Bedlam

  THE WORLD FALLEN SERIES

  Pandemonium

  Maelstrom

  Bedlam

  Copyright © 2021 by Susanna Strom

  This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, organizations and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Visit my website at www.susannastrom.com

  https://www.facebook.com/Susanna-Strom-Author-101447404809167/

  Developmental Editor: Christina Trevaskis

  www.bookmatchmaker.com

  Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley

  Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Brittany Meyer-Strom

  brittanym.edits@gmail.com

  Cover Designer: Lori Jackson Design

  www.lorijacksondesign.com

  Photography: Wander Aguiar Photography

  www.wanderbookclub.com

  Model: Philippe Belanger

  ISBN ebook: 978-1-7348292-4-2

  ISBN paperback: 978-1-7348292-5-9

  Published by Cougar Creek Publishing LLC

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  ONE

  Sunny

  Laughter shattered the quiet afternoon, followed by the crunch of breaking glass. I froze in place then slowly swiveled my head toward the front window of the abandoned florist shop. Across the street, two men wearing blue baseball caps stood in front of a derelict cigar store. One held a wooden bat while the other spray-painted the shop’s door. A red capital letter N took shape against the white background.

  Crap.

  I clicked off my flashlight and dropped to my knees behind a display table.

  Why were the Nampa Boys tagging a shop inside the Boise city limits? We had a treaty with them. We’d keep out of the territories they claimed—Nampa and other communities west of Boise—and they’d stay out of the city.

  Holding my breath, I peered around the table at the men. They stepped back on the sidewalk, probably to admire their handiwork. One of them clapped the other on the shoulder. Both men looked up and down the street, pointing and waving their arms.

  I shrank back further into the shadows and glanced longingly toward my duffel bag on the opposite side of the room. Would it be smarter to stay in place or to crawl across the room and fetch the bag? Late afternoon sunshine bathed the floor near the shop’s plate glass windows. The men probably wouldn’t see me worm my way across the linoleum, but I couldn’t be sure. Better to hold still. I turned my eyes to the men again.

  Please. Please. Please. There’s nothing you want over here. Don’t cross the street.

  The men continued their animated conversation, leaving me pinned down behind the table. Dead flower arrangements—Mother’s Day roses and tulips—covered its surface. The leaves and petals had long since wilted and dried, some crumbling over time into powder. The dust tickled my nose, and I pinched my nostrils together.

  Don’t sneeze. The urge passed, and I peeked at the men again. Still yapping.

  “Time to move on, guys,” I whispered.

  Hidden in the shadows of a florist shop, I should be safe.

  Within the first weeks of the flu pandemic, panicked people had cleaned out all the grocery stores and pharmacies. Liquor stores, too, so I’d heard. If the men across the street were smokers, they might break into the cigar store to see if any stogies remained. But a flower shop filled with shriveled bouquets, deflated balloons, and stuffed animals? No. It had to be the least likely place to attract looters during an apocalypse. I should know. Scavengers like me systematically ransacked stores and our dead neighbors’ houses, hauling away everything of value.

  I sighed. What was the number one rule for scavengers? Always use the buddy system. Never go out alone. Yet here I was—by myself—in the middle of a deserted store. Sara would pitch a fit if I told her, which of course, I wouldn’t. I take that back. I’d tell her that I saw Nampa Boys inside Boise, but I wouldn’t confess the precise circumstances. The head of the Haven didn’t need to know about everything I got up to while I was out and about.

  Dad used to reel off a quote, something about asking for forgiveness instead of permission. Who was he quoting? I couldn’t remember. Once upon a time—before the pandemic—if you forgot the source of something, you turned to Google. Not anymore. Not with the power grid down and the internet dead. Now you had to hope that you’d find the right person to ask, or you’d learn to live with your unsatisfied curiosity.

  “Come on,” I hissed at the chatty men.

  The men ambled over to a red hatchback that was parked in front of the cigar store and climbed in. After another interminable moment, the driver started the engine and drove away. I blew out a long, slow breath. I waited for a couple of minutes—just to be sure—then scrambled across the room and snatched the duffel.

  I was breaking the rules by foraging for supplies by myself. I had to pick up the pace, especially if I hoped to get home behind locked doors before dark. Pressing my face against the window, I scanned the street in both directions. The Nampa Boys were well and truly gone. I was safe, for now.

  Lucky for me, the florist shop wasn’t quite the dud that it appeared to be. Against the back wall, the owner had installed a Best of Britain selection of imported teas and biscuits, cookies to my American mind. Mom used to pick up her favorite Harney & Sons tea here. I carried the duffel to the back of the store and smiled to myself as I surveyed the shelves.

  Score.

  I stuffed a dozen tins of tea into the bag, followed by shortbread rounds, ginger creams, Jammie Dodgers and—joy of joys—Jaffa cakes. I cleaned the place out, shoving so many packages of cookies into my duffel that I couldn’t close the zipper. I managed—barely—to hoist the bag’s strap onto my shoulder and staggered out of the shop toward Daisy, my faithful van.

  Fifteen minutes later, I turned in to a residential neighborhood on the west side of town. Pretty 1920s-era bungalows lined the dead-end street. I parked in the driveway of Cressida’s Cottage, Mrs. B.’s name for the dove-gray house with pink shutters where she’d lived for the past forty-five years. I transferred several tins of tea and packages of cookies into a paper grocery bag and folded over the top to hide the contents, then walked up the brick pathway to her front door.

  Cressida Birdwhistle opened the door before I had the chance to knock, a fluffy white-and-tan cat draped over her arm. “Sunny!” she exclaimed. A tiny woman with a crown of
silver hair, she stood barely four feet, eleven inches tall. She was once “a whopping five feet tall” she’d told me, before old age compressed her vertebrae. Her bright-pink lips turned up in a welcoming smile—not even the end of the world could stop Mrs. B. from wearing her favorite lipstick—and she ushered me inside. “I was just telling Fitzwilliam that I expected you’d stop by today. We looked out the window, and there you were.”

  “Hey, Fitzwilliam.” I scritched his massive ruff, and his blue eyes squinted with pleasure. “I have a surprise for you, Mrs. B.” I dangled the grocery bag in front of her.

  Her faded blue eyes sparkled, and she bounced on her toes. Fitzwilliam wriggled, and Mrs. B. gently placed him on the floor. “Off with you then.” He sauntered toward the kitchen while Mrs. B. led me to her living room. Shelves crammed full of books and Staffordshire figurines lined three walls of the room, a fitting setting for a retired librarian and English expatriate. We settled down on an apple-green couch covered with pink and green pillows.

  Mrs. B. clasped her hands together on her lap, giddy with excitement over her surprise. I made a show of opening the bag and slowly taking out a box of Jaffa cakes. She gasped; her face suffused with pleasure. “Wherever did you find Jaffa cakes?”

  Mrs. B. was an inspiration. Despite the chaotic state of the world, she embraced moments of joy with childlike glee. Ever since she’d confessed to a hankering for the orange and chocolate cookies, I’d been on a quest to bring them to her. The Jaffa cakes made her happy, and it troubled my conscience not one bit that I’d given her every box I’d found. The cookies were a windfall, and Sara would be thrilled when I brought the rest to the Haven.

  “A florist shop, of all places. Luckily, it hadn’t been ransacked.” There was no point in telling her about my close call with the Nampa Boys.

  “Lucky for me,” she agreed, tearing open the package. She tilted the box toward me. “Have one.”

  We munched in companionable silence. I glanced out her front window. The sun grazed the treetops on the opposite side of the street. Time to get going.

  The Haven brought Mrs. B. food, water, and other supplies every Sunday, but there was never time during those trips to help around the place, so I stopped by at least once a week on my own. “Is there anything I can do for you before I have to leave?” I asked.

  Mrs. B. made a face. “I pulled a muscle in my back this morning hanging sheets on the clothesline. Would you be a dear and bring them in?”

  “No problem.” I hopped to my feet and headed toward the backyard. After hauling in the sheets, I made up her bed, then did a quick inventory of her supplies. I’d need to bring more cans of cooking fuel for her camp stove. Mrs. B. needed her hot tea.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” I asked, giving Fitzwilliam a final pat.

  She hesitated, as if reluctant to ask for a favor. She held up her hands. “My fingers might be a little stiff, but I still love to knit. Could you keep your eyes open for yarn when you’re rummaging about town?”

  “Of course, I will.” I hugged her, careful not to squeeze too hard. Mrs. B. had a powerhouse personality, but arthritis had left her joints and bones frail. “Especially pink yarn.”

  She laughed, then pulled back to smile up at me. “Jaffa cakes and pink yarn, Sunny, you’re a saint.”

  I snorted. “My brother would laugh his ass off if he heard that.” A familiar pain made my chest ache. I pushed the memory away, focusing on the present. “I’ll see you in a few days.” As I turned to go, a thought occurred to me. “Mrs. B., there’s this saying, ‘It’s better to beg forgiveness than to seek permission.’ Do you know where it comes from?”

  “I believe St. Benedict was credited with saying it first, back in the sixth century.”

  I dropped a kiss on her upturned cheek. “We might not have the internet anymore, but as long as we have Mrs. B., we’ll be okay.”

  She blushed at the praise and flapped her hands. “Get along now. I want you home before dark.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I jogged to my van. I’d hoped to stop at the Haven, to tell them about seeing the Nampa Boys tag a building in town, but with night approaching, I decided that could wait till tomorrow. I headed north toward home. The light shifted as I drove, taking on the golden hue that signaled the coming of sunset. When I pulled into my driveway, I jumped from the van, unlocked the garage door, and muscled it open.

  “I miss garage door openers,” I muttered.

  After concealing Daisy behind closed doors, I let myself into the house, making my way through the laundry room to the kitchen. Would I ever get used to coming home to an empty place? I glanced around the silent room, picturing Mom at the stove, cooking up one of her favorite curries. Or Dad at the counter, kneading sourdough bread. They’d have a fit if they saw the state of the kitchen.

  In case anybody broke in while I was out, it had to be obvious that the place had been stripped bare. I’d painstakingly staged the room to give that impression. Wide-open cupboard doors revealed empty shelves. The silverware drawer lay upside down on the floor, forks and spoons scattered across the hardwood. Spice jars had apparently crashed to the counter when an impatient looter swept them from a cupboard. The pantry had been cleared out.

  I’d hidden my stockpile of foodstuffs behind rows of books on the shelves in my bedroom. After fetching a can of beef and barley soup and a lunch-sized carton of applesauce from my hoard, I carried my sorry dinner to the gazebo. I popped the lid off the soup can and dug into cold, congealed beef and barley. The applesauce was a rare treat. I savored each bite as I watched the sun go down.

  Night settled in around me. Stars winked in the darkening sky. The air chilled. A mosquito buzzed as it flew by my head. That propelled me into action. Slapping at my arms, I snatched up the empty soup can and applesauce container and sprinted toward the house.

  After locking the patio door, I walked through the empty family room. Silence pressed in from every side. I felt my family’s absence most keenly during these quiet evenings. I was a social creature and drew energy from my interactions with others. I’d taken to going to bed early, so I didn’t have to face the long, melancholy hours alone.

  I switched on a solar powered lantern and made my way upstairs to my bedroom. Maybe I’d read for a while before I tried to sleep. Lantern in hand, I scanned the titles on my shelf. Nothing looked especially appealing. Frustrated, I turned away, then paused. Wait a minute. Last week, Mrs. B. had lent me a copy of one of her favorite novels, the story of a time-traveling nurse and a “yummy” Highland lord. I’d left the book downstairs on the coffee table.

  I started to retrace my steps back to the family room. Halfway down the hall, a sound broke the silence, the unmistakable creak of somebody climbing the stairs. I froze. Maybe I wasn’t as stealthy and careful as I thought. Maybe the Nampa Boys—or some other survivor with bad intentions—had followed me home. But I’d locked all the doors, hadn’t I? I hadn’t heard glass shatter. How did they get in?

  Good lord, get moving.

  Whirling, I ran back to my bedroom. With fumbling fingers, I switched off the lantern and snatched up the trophy I’d earned for winning a spelling bee in sixth grade. Footsteps sounded in the hall. I pressed against the wall behind my bedroom door and lifted the trophy above my head, ready to strike.

  The door inched open, and a tall figure stepped into the room. He cocked his head, then slowly began to turn toward my hiding place. Crap. Holding my breath, I swung the trophy.

  He sidestepped the blow, then lunged at me, pinning my arms to my sides in a bear hug. I thrashed about, trying to free my arms. We staggered sideways across the room, falling heavily onto my bed. He wrestled me onto my back. The air whooshed out of my lungs and I gasped.

  “What do you think you’re doing, asshole?” a familiar voice growled.

  TWO

  Kyle

  Turns out that not even the end of the world could kill my default optimism. A mile away from my o
ld home, I rounded a familiar corner, and my heart began to pound against my chest.

  Before the world fell apart, I’d rarely encountered a problem I couldn’t sweet-talk, finagle, or bribe my way out of. If I’d learned anything during the four months since a new flu virus upended the world, it was that a man had to expect the worst and be prepared to deal with it. Still, the hope that things might somehow work out for the best —an emaciated but tenacious hope—clung like a barnacle to some small corner of my mind.

  I rolled the pickup to a stop a few feet from the entrance to Northumberland Heights, the gated community in Boise where I’d grown up. A Tudor style guardhouse stood sentry in the middle of the road. The brick-and-stucco exterior gave the small building an appearance of grandeur, but beneath the fancy-pants veneer, it was your standard four-by-six-foot guard shack.

  How many times had I driven past this checkpoint on my way home? Hundreds, no, it had to be thousands of times. Before the flu pandemic, security personnel had manned the gate twenty-four, seven. They’d wave at homeowners whose key cards tripped the swinging metal gate and check the ID of everybody else before allowing them into the neighborhood. This enhanced security was one of the reasons why my mom had insisted on moving into Northumberland Heights.

  Leaning forward, I peered through the windshield at the guardhouse. Somebody had busted out its windows, and the shattered glass glinted on the surface of the road. The gate barring entrance to the neighborhood hung cockeyed from its steel post, dented, like a car had rammed it at speed.

  I sighed. Yeah. I should’ve known that hope would kick me in the balls. That illusion of protection offered by the security guards and gate had proven as phony as the shack’s ornate facade. So much for my fantasy that the old neighborhood had somehow survived the pandemic unscathed.

  I took my foot off the brake, eased the pickup forward, and nudged the dinged-up gate out of the way. Turning left onto Surrey Drive, I traced the familiar route back toward my childhood home. I swung my head from side to side, scanning the street and yards for any signs of life. Survivors. Looters. Squatters. Anybody. Shoot, I’d even welcome the sight of crabby, old Mrs. Kaminski walking her Pomeranian and yelling at drivers to slow the heck down. Nothing. Not a soul in sight.