Midnight City Read Free Page B

Holt’s pack. Max had a wicked sweet tooth, and when Holt needed to keep him quiet, he gave him a snack to focus on.
    Through the binoculars, Holt spied what was once a farmhouse beyond the trees. For the most part, it was still in one piece, though some of its windows were broken out and there was graffiti on its doors.
    Holt watched each window on the bottom floor light up with flickering orange light as something moved through the house. A lantern, Holt guessed, held by the very person he’d been tracking.
    He smiled. The bounty on this one would solve a lot of problems for him, but he’d have to be cautious, have to do this strategically. The person in there was supposed to be very clever.
    Holt and Max moved for the farmhouse, closing the distance quick and quiet, keeping low. He could see the lantern light from an upstairs window now, which meant the bottom floor should be clear. Unless his target had set up traps or alarms, of course. It was a distinct possibility.
    Holt opened the door and slipped in.
    The farmhouse was dark, probably hadn’t had electricity since the invasion. It had also been ransacked by looters many times over. What was left of the furniture was smashed on the floor, the cabinets and shelves all turned over and emptied.
    Holt and Max moved through it all slowly, careful about tripping or breaking something, all the while scanning for traps. So far, Holt hadn’t seen any.
    They moved toward the stairs at the other end of the room. As they did, Holt noticed the walls. There were still a few pictures hanging on them. Family portraits, a picture of a man on a tractor, two boys and a dog, a girl dressed in a high school graduation gown. They were glimpses of a world that no longer existed, and in all of them was something that gave Holt pause.
    Images of adults. Parents. Friends of friends. Smiling, standing tall over their children, strong and capable.
    Holt couldn’t help but stop and stare. It was almost a decade since he had seen anyone older than twenty-one or twenty-two. To him, the figures within those pictures seemed … alien. And even though they made him uncomfortable, he couldn’t look away.
    The ceiling above him groaned as somebody moved upstairs. It was enough to break the spell. Max stared up at the ceiling, sniffing the air curiously and growling low.
    Holt silenced him with a gesture, moved away from the pictures, and started up the stairs, taking them nice and easy in case they were squeaky. As he moved, he drew his shotgun from his back, a faded, camouflaged Ithaca 37 he’d found at an old army base and restored back to health. He used it almost as much as the Sig. They were two of his best friends.
    At the end of the stairs stretched a dark hallway, wallpaper peeling from it and littering the floor. The hall moved between several different bedroom doors, but only one of them had light spilling out of the doorway onto the floor and wall. The same flickering orange light he’d seen outside.
    Holt and Max crept toward the door quietly, and reached it in about six slow steps. Holt pushed himself gently against the edge of the doorframe, listening and waiting. No sounds, no indication of who or what might be waiting.
    It was now or never, he figured. Holt took a deep breath, gripped the shotgun, and spun around the side, raising the weapon as he did. He aimed down the barrel and moved quickly into what used to be a bathroom.
    The lantern sat on a shelf, bathing everything in wavering hues of orange and yellow. In the center of the room was a large porcelain clawed bathtub, full of water and soap suds that covered a lone figure resting contentedly inside. The person didn’t so much as flinch.
    “Get out of the tub,” Holt ordered firmly, keeping the shotgun aimed at the figure. “No quick movements, I know who you are.”
    Inside the tub was a girl, a little younger than Holt, eighteen or so. A cucumber slice covered each eye, and her hair was tied behind her head as she lay