Edge of Collapse Series (Book 4): Edge of Anarchy Page 5

  “You lose!” Pike screamed from behind the safety of the trees. “You’ve already lost!”

  Liam waited, not breathing, ready to fire. The second he showed himself, Pike was dead.

  No movement from the top of the ridge line. No sound other than the creaking trees and the moaning wind.

  Snow drove into his face and eyes. He blinked the flakes away, his heart in his throat, an ill feeling slick-sliding through his guts. Come on, come on.

  Pike did not come out. He did not show himself.

  And why would he? Liam wasn’t his target. Liam wasn’t his end game.

  All Pike had needed was to get Liam out of the way. He’d accomplished that goal. Pike was already gone.

  Anger like he’d never felt slashed through Liam. Rage mingled with gut-wrenching fear. Not for himself; never for himself.

  A monster was heading Hannah’s way.

  This time, there was nothing Liam could do to stop it.

  11

  Julian

  Day Twenty-One

  Julian and Rosamond stood in her expansive kitchen, all glossy white cabinets, smooth marble, and shiny high-end appliances. They faced each other across the island.

  “What the hell just happened?” Rosamond asked Julian. “Why do I have two dead bodies on my hands?”

  Julian still wore his coat, hat, and gloves. Snow dribbled from his boots onto the polished wood floor. He inhaled the delicious scent of cooking pizza wafting from the oven.

  Heat bathed his face. The electric lights cast a soft, warm glow. Rosamond constantly kept the generators on to back up the solar power.

  It was evening. The windows were dark. Outside, the cold, wind, and snow lurked.

  Nothing could get inside this house, where everything felt untouched by the chaos, like a fly caught in amber. The furniture pristine, the shelves dusted, everything immaculate; just like his mother.

  Here, lights still flicked on and off and water poured from the tap on command. Only three weeks had passed, and a hot shower already seemed like a miraculous, precious commodity.

  Fresh anger flushed through him as he explained the attack on Darryl Wiggins and the townspeople’s attempt to take over a Winter Haven house. “They think they deserve Winter Haven. They want it for themselves.”

  Rosamond steepled her fingers on the counter. Her polished scarlet nails flashed in the light. “I see.”

  “They don’t deserve it. They could’ve bought one of these houses years ago. They didn’t. That’s their choice. Now they have to live with it. Everyone else here has earned it. We’re the ones putting ourselves on the front lines to keep the town safe. The least we can do is give them a roof over their heads.”

  “Not everyone understands that.”

  Julian took off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. “We should just let them starve. Why are we working so hard to feed them when they repay us like this?”

  “This is our town,” Rosamond said quietly. “Our people. It’s our job—my job—to provide for them. As long as I am able, I will do that.” Her expression hardened. “But neither will I stand by and allow them to harm each other and act like spoiled children.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  The oven timer beeped. Rosamond pulled oven mitts from a drawer. She opened the oven, pulled out the pizza tray, and set it on top of the stove to cool.

  The cheese bubbled deliciously. Catching a whiff of the tantalizing smell, his stomach rumbled.

  She pulled off the mitts and returned them to the drawer. “You know what I miss most of all? Salad. What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of mixed baby greens slathered in balsamic vinegar right now.”

  He’d always hated salad. “What happens next?”

  His mother moved to the large stainless-steel refrigerator and opened the freezer. It was stuffed full of food—fruits, vegetables, meats, and ice cream. Julian knew she had two other freezers in the garage, both bursting at the seams. Not to mention the crates in the basement.

  She took out a bag of frozen strawberries and a loaf of garlic bread and set them on the marble island. “Tell Sutter’s men to stop feeding anyone who participated in the attack. And their families.”

  “That would work. Except there’s one problem. Those particular families aren’t going to the community distribution center at the middle school.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re getting all the free food they want from Atticus Bishop.”

  His mother’s mouth twitched. The skin around her eyes tightened. “This is only a problem because of you.”

  He couldn’t help it; he flinched.

  “You were supposed to stop Bishop weeks ago.”

  Resentment boiled through him. “I did! I tried! How was I supposed to know—”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You never know. You never plan. You never think things through. You just act—rashly and recklessly, without regard to consequences. All actions have consequences, Julian. They’re like dominos, one tumbling after another. If you don’t know exactly where that last domino will land, then you’re acting blind. The strongest leaders—those that last, those that leave a true legacy—they never act rashly. They’re never blind. They know exactly what they’re doing, and why, every single step of the way. Do you understand?”

  “Yes!” he said defensively, anger slashing through him. “Of course.”

  For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. She opened the garlic bread packaging, tugged out the frozen bread, and put it in the oven. She pulled a large bowl from the cupboard beside the sink and poured the fruit into it.

  Julian waited with barely restrained impatience. He shifted from foot to foot, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He wanted to defend himself, explain his actions, place the blame on someone—anyone—other than himself.

  He fought to curb his anger, biting his tongue so hard he that he tasted copper. He knew better than to interrupt his mother when she was like this—using her silence as a weapon to cow him.

  It worked. His face burned with humiliation. He felt small and impotent, like a bug squirming beneath her thumb.

  Finally, she settled her gaze on him. She pursed her lips and lowered her brows, her eyes as sharp as ice. A look of intense displeasure, of disgust.

  He hated that all-too familiar look. Despised it. For a blistering second, he imagined slapping it off her smug face. How satisfying it would feel. How empowering.

  His mother gave a long-suffering sigh. “Gavin would have taken care of this problem. He knew how to use a scalpel rather than a hammer. He always knew what to do.”

  Jealousy bit deep into his soul. His face went hot. “I know what to do!”

  She stared at him, her eyes hard, appraising him and finding him wanting. “Do you really?”

  “I’m not stupid,” Julian said petulantly. “I know what you’re trying to do. He who controls the food controls the people.”

  “It’s so much more than that. We can’t afford dissent. If we are divided, we won’t stand against the outside attacks that will come.” She shook her head wearily. “That’s what no one understands. They don’t want to understand. They want safety, but they don’t want to pay the cost. By the time they understand the truth, it will be too late. They’re small-minded and stubborn as children. They don’t know what’s best for them. But we do. I do. I have to make the hard decisions for them. That’s why I’m in charge. That’s how I must lead.”

  “If the only place they can get supplies is through us, then they have to obey us,” Julian said, scrambling to satisfy his mother. “That’s how we force them to do what we want. Anyone attacks Winter Haven again, we take the food away. Let those stubborn fathers and mothers watch their kids starve. See how the people like that.”

  She sliced the steaming pizza with a pizza cutter and slid two pieces onto a china plate. She added a piece of garlic bread dripping with butter and the bowl of fruit. She sat down on the stool at the island, un
folded a cloth napkin, and smoothed it over her lap.

  She stared down at her food without taking a bite. “I do not understand why some people insist on acting against their own self-interests. I wish there was another way.”

  Julian’s stomach rumbled with hunger. He’d been working all day. Gone were the days when he could pull through the McDonald’s or Taco Bell drive-thru.

  His mother did not put out a plate for him or offer him a slice. He knew better than to ask for one.

  “There isn’t another way,” he said.

  “You’re correct, son.” She straightened her already perfect posture. “We have no choice.”

  “Bishop is out on that rescue mission of yours. A couple of volunteers are running the Crossway food pantry right now. I know them. They aren’t like Bishop. They won’t be trouble.”

  “And when Bishop returns?”

  “I’ll handle him. And Noah, too.”

  “Noah will handle Bishop.”

  Resentment speared him. “Noah? Why Noah? I can do it—”

  “I will decide what you can or cannot do!” She shot him another displeased look. “Noah is on our side.”

  A surge of jealousy burned through him. Bitterness mingled with loathing. Julian was supposed to be chief of police. Julian was supposed to be running this town.

  Not Noah Sheridan, his former best friend. “Is he? Are you sure about that?”

  “Let me deal with the new police chief. Noah requires more—finesse. But he’s loyal. I trust him to do what needs to be done.”

  The words she didn’t say echoed through the room. Julian stiffened. “You can trust me, too.”

  “We’ll see.” She cocked her brows in that condescending, mocking way of hers. “Can I trust you to take care of the food pantry, or do I need to get Mattias involved? Do you think you can handle it this time? Are you up to the task?”

  He swallowed bitter bile. “Absolutely.”

  His mother stabbed a small frozen strawberry with her fork and raised it to her lips. “There’s nothing like freshly-picked strawberries, but these still have a sweet tartness to them.”

  Rosamond chewed slowly, thoughtfully. The sneer faded from her face. For a moment, she looked pensive, almost haunted. “In times of great crisis, we are forced to do what we must to protect the whole group. I thought what had happened would be enough. That everyone had suffered enough.”

  She set the fork down, her expression softening, and gave him a warm, motherly look. “You weren’t the only one who made a mistake, son. So did I. We must fix it now, by any means necessary.”

  He drew himself to his full height. “I’m ready.”

  She nodded. “Then shut it down.”

  Julian was already heading for the door, a dark smile creasing his face.

  12

  Noah

  Day Twenty-One

  “One more chapter?” Milo begged.

  Noah Sheridan closed the book. “We’ve already read four chapters. I need a break, buddy.”

  “A break from what?”

  “My throat is getting sore, for one. Plus, to be honest with you, I’m a bit tired of thinking about the end of the world.”

  Milo tugged the book out of his hands, stroked the cover lovingly, and tucked it under his pillow.

  Quinn had let him borrow it from her personal collection. It was titled “Life as We Knew It” and was about the moon shifting from its orbit and basically destroying life on Earth.

  Like anyone needed yet another world-ending scenario to worry about.

  Noah and Milo were snuggled in Milo’s bed at their new house in Winter Haven, a half-dozen blankets piled on top of them.

  The solar panels hadn’t gotten much solar energy in days, so they were using portable propane heaters for warmth and flashlights and lanterns at night. Many of the homes had back-up generators that the militia kept stocked with fuel. This particular house did not.

  Outside, yet another snowstorm raged. Wind and snow battered the house. The walls creaked and moaned. Visibility was less than six feet. Venturing anywhere—even to the next house—was a death wish.

  The whole town had hunkered down, bracing themselves against the onslaught, determined to wait it out.

  For once, Noah was stuck at home, too. He didn’t mind the time to catch up with Milo, but he knew the workload would triple as soon as the storm relented.

  Just like the other storms over the last weeks, people would need to be dug out of their homes. Stores of food, toiletries, and firewood replenished.

  Some—the elderly, the sick—would have run out of anything to eat or drink or keep them warm during the storm. They wouldn’t make it.

  Noah would have to send out a team to go house to house and remove corpses.

  It was a grim thought, but a part of their lives now. They’d lost another eleven residents to hypothermia in the last eight days.

  It was only mid-January. They had a long way to go before winter finally ended.

  Noah rolled over to face Milo. He double folded a pillow beneath his arm. “Hey, buddy. Before you slip away into dream world, I just wanted to check in with you to see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m fine, Dad.”

  “Quinn has you taking your meds twice a day like clockwork, right?”

  “Yep. Every single day.”

  Sutter and the militia brought Noah more hydrocortisone pills with every scavenging trip, though they hadn’t been able to go out like usual due to the blizzards rampaging through southern Michigan.

  Noah wasn’t worried. He had several years’ worth stashed in a duffle bag in the master bedroom closet. The constant anxiety that had stalked him in the first weeks after the EMP had dissipated.

  But not his worry for his son. That never went away.

  “You know I have to make sure.”

  “Quinn says you’re overprotective.”

  Noah lifted his eyebrows. “Does she now?”

  “She says I should be able to climb the tallest tree that I want to. She says I can jump out of airplanes if I want to.” He chewed his bottom lip. “Just as soon as there are airplanes again.”

  “I’m pretty sure you have to be eighteen for that.”

  “Fine, whatever. Can we put it on my pail list?”

  Noah smiled. “You mean your bucket list?”

  “The list you make of stuff you wanna do before you die.”

  “Yes, that.” Noah’s chest tightened. He hesitated. “Why are you making a bucket list?”

  “Quinn says everybody dies.”

  “Well, technically, but—”

  “Everybody dies, but not everybody really lives. I said we should make a list of all the stuff we wanted to do while we’re still alive. Because you don’t know how long it’ll last.”

  Noah swallowed a sudden thickness in his throat. He was only eight years old, but Milo had already seen horrible things and lived through a lifetime of terrors.

  First, the dead bodies on the chairlift the day of the EMP. Then the Crossway Massacre. And now the shootout at Darryl Wiggins’ place yesterday.

  Thomas Blair and his friend, Ted Nickleson, were dead. The Blairs, Nicklesons, and a few others had gotten it into their heads that they could forcibly take a Winter Haven house for themselves.

  The militia had quickly disabused them of that notion. Desoto’s tactics were brutal but effective. Anyone who’d been thinking of trying something similar would seriously reconsider. Noah didn’t agree with them, but what was done was done.

  Rosamond had taken it a step further. None of the family members associated with the guilty parties would receive any supplies from the town’s distribution center. Nothing. Not a can of beans or a roll of toilet paper.

  Mrs. Blair was a widow. Her daughter Whitney was mourning her father.

  Noah couldn’t help it. He pitied them.

  Once this snowstorm let up, Noah would pay Rosamond a visit. He’d talk to her, get her to lighten up, walk the orders back a bit.


  Things would be okay. He’d make sure of it. He was the police chief now, after all.

  “You know I make rules and check on you because I care about you,” Noah said. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

  Milo rolled his eyes. “I know, Dad.”

  Noah reached out and brushed Milo’s curly hair back from his face. It was getting long and hung in his eyes. Noah would have to track down some cutting shears and give him a home haircut.

  Yet another aspect of society’s collapse that he’d never thought about.

  Though Noah was half Hispanic, he took after his Irish-American father, with dark brown hair but a fair complexion. Milo had inherited the olive skin-tone of Noah’s Venezuelan mother, with his unruly black curls and big dark eyes.

  His round, little-boy face was thinning, his features resembling Hannah’s more and more every day. Noah’s heart swelled with love for this sweet, serious kid.

  “I mean it. We have to be careful. The world’s unsafe. Anything could happen. Milo, you watched two people die yesterday.”

  “Quinn smushed my face into her stomach. It hurt. I didn’t see anything, just heard the loud bangs. I wanted to help. She wouldn’t let me.”

  Noah exhaled. Quinn to the rescue. Again. She’d told him as much, but it was reassuring to hear it from Milo’s mouth.

  “I’m glad she did that, son. The world—it’s different than I wish it was. I can’t protect you from everything, much as I want to.”

  “That’s what Quinn says.”

  Sometimes, he listened to Milo’s versions of Quinn-isms and Molly-isms all day long. There were worse things. “What does Quinn say?”

  “That you can’t stay safe from everything. That trying to do that ends up being worse in the end. That living your life means taking some risks. That you just have to be smart about it, not stupid like most people. It’s like a trampoline. No, a balancing act. Like in the circus.”

  Irritation flared through him. Noah pushed himself into a seated position on the mattress. He raked his hand through his hair. “That’s Quinn’s opinion. She’s sixteen years old.”