“What was that?” said Dale, loudly, turning his head around.
“Nothing,” said John.
“There’s one thing you should know about, though,” called out Cynthia.
“What’s that? You’d better come up here where I can hear you better. Come on, don’t be shy.”
Cynthia gave John a look that he didn’t know how to interpret before speeding up and joining Dale.
“There are two men out there. Criminals, really nasty guys. They killed our two friends and stole their gear. They’re armed now. Handguns. And plenty of ammunition. We don’t know if they’re still around here or not.”
“Don’t worry, little lady,” said Dale. “I’ll keep my eyes out, and Kiki never misses a beat. She can smell trouble a mile away.”
John had his doubts about whether Kiki the German Shepherd would really be that much of a help, but on the other hand, three against two was better than two against two. And Dale had an air about him like that of the old solitary mountain men—in some way, at least. John had the feeling that Dale knew his away around a gun pretty well.
John was already feeling weak again. He could probably make the five miles, but it would be tough on him.
He was short of breath, and he stopped for a moment, taking in deep breaths of the fresh air. He glanced up at the sun, which was high in the sky.
Fall had come, and John and Cynthia hadn’t even noticed. They weren’t yet into those seriously cold months, but they would be coming soon.
What would happen if they went west? Where would they go? Would they be able to hack it if they went north, into colder climates? What about nudging the course a little to the south, to avoid the freezing temperatures of the other states? Wouldn’t more people be headed in the same direction? More people meant more problems. There’d be others like John and Cynthia, looking for the same thing, looking for shelter from the storm, a place to ride out the waves of a crumbling civilization.
Dale’s cabin sounded like an enticing respite from the violence and pain they’d endured. But it wasn’t the end. If John and Cynthia managed to live, they’d look back at this and realize that Dale’s cabin was only the beginning of a long journey. But from where John stood now, it seemed like the end. It made him feel weak, down to his bones, to think about continuing on and on, without break, relentlessly fighting the tides of humanity that washed over them.
“You feeling alright?” called Cynthia, turning around. She and Dale had gotten pretty far ahead of him.
“Come on, buddy,” called out Dale. “We want to get there before next week. You’re not that bad off, come on.”
John felt with the palm of his hand the reassuring weight of his handgun, and started off again.
28
It had taken Max a long time to hotwire the Bronco. For some reason, Mandy had needed the keys to the Honda that he’d been driving. Maybe she’d gone to get something out of it. Max couldn’t remember. Georgia had the keys to the Bronco.
The Bronco and the Honda were parked close to the compound. The concrete walls were close, and there’d been murmurs of sounds coming out of the compound.
He’d known the Bronco would be easier to hotwire. It was far older than the Honda, and hopefully less sophisticated.
Max had broken the window of the Bronco with a small rock. He’d held his breath, hoping that the noise wouldn’t be enough to alert anyone to his presence. No one had come running out of the compound. Max would have been ready if they had. He wouldn’t have hesitated to use deadly force again. Not with what was at stake.
Like most people, Max had never hotwired anything in his life. He understood the basic theory. The way he saw it, he’d open the area beneath the steering wheel, and connect wires until something happened.
It had worked, but it had taken Max a long time.
He’d heard the first gunshot, and he’d known that his friends needed help. Desperately. But there wasn’t anything he could do but keep his head down and keep connecting wires together until something happened.
He’d heard the second gunshot, and then another.
He hoped that it wasn’t already too late.
Max was sweating as he finally got the Bronco to start. The engine roared to life, chugging along obediently.
More gunshots. Loud in the cold, dark night.
Max didn’t hesitate. He jammed the Bronco into first and drove in a small circle, giving himself some space to get up to speed.
He hit second gear.
Now third.
He was going about 40MPH. He didn’t look at the dashboard, though. His eyes were fixed on the wooden door. On the other side, there’d be the guardhouse. Men with guns, ready to shoot him.
Max didn’t know what awaited him on the other side of that wood.
But he knew he had to drive through it.
He might get shot instantly. His act might not accomplish anything.
He would have preferred a subtler method for getting his friends out. But the gunshots he’d heard told him there wasn’t much time left. If there was any time left at all.
He had to take the chance.
The Bronco hit the wood with a jolt, crashing right through it.
Some of the wood splintered. Mostly the whole door got flattened by the Bronco.
Max didn’t have time to analyze exactly what had happened. He kept his foot on the accelerator, pressing down as hard as he could.
The door had slowed him down, but he drove into the compound fast.
Gunshots, loud, unmistakable even over the deep roar of the Bronco’s engine.
Max’s eyes darted around the compound, looking for the source of the gunshots, looking for his friends.
He saw them. Some of them at least. Maybe the rest were out of view. They were huddled inside the little guard station.
Max slammed on the brakes. The Bronco came to such an abrupt halt that Max slammed into the steering wheel, awakening old injuries and bruises. Pain flared through his body. After all, he’d never had the chance to heal properly.
Mandy’s head appeared above some wood of the guard structure, a handgun held straight, releasing rounds.
It seemed like bullets were coming from all directions. But they were sporadic. Hard to tell where they were coming from. The enemies were far away. For now. As far as they could be in a confined compound.
Bullets hit the Bronco. One hit the window, going right through it, lodging itself somewhere in the Bronco’s faded upholstery. A spiderweb of shattered glass stayed miraculously in place on the windshield.
Then Max saw it.
Georgia. Down a corridor between two concrete buildings. Halfway hidden in the dark.
She was running. But not very well. She was hurt. And hurt bad.
Men were behind her, shooting.
Another bullet went through the Bronco’s windshield.
Max ignored it.
Max threw open the door of the Bronco and jumped out. His leg flared with pain as he hit the ground.
He’d stopped the Bronco close enough to the guard structure that the door provided some cover for Mandy and the others.
“Is everyone here?”
“Everyone except Georgia,” shouted Mandy.
“Get in! And get down! Return fire when it’s safe.”
Max was in the guard structure. He grabbed Sadie from the ground and carried her into the Bronco. She was sobbing.
He practically threw her in.
“Keep her on the floor in the back!” he shouted at Mandy.
Mandy nodded.
“James!”
James was next, moving on his own into the Bronco.
The enemies were staying back, out of sight, hidden in the dark shadows of the cold concrete buildings. They were clever. The worst kind of enemy.
Max was crouched behind the open door. He surveyed the group in the car. Mandy, Sadie, and James were all there.