Page 120 of Last Light

I’m holding my breath as we scale the top of the hill and start down the other side. We’re out of sight of the camp now. We did it.

The pickup is still behind me.

And the loud ruffians in the valley had no idea we were ever there.

Travis climbs into the passenger seat beside me. “You can go a little faster now,” he murmurs. “But don’t turn on the headlights yet.”

“Okay. But if run smack into a lake or a rock, don’t blame me. I can’t see a thing.”

“I know. Just do your best.”

I accelerate to about twenty miles an hour, figuring it’s still slow enough that even an impact isn’t going to do much damage. When we’re down the hill, Travis tells me to stop. Mack is driving the pickup now, and he pulls up beside us.

He turns on a flashlight so we can see each other. “There’s an old church about a mile or two ahead,” Mack says. “We sometimes use it as shelter. I figure if the caravan got that far today, that’s where they’ll be. If not, we can spend the night there and try to find ’em tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Travis says. “You lead the way.”

“Do you mind driving now?” I ask Travis.

“Sure thing.”

We climb over each other to trade places, and I accidentally step on the dog’s paw, causing him to give a soft, indignant yelp. I collapse against the seat when I’m back where it feels like I belong. If I have a home anymore, it’s in this seat, in this Jeep. With Travis and the dog.

“You did real good, Layne.”

“Thanks. I might fall apart a little bit over here now.”

“Go right ahead.”

I don’t actually fall apart, but I can finally breathe easy. Mack doesn’t turn on his headlights, but he leaves the flashlight on. Anna must be holding it in the front seat. It casts a faint glow ahead of them, and it gives Travis a point of light to follow.

We reach the church in less than thirty minutes.

It’s down a long drive off a small country road. Before we get halfway down the road, we’re stopped by posted guards. The driveway is blocked by three pickup trucks, lined up side by side.

Mack calls out to them, and at least one of them must know him because someone greets him enthusiastically.

They move a pickup truck to let us through after checking both our vehicles to ensure they’re just holding what Mack told them.

We drive down to the church.

The first person I see, standing at the front door with a gun and a battery-operated lantern, is Bobby Fraser.

He lived down the street from me. He was our county prosecutor. He was one of the few men who always wore a suit to church.

We’ve found the survivors of Meadows.

Mack gets out first and explains who we are and why we’re there. Then the rest of us climb out of the vehicles, taking our bags and essential supplies.

When we come toward the door, Bobby looks at me through a pair of cracked glasses. “Layne? Is that little Layne Patterson?”

“Yes,” I say with a smile. “It’s me.”

“My God, girl. I never thought I’d see you again.” He puts down his rifle and gives me a hug. Then he looks over his shoulder and jerks. “Travis? Is that you too? Son of a gun.”

He hugs Travis too.

The entryway leads into a large fellowship hall. It’s lit by candles and lanterns, so the flickering light isn’t bright. But I can see all the people crowded into the large room.

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