There’s not much else that will help us if we don’t find the rest of the team in the next day or two. Some matches, dried fruit, a knife, binoculars, eyewear that I suspect to be night-vision goggles because they look similar to some Rebel gear I once saw Harvey working on. But no water: the one thing we can’t go long without.
I scour the rest of the car, and find only a map and handgun in a compartment in the front. The weapon is fully loaded, so that gives us six precious shots between the two of us. I hope we don’t need them.
I unfold the map. We may have wiped out the ground crew, but Marco and the rest of his men on the Order ship were unharmed. If we head south and return to the beach, we risk running into them. Unless they chose to stay on the water rather than pursue us.
Maybe Bree and I should just take the car and drive northwest, try to find Group A. Why had I never picked Bo’s brain these past few weeks? He kept saying over and over that he practically had direct coordinates, and somehow I never managed to get them from him. That knowledge belongs only to him, Clipper, and my father.
No.
It was knowledge my father possessed. Just like that, he’s become a piece of the past. Yesterday Owen stood beside me on the Catherine and today he’s gone. Dead.
I ball up the map and slam my hands against the compartment where I found the gun. Hard. Then harder. Then again and again until my palms are throbbing.
“Are you okay?” Bree is standing outside the door.
I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You are crying.”
I touch my cheeks and my fingers come away wet. I don’t remember telling myself I could cry.
“I caught breakfast,” she says, holding up a squirrel speared on a stick. “I’ll cook it. You take as long as you need.”
I flatten the map out, fold it up neatly, and immediately join Bree.
“That was fast,” she says.
“I was wasting time.”
“You lost someone you love. Not a single moment you spend in mourning is a waste.” She skins the squirrel and sets the meat over our feeble fire.
“How did you know?”
“I saw him. When you pulled me up the stairwell and onto the deck. He was just lying there.” She glances at me, her face somber. “I’m really sorry, Gray.”
“Sorry doesn’t change what happened.”
“I know. But I still feel it.”
When the food is cooked we sit on the rear of the vehicle—her feet dangling, mine planted in the snow—and pull apart the meat with our fingers. It is dark, but moist, and it fills us well enough. Bree tosses the spear into the fire when we’re done.
“What now?” she asks.
“We should take the car, I think. Head west. Look for the team.”
“I’ll drive,” she offers.
But I’m not ready. Because moving on means leaving this place and traveling farther from my father. Every moment from here on out will be a step away from him. I let a hand fall on Bree’s thigh.
“I need a moment.”
“Sure.” Her fingers curl around mine.
We sit there, staring at the flames until I feel strong enough to continue.
Bree’s driving is exceptionally better than mine.
Over the years, the Rebels managed to take a few abandoned Order vehicles into their custody and—with the help of workers in the technology wing—bring them back to life. Bree learned how to drive during her time at Crevice Valley before I arrived. She tells me that some cars run electrically while others require fuel. The differences mean nothing to me until Bree says we are in a fuel-powered model and that it is likely the best fit given our current situation.
“We’ve got about a half tank of gas left,” she says, squinting at the markings behind the wheel. “Should get us another hundred fifty miles or so. Either way, we’ve got enough to track down the others.”
“Assuming they want to be found.” I’m fearful the team will be extra cautious from here on out, running for cover at the first sound of an approaching car.
“We’ll find them,” she says sternly. “And if we don’t, we should be able to make it to Group A, and they’ll catch up with us there.”
I don’t mention that I’m unsure how exactly to find Group A.
The car bounces over the uneven ground as Bree takes us out of the field. She slows as we reach the Order’s tire tracks from yesterday. They are nearly invisible, almost completely filled in with fresh snow.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“We can’t not check the beach. If they’re not there, we may at least find their tracks. If there’s no sign of them, we’ll just keep driving.”
She nods and fiddles with the dial controlling the heat. We may be miserable, but at least we’re no longer cold.
Two skeletons of cars. Eleven dead Order members. One abandoned lifeboat.
This is what we find on the beach.
Our car is hidden back in the trees and the air feels frigid outside the warmth of the vehicle, but Bree and I scour the shore thoroughly. She carries the handgun because she’s the better shot.
The dead Order members are covered in the snow that fell last night, and for this, I am glad. I don’t want to see their faces, the look of shock in their eyes, the places where bullets met flesh. I feel like I’ve seen far too much these past few days.
We make our way down to the water, which is lapping peacefully against the wet earth. The rocky outcrop to our right is covered in the white froth of waves. Even when we climb out to the point, there’s no sign of the Order. They could have gone to Haven, to gather another team so they could track us more efficiently. Or maybe they are still sailing, waiting to spot us from afar. Either way, they will find us. Marco will not let us slip away again. I’m sure of it.
A trio of crows soars by, circling over the dead bodies. I look out across the water, scanning for any sign of the Catherine, but the Gulf seems to have devoured her thoroughly. I wonder if Dixie made it off the boat or if she went down with her master. So much for cats being good luck.
Bree and I are carefully climbing back to the shore when I spot footprints heading toward the trees. They are mostly filled in by the snowfall, but one thing is clear: This person was walking with an uneven gait, almost as though he were shaking against his will.
“Sammy,” I say, pointing.
We follow his trail into the trees. His prints meet another pair, where it appears that he was then dragged.
“Did the Order take him?” Bree asks.
I shake my head, uncertain, and we continue to follow the tracks until we stumble upon a particularly dense cluster of trees. Beneath them, kept mostly clear of snowfall, is a pile of dark coals. The Order wouldn’t have stopped to make a fire. One of our team must have heard Sammy coming. He was not being dragged away against his will; he was being dragged because he couldn’t continue without aid.
I put a hand over the coals, but they give off no heat.
“They’re long gone. Doesn’t even look like they made camp. There’s no sign of tents being set up.”
“But they’re alive,” Bree says, smiling.
“They are.”
And when I say it, I feel the weight lift off my chest, a burden I didn’t even know was there to begin with. The team is alive. Emma is alive. And right then I forgive her. For everything. I’m tired of living in the past and dwelling on things that have come and gone—especially when the people you care for can be taken from you in the time it takes to blink. I glance toward the shore, thinking of my father.
“They went this way,” Bree says. She checks the sky. “North.”