Page 17 of Protected

A month after I join up, Burgundy and I are hiking through thick woods on our own at just after dawn. It’s dark under the canopy of half-dead tree branches, so we’re using an LED flashlight to see the overgrown trail in front of us, but the sky peeking through is lightening to gray.

The sky is always gray now. It’s been a year and a half since it has looked even faintly blue. The asteroid might have crashed into the other side of the planet, but every square foot of the world felt its impact. The layer of ash and debris in the atmosphere has taken away one of the fundamental truths of reality.

The sky is supposed to be blue.

But it’s not anymore.

I remember a stray piece of knowledge from one of the television documentaries my dad used to watch.Sometime back in history, a huge volcano erupted, throwing up so much ash that it lowered temperatures around the world, leading to a couple of years of famine.

This is kind of like that. Only worse. Even the air I’ve been breathing this year feels like it’s full of grit. Some people have gotten chronic coughs.

Burgundy glances back at me. Her hair is darker and shinier than mine, and today she has it pulled into two long braids. “I think we’re almost there.”

“Logan said it would take about forty-five minutes to hike, so that seems right.” We’re both speaking softly even though there’s no one else around.

“Look up there.” She gestures ahead to where the trees thin out, revealing more of the early-morning light.

We reach the clearing and peer out to see grassland sloping into a shallow valley and then rising into a gentle hill on which sits a huge old house. One of those that was old-fashioned even in the world before Impact with gables, turrets, big windows, and a large front porch. It’s in good condition but appears weirdly anachronistic in the barren landscapes and crumbling, soulless structures we’ve been traveling through.

“Guards there and there,” I say, spotting men stationed on either side of the property.

We’ve heard reports that a gang took over this house after killing the families who were scraping out a life inside.

Logan never sets out on missions of mercy, but the gang is supposed to be sitting on a stockpile of supplies inthis house. That’s enough of an incentive to risk moving in on this place.

“Okay then. Let’s do this.” Burgundy squares her shoulders and opens the backpack she’s carrying. I do the same. Then we move in opposite directions, skirting the edge of the woods and deliberately placing several small firecrackers on the ground at even distances.

When I set down the last one, I peer across to where the edge of the woods curves. I eventually see a flash of Burgundy’s dark hair. She waves. I wave back. Then I click a lighter to get a small flame and lean over to ignite the firecracker I just placed.

I start running immediately, so I’m a few strides away when the firecracker explodes with a loud crack and a bright flash. I keep running, leaning down to light the next one when I reach it. Then the next and then the next.

Burgundy is doing the same on her side of the woods.

Men and women start pouring out of the house, shouting and firing guns blindly in our direction. With all the bangs and flashes from the firecrackers, it must seem like a whole army is attacking them.

Instead, it’s only me and Burgundy, drawing out the gang’s defense in this direction so Logan and the rest of the group can advance on the opposite side of the house.

My job is to meet Burgundy at the trailhead and then retreat into the woods as quickly as possible. But my final firecracker doesn’t want to ignite. I lose a few seconds trying a time or two to light the fuse, but some of the gang are running toward us now, and I’m exposed in this position. So I give up and start sprinting.

The delay was a few seconds too long. One of the guys is in range of me now, and he obviously sees me. He fires, and I have to throw myself on the ground to not get hit by his bullet.

He keeps firing, so I crawl behind a tree, shrinking as his gunshots hit it, causing slivers of dry bark to fly out in all directions.

When the firing halts, I assume he’s reloading, so I pull out my small pistol and lean around the tree to aim.

I have a line on him. He’s standing out in the open, completely exposed.

I try. I really do. But I can’t pull the trigger.

He’s got brown hair. And freckles. His jeans have a rip at one knee.

If I shoot him, I will kill him. And something inside me is holding me back from taking a life, even the life of a man currently trying to kill me.

I’m about to give up and plow through the tangled foliage of the woods to get away when a presence emerges from behind me. Even before I turn to look, I know who it is. I sense the vibes or maybe catch a faint whiff of his familiar scent.

Deck.

He’s supposed to be on the other side of the hill, attacking the house with the others. But no. He’s here. Shooting his rifle three times and killing the three men closest to us one by one.

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