Edge of Survival Box Set 1 Read online

  Diana responded before Beth could even click the transmit button.

  “Ralph, if you step one foot inside that exhibit, I will fire you, then sue you to bankrupt your family!”

  What a nightmare. The last thing Beth wanted was to get Ralph caught up in the ongoing feud between her and the new director.

  “Ralph, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Ralph, get back to your job while you still have one!”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Good luck, Dr. West.”

  Against her better judgment, Beth keyed the talk button. “Diana, it’s nice to know you care, but I’m heading inside.”

  “Don’t test me, Elizabeth! Entering the habitat with an animal present is strictly forbidden. Breaking that regulation will result in an internal review and inquest by the board of directors.”

  Did she really have to have this conversation now? Right this minute? Unbelievable!

  “Jane is in trouble,” Beth spat with more venom than half the cobras in the snake house. “This is an emergency.”

  “The board and I will decide that issue if we must.”

  “You do your job, and I’ll do mine,” Beth said through gritted teeth and tight jaws. She cranked the volume dial until the unit turned off and then returned it to her hip. She bit back the taste of bile rising in her throat.

  She’d deal with the consequences later.

  Beth threw back the heavy steel bolt that held the door tight. She dug her shoulder into the thick metal and shoved. It screeched open until she had enough to slip through.

  She wasn’t going to lose Jane or her babies. That was the only thing that mattered.

  7

  THERESA WEST sat in American History class with a sleepy look on her face. She replayed over and over the accident that morning. The blood streaming from the man’s eyes. His body in the air. The images circled round and round in her mind.

  Despite the buzzing in her brain, her body was tired from staying up late last night. She covered her mouth and stifled a yawn. She seriously needed a Red Bull. Her stomach grumbled in protest at the thought.

  It hadn’t forgotten two weeks ago when she spent the night with her best friend since third grade, Holly Pearson. Holly snuck some vodka from her dad’s liquor stash and replaced the lifted amount with water. They locked themselves in her room and cranked the music, drinking vodka mixed with Red Bull until Theresa ended up in the bathroom puking her guts out. She’d managed to hit the toilet most of the time.

  Theresa was going to be super upset if Holly had ruined her favorite drink.

  A sickening bubble trickled up her throat and popped in her closed mouth. She breathed out a foul exhale and hoped no one nearby noticed, especially not Elio in the seat diagonally in front of her.

  He’d arrived super late to class, even later than she did. He never seemed to care about school. His disinterest should’ve rung the alarm bells and warned her away, but he was just so awkwardly cute.

  Light brown skin matched to mysterious dark brown eyes. A little on the skinny side, but he looked good in the black and gold Los Angeles Football Club jersey he always wore.

  Elio was a rabid LAFC fan. Being an equally rabid LA Galaxy fan herself, it was something she had to overlook. Her dad took her to games when his schedule lined up with a game night. She totally loved a night at the StubHub stadium. The crowd. The goals. The players. Definitely the players. Soccer guys were hot. It was like a law or something.

  She returned her attention to class as the history teacher strolled through the aisles talking about something she should’ve been listening to. She stole a glance at him and wondered if her tardiness was going to land her in the principal’s office later.

  One more tardy mark and she was in trouble. She’d already gotten a big warning after the last one. Probably be after-school detention. She’d done everything she could to get out of the house on time. They would’ve made it if not for the accident. If not for her dad stopping to help what couldn’t be helped. If only he would allow Holly to take her to school, none of this would’ve happened.

  Holly would’ve run the red light and so they never would’ve seen that guy.

  Most of her tardies were to to Trig class after lunch, and most of those were definitely Holly’s fault. The problem was that Holly saw lunch as a prime socializing time. And once she got started, it was nearly impossible to get her back on schedule.

  Theresa turned to look out the window as a raven alighted on a lamp post outside. Glossy black feathers and a prominent black beak. It tilted its head to the side and peered at something held in its claws.

  She’d read about how smart they were. That they dropped nuts into traffic and let the cars crack open the ones that were too hard for them to get into by themselves.

  Pretty amazing for an animal with a brain the size of a walnut.

  Her mind wandered and she recalled how some cultures saw the appearance of a raven as a sign foretelling of dark things to come. She didn’t necessarily believe that. Although this time it might be right because detention was likely in her future.

  Thoughts of smart ravens and dark futures dissolved as the history teacher rapped a knuckle on her desk.

  “Did you not understand the question, Miss West?”

  She shook her head, not because she hadn’t understood it, but because she hadn’t heard it in the first place.

  “I presume you read the assignment,” he said with a tone that presumed just the opposite.

  She’d read it.

  Okay, skimmed it.

  Okay, skimmed the highlights.

  “Sorry, what was that again?”

  Holly sniggered, seated at the desk to her left.

  “Miss Pearson, do you have something to contribute?”

  She shook her head violently and slumped down in the wooden seat. The kind that made sure you didn’t get comfortable enough to doze off.

  “No, sir,” she replied with her gaze glued to the floor.

  Guaranteed she didn’t read the assignment.

  “What a surprise,” he replied. He turned back to Theresa. “Why do you think the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina turned out as it did?”

  Theresa considered the highlights from the various online articles that she’d read. Glanced through, at least.

  From the tragic inexperience of “Heckuvajob” Brownie (all the articles called him that). To the political turf war of local, state, and federal players vying for the spotlight. To the repeatedly ignored warnings from the Army Corps of Engineers about the state of the levees protecting New Orleans. To the just-in-time delivery systems that fed all major cities in the United States and left each with no more than three days of food in grocery stores before another truck needed to show up or the shelves went bare.

  From what she’d gathered, it seemed like the abundant, secure reality that seemed so solid the day before landfall was washed away in no time.

  As if it never truly existed.

  Worse yet, the assumed security of knowing rescue was on the way turned out to be just as false. There was plenty of blame to pass around. But in her mind, it came down to one thing in the end—especially after discussing it with her father.

  “There were lots of causes and contributors to the problems. But it boils down to one thing. The people weren’t prepared for an emergency of that scale.”

  The teacher looked at her in quiet contemplation for a moment, as if surprised by her analysis.

  “Do you think anyone can be adequately prepare for a category five major hurricane?”

  “Not completely, no. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. And most people aren’t prepared for any kind of emergency. Being somewhat prepared would be ten times better than not prepared at all.”

  He chewed on that response for another minute.

  “And what do you think might happen if a similar event occurred in Los Angeles?”

  Theresa’s train of thought stumbled and derailed. These were problems that happened to other
people, in faraway places. Sure, there might be a freak traffic accident where people died. This was the land of a million speeding cars, after all.

  But big disasters?

  She’d never considered what it might be like here. If her home was destroyed. If she was in danger like those people that survived in the days and weeks that followed Katrina.

  Thankfully, she realized an obvious fact.

  “Um, we don’t get hurricanes here.”

  “No, but we have no shortage of other disasters waiting in the wings. A record drought that has the Los Angeles region buying or stealing water to keep our golf courses and front yards green. Infectious diseases once thought beaten showing up throughout the state. The largest forest fire in a hundred years even now burning out of control up in the San Gabriel Valley. Maintenance problems with the San Onofre power plant requiring an emergency shutdown. The San Andreas fault that is long overdue for a major quake.”

  Behind him, Holly rolled her eyes, made a pistol with her hand, and set the barrel to her temple. She dropped her thumb and her tongue fell out of her mouth.

  Theresa suppressed a giggle and coughed to cover what escaped.

  The teacher didn’t notice. He looked around the room and paused at the window as he noticed the raven outside. It perched on the lamp post, calmly dipping its head, tugging intestines out of the carcass held in its glistening red claws.

  “You never know what the day will bring.”

  8

  MASON pulled to a stop in his driveway and stared out the windshield. What a morning. Witnessing the gruesome accident brought back memories of his time in Iraq. Many that were just as horrible, and a few that were far worse. The vague feeling of danger piqued his protective instincts for his daughter, for his wife.

  For Elio.

  Elio was the toughest to take because he had so little input in his life. If it were up to him, he’d be more involved, but the boy’s mother Maria wouldn’t allow it. She’d never forgiven Mason for not bringing her husband David home.

  David wouldn’t have stood for Elio’s flirtation with gang life. Not for a second. But then, maybe Elio wouldn’t have felt the draw if his father had been there all these years.

  But David was gone and Mason couldn’t change what happened. He couldn’t magically trade places; a life for a life only worked in storybooks. And thinking about it only threatened to pull him under.

  Maria had drifted away after Mason returned from duty. Returned when David hadn’t. The widening rift wasn’t all her fault. He’d returned carrying new scars. The worst being those not visible to the eye. He hadn’t been able to face her for a long time.

  He still couldn’t face himself.

  Mason shook off the shadow. He couldn’t go back.

  That was history.

  His story.

  The blackest chapter.

  Mason gritted his teeth and stared at nothing in particular. His knuckles turned white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

  There was no getting around it. He had to call her. He’d promised that much, at the least.

  A wet tongue lapping at his fingers pulled him up out of the gloom. Max going after the microscopic remains of the failed breakfast that morning. Mason gave him a rough scratch on the neck.

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  He jumped out of the Bronco and Max followed. The dog barked once and bounded for the front door, his thick torso swaying back and forth like a lion. Mason slammed the car door shut and looked to the north.

  The sky appeared darker than earlier in the morning.

  The fires had to be going strong up there. Depending on the area, the weekend trip to Ojai might be impacted. If they had to cancel, Theresa would be upset. It would be the third time in a row they’d had to cancel plans. He understood that life was sometimes like that. But that didn’t make it easier to explain to a fifteen-year-old intent on cuddling and naming newly hatched chicks. And an eighty-six-year-old Tito wasn’t any easier to let down.

  Disappointment aside, if their safety was at risk, they’d postpone. He’d corral his family on the west side of Los Angeles for one more weekend. Keep everyone safe on this side of the wildfires. They could hit the beach. For living less than a mile away, it was a cardinal sin how infrequently they got out on the sand.

  Mason was about to head inside when Otis Crayford called from the next driveway over.

  He didn’t look good. Which was saying something for a man already crumpled with age.

  “Good morning, Mason,” Otis said in a tired voice. He shuffled forward and Mason closed the distance so he wouldn’t have to go out of his way. The old man carried a bouquet of freshly cut Gerbera daisies from his flowerbed. Their cheerful glow made the shadow hanging over Otis all the more pronounced.

  Max darted at the old man, intent on smelling every millimeter of his pant legs.

  “Max! Stop that!” Mason shouted. Max looked back with unfulfilled longing, hoping he’d misunderstood. “I mean it.”

  Max trotted over and peed on the bushes under the front window.

  “Good morning, Otis.”

  Otis held out the flowers. “These are for Beth. Mabel would want someone to enjoy them while they’re in full bloom.”

  Mason accepted the gift. “Thank you. How’s she feeling?”

  Otis dropped his gaze and shook his head. “They ended up making her stay the night. I haven’t slept in a bed by myself in decades. Fitful, horrible night.” His eyes teared up. “Worse for her, I’m sure. Alone in a big hospital.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Otis waved Mason off as if he and his wife’s suffering were no cause for others’ concern. They were old world like that. Otis only let Mason help out when he absolutely had to. That assistance grew bit by bit over the years, as the octogenarian slowed down. Mason was happy to help. He considered it a small payment toward his enormous debt in life.

  “I’m heading back to the Reagan Center now,” Otis said. “Mabel’s most likely tapping her toes wondering why I’m not already back with her over night belongings. Fifty years together and she still has the patience of a child.”

  The observation might have been harsh, except a smile crept into the corners of his lined face as he said it. They had the kind of love that stuck through thick and thin. Through wars, economic expansions and recessions. Through presidents assassinated or nearly so. Through the rise and fall of grand political theater that tore the world apart, time and again.

  Yet, they stuck together.

  They were in it to the end.

  Mason admired them deeply for their commitment. He liked to think that he and Beth were on the same track, only thirty plus years earlier.

  “She’ll be happy to see you,” he replied.

  Otis grinned and a glimmer of youthful optimism showed through the crevices of his craggy skin.

  “If I don’t make it back by noon, mind checking on Mr. Piddles?”

  Mr. Piddles was their ridiculously overweight cat that had a penchant for peeing on the carpets. Hence the name. The rotund feline tolerated Mason because he occasionally fed him when the Crayfords were out. He’d even go so far as to brush against Mason’s leg once or twice to indicate he approved of being fed.

  “Don’t mind at all.”

  “You’ve still got the key?”

  It hadn’t gone anywhere for years.

  “Of course.”

  “You know he gets cranky if he isn’t fed precisely at noon.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  Otis paused for a moment, as if assessing whether Mason was a fit guardian. Perhaps deciding he had no better option, he nodded.

  “Be back soon as I can.”

  “See you soon, Otis.”

  The old man nodded and then shuffled toward his pristine wood-paneled, 1951 Buick Roadmaster. His pride and joy. The thing that he arguably loved as much as Mabel. He patted the flared fender then tugged open a heavy steel door that clearly tested his atr
ophied muscles.

  Mason waved and then strode up the steps to his house, skipping the wobbly second step, and let himself in.

  9

  After he dropped his keys in the entry table drawer, he poured a tall glass of water from their stainless steel countertop filtration system. The mirror polish made it sit right at home in the contemporary kitchen. It looked good and worked even better. The company claimed you could dump in pond water and it would come out clear as glass and perfectly healthy to drink. Mason had never tried it, but it was definitely the best water he’d ever tasted.

  He swigged down the whole glass in one continuous gulp. Partially quenched, he flicked on the TV and flipped to a local news station. A commercial trumpeted in his face. He’d never tested it empirically, but his ears told him that commercials ran at twice the volume of whatever you tuned in to actually watch. He muted it as an adult in a chicken outfit squawked about car dealership deals and closeouts so good they’d be crazy to extend them beyond the coming weekend.

  They apparently were crazy as he saw this chicken on TV all the time.

  He set the empty glass on the countertop and turned away from the screen. Even with no sound, watching this garbage was mind pollution. Not facing the screen, he had to face a decision.

  He had to call Maria. It had been too long. He dug the phone out of his front pocket and stared at the virtual dialing pad.

  He knew the number by heart, even if he rarely dialed it. That wasn’t the whole truth. He’d dialed it a thousand times over the years. But then deleted the digits before hitting the green Call button. Only a few times had made it to the green button. The few times he’d had something important to say.

  Not the most important thing. He’d never be able to surrender that story.

  Mason’s stomach lurched and rolled. He dialed the numbers and punched the green button. It rang a moment and her voice answered.

  “What?”

  “Hi Maria, how are you this morning?”

  “Did you really call to find out how I’m feeling? Because if so, I’m hanging up.”