The Bronco left the pavement as the sun dipped close to the edge of the mountain. Long blue shadows swallowed the valley. Mitch would’ve preferred to wait until morning. But they didn’t have time. The Archangel might find them by then.
The trail wasn’t marked. It was just two strips of dirt in the grass, winding for miles around boulders and gnarled trees, muddy with the spring melt, riddled with rocks and sinkholes. Mitch tightened his seat belt to keep from falling out of the seat.
They passed though the ghost of a forest. Charred tree trunks stuck up from the ground like bristles, their branches missing. It went on for three-quarters of a mile, the stumps of trees covering the mountainside, nothing but dead bushes and patches of snow between them, shining in the fading sunlight.
“Lightning,” was all Geneva said about it.
Lanny had to slow the Bronco to a crawl to get around a fallen tree. Its bare branches lay over the trail, stuck up into the air. Lanny steered around the broken trunk, and the tires spun in the mud and slush. He swore and gunned the engine, but they didn’t move.
Mitch leaned over as the tires wound down from the spin. “Want me to get out and push?”
Lanny gave him a sour look.
“What? I’m serious.”
“Shut up, man. I know what I’m doing.” Lanny backed the truck up and turned the other way, down the hillside, around the mass of branches.
As they tipped downhill, one of the tires dropped into a hollow in the slush, and the truck lurched to the side. Things slid and clattered in the back of the truck. Geneva grabbed hold of the backpack with one hand and Lanny’s seat with the other.
Lanny, eyes wide, spun the wheel and gunned the gas. The engine roared. The rear of the truck slid around until they were facing uphill again.
The Bronco shuddered side to side as it crept back up the hillside, until the tires got a grab on the snowy rocks. Then the truck jumped and climbed back up onto the trail. Lanny straightened the wheel out, and they trundled along as if nothing had happened.
Lanny just cleared his throat and kept driving.
As the trail turned down toward a stream, Lanny said, “Girl, you sure this the right way? Don’t look like nobody been up here in a long time.”
She turned away from the back window. “That’s the point, isn’t it?” She climbed forward and leaned over the front seats. “Okay, hold it. You see up there?” She pointed up the hillside. “Go that way. Between those trees.”
“Uh, I don’t think so.” Lanny turned halfway around in his seat. “That hill ain’t nothing but mud, except where it’s snow. We get about ten feet in and that’s it.”
“Yeah? Try driving it in a ‘68 Cougar.”
“All right. You got a point.” Lanny shook his head and turned the truck uphill. It was slow going, sliding back a few times, the truck bumping over hidden rocks and tree roots.
Eventually an old, sagging roof came into view between the trees. Before too long, Mitch could see most of the building through the bare bushes. It looked like a small barn, the timbers crooked and bleached silver by the elements. It had a double door on the front, just big enough for a horse and wagon. Or a single car.
Mitch whistled. “You drove Brutus down this hill?” When she didn’t answer, he turned around.
All the color was gone from her face. She let out a soft breath. “Just once.”
*
His name was Michael. That was all she knew about him. He had a gun—a compact black assault rifle with a folding stock—and he was carrying Jocelyn to safety. That was all she needed to know.
He followed her as she ran down the secret path, dodging branches, stumbling over rocks. It was pitch black, way before dawn, and cold. Her breath burned in her lungs.
He’d given her a flashlight, and she tried to keep it on the path, but it was hard not to look out into the trees, the bushes, the stream, looking for that thing. The creature of shadow that had rushed out of the twilight forest, silent and fast.
Michael carried Jocelyn over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing. He stayed right behind Geneva. She led him up the last little slope to the barn, then around to the front door.
The padlock on the door was cold and hard in her hand. She left sticky blood fingerprints on the metal. She felt in her pocket.
No keys.
She swore. She’d have to go back. Back through the woods, home, past the bodies. To the key hook by the stove.
She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t.
Michael leaned around her. “Let go.” His voice calm. Strong.
She let go of the padlock. Looked at her hands, covered in Jocelyn’s blood. Looked at Jocelyn’s white upside-down face, her closed eyes, the scratches on her face.
Michael put the fat muzzle of the gun against the lock. With a bang, part of the lock skittered across the ground.
Geneva pulled the ruined lock off and swung the barn doors open. Brutus sat inside, dark and shiny. He hadn’t been driven since her Dad had taken him to town for supplies. She’d washed and waxed Brutus since then.
“This is no good,” Michael said. “Won’t get anywhere in that thing. Not with the Archangel still out there.” He turned and looked down into her eyes. “Look, I’ve got two men in the woods with a four-by-four truck. They’ll be here inside twenty minutes. We just have to wait.”
Geneva touched Jocelyn’s cold cheek. “She’ll die.” It came out a whisper.
“Sorry. I am. But we don’t have any choice.”
“I can drive. Please.”
Michael felt Jocelyn’s neck. His eyes were cold. “Don’t know if it would make any difference at this point.”
“Please.” She felt herself coming apart. “I can drive.”
“This thing?”
“Yes.” Still a whisper. And then, suddenly, a red-hot anger flared up inside her, and it put an edge in her voice. “Put her in the car.”
“Don’t think so. You’re not in much better shape yourself.”
“Now. I’m going down the mountain, to the hospital, and I’m doing it now. I don’t care if you’re coming with me or not. But she is.”
He looked at her for the longest time. And then he nodded, once.
She got Brutus’s spare keys from behind a loose rock in the stone foundation of the barn. Got in, pumped the gas pedal three times as Michael laid Jocelyn in the back seat and then climbed in.
She turned the key. Brutus roared to life.
*
“Geneva? Hey.” Mitch touched her arm.
The three of them stood in front of the empty barn. They’d left the Bronco parked next to it, between two pine trees. Leaves had blown in through the open doors, covering the floor. Snow had piled up against her old toolbox, now rusted, and birds had made a nest in the rafters.
Lanny shrugged deeper into his coat. “Man, gettin’ dark. You know? Gonna be pitch black in like an hour. You sure this is such a good idea?”
Mitch looked around. “I don’t know. We got flashlights, gloves, everything we need. How far is it to the house?”
They both turned to her.
She shook herself and pointed. “About two miles. There’s a path alongside the stream.”
“Damn, dog.” Lanny pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one out. “You got to be kidding me. I can’t walk two miles in this. All this mud. Snow.”
Mitch clapped him on the shoulder. “Roll down the tailgate window, so we can get our stuff. There’s probably nothing to find here anyway. Let’s just get to the cabin, look around, and get out.”
Geneva started to follow him back to the truck when something poked the sole of her boot. She looked down. Sitting in the dead grass was the rusted padlock, the loop of metal bent by Michael’s bullet.