My Apocalypse Mountain Man (Wild Apocalypse Protectors #1)

Chapter 1 Sierra

one

Sierra

The static clears just long enough for me to catch the tail end of Tom's transmission.

"—road's completely gone. Repeat, Maybrook, the northern pass is gone. Avalanche took out—"

Static swallows his voice again. I adjust the frequency, trying to recapture the signal, but the storm that's been building for the last three days is playing havoc with the radio waves.

"Old Pines, this is Goldfinch at Maybrook Outpost Seven," I try again, my breath forming clouds in the freezing air of my little station. "Tom, do you copy?"

Nothing but white noise.

I've been alone at this outpost for eight hours now—ever since the evacuation order came through. Eight hours of trying to coordinate the escape routes, eight hours of weather getting progressively worse, eight hours of dwindling hope that I'll make it out before the real storm hits.

The smart thing would have been to leave with the others when the early storm warnings came through.

But someone needed to maintain communications, coordinate the evacuation, make sure everyone got out safely.

I volunteered because I'm good at it, because the radio network I've spent eighteen months building is my baby, and because I stupidly thought I'd have time to get out after everyone else was safe.

Now I'm trapped in a converted ranger station with maybe a day or two’s worth food left, watching snow pile up past the windows, and my beautiful radio network is failing piece by piece as outposts go dark.

"Goldfinch, this is Old Pines." Tom's voice breaks through suddenly, crystal clear for once. "Sierra, you still there?"

"I'm here," I confirm, relief flooding through me. "Tom, what's your status?"

"Holed up at the church with about thirty others. But Sierra, you need to know—there's a massive zombie herd moving south. The storm's driving them down from the mountains."

My blood chills. "How massive?"

"Two hundred, maybe more. Moving in a group, not scattered. They'll hit your position in maybe six hours."

Six hours. I have six hours before a herd of zombies arrives at my doorstep.

"I'm moving out," I tell him. "Today."

"In this storm? Sierra, that's—"

"Better than waiting for two hundred zombies. I'll try for North Ridge."

"North Ridge hasn't responded in two days."

"I know." I stare at the marks on my tracking sheet where I've been logging response times.

Tracker at North Ridge has been my most reliable contact for months—always there for the morning check-in, always had the best weather reports and movement intel, somehow making me laugh even during the worst reports.

His deep, gravelly voice saying my callsign, "Goldfinch," like it means something special.

Two days of silence feels wrong. "But his position is elevated, defensible. If he's still there I have a chance."

"That's a big if."

"It's the only if I've got, Tom."

"Good luck, Goldfinch. See you on the other side."

"See you on the other side."

The transmission ends, leaving me alone with the static and the sound of wind howling outside.

I pack quickly but carefully. My emergency pack was already prepared, but I add everything useful I can carry—extra ammunition, the last of the food, medical supplies, and the portable radio beacon.

The main radio setup has to stay, but I remove key components so no one else can use it to track our network.

I’ll go back and fix it later… if I’m still alive.

As I prepare to leave, I think about the last eighteen months.

Building the communication network settlement by settlement, creating protocols, establishing trust. Hours spent talking to voices in the dark, coordinating supplies, warning about threats.

Tracker was one of my first regular contacts—that deep, gravelly voice always calm, always prepared.

I'd built up a whole image of him in my mind: older, weathered, probably sporting a military buzz cut and a suspicious squint.

Now I might actually meet him. If he's alive. If I can make it through the storm. If the zombies don't catch me first.

The wind nearly rips the door from its hinges when I step outside. Visibility is maybe ten feet, and the cold hits like a physical blow. I've mapped the route to North Ridge a dozen times, but that was on paper, in the warmth of my station. This is different.

I make it maybe a mile before I realize I'm in serious trouble.

The trail I planned to follow is obliterated by snow.

My compass is spinning wildly due to the magnetic interference from the storm, maybe, or just my frozen fingers shaking too hard to hold it steady.

The weight of my pack is already exhausting me, each step through hip-deep snow a monumental effort.

By hour two, I can't feel my feet. By hour three, I'm pretty sure I'm walking in circles. The storm has become a complete whiteout, and I've lost all sense of direction.

That's when I smell it. Woodsmoke.

Just a hint, carried on the wind, but unmistakable. Someone has a fire going. A real fire, not just the desperate trash-burning that raiders do, but seasoned wood smoke that speaks to preparation and stability.

I follow the scent like a bloodhound, stumbling through drifts, using trees to pull myself forward when my legs threaten to give out. The smoke gets stronger, and then I see it—a thin dark line rising through the white chaos of the storm.

North Ridge. It has to be.

The trees thin out suddenly, and I stumble into a cleared area.

Through the driving snow, I can make out buildings—a cabin built into the mountainside, windows glowing with warm light.

A workshop to one side, everything organized and purposeful despite the storm.

This isn't just survival; this is someone thriving.

My legs give out twenty feet from the door.

I try to crawl, but my pack is too heavy, my hands too numb. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. This is it, I think. Twenty feet from safety and I'm going to freeze to death in some hermit's yard.

The door opens.

A figure emerges from the warmth. Strong hands grip my arms, hauling me upright.

"Can you walk?" A deep voice, familiar even through the wind. Tracker. Kole.

"Trying," I manage through chattering teeth.

He doesn't wait for more, just picks me up like I weigh nothing, pack and all, and carries me inside.

The warmth hits me so hard I nearly pass out. Real heat from a real fire, not the barely-adequate warmth I've been living with for days. He deposits me in a chair by the fireplace, then disappears, returning with blankets and towels.

"Need to get you warm slowly," he says, his voice exactly as I remember from the radio—calm, measured, competent. "Too fast and you'll go into shock."

I nod, unable to speak through the violent shivering that's taken over my body.

Now that the immediate crisis is past, I can finally look at the man I've been talking to for eighteen months.

He's nothing like I pictured. Mid-forties.

Dark hair that's longer than military regulation, a full beard that's more practical than stylish.

Gray eyes that are assessing me with the same intensity I'm studying him.

"Goldfinch," he says, and it's not a question.

"Sierra," I correct, finding my voice. "Sierra Goldmann."

"Kole Sawyer." He hands me a mug of something hot—tea, probably pine needle, but it tastes great given the circumstances. "You picked a hell of a time to visit."

"Zombie herd coming from the north. Two hundred plus. I had to move."

His expression darkens. "When?"

"Four hours from now. Maybe less. I thought coming here was my only option that didn't involve definitely dying."

He nods slowly, then starts pulling off my frozen boots. "These are done for," he observes, noting where the sole is separating. "Feet are borderline frostbite. You're lucky."

"I don't feel lucky."

"You're alive. In this world, that's lucky."

As feeling returns to my extremities, it brings pain. Needles of fire shooting through my fingers and toes. I bite back a whimper.

"Hurts?" Kole asks.

"Like hell."

"Good. Pain means the tissue's still alive. No pain would be bad."

He's so matter-of-fact about it, like he's treated frostbite a dozen times. Maybe he has.

"Why didn't you respond?" I ask suddenly. "I thought you were dead."

"Radio took a lightning strike three days ago. Fried half my equipment. I've been trying to repair it, but..." He shrugs. "Some things can't be fixed alone."

"I can help. I mean, if you want. I maintained our whole network, I know radios."

"After you recover."

"I'm fine."

"You almost died in my front yard. You're not fine."

The blunt assessment should irritate me, but he's right. I can barely sit upright, much less work on delicate electronics.

"You need rest," Kole observes. "Take the bed. I'll keep watch."

"I couldn't."

"You can and you will. Storm's getting worse. That herd's moving. We'll need you functional if we're going to survive what's coming."

We. He said we.

"You're letting me stay?"

He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him calculating the risk I represent, the resources I'll consume, the danger that might follow me.

"You're Goldfinch," he finally says, like that explains everything. "Eighteen months of morning check-ins, weather reports, supply coordination. You held the network together when everything else was falling apart."

"You listened to all that?"

"Every transmission. You're the reason Old Pines and Bear Creek started trading. The reason Maybrook had warning about the last raider group. The reason a lot of people are still alive."

I don't know what to say to that. I was just doing my job, keeping people connected.

"Besides," he adds, turning away, "nobody should face two hundred zombies alone."

The simple humanity of it makes my throat tight. After eight hours of isolation, days of barely holding everything together, someone is offering help without asking for anything in return.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"Don't thank me yet. We've got a fight coming."