Page 2 of Embers

It’s our bad luck they find us.

I’m in such a breathless blur that I can barely register details, but I’ll never forget the malicious pleasure on their faces when they surround us.

I’m seventeen years old, and nothing has ever sickened me as much as those expressions.

Derek steps in front of me in a futile attempt to protect me, but he’s hit by a coughing fit, and it’s so overwhelming that he bends at the waist as he hacks.

I have no weapon. No useful skills. Nothing but a pair of very small hands and the worn tennis shoes I’m wearing.

One of the men cackles.

I’m going to die. I can see it so clearly in that moment. I’ll die, and I’ll suffer a lot before it happens.

When the crack of sound comes out of the blue, I don’t recognize it. At all. Not until the ugly cackler slumps to the ground, half his head blown off by a bullet.

I whirl around toward the source of the sound. A big, rough, bearded man is half hanging out of the driver’s side of a pickup truck, aiming a scary-looking rifle. As I watch, he shoots the other two men, and they’re down before I can even register who this is and what he’s doing.

Derek is still coughing, but now he’s attempting to straighten up. “Dad,” he chokes out.

“Get in the truck, boy. You need to get the hell out of here.” The man’s voice is as gruff and off-putting as his appearance. “Where’s your mom?”

“She’s dead.” If this news has an impact on his father, I can’t see it on his face, but Derek doesn’t appear to notice. “How did you even find us?”

“Heard the town was under attack and got worried. Was comin’ to get you and your mom. Good thing you were already headin’ toward me. Now get in the truck.”

“Only if Rachel can come too.”

“What the fuck do I care? You too, girl. Just get your asses in the back. Right the fuck now.”

Derek’s mother was a devout churchgoer who would never even sayheckorgosh. I can’t imagine her hooking up with this coarse, grungy, antisocial type, but evidently she did eighteen years ago. At least once.

Derek starts to climb into the back of the truck, and he seems so unsteady on his feet that I pause to help him. Before I can manage, two large hands come out of nowhere and heave me up bodily, depositing me in the truck bed.

I don’t like to be touched. By anyone. I definitely don’t want to be manhandled by this gross, unfriendly stranger. I glare at him before I remember he saved our lives a minute ago.

He ignores me completely and hands a small pistol to Derek. “Here. If you see anyone, shoot ’em.”

“I can’t—” Derek’s coughing interrupts his objection.

“I’ll do it.” I reach for the gun. “I know how.”

“Fine.” His dad doesn’t wait for confirmation of my ability to fire a gun. “Y’all hold on. This ain’t gonna be an easy ride.”

He isn’t lying. It’s probably the worst ride of my entire life. He takes us on bumpy back ways—some of them not even roads—and he has to veer out of the way of several other vehicles. Just outside of town, when an attacker on a motorcycle pulls in front of him in an attempt to get us to stop, he accelerates and drives into him. The dull bump and the crunching sound as the man and motorcycle hit the ground almost make me gag.

I fire the pistol a few times, but I don’t think I hit anything. I do know how to shoot a gun. Nearly everyone learned last year when safety and security could no longer be taken for granted, but I’m not very good at it.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing halts Derek’s dad, and no one manages to reach us or stop us. After a few minutes, we’re out of town and taking Wolf Creek Road up the mountain.

Eventually we turn onto a dirt road and climb even higher. We pass an abandoned van parked at an angle on the grass. Then a big, forked tree. Until we finally reach a gravel drive that leads to a small, run-down cabin. Or maybe shack is a better word to describe it.

When the truck comes to a stop right in front, I lower the hatch and climb out. My knees are wobbly, and I’m nauseated. I put a hand on my stomach.

Derek’s father has gotten out of the driver’s seat, and he takes a couple of steps toward me. His eyes move up and down over my body.

I’ve got long dark hair pulled into one thick braid and very green eyes, and most people seem to think I’m pretty. Since I was thirteen, I’ve put up with a lot of obnoxious or creepy comments from men about my looks. I don’t really care that much about my relative attractiveness since my face and body have done absolutely nothing to make my life easier, but I’m still used to people liking how I look.

I’m definitely not used to anyone giving me the impatient, clinical assessment that Derek’s dad gives me now. “I’m Cal Evans. Who are you?”

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