Trent ducked low and moved toward his duffel, dragging it back toward the bathroom door. He kept the gun up, watching the window. Another round punched through, hitting the TV. The screen exploded in a shower of plastic and glass.
“Bathroom. Now.” He fired twice more out the window, then shouldered the duffle. “Move!”
I scrambled back across the glass-strewn floor, feeling fresh cuts open on my palms and knees. Trent grabbed his duffel bag and backed toward the bathroom, still covering the window. Another shot came through, closer this time, punching through the cheap particle board dresser.
We tumbled back into the bathroom together. Trent slammed the door and wedged the trash can under the knob again.
I leaned against the sink, breathing hard, and fastened my jeans with shaking hands. My shirt hung open, half the buttons missing from where Trent had torn them free earlier. The fabric gaped, useless.
Trent dropped the duffel on the floor and yanked it open. He pulled out a black t-shirt and tossed it to me. “Here. Put this on, then the vest.”
I caught it and stripped off the ruined shirt, pulling his on instead. It was too big, hanging loose on my frame, but it smelled like him, and it covered me completely.
He held out the tactical vest. “Arms up.”
I lifted my arms, and he slipped it over my head, adjusting the straps at my sides. His fingers worked fast, pulling them snug but not too tight. The weight settled on my shoulders, heavier than I expected.
“This won’t stop a rifle round,” he said, “but it’ll help.” He pulled on another T-shirt from his bag and nodded to the window. “Can you fit through there?”
My thoughts raced ahead to Sophia, sitting in a classroom with a woman who now moved like a robot and spoke in flat tones about transformation. About changing entirely. “Yes. I don’t care if I have to break every bone in my body, I’m getting to that school.”
The gunshots had stopped again, but that was almost more terrifying than the shooting. Had Carol gone for help? Were others coming? Was the entire town already compromised?
Trent boosted me toward the window. I pushed it open, wincing as my palms left bloody smears on the glass. The cuts stung, but I ignored them, focusing only on squeezing through the narrow opening.
“Once you’re out, stay low and move toward the tree line,” Trent instructed, his hands steady on my legs as he helped push me through.
I wriggled through the window, my hips catching on the frame before I finally squeezed free. I dropped ungracefully to the ground outside. The fall knocked the wind from my lungs, but I rolled to my feet immediately, scanning for threats. The back of the motel faced an overgrown lot that bordered the woods. Twenty yards of open space to cross before we’d reach cover.
Trent appeared at the window, pushing his duffel through first. It hit the ground with a thud. Then he tried to follow, his head and one arm making it through before his shoulders wedged tight in the frame. He twisted, trying different angles, but the opening was too narrow.
“Trent—“
“I know.” His jaw clenched. He braced his free hand against the outside wall, then his face went hard with determination. “Turn around. Don’t watch this.”
“What are you?—“
He didn’t answer. Just took a breath and threw his weight forward while simultaneously pulling his trapped shoulder at an unnatural angle. The sound was awful—a wet pop that made my stomach lurch. Trent’s face went white, sweat beading on his forehead, but he didn’t make a sound. His shoulder collapsed inward at a wrong angle, and suddenly he was sliding through the window, dropping to the ground beside me.
He landed hard, his left arm hanging loose and wrong. He grabbed it with his right hand and wrenched it back into the socket with another sickening pop. This time, he hissed through his teeth, his breathing ragged.
“Jesus,” I whispered.
“I’m fine.” He rolled his shoulder experimentally, wincing, then scooped up his duffel with his good arm. His left hand found mine, his grip weaker than before but still warm and solid. “Let’s go. Stay close.”
CHAPTER 7
EVELYN
We ran.Low and fast across the overgrown lot, my lungs burning, my cut palms stinging with sweat. Trent moved slightly ahead, one hand still gripping mine, the other holding his gun at the ready. Each step took me further from Carol and her rifle, but also further from Dutch’s store, from familiar territory. Yet all I could think about was getting closer to Sophia.
“Cut through here,” Trent whispered, pulling me toward a gap between two buildings—the back of the hardware store and Mrs. Pickering’s yoga studio that nobody actually used for yoga. The narrow alley smelled like mildew and old paint.
“What the hell is happening here?” I gasped between breaths as we pressed against the brick wall.
Trent peered around the corner, then pulled back. “Not now.”
“Trent.” I caught his hand. “Tell me what this is.”
