“Why?” I say.
“I’m just curious. You seem… almost prepped for this lifestyle.”
“I was living in Los Angeles,” I reply.
“So you’ll be going home for the first time when we reach the city.”
I swallow. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but yes. I’ll be seeing the ravaged remains of my former hometown for the first time. I’m not sure that it’s going to do anything to boost my confidence. From what I’ve heard, Los Angeles is little more than an oversized garbage dump these days.
Not really positive reinforcement.
“What kind of a job did you have?” Uriah presses.
I scratch Katana behind the ears. And then I decide not to answer Uriah. Call me crazy, but I’d rather nobody but Chris Young know the details of my past life. My normal life. I don’t want to burst anyone’s illusion that I’m a hardcore freedom fighter by letting the cat out of the bag: Yes, sorry folks. But Cassidy Hart was an unemployed college dropout before the EMP hit, not a police officer or a soldier. My worst worries were awkward family reunions and failed cell signals. Does that surprise you?
It’s like they say. Leaving an element of mystery is sometimes more effective than spilling your guts everywhere you go. Just saying.
Uriah realizes that I’m not going to answer his question, and instead of pressuring me, he drops the subject. He leans close to my face and whispers,
“Keeping secrets? I can keep them, too.”
He presses a soft, quick kiss to my cheek. It happens in a second, just quick enough for everyone else to miss it. I shove him backwards, shocked. He looks taken aback by my reaction. My knife flashes off my belt and into my hand.
“Don’t ever do that again,” I warn quietly, the blade glinting in the moonlight.
Uriah looks shocked by my reaction — and I’m a little bit surprised, too.
My instinct to fight — to defend when threatened — is stronger than it ever was. It surprises me how easily it becomes visible when I am attacked.
“Uh… I’m… sorry…” Uriah mutters, flushed. He slowly backs away, retreating into the shadows of the night, taking refuge on the other side of Mach.
I think, What does he want from me?
Yet there’s a small part of me that thinks Uriah doesn’t want anything. That perhaps he really does genuinely care about me. And for some reason, that is scarier than thinking that he’s trying to manipulate my emotions.
I love Chris. I will always love Chris. That will never change.
Period.
I can feel the intensity of Uriah’s gaze on the back of my head. It’s practically drilling holes through my skull. I don’t like it. I move to the other side of Katana, casting a glance at Vera. She’s sulking as she checks her saddle, but in hindsight, our confrontation could have been a lot worse. In fact, compared to other conversations we’ve had, what happened could be considered almost civil.
After we rest the horses, we mount up again and continue our journey. I send Uriah to the back of the group. My plan is to make him eat dust for a few hours. Maybe it will force him to think about the consequences of his stupid, rash action.
And the more I think about it, the more annoyed I become.
If Chris were here, he would teach Uriah a few things about manners…
A flicker of movement catches the corner of my left eye. “Whoa, hold it,” I say, jerking back on Katana’s reins.
We halt and Manny stops, too. He turns back to face me, alarmed. “What?” he demands.
“I saw something move,” I reply, nodding toward the spot.
I look toward the tall grass on the side of the mountain. The moonlight casts a silvery glow over the field. In the distance is a decrepit barn. But right below it…I saw something move. And because I’m a sniper, the possibility of movement is as problematic as the confirmation of it.
“Where?” Manny asks.
“On your nine o’clock,” I whisper.
“Roger that, Cassidy,” Derek says.
I quickly scan our surroundings. There’s nothing but wide-open grassy fields behind us and in front of us. We won’t hit a covered area until we reach the base of the next hill. We’re completely, totally exposed on our flanks, except for a few rocks and defilades — low spots in the terrain.
It turns my blood to ice water.
This is a kill zone.
“What do we do, boss?” Derek asks me.
What would Chris do? What would he say?
“We keep going,” I say. “Dismount and gun walk to cover.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the sound of rifle fire cracks the silence of the night. Behind me, a horse rears on its hind legs, whinnying loudly. The militiaman on his back — a man named Matt — is thrown to the ground. He flies through the air like a limp ragdoll, landing with a sickening crunch on his neck. I drop out of my saddle and crouch on the protected side of Katana’s shoulder. I spring to the man on the ground. His head is twisted at an unnatural angle, his eyes wide open.
Dead.
And there’s a red bullet wound right below his ear.
“Ambush!” I shout. “Cover, cover, cover!”
Whoever is hiding in the grass lets loose. The fusillade of rifle fire cuts through the air. I stay close to the ground, adrenaline shooting through my veins, heightening my senses. I manage to swing my rifle up and rattle off a thirty-round magazine of suppressive fire.
Militiamen scramble, jumping out of their saddles, taking cover behind the hulking, muscled bodies of their horses. Katana snorts and paws the dirt. Another militiaman hits the ground.
“There’s at least ten shooters out there!” Derek yells, his rifle in his hands. “We’re dead if we move!”
“We have to reach cover!”
“There’s no way to get there without being shot!”
I shake my head. That’s not true. There’s always a way.
Chris would find a way. Come on, Cassie. Think like Chris.
I yank a white smoke grenade out of my kit.
“We need to cover our escape!” I shout. “I’ll throw the first grenade, Derek will follow it with another, and then Uriah, Manny, Vera, Andrew and so on. We’ll create a smokescreen!”
The rest of the militiamen are returning fire, shooting back at muzzle flashes in the moonlight. I don’t hesitate. I pop the ring on the grenade and chuck it as far as I can into the open field. I jam my boot into the right stirrup of Katana’s saddle and hang on for dear life to the restraints, keeping my body on one side of the horse. Uriah slaps Katana’s rear flank and she charges forward. I’ve got one leg halfway over the saddle, using her body as a shield. I maintain a desperate grip as Katana leaps away. The grenades explode, billows of thick smoke curling into the air, creating a thick curtain across the field. More grenades detonate. More gunfire. Louder, faster, quicker.
Boom, boom, boom, boom!
Murderous rounds from a large caliber weapon hammers into action.
My arms burn, clutching the saddle as Katana sprints forward. Tears slide down my cheeks, an effect of wind and resistance and the torturous effort of maintaining a grip on Katana’s saddle.
More grenades detonate. Men mount horses and follow me.
Bullets zip past, snapping the air with supersonic cracks, ricocheting off rocks and earth. I’m almost to the edge of the field — almost to the woods. My hands are sweaty, making it difficult to keep my grip on the saddle horn.
I grit my teeth and tough it out.
We reach the edge of the field. Katana stumbles just enough to throw my balance off. My grip slips and I hit the ground with a thud, rolling over and over in a tangle of arms and legs. The wind goes out of my lungs as two more grenades blast the field. I tumble into the bushes.