Hannah
Day One Hundred and Four
Hannah shivered. It was the second week of April, but the morning temperatures hovered in the low thirties, the sky cloaked in heavy gray clouds.
The wind chill made it feel twenty degrees colder. The frigid breeze scythed through her clothes and chapped her exposed cheeks.
Ahead of her, Ghost growled.
Hannah paused, Milo at her side, holding the jogging stroller handle with her bad hand. With her right hand, she tightened her grip on the .45 in her coat pocket.
For the meeting, she'd chosen Greenway Park, a small park along the riverbank, just past the bridge over Fall Creek.
In summers past, they used the large open area for picnics, soccer games, and kite flying, with live concerts featuring local bands in the evenings.
Snow patches dotted the field. Birds twittered from the naked branches of the trees lining the river. The large pavilion with a black metal roof and open sides loomed ahead of her.
A dark shape stood in the center of the platform, a familiar blue camo backpack slung over his shoulder. The hood of his coat shielded his face, both hands plunged deep into his pockets.
Her pulse quickened. She stiffened.
Milo tugged her coat sleeve. "Who is that?"
She glanced at his cherub face, pointy chin, and big dark eyes; he'd inherited his olive skin from Noah's Venezuelan heritage. His unruly black curls poked out from beneath his winter hat.
A fierce affection swelled in her chest. "No one you need to worry about."
"Can I play on the playground?"
Her gaze strayed to the figure on the platform. He hadn't moved or registered her presence. He didn't pose a threat to them, but she remained wary.
It was early in the morning, and no one else was at the park. Few people had time for leisure these days. The trees sighed in the wind. Water lapped along the riverbank.
She released the stroller and squeezed Milo's hand. "Don't wander from the playground. Ghost, stay with him."
Ghost let out a disgruntled whine, like he'd rather remain near Hannah to keep a sharp eye on James Luther. The dog didn't trust him. Neither did Hannah.
The Great Pyr returned to her side and pushed his head against her thigh, as if that would change her mind. She rubbed his ears with her free hand, crooked fingers scratching just the way he liked. "I'll be fine. Watch Milo."
Ghost chuffed unhappily but obeyed, trotting after Milo with a swish of his plumed tail. He still favored his hind leg. He could run, but not like before.
The bite he'd received defending Quinn and Milo from the feral dogs was healing, but he might never regain his full speed or strength.
With one last glance at her son, Hannah turned her focus to Luther.
Half the town wanted him dead. To protect him, Liam had stashed him in one of the abandoned houses outside of town.
She'd sworn she'd kill him herself if he ever set foot in Fall Creek again.
And yet, here he was.
He'd helped rescue Quinn. He'd saved Quinn and Liam during their escape from Vortex.
That was the one and only reason she didn't shoot him dead where he stood. It was also the reason she'd agreed to meet with him. A onetime courtesy she already regretted.
Anger slashed through her. He was still militia. He always would be.
She pushed the jogging stroller across the bumpy ground and halted ten feet from the stage. Her right hand still in her pocket, fingers curled around cold hard steel. "What do you want?"
Luther hunched his shoulders against the wind and squinted at her. He was tall and skinny, almost gaunt, with sun-weathered features. Though he wasn't old, his face held a dour, world-weary look.
"My father," he said. "Is he—is he still alive?"
"We traded with the National Guard stationed at Cook Nuclear. They had medical supplies. I got him a few more oxygen tanks, but they're running out. There's no way to manufacture them —not here in the States, anyway."
She almost apologized but caught herself. The state of the world wasn't her fault.
She owed this man nothing.
Dave and Annette had moved Luther's father from the house at Winter Haven to a room at Fall Creek Inn. Dave had organized a rotating group of volunteers to care for the elderly and sick in the community.
She unhooked the radio from her belt and held it out. "Dave's on the other end. He's with your father. You can talk to him for five minutes. That's it. You understand why we can't bring him to see you—or vice versa."
The old man was near death. To bring him to the park and expose him to the elements would risk his deteriorating health.
And allowing Luther into town was a bad idea of another sort.
Hannah handed him the radio and then gave him some privacy. Luther loved his father. She couldn't begrudge him that.
She pushed Charlotte along the sidewalk ringing the field, alternating between watching Milo and Luther, who clutched the radio to his ear and paced the stage in narrow, restless circles.
His mouth moved, but Hannah couldn't make out his words.
On the playground, Milo and Ghost played their version of tag—Ghost chased the boy while Milo tried to pelt him with snowballs. Ghost's resounding barks echoed across the water, mingling with Milo's laughter.
A few snowflakes spiraled from the gunmetal sky. Charlotte giggled and reached out her mittened hands, attempting to grasp the flakes and shove them into her mouth. Liam's green and gray knit cap rolled down across her forehead, covering her eyes.
Hannah checked to make sure her daughter's blue snowsuit was snug, her mittens on, socks pulled up beneath her tiny boots.
Her throat constricted. For a brief instant, she was just a normal mother in a normal park, watching her kids enjoy themselves on a normal day.
An instant later, reality invaded. There was nothing normal about life anymore. The .45 she carried was proof of that.
When she returned to Luther, he handed her the radio with a muttered, "Thank you."
They stood facing each other, Hannah with the stroller on the ground, Luther on the empty stage, thin and miserable, hugging his arms against his narrow ribcage.
His eyes were red-rimmed. He'd been crying. He ducked his head, as if attempting to hide his emotions. As if he were ashamed of himself. "What you've done. How you've cared for my dad—"
"I said I would."
"I didn't deserve that."
"I didn't do it for you."
"Then…why?"
"I did it for me."
Luther looked away, blinking hard, his jaw set.
"I told you before. I make a promise, I keep my word. I'm helping a sick old man because it's the right thing to do, not because you deserve it."
"I never wanted to be like that, you know. I was an accountant. Can you believe that?"
She stared at him, her heart made of ice that wouldn't thaw.
He cleared his throat. "The militia was about being stronger, being prepared, being ready if anything ever happened…but some guys, their motto was they didn't need to prepare if they owned the guns. They could take what they needed. I didn't agree with that. But Sutter had a way about him. When everyone else was running scared, he had a plan. I…I was drawn to that. I didn't want to feel afraid or worry about what would happen to my father. One thing led to another."
Her crooked fingers tightened around the stroller handle. The malformed bones ached in the cold. "I don't need or want your excuses."
He nodded, gaze on the water, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched like a man defeated. "Coleman would've had me shot. Or hanged. Reynoso, too. Even Bishop, probably. I know it was you. Coleman didn't execute me because of you."
She shook her head, said nothing.
"I understand why you hate me. I have nightmares. Of the things we did. That girl, lying there in the snow…the fire…what I did."
The image of an unconscious Milo trapped in Noah's house flashed through her mind. The stench of the smoke choking her lungs, the heat of the flames, the blind terror as she raced into the burning house.
"You set fire to the house with my son inside. I don't need your gratitude, Luther. I don't need anything from you."
He flinched like she'd slapped him. His gaze flicked to the playground, toward Milo.
"Don't look at him," Hannah said through gritted teeth. "Don't you dare!"
He opened his mouth like he was going to argue with her, try to plead his case, but he pressed his lips together and nodded. "I deserve that."
"Feeling guilty doesn't make you a good person," she said. "Your actions do. If you want to be a good person, be one."
"There's nothing I can do to earn your forgiveness?"
She barked a sharp laugh. "Forgiveness? Are you serious?"
He stared at her, a haunted look in his eyes. Hungry and desperate.
She gave a weary sigh. "We haven't killed you. Accept that and be on your way."
"I owe you. For that. For what you've done for my father." His face twisted like he was fighting back more tears. "Tell me what to do."
She fought down her anger, irritation, and resentment. Agreeing to meet him had gone against her better instincts.
He was miserable and pitiful. He didn't deserve her pity.
She felt a tiny iota of something she wished she didn't.
She met his gaze. "You want redemption?"
"Yes."
"Earn it."
"Tell me how."
Charlotte fussed and whimpered. She was hungry. And too cold. Frustrated, Hannah rocked the stroller back and forth. She had things to do. Better things than this.
They had the General and his army to prepare for.
"It's time for you to go," she said.
Luther grimaced. "When he dies, he'll be alone. My father. I can't bear the thought of that."
"He's not alone. We'll do the best we can to make sure that he's comfortable. That's all I can promise."
"It's something. Thank you. Whatever you want. I'll do it. Just say it. Anything."
Grudgingly, Hannah relented. "Talk to Liam. Maybe he has something for you. As for me, I never want to see you again."
It was harsh, but it was the truth.
He nodded, a spark of hope in his haunted eyes. "That's fair. But I want to. Help, I mean."
She turned to go. "Milo!"
Luther called after her retreating form. "I'm a different man. I'm better. I can be better."
Hannah pushed the stroller faster and didn't answer.
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Four
"Hey, Wolverine!" Quinn yelled over the rumble of the chainsaw.
Liam switched off the chainsaw and straightened. An eerie silence descended, the birds holding their breath.
Quinn hopped off her bike, flicked the kickstand, and adjusted the rifle slung across her back. She rode her bike everywhere now since Gramps' bright orange 1978 Ford F150 Super Cab—the Orange Julius—was nearly out of gas.
She tugged the bag of filled water bottles from the handle; her bandaged hand flared with pain. She ignored it. The cuts had stung the entire bike ride. The bruises on her thighs and torso ached, and her face looked like a smashed watermelon. What else was new?
She had a new respect for Hannah, who accomplished more than most people even with a crippled hand. Strength could look like more than one thing.