Page 3 of Homestead

An engine. A loud one.

I glance back and see a motorcycle on the road behind us. My hands grow cold, and my heart drops into my gut.

“Faster,” Grandpa mutters after he’s glanced back too. He always goes soft rather than loud when he’s urgent. “Chloe, doll, faster.”

I accelerate until I’m driving as fast as possible given our vehicle and the condition of the road. I’m barely breathing now, and I couldn’t even explain why I’m so scared.

We don’t know this area. Maybe they have access to plenty of fuel. Maybe motorcycles are common. Maybe the guy behind us is out for a joyride or is in a hurry to do an errand.

Maybe he just happens to be going in the same direction as us.

But I don’t believe any of that.

It feels like he’s chasing us. Overtaking us. And if he catches us, it’s not going to be good.

He’s getting closer, and I can’t go any faster. There are too many trees through here for me to get off the road where the ATV might give us an advantage.

“You’re doin’ good, Chloe, doll,” my grandfather says. “Just don’t stop.”

Those are his last words. His very last.

A crack of sound behind us makes me whimper. I’m about to ask if that was a gunshot, but then Grandpa slumps forward in his seat. He stays like that, unmoving. After a minute, I realize there’s blood gushing out of his neck.

My stomach clenches into a sickening knot. My vision blurs over. I’m still driving, but I have no idea how. I’ve ducked my head automatically. Another shot sounds, and a bullet whizzes past my ear. I can barely see in front of me since it feels so important to keep my head down.

But there’s also someone in front of me. Standing on the side of the road ahead. I process his presence as part of my blur, and when I get closer, I see him aiming a gun.

They’re working together. Trapping innocent travelers. One chases and the other ambushes. There’s not a thing in the world I can do to protect myself except aim for the man, try to hit him with my vehicle before he gets a shot off.

I’m looking straight at him, incapable of noticing anything else, so I see when his aim shifts. He moves his arms and stance, redirecting the rifle so that it’s pointing at the motorcycle behind me.

I wouldn’t have thought I was capable of thinking and reacting so quickly, but the realization slams home in a matter of two seconds.

He’s not with the guy on the motorcycle. He thought I was a threat, but now he must realize I’m not.

He might shoot the guy behind me before that guy kills me.

So I steer away from him abruptly, swerving around him instead of running him over like I intended.

The sudden move is automatic. Instinctive. That guy wants to help me—I know it—so I absolutely cannot plow him down. But it isn’t a wise maneuver because of the rough road and the speed I’m driving.

I hit a big pothole and can’t hold my vehicle on the road. Slamming on the brakes only helps a little. I end up in a ditch after a series of nauseating bumps and jerks that rattle my entire body.

But my instincts were right. As I’m bouncing off the road, there are three gunshots. And when I’m able to focus and turn my head, I see that the man on the road has shot the other guy off his motorcycle.

The engine is still running, but the bike’s on its side, and the man would have been trapped beneath it if he hadn’t already been dead.

It’s the blood that reminds me.

With a gasp and a choked sob, I reach over toward Grandpa, carefully pulling him back into his seat.

His body is limp. Blood is everywhere. Soaking everything. Still coming out of the wound in his neck.

He’s dead.

He was dead the moment he was shot.

The world darkens as I process this reality. The sight of all that blood. The smell of it.

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