We cross the river west of the bypass, on Buffalo Bill Avenue. Cut east up South River Road, slowing if only because it’s impossible to run anymore, gravel crunching beneath our soles. I can see the light from here, a glaring glow over the horizon turning a line of trees into a stark silhouette.
Static on the walkie-talkie. “I just saw three pickups take off for town,” Simon says, low.
I grab my handset and lift it, finger on the button. “Got your daughter?” I ask, breathing heavily. My lungs feel like they’re on fire, my feet so sore from the last two days that pain shoots up my legs with every jarring step.
“Got her. We’re headed to the rendezvous point.”
“Good,” I say, as we cut through a field toward I-80. “We’ll be there soon as we can.”
We dash across the interstate in time to see two more trucks speed across the bypass, into town. Cross the frontage road of the exit. I can see the sign hulking across the single lane in the darkness. Don’t need light to know what it says.
We run down the embankment and I stumble, go sprawling in the overgrown grass, butt of the rifle knocking my cheek. I roll over, seeing stars, hand to my face. My throat so dry I can’t swallow.
“You okay?” Chase says, taking me by the arm, dragging me upright to my knees. And then bending down to rest his hands on his, head dropped between his shoulders.
No. I am not okay.
But I’ve got 134 miles yet to go tonight.
I nod in the darkness and shove up to my feet. Stagger a step, adjust the rifle, and check for the walkie-talkie. Press the button.
“Simon,” I say.
Static. “What’s happening? Everything okay?”
“Yeah. We’re almost there. Going silent for a bit.”
“Talk to you on the other side.”
I turn the unit off as Chase takes a slow breath and straightens.
We pick our way to the edge of a field, hoist up and over the chain-link fence.
And take off running, once more, through the weeds.