My backpack rubbed on the packed snow rushing by beneath me. I clung desperately to the strut as the truck dragged me down the road. The straps on my pack bit into my shoulders, and the nylon made a noise like tearing paper as it dragged, almost as loud as the truck’s engine. I straightened and arched my back, pushing harder on the spare tire with my legs, trying to lift myself off the road to spare my pack from destruction.
The noise and the pressure eased instantly. As long as I kept my back arched and my hips up, thrust against the filthy underbelly of the truck, I could ride underneath without dragging.
The truck lumbered through two slow turns. Its gears ground again, and as we picked up speed the wind bit cruelly at the exposed skin around my eyes and wrists. The whine of the engine was overwhelming.
My back and legs ached. The bullet wound drew a line of fire across my arm. Clinging to the truck was like holding a push-up at the halfway point—I could do it for a while, but soon it was going to start to really hurt. Eventually I’d collapse.
Would falling off be such a bad thing, I wondered? We hadn’t gone far—I was probably still in Cascade. From there, I could hike to Worthington in three or four hours. I’d probably get there in plenty of time to warn them about the reinforcements. Surely the Peckerwoods wouldn’t launch their attack until their leader had returned from his errand?
But any move toward Worthington would take me farther from the Peckerwood base in Anamosa—farther from Darla. And Mayor Kenda had tried to imprison me in Worthington—tried to prevent me from going in search of Darla. I knew Mayor Kenda meant well. She thought I’d get myself killed, and right now that seemed pretty likely. But I still had to try. Even with so little cause for hope, the thought of Darla kept me going. Worthington would have to do their best without any warning. I tightened my grip on the strut.
My hands joined the chorus of pain coming from my back and legs. My ears ached and pulsated from the chill and the roar of the engine mere feet from my head. There was nothing to do but hold on for dear life. How long would it take to get to Anamosa? An hour, like Brick said? I didn’t know for sure—didn’t know how long it would take, nor how long I could realistically hold on.
The truck was rolling down a long straight highway. We seemed to have left Cascade, although I couldn’t really tell. All I could see was the grimy underside of the truck, and out of the corners of my eyes, the snow berms on either side of the highway flying past.
I tried to shift my position, to take my weight on my right arm and let my left relax for a moment. But I sagged into the road. The ice tore at my backpack, jerking it so hard that something ripped and my fingers were pulled from the strut. In less time than it took to blink, I twisted through a 180-degree turn. My right leg bent at an impossible angle, and the spike of pain forced a moan from my lips. My left boot dragged against the ground. I strained to raise it. I craned my neck as my back dragged, trying to keep my head off the road. The truck pulled me along by my right ankle, which was still jammed between the spare and the undercarriage. Something fell out of my backpack, and I snapped my head back just in time to see the twin rear wheels of the truck bump over my sleeping bag and rifle. Not good.
I froze, despite the bone-jarring ride. The huge wheels that had just flattened my gear were less than a foot from my head.