After the End(86)

Both cars have slowed down. It looks like Whit is yelling at the guy in the backseat and not completely focused on the road. I glance at the Jeep and imagine the inside of its motor. I picture the silver-and-white spark plugs that I Read before, and think water, focusing on taking any moisture in this dry landscape and gathering it right there, right between the connection of the plugs and the motor. And all of a sudden the Jeep skids out.

I watch it in the rearview mirror, spinning in circles on the road behind us before flying off the road and landing on its side. That’s all I have time to see before we pass over a ridge and out of sight.

Miles moans from beside me. “Miles!” I yell. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I’m alive,” he says, “but I think he got me in the chest.”

“Miles, we can’t go back to town if that means passing the Jeep. If they’re still alive, they might try to shoot us again.” I slow the car down enough so that I can think. Now that the strength of the Yara has left me, I feel numb with shock. “Where is this place you wanted to hide?”

“It’s just this old shack. Take a right past the Exxon sign, hidden behind a boulder,” he says, panting hard. I see an Exxon billboard in the distance and head straight for it, then take the dirt road behind it so fast that the back of the car fishtails. My heart leaps to my throat, but I manage to straighten out and stay on the road.

We are coming up to a massive boulder-like rock formation. A nearly invisible path winds behind it, and right there in the middle of nowhere, but invisible from the main road, stands a shack.

I screech to a stop between the shack and the boulder, hiding the car from anyone who might drive by. Jumping out, I run around to the passenger’s side and open it. Miles is lying on his back with his legs bent. There’s blood all over the place: I can’t even see where it’s coming from.

“Oh, Miles,” I whisper. Though I’m used to hunting—to seeing blood and gore—I feel powerless.

“Do you think you can walk?” I ask.

“I’ll try,” he says. His voice is weak. That scares me more than all the blood.

Be calm, I think. You have to be strong. Now is not the time for emotions.

“Let’s get you inside the cabin,” I say. “The Jeep flipped onto its side, but they might be able to get it back on the road.”

“When he finds out you’re gone, Dad will be after us too,” Miles says.

“Don’t worry about that,” I say, and prop him into a sitting position, pulling his legs to swing them around and out of the car. I loop his arm over my shoulder and heave him up. We half stumble over the pebbled ground toward the ramshackle house, Miles groaning and pressing his hand to his side. I get him up onto the porch and, seeing that the door is ajar, kick it open. I take a look around. There is nothing inside. No sink. No furniture. No electricity. Just one small room with beer bottles and cigarette packets strewn about.

I help lower Miles to the floor, then rip off my jacket, fold it a couple of times and place it under his head. I run back out to the car and pop the trunk to drag my bag and the camping gear in, in case there’s anything in there that will be of use.

It’s dark inside the room, so I light some of the camping candles and put them around Miles’s body. I don’t take the time to unbutton his cotton shirt, I just rip it and let the buttons fly. The T-shirt beneath is so thoroughly soaked in blood I have no idea what color it was originally. I take scissors out of my pack and cut straight up the middle of the shirt through the neckline, and then down through the sleeves, so he is lying bare-chested and the bullet hole in his side, between two ribs, is exposed.

Miles lets out another groan and, wrapping his arms around his chest, writhes in pain.

“Shh, Miles. Try to stay still,” I say, and bring a candle closer so I can see his wound. It is a round hole the size of my fingertip, with blood oozing from it. I touch it, pulling the flesh apart enough to see that the bullet is embedded a couple of inches in. I don’t know what to do. I glance around the room once more, assessing what I have available to me.

I should call someone to come help us, but there’s no phone in this shack. “Miles, you didn’t get a new phone, did you?” I ask. He shakes his head no. I wonder how close the nearest hospital is. I doubt I’d even be able to find it in time. And I could try to flag someone down on the road, but I have no idea if Whit and his men have their Jeep back up and running.

This is up to me, I realize. Miles’s life is in my hands. I inspect the bullet hole again, and then, digging through my bag, pull out my bowie knife. I’ve dug thousands of crossbow arrows out of dead prey, but never a bullet.