Julien stretches through the shattered window, unlocking the door from inside. He yanks it open, then sweeps glass fragments from the seat with his forearm, before grabbing a blanket from the backseat.
“Get in.” He gestures at me to the now-covered driver’s seat. “You steer while we push.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Why me?”
“Just do it, please.”
I slide onto the blanket. The steering wheel feels alien beneath my hands. I’ve never driven anything in my life except bumper cars at the fair once when I was thirteen.
“Just point it toward the gate,” he says, reading my thoughts. “Don’t hit the brakes.”
I nod, gripping the wheel tighter. Through the rearview mirror, I see Julien position Cameron and Sienna behind the car.
“On my count,” he calls. “One. Two. THREE!”
The car lurches forward, moving painfully slow at first. I focus on keeping the wheel steady, fighting the urge to look back at them. I can hear their grunts of exertion, the scrape of their shoes against pavement.
“Little more to the left,” Julien calls out.
I turn the wheel, guiding the car toward the gate.
“Almost there,” Cameron gasps. “Keep pushing.”
The car picks up speed, rolling toward the gate.
“Brake now!” Julien shouts.
I slam my foot down, praying it’s the right pedal. The car jolts to a stop just inches from the gate, effectively creating a second barrier against the growing horde outside.
Julien sprints to my side, opening the door. “Good job.” He reaches across me, his chest brushing my shoulder as he sets the handbrake. The scent of sweat and copper fills my nostrils.
“Thanks,” I mutter, unsure if I’m thanking him for the compliment or for taking over the car situation.
“You can let go of the wheel now.” His voice sounds amused.
I look down at my white-knuckled grip and pry my fingers loose one by one. “Right.”
He offers his hand to help me out, and that’s when I see it—several tiny little gashes from his wrist halfway up his forearm, blood seeping into his rolled-up shirt sleeve.
“You’re bleeding.” I grab his arm, turning it to examine the wound.
Glass must have sliced him when he swept it off the seat for…
He scans the yard. “It’s nothing.”
“But—”
“Later.” He nods toward the church doors where my parents have emerged, my father supporting my mother, who looks like she might collapse. “Inside first.”
“You realize you could bleed out, right?”
His eyes sharpen. “Didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” I snap, then immediately regret it. “I mean—We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”
“Touching.” He grips my elbow, urging me forward. “But it’s not that bad.”
“Typical.”
