“I’m so cold,” Jake moaned. “It really, really hurts.”
“I know, tough guy, I know.”
To best protect him, she sandwiched him between her chest and the bark. Not only did it shield him from bullets, it took some strain off her back. She badly wanted to set him down, but knew if she did, he’d shiver away and become a target.
When things suddenly went quiet, she peered around the bark. A fallen flashlight—probably Berke’s—cast a white glow around Mick’s exposed foot and the tree root beneath it. Despite the bullet she’d put in Trent’s leg, Mick stood upright, apparently no longer fazed by the pain that had thrown him off the ledge. He slowly extended his leg, further exposing himself, daring her to shoot.
Not that she could. After returning fire earlier, she had only one round left. And factoring in her shitty aim, she essentially had zero.
Jake squirmed, pushing his head against her shoulder. A tiny hand crept around her side and scratched weakly at her back. He murmured something.
“What, Jake?”
“Am I gonna d-die?”
“Hell no,” she said, hoping she wasn’t lying. “You’ll survive. Hang in there.”
Two more shots crackled. A bullet ripped the bark by her thigh. She jumped back and had to resecure Jake against the tree.
Could they survive this attack? Before long they’d be forced out of their hiding spot. She needed to act. If she couldn’t fire a miracle shot, she’d have to wreck her hand. But if she stabbed herself, she’d have a hell of a time carrying Jake back. Plus, ruining her hand wouldn’t necessarily stop Mick for long.
She poked her gun out.
Took aim.
Snowfall plummeted, whiting out her view. She pressed her shaky forearm against the bark to steady her hand. She lined up the barrel with the edge of Mick’s hiding tree, waiting for him to pop out. She could barely see the toe of his shoe. She needed a larger target than that.
Wind thrust against her eyes. She fought the urge to blink.
His leg slid out further, exposing up to his knee. If she landed a lucky shot, he would collapse and give her an opportunity to run ahead with her knife. One firm stab through his eye socket could end this. If for some reason it didn’t, she would grab his gun and blast his brains out. She had options, but first she needed to get him on the ground.
Her arm trembled. Her nerves tingled. She lined up the shot and prepared to fire. Then a silhouette appeared behind Mick. She hoped it was her father, but the shape wasn’t limping. It was probably Candace.
Great. Now I have two lunatics and only one bullet.
Then another silhouette appeared behind the first. She noticed something about the shadowy shapes. Both figures carried something long and pointed.
Shovels.
“Get him!” Ash yelled. “Get him!”
The first silhouette lifted a shovel and chopped it down from overhead like an ax. When the spade crashed down on Mick’s shoulder, he dropped one of his guns. Another blow pounded his side and sent him staggering out from behind the tree.
The attackers stepped into the light.
Father McKagan and Gina Narducci.
“Go for the head!” Ash yelled. “His head!”
Instead Narducci swung low. The strike left Mick visibly wobbling on one leg, and another blow from the priest dropped Mick to a knee.
Ash yelled again for a headshot.
The priest heard her and swung high.
But Mick caught the shovel handle. The men struggled, and Narducci wound up for another swing. Before her blow could connect, Mick pulled the shovel free, spun around, and jabbed its pointed tip through her neck. He released the handle, and she collapsed in blood-soaked snow.
“No!” Ash lifted her gun. “Father, move so I can shoot!”
The old priest never got the chance. Mick tackled him, and the two men left their feet, crashing into the creek, where they both went under.
Ash hurried over, Jake hugging her neck. She set him down beside a tree and quickly stretched her lower back. She then turned to the splashing waters, clutching her gun in both hands. At this range, even she couldn’t miss.
The dim moonlight shone on the limbs thrashing beneath the surface. A shoe poked through. Then a hand. Then Mick’s head.
She fired her last shot.
A splash kicked up. Mick sank under.
Excitement filled her chest. She knew she’d hit something. The head—I think it was the head! While waiting for them to surface, she searched nearby for Mick’s gun and grabbed it out of the snow. She stood over the bank, gun aimed at the water.
Finally a body surfaced. Father McKagan. She hopped in celebration, but her enthusiasm faded when she realized he was floating face down. Around his head, the water was black with blood.
Over by the tree, Jake moaned.
“Hang on, tough guy,” she said. “Need another minute.”
Heart pounding, she searched for any changes in the surface flow. The priest was dead, but any second now she’d make sure Snare joined him.
Long, agonizing moments passed. The creek pushed the priest toward the waterfall. Mick hadn’t surfaced, but he couldn’t hold his breath forever. Even if he were possessed by a water demon, he still had lungs and a brain that needed air.
Then a splash bubbled twenty feet up the creek.
Beyond the snow and fog, Mick pushed his head above the surface, gasped for air, and crawled out onto the slushy bank. He looked once in her direction before he turned his back and ran.
82
Trent lifted his head from the bloodstained snow. He heard Jake crying, or thought he did. Real or imagined, his son’s voice was reason enough to push himself up. As he did, wildfire flamed throughout his leg—an unfamiliar agony after ten years of suffocating discomfort. He twisted onto his back and lay there, seething, his teeth clenched.
The worst of the heat passed. He turned his head. When he looked past Berke—dead, murdered Berke—he saw two figures running upstream. The lead runner veered into the woods and the other pursued. The pursuer’s dreadlocks bounced behind her.
Ash. And maybe Trent imagined it, but she was carrying someone.
A boy. Jake. Has to be Jake.
His son was alive.
Trent’s relief dulled the raging thunder in his leg. But when he tried to rise to his feet, he dropped down again, screaming.
So much for playing catch-up. Still, he couldn’t just lie there. He had to reach Jake. Then he would keep the promise he’d made earlier. He would be with his son every step of the way. No exceptions. Otherwise, all the lives he’d sacrificed would be wasted. Rosita, Lauren, Berke—he cringed at the thought of what he’d done to them. Groaned at the thought of Jake joining them.
He sat up. Pain yo-yoed through his leg, a not-so-friendly reminder that he wouldn’t be navigating the woods on foot. In that case I’ll crawl.
When he rolled onto his chest, something crinkled in his pocket. The plastic bottle. The one Mick told him to drink from once the final parts were reclaimed. If he drank it, he’d lose his leg.
Right now that wasn’t the shittiest idea.
Karl thrashed for his life. Every time his nose broke the surface, he sucked air before Candace stuffed him back under. The water swallowed him with an icy gulp, digesting him in its cold, merciless juices, soaking his skull, numbing his brain. All he could think about was breathing and how he was failing at that usually mundane act. His lungs burned, the few breaths he did claim stifled by her grip around his throat.