Four grueling days later, I crept out of the cover of forest onto the granite ledge on the steep back cliffs of Ponderosa Pass. Patrick and Alex clambered up next to me, and we peered over the brink. All the hiding and crawling and hiking had left us filthy. Dirt crammed beneath our fingernails. Sweat stains on our shirts. Dead pine needles clinging to our tattered clothes.
And we’d only finished the easy part.
We lay on our bellies on the rock slab and gazed across the foothills to the highway bisecting the flats. The skyline of Stark Peak rose jaggedly at the horizon—the end of the road in more ways than one.
The ground was littered with the debris of the great exodus. Abandoned vehicles. Brush and trash shoved to the sides of the highway like dirty snow. And the bodies of Hosts everywhere in various stages of decomposition.
I can’t tell you how many dead Hosts we saw on our way here, puddling in the gutters, staining the forest floor, melting in driver’s seats. Their expiration dates had passed. They’d served their purpose.
Now it was down to the Drones and Hatchlings.
And us.
The vast scene below was so still that any movement seemed more pronounced. A broken gas-station sign hanging from a wire, twirling in the breeze. Vultures gliding through the air and feasting on carrion. A few roving bands of Drones picking through the wreckage, searching the trunks of empty cars. An injured Hatchling squirming on the shoulder of the road, left behind to die. His leg was bent the wrong way, a dagger of bone shoved out through his thigh. Even so, he was trying to claw his way to Stark Peak.
The challenge was daunting. Before we reached the city, we had to hike down off the pass, through the foothills, and across the flats past Lakewood and Springfield and a half dozen other small towns.
All without being seen.
“How the hell are we gonna do this?” Alex said.
I stared at the injured Hatchling, the bands of Drones, the gas-station sign twisting in the wind.
Then I pulled out Ben’s stun gun and turned to her and Patrick.
Alex held up her hand. “Lemme guess,” she said. “You’ve got a plan.”
* * *
It took us the better part of four hours to climb off the mountains, traverse the foothills, and hike to the base of the pass. Two more hours to make our way unseen up the highway, moving from wrecked car to wrecked car, crawling through culverts, scurrying along drainage ditches at the edge of the road.
The Drones were sparse in number, moving in groups of three and four. At one point, while we hid behind a stretch of guardrail, we watched them pull a kid from an overturned van in the distance. Before we could react, they marched him off somewhere out of sight. We could hear him crying for help for a few moments after they’d passed from view.
We had to take a moment to pull ourselves together after that.
We came up on the gas station from the rear. The jangle of the door to the convenience mart almost scared me out of my boots. We safed the interior and then took turns in the bathroom.
The water worked. A year ago I never would’ve thought that one day I’d consider washing my face a luxury. I straightened up over the sink, let the cold drops run down the sides of my neck, cutting through the grime.
When I closed my eyes, I pictured all those Hosts we’d seen dotting roads and woods and highways. Every adult we’d ever known was gone. I shook off the thought and finished cleaning my face. A sign on the wall thanked me for not putting gum or paper products in the urinal. Another reminded me to wash my hands before handling food. How life used to be—when clogged plumbing and proper hygiene were primary concerns.
I came back out to find Alex chewing on a hot dog from the steel roller grill.
She shot me a look. “What? I figure it’s impossible for these things to rot. Plus, when’s the last time you had a hot dog?”
I shrugged and joined her. It wasn’t half bad.
Patrick drank yellow Gatorade and chewed a Slim Jim, his eyes on the dirty window. We waited.
An actual tumbleweed blew off the highway and through the pump stations. A neon-green Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle leaned against the air pump. Pieces of cracked black armor were scattered across the parking lot, as if a Drone had been accidentally run over. Something burned on the horizon, sending up a tendril of gray smoke.
Patrick grabbed a bag of sunflower seeds, and for a time the only noise punctuating the silence was him spitting out the shells. He’d built up a pretty good mound at his boots when he straightened up and flicked his chin at the window. “There.”
Three Drones worked their way through the hulls of the burned vehicles at the side of the freeway.
Alex cleared her throat dramatically, pretended to fluff up her choppy hair, and glanced over at me. “I’m ready for my close-up.”
Then she stepped out through the front door. This one also was keyed to a chime alert. The noise rolled across the pumps and the parking lot. Over on the freeway, the Drones’ shiny helmets swung around.
Alex stopped by the pump. Pretended to spot them. Then ran back inside.
They followed.
Patrick hid in the snack aisle. I ducked behind the counter.
After a minute the Drones charged in.
Alex backed to the opposite wall, in clear sight.
The Drones swept into the mart, breezing right past me.
Alex threw an arm across her forehead. “I’m just a helpless Unnamed Girl here for the taking.”
The Drones halted, seemingly confused.
I stepped behind them, stun gun raised. I placed it at the base of the nearest Drone’s helmet and fired, steel rod smacking through the armor. Black smoke burst out, hot against my arm.
Before the remaining Drones could react, I spun to the next one and pierced his suit, too, firing the rod into the back of his shoulder. He shot forward across the floor and skidded into Alex’s shins, knocking her over.
As I swung the gun toward the third Drone, he grabbed my wrist with an armored glove. The pressure was crushing. His other hand reached for my eyes, the fingers flexing. I had a premonition of him puncturing my eye sockets, gripping my head like a bowling ball.
Patrick seized him from behind, and the Drone’s grasping hand swung wide. But his grip on my wrist didn’t relent. I fought the gun toward his face mask, but he was much stronger than me. He kicked Patrick free and grabbed my wrist with his other hand, too, turning the stun gun around toward my own face. My arm trembled as I tried to move it away, but he overpowered me.
Patrick had flown into a rack of potato chips. He was trying to untangle himself, but the rack clanged around, stuck on his foot like a massive bear trap. Alex kicked her way out from beneath the now-empty suit of armor that had knocked her over.
For the moment I was on my own.
And a moment was about all I had.
I shoved the Drone with my other hand. No good. He continued to force the stun gun around until it was aimed between my eyes. The tip of the steel rod brushed my forehead. I fought it a few inches away, but the Drone bore down again. He was going to force me to shoot myself in the head.
I did the only thing I could.
I released the stun gun.
It tumbled between us, his helmet dipping to watch it fall. I caught it with my other hand. Jammed it against his stomach.
And fired.
The face mask swung up to look at me an instant before he geysered through the hole. He slid back on his boots a few feet but somehow managed to plug the hole with his finger and keep his balance at the same time.
I lunged forward with the stun gun and punched another hole in his thigh. He clamped over it with his other hand.
He looked at me helplessly, essence misting through his fingers like a slow-leaking balloon.
He was out of hands.
I raised the gun again. But I didn’t need to use it.
He sank to one knee.
Stared up at me
And then his hands went limp at his sides, the last of the smoke sighing through the holes. His helmet bowed.
He stayed that way, kneeling like a disgraced samurai.
Patrick finally stepped free, showering bags of Cool Ranch everywhere.
Alex got up and set one foot on the black armor before her like a big-game hunter. She stared down at the suit appraisingly.
“It’ll do,” she said.