Chapter 16
EVELYN
Night fell hard and fast over Slickwater County, stars pinpricking the black canvas above us like tiny flashlights in a sea of ink.
Dutch’s truck rumbled beneath me, the worn suspension groaning over each rut in the dirt road as we made our way toward the Longfield place. I gripped the door handle, knuckles white, half listening to Dutch rattle off the names of families still on our evacuation list.
Twenty-two unaffected people scattered across miles of ranch land, all needing to be rounded up and moved before the Edge Ops teams began their assault at dawn.
My neighbors.
My friends.
People who’d welcomed Sophia and me when we had nothing but fake names and fabricated backgrounds. Now their lives depended on how quickly Dutch and I could work through the night.
“Longfields first,” Dutch said, his voice rough from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep.
The wound in his arm was bandaged tightly, but I caught him wincing each time we hit a particularly deep hole.
“Then the Craneys and that troublemaking Hollenbeck kid. Four ranch families out past Thunder Basin to wrap it up.”
“How are we explaining this to them?” I asked, the truck’s headlights cutting twin paths through the darkness. “Mind control isn’t exactly an easy sell.”
Dutch snorted. “Truth. They’ve all seen enough to know something’s wrong. Just need someone to confirm they aren’t crazy.”
We pulled up to the Longfields’ ranch house, a weathered two-story that had probably stood since homesteading days.
Before we could kill the engine, the porch light flicked on, and Mr. Longfield appeared with a shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm.
His wife stood behind him, her silver hair gleaming in the yellow porch light.
“I’ve known these folks forty years,” Dutch murmured. “Let me start.”
Mr. Longfield recognized Dutch’s truck and lowered his weapon slightly, but his eyes narrowed when I climbed out. The night air bit through my jacket, carrying the scent of hay and cattle.
“Bit late for social calls, Dutch,” Mr. Longfield called, his weathered face suspicious.
“Not social,” Dutch replied, limping slightly as he approached the porch. “Got trouble in town, Ray. Big trouble.”
Mrs. Longfield stepped forward, her small frame somehow commanding even next to her husband’s bulk. “Is it about everyone acting strange? Sheriff came by yesterday talking nonsense. Used the same exact words three times in a row.” She shook her head. “Like talking to one of those phone robots.”
I felt a rush of relief. They’d noticed. “That’s exactly it, Mrs. Longfield. There’s something in the town water. It’s affecting people’s minds.”
Ray Longfield’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Mind control? That what you’re selling?”
“Seen it myself,” Dutch said flatly. “Beth Morris tried to kill this one’s kid with scissors yesterday. Sheriff’s walking around like someone else is pulling his strings.”
“And Carol Ruper shot at me yesterday,” I added.
The old couple exchanged glances loaded with decades of silent communication.
“Always knew that new cell tower wasn’t just for better reception,” Ray muttered. “Military experiment, is it?”
“Something like that,” I replied. “There are professionals handling it, but we need to get everyone unaffected to safety. Tonight.”
Mrs. Longfield disappeared inside without a word. Three minutes later, she returned with a small suitcase and her husband’s heart medication.
“Figured this day would come eventually,” she said, matter-of-fact. “World’s too strange not to fall apart sometime.”
That resilience—the sturdy practicality of people who’d weathered every kind of hardship—nearly brought tears to my eyes. Twenty minutes later, the Longfields were tucked into the back of Dutch’s truck, and we were bumping down the road toward the Craneys’ place.
Milt Craney met us outside his small house, eyes darting frantically as he ushered us in. His wife Joelle, thin as a rail with ash-blonde hair braided down her back, quietly made coffee while Milt paced their kitchen.
“I told you!” he crowed at Dutch. “Been telling you for months something was happening in The Breaklands! Nobody believed me!”
“Believe you now,” Dutch replied grimly.
Joelle set steaming mugs before us. “He thought it was aliens,” she said with a long-suffering smile. “Or government implants. Turns out it was just the water.”
“And the cell tower,” Milt insisted, eyes wild but lucid. “They’re broadcasting something. Makes people go blank.”
“You’re right,” I told him, watching his chest puff with vindication. “And we need to get you both somewhere safe while it’s dealt with.”
Joelle was already packing, efficient movements born from a lifetime of preparing for Milt’s next conspiracy panic. “Where are we going?”
“Rally point at Lone Quill,” Dutch answered. “We’ve got a medical station set up. Military team’s handling the rest.”
Milt grinned, revealing stained teeth. “Military, huh? Black ops?”
Dutch sighed. “Something like that.”
By the time we reached the Vinsons’ modest home on the edge of town, our truck bed held four evacuees wrapped in blankets against the cold night air.
Nora Vinson, the school secretary who knew every family’s business, answered her door in a bathrobe, her honey-brown hair flattened on one side from sleep.
Behind her, her sixteen-year-old son Cooper watched with those observant hazel eyes that never seemed to miss anything.
“Evelyn,” she said, recognition and concern washing over her face. “Is this about what happened at the school? With Beth?”
I nodded, stepping inside. “You noticed people acting strange?”
“For days now,” she confirmed, shutting the door against the night chill. “Half the parents at conferences this week spoke like they were reading from scripts. And today the school board all showed up wearing the same blue shirts, talking in unison.” She shuddered. “Cooper noticed first.”
The lanky teenager spoke from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “They blink wrong,” he said quietly. “All at the same time. And they don’t look at things normally. Their eyes go to noise, but there’s no... curiosity.”
His observation sent a chill through me. Cooper had always been watching, quietly taking in everything from the sidelines. Now that careful observation might save lives.
“Smart kid,” Dutch said. “You both need to come with us. Now. Grab essentials only.”
Nora hesitated only a moment before nodding. “We have to hurry. Sheriff’s been driving by every hour, watching the house.”
Cooper was already collecting backpacks, moving with quick, efficient motions. “They know who’s affected and who isn’t,” he said. “They’ve been making lists.”
That information made my blood run cold. If they were tracking the unaffected, our evacuation window might be narrower than we thought.
We found Jett Hollenbeck leaning against the wall behind the Stop Over Motel, smoking something definitely illegal. The sullen seventeen-year-old blew smoke rings into the cold night air as Dutch explained the situation.
“Yeah, no shit,” Jett said, flicking ash onto the gravel. “My mom’s been walking around like a zombie. Casey and Tally, too. They kept saying the same things about ‘processing residents’ and ‘the final synchronization.’ Then they tried to drag me to that old mine.” He shuddered. “Creepy as hell.”
“We’re evacuating everyone who hasn’t been affected,” I told him. “You need to come with us.”
Jett considered me through narrowed eyes.
“There’s this guy who’s been staying at the Steinholt ranch.
He showed up a week ago, right before everyone started going zombie.
Bet he’s behind this. Saw him meeting with Vick Steinholt and those security dudes in HighPlains uniforms when I snuck into Tally’s room the other night. ”
My heart stuttered. “Did you see him? What did he look like?”
“Tall, fancy suit. Gray hair at the temples.” Jett’s observant eyes caught my reaction. “You know him?”
I couldn’t speak. Dutch answered for me. “That’s enough questions. Get in the truck, kid.”
Four more stops at isolated ranches yielded seven more evacuees—a young couple with twin toddlers, an elderly man with his adult daughter, and two brothers who worked the oil fields. Each had their own stories of neighbors acting strange, of feeling watched, of water that tasted wrong.
By midnight, we were bumping down the unmarked road toward Lone Quill Reservoir.
The moon had risen, casting silver light across the water’s unnaturally still surface.
Alistair had set up a field medical station in the old lodge, the windows glowing warm against the night.
Tents dotted the clearing around it, makeshift shelters for the evacuees who now numbered twenty-three.
I spotted Sophia immediately, curled in a camp chair near the cabin door, Mr. Hoppy and Agent Waddles still clenched in her arms. Alistair stood nearby, organizing supplies.
“Mommy!” Sophia launched herself into my arms as I climbed from the truck. I buried my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her, letting her solid weight ground me against the chaos.
“Have you been good for Dr. Shaw?” I asked, setting her down but keeping her hand in mine.
She nodded solemnly. “I helped sort bandages. And I showed him how to make a butterfly with paper clips.” Her eyes drifted to the new arrivals climbing from Dutch’s truck. “Are they sick like Ms. Beth?”
“No, sweet pea. They’re fine. Just like us.” I squeezed her hand. “They need a safe place to stay while Trent and his team fix things.”
Nolan stood by his helicopter at the edge of the clearing, running checks on the sleek black machine. His usual irreverence had been replaced by focused intensity, his eyes constantly scanning the tree line.
“Last batch?” he called to Dutch.
“Should be,” Dutch replied, helping Mrs. Longfield down from the truck bed.