The woman invited Nate to go procreate with himself―in words infinitely more colorful―and then slammed the door.
That tingly sensation he often felt when things didn’t seem right was spiking off the chart. He left the front stoop and cut across to the driveway. Wiping the snow from the first vehicle, Nate felt his heart sink.
It was Jay’s black Ford pickup truck. His pride and joy. There was no way in hell he would have sold that, not unless he was preparing to take a step off a bridge or walk into traffic.
The loud growl of an engine drew their attention to the closest intersection. There, a massive truck with a makeshift wedged plow barreled through the snow, kicking it into the air in two even streams.
In another direction came the distinct sound of gunfire. Moments later a group of nomads, bundled against the elements, swung around the corner, fighting against the deep snow. They wore heavy backpacks and dragged a sled behind them. Nate also noticed they were armed—at least one hunting rifle, slung over the shoulder of the lead individual. It was quickly becoming apparent the situation was growing far more dangerous by the second.
“Let’s go,” he said, heading back to the snowmobile.
“Wait, what about your friend?”
Nate didn’t want to answer that just yet. At least not with what his cop instincts were telling him.
“I mean, who’s gonna fix this thing?”
“I’m not sure,” Nate admitted. The three most dreaded words in the English language for any red-blooded American male.
“We’re not leaving town, are we?”
He could see Dakota was chilled to the bone. “Not before we talk to the chief of police.”
Chapter 9
Chicago O’Hare International Airport
Holly and the others reached Concourse C and didn’t feel any safer than they had in the causeway. By now the mob was regrouping from Holly’s attempt to slow them and would be out for blood. Not only that, but unlike between Terminals One and Two, Concourses B and C had no such glass partition. It might not have done the TSA agents much good, but at least it had been something.
As they arrived, fear was already surging through those in Concourse C. The shouts and cries of the rioters followed by Holly’s gunshots in the causeway all signaled that something very bad was happening.
Racing past one gate after another, Holly didn’t dare look behind her. She needed to grab what remained of their possessions and flee. The main way out of Concourse C was via the causeway. The only other option was to brave the brutal weather outside. With snow piled impossibly high―she didn’t think it had stopped snowing for more than a few hours this entire week―their odds of survival would be slim. And yet Holly preferred a gradual and somewhat peaceful death from hypothermia than to die at the hands of a rabid crowd.
Imagine that.
It didn’t help she’d already wounded and perhaps even killed a few of them.
She reached Gate C-25 only to find her and Dillon’s suitcases were missing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. A letter from her now-deceased mother sat at the bottom of the front pocket. And the words written there had been a large part of the reason she’d come to Chicago in the first place.
“The heck’s going on over there?” asked a young man in a jogging suit, looking past her. He had dark, unwashed hair and narrow features.
“Did you see someone steal our suitcases?” she asked him.
“Yeah, some guy came by and took…” the man started to say before his eyes saucered with disbelief. Holly didn’t need to turn around in order to know the angry mob was spilling into Concourse C.
Screams of terror erupted all around them. When she did turn, it was just in time to see two figures leap onto Ann. Eric moved in to save her, swinging one of the celebrity chef knives. More rioters arrived, knocking Eric to the ground and pummeling him with improvised weapons. Everything was happening so fast. Holly was in the process of swinging her pistol toward the mob when she was grabbed by the arm. Holly spun, jamming the barrel of the pistol under her aggressor’s chin.
“Don’t shoot,” the man squealed.
She blinked, not fully comprehending what was going on. He was dressed in a navy-blue winter jumpsuit. Stenciled over his left breast pocket was the American Airlines logo.
“I’m a friend of Doug’s,” the man shouted over the chaos. “Come with me if you still wanna get out of here.”
She and Dillon followed the man through the mayhem swirling all around them. Nearby, she spotted a tall guy in a dark, moleskin coat facing off against two guys in jet-black hoodies. The two men each wielded part of a clothing display rack they’d fastened into makeshift weapons. The guy in the suit dropped to his knees, his arms raised protectively. Holly raised her pistol and shot both attackers. They collapsed and the man in the coat turned to face her, his jaw hanging open in shock and horror. It was Johnny.
She hesitated for what felt like a full minute, but was probably no more than half a second. “A girl just saved your life. I hope you were worth the bullets.” She put out a hand. “Now come on.”
The three of them followed the stranger down toward Gate 31. From there they ran out an emergency exit and into thigh-deep snow. The cold wind struck them at once with shocking force. While the airport had been chilly, it hadn’t been anything like this. Even during those brief forays filling up her sealable coffee mug with snow, things hadn’t felt so glacial. And also so final.
Ten yards away was the snowcat, an enclosed airport snowplow on tracks. The yellow emergency lights were flashing but there was no one inside.
“Where’s Doug?” Holly yelled, fighting to be heard over the wind.
“He didn’t make it,” the man explained sorrowfully. “He was killed in the riots two days ago.”
When they got to the cat, they climbed onto the thick rubber tracks, Holly bending onto one knee to help Dillon scramble up. Seconds later, all of them were inside, settling into one of four seats. Tucked in a narrow space behind them were their few meager possessions.
As the stranger who’d rescued them started the snowcat’s engine, Holly and Johnny stared back at Concourse C. What they saw there was like something out of the old fire-and-brimstone sermons Holly had listened to as a teenager. When the end of the world finally arrived, this was how her pastor had imagined it would look. Man indiscriminately killing his fellow man, his heart brimming with bloodlust and evil.
The snowcat was pulling away and Holly watched as dozens of innocent people streamed out of the airport exits, trading certain death inside for possible death out here. It was a similar calculation she had made. And yet, unlike the other poor souls trundling now through the deep snow, her scenario had involved an enclosed vehicle. With the shock of what they’d just been through still lingering about her, Holly turned to thank the man who had saved their lives.
“Name’s Manny,” he said, shaking each of their hands in turn. He looked young, no more than twenty-two, maybe twenty-three years old. His skin was the color of raw almonds, his cheeks badly pockmarked from what looked like the ravages of teenage acne. He threw the cat into gear and they shook as it lumbered forward. The vehicle was in its natural habitat and yet even that didn’t stop it from fighting for every meter of forward motion. Thankfully, Manny or someone else had thought enough to remove the shovel, which would only have prevented them from moving forward.