Page 3 of Faron
We slipped into the dark, ghosts in borrowed skin. Past the snoring guards. Past the trucks rumbling softly near the gate. The air reeked of diesel, sweat, and fear. Something was wrong. There were whispers—about last night’s fire, about the rumors of a shadow slipping past patrols. They were spooked.
Good.
A dog barked. A voice shouted. Light flared, bright and blinding.
“Run!” I roared.
Chuck raised the rifle, firing short bursts, tight and practiced. Joel stumbled, nearly fell, but kept his feet. I flicked the detonator in my hand and aimed it at the fuel drums stacked near the fence.
One breath. Two.
Boom.
The explosion ripped through the compound. Fire climbed into the sky, painting the world orange and red. Screams echoed. The fence bowed inward, then collapsed in the heat. Chuck shoved Joel through the opening.
I stayed until my rifle clicked dry. Then I ran. Fast. Laughing.
We were out.
We were alive.
And the dead howled behind us.
5
Faron
We made it as far as the dry creek bed before Chuck dropped like a stone, blood soaking through his shirt, pooling around his hip. I dropped beside him, hands already working. I patched him fast—tight, rough stitches, pressure dressings made from the shredded hem of my shirt. His pulse was slow, but it was there.
I laid him in the shade, tried to make him comfortable. Split the last water bottle three ways—one swig each. Joel leaned back against a rock, eyes glazed, mumbling something about his sister’s enchiladas and homemade root beer.
Chuck cracked a joke every time I told him to shut up and breathe. I muttered prayers under my breath in Cherokee, the same ones my father used to whisper when storms hit our cabin in the night.
I didn’t think they’d work. But it felt wrong not to say them.
Then I heard it—footsteps. Soft. Cautious. Too careful to be a soldier. Too light to be a threat.
I grabbed my knife and turned.
And there she was.
Blue Davis.
Her braid hung down her back, dark and smooth. Dust clung to her clothes like she’d been walking through the desert for days. She wore a battered rucksack over one shoulder and moved like she belonged to the earth itself. Calm. Sharp. Fierce.
At her heel—my mutt Bear.
Alive.
Bandaged paw. Tail wagging. Ears alert.
My throat closed. I stared, not trusting what I saw. I remembered the shot. Remembered Bear falling, limp and lifeless. I’d carried him until I couldn’t. I knew he was gone; I’d felt it.
And yet there he stood—tongue lolling, smug as hell.
Blue stood at the edge of the creek, hands on her hips, looking at us like we were the strangest thing she’d seen all week.
“Lose something?” she asked, her voice low, amused, tired.
