The Thrust (6 page)

Upstate New York

Emily and Mason’s cabin

EMILY
Rosen sat with her husband, Mason, and their nearest neighbor, Samuel, around the campfire outside their cabin in upstate New York. The radio was pure static.

“Give it another few cranks,” Emily suggested, and Samuel shrugged but did it.

“He’ll be on soon. That guy. He always is at sundown.”

Sure enough, a man’s deep voice came through the tinny, hand-crank radio.

Good evening, at least I hope it is, wherever you are. It is here, so far
,
the man, who’d called himself Trent on other broadcasts, said.
Here’s the thing, my friends. If you believe in liberty, we need you now, more than ever.

I worry that revealing our location will bring about things we don’t want here. The Army, for one. The government, or what’s left of it. FEMA. The UN. But I also worry that without you, whoever you are who hears this, we won’t be able to help people who truly need our help.

“What does he mean?” Emily asked but quieted when the man on the radio spoke again.

We have word from the camp at Grand Central
, he said.

“Oh my God.” Emily took Mason’s hand and squeezed it.

She wished she could forget her time at Grand Central. Wished she could forget how she was forced to kill a man in self-defense, forced to flee for her life. Mason had been her saving grace back then, guiding her out of the city and into the woods, where they could be safe together.

What did this man on the radio know about Grand Central?

Our friends have been there and made it out, and I have to believe they made it out for a reason. They’ve told us that people are being abused there. Hurt. Tortured. Raped. That people are starving. That Colonel Lanche is not the great leader he’s been touted as being.

“That’s an understatement,” Mason murmured.

If you love liberty, if you can help, join us.

The man on the radio paused.
Hell, I’m scared to death to say who we are, where we are. I have no idea who’s listening. But I’m going to put it out there, and pray to God that I’m not making a mistake.

Because . . . I need to save my sister. She’s still there, still in danger.

Follow the coast. Find us here, in Connecticut. Avoid the FEMA camps at all costs. They are not safe. Just . . . find us. Please. Signing off. Remember this if nothing else . . . live and Letliv.

“He did it again,” Samuel said. “Said live and let live. It’s like his thing. I’m starting to think it’s code for something.”

“We should go there,” Emily whispered. “He said ‘our friends have been there.’ Who? What if Jenna listened to you after all, Mason? What if she escaped, and found this place, this man?”

“It could be anybody,” Mason argued. “We’re safe here. Why should we go to Connecticut . . . follow the coast, like he said?”

“Because,” Emily said simply. “We believe in liberty. And that man, that town . . . they need people like us.”

“Could be a trap,” Samuel said. He cranked the handle on the radio a few more times, but nothing came on.

“Pretty elaborate set-up for a trap,” Emily argued. “He’s been updating us for months. We know they’re eating, fishing, that they haven’t had any deaths in a long time. They’re doing more than just surviving there. They’ve made a new life for themselves.”

“So have we,” Mason said. “This is our life. Samuel’s right, they could have been infiltrated. Who’s to say that man wasn’t relaying that message with a gun to his head? To try and get all the rebels in one place?”

“Or it could be—what if they’re planning on freeing the people at Grand Central?” Emily asked. “I want in on that. I do.”

“No.” Mason stood, brushing off his pants, as if that ended the discussion.

Emily pulled him aside, away from Samuel. “What if I were still there? Wouldn’t you want someone good to come help me, like you did?”

“You’re not still there. You’re safe. If you go back, they’ll kill you. They almost did once.”

Mason wrapped his muscular arms around her protectively, and she rested her head against his heart, listening to the steady thump.

“I love you, Mason,” she said. “But we’ve been listening to this Live and Let Live man for a long time now. He’s never once asked for help. He’s asking now.”

“We’re safe here,” he argued. “Don’t you remember what it was like out there, traveling, on the road? Do you really want to do that again?”

“We’ll avoid the camps. We have guns, and the bow and arrow. We could even travel at night, if you want. But I want to go.” She paused. How could she convince Mason this was the best thing to do?

“What if you’re pregnant?” he asked. “You could be. We don’t know yet.”

“If I’m pregnant, wouldn’t it be better to be in a town of people who could help? That’s safer than being alone in the woods having a baby, right?”

Mason frowned. “Fuck. Let’s sleep on it, okay?”

Emily nodded and smiled up at him. Because that was Mason-speak . . . for yes.

Letliv, Connecticut

TRENT

Trent traipsed back
toward his home, fear hanging heavily over him like a cloud. Had he done the right thing, revealing how their little town could be found?

What if the government was monitoring the stations, and sent troops up the coast of Connecticut to find Letliv? Sure, they were willing and able to protect themselves, but what if the enemy showed up incognito? Wolves in sheep’s clothing. Pretending to want to help, when what they really wanted would be to find out their plans and destroy them before he could get Annie out of Grand Central.

Fuck.

Clarissa was waiting for him on the front stoop. It was a nice sight, to see a woman on his doorstep again. A flash of memory of his wife hit him like lightning before receding.

Thinking about her still hurt. It might never stop hurting.

“How’d it go?” Clarissa asked.

“I asked for help. I just . . . I’m praying that the right people hear and not the wrong ones, you know?” Trent sighed and looked at her again. God, she was beautiful. Her red hair was braided, loose strands flowing around her face.

And her hands were muddy.

“Gardening?” he asked, smiling.

“Even better. Come look what I made.” Clarissa opened the front door for him and he followed her into the kitchen.

Laid out on the table was a large sheet of plywood, probably pilfered from the shed out back. And on top of the wood was a thick layer of sandy mud.

“For our map,” Clarissa explained. “For now, at least.”

She leaned over the board and pointed to some lines she’d drawn in the mud. “These are the main entrances at Grand Central. And these,” she said, reaching across him, “are the side entrances. Down here are the Tracks.”

Her breast brushed against his arm and he felt a tingle run through him at the contact.

Focus, man.

“That’s where Annie is,” Clarissa said. “Barker and Jenna will be able to help me add to this. When we have a good map, we can use it for planning.”

Trent looked at her with renewed appreciation. “This is really good. This is going to help.”

Clarissa smiled and glanced away. “Guess I should go clean up.”

“Want to go swimming? We’ll stay close to the shore.”

“Um . . . at night?”

“Best time. Everyone else will be at home.” Trent grinned.

Clarissa cocked her head to the side as if considering the possibility. “Are we distracting ourselves, Trent? Seriously.”

Trent sighed. “You’re right. I have wood to chop out back, anyway. May as well do it now, when it’s cool out.”

She nodded. Did she look . . . relieved? Relieved that he wasn’t going to try and get her in the sack again?

God, that was depressing. Their afternoon together had been the best time he’d had since the Pulse had hit. When they’d been with each other, everything else disappeared for a moment.

He didn’t have to think about the horrors he’d seen. Or think about what Annie was going through, right at that moment. Not being able to help her, even though he knew where she was . . . That was the worst.

“We’ll get her back,” Clarissa whispered.

“You read minds?” Trent asked, only half-joking.

“If that’s a waitress joke, I’ve heard it before,” she smirked.

“What?”

“Oh, never mind. Because of Sookie Stackhouse, the waitress who could read people’s minds in all those books . . .” She trailed off, as if noticing he had no clue what she was talking about.

He shook his head.

“It was all over your face, that you were thinking about your sister,” she said, “that’s all. That, and you were staring at the X in the mud that marks where Annie is being held.”

“I wish I could go right now. Just storm in there, grab her, and run.”

“You wouldn’t get in,” Clarissa reminded him. “And if you did, you’d be shot trying to escape. You’d get both of you killed. We need to do this, but we need to do it right.”

“Right takes too damn long. I don’t have the patience to wait for our numbers to increase, to wait for our men and women to be trained. Waiting is killing me.”

“No,” Clarissa said, putting her hand, caked with dried mud, on his. “Rushing will kill you. Trust me on this. I want to get them out as badly as you do.”

“Why did you look relieved when I said I’d go chop wood instead of us having a swim together?” he asked bluntly.

Clarissa flushed and shook her head. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to sleep with me if you don’t want to. You can still stay here. I won’t kick you out.”

“No, you don’t get it.” Clarissa took in a shaky breath. “I want to, I do. This whole thing just scares me to death. I don’t want to . . . to lose myself in you.”

“So don’t,” he whispered.

She looked up at him, confusion etched on her beautiful face, and he kissed her.

Clarissa felt the
testosterone flowing off of Trent, felt his body tighten with desire as he enveloped her in his arms.

Don’t lose control of yourself.

She disentangled herself from his arms, but her passion still raged within her. Everything about Trent turned her on.

The fact that they shared the same beliefs, had the same mission . . . that made her feelings for him even more powerful. And even more terrifying.

Because if she let herself fall for a man like Trent . . .

Don’t. Don’t let yourself fall for him.

But the heat between them was undeniable.

Maybe she should try what Jenna had suggested, and take control of the situation herself. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord, unbuttoning his flannel shirt, leaving it hanging open, his bare chest gleaming with a sheen of perspiration.

A thin line of dark, crinkly hair led from his navel down past his waistband. She walked him backward until he was pressed against the kitchen wall, kissing his exposed flesh.

“Let me,” she said, unbuttoning his jeans.

She tugged his pants down around his thighs, his hard cock finally free.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice husky.

“Shh. I want to.” Clarissa’s tongue darted out past her lips, and she tasted him, dropping to her knees before him so she could more comfortably take him in her mouth.

“Oh my God,” he moaned.

Clarissa smiled, fisting the base of his cock while she sucked the head, enjoying the salty musk of him, but enjoying his moans even more. She’d never felt this powerful with a man before.

In the past, she hadn’t had the option to give or receive pleasure at will. Now was the time to make up for all of that. He was hers, for tonight at least. For now.

The heat of his body, his sweat, the wetness of her kisses . . . she took her time bringing him to orgasm. When he came, she swallowed all of it, relishing every last drop.

His climax sounded throughout the house like a cry.

Only when she finished did she notice that the mud that had caked her hands before was now all over him.

“I think I’ve marked you,” she laughed.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I like a dirty girl.”

Clarissa smiled, knowing in her soul that Trent meant to tease her, not to insult her. He didn’t look at her like those soldiers did. He didn’t think of her as an object.

“Maybe,” she suggested, “we should take that swim after all.”

Suddenly, a loud whirring noise filled her ears. A sound she hadn’t heard in over a year.

A helicopter.

“What the fuck is that?” Trent ran outside, buttoning his pants as he went.

Clarissa followed.

The entire town was outside, staring up at the sky.

A white helicopter with the letters UN emblazoned on the side was flying low over the town, dropping bags of . . . paper. Something. Pieces of paper that floated across the streets, strewn across yards, some falling on rooftops.

“What’s going on, Trent?” she asked.

Trent knelt down and picked up one of the pieces of paper from the ground.

“It’s a psyop. From the United Nations.”

Clarissa took the paper from him, her hands trembling. The paper had a picture of a white man shaking hands with a soldier in a uniform and blue helmet, smiling.

Underneath, it read:

The United Nations and America are working together. The UN generously provides aid to those in need and are here as peacekeepers. We are allies.

“Are we, though?” she asked.

“The UN’s invaded to put America under international law,” Trent said. “We’re going to lose any hope of getting rid of martial law and restoring liberty. They’ll take our guns so we can’t fight back. They’ll pass laws no one votes for. Laws that will control where we live, what we do, what we can grow, eat, how we educate our children.” He gestured wildly, pointing to the village. “They’ll imprison the rebels—people like us, here in Letliv. They’ll take
everything
from the people and put it in the hands of the globalists.” He looked down at the paper in her hand. “
That’s
what this means.”