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“See? I’ve got this.” She gripped my shoulders and pushed me into the hallway. “Out.”

I let her boot me, but as I fed, clothed, and talked with the women in the other bedrooms, I asked Jesse and Roark to keep their eyes on Shea’s volunteers.

The afternoon limped by, every minute of it dedicated to the women and what they needed. When they tucked in for the night, peacefully asleep beneath Shea’s attentive gaze and guarded by two armed men posted on the stairs, I shuffled outside to acquaint myself with some of the crew.

Jesse and Roark followed me out, and it wasn’t long before we were reclining on the wide porch, passing around flasks of gut-burning whiskey, and sharing stories with three of Link’s men.

Stars lit up the sky in a maze of distant universes, and not so far away, beyond the shadowed landscape of clustered trees and fields, prowled countless herds of aphids.

Their vibrations pulsed inside me, the network of threads spreading out through the cool night air and connecting to hungry beacons in every direction. I would’ve been lying if I said I wasn’t on edge, but the aphids never came closer than fifty yards, their pulsing signals blinking out before I felt the urge to grab the bow that lay at my feet.

Sitting on the wood decking at the far end of the porch, I draped my arm over Roark’s lap beside me. “How many guards are out there tonight?”

Paul, the black man with the goatee from upstairs, leaned against the railing. “Eight. They wear night vision and sit high in the trees, picking off the bugs before they reach the perimeter of the property.”

My shoulders hunched around my ears, tightening with the chorus of insectile humming in my gut. “No one in your group uses guns?”

“Too loud.” The Hispanic man said. Could I even call him a man? He barely looked twenty.

He’d introduced himself as Hunter, his fingers constantly shoving his long black hair out of his boyish face. Like he was doing now. “We all carry crossbows.”

“Among other silent weapons.” The blond cook, Eddie, passed me a grin. “Knives are my specialty.”

I shared a look with Jesse, who sat on the stairs, the only one not drinking…or talking.

I accepted the flask from Roark, took a fiery gulp, and passed it to Eddie. “Is that how you lost a finger?”

“Yeah.” Eddie flexed his left hand, his ice-blue eyes on the knuckle where his index finger used to be. “Chopping a grisly hunk of deer meat.”

“While he was completely inebriated, mind you.” Hunter laughed then looked at the front door as sudden scratching from inside began to rattle it.

Jesse jumped up and opened it enough to let Darwin slip out.

In a flash of black fur and blurring legs, he scampered off the porch and into the dark.

Hunter stared after him with wide brown eyes. “Did your dog really walk four-hundred miles to track you down and go after a lion?”

A heavy medley of pride and regret tightened my chest. I would never leave that dog behind again.

“Yep.” Jesse returned to his spot on the stairs and stretched his legs along the top step, leaning his back against the post, his eyes roaming over Hunter's Hispanic features. “How did you become the gatherer on this crew?”

Hunter picked at the cuticle on his thumb, his hair hanging around his face and neck. “Link caught me stealing weapons off the Mississippi Queen. Said I was the only guy who’d been able to breach his security and make it on board without getting caught.”

I pursed my lips. “But you said you got caught?”

He nodded. “On my way back to the shore. There were a lot of aphids waiting, and I only carried guns at the time.”

His gunfire must’ve alerted Link’s crew.

“I grew up on the streets.” Hunter dropped his head back against the wall behind him, staring at the porch canopy. “Stealing was survival. Link calls it gathering, but the mechanics are the same. I go out there, find what we need, and snatch it without dying in the process.”

I sized him up, taking in his youth, his thin yet muscular frame, and his long legs. A runner’s build. I bet the kid could squeeze into small places and sprint like a motherfucker.

I shifted my attention to the black man beside him, his hands huge and calloused, and his biceps stretching the sleeves of his t-shirt.

Paul watched me studying him, the intelligence in his dark eyes a little unnerving. “I’m the mechanic. My daddy taught me, and his daddy taught him. We also dabbled in alternative fuel. You know the gunk that got left in fat fryers? There’s still a ton of it out there. I know how to filter it and use it as diesel fuel.”

Damn. That would’ve been useful when we couldn’t find gas on our way to the mountains.