Page 4 of Beacon

I’ll be forced to turn around and hurry back to Cal and Rachel. Go home and try to live my life without Mack in it.

He hasn’t really been in my life for the past two years, ever since I ended our sexual relationship. It worked for us for years. We did our own thing and occasionally got together for sex. But when I realized he wanted more from me—he wanted something I couldn’t give him—I had to call it quits no matter how much it wrenched my heart from my chest.

Since then, our paths have crossed occasionally but we’ve spent very little time together. But I always knew hewas there. Not too far away. I heard updates from our friends and still felt emotionally connected to him.

But that will change if Mack isn’t at the cabin when I reach it.

Everything will change. And not just for me. There’s been a hole in our community for six months now without Mack’s warm, strong presence at its core.

The urgency keeps me going long after my leg muscles start to ache, my lungs rasp, and my skin burns with effort. I’ve got reddish-brown hair and fair skin and a light scattering of freckles. My cheeks get blazing red with too much emotion or too much exercise. Hours pass, and I keep going, only stopping long enough to go to the bathroom or take a swig of water or a few bites of one of the oat bars Greta gave me before I left this morning.

I can see hardly anything of the sky through the heavy canopy of trees, but I’ve been walking for hours. It’s got to be midafternoon by now. If I don’t make it to the cabin by nightfall, it’s going to get a lot more dangerous for me.

I haven’t even reached the fork yet.

It’s at least another hour before I do. It’s a relief to see the trail split up ahead. The left side is wider and looks easier to travel, but right is the direction I need to go. When I get closer, I gasp in surprise to see a ragged old man sitting on the trail with his back to a tree.

I know he’s old because his long, stringy hair and beard are steel gray. He’s got tattered clothes and a walking stick across his lap.

Have I somehow wandered into Middle Earth and encountered Gandalf taking a rest?

That’s seriously the first thought that crosses my mind.

He perks up when he sees me, smiling and hefting himself to his feet.

I keep my gun in my hand, but I don’t level it at him. He doesn’t appear to have a weapon. “Hello there,” I say, trying to pitch my voice into the matter-of-fact tone that Rachel uses so well. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” he says, sounding as old as he looks. “Whatcha doin’ in these parts on your own?”

I ignore the compliment. I don’t like it, but there’s a good chance he means well. I don’t consider myself a “pretty little thing.” I’m thirty-three, and I suppose I’m attractive enough, but I’m not nearly as pretty as some of my friends. Rachel. Olivia. Layne. They’re all genuinely beautiful.

There’s nothing in the world wrong with the way I look. I’m medium height with a fit, curvy figure. My eyes are a nice blue, and Mack used to say that my smile was like the sun coming out. My hair is long and curly, but at the moment it’s braided tightly and wound around my head to keep it out of the way. And I’m wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a slightly too-big jacket that hides any hint of my figure.

So his words don’t ring true to me. They raise the hair on the back of my neck. I give him a polite smile and keepmy distance. “I’ve got somewhere to be, so if you’re all right, I’ll be on my way. Have a nice day.”

No use to be unnecessarily confrontational. Not everyone is mean and violent, although a much larger percentage of people are than I ever would have believed before Impact.

Back then, it was only my husband who might hit me.

Now anyone I encounter might lash out.

What happens then might as well be my private thoughts come to life. I’ve walked past Gandalf, heading toward the right side of the fork, when he moves in a flash, striking out hard with his walking stick down low on the back of my ankles.

It hurts. And it disrupts my balance. I fall forward, dropping my gun and barely catching myself with my hands before my face hits the dirt.

Then the old man is on top of me, the grizzled face that looked so harmless twisted into a predatory grin.

I kick out instinctively and push him off me, but he’s stronger than he looks. He grabs for me again, using his weight to hold down my legs and wrenching one of my arms so it’s trapped.

But I still have one hand free. My mind roaring fiercely with terror and outrage both, I fumble with my hand until I can feel the butt of my dropped gun.

I’ve been trained to fight. For years now. First by Mack. Then by Maria, who leads the group of women I used to travel with.

I’m no longer a trapped and trembling girl, and I’m not going to be her again. I grab the gun and swing it hard to slam into the man’s head.

He roars in pain and backs off slightly, giving me enough time to fit my fingers around the trigger and aim.

I shoot, blowing Gandalf’s head off.

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