Page 7

Four weeks pass in no time.

A month after I join up, Burgundy and I are hiking through thick woods on our own at just after dawn. It’s dark under the canopy of half-dead tree branches, so we’re using an LED flashlight to see the overgrown trail in front of us, but the sky peeking through is lightening to gray.

The sky is always gray now. It’s been a year and a half since it has looked even faintly blue.

The asteroid might have crashed into the other side of the planet, but every square foot of the world felt its impact.

The layer of ash and debris in the atmosphere has taken away one of the fundamental truths of reality.

The sky is supposed to be blue.

But it’s not anymore.

I remember a stray piece of knowledge from one of the television documentaries my dad used to watch. Sometime back in history, a huge volcano erupted, throwing up so much ash that it lowered temperatures around the world, leading to a couple of years of famine.

This is kind of like that. Only worse. Even the air I’ve been breathing this year feels like it’s full of grit. Some people have gotten chronic coughs.

Burgundy glances back at me. Her hair is darker and shinier than mine, and today she has it pulled into two long braids. “I think we’re almost there.”

“Logan said it would take about forty-five minutes to hike, so that seems right.” We’re both speaking softly even though there’s no one else around.

“Look up there.” She gestures ahead to where the trees thin out, revealing more of the early-morning light.

We reach the clearing and peer out to see grassland sloping into a shallow valley and then rising into a gentle hill on which sits a huge old house.

One of those that was old-fashioned even in the world before Impact with gables, turrets, big windows, and a large front porch.

It’s in good condition but appears weirdly anachronistic in the barren landscapes and crumbling, soulless structures we’ve been traveling through.

“Guards there and there,” I say, spotting men stationed on either side of the property.

We’ve heard reports that a gang took over this house after killing the families who were scraping out a life inside.

Logan never sets out on missions of mercy, but the gang is supposed to be sitting on a stockpile of supplies in this house. That’s enough of an incentive to risk moving in on this place.

“Okay then. Let’s do this.” Burgundy squares her shoulders and opens the backpack she’s carrying. I do the same. Then we move in opposite directions, skirting the edge of the woods and deliberately placing several small firecrackers on the ground at even distances.

When I set down the last one, I peer across to where the edge of the woods curves. I eventually see a flash of Burgundy’s dark hair. She waves. I wave back. Then I click a lighter to get a small flame and lean over to ignite the firecracker I just placed.

I start running immediately, so I’m a few strides away when the firecracker explodes with a loud crack and a bright flash. I keep running, leaning down to light the next one when I reach it. Then the next and then the next.

Burgundy is doing the same on her side of the woods.

Men and women start pouring out of the house, shouting and firing guns blindly in our direction. With all the bangs and flashes from the firecrackers, it must seem like a whole army is attacking them.

Instead, it’s only me and Burgundy, drawing out the gang’s defense in this direction so Logan and the rest of the group can advance on the opposite side of the house.

My job is to meet Burgundy at the trailhead and then retreat into the woods as quickly as possible.

But my final firecracker doesn’t want to ignite.

I lose a few seconds trying a time or two to light the fuse, but some of the gang are running toward us now, and I’m exposed in this position. So I give up and start sprinting .

The delay was a few seconds too long. One of the guys is in range of me now, and he obviously sees me. He fires, and I have to throw myself on the ground to not get hit by his bullet.

He keeps firing, so I crawl behind a tree, shrinking as his gunshots hit it, causing slivers of dry bark to fly out in all directions.

When the firing halts, I assume he’s reloading, so I pull out my small pistol and lean around the tree to aim.

I have a line on him. He’s standing out in the open, completely exposed.

I try. I really do. But I can’t pull the trigger.

He’s got brown hair. And freckles. His jeans have a rip at one knee.

If I shoot him, I will kill him. And something inside me is holding me back from taking a life, even the life of a man currently trying to kill me.

I’m about to give up and plow through the tangled foliage of the woods to get away when a presence emerges from behind me. Even before I turn to look, I know who it is. I sense the vibes or maybe catch a faint whiff of his familiar scent.

Deck.

He’s supposed to be on the other side of the hill, attacking the house with the others. But no. He’s here. Shooting his rifle three times and killing the three men closest to us one by one.

He scowls at me and motions with his head.

I jump up and start running toward the trail again, finding an anxious Burgundy lurking there .

Deck motions us both to run and then follows in a backward walk, shooting to provide us cover.

When we’re far enough away to feel safe, Burgundy and I slow down and wait for Deck.

He reaches us, waving us on and scowling at me again.

Who can blame me? I scowl back.

What just happened was a life-and-death situation for me. I easily could have died, and the fear and adrenaline are still coursing through me. I don’t need to be chastised the way his expression is clearly doing.

I already know I didn’t shoot when I should have.

But I’m sorry. The world might have transformed into a hellscape around me, and strangers might want to assault or kill me at regular intervals now.

But I still don’t want to kill anyone.

For a while, I believed I’m angry enough with the world to pull the trigger in a scenario like that, but maybe I’m not angry enough.

We head farther into the woods and wait until all the sounds of gunfire have died. Only then do we follow the trail back toward the big house.

I must have pulled a muscle at the back of my right thigh when I dove from the bullets earlier because every step makes me want to wince.

It’s not bad enough to make an issue of. Not even bad enough to mention.

After a couple of minutes, Deck, who has been walking beside me, gives my arm a little tap to get my attention and then gestures down at my right leg.

Of course he would notice. He’s really very obnoxious about not letting even small things slide.

“Oh, did you hurt yourself?” Burgundy asks. She’s been walking behind us, and her voice sounds worried.

“No. No, it’s fine. It’s nothing.” I aim a glare up at Deck’s face. Another annoying thing is that he’s so tall I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. “I’m fine. Just pulled a muscle.”

Deck breathes heavily through his nose as he meets my gaze.

“Okay,” Burgundy replies. “But if it’s worse than that, you need to let Deck take a look. Even a minor injury can?—”

“I know. I know. I’m not going to tough out an injury that could get infected. But no skin is broken. It’s just the pulled muscle.”

This answer appears to satisfy Burgundy but not Deck. He stews about it silently as we keep walking.

I try very hard not to limp.

We’re close to where the trail ends when a new sound breaks the silence. It’s a low buzzing kind of noise. One I don’t recognize until a small motorcycle appears on the trail coming right toward us.

Deck has already moved in front of me and pulled out his gun—maybe he realized what the sound was before I did—and he fires when the motorcycle doesn’t slow down.

He hits the driver. That much is clear. The bike gives a jerk and then skids, veering sharply to the right .

Unfortunately, it was going fast enough that its forward motion continues even after the driver is shot. It comes right at us. If Deck wasn’t blocking me and Burgundy, it would have slammed into us.

He reaches out to brace himself against the collision with the side of the bike. He manages to stop the motorcycle, but it hits him so hard he’s thrown backward off his feet.

“Deck!” The exclamation chokes in my throat at the horrifying sight of the big man knocked down so violently.

I run toward him, barely processing that there was someone else on the motorcycle behind the driver. A woman who is now pinned beneath the vehicle and the dead body of the man.

Burgundy has her gun out, and she keeps it aimed at the woman as I kneel beside Deck, washed in relief when he sits up on his own, looking stunned and messier than ever but basically intact.

He brushes me off grumpily when I run my hands down his arms and chest to check for injuries.

Then heaves himself up to his feet, waving me off again when I try to inspect his backside.

His shirt and jeans are stained with mud, and he must have fallen into some sort of brambles because he’s got twigs and vines caught in the tangle of his hair.

He might be bruised—he must be bruised after that collision and fall—but he moves easily and purposefully as he strides over with his rifle to aim at the woman.

“Oh, thank you!” She’s got a sob in her voice, but something about it feels off to me. No particular reason. Just a bone-deep instinct I’ve always had that gets triggered when people aren’t entirely sincere. “Thank you for saving me!”

Burgundy frowns, still leveling her pistol. “Saving you?”

“They… they had me in that house. Using me… I thought they would kill me for sure. You’re not going to hurt me, are you? You’re women, so I know you understand.”

There are actual tears streaming down her face, and every woman alive today knows exactly what she’s implying happened to her.

That weird little vibration of warning still bothers me, but neither Deck nor Burgundy look suspicious.

Burgundy has already holstered her gun, and Deck is still holding his but not aiming it at the woman.

“We won’t hurt you unless you try to hurt us,” Burgundy says slowly.

“I won’t. I promise. I’m Trisha,” the woman says. She’s attractive with hair around the same shade of brown as mine but blue eyes and a curvier body. She cries some more as Deck hauls the man’s body and the motorcycle off her. “I’m just so glad to be away from those monsters.”

Maybe she’s telling the truth. If I were in her place and had been held by that gang, I’d probably be weeping and pouring out thanks on my rescuers too.

I shouldn’t be so mistrustful. I know as well as anyone that women have a distinct disadvantage in what this world has become because we’re so often physically smaller than men.

She probably had little choice but to be with them.

And even if she made some sort of conscious choice, it wouldn’t have been a real one.

I wouldn’t blame any woman for using any means at her disposal to stay alive.

Sometimes that means using sex. I don’t consider myself fortunate, but at least I haven’t been cornered into having to offer sex to survive.

I’m in the wrong here. I’m letting my general bitterness infect my view of this woman. Burgundy is smiling and introducing all three of us, and Deck has reached down to help the woman to her feet.

The woman has an injured leg. She clings to Deck for support. He finally swings her up into his arms to carry her. She can’t walk. That’s the only reason he’s holding her like that.

So judge me. Maybe I am a bitch at heart—or maybe this life has turned me into one. As I watch her beam up at Deck and wrap her arms around his neck, I conclude I definitely don’t like her again.