Article 5 (16 page)

“Get in the truck,” Chase told me quietly.

I didn’t know what to do. Chase wouldn’t look at me. He couldn’t possibly think I would leave him here alone against two armed men. Our best chance was together. If they didn’t want me hurt, maybe,
maybe,
they’d spare him.

He shrugged out of his jacket and backpack, and let them slide to the ground.

“Chase,” I whispered, “I’m
not
leaving.”

I shouldn’t have said what I did inside the store. Now he was going to try to protect me, to make up for abandoning me before.

“Get in the truck,” he commanded. Stan was approaching us quickly, the gun still pressed against his shoulder. His finger was on the trigger.

“No!” I said forcefully.

“Aw, it’s all right. Daddy will take care of you,” said Rick. Stan laughed.

“Take it easy,” Chase told them, and reached beneath his untucked flannel shirt into his pocket.

“Slowly, brother,” warned Rick.

Both men were close now. They watched Chase’s hands, as did I.

In a flash of movement, Chase tore the black baton from his belt and swung it upward into the double barrel of Stan’s rifle. The metal on metal sandwiched Stan’s fingers, eliciting a howl of pain. The gun clattered to the ground.

Chase used the upward momentum of the baton to cut sideways into Rick’s jaw. Upon impact, the nightstick flew from his hands and cracked against the side of the building. Rick stumbled, then lurched to his feet, barreling toward us, knife first. A flash of terror slashed through me just before I was roughly shoved out of the way. An instant later I heard a tear and a growl, and watched as a crimson line bloomed from Chase’s bicep around the back of his arm. The flannel fabric clung to his damp, bleeding skin.

“Chase!” I screamed, clambering to my feet.

Stan swore, reminding me of his presence. On impulse, I sprinted around him toward the gun, but as quickly as I reached it, he was upon me. His body, heavy and rank with old sweat, arched over my back. I clenched my jaw, and wrapped my fingers around the wooden handle of the rifle. The tender skin of my knuckles scraped against the asphalt.

Stan knotted his fist through my hair and jerked back hard. I cried out as the burn seared across my scalp and ripped away.

When I turned around, I saw that Chase had thrown Stan into the front of the truck. When he fell, Chase kicked him hard in the gut, and Stan collapsed to his knees and forearms, sputtering. I didn’t watch. I picked up the rifle and ran to the truck, stuffing it behind the seat without thinking twice.

I spun back just as Rick
—
face smeared with the blood that ran like a faucet from his nostrils
—
hurtled himself onto Chase’s back. Panic raced through me. I could not see the knife.

In a frenzy, I searched the ground, hoping that the weapon wasn’t embedded into Chase’s body, and instead found the nightstick near the front tires, where Stan was still laid out, gasping for breath. I picked it up, prepared to run back to aid Chase, but I was intercepted by Rick, wild-eyed and bloodstained and rabid. He grabbed the collar of my shirt, and heaved me around so fast that I lost my balance. I knew he meant to use me as a shield against Chase.

I swung the baton like a baseball bat in all directions. It connected twice, maybe three times with something solid, but I didn’t know who or what. My cropped hair was streaming around my face, blinding me. Then suddenly, I was flung to the pavement.

A sound halfway between a gasp and a gurgle overrode the pulse in my eardrums. I lifted my head and saw, in horror, that Chase had pinned Rick against the side of the store and was using the cement wall as leverage to choke him.

To kill him.

Rick’s yellow eyes bulged. He swiped drunkenly at Chase’s tightening grip.

“Chase!” I panted, the oxygen having been sucked from the air around me as I realized his intent. “CHASE!”

He registered the sound of my voice as though waking from a dream. Startled, he dropped Rick, who crumpled to the ground, motionless.

I stared at the body in absolute dread. He was still breathing. He was still alive.

Barely.

An instant later I felt a hard pull on my forearm as Chase lifted me almost completely off the ground. Blood was smeared across one cheek, but his face looked otherwise unharmed.

“Truck.
Now.
” His eyes were so black I could not see the deep brown irises around them.

I obeyed. I ran on numb legs to the open driver’s side door and slid across the seat. My eyes remained on the two men lying on the pavement. Chase moved fast, grabbing our supplies and shoving them inside. Within moments, the truck roared to life. The tires squealed as we flew from the parking lot.

CHAPTER

7

THE
truck tore down the empty highway, tires pumping so viciously I thought they would ricochet off.

I was breathing hard, my eyes glued to the back window of the cab for any sign of pursuit, the baton still lifted defensively in my hands like a sword.

“Are you okay?” Chase asked, tearing his eyes away from the curving highway as often as he could spare a glance. His black hair looked gray, the colors of his clothing subdued, all covered by the same thin gray dust that had blanketed the asphalt. But his eyes, dark with concern, were suddenly familiar. They scanned over my body, intent to see if I’d been harmed.

I didn’t get it. He’d been a soldier, automatic and emotionless, just moments ago. He’d tried to kill that man. He would have, had I not distracted him.

I tried to speak, but my throat was too constricted.

“Your arm? What about your head?” he said.

My shoulders jerked in a shrug. He made a quick reach for the nightstick, and I shied away without thinking, leaving a cloud of gray ash in my wake.

He exhaled sharply. “Okay … I won’t touch you.” One hand raised in surrender before returning to the wheel. The lines of his throat twitched.

No, I did not want him to touch me. Not after those hands had curled around another’s throat.

“Were you going to kill him?” I asked, scarcely louder than a breath. I knew the answer, but I would have given anything for him to tell me the opposite. That I’d misread the situation. That I was blowing it out of proportion. I wanted desperately to believe he wasn’t just as cold-blooded as Morris and Randolph and the other soldiers.

He kept his eyes on the roadway, swerving around the larger pieces of trash that had gathered in slopes against the concrete barriers.

“Chase?” It took great effort to swallow. It didn’t seem possible, but somehow my heart was beating even faster than before.

He didn’t respond.

I began to tremble in abrupt recognition of the chill that swept through me. The baton felt suddenly hot in my freezing grip and I dropped it on the floor. My knees curled into my chest. The bench seat seemed too short; we were crowded too close together.

“C-can you slow down?” Everything was moving too fast. And yet it needed to go fast, otherwise all the terrible and dangerous things were going to catch up. Still, I felt like I was barely hanging on.

He shook his head.

The silence that settled over us did grant me one comforting illusion. It provided distance. As the miles passed, Chase slipped farther and farther away.

*   *   *

AS
we exited the Red Zone, it was Chase’s own blood that eventually forced him to pull over. When the sharp twinge of copper permeated the stuffy cab, I remembered that Rick had cut him. The consistent drip of fluid hitting the ribbed upholstery of the seat slowed as the wound on his right shoulder began to clot, but it did not stop completely. I glanced down for only a second, because when I saw how the red smeared on the cracked beige leather, my stomach clamped with worry.

I’d cleared the gravel from the scrapes on my knuckles, but as my fingers kneaded the new jeans that covered my thighs, some of the older wounds reopened, cracking under the pressure I exerted.

My mind kept echoing the same question:
What happened back there?

The swing of a shotgun barrel. The glint of light off a sickle-shaped knife.
Daddy will take care of you.
Shards of a few petrifying minutes that were as clear as if they were still happening. And then struggle.

Recapping this part of the scenario made my chest squeeze inward on itself and my whole body grow cold and clammy. Sometime during that fight the lines between bad and good had become blurred. Reversed.

Not reversed,
I reminded myself. Chase had only been trying to protect us. Rick and Stan were still the bad guys.

But I could still see Chase’s detached, furious stare as he’d held Rick’s limp body against the building. No matter how much I told myself he’d been protecting us, I couldn’t be sure. In that moment, he’d forgotten everything. He’d become a machine.

It wasn’t that I was afraid he was going to hurt me; at least I didn’t think so. The old Chase never would have. But the soldier …

Chase killing someone was something I could not be a part of, no matter how perilous it would be without him, no matter what past we’d shared. Whatever part of him was still
him,
the greater part, the more dangerous part, was always lurking.

By the time we’d passed Winchester, Virginia
—
a small town still occupied by civilians
—
I’d made up my mind to leave him.

The semblance of a plan shot through my brain. I still had the change in my sweater pocket from the gas station. I could follow the highway back to Winchester. It was early still, midmorning. I could still reach the carrier on my own before noon.

I had pretty good intuition about people—I would seek out someone trustworthy to help me find a transport station. If it was anything like home, buses left the station at noon on weekdays. Then it was just a matter of blending into the crowds, like I had in high school. Not popular. Not a loner. Middle of the pack. The MM wouldn’t notice me if I kept my head down and didn’t linger too long.

I’d give a new name when I bought the ticket. If they asked for ID, I’d tell them an officer took it during the census, like Chase had told the highway patrolman.

My mom and I had been fending for ourselves all my life. I could manage a short trip to South Carolina, wanted or not.

Near Winchester, I’d asked to stop so that I could use the restroom, but Chase had told me to wait. I’d pointed to the blood dripping from his arm, but instead of tending to the wound, he’d just scrubbed away the puddle with his shirtsleeve.

We crossed into farmland. First rolling fields of fruit-bearing trees, picked clean and nearly camouflaged by the gray dust and the high weeds overtaking them, then corn in equally unattended condition. Abandoned vehicles, red and black with rust and mold, slowed us down. Most were parked off the asphalt, but some had died right in the middle of the lane. Chase eyed them warily as he sped down the highway, looking, I realized, for scavengers hidden in the shadows. Most of the windows in these cars had been broken out and cleared of anything valuable, but that didn’t mean that someone wouldn’t still come treasure hunting.

There was an eerie, graveyardlike silence in this place. A deserted stillness that made my skin crawl. This had been one of the evacuation routes when Baltimore had gone down, or maybe DC. I’d seen it on the news once, years ago after the first attacks, from an aerial view. That was when reporters could still use helicopters, before nonmilitary aircraft were banned from the skies.

The mass evacuation. Then, the streets had been packed with cars and frantic pedestrians, who slept on roadside cots at Red Cross stations when an accident or an overheated vehicle blocked traffic. I remembered the news capturing fights and victims of heat exhaustion. Kids wandering around looking for their parents.

Some of the cities had started to rebuild, but after eight years, this highway had been forgotten.

Chase eased off the pavement onto the bumpy soil and steered around a broken dining room table. Most of the dull yellow stalks immediately off the road had been trampled by scavengers or vehicles too impatient to wait in line during the evacuation. But beyond those there was heavy cover, enough to hide me when I disappeared.

With a pained grunt, Chase slammed the shifter into park.

My anxiety notched higher. It was almost time.

He’d be angry at first; I remembered his begrudged promise to my mother. Hopefully he wouldn’t look too long. After a while he’d probably figure I’d gone to the carrier and be relieved that his burden was lifted. Then he’d go on with his life. Just like he’d done before. He’d lost his military career, but I couldn’t feel guilty about that: The old Chase had never wanted to be drafted anyway. The old Chase had hated the MM.

We both stepped outside from our respective doors. I was moving too cautiously, watching him out of the corner of my eye to see if he was watching me. He jerked the bench seat forward with his good arm, muttering something about a first-aid kit.

Just go.
Why was I stalling?

Because it’s your fault he’s this way,
a small voice inside of me said. I could rationalize that this was not all true, but the bare fact remained that I could have changed everything.

I could still see him waiting in my driveway beside his motorcycle, the rain dripping from his hair and his chin and his sopping clothes.

Ask me not to go.

His eyes had burned then, so many conflicting emotions, but I’d been only afraid. Afraid that they would come after him and punish him, and that it would be my fault because I couldn’t let him go. Afraid that if I wasn’t strong enough to say good-bye, my mother would be left there alone.