Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(40)

*



AS we exited the Red Zone, it was Chase’s own blood that eventually forced him to pull over. When the sharp twinge of copper permeated the stuffy cab, I remembered that Rick had cut him. The consistent drip of fluid hitting the ribbed upholstery of the seat slowed as the wound on his right shoulder began to clot, but it did not stop completely. I glanced down for only a second, because when I saw how the red smeared on the cracked beige leather, my stomach clamped with worry.

I’d cleared the gravel from the scrapes on my knuckles, but as my fingers kneaded the new jeans that covered my thighs, some of the older wounds reopened, cracking under the pressure I exerted.

My mind kept echoing the same question: What happened back there?

The swing of a shotgun barrel. The glint of light off a sickle-shaped knife. Daddy will take care of you. Shards of a few petrifying minutes that were as clear as if they were still happening. And then struggle.

Recapping this part of the scenario made my chest squeeze inward on itself and my whole body grow cold and clammy. Sometime during that fight the lines between bad and good had become blurred. Reversed.

Not reversed, I reminded myself. Chase had only been trying to protect us. Rick and Stan were still the bad guys.

But I could still see Chase’s detached, furious stare as he’d held Rick’s limp body against the building. No matter how much I told myself he’d been protecting us, I couldn’t be sure. In that moment, he’d forgotten everything. He’d become a machine.

It wasn’t that I was afraid he was going to hurt me; at least I didn’t think so. The old Chase never would have. But the soldier …

Chase killing someone was something I could not be a part of, no matter how perilous it would be without him, no matter what past we’d shared. Whatever part of him was still him, the greater part, the more dangerous part, was always lurking.

By the time we’d passed Winchester, Virginia—a small town still occupied by civilians—I’d made up my mind to leave him.

The semblance of a plan shot through my brain. I still had the change in my sweater pocket from the gas station. I could follow the highway back to Winchester. It was early still, midmorning. I could still reach the carrier on my own before noon.

I had pretty good intuition about people—I would seek out someone trustworthy to help me find a transport station. If it was anything like home, buses left the station at noon on weekdays. Then it was just a matter of blending into the crowds, like I had in high school. Not popular. Not a loner. Middle of the pack. The MM wouldn’t notice me if I kept my head down and didn’t linger too long.

I’d give a new name when I bought the ticket. If they asked for ID, I’d tell them an officer took it during the census, like Chase had told the highway patrolman.

My mom and I had been fending for ourselves all my life. I could manage a short trip to South Carolina, wanted or not.

Near Winchester, I’d asked to stop so that I could use the restroom, but Chase had told me to wait. I’d pointed to the blood dripping from his arm, but instead of tending to the wound, he’d just scrubbed away the puddle with his shirtsleeve.

We crossed into farmland. First rolling fields of fruit-bearing trees, picked clean and nearly camouflaged by the gray dust and the high weeds overtaking them, then corn in equally unattended condition. Abandoned vehicles, red and black with rust and mold, slowed us down. Most were parked off the asphalt, but some had died right in the middle of the lane. Chase eyed them warily as he sped down the highway, looking, I realized, for scavengers hidden in the shadows. Most of the windows in these cars had been broken out and cleared of anything valuable, but that didn’t mean that someone wouldn’t still come treasure hunting.

There was an eerie, graveyardlike silence in this place. A deserted stillness that made my skin crawl. This had been one of the evacuation routes when Baltimore had gone down, or maybe DC. I’d seen it on the news once, years ago after the first attacks, from an aerial view. That was when reporters could still use helicopters, before nonmilitary aircraft were banned from the skies.

The mass evacuation. Then, the streets had been packed with cars and frantic pedestrians, who slept on roadside cots at Red Cross stations when an accident or an overheated vehicle blocked traffic. I remembered the news capturing fights and victims of heat exhaustion. Kids wandering around looking for their parents.

Some of the cities had started to rebuild, but after eight years, this highway had been forgotten.

Chase eased off the pavement onto the bumpy soil and steered around a broken dining room table. Most of the dull yellow stalks immediately off the road had been trampled by scavengers or vehicles too impatient to wait in line during the evacuation. But beyond those there was heavy cover, enough to hide me when I disappeared.

With a pained grunt, Chase slammed the shifter into park.

My anxiety notched higher. It was almost time.

He’d be angry at first; I remembered his begrudged promise to my mother. Hopefully he wouldn’t look too long. After a while he’d probably figure I’d gone to the carrier and be relieved that his burden was lifted. Then he’d go on with his life. Just like he’d done before. He’d lost his military career, but I couldn’t feel guilty about that: The old Chase had never wanted to be drafted anyway. The old Chase had hated the MM.

We both stepped outside from our respective doors. I was moving too cautiously, watching him out of the corner of my eye to see if he was watching me. He jerked the bench seat forward with his good arm, muttering something about a first-aid kit.