He doesn’t answer. The truck is closer now, about to pass us. I focus on the driver’s-side window, trying to see who is driving it through the glaring sunshine.
My stomach drops.
The truck is moving fast, but I get enough of a glimpse of thedriver that I recognize him immediately. I turn to Jamie, and I can see he recognized him, too.
And why shouldn’t he? He spent more time with Admiral Hickey on the boat than I ever did.
Which means the Keyshavesent people after us.
We wait. When we hear leaves and twigs snap behind us, we quietly tell the kids to stay low. Daphne and Kelly join us, looking anxious.
After a few minutes I turn back to Jamie. “Think we’re good?”
It’s been quiet, no sound of engines or the whoosh of tires. They probably kept going. Or they stopped and are backtracking.
“Okay,” Jamie says. “I think we can head back.”
We move slowly, herding the kids across the road. Cara and Amy are waiting by the truck.
I nod at her and lower my voice. “It was Hickey.”
“They’re coming, then,” Cara says.
“Can you map a route that will hopefully keep us away from them?” Jamie asks.
She nods and heads over to look at the road atlas. Meanwhile Rocky Horror still hasn’t started the truck. I round the driver’s side of the pickup, where he’s lying under the steering column with wires dangling above his head.
“I stopped when Cara told me she heard cars coming,” he says, not looking away from the wires.
“It’s the Keys. They’re looking for us.”
“Then...” He touches two wires together and the truck engine cranks. He does it again and again, and on the fourth try, the truckroars to life. He smirks and scoots back out of the car, looking at the dashboard. “See? Told you I could.”
“And just in time.”
“Little over a quarter tank of gas,” he says.
“It’ll have to be enough.”
After we get the kids loaded into the bed—it’s a little snug with all of us, but the Kid doesn’t seem too disappointed to have to sit on Jamie’s lap again—Cara climbs into the passenger seat to be Rocky Horror’s copilot and we’re off.
And hopefully heading in a different direction from Hickey and the others.
Jamison
THE TRUCK RUNS OUT OF GAS AROUNDSarasota. We find a large, empty house to camp in for the night, then set out first thing in the morning.
There’s an extremely slim chance that Hickey and the others might run into us if we travel semi-parallel to them. Cara says if we can get to Tampa—about sixty more miles—without them finding us or another group catching up, there are plenty of other roads we can take.
Rocky Horror spends half a day trying to find another truck or van with enough gas, but to no avail, so we’re stuck walking. Every empty stretch of road where we can’t immediately run for cover is agony. Especially when they’re straight and flat so the search party could see us from a mile away.
But after two days and no further sign of them, we start to relax a bit. Maybe they really did give up. When we stop for the night on day three—twenty miles till Tampa—Andrew holds up two of the large plastic jugs tied to his pack.
“We should probably get some water to boil for the kids,” he saysquietly. I nod, and once Cara points us in the direction of the closest body of water—a river about a half mile up the road into a residential area—we set off.
“Be honest,” Andrew tells me as the road dead-ends and we walk alone toward a dock leading out onto the giant river. “How bad do I stink?”
Honestly, I can smell him from where he stands two feet away from me, but I make a big show and take a whiff. “Like a four on the postapocalyptic scale.”
