“Well, we could take the train,” Wes commented, his gaze following it as they passed, “but I reckon we’d run late.”
Skye rolled her eyes at him. “You think?”
Diego laughed. “Wes, you’re a hoot.”
Lark didn’t respond but kept her eyes keen with equal measures of interest and caution. Glancing out the back, she watched New Holland grow more distant. When they turned a curve, it was gone, swallowed up by a sea of thick vegetation. The Jeep rumbled along at a slower pace than the highway, bumps jarring enough to jerk Lark around on the seat. Saplings sprang up in the cracked, seldom-used stretch of road.
“My dad told me that lots of folks lived up this way after the war,” Skye said. “Farmers, timber cutters, chicken and hog ranchers, retail workers, a few factories, and scrap yards. But everything got cold and dark after the Ruin—stayedthat way for a few years. Crops wouldn’t grow, livestock died, and people got desperate. Those in the outlying areas, without soldiers or police, didn’t fare well. Then the epidemics.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Lark was watching, and, for an instant, their eyes met. The lieutenant looked back at the decrepit roadway, dodging a tank-sized hole. “Not many people live around here anymore. We’ve run across a few small communities and some loners who’ve moved back. Land away from towns is free to whoever wants it—but it’s a hell of a lot of work to make it livable.”
“So, New Holland was the last civilization we’ll see until we head back?” Lark asked.
“Pretty much,” Diego answered. “It’s still considered Verdancia up to the old Virginia State line, but who knows exactly where that is? The borderlands are dangerous. No tellin’ what we’ll find.”
It took another two hours at their slower speed to reach the Chattanooga-Oconee Forest and the mountains Lark had watched grow nearer. They’d driven through several eerie ghost towns, trees sprouting through the roofs of strip malls, a graveyard of rusted cars. Lark had seen the word “hospital” and pointed it out.
“Well, looky there, Navarro!” Wes had exclaimed. “Forty years and we never spotted that one.”
Skye groaned. “Walker, don’t mess with the newbie. That’s my job.” She flashed a wicked grin back at Lark, who sulked for having made such an obvious blunder.
A short while later, they stopped at a fork in the road. Captain Moreau had his map out, checking the direction they should take. The sun hung lower inthe sky. A flock of geese flew overhead, their honks upsetting the pigeons. Lark took a sip from her canteen, then stood to stretch her legs.
“Take five.” Skye turned off the Jeep and hopped down.
“Finally!” Diego exhaled. “I’ve needed to pee for the past hour, and the bumpy ride didn’t help.”
“I hear ya,” Lark agreed, and set out to find a private bush—a simple task when surrounded by undergrowth. She was heading back to the Jeep when Harlan McCrae called, “Hey, come check this out.”
Sky and the captain shifted their attention toward his voice while Diego and Wes walked up from the other side of the road.
“What is it?” Moreau asked. He folded the map and tucked it into a pouch on his shoulder strap.
“An old cabin.” Harlan emerged from a narrow footpath that had probably once been a driveway, now overgrown with weeds, small trees, and brush. The fair-haired sharpshooter was easy to spot at over two meters tall and roped with muscles. An expectant glimmer lit his eyes. He waved for everyone to follow before gliding behind the foliage.
“It’s almost dark,” Luke commented. “Maybe we could spend the night there.”
“Let’s go, newbie,” Diego said, sidling up beside her. “I’ll watch your six.”
They all trailed down the barely recognizable path after Harlan to an opening encircling a lodgepole-style cabin set in a sea of tall grass. Vines gnarled around the porch posts and railings, growing up the sides of the house, nearly obscuring it in verdant foliage. Insect whines had begun to sound and, while still light, the sun had dropped below the horizon. A giant cockroach skittered across the porch and in through a broken window. The weathered wood barely hung together.
“Who’s going in first?” Luke asked.
“Harlan found the place, called us all over,” said Wes. “I suppose that earns him the honors.” Lark didn’t think being the first one entering that hovel would be an honor. Then again, she’d noticed Wes’s dry sense of humor.
“I’ll go first.” Lark heard the words as they left her mouth. She shrugged. “Swamp rat and all. I started target practice on monster roaches at six.” She slipped past Diego, Wes, and Harlan to where Luke stood with Skye. Navarro narrowed her eyes with a frown, as if Lark had challenged her to jump rope on stilts.
“Fine. I’ll go with you.” Skye whipped a flashlight from her belt and flicked it on to the accompaniment of a bullfrog chorus.
Lark cradled her loaded crossbow in her hands, heart pounding, wondering what they’d find. Skye smirked at her, a Glock in her grip. “Who’s watching the pigeons?”
Realization shot through Lark. It was her job. Her very important job.
“I saw an eagle flying around. Maybe it’s keeping an eye on them.”
“Wes Walker, I swear,” growled from Skye’s lips. “OK, Sutter, on three.”
On three, the two women breached a rickety front door. The scurry of a dozen little feet scratched across the floor. Lark stepped right, Skye left, as she swept the shadowy cabin with her flashlight. The front room held nothing but dust and old furniture. They stepped deeper inside, cautious, alert, analytical. Lark looked, listened, and sniffed the stale air. Rounding a corner, she saw it—a dining table set for company, the four chairs occupied by skeletons … two larger, two smaller. Another skeleton in the corner. Canine.
