Page 73 of Protected

Maybe.

“What will we do if we don’t find them?”

Keep looking.

He’s right. Today isn’t the only day it’s possible to reach them. If we don’t find them today, we might be able to tomorrow. It might not be too late.

That thought has only just processed in my mind when the sound of gunfire in the distance makes me jerk. Deck hears it too. He stiffens and accelerates our speed.

The gunfire could be anything. It’s not unusual in the world two and a half years after Impact. But I know as well as Deck does that those are our friends, our people.

Trisha and that gang didn’t wait any longer to attack. They’re doing it this evening. Right now.

“Hurry,” I say, although Deck is already doing just that. “Maybe we can help.”

Deck is driving so fast now that I’m being jostled dangerously on the back of the seat because the pavement is in such bad shape. I hold on tight, scared and dizzy and still incredibly sore from my tumble down the riverbank earlier.

I don’t care about any of that. All that matters is reaching the others in time.

In time to… do something.

Deck follows the sounds of the shooting until the shots are very loud, just over the next hill. Then he slows down so we can see the situation before we come barreling into danger.

Because we’re cresting the hill, we have a good vantage point to see even in the low light. Logan and the others clearly set up camp in an abandoned church not too far off the road. They built a large fire in the field beside it, and all the vehicles are parked around the back.

And now they’re using the church as a defensive position against the gang attacking them.

My first thought is that the gang didn’t have a very strategic plan. From here, it looks like they just came off the road and started shooting. Maybe they were forced into premature action by my catching Trisha. Whatever the reason, they don’t appear to be overpowering our people.

It looks more like a stalemate, but that’s bad enough. If a stalemate goes on long enough, then everyone loses.

Deck drives us down the hill toward the church. No one hears us over the sound of so much gunfire.

There’s a big tree along the old driveway into the parking lot, and Deck stops there, gesturing that I should get off and take that position.

I do as he says, pulling out my pistol and using the tree for protection as I lean around it to start shooting the bad guys from behind.

Deck keeps driving the ATV, shooting with his rifle as he goes.

There are only two of us, but that’s enough to make the difference. Half the gang turns around and starts shooting at us instead, surprised by the unexpected advance from behind, and that gives the folks in the church the advantage.

It lasts about five more minutes. I keep shooting and reloading and shooting some more, and I’m almost positive that I actually hit a few of the bad guys—only wounding shots rather than killing ones. It’s too dark now to see very well, and my vision is whirling from fear and adrenaline.

I’m almost surprised when it’s over. Logan comes out of the church, calling out orders, and Deck and a few others go through, making sure all the fallen are dead or incapacitated. I finally emerge from behind the tree and limp over, checking to see if any of our people are hurt.

I’m relieved when Burgundy runs over to hug me, saying something about how she knew I wouldn’t have left and that she’s so glad Deck managed to find me.

I only hear her in a blur. Everything is a blur. Something unfinished sits in my gut like a predator poised for attack.

When I see Trisha, it finally does. It attacks. She’s standing there with the others—my group, my people—still acting like she’s one of us. Since her cohorts lost, she’s going to pretend she had nothing to do with them. She actually thinks she might get away with it.

I launch myself at her. There’s no other way todescribe it. Heedless of my own injuries, I race toward her and tackle her, the force of my motion pushing both of us to the ground.

She’s bigger than me, but she’s taken by surprise, so I have the advantage. She does fight back, but I hit and kick and scratch like a wild animal—completely out of control in my rage—until I claw the gun she pulled out of her hand.

I’m holding her down with the weight of my body, and I point her own gun at her. My fingers are hot and damp on the trigger.

And Ihateher. More than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire life.

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