CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

NOT FAR IN front of the consuming flames, I finally caught sight of Marisol hurdling a bush, her movements more animated than the twitchers’. I dropped the hammer again, barreling toward her. Fifty feet shy, I swung the truck around, pointing it back toward the house.

The tailgate still down, she rolled into the bed and collided with the back of the cabin as I tore away from the leading edge of the fire. Before Marisol could sit up, an explosion ripped the earth immediately behind us, smothering the flames for a few dozen yards on all sides.

“You okay?” The signal between us reopened.

“I’m good.”

“What was that?”

She laughed. “Fire suppression. First time I’ve had to use them. Any sign of the twitchers?”

“None, so far.” I suspected the answer, but thought I should ask anyway, “the police?”

“Negative. Pull into the garage.”

With a final jolt the truck pulled onto the gentle lull of pavement. In the settling darkness, I dropped my shoulders, releasing the tension of the last several minutes. As we rolled up the drive, the heavy garage door opened to receive us. Backlit with yellow lights, it felt more like a bunker. Quickly the door closed us in, blocking the outside world from sight, but not from mind.