Chapter 6 #2
He walks into the kitchen, tossing his reply over his shoulder without breaking stride. "We’ll be fine for a few days. Caleb knows our location. If I don’t check in, he’ll come looking."
My voice pitches at his effortless certainty. "But they’re in North Dakota. There’s no way they can reach us."
Silas places the grocery bags on the counter and finally eyes me. The look is steady, unblinking. "I trust my team, Ava."
I swallow hard, feeling a rush of heat in my cheeks. "It’s not about that. How can they possibly fly if the conditions get worse?"
“They’re not flying commercial minimums,” he says, his tone making it clear the subject is closed. “Different aircraft. Different rules.”
The casualness of it stings. Is he really suggesting he’d put his team in danger for this? “Just because they can,” I say, “doesn’t mean they should.”
His head tilts slightly. “I agree. Which is why we don’t miss radio check-ins.”
Before I can voice another protest, he gestures toward the rest of the cabin. “Why don’t we take a look around? Get our bearings.”
I release a weary sigh and abandon the argument. I want reassurance that lives won't be at risk because of me, but Silas isn’t going to engage. I’d be fighting a losing battle to even try.
We start with the bedrooms. The main room is dominated by a heavy log-frame king bed, a patchwork quilt folded tight at the foot. A mounted deer skull watches from above the headboard, flanked by faded camo jackets on pegs and a pair of mud-caked boots shoved beneath a bench.
Next to it is a smaller room cramped with bunk beds and plastic storage bins stacked to the ceiling. Fishing tackle, spare fuel cans, and a folded camp table are wedged into the corner—it’s clearly more of a storage closet than a bedroom.
“I’ll take this room,” he says.
I glance at the narrow bunks, then back at his broad frame. I shake my head. “You won’t sleep a wink. I’ll take it.”
He shifts his weight, blocking the doorway. “I can sleep anywhere. And this room has a better view of the road.”
I look past him at the small window. The driveway is visible, a gray strip cutting through the pines. “But surely—”
He holds up a hand. Not impolite, but firm. “Have you ever used a satellite phone?”
When I shake my head, he leaves the room, returning ten seconds later with a squat black device. Its casing is scuffed, the edges sealed against the elements, a stubby antenna tucked tight, and a single green light pulsing like a heartbeat.
He glances at his watch. “We’re due a check-in.”
Silas keys the device without looking at the buttons. “Hightower Actual to Watchtower. Radio check.”
He pauses, listening.
“Copy. We’re on site. Two souls present. Weather’s deteriorating but contained. Generator online. No movement on the road.”
Silas’s eyes meet mine, and he holds the device out. “Delilah. She’d like to speak with you.”
Surprised, I accept the phone. It feels heavy and cold in my palm. I press it to my ear while Silas looks on, his expression hovering somewhere near bemused.
"Uh, hello?"
"Oooh, they never let me do this… Are you holding up okay?"
"I'm fine, Delilah." I turn slightly away from Silas, lowering my voice as if that could provide any privacy in this cabin. "Are you keeping up with your physio?"
"Haven't missed a day. And don't you worry—we'll find him." Her voice softens, turning certain. "And you're with the best person right now. Silas won't let anything happen to you. And your mom is safe."
I exhale slowly, bracing one hand against the wooden windowsill. "Thank you. I appreciate everyone going to so much trouble for us."
"Of course! But Verity and I agree—" she drops into a conspiratorial whisper, "—that you should totally go full Sarah Connor. Just in case."
I blink at the glass. "I beg your pardon."
Delilah giggles. "You know, in Terminator 2, when the sweet school teacher from the first movie—"
Low murmuring interrupts her from the background. There's a brief shuffle, a muffled protest from Delilah, and then a different voice entirely fills the line.
"Caleb Evans here. What Dee means is arm yourself. Silas will have plenty of options for you."
Options. Like we're at a travel agency.
"I'd go with the spare Glock 19 he carries. Packs a punch, but it's lightweight if you need to holster it." A beat of silence follows, as though he's consulting a log. "We'll check in again at fourteen-hundred."
The line goes dead.
I lower my hand slowly, staring at the falling snow for a moment before turning to hold the phone back out to Silas.
I’m completely bewildered by how normal this all is for them.
He takes the device without a word, already moving toward the duffel bags stacked by the door, presumably to locate the "options" Caleb mentioned.
I drift back to the kitchen and carry on making tea, needing the small, domestic ritual more to prove I can still function than because I actually want a cup.
I might be capable in my own world. But out here, in the wilderness, in a rustic cabin with a soldier who lives and breathes danger, I’m completely out of my depth.
Silas
I unlatch the Pelican case, the heavy plastic tabs snapping open with a sharp, mechanical crack that seems to ring out in the kitchen's silence.
Methodically, I begin laying out the kit: pistol, spare mags, suppressor, fixed blade, trauma kit.
I check the slide and the threading, my hands moving with a practiced, mindless rhythm.
Across from me, Ava is sitting as if she’s watching a delicate craniotomy, her hands white-knuckling a mug that reads Eat.
Pray. Hunt. in a flowery script that doesn’t match the deer skull on the wall.
Axel’s cousin has a sense of humor about his mugs, but his taste in hardware is more serious. There’s a recessed safe behind the board games in my bedroom closet. Once Ava is asleep, I’ll clear it. She’s already vibrating with enough tension; she doesn’t need to see me inventorying a small armory.
"You need to eat," I say.
Nervous energy is a finite fuel. Eventually, the adrenaline will bottom out, and she’ll crash.
Her eyes shift from the Glock to my face. She nods slowly. "So do you. I'm not much of a cook, but... it would help to have something to do besides watching you prepare for an insurgency."
I pick up a magazine, thumbing rounds into place with a rhythmic clack-clack-clack. "I’m not fussy."
Her brow furrows, a flicker of genuine concern crossing her face. "I'll do my best, but don't expect much. I'm afraid I'm not handling this as well as I could be."
I set the loaded magazine down and meet her gaze. The overhead light is harsh, catching the exhaustion in her expression, but her spine is still straight.
"Ava." I keep my voice low and grounded. "You're handling this better than you think."
She holds my stare for a long, heavy beat before she clears her throat and looks away. “Thank you. I appreciate you saying that.”
I can hear the unspoken, even if it’s not true, hovering on her lips.
She stands, her movements stiff and robotic, and heads for the counter. There’s a solitary, grease-stained spiral cookbook wedged between the toaster and the wall. She zeros in on it like it’s a medical text, leafing through the pages with a clinical frown.
"What's the verdict?" I ask, checking the tension on my holster.
"It says," she starts, her voice dry as bone, "that There’s an entire chapter in here dedicated to 'Potluck Casseroles for the End Times.' Apparently, the apocalypse is heavily reliant on condensed mushroom soup."
Hiding a smile, I don't look up from the mag I'm loading. "Survivalists love cream of mushroom. It's the structural adhesive of the prepper world. You can't rebuild society without a binder."
With an elegant snort, she moves to the pantry door, pulling it open. The hinges let out a long, rusty groan.
"Silas," she says, her voice flat. "I'm a neurologist. I spend my days mapping the most complex organ in the known universe. I can tell you exactly which neurotransmitters are firing in your brain right now."
"And?"
"And I’m looking at a five-pound bucket of 'Survivor’s Choice' freeze-dried bacon bits and a Mylar bag labeled 'Tactical Soy Crumbs,'" she says, turning back to me. "The book says I should be able to make a 'Patriot's Loaf' out of this. I don't even know which part of the soy is tactical."
I can't help the chuckle that breaks through. “Axel's cousin likes to be prepared. Check the back. There's usually a stash for people who haven't surrendered to the revolution yet."
She ducks down, rummaging through the plastic bins with a clatter of metal. She resurfaces holding a vacuum-sealed brick of pasta and a jar of something from the very back of the shelf.
"I found penne," she says, holding it up like a trophy.
"And a jar of 'Old Glory Marinara.' The label says it's 'fortified with essential minerals for long-term sustainment.
'" She pauses, squinting at the fine print.
"It also says it was packaged in 2018. I’m fairly certain this sauce has more seniority in the field than some of your team. "
"Perfect," I deadpan. "I've always wanted my dinner to be a historical artifact."
She gives a visible shudder and closes the cookbook with a definitive thud. She looks at the meager row of tins on the counter with the calm, decisive expression of a surgeon who has just decided a limb is unsalvageable.
"Pasta it is," she declares. "And I'm going to choose to believe the 'Best By' date was merely a polite suggestion from a manufacturer."
A smile twitches on my lips, one I can’t quite hide. A woman who can navigate the architecture of a human brain, defeated by a cupboard full of survivalist rations.
"I'll take mine al dente," I say. "If the 'Tactical Soy' allows for it."
She tosses the wooden spoon onto the counter and reaches for a pot, a small, genuine spark of life returning to her eyes. "You’ll take it however it comes out of the pot, Silas. Don't push your luck."
I keep my eyes on the gear and let the silence settle, but for the first time since we left Frederick, the air doesn't feel like it's about to shatter.