Page 30 of Princess

We chat occasionally on the drive—about the changed landscape, about the wildlife in this area, about how many people we think are likely to take us up on the offer of moving in with us. It feels as comfortable as it’s ever felt between us, more like it was when we were practicing fighting skills every evening, and I’m generally pleased with my decisions today. So I’m in a decent mood as we turn down the gravel path that leads to the bunker.

But halfway there, Grant applies the brakes. His body visibly tightens.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He tilts his head up toward the tall trees edging the path. “There. It’s a guard post. Noah should be there right now.”

I have to peer closely, or I’d never be able to spot the perch where one of our guards should be posted. There’s no one there now. No one in sight. “What does it mean? Where is he?”

“Something’s wrong,” Grant mutters.

I’m trying to take this in—imagining horrifying possibilities—when Grant suddenly makes a move. He does a three-point turn, repositioning the Jeep so it’s pointing away from the bunker. Then he pulls a rifle out of the back before he climbs out. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll need to stay out of sight to check it out.”

I get out without hesitation or argument. My heart is hammering painfully, and the sated leisure I’d been feeling after sex vanishes in rising panic. “We just leave the Jeep here?”

“Yep. Don’t want to risk the sound of the engine. We’ll come back for it if we can.”

If we can…

The words terrify me more than anything else.

Grant wraps his hand around one of my forearms to pull me off the path and into the surrounding woods. I don’t draw away from his grip because it’s strangely comforting, but he eventually drops his hand.

I follow him without a word, every nerve on edge and acutely conscious of every stray sound. We walk through the woods toward the clearing around the bunker.

The closer we get, the more I’m convinced that Grant was right.

Something is definitely wrong.

6

At some point,after Grant lets go of my arm, I reach for the holstered pistol on my hip and pull it out. My hand is damp from the sudden flood of nerves, but at least it doesn’t tremble.

For a year and a half, I trained with Grant nearly every evening. To use this gun. To defend myself. To fight if I must.

I’ve never actually used any of those skills before.

We’re still in the woods as we draw nearer to our camp, so I can’t see anything but trees and the back of Grant’s body. His dark hair is slightly mussed at the nape of his neck, and there’s a damp spot on his shirt below his shoulder blades. I’m starting to hear things, however. The roar of engines. Rough, muffled shouts. Then the crack of a gunshot that makes me jump.

Grant props his rifle on his shoulder, aiming it in front of him as he steps forward.

I try to move as silently as he can, but I don’t have any practice at this. I occasionally rustle leaves or step on a twig.

We’re reaching the edge of the trees now. I see light beyond them. It’s late afternoon on what was supposed to be a regular day. I had sex just over an hour ago, and now I’m in a cold, weirdly calm panic.

Without speaking, Grant signals behind him with his hand in a clear sign that I should stop. I do as he indicates while he takes a few steps forward.

He’s trying to see what’s happening out there.

Something in his body changes as he peers out at our camp. When he comes back to me, I’m sick to my stomach even before he whispers, “The gate is down.”

The gate is down.

Someone attacked our camp and got through.

I have no idea what we’re supposed to do now. This isn’t a situation I’ve been prepped for.

The gate is down. Maybe everyone else I know is already dead.

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