Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(36)

Barricades erected on the east side lay smashed. Someone, she thought, had gotten through. But to what?

It took them eight hours to travel from Chelsea and make that final crossing of the Hudson River.

They took another car—bald tires, but a half tank of gas—and began to head west, then north, sticking to back roads, avoiding populated areas—or what had been populated.

When she insisted he needed to stop, rest, eat, they turned toward what looked like an abandoned house in an area with a winding two-lane road. Boarded windows, unshoveled snow. But as they bumped along its pitted drive, a woman, wild-eyed and armed with a shotgun, stepped out on the sagging porch.

They drove on.

They hadn’t stopped until full dark, at a two-pump gas station alongside the dingy motel called Hidden Rest.

Lana made chicken and rice on a hot plate in the motel’s office. The dust and grime on the check-in counter told her they were the first guests, more or less, for weeks.

But they ate, and they slept.

Now they’d keep going. They’d find Eric, and Max would figure out what to do next.

She heard the seven-knock signal, gathered up the bag they’d brought in when Max opened the door.

“I’m ready.

“Got some chips and sodas, a few candy bars. And we’ve got another car,” he told her. “It’s in better shape than the last one, though dead out of gas. But I got one of the pumps going, so we can fill it up once we get it to the pump.”

“Okay. You need to eat something besides chips and candy.” She pulled an orange out of her bag.

“Split it with you,” Max said.

“Deal.”

“Let’s get the car moved, loaded, and gassed up first. You look rested.”

She smiled, glad she’d done the glamour. “Who wouldn’t look rested after a night in this palace?”

She walked out with him, shivering in the cold despite her jacket. “It smells like snow.”

“Yeah, we could get some, so gassed up or not, if we see a four-wheel, we switch again.”

“How much farther, do you think?”

“About three hundred and fifty miles. If we can use major roads, we’ll make decent time. If we can’t…”

He let that lay, picked up a red can marked gas, then led her about thirty feet down the road where a car sat crookedly on the skinny shoulder.

“They almost made it,” she murmured.

“Wouldn’t have made any difference if the pumps had been turned off. I managed to move it magickally about ten, twelve feet, but that’s about all I could do. We could probably do better together, but this is just as fast.”

She said nothing, as she knew he pushed himself too far, too hard. Power, they’d both learned, didn’t come free.

He gave the tank the gallon of gas, stowed the can in the trunk.

“I can drive awhile.”

He slanted her a look. “We tried that yesterday.”

Until yesterday, she’d never driven a car. She lived in New York. “I need the practice.”

He laughed, kissed her. “No argument. Practice by driving back to the gas station.”

They got in, and Max nodded to the ignition button. “You do it—you need practice there, too.”

She’d left the starting of engines, gas pumps, and boosting of electricity to him. But he had a point—she needed to practice.

She held a hand over the ignition, focused. Pushed. The engine sprang to life.

Riding on the flash of power, she grinned at him. “Practice, my ass.”

He laughed again, and oh, how the sound of it steadied her. “Drive.”

She gripped the wheel like a falling woman grips a rope, squealed and inched, lurched, and swerved her way to the gas station.

“Don’t hit the pumps,” Max warned. “Ease up, a little to the left now. Stop!”

She hit the brakes hard so the car jerked, but she’d done it.

“Put it in Park. Engine off.”

They both got out. Max put the nozzle in the tank, flipped it on. At the hum, he put an arm around Lana. “We’re in business.”

“I never knew I’d be thrilled to smell gas fumes, but—” She broke off, pressing a hand to his chest. “Did you hear—”

Even as she spoke, he spun around, shoving her behind him. He pulled out the gun from his hip.

A young dog, barely more than a puppy, gamboled across the lot, tongue cheerfully lolling, eyes bright.

“Oh, Max!” She started to crouch down to greet the dog, but Max called out.

“I know you’re back there. Come out, and I want to see your hands up.”

Lana stood stock-still even as the dog scrambled his front paws up her legs, wagging and yipping.

“Don’t shoot. Jeez! Come on, man, don’t freaking shoot me.”

At the sound of the voice—male with a twang of an accent—the dog raced back, raced around the man who stepped out from behind the scrubby brush at the edge of the lot.

“Hands are up, dude. Way up. Just a couple fellow travelers here. No harm. Don’t hurt the pup, okay? Seriously, man, don’t plug the pooch.”

“Why are you hiding back there?”

“I heard the car, okay? Wanted to check it out. Last time I wanted to check it out when I heard a car, asshole tried to run us over. I barely grabbed up Joe and got us clear.”