! Where are the police? The ambulances? Why aren’t those fires being put out?

She gaped as an unending line of destruction rushed over the city below them. Power lines lit up, sparking; gas lines exploded. Homes and cars disappeared beneath the advancing gray avalanche of death that was nearing the military transport chopper. We’re out of range, aren’t we? “Go higher!”

Even as Samantha finished the shout, the blades above them slowed. Her ears registered the sudden, deafening silence, and then they plummeted toward the earth in a sickening blur of pain 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 tall tree as it rolled, scattering thick smoke and awful debris along the crash site.

Samantha groaned. Her hurting body checked in as ready to hide but otherwise uninjured. The lack of noise, not even a whimper now, told her the rest of her traveling companions hadn’t been as lucky. Sam moaned again, dazed. I hope someone called 911.

“Told ya it’s a woman!”

The confident voice released her tears. Help’s here! In a few minutes, I’ll be bundled onto a stretcher and be on my way to the emerg–

“I’ll hold her while you go first this time, but pull her away from the glass.”

Hands clamped around her slender ankles like iron bands.

Samantha began to scream.

It perfectly matched the sounds of the dying country around her.

2

Kenn

The Southern US

“Damn!” Kenn ducked as gunshots rang out, pushing the muddy hardback as fast as it would go over the rocky terrain. Fort Defiance was under siege. Furious citizens were trying to get through the ten-foot electrified fence surrounding the seventeen-mile compound. It sounded like a giant bug zapper as poles, cars, furniture, and even people, were used to try to break the hot perimeter. The fence was holding, but it wasn’t keeping the bullets out.

The popping grew steadier, rhythmic. Someone out there is firing an assault rifle. Kenn pulled his Marine cover on tighter; his grip on the wheel tightened. I have to save Charlie!

Choppers swarmed over the base, trying to evacuate Marines and draftees; violent wind made landing difficult. In the past, the weather was the worst challenge the pilots had to handle here. Now, it was the least of their worries. Arriving  and leaving birds were being blown out of the smoky sky before they could reach safety; twisted metal debris showered the screaming mob lining the fences. Soldiers shouted orders, rioters screamed, guns fired and gust after violent gust of stomach-churning wind pushed against the truck, slowing it. The sky above the base roiled in thick clouds that dropped black flakes in heavy layers. It was mayhem.

Hang on, boy! I’m coming for you! Kenn flew by bodies, not looking at the few fathers and sons who had refused the draft. Some of the men on base for the annual competition had lived nearby, but the government hadn’t let them go to their families. Most had submitted to orders, but a few had tried to resist.

There were also suicides. The news was informing everyone of bomb hits in other places. Some people hadn’t been able to go on without their loved ones. Only Kenn’s rank had allowed him to keep moving freely, but that would change once the rest of the lower ranked men were loaded onto the choppers. When I get Charlie from the officer dorm, we’ll have to evade capture.

The barracks came into full view through the thicket of trees. Dozens of portable dorms had been set up for the visiting competitors. He and Charlie were off today, so he should have been there, studying. He has to be there! I can’t lose him!

Kenn looked up. The huge, close shadow of the chopper wasn’t what drew his attention, but the silence of its engines. He stared in shock as the big bird spiraled toward him.

Kenn mashed the pedal and ducked as the chopper spun past, but the hardback didn’t respond. He met the eyes of the horrified pilot for a brief second before the chopper hit the main dorm and exploded.

Charlie! No!

Orange flames and black smoke billowed upward.

The screams from people outside the fences grew louder, hungrier.

Kenn had frozen in grief and pain. If the boy had been in there, he was dead. I just lost my only hold over his mother. Now, she’ll run from me.

 

3

Angela

Mid US

“Did he say Fort Defiance...?” Angela dropped the stained scrubs she’d just changed out of; she gripped the chair. Oblivious to the gunshots and screams outside, and to the pains tearing through her rounded belly, she stared at the CNN report on the plasma TV. The reporter was informing everyone of an impact over twelve hundred miles from her Cincinnati home.

“…latest word is five million dead and another two million injured or exposed, and the cloud is moving west, northwest toward the Alabama state line at thirty-seven miles per hour. Camp David is gone, Houston, all the coastal oil refineries…”

“Charlie?” Angela slid to her knees on the plush carpet of the two-bedroom apartment; the agony in her chest was 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.

“In an ironic twist, the ancient New Madrid fault line under St. Louis also woke today, causing a 7.7 earthquake that has leveled untouched areas. Aftershocks are 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 that came from….”

“It can’t be!” The cell phone slid from Angela’s hand. Liquid suddenly oozed down her thighs and swollen legs as Christmas lights flashed mockingly in place of emergency blinkers.

“I would know!” She doubled over. “Show me my son!”

Angela tried to draw on a power she had locked away over a decade ago.

The door in her mind rattled... She was weak; the magic remained shut.

Her forehead thumped against the carpet as pain, raw and sharp, tore through her abdomen. Darkness flooded her mind.

 

“Please hold and the next available operator will assist you. 911 estimated wait time is two hours, fourteen 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…”

 

4

Marc

The Eastern US

“Standby for an important message...”

Sergeant Marc Brady didn’t reveal his frustration as the radio broadcast restarted for the thirty-fifth time; he wished the driver of the Greyhound bus would shut it off.

This is an alert from the emergency broadcast system… “My fellow Americans, this is your President, Carter Heins. I have grave news. Let me start by asking you to care for each other in this time of crisis. We’ll get through it together.”

Marc stiffened as the hair on the back of his neck rose. The sense of danger coming his way was unmistakable. He sent his military mind out to search for trouble. His grid came back empty, but he knew that first instinct wasn’t wrong.

“Two hours ago, a terrorist was able to gain access to our nuclear arsenal by introducing a virus that shut down security. The terrorist immediately initiated launches; the missiles did not respond to our abort codes. Ten minutes ago, these stolen weapons began reaching their targets.”

Marc tried to ignore his fury and fear of what was happening. He couldn’t do anything about the coming war except survive it. He’d never thought it would happen here in America.

“Despite our frantic messages, other countries have retaliated, believing we’ve declared war. We predict the United States will take five nuclear hits. Direct targets are Washington, Houston, Lansing, New York City, and Los Angeles. Leave these areas immediately.”

Marc scanned the traffic jam around the bus. They weren’t near one of those places, but they’d still been stuck for hours. Few people would get away from the ground zeroes in time.

“I have declared Martial Law nationwide. Curfew is an hour before sunset. Looters will be dealt with harshly. Our southern border has been closed. All air traffic has been grounded; prices are frozen across the country. And finally, under the authority given to me by this declaration of a nationwide emergency situation, I have activated our Selective Services program. All males, ages 14-50, must surrender to the convoys of trucks on their way from bases across the country. Those who resist the draft, flee, or follow the trucks with harmful intentions will be considered treasonous and handled accordingly. Everyone else, stay in your homes, do what the soldiers tell you, and pray for your fellow–”

Connection has been lost. We will now return to scheduled programming…

 

“All males will surrender to the draft! If you resist or run, you will be shot!” The faint bullhorn woke those who’d been dozing in the uncomfortable seats of the Greyhound.

A fresh ripple of tension went through Marc. He stayed sitting as other people stood, muttering.

A dozen jeeps and trucks of armed soldiers rolled up to a cargo van idling a few vehicles behind them. They were followed by an unending line of transport trucks already half-filled with terrified male citizens. The soldiers immediately started dragging people out of the van.

“Hey! He’s too young!”

“They just hit an old guy!”

“They shot a woman! Murder! Call 911!”

We’re trapped... “Everybody out!” Marc used his military voice to be heard over the din of growing panic. “Make room!”

The other people stuffed into the cold bus obeyed; they panicked, shoving and yelling.

Marc’s survival instinct kicked in. He stepped onto the vinyl seat and lowered the window. He dove out as a volley of gunshots and screams exploded from the surrounded van.

People poured from vehicles all around the bus, fleeing toward the shadowy buildings of Wytheville, Virginia.

The soldiers followed, firing M16s at citizens who refused to surrender. Few of them bothered with the bullhorns or their aim. Specifically selected for draft collection duty, these men didn’t react to begging, excuses, or bribes.

Marc rolled through the slush, getting under the bus. He stayed there as chaos got closer, arms and ankles locked around the greyhound’s icy frame. The war had cancelled his leave to attend his mother’s funeral and collect Dog, but he was still going. These enforcers would shoot him for desertion. Marc stayed locked around the bus frame as the citizens he was sworn to protect were gunned down.

The air shifted, thickened... Marc buried his head against his arm as the sky lit up and the sun fell on all of them.

 

5

“Help!”

“My God!”

“Ahhh!”

Marc stared at the people stumbling by the bus. Soldiers and civilians alike, faces bloody, stumbling blindly.

“Help!”

“No!”

The screams were horrible, and there were other noises under that, ones that made Marc want to vomit, but the gunfire was the clearest to his trained mind. He eased away from the walking corpses who were firing out of reflex, mowing down others like themselves.

Marc scanned for even one other survivor.

Danger!

He swiveled.

“Uuhh!” Marc threw himself away from the outstretched fingers of a Private tightly gripping a pistol in his other hand. He tripped over a bloody pile, landing hard on his ass.

“Do you know what happened?” The soldier’s sockets dripped blood. It ran over his cheeks in small torrents. His eyes were dead orbs that reflected nothing back.

Marc was almost overcome with his first ever case of panic. This isn’t a foreign land. It’s America!

“I can hear you breathing, you know,” the Army man stated almost casually. Scarlet drops rolled in slow motion, sliding down his cheeks to hit the dirt.

Marc blinked. “W-war… A bomb.”

“But where? North or south?”

Marc watched a muscle in the blind man’s jaw twitch while he waited for the answer. “South.”

“I thought so.” The soldier’s voice was emotionless now. He lifted the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Blood sprayed across Marc’s face.

He took off running, moving away from the houses and neighborhoods that were suffering the same fate. This can’t be happening here! I’m in America!

 

6

Adrian

The Western US

“Is it true? Former President Milton was your father?!”

Adrian opened his mouth to confirm the lethal secret. He snapped it shut as a neighborhood siren began to wail.

“This is Cynthia Quest, coming to you live from Southern Texas, where a nuclear explosion has devastated another American city...” The radio crackled under the reporter’s shocked voice, drawing attention from the Greenpeace members gathered in the finished basement. “This has been unlike anything our generation has ever experienced. All around the country, we’re watching in horror as each of these bombs hit and…it’s so ugly! Huge fireballs create gaping craters around the point of impact, blasting all those buildings, cars, and people into the sky. As it rises, it forms an enormous toxic mushroom cloud that immediately starts spreading with the wind.”

Rapid gunshots overwhelmed the reporter for a few seconds. Adrian wasn’t sure if it had come from the street outside this house or from the broadcast.

“...following these explosions are rushes of thermal heat and light that shoot out in every direction, peeling skin from bones and blinding every living thing facing that direction. The temperatures are in the hundreds of degrees. Those in the path have no chance of escaping as our way of life comes crashing down…”

The station faded into a national anthem as the local tornado siren reached a peak. The earsplitting noise overwhelmed the other horrible sounds going on outside the small San Bernardino home. Adrian’s heart bled for people he didn’t know. The powerful secret he’d held for so long seemed tiny in comparison. But it was the reason the world was ending.

The radio on the basement steps went quiet. The siren outside stopped, leaving a thick silence.

Adrian stepped under the protective planks next to his Christmas tree as the dozen angry men pushed closer.

“Your family caused this, you bastard!”

Adrian concentrated, letting out a thick sleep charm.

Half of the men dropped; the rest kept coming.

“You traitor!”

“You spied on us at every meeting!”

“I came here today to warn you!” Adrian was glad most of those who’d come for this secret meeting had left at the first report of a bomb hitting Washington, but even this dozen was too many to fight unarmed if things got ugly. Good thing I’m packing. How did they find out?

“Who are you?!”

“Tell us the truth!”

Adrian used the last of his energy to charm them again. Magic hit the group.

One more man fell, knocked out.

I’m rusty. Adrian retreated.

“Make him tell us!”

The furious men advanced. The plastic tree and presents went flying when Adrian tried to use them as a shield. He had no other gifts, and no one knew where he was.

“We’ll beat it out of you!”

“Did you know the war was coming?!”

“Did you help him do it?”

Again, Adrian started to answer, but he was cut off by a vicious rumbling. Dust from the stairs fell over everything as danger pounded toward them through the rock and stone.

Adrian had been in enough hot landing zones to recognize the threat. He threw himself to the tiled floor, putting a hand on the gat in his pocket.

Some of the men followed his lead. Others lunged his way, thinking he was trying to escape.

“Get him!”

Adrian ducked their swipes, squeezing his lean body under the base of the steps. “Incoming! Get down!”

The walls directly above them disappeared, blown away like brittle leaves in the fall...

The small, neat house crumbled, burying them alive.

2: Samantha

Nine days after war

09AW

 

 

 

 

1

“It might storm soon.” Samantha braced for a bad reaction to her warning.

“Tell me something I don’t know. It’s rained every day since you geniuses blew us up!” Melvin glowered from his seat.

Samantha ducked her head, hiding her hatred. Instead of arguing, she poked at their reluctant fire with her once expensive shoe, hating the cold, creepy darkness of the highway overpass around them. The clinking echo of the heavy chain on her ankle made her quit before Melvin could yell about it.

Samantha had never hated anyone as much as she did the two drunken brothers sprawled in lawn chairs behind her. They were warm in their long johns under paint stained overalls while she shivered in the same torn, reeking clothes she’d been wearing when the chopper went down.

Samantha wanted to be out of the icy Wyoming wind and in their rusty van where she could search for something to use as a weapon. The two males liked to wait until she was nearing frostbite before climbing in behind her to take what they wanted. It didn’t stop her from fighting, but it did slow her down.

The notion of sex while bodies rotted in cars around them made her stomach lurch. It was supposed to be Henry’s night. He was the younger of the Cruz Painting Company brothers, but Melvin was making shot after shot of Wild Turkey disappear. When he got like this, Samantha and Henry gave in to keep him from getting bent out of shape. Melvin was mean when he was sober. He was a violent drunk.

Instant dick. Samantha scanned vague shapes of farms at the other end of the overpass. Just add alcohol.

The brothers believed she’d been a politician. Her badge had been lost in the crash. She’d told them she was a secretary, but they’d known better. Sam wished she had another gift. Predicting the weather wasn’t going to save her.

The wind blew harder, bringing the sounds of dogs yapping in hunger, thin, distant screams, and loud bangs she couldn’t identify. Their tiny fire was the only speck of light in the darkness. Samantha tried not to think about the horrors she couldn’t see. The two behind her were enough.

“Where we gonna go, Mel? It’s all trashed.”

Melvin took a swig from the dirty bottle, then dug at the filthy crotch under his large stomach. “Nah, man. Not south. We’ll stock up, go to Mexico. Take over like the A-Team.”

“Don’t hafta go on no boat, do we?”

“Prob’ly.” Melvin’s bloodshot eyes lingered on the pale leg showing from under Samantha’s grimy skirt. His thumbprint glared from her calf.

“Ain’t goin’ on no boat.” Henry let out a hard belch.

Melvin gestured toward Sam, cruel smile showing yellow, broken teeth. He threw a rock.

Both men laughed when she cried out.

Samantha let their laughter wash over her. She listened to the angry earth around them instead, resisting the urge to rub her stinging hip. The two abusive pigs keeping her captive, passing her like a bottle, assumed she meant a rainstorm, but it smelled like snow. It might even be a Blue Norther. About the weather, she was never wrong. Her predictions had earned her a pass to safety and given her this hell instead, but she didn’t try to tell them again. The scruffy, thirty-something painters liked to hurt her as punishment. She was covered in bruises. Keeping her mouth shut was a hard lesson to learn.

Get away. Try again! The wind blew harder as if to reinforce the mental demand.

Samantha shivered. The wounds from her first attempt were healing, but the damage to her self-respect never would. She’d used up all her energy for it. Not that she had time for trivial things like health or self-respect. Only survival mattered now.

The trio tensed at a loud gunshot from the west.

When a second shot didn’t come, the drunks went back to their bottle and their complaints.

Samantha resumed her desperate plans. She needed to stack the battle.

Samantha inhaled, concentrating... Snow.

A storm would usher in the new year. Could it help? Maybe, if I manipulate things. Right now, the brothers were drinking heavily. Set to stay up late and wake even later, what would they do upon rising to half a foot of snow on the ground?

She frowned. The brothers would wait out the weather, though they were only an hour from pushing aside the last vehicles blocking the road into Bonneville. They’ll go back to the other end of the overpass, to the deserted farm we stayed in last night.

The thought of being snowed in with the horny idiots sent fire into her gut. Her mind worked the problem while her stomach burned. She had always been a plan ahead person, but who the hell could have prepared for this? She needed 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 the blizzard together, possibly providing an opportunity to escape.

You know how to set that up, don’t you? She shuddered, drawing in a deep breath. Yes, but I don’t want to. She couldn’t stand being the one who started it, let alone having to participate or pretend she was enjoying it. It’ll be easier to kill them. I need a weapon. Sam ached to think of possible help at the Essex Compound being so close–

Pop-Pop-Pop!

The sound of tires squealing followed the gunshots, echoing from the southern darkness.

“Shit! They’re back!”

“Henry, get that fire out!”

Samantha climbed into the van as fast as the clinking chain around her ankle would allow, as eager for the tepid warmth as for the hiding place.

She slid onto the bed in the rear of the van. She wasn’t allowed in the front.

They were plunged into darkness as the brothers piled in, slamming the door. Sam sneered when Melvin pulled her between them, but she didn’t resist.

The males cleared spots on the dirty windows.

Samantha kept her chin down. She would be shoved away if she tried to look, but she could imagine the group now nearing the overpass where they were hiding. There would be lights, and gunshots. Then dirty, muddy, rusted trucks full of killers. There would be cruel shouts and mean gestures; scared, abused women would cower in the floorboards. Their futures were grim, short. All of it would be accompanied by dangerous driving, shooting at anything that caught their attention, and a complete disregard for all the death around them.

Danger filled the air as the noises got louder. Slugs slammed into the overpass. Bullets hit the cars around them, then the van.

Sam bit her wrist to keep from screaming.

The gang drove by slowly, lights glaring off debris-covered glass and metal.

They were all glad when the gang avoided the jammed overpass from Interstate 26, traveling below it instead. They were going into Bonneville, where desperate survivors on the CB had been calling for help, for American assistance.

What they’re calling for and what’s coming, Sam thought, tolerating the hands now roaming her sore body from both sides, are as opposite as they can be.

As the last of the noises faded, the van began to rock. Gently at first, it became violent.

A scream echoed.

Light, freezing rain fell over the broken ground.

 

 

2

An hour later, the brothers were passed out in the back. Samantha was in the front passenger seat, as far away from the men as the rawhide leash around her neck would allow. Full of cold depression, she yearned for even a cup of charbucks as she shivered and hurt.

Samantha wiped away a tear. Two weeks ago, she’d been at a warm table with a steaming cup of coffee, and her car and driver idling. What a difference from this hell!

Samantha had been alone before the war, but content. Her needs were met by the butler and servants, and then by agency staff when she’d taken over her parents’ work. They had died together while trying to measure a tropical storm during hurricane season. A year into that wild ride, she had predicted a supercell in Nebraska during the Democratic National Convention, and so saved President Milton’s miserable life. Samantha was used to being cared for, but thankfully, she was also able to confront her terrors. It made her a formidable opponent; she didn’t fear death, just the pain. Being a government storm tracker like her parents had been as natural as breathing.

And useless! What good is a tracking power when I have no defenses? Sam now wished she’d asked more questions about the other descendants. If she ran into one out here, she didn’t know how to defend herself from them either. Her parents had stayed solitary, and loyal to the government, for protection from their kind. I want to be back with the government, where I was safe from all these dangers!

Samantha had been with the abusive brothers for nine days now. She’d turned twenty-eight in captivity. For Samantha, who knew where two government compounds were, it was beyond awful. She’d begged them to take her to either bunker. She had even promised to get them passes. A lie, of course. She’d hoped to get the evil brothers shot, but it hadn’t mattered. They weren’t going to release the slave who’d literally dropped from the sky into their laps.

Samantha shivered. That first night had been life changing. No one had helped her. Not the convoys of draftees and soldiers as they rolled by, and certainly not the terrified citizens fleeing ahead of them. It had taken hours to stop calling out for help, days before she had realized the police with all their training hadn’t stood, hadn’t even been able to save themselves. In most of the places she’d been dragged through, the uniformed dead outnumbered civilians. She’d seen old men shot, women beaten, kids left lying where they’d been run over. We’ve lost everything. It’s all gone, and I’m stuck in the middle of the aftermath with alcoholics who know I was one of the chosen few valued by the government.

The aching woman lit one of her reward cigarettes, studying the darkness through the dirty window. They would be on her in an instant if she attacked them while they slept, or if she tried to run. I have to be patient.

The rain splatters faded to light gray sleet, covering the dying world around them. Samantha ignored her pain, calculating. The next twenty-four hours would be hard, but if she was careful, if she picked just the right moment, she would be free.

Sam glanced over her bruised shoulder, eyes now glowing vivid red. And you two bastards might be dead.

 

 

3

Samantha didn’t know if it was the icy cold or the bands of pain wrapping around her stomach that woke her to day ten of captivity. She came alert all at once, mind returning to the plan she’d been working on as she fell asleep. She had decided she wouldn’t go to the Essex Compound. On the chopper, the soldier had told her it was being evacuated. That was also the direction radiation victims were coming from. Plus, the brothers knew to follow her there. She couldn’t take the chance they would hunt her down. If they did, she wouldn’t get another opportunity to run. This was her last try.

Samantha took a deep breath, preparing herself to follow through no matter how ugly it got.

Stomach shifting uncomfortably, Samantha stretched over and started the 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; it was good for three months.

“What...uh? What’re you doing?” Melvin elbowed Henry.

Samantha struggled to act normal as the wipers cleared a vision into a wintery hell. She was surprised the weather had muffled the sounds. We slept through it, she thought sickly, hoping the gang had traveled on during the night. Bonneville was in flames–all of it.

The sight firmed her decision. Today had to be the day. I’m not going in there. Anyone who ventures into that warzone isn’t coming back out.

“The city is on fire.” She didn’t tell them it was also snowing. She slid onto the floorboard, out of the way.

Her words got Melvin up. He shook Henry awake.

Samantha worried her freedom might come at the cost of innocent lives. Did I make it happen? Am I responsible?

Her grieving mind insisted she knew better. They had hidden from that gang before. They were attacking towns, trying to… What? Eliminate survivors? That fit. Samantha’s heart cried in protest at the loss of people she hadn’t known.

“Get dressed!” Melvin shoved Henry onto the floor, bringing groans. “We came up here for Gail. She needs me!”

Henry struggled to pull on his pants, not arguing.

Melvin glared at Samantha, but he didn’t say anything about her being in the front of the van. I’ll punish her later.

Melvin yanked on his boots and then his coat, peering through the dirty windows for a view of the burning city.

Henry finished dressing, then waited for orders. He was very hungover.

Melvin unlocked the door and opened it. “You walk the area while I scan with the binoculars.”

Henry’s somber face fell into resentment; he still didn’t protest. He couldn’t beat Melvin in a fight on a good day, and this wasn’t one of those. I feel like I might die.

Melvin and Henry stepped outside and slammed the door.

Samantha started searching the front for anything she could use as a weapon. This was the first time they had left her alone in the van. She was quiet.

“No way is your girl still there, man. It’s all on fire.”

Melvin scanned the city, then the clouds raining ashy flakes over everything. “Gail’ll be there. I told her to stay.”

“I don’t know, man.” Henry stared at the roof of the farmhouse behind them. It wasn’t his girlfriend; he didn’t want to go where there was obvious danger.

“I do. We’ll make it by dark. We gotta get started moving shit again.”

“It’s an overpass, Mel. No stores if the storm gets worse.”

Melvin waved a dirty hand. “These cars are the grocery now, and we’re not stuck anywhere. The van’ll go through any storm, even a Norther.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Henry scanned the rotting corpses in many of the cars.

Melvin’s laughter was mean. “The bitch’ll hunt for supplies while we’re shovin’ that semi over. We’ll chain her to the bumper like usual.”

Samantha’s gut clenched in nervous hope. Maybe she would find a real weapon while searching those cars.

“Turn off the engine! Get out here, slut! Time to earn your keep.”

Samantha tried to sound prissy. “In the snow?”

She could hear them snickering as she pulled the keys from the ignition and stuffed them 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 hesitated to do that now. I’m holding too much hatred to just scurry away and pretend none of the abuse happened.

“Yes, in the snow! Come on!” Melvin opened the door.

Samantha yanked on her ruined flats.

“Get out here.” He leaned in.

She tried to control her voice and pounding heart. “I’m in a skirt. I’ll freeze.”

“Find us some clothes in them cars. For you too, but only dresses or skirts. My women don’t wear the pants. I do.”

Samantha nodded obediently. She held her leg out for him to clamp the hated tow chain over her bruised ankle.

Sam sighed in relief when he lifted the rawhide leash from her neck. She forced 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 an element of surprise.

Samantha exited into half an inch of gray flakes, shoe landing on a slick piece of wrapping paper with a smiling Santa. She slipped, crying out as the van door caught her hip. The rusty metal tore through her rotting skirt as she hit the wet ground.

The two painters laughed; Henry doubled over.

Samantha’s anger grew colder.

“Get shoes too.” Melvin kept laughing. “Dumbass woman.”

Samantha picked herself up, rubbing her throbbing hip. She wanted to scream that she had been thrown onto a government chopper; she hadn’t been planning to travel in the snow or anywhere else. She turned away before she could. Fighting back now is not part of the plan.

Samantha’s feet turned icy as she stomped to the farthest car she could reach, thankful the brown, dented wagon was empty of human remains. She ducked into the front, tugging her chain.

Her anger flared hotter as her fingernail caught on the heavy metal and ripped off in a hot flash of pain. I’m almost at my limit. This may be the last sane hour of my life.

 

 

4

Samantha was still searching the wagon. At least ten minutes had gone by. She darted a quick glance at the two men struggling with the truck. They weren’t paying attention to her. She took the unobserved 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. She shoved it all into the fanny pack before switching to the rear. This vehicle was crammed with bags, suitcases, boxes; it was a wonder there had been room for a driver.

The suitcase at the bottom of the floorboard was newer, barely in reach…and full of women’s clothes, she realized, staring at the lacy bra she’d fished out. Her numb fingers resumed exploring the many pouches.

In the last pocket, when she could hear Melvin coming her way, Samantha found the Taser.

She sought, and found, the symbol for a charged battery. The cold edge of hatred sank into her heart. I now have the power of electricity... Samantha deemed it enough as Melvin jerked her around.

“What are you–”

Sam hit the button.

A vicious blast of electricity slammed into Melvin’s chest.

“Uuhhh!” He jerked, letting go of her.

She held the button in.

Melvin stumbled, teetering.

The instant she let go, he thumped to the wet, snowy ground, twitching. His eyes rolled back in his head, nicotine stained fingers landing on her foot.

She kicked his hand away. “Shoulda been nicer, Mel.” That felt good!

She tossed the weapon and its jumble of wire darts into the wagon’s rear seat while Melvin’s body continued to twitch like he was touching a live wire. Sam waved at Henry. “Hey! Something’s wrong with Mel!”

Henry came on the run. He dropped to his knees in the snow next to his brother, who was trying to talk, to warn him.

Sam snatched the pen out of her hiding place, keeping it behind her hip. She let the cap fall to the frozen ground.

Melvin’s lids shut, body stilling.

“What is it? What happened?” Henry stared up at Sam in helpless fear.

Sam shrugged, trying to block his view of the Taser with her body. “A seizure? Make sure he doesn’t swallow his tongue.”

Henry looked back down.

Sam swung from the hip, leaning all her weight into the blow.

The pen plunged into Henry’s neck with little resistance. It made an awful sound. She jumped backward as his body stiffened.

Blood squirted around the pen now protruding from his Adam’s apple.

“Ug!” Henry’s arms jerked; blood rained down his shirt in furious streams. He collapsed across Melvin’s chest.

Sam sucked in a ragged breath, glorious in her victory… I can’t just stand here and wait for Melvin to recover! He’s more dangerous than Henry.

As if to prove her thought, the surviving brother moaned.

Sam clenched her teeth against a surging stomach as she pushed Henry’s bloody body over. She used the dead man’s bootlaces to bind Melvin’s hands and feet, shivering in the snowy wind. In this setup, he wouldn’t be able to stand, let alone run after her. That was good because he wouldn’t take her body for this. It would be her life.

The coldness inside now had little to do with the wind or snow. I’m a killer. I can never go back.

Satisfied with Melvin’s bonds, Sam used icy slush to scrub her hands as she considered where to go. She already knew she would avoid the burning city, and the Badlands to the northwest. She wasn’t going anywhere she’d already been or anywhere Melvin might think of. She had no chance of traveling the Rocky Mountains littering her hazy view to the southeast, at least not on foot, but taking the van was also out of the question. She couldn’t squeeze it through the abandoned traffic by herself and Melvin could probably track it.

To the west, more smoke was rising, backdropped by distant purple mountains. She shivered. Yellowstone. Terrible things are happening there. That only left due east or south. Samantha pushed off the wave of fear waiting to overwhelm her. NORAD is south. I can make it that far.

“Ugh…” Melvin began to regain consciousness.

Sam stayed out of his range as she went back to the snowy wagon. Dirty flakes fell in heavy sheets; the wind gusted as she retrieved the suitcase of clothes and set it on the hood.

Behind her, the trussed man came alert, twisting and groaning. “What the...? Henry! What’d ya do to Henry?”

Samantha ignored him, hated ankle chain rattling while she dug through the suitcase.

“You killed him!” Melvin glared, struggling against his bonds. “I got the keys, bitch! Come get ‘em!”

Sam paused, choosing his fate. Did he need to die? That was the only kind of death she was okay delivering.

“Come on!”

“It won’t take long to get the Taser ready again. I’ll come on after your heart attack.” She sat on the icy seat. Her teeth chattered in loud clicks as she began to feed the wires back into the small box. Samantha wasn’t sure if the weapon could be reused this way. She thought it needed a new cartridge or something, but the asshole at her feet wouldn’t know that. Sam smiled at him. Then again, she didn’t know for sure it wouldn’t work. If not, if he pushes me, I have another pen.

Melvin scooted backward as she paused to give him a furious smile of anticipation. “Wait! Okay! We’ll trade. Let me go, we’ll split up!”

Sam worked faster as the captive man pushed himself backward through the slush.

“Okay! Okay! The keys are in my front pocket. You can have ‘em. I won’t hurt you!”

Sam shrugged. “I can’t say the same.”

Melvin finally began to beg, sounding sincere. “I’m sorry, lady.”

His voice got louder when she stood.

“Please don’t. Please, lady!”

Fury burned in Samantha’s heart. “You don’t even know my name!”

“No, come on! You’ll kill me. No! I’m sorry for what we did!”

Melvin cringed as Sam dropped to a knee.

She shoved the box against his crotch. “It might not kill you, but you’ll wish it had. Be a good dog now, Mel. Don’t even breathe.”

He kept pleading as she sent a rough hand into his pocket and came up with her freedom.

Sam jumped out of range of his kicking feet, then unlocked the hated chain. It fell to the dirty snow.

“I should lock you to the bumper and leave you here!” She landed a vicious kick to his knee before stepping over him. She stripped, revealing dozens of bruises, and blood crusted to her thighs. She used the grimy skirt to clean up, then threw it in his direction.

Sam pulled on a pair of warm sweats. “Who wears the pants now, you piece of shit?” She kept track of his backward progress as she got what she needed from the weathered wagon.

“What’re you gonna do?”

Sam snapped the fanny pack around her waist. “Henry always carried that knife, the one he used to cut off half my hair! Use it and stay away! Don’t make me kill you.”

Melvin spat at her. “Just ‘cause you have a gift that don’t mean you’re worth shit out here in this world! I hope it haunts you that we went right by the compound!”

Samantha left without responding to any of his taunts, threats, lies, or frantic pleas. She would watch out for him. Melvin deserved to die. That was the only way she would feel safe, but she couldn’t, not unless it was needed. One premeditated murder was enough. It was…heavy, as if the chain that had been around her ankle was now clamped to her soul.

Samantha traveled fast, glad when the snow became thicker and the wind blew harder. It muted Melvin’s screams and covered her tracks. It also might kill her if she waited too long to take shelter, but Sam didn’t stop yet. She went by house after warm, empty house to keep her enemy from finding her. Sam wished she could drive one of the vehicles she was climbing around, but they had spent the first few days after the war hunting for something quieter and easier on gas than Melvin’s van. She’d been forced to tell them about EMPs; they’d been lucky the van had even started. Almost anything that ran on electrical components in a damage zone was now junk.

Samantha blinked away tears as the wind stung her, lungs aching from the cold. She ran a damp sweater sleeve across her dripping nose and 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, but she still didn’t stop. The more space between her and Melvin, the better.

“By and by, Sammi.” She lowered her chin against the wind. “One foot in front of the other.”

 

 

5

The snow was blinding. Travel through it was no longer possible on foot. Samantha chose a house behind a thick row of trees; her hands, feet, and face were burning.

She filled a bag of treasures from the home–blankets, a man’s heavy trench coat, a pair of gym shoes, peanut butter, and a loaf of bread with only a little mold on it. She was tempted to enjoy more of the old comforts, but she made her feet take her to the small tool shed behind the house instead of staying there.

The shed held a small, green riding mower and three bales of inviting hay. The gusting wind tried to pull the door from her numb fingers as she shut it. Sam frowned at the little latch. It wouldn’t keep anyone out, and enough time had gone by for Melvin to have gotten free. He would have his rage to drive him through the storm. If he finds me, one of us won’t walk away.

Samantha hung her wet shirt over the window to dry, and to block her shadow. She wasn’t afraid of the darkness or the unfamiliar room. Her terror walked on two legs.

Sam made a bed in the warm, scratchy hay. After two peanut butter sandwiches and the icy Diet Coke, she dozed, covered in blankets and stiff garden bedding. She held a sticky kitchen knife tight in her grip and rested easier than she had in ten days.

 

 

6

Melvin didn’t find the knife. He hadn’t checked his dead brother’s boots. The windblown snow covered him, dropping his body temperature. Just before dawn, the painter dreamed of falling into the icy pond behind their childhood home in southern Michigan. The frigid water was suffocating, but Henry wasn’t there to pull him out this time. As his heart stopped beating in the dream, Melvin went into cardiac arrest under six inches of drifting snow. He didn’t wake up as he died.

Five miles away, Samantha’s eyes snapped open. They glowed vivid red in the darkness of her den.

Sam waited to feel worse or better, but nothing changed in her heart.

I feel dead inside. I’m free, but I didn’t win. Their ghosts will haunt my dreams forever.

3: Kenn and The Boy Chapter 3

1

“Who’s in here?” LCpl Kenn Harrison stepped into the barracks, scanning footlockers and scattered contents. Someone was hunting for food.

The base was empty now, looted. Only a lucky few had escaped the draft or been overlooked. Kenn was hoping his boy had been one of those. Half the buildings behind the chopper crash had survived. Kenn was searching them as the flames cooled. This dorm was one of the few without damage.

“Come out. That’s an order!” Kenn winced as his sharp tones bounced back from the thin walls. His hand dropped to the 9mm on his hip. Instinct said he wasn’t alone.

“Charlie?” Kenn called the name as if they were at home, ignoring the gunshots outside. He was rewarded by a small shuffling noise that made him tighten control over his emotions.

Kenn advanced to the end of the aisle, preparing to react as he read the heavy waves coming off the person. Desperation.

“Come out.” Kenn forced himself to be patient. He would not have been in the past, couldn’t, but the war had already begun to change him.

Two filthy hands emerged from under the bunk on his right.

Kenn grinned. The boy’s here! He is alive! He’s…hurt? Is that blood trickling from his ears...? Oh God! Where are his eyes?

“Sir?”

Kenn automatically lunged forward to catch the teenager as he stood and stumbled.

“Want…my…mommy, sir!” The dying boy coughed, splattering them both in red droplets as he struggled to breathe. “…mommy!”

 

Kenn snapped awake.

He swept the boy lying nearby, staring back at him in alarm. Their eyesight had easily adjusted to the dark conditions. It was their minds that refused to bend.

Kenn calmed his breathing. The smart kid had rotated to emptied buildings to avoid being taken. It had taken two full days to search the base. Kenn was still experiencing the horror. The nightmare was a nasty reminder of the fear he’d felt when the chopper had crashed into the officer’s dorm in front of him.

The darkness around their tent was absolute. They were well hidden, but an unwelcome sense of danger still flared.

When Charlie started to speak, Kenn shook his head, senses switching to full alert. Light rain drummed on the tarps over the truck; wind howled through the junipers around them… Was that a twig snapping?

Kenn drew his M9, squinting through the spyhole he’d left when they made camp in this grove of scrawny trees. We’re too well hidden. No one’s out there sneaking closer. He slid his wrist under the blanket to block the light while he checked the alarm console on his watch. The traps were unbroken. An animal? Kenn kept his gun handy in case it was the two-legged kind.

Light, freezing rain thumped on the bare branches, the tent, the shed they were behind, the covered vehicle. Sleep called, seducing…

Lightning flashed, illuminating the tent. Then darkness came again, with the heavy patter of rain. Kenn drifted off while waiting for the inevitable crack of thunder.

Crunch.

Baamm!

Kenn snapped awake. Someone is out there!

Snap. “Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.”

An alarm sounded for each breach, telling Kenn how many ambushers they had.

“Beep. Beep. Beep.”

The two males reacted, following the plan they’d worked out before leaving the base ten days ago. Kenn slit a gash in the tent wall, then another in the thick, black tarp over the MRAP.

The boy shoved their things into the vehicle, staying low in case gunfire broke out.

Footsteps came.

The Marine inside took over, evaluating the threat and picking the proper action in seconds. Not rushing but sneaking. If the intruders are unaware of breaking a perimeter alarm, then they aren’t professionals.

Snap!

Coming in fast instead of careful, a soft murmur of voices instead of the silence of hand signals… Kenn’s lip curled. Base boots.

Kenn waved the boy onto the floorboard and got in behind him, adrenaline flowing in thick waves.

Charlie started the engine without being told.

Kenn brought his M16 up as lightning flashed in the distance. Voices echoed.

“They still have the truck!”

“Get the boy! We need him!”

Recognition came as Kenn knelt in the seat. It was the tail from Fort Defiance he’d hoped they lost a week ago. “You’ll have to take lead instead!” Kenn rose, throwing off the tarp. He fired twice, following their noises with his well-trained ears.

Charlie held the brake in with his palm, then shifted them into drive, sticking to the plan.

Men grunted in the wet, cold darkness.

Kenn hunkered. “Go!”

Charlie hit the gas.

The tires spun. The truck fishtailed on a patch of ice as it lunged forward, spraying mud and clumps of locoweed.

“Get our bikes! We need his blood!”

“Shoot the Marine!”

Desperation made the kidnappers reckless. They charged the truck with jerky movements.

“Now, boy!”

Charlie slammed both hands onto the brake at Kenn’s call, hoping the Marine could handle it. He was preparing to use his gifts, but he was terrified of it.

Kenn used the enemy’s noises to pinpoint their locations as the truck slid to a stop. He fired five shots into the darkness.

Silence fell.

Soft sounds came to him–the quiet engine, the damp wind howling by, adobe buildings groaning in the distance. It was over. “Boo-yah, baby!”

“Are they dead?”

Charlie’s voice wasn’t calm, but Kenn was impressed by the control the teenager had shown during the assault. Kenn put the truck in park as the teenager shifted into the wet passenger seat. “Give us some light; we’ll find out.”

Kenn already knew they were. Each of those bullets was a kill shot, but he was eager for even the boy’s approval since no one else was around. He was alone with the sullen teenager, protecting them both without the attention or respect he craved. He would take what he could get.

Charlie lit one of the umbrella torches they’d made before leaving the base. The glass tops gave each of the three small candles on the thin wooden board a shelter from the elements. He held it high, taking it all in.

Kenn scanned their surroundings instead of the bodies. Shrubs, junipers, patches of mud, tire-busters that he would be careful to avoid, and darkness–more of that than anything else.

Charlie gawked in shocked respect as he surveyed the battlefield. Seven bodies lay in two half circles, each one with a clean shot into dirty camouflage uniforms. It was amazing. Not one miss.

After a moment, Kenn sat on the wet, hard seat, motioning for the boy to put out the light.

“We takin’ their stuff?”

“No. They were obviously sick. We’ll hit the redline for a click or two, then doze a bit.” He lifted his hood, indicating the child should do the same.

Both males heard a distant dog barking miserably but ignored it as yet another starving pet chained in someone’s yard.

“They wanted me.” Charlie didn’t like how that felt. “That’s why they’ve been following?”

Kenn saw no reason to lie. “Yes. Probably believed your blood would heal them. Crazy shit happens now. Kids are big targets.” He gestured. “Stay close. It’ll only get worse.”

 

2

The drab truck ran out of gas an hour later. Kenn was sorry to leave it, though he knew they’d been lucky to discover it at all. He didn’t know why the EMP hadn’t knocked it out too, but he assumed it had something to do with where it had been parked.

Kenn steered the coasting vehicle into a thicket of piñons, glad the sky was lightening. The rain fell steadily; the woods were dark, twisted shapes along a faint path of concrete as they unloaded their gear.

“All right, just like we talked about–never more than three feet away in any direction. Got it?”

Charlie nodded distractedly, still stewing on the battle that Kenn’s military mind had no doubt already forgotten. The boy was having doubts about killing, but he kept them to himself. Kenn won’t understand. It’ll just trigger a lecture.

The sky gave light to each awful detail of the landscape as they entered the city limits of Williamsburg, New Mexico. There had never been a time for either of them when a dead body had been left to decay on a street. Now, there were hundreds amid gruesome Christmas decorations. If not for the constant wind, the smells would have been unbearable even during winter.

Kenn wasn’t encouraged by their location. Nearly every business and home they passed had been destroyed or damaged. Almost nothing was safe to use for shelter. That was another lesson they’d learned after Charlie had come close to being stung by a scorpion when he’d picked up his canteen for a metallic-tasting drink of water. They now examined their shelters for marks in the dust. Most of these places would belong to the animals forever. There weren’t enough people left to drive them back into the ground.

The two males had been making a cold camp, relying on their training. They wore gloves and hats, with extra shirts over their uniforms. They were also going easy on their water. On the fourth day of being AWOL, they’d found a looted store with a few supplies left. Kenn had been relieved, but the feeling hadn’t lasted long. They only had a week of food and water, maybe two if they rationed. The Marine thought they might have to. The lack of rebuilding was a sign of more terrible things to come. Until tonight, they hadn’t seen a single person in three days. Rare flashes of light in the darkness never lasted long enough to track. Hard times were here.

The two males pulled their hoods tighter as drizzle sprinkled them. Kenn was glad it wasn’t acid rain. That was something he’d 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 also flammable. A puddle would sometimes spark a weak flame from a thrown cigarette. The weather wasn’t the worst part of traveling now, but it had definitely slowed them. They’d only come seventy miles since ramming the dead fence to get out of the abandoned military installation. They had made a lot of stops to let severe weather roll by. The fury of nature came suddenly now, in steady downpours of hot drops that made them itch, or little black flakes resembling snow. Then, there would be brilliant, flashing lightning with loud, drumming thunder that promised damage and then silence again–all in the same hour. The only true constant was the wind. It blew grit into everything.

Kenn finally sought shelter as a thin sun rose in the east, exhaustion insisting. He scanned their environment, wincing at a loud crunch of gravel from Charlie’s tired feet.

“There’s our camp for tonight.” Kenn led the way to the home he’d chosen. They were almost out of the city limits now, back to pueblos and mountains shadowing deep canyons and sharp cliffs. They would need things before venturing into that wilderness. First on the list was transportation.

Kenn sat on the bottom stair of the neat front porch as Charlie began dropping gear. He scanned the chaotic lanes of traffic on the hill across from them. One of those batteries would have juice. It wouldn’t be fun to clear the other vehicles out of the way, but they could be back on the road by tomorrow afternoon. They might even reach NORAD by the end of next week.

“The door’s unlocked.” Charlie knew not to go in. He also knew the house was empty, but telling Kenn that would blow his cover of being a normal fourteen-year-old boy.

Kenn yawned as he stood, rubbing at his stubbly, black goatee. He drew his weapon as he strode across the porch. He pushed the front door open... New paint, walls and floors without marks or imprints, no appliances. Most importantly, no footprints in the layer of dust coating everything.

Kenn held the gun out to the surprised cadet who usually only touched one in a class or competition. “Secure the perimeter.”

The lean teen took it with respect, snapping off a quick salute with his other hand before disappearing inside.

Kenn broke into a reluctant smile at the careful copy of his own actions when they made camp each night. He listened to doors open and shut. A minute later, he was back, returning the gun.

“All clear, sir.” Charlie went 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 trained, but it was also to keep Kenn from seeing how much he had wanted to pull the trigger instead of returning the weapon. He hated the Marine almost as much as his mom did. One day, when I’m stronger, he’ll pay for every hit he ever gave us.

 

3

“Radio time?”

Kenn shook his head as the boy cleaned up their lunch mess. He’d made them eat out here on the porch so he could study the area and finish his mental lists. “Let’s hunt. We’ll listen later.”

Charlie shrugged. “Okay.”

The tired travelers climbed the muddy hill to the interstate a brief time later; Charlie avoided staring into the cars. Most were empty of owners, but some were not.

Kenn could tell which ones held a body by the type of automobile. The newer, classier vehicles tended to be occupied. Running out of gas hadn’t been enough to make those materialistic souls abandon their expensive possessions. How long had they waited for help to come? A day? A week? In many cases, forever.

“What are we hunting?”

Kenn stomped thick, reddish earth from his boots as he studied the endless lanes of wrecked, sideways, mud-spattered vehicles. “We need new wheels, but beans, bags, and blankets are on the list.”

The boy proceeded to a nearby car as Kenn checked a dented Dodge for power. He registered suitcases shoved haphazardly into backseats, storing the information. Kenn found clothes and personal items, along with a six-pack of bottled water, but the rest of the search went bad. It hadn’t even been a month since the war. He hadn’t expected batteries to be dead out here too.

Kenn frowned. Gas in the tanks, useless keys in ignitions... Doors were hanging open; rusting bullet casings littered the ground and floorboards. Kenn revised his theory. These people had left in a hurry. We should be ready to do the same.

“What about a dirt bike?”

Kenn moved his way. “Yes.”

“It was new. Still has a sticker.”

The Honda’s key was in the ignition, as if someone had tried to take it but didn’t have enough time. Kenn flipped the key backward.

The lights came on; the gas gauge swung to full.

Kenn pulled the keys out, sliding them into his pocket. He closed the rear hatch of the wagon hiding the treasure. “We won’t be on foot come...” He stopped, listening hard. Did I hear something? Yes. “Engines.” Still a mile away, maybe more. The Marine knew it was unwelcome news. He had the same ball-itch that always preceded a shootout.

“Get back to the house!” Kenn grabbed Charlie’s arm, keeping a tight grip as they ran down the slick, muddy embankment. He wasn’t being careful, just moving.

They hurried across the yard. Charlie started to step onto the porch.

Kenn yanked him back. “We’re muddy. We’ll leave prints.” He sat on the bottom stair, fingers flying over his bootlaces.

Charlie jerked his own boots off as the sound of engines grew louder, closer. “What’s going on?”

“Stay below the windows; get your boots back on!” Kenn shoved him in and shut the door.

“But, what’s–”

“Now!”

It was an order. Charlie did as he was told, lips thinning.

Kenn pointed. “Put our gear in that closet. Leave room for yourself behind it.” Kenn hoped none of those vehicles were coming here, to this town, to this house.

A muddy jeep carrying three armed men rolled into view, leading two rusty pickup trucks–both flying a foreign flag. A line of cars with women and children came behind them. Then a U-Haul truck, a worn Mustang, two filthy white passenger vans, a nice, gold flecked convertible, and then dozens of bikes filled the road.

Kenn studied the group as they rolled closer, adrenaline once again flying. His trained gaze picked out details most civilians would miss. Foreigners, jeeps of armed men, wagons of women…and what was it about those white vans that bothered him? Had there been a flash of blond and silver? Slavers.

That’s why his stomach was a ball of liquid heat. They had been in the path of these invaders. If the vehicle hadn’t run out of fuel, they would probably be in sight right now. On this desolate stretch, against so many, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. Death missed us by a quarter tank of gas.

The large group drove erratically, bumping into one another, but they avoided the swampy area to the left of the interstate. Kenn saw it as a sign that they were familiar with the area. He could only hope none of them noticed the new vehicle in the woods or the deep footprints in the hillside. Suddenly positive this gang was responsible for all the destruction in the area, Kenn kept his hand on his gun. I’ll save the last two slugs for–

“Why don’t we tell them we’re here? Maybe they’ll offer us a ride.”

The drunken, careless men fired at trees, signs, cars, windows, and anything else that caught their attention, including the homes. Bullets slammed into the house where Kenn and Charlie were hiding.

“Get down! That’s the enemy!”

Not as experienced as the Marine, now that it had been pointed out, Charlie saw them for what they were–evil. His affection for Kenn grew despite the anger. He needed the short-tempered Marine to keep him alive. He didn’t have to like him.

Kenn stayed alert even after the gang was out of sight and the sound of their chaos had faded. He was still stressing when Charlie began dozing against the bullet-speckled wall.

Kenn knew they couldn’t challenge or defend against a group that large. He had to hope they would be able to sneak through the next couple of days without drawing attention, though they would be on a loud dirt bike. Stressed was an understatement. However, he was also furious. A part of him protested letting the foreigners continue their rampage. They were an affront to everything America had stood for. If he had half a dozen grunts from his base, he might try to kill them all.

Better yet, just give me Marc Brady. Kenn lit a cigarette. Marc had been his team leader for the last few years and a pain in his ass, but when it came to high casualty ambushes, no one was better.

Kenn blew out smoke rings, deciding they would go northwest when they left here, then circle around to NORAD. It would add a lot of miles but get them away quickly. He didn’t want to believe the slavers had been following their backtrail, but if so, they would have to come back to where they’d lost it–here. Kenn’s smile was icy. I can leave a surprise. He wouldn’t know if he killed any of them, but it was still worth doing.

For the next few hours, Kenn labored on the explosives he’d taken from the base, listening for the dangerous group to return. If that happened, they would all go up together in one big blaze of glory. If not, the government was waiting in Colorado. That was the logical destination, but Kenn wasn’t ready to be back under the rule of the government that had probably destroyed the world and then left him behind to die in it after all the years he’d killed for them. He still loved the Corps; he would always believe in what it stood for. He just no longer trusted those in charge of it.

There had been a brief hope back in the beginning, after all their outgoing CB calls, that someone might come for them, but he’d waited over a week and only heard survivors begging for help. When the power had gone off, 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?

We’ll find a group to travel with, he decided, not looking forward to the boy’s reaction. The teenager expected them to go straight to Ohio, to his mother. Kenn sighed, blocking his thoughts even though Charlie was snoring softly. He had never spotted anything…different in 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 wasn’t as strong as his mother.

Not that Charlie had any idea what was coming. Talk of magic was forbidden in their house, even the book or movie kind. Kenn had been careful from the beginning in case the power ran in every generation. I still have a chance to control it.

His role of stepfather was driven by that goal. It was part of why he had insisted Charlie become a cadet–to keep an eye on him. They weren’t exactly comfortable with each other, but they were able to work as a team, and they both liked to win the father/son events hosted at different bases each year. They’d been in Arizona this time, at Fort Defiance for the contests. They’d cleaned up, winning over half the competitions. Though they had different last names, Kenn never let anyone assume he wasn’t the child’s biological parent. They were both tall, with the same high-n-tight hair and bright blue eyes, though the regulation cuts were a bit 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 glancing away. When they averted their gaze, they were lying.

Kenn kept pondering their similarities as he worked, and the day slowly wore on. He didn’t wake the boy. He wasn’t ready to tell Charlie his mom was likely dead, but they weren’t going back to find out.

Leaning against the uncomfortable wall, Charlie had fallen asleep while cleaning the gunk from his nails. He was dreaming of his mother. She insisted she would find him no matter where Kenn went. His young heart had to believe that. It was getting harder to hide his gifts. When he slipped up at home, his mom took the fall. On the base, other cadets had suffered the blame. Out here, it was just him and Kenn, and the Marine was sharper than he’d been before.

Please, God, send me a distraction until my mom can get here or Kenn will control my gifts. I can’t keep it from him much longer.

4: Angela Chapter Four

Ohio

January 18th

 

1

“I can’t keep them from you much longer.”

The preacher held the first dirty glass door open. He stayed close as they moved down the bare, littered hall; his dusty black robe flared out behind them like an evil shroud.

Angela scanned the faded Special Forces tattoo on his wrist. I can do this, even if he and the rest of the teachers here were military. I just have to show them I can’t be taken. “I don’t need your protection, Warren.”

“You’re wrong, child.” Warren leaned closer, hot breath puffing against her neck. “If you are not under my guardianship, like the others here, the staff will insist you stay!”

Tension thickened as they neared the main lounge. Angela knew his threats weren’t idle. These men had fought off draft soldiers. Those bodies were still rotting around the main entrance. By the time the draft had made it this far into the city, their trucks had been full, and their own numbers were low. When the college men won the first battle and eliminated three dozen soldiers, the rest of the trucks had rolled on. Warren had delighted in telling her the story. He was very proud of organizing the defense that earned him leadership of this group. If the others didn’t try to keep her here today, Warren would the next time she came. His lust for power was growing. She didn’t know how he’d discovered her secret, but she was sure that he at least suspected.

Angry male voices echoed from the room they were headed to.

“Today will force your hand.” Warren glanced over to be sure she understood.

“Thank you for the warning.” Angela stepped into the lounge where seven unwashed men waited for her. The thick beards didn’t hide their displeasure.

“Hello, gentlemen. How goes your day?” Her tone was unafraid compared to her thumping heart. Angela wasn’t encouraged when they only grunted or kept gawking at her like something on a store shelf just out of their reach.

“Over here.” Warren led her to a filthy couch in the center of the room; a young girl was shivering under layers of blankets.

Angela’s dislike of the greasy hypocrite eased a little. Warren was a weak man, but he feared losing his daughter. It was beating in his thoughts.

Angela was gentle as she shined the penlight around her neck into the unconscious child’s mouth and eyes. “How long has she been like this?”

“Five days, a week. It all runs together now.”

“I hear ya.” Angela pulled 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 waited for her to answer. These men were all that remained of the technical college teaching staff, though Aaron, the bald man in the corner wearing his usual scowl, had only been a groundskeeper.

Angela traced red lines back to the site of the infection. “No, it’s not from radiation.”

“Praise the Lord!”

There were murmurs of relief and disbelief that changed to frowns when Angela began unbuttoning the girl’s shirt.

“What are you doing?” Warren stepped closer, worn Bible now in his beefy hands.

Angela ignored his question, thinking the slicked brown hair had probably been an attempt to show her that he could clean up. She wasn’t impressed.

Angela rolled the sick girl over and found the ugly, swollen gash on her shoulder. “This is causing the fever. The red lines coming over her shoulder is a sign of infection. If those lines get to her heart, she’ll die.”

“You can stop it?”

Hot gazes lingered on Angela’s slender hips and the long black braid that brushed against the floor as she knelt down.

Angela felt the testosterone in the room increase. She concentrated on the right words instead of her fear. “I have to clean it first to be certain, but I believe so.”

Warren let out a deep breath. He was glad he hadn’t waited any longer to seek out the doctor. His daughter was the only family he had left. I may kill myself if she dies.

“We’ll try not to let that happen.” Damn. Angela forced herself to keep working as if nothing had happened. He’d just gotten confirmation.

Warren had frozen.

The sound of glass breaking in one of the rooms above them drew attention. It gave Angela a second to recover. “I need some things. Two bowls of hot water, some rags, a sheet torn into long strips.” Angela’s breath streamed out as she spoke, visible in the cold air.

Warren’s gaze lowered, dropping to her lips. His grip on the book tightened as he waved at Aaron. “Get what she needs from my share of the supplies.”

The former groundskeeper moved reluctantly.

Warren stared at the woman, willing himself to ignore her pull, to feel only loathing for her strangeness. He could have, in the old world. I was so strong then! He’d been high in the parish before the war, a religious widower for a decade. It was a long time to go without even the soft caress of a woman’s hand, let alone more 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 damaged, this woman had been sent to tempt him…and her lure was stronger than anything he’d ever known. She’s possessed.

These men might have already forced anyone else to stay here. Medical skills were as valuable as water, but Angela was different. She knew things there was no way she could unless a demon had possessed her. All the men, especially Warren, dreamed of claiming her and controlling that unknown power.

Angela kept busy laying out what she needed while avoiding making eye contact with any of the pitifully thin men ogling her every move. She never saw young males here. She suspected that was on purpose, like in the Mormon colonies where the average marrying age for a girl was thirteen. The boys were sent away to cut down on competition, but the females weren’t ever allowed to leave. It reminded Angela of the way she’d grown up, though the religion part had been slightly different.

Angela listened to Warren’s thoughts. The big decisions in this group belonged to him. His warning came from hoping she would accept his offer of protection. If she did, he wouldn’t have to fight the others for her. Angela almost understood. The men of the world now felt like they were in extreme competition for a mate. If she encouraged even one of these starving contestants, they would all begin fighting over her. Humankind, around here at least, had fallen backward in evolution. If they push me, I’ll only use their own nature against them. No one has to die here.

“I’m giving her three shots.” Angela kept her tone even. “One is for the pain. Don’t mix other dope with it, even if she cries. She’s too weak for stronger stuff. This second shot will fight the infection. The last one will bring down the fever. She should probably have a tetanus shot too, but we’ll cover that in a week or so.”

The little girl didn’t react when Angela injected her.

Warren flinched each time.

“Now, I’ll dig that piece of metal out of her shoulder. If she wakes up, you have to hold her still.”

Warren joined her on his knees, leaning close.

Angela controlled her fear. Showing weakness right now would be a huge mistake.

“Have you heard anything from your Marine?”

Angela tensed for a split second, considering her options.

Warren was impressed with the icy control that fell over her face, even as he frowned. Did she know her man and son would be in danger the minute they returned? He already had people watching for a man traveling alone with a teenager.

Angela shook her head. “He’s on the way.”

There was silence in response.

Her worry grew. They don’t believe that any more than I do.

It took Angela a couple minutes to pull the rough piece of car metal from the child’s infected shoulder, then clean out the wound. She started putting in neat stitches. “I’ll leave medicine, but watch those infection lines. If they fade, she’s getting better. If they keep spreading, get her to me right away.”

Warren groaned as Angela stuck the needle into his daughter’s skin.

In the heavy quiet, Angela heard the thoughts of the other men.

That’s it. That’s his weakness.

Aaron was right. We’ll use his girl.

Angela wanted to warn the preacher that he was in danger–not for his sake but for his daughter’s. It was a struggle to remain silent as she peeled off the gloves and bagged her supplies. When she stood, turning, Angela didn’t look at any of them directly. She was trying not to trigger the brawl. “Keep her lying down when you can, and feed her more. You know where I’ll be if she gets worse.”

Tension thickened as Angela turned toward the door. She stopped. The two men plotting against the preacher were blocking her way.

Aaron joined them. “Hand over that gun. You’re not leaving.”

Angela swallowed bitter fear. “Let me through. I already have an owner.”

Aaron’s bitter face twisted at the reminder of her Marine. “Not anymore! You’re mine!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her to his chest.

Years spent in hell allowed Angela to handle herself. These men were threats. Her Marine was deadly…and he’s not here to stop me.

A hum of raw power began to thrum through the cold lobby of the college.

Aaron’s face changed as he glanced down and found steam rising from where their skin was touching. He shoved her away.

“She burned me!” He spun toward the other men, who saw nothing but flinched back anyway.

Angela headed for the glass doors, heart racing. She kept herself from running only because of the voice in her mind whispering that if she showed fear to a dog, it would bite.

“Stop the witch!” Aaron screamed and waved at the other men.

When the two traitors came toward her, Angela froze. If her next trick didn’t work, she would use the real power inside instead of smoke and mirrors. She looked at Warren, eyes glowing. “Defend what you believe to be yours, man of a silent God!”

The widower couldn’t refuse. He stepped between Angela and the two men reaching out to take her arms. “She’s mine!”

The other 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. He planned his actions, steeling himself to fight for her.

“She burned me!” Aaron stumbled from the room, slinging his arm around to dislodge the things that only he could see. “Get it off!”

The two teachers reached for Angela again.

Warren swung, knocking the rival on the right off his feet. He kneed the moaning man in the face and swung again, ducking a clumsy punch. The second hit landed on the other teacher’s temple, knocking him to the dirty floor.

“Mine!” Breathing rapidly, the preacher turned to Angela.

She cut him off. “Your reward is information. Those two,” She waved a hand at the unconscious men. “and Aaron, are plotting against you. Be careful. Between them and the cold in here, you’ll all be dead inside a month.” Angela slipped by him and out the door.

Raised voices came from the dim lobby.

Angela barely kept herself from running down the sloping, cracked pavement to her car. The pain in her gut, she ignored. There would be time to cry over her empty belly later.

Footsteps crunched.

She slowed a little to let Warren catch up, scanning the sickly 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 need a hero. That’s not me.

“Thank you. I had no idea.”

She dug through her bag as Warren fell in step. “There are still plenty of people left who are willing to sacrifice anyone to get what they want. That hasn’t changed.” Angela handed over two small bottles of pills, being careful not to touch him. “Instructions are on the labels.”

He pocketed the medication and opened the door of her muddy red Tempo, falling into the suitor mode he usually handled her with.

“You’ll kill them?”

When he shook his greasy head, she knew he was about to lie.

“Vengeance belongs to God. I’ll vote against it.”

Angela tensed at a distant gunshot. She quickly slid behind the wheel.

“You would be safe here with us now, with me.”

Angela pretended not to hear the invitation or the threat as she snapped on her seatbelt. “I think of it sometimes, but I can’t. My man, he’s strict–like you. He said stay, so I will.”

The preacher smiled at what he assumed was a compliment from a well-trained woman; age lines gave him the appearance of an evil cartoon badger.

“You’re sure he will come?”

Angela frowned. “Yes.”

“You will go hunting for him, go to meet him?”

She shook her head, horrified lie falling easily from her heavy heart. “No, never. He said he’d come. He will.”

Warren couldn’t hide his disappointment.

Angela looked away from the silent plea. She already had a jailor. She didn’t need another. She was careful not to hurt his pride, however. That might push him into trying to force her to stay now. “You’ll bring your daughter over next week for a checkup?”

“Yes.”

Wind gusted through the open window. The heavy draft lifted her long braid.

Warren’s dirty fingers were there to catch it, holding its softness for a brief second before handing it back. He forced their hands to touch.

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 stared everywhere except into his needy, intimidating face.

“What do I owe you?”

“Nothing.” She was glad she sounded calm. “That world is gone. Come by next week.” Angela shifted into gear and rolled away, relieved when the preacher mirrored her short wave without any sign the quick exit had offended him. She hated to come down here. One of these times she might not get back out, but her heart wouldn’t let her do anything else. She would help everyone she could now and pay the price later. That was the line she’d chosen for her life when she became a doctor.

Angela breathed a sigh as the brick walls of the weather-beaten dorms fell out of sight in her mirror, but she didn’t let her guard down as she drove by reeking slaughterhouses, burnt frames of homes and businesses. There were other people around here and they were all a threat to a woman alone.

Her gaze flicked over body after body as she drove, determining the cause of death: gunshot, knife wound, sickness, gunshot. Death had come in many ways, and not only to humans. Deer and cats were the most common corpses to represent the losses the animal population was taking, but there were also squirrels, dogs, and birds mixed in. Angela forced her mind away from it all. Maybe it isn’t as bad wherever Kenny and Charlie are right now.

Very little in the city where pigs fly had survived the riots. As she drove, Angela heard no sparrows calling, no engines revving, no lawn mowers rumbling, no pets yapping, no voices chattering, no horns blaring. There was only an occasional scream or gunshot to break the heavy silence.

The destruction grew worse the closer she got to downtown. Debris crunched under her tires as she rolled by dark, reeking restaurants full of rotting food. She winced at the sound of glass crunching under her tires as she neared the library where shadows shifted inside, trying to learn to fend for themselves. If she got a flat tire, she would have to abandon her car. Her body wasn’t able to break the lug nuts loose yet. She needed a set of those new tires that could go an extra fifty miles on a flat. Self-sealing or something, maybe even armor-plated if she could find it.

Her broken heart clenched, tears welling. She needed to find the fourteen-year-old son she’d been apart from for months now. It was killing her not to be with him, not to be able to hug him. She wished with all her heart, along with almost everyone else on the planet, that war hadn’t come. Hold on, Charlie. I will come for you!

Angela flipped on the heater and the defrost. She jumped as lightning forked overhead. The glare was almost blinding. She drove around telephone poles, burnt cars, busted furniture, rotting corpses. It was 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. A barrage of black hail pinged off the hood in nerve-wracking blasts. The sky was grayish brown, thick with layers of dust and smoke. The clouds racing toward her came through the grit easily, spewing fat drops of rain against the hood and windows.

Angela took refuge under a concrete viaduct as the storm bore down on the riot ravaged city. It released rain that began to wash away another layer of the dirt and blood left from the end of the world.

Angela put the car in park and finished her smoke as the stench of fishy shit from the nearby mill creek invaded the vehicle. She searched the crumbling, trashy buildings on either side, free hand staying between the seats. I was right to disobey Kenny. I need this gun.

You disobeyed Kenny? You’re in trouble! You’re in trouble!

Angela nodded at that inner voice of fear. The last two months had been full of things she hoped to never tell him. Kenny wouldn’t understand her breaking rules just to help strangers. If he had been here, things would have been different, but she’d been alone when the bombs fell, and still alone when the first desperate survivor had pounded on her door; she’d made the choice alone. Their suffering was too great for her to deny what little help she could give. Kenny would have turned them away with intimidating gestures and icy threats, but she couldn’t sit by and let people die without trying to prevent it. She would face him with the complete list of rules she had broken when he found her, or when she found him. For now, she wasn’t done adding up crimes. The two biggest transgressions, one of which he might kill her for, were still to come.

The storm flew by, threat disappearing as quickly as it had come. Angela eased the car up Queen City’s steep, narrow pavement, steering around chunks of debris sliding through the muddy ripples. Abandoned vehicles and wrecks had been pulled to the side of the winding hill, looking like lined up dominoes waiting to be pushed over. Angela saw no signs of people trying to continue like normal, but she could feel them watching her through barely cracked blinds. She was disappointed by it. Angela had hoped people would come together, but these survivors wanted nothing to do with her. They only wished for her to be gone.

She sped up, willing to comply. She understood how they felt. She hated to leave 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 the college group upon their first meeting. Saying no wasn’t an option. Whenever he called for her on the CB, she answered. She would have anyway, without the threats and innuendos. Her oath hadn’t vanished with the war, but she still sighed in relief when her three-story, yellow brick apartment building came into view.

Angela swept the nearly identical rows of red brick duplexes surrounding her, their matching mailboxes beaten, dented from enduring man and nature’s fury. It was all the same–awful.

Angela parked in the rear lot, next to the small flower bed. Her eyes immediately went to the tiny grave tucked amid rows of frozen violets. Grief smothered her.

She had gone into labor upon hearing the emergency broadcast. She hadn’t been able to connect with her missing son. The stress had topped off a troubled pregnancy with disaster. Her smart teenager had gone dim to avoid being taken in the draft. She’d made mental contact a few days later, but she had already lost the baby.

She’d placed her premature baby in the cold, wet ground herself as an ugly dawn broke. Angela had never felt more pain than when she covered him with earth. Despite all her power, she hadn’t been able to save her own child. Repairing damage was sometimes possible, but she couldn’t replace what hadn’t been given time to grow.

Barely registering the harsh wind, Angela forced herself to go to the grave and mourn, to keep feeling the awful pain so she could make peace with it. The blackness lurking in her mind wanted to block everything out, but it would take over. If she let that happen, she would never be with her teenage son again either. The darkness was too familiar, too consuming. She’d already spent a decade in it as her life flew by, unable to change the awful mistake she’d made by saying yes to Kenny.

The wind swelled again, but she paid no attention, broken fingernails digging into the cold skin of her palms. She sank to her knees in front of the grave. “My baby.” Tears spilled from under dark lashes. Four weeks had gone by, but it still felt like yesterday. I wanted him so much! His father hadn’t, but she had.

Pain tore through her battered heart. Angela let the darkness take over. Her grief was unbearable any other way.

 

2

Bands of pain were clamping down on her stomach when Angela became aware of her surroundings again. She staggered to the main door and unlocked it, hands shaking. Flashes of the past slapped her, but she refused to dwell on any of those ugly moments as she walked by her apartment. The life she’d led there with Kenny was over.

Angela eased down the carpeted stairs and slipped inside the blackness of the basement hallway. It still surprised her to do this. She’d been terrified of the dark as a girl, but she’d spent so much time down here since the war that she didn’t even use her penlight anymore.

The heavy door to the storage area slammed shut behind her, locking.

Angela winced at the noise, though there was no one left to tell on her and bring a punishment. This building had emptied out when the draft trucks came through.

Angela scanned for intruders, but there was only silence. She climbed over the debris to her den with the same thought she always had. I hate it here. I can’t wait to roll!

Angela eased in to the narrow door she’d hidden behind old mattresses and box springs. She slid into the tepid warmth with an unconscious sigh of relief. She was safe again for a little while.

She locked the door, then stepped over the bags and boxes littering the 8x6 storage room she’d claimed. Her legs trembled as she lit the lantern on the floor in the rear corner. She was almost shivering despite the warmth of her blanket covered area. Her body confirmed her decision. It would be at least three more weeks before she could leave. She wasn’t strong enough to make the cross-country trip. The early birth had damaged her body and her soul.

Angela tightened her grip on her emotions, heart screaming at how long it was taking. She stared at the circled date of February 12th on the calendar. Twenty-five more days of not having even a picture up in her apartment, or down here in her den. She’d buried most of them next to her baby. Warren was watching for her men to return. She refused to make it easy for the preacher by providing descriptions.

Angela pushed off her muddy shoes and socks, then replaced her other wet, dirty clothes. It had taken her days to drag supplies down here. Not being able to rest and recover had also hurt her, but there hadn’t been another choice in that first week. Gangs and killers had been sweeping homes and apartments for survivors left from the draft. Most of them had avoided this dark basement. The first thing she’d done was remove the lightbulbs down here by hitting them with a broom handle while blood ran down her legs and tears rolled over her cheeks.

Angela lit the propane stove at her feet, glad of the extra cylinders she’d found in the same crate with the handy appliance. It, along with a few other useful items, had come from the basement of a Goodwill store. She hadn’t realized how dependent on power they’d all been. She was daunted by the list of needed gear she’d prepared. She doubted she would be able to find it all.

“At least I’m not starving.” She thought of the first agonizing week after losing her son, when she’d forced herself to use the power and water while it still worked. She had cooked and dehydrated months of food until the utilities finally went off for good on New Year’s Eve. The hour-long blackouts before that had warned her to hurry.

Cramps exploded in her belly as Angela bent down to pour the boiling water into her mug. She clenched her teeth, grip tightening on the kettle. Suck it up! Her mind tossed out one of Kenny’s favorite responses to her discomfort.

Pain, the inner voice insisted. He caused us pain.

“Yeah.” Angela settled herself on the knee-high stack of cushions with her tea. She still had to force herself not to clean the plush, two-bedroom apartment above her despite how angry Kenny would be to discover the mess. It needed to appear looted and abandoned to anyone who wandered in.

Angela swallowed two pills, grimacing as they went down awkwardly. Gun in her robe pocket, she sat the portable radio/TV on the pillows next to her. She sipped, and flipped through stations, 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. The only unknown was for how long.

The last sad voice she’d heard had been on B105 last week, telling of hundreds of millions dead or dying. The crying man had advised people to go to caves or mountains. Angela refused to do that. She had a good plan, but she needed help. She had little chance of making it all the way on her own, no matter how many illusion spells she could cast. They didn’t work on everyone, and it would be a long trip. Over twelve hundred miles straight through. With detours, it would be more like fifteen hundred or even two thousand miles, with no outside energy. She would have to rely on natural strength.

Angela switched to the TV setting. She had hoped to make at least fifty 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 understood even twenty miles a day would be hard. It now came to three months on the road. So long, and so many of the odds are against me!

Gets better when you call the boy’s real daddy.

Angela shut her eyes as pain came. She’d never forgotten how it felt to belong to Marc.

Call him. He’s restless, adrift. He will come.

The woman huddling in the nicely warming storage room gave the idea sincere consideration this time, instead of pushing it away in terror. Marc was also a Marine; he had been for a long time. She had no doubt he could make the trip, and he owed her a huge debt.

Terror spoke up. You can’t! Kenny will kill you both!

Angela stretched carefully, wincing at a fresh bolt of pain in her gut. He would probably try. Kenny would think they had been having an affair all along, though she hadn’t seen Marc in almost fifteen years. There was an undeniable spark between them. Kenny would spot it right away.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve made my choice.” She would face the consequences when the time came. Nothing would keep her from her son, not after all she had lost, and maybe, just maybe, Kenny could be surprised into making a mistake by Marc’s presence, but also by how much she had changed. The witch inside was awake now. Kenny would find out that she wouldn’t resume her life of bondage.

First, she had to finish healing. Angela was scared that even if she managed to leave Ohio without Warren and the others here stopping her, she wouldn’t be able to handle the trip. If surviving in one place was now this 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 ignored the heart that jumped eagerly. She would call out to him when she was ready. That wasn’t today.

Angela 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 gift (Curse. Kenny always calls it my curse.) was the root of their fights. She’d locked away her power to keep Kenny from controlling it, and spent a decade in hell because of that choice. She’d only kept two things from him during their long, hard years together–her gift and the name of her baby’s father. Everything else had been under his unforgiving control each waking moment, and many of the sleeping ones.

Until the war. Being alone while her world was blown away had ripped off the locks on the witch inside. The cell door was barely standing. The dark, shifting spirit behind that thin shield whispered almost constantly to her now.

Angela found it easy to listen. She was still surprised to look inside and see the courage she’d 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 or needed. That included exploring the things 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 trust the power inside again. The voice said the war was fated, that a new, more peaceful world would replace the old, but when Angela searched the future to see if her small family would be a part of that special population, there was only darkness.

Angela concentrated, sending her power out to sweep the area around her den.

She found no signs of life.

It didn’t stop her from continuing. I have to practice. My gifts might mean the difference between life and death.

5: Chapter 5 -Marc and Dog

West Virginia

January 28th

 

1

“Ah, hell.” Marc knew it was a bad idea as soon as the front tires of his muddy vehicle eased onto the clear suspension bridge. He’d watched it vibrate in the heavy wind as he approached, but the water had risen while he slept, leaving only this way out. The iron grates under the Blazer groaned as he rolled forward. The bridge supports were covered in slushy, menacing debris.

The wolf in the passenger seat growled.

Marc sighed, aware of danger flying toward him again. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

Crack! Rip!

The solidness under his wheels tilted. One of the two foundations slid, yanking the bars out of the other bank. It rocked the bridge like a plastic racetrack.

The Blazer lifted. Guardrails began ripping away with horrible grinding noises. A cable snapped...

Marc hit the gas, aiming for the end of the bridge now dropping toward the shallow end of the dammed-up Black River. “Semper Fi!”

The Blazer flew off the lowered end. It dropped into the foot of rushing water like a lead ball, crushing the front bumper and tossing up a spray that drenched the driver and passenger.

Marc lowered the windows as they were pulled along by the strong current, surprised the engine hadn’t stalled yet. Slinging his kit over one broad shoulder, Marc ignored the water rushing onto the floorboards as he steered toward the steep bank that he had no chance of climbing in this vehicle.

Marc winced 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’, 225lb frame through the window an instant after the wolf. He plunged into the icy water as the bridge collapsed. A wall of liquid death lunged forward.

Marc scrambled along the slick, muddy bank as he took rope from his kit and worked an end into a lasso. He threw it right as the surging water hit the Blazer and rolled it like a White Castle box in the wind. Water and debris exploded into the air.

Marc hoped the street sign was anchored deep enough as he tied the rope around his waist. Then the water swallowed him.

Unable to breathe or protect himself from the debris in the icy liquid, Marc controlled his panic. He’d had hard tests during his career. This was another on that list.

The sign trembled from the pressure of the rushing Black River, vibrating against his hip. He used it to shield himself from the bigger chunks.

Marc drew his knife, ready to cut himself free if the sign came out of the ground. His lungs burned.

The sign shifted suddenly, tilting, and then he could breathe again as the first tall wave rolled by.

Marc cut the rope and climbed to safety, coughing and sliding in gelatinous slop. Yet another lesson had been reinforced in this harsh new world. Bridges are not safe.

Marc made it to higher ground, shivering as Dog danced in the mud around his ankles. He stumbled away from the crumbling bank as he dug out another jacket. It would flow downstream and spill over weakened banks before draining into the next town. That’s the way it had been in every other place he’d come through. Nature was reclaiming her property.

Marc glanced around as he got his breath back, deciding where to make camp while he waited for the water to recede. The Blue Ridge Mountains were eastern rolling peaks of foggy blue under a wide purple and yellow sunset that was marred by never-fading angry gray layers. South held dipping valleys and hills of tobacco fields and white pines. He’d just come from that direction. Those empty, snowbound towns hadn’t given him hope.

West was another community whose name he couldn’t recall. The released water was already overwhelming it, but he saw no one fleeing the filling streets. His mental grid also came back blank even though that sense was able to go farther now that he was relying on it more.

The Sitrep is bleak. Marc grunted. A situation report from the North, then. He rotated, shivering.

A full click above him, a small white building with a large silver cross beckoned in the dim distance. It was perched on a large, muddy hill and backdropped by cherry and crabapple trees. Again, the gritty sky spoiled a perfect picture of sanctuary in the wasteland.

Shrugging at the irony–Marc hadn’t been in a church since being robbed of his dreams–he strode that way while scanning for trouble. Seeming empty didn’t make it so.

Dog, who came to Marc’s hip, stayed close, occasionally snorting his dislike of the rumbling river.

Marc foraged in his kit for a pain pill as he swept the small town. The outskirts of Franklin, identified by a sign on a nearby street corner, were untainted. Surrounded by neat homes with picket fences, his gaze flicked from untouched manger scenes to the Christmas lights decorating most of the undamaged area. Are there people here?

Marc heard only the wind and water. The silence pressed in as if something was wrong, but other than the river trying to kill him, it was the same here as it had been in every small town he’d passed through since the war–empty, over.

He scouted the next intersection, attention caught by a charred metro bus of rotting corpses. He was thrown back to what he’d encountered when he rolled out from under the bus.

Crunchhh!

The sound of the water destroying the debris it had collected pulled Marc from the flashback. He wished the images would go away. He had stayed on the road after that, trekking to the family home to discover no one there, despite the funeral being set for that day. The house had held no signs of a hasty retreat, and no letter of explanation. What happened?

Marc swept the city limits of Franklin, drawn to the hills. He lingered on the cemetery. Its iron gates were surrounded by decaying bodies, few of them wrapped. No one had known what to do with their dead.

Neither had Marc. He almost hadn’t come home at all.

Crack!

Marc spun, .45 in hand.

The wolf bristled.

The reeking water was destroying debris. Marc sighed at his jumpiness. He walked toward the church. “Come on, Dog.”

He had taken leave to attend his mother’s funeral, and instead found himself alone in a place that had never been his home. The only living thing he’d encountered was the wolf on the front porch.

As if he knew I was coming. Marc had shipped Dog ahead, knowing the animal wouldn’t do well on a bus. The torn-up basement and single broken window was the only damage he’d found in the house. Not even the door had been kicked in; he didn’t believe his family had been taken in the draft. The fact that they had put Dog in the basement suggested something darker.

Marc pushed the thoughts away. He wasn’t going to search for them. They hadn’t been true family in a long time. If they’d found safety but hadn’t wanted him there too, so be it. They were the last group he wanted to survive with.

Loneliness reared up, reminding him it hadn’t gone away. Marc forced himself to lock down on those thoughts, as he had taught others to do. For them, it was to keep from blowing their mission by being distracted. Marc did it now to keep himself from drowning in a tide of remorse.

He’d wandered after discovering nothing at the family home, but it hadn’t taken long for him to become restless and start hunting for his own kind. He had been sworn to his country. He still wore his dog tag under his fatigue shirt and black leather coat, but the America he had served was busy dying. It was crushing that he couldn’t stop it. Now that the future was so grim, he wasn’t going back to his base. The entire world was FUBAR. Everything and everyone he had ever known was gone.

The frigid wind pushed against him as they took the last quarter mile of steep hill at a quick pace. He looked down at the big wolf. “Hell of a start to the day.”

The animal peered up at Marc, then resumed sniffing the bare, damp ground. The wolf didn’t follow any of the scents he caught, heeling as if he were a trained pet, though anyone could tell he wasn’t.

Where to go next was the most pressing choice. Marc wasn’t worried about losing his supplies and transportation, though he would miss the thick Marine sleeping system tonight. The rest of his preferred loadout was in the kit slung over his shoulder. Physically, he would do fine alone. He always had. Mentally, things were complicated. He didn’t like people. He didn’t need them most of the time, but he did need a goal. The desire to serve his country was still there, and he couldn’t do that by himself.

Most survivors had gone to ground. The heartbreaking notes were everywhere. After the first dozen, Marc had forced himself not to read anymore, knowing if he kept going, he would spend the rest of his life trying to reunite those broken families.

Caves and sewer shelters were mentioned most, but those were bad choices. Even if the flooding missed them, and the cold didn’t freeze or starve them, the poisons circling the globe were as big a threat below the surface as above it. How long would a contaminated planet allow them to survive, no matter where they were?

Marc had traveled northwest last, checking White Sulphur Springs, and then the National Radio Astronomy Observatory. He still hoped to find signs of normal life restarting, but he no longer expected it. The world even sounded empty. There were no noises other than the wind. There also wasn’t any sign of the bastards who had let it all happen. The government was absent, but the brass Marc had served all those years would never let survivors have control of topside, poisoned or not.

There should have been emergency broadcasts, flyers, and scientists in shiny suits. There should have been soldiers with itchy trigger fingers and bullhorns, giving orders but not helping. There should have been aid stations and 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. Marc wouldn’t ever do that. Not that it mattered. The government that had killed so many had likely died with them.

“Where to?” He ran a hand over soaked black hair. Where would normal citizens gather to start rebuilding? In police stations or city halls…? Marc tensed, registering a note to the wind that hadn’t been there before. Almost as if someone was calling for him, hunting.

Marcus!

Marc swung around, drawing drenched leather as he searched for whoever he’d let sneak up on him. He saw dogwood flowers and the decaying bodies of two songbirds lying in the frozen grass, but no people.

Marc’s heart skipped a beat, then clenched in old longing. That voice had been banished to his dreams years ago, but time clearly hadn’t healed the wound.

The wolf whined at his master’s pain.

“Shhh.” Marc pushed away the hope and dread. It’s just loneliness torturing me again.

Marc fell into Marine mode as he squared away the small church and attached shed.

Once he was satisfied that they were alone, he put down alarms. His training would make this new world easier for him than for most people. He’d been playing this lethal game for years.

Marc exchanged fresh fatigues for his soaked, torn clothes, then retied his holsters over his thighs. The river was already several feet deep around distant maple trees and column-supported buildings. Changed and warming, he evaluated the situation. His breathing was normal. His heart was back in his chest where it belonged. Other than a few scratches, he was unharmed. He hadn’t swallowed any of the nasty liquid. He also still had his hat. The string around his neck had kept it from being washed away. Had he reacted a little slower on the bridge, he would be dead now. It was a harsh, new world where some days were harder than others.

He had come one hundred thirty miles in the weeks since rolling under the bus to avoid the draft. The corpses on the streets bothered him more than the constant reek of rot. They were in every place he’d been. Stores, stations, malls, cars, homes. Men, women, kids, elderly–all shocking to see in even one American city, let alone in all of them. Marc had fought the urge to give them the funerals they deserved. Like with the letters, if he buried even one, he would spend the rest of his life doing it.

The realist inside knew that gradually, terribly, nature would run her course. The cadavers would all disappear into nests, dens, and burrows, and then into hungry stomachs, but it would always be obvious that a violent struggle for survival had swept this country. Death was now a constant, even in places that had no actual bomb damage.

Fires were the most common cause of devastation. Town after town had been reduced to darkened, shadowy frames–the victims of arson. This new world is a bed pisser’s wet dream. Marc hated the helpless feeling it gave him to roll through those places. They reminded him of his nightmares of the walking dead, and of the soldier who’d killed himself. In his dreams, the corpses followed him relentlessly with their not so funny, stumbling walk. They pushed and pushed until the cold ocean waves lapped at his feet; the water was the only place left to go.

Marc lit a Winston with hands that stank of fish rot. Where am I supposed to go?

Marcus…

He didn’t draw his drenched gun this time. No one else was here. Marc waved a finger at the growling wolf to quiet him.

A hint of vanilla, sweet and never forgotten, floated by on the wind.

“Angie?”

Silence.

Marc grinned. I’ve been alone too long. He was the last person she would call after so long.

Marcus! I need you!

The words went right by his ear this time, making his breath catch.

You owe me!

Marc winced at the accusation and stopped denying. The time he had feared, and longed for, was here. Angie was finally calling in his marker, but that debt could never be repaid.

Not letting his practical side get in the way, Marc concentrated like she’d taught him when they were kids, but he was unable to keep from wondering if the water had won. Maybe this is the afterlife with an angel leading me to hell.

You can’t go yet. Not until you help me.

The voice in his mind was clear, as if they were on a phone. He found it helped to pretend they were as his headache increased. Was I injured? It would explain this. “What do you need?”

My life back.

Marc jerked as if slapped, thrown into the past.

I need you. Will you come?

Her desperation pulled at his heart. “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 support of his team. “Tell me where.”

Ohio. Cincinnati.

Marc’s heart pounded faster. He’d been there, once. “Two weeks, Angie, maybe less.”

A relieved blast of energy exploded from her end.

Marc swayed on his feet as her power sank into him, stopping the headache. It had been fifteen years since he’d felt that.

You have to hurry…

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

The line went dead.

Marc rubbed Dog’s ears, seeing eagerness in the animal’s golden orbs. Clearly, Dog felt her pull too.

Angie called for me! Marc struggled to control the heart that suddenly felt younger, lighter. It only took the end of the world to force her into it.