Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(14)
“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.
She hobbled across the road toward Liam, wincing at the fire in her ribs. “I brought you fresh water from our pump. It’s Whitney’s job, but I volunteered.”
Quinn kept her slingshot and a few flechettes in her jacket pocket, but she’d upgraded in weaponry. She took the AR-15 everywhere, the Berretta pistol holstered at her waist, and the karambit blade fit snug at her belt.