There are two hundred mountain peaks visible from Denver. By the time we reach the northern outskirts of the city, the sun is a little more than a hand span over one of them, and the air seems heavy with eyes and ears. Bowen senses it too, if the way he keeps looking over his shoulder is any indication. I peer toward the city for the tenth time, almost expecting to see the vagabond creeping along behind us, but don’t see anyone.
We are walking in the middle of Interstate 25. It has been reduced to a crumbling eight-lane highway with nearly invisible street lines interrupted by the occasional abandoned vehicle. It is so wide, I feel like an ant crawling along a sidewalk. Everything is silent. Too silent. Too abandoned.
“Don’t worry. The rumor inside the wall is, the raiders are gone,” Fo says.
Dad says rumors are typically wrong. He worked on a man’s teeth about a week ago, a man who tried very hard to hide the scars on his palms—northern raider markings. If the raiders were really gone, they wouldn’t still be coming to my dad for dental work.
“Do you think it is actually true that the raiders are gone?” Fo asks, as if she’s jumped into my head and plucked out my worst fear. Jonah, on my left, doesn’t take his gaze from his shuffling feet—where it’s been all afternoon.
“Of course they’re not gone,” Bowen says, his voice low. “They’ve just been lying low.”
“Do you think they have watchers during the day?” Fo asks. I nod and rest my hand on my gun.
“They’re always watching.” Bowen stops walking and spins in a circle, eyes darting all around.
“What are you looking for?” Fo asks, her voice like quiet music.
“I’ll know it when I see it.” He gives her a hint of a smile, and then reaches out and cups her cheek in his hand. She looks right into his eyes and doesn’t move, as if they’re the only two people in the world. Embarrassed to be witnessing something so intimate, I avert my gaze. “Don’t worry,” Bowen says after a minute, his voice filled with emotion. “I’ll take care of you and so will Jonah. Right, Jonah?”
Jonah grunts without looking away from his feet. I fight the urge to clear my throat and blurt, Well, who is going to take care of me? Because I already know the answer. Me. I’m the only one who will take care of me out here.
We walk for a few more minutes, past broken-down and abandoned cars; past pale bones stark against the faded black-top; past sun-bleached trash, empty water bottles, and faded beer cans that have been blown against the cement median. My gaze wanders over the world, soaks in the absolute bleakness of everything, and I realize how impossible it is that we might actually find my brother. There is nothing out here.
“There!” I jump at Bowen’s voice. He is pointing to the nearest off-ramp, a ramp that leads to neighborhoods of oversize houses. We exit the highway. I follow a step behind Bowen and Fo, with Jonah at my side, toward a wooden building made to resemble a log cabin, with grimy windows—where the windows aren’t shattered. It’s a diner, and the weather-beaten sign that hangs above it says, “The Other End of Town.”
“You guys hungry?” Bowen asks, gaze glued to the diner.
“Uh, Bowen, I don’t think there’s going to be any food in there,” I say, feeling my stomach quiver at the mere thought of salty, greasy diner food. In this world, you need guns to survive more than you need food. Because if you can’t protect your food, you starve. And if you starve, you die. Common sense. “Guns before food,” I whisper, one of my mother’s many needlepoint phrases.
“We’re not really looking for food. It was a joke, Flapjack,” Bowen says.
Flapjack. I roll my eyes at the name. In fifth grade I won the school’s annual pancake-eating contest and earned the hated nickname. It didn’t help that I was soft and round like a pancake and the shortest kid who entered the contest. The only person who came close to eating as many pancakes as me was Bowen. He ate eighteen. I ate twenty-one.
“Why don’t you get your gun ready just in case,” Bowen adds.
I stand tall and pull the gun from the holster on my belt. My heart rate accelerates as I lift the Glock and swing it from side to side.
A tan, square hand covers mine and calmly pushes the gun down. “Jack, calm down.” Bowen’s voice is gentle. “I don’t actually think you’ll need it. It’s just a precaution. Have it ready just in case.”
I take my trembling finger from the trigger and try to catch my breath.
“You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you,” he says, one eyebrow raised.
I glare. “Can you blame me?”
“No.” He sighs. “You’d better be ready to fight too, Jonah,” Bowen adds.
Jonah grasps the shoulder straps of his massive backpack and stares at the pink-and-orange-hued clouds glowing above the mountains, as if he’s oblivious to our conversation. But then he takes a step closer to Fo, and she smiles at him.
“So, what’s in your bag anyway?” I ask him. He looks at me and his bad eye reflects the fire-colored sky.
“Water,” Fiona blurts.
“Yeah. Lots of water,” Bowen adds.
“Didn’t you bring a purifier? There are so many lakes and streams around here that water should be easy to find.”
“Of course we did. It’s just another precaution.” Bowen rolls his shoulders as if he’s the one burdened by Jonah’s pack. “Let’s go.”
We walk to the diner and stop in front of the entrance. The dusty ground is disturbed here, fanned with the hint of footprints. I crouch down and stare at the ground, scrutinizing the markings, trying to discern whether they’re going into the diner or coming out.
“Bowen,” I whisper. “These prints are fresh. We need to leave while we have the—”
My head jerks up at the sound of a deep chuckle. A lone man stands framed in an empty diner window. I have my gun aimed at him so fast that Fo jumps. The man’s foot whips out and kicks my gun. It clatters against cement, sliding away from me in a swirl of dust. I dive for it but my hand comes down on a worn, brown cowboy boot.
“Beat you to your own gun, Freckles,” a deep voice says. I slowly look up and my gaze travels over a dusty pair of faded blue jeans, an empty gun belt, two beefy hands each gripping a gun, a button-down shirt; up to a weathered face; stopping on a pair of hard eyes shaded by a cowboy hat. “Kids ’n’ guns aren’t a good combination. Sort of like antifreeze and Kool-Aid. They’re all kinda sweet but deadly when mixed.”
I swallow and scurry backward, crashing into the solid mass of Jonah’s legs. He loops his hands under my armpits and lifts me to my feet.
“You all mind showing me your hands? I can’t have you coming in here pointing firearms at me.” Without a word, the four of us lift our empty hands, and I fight the urge to look at the rifles looped over Fo and Bowen’s shoulders.
“Much obliged.” The cowboy holsters one of his guns and picks mine up off the ground. He turns it from side to side, blows the dust from it, and then points it between my eyes. “That’s a nice piece, Freckles. If your aim is good, you could kill nineteen men without reloading.” I shudder at the thought. “Now, what do you kids want?”
“We want a hot bath and a nice meal,” Bowen says. I turn and glower at him. Seriously? That’s how he’s going to answer this towering pillar of cowboy strength, who is aiming my own gun at me? I look back at the cowboy just as deep creases form in his weathered cheeks. It takes me a moment to realize he’s smiling.
“You’ve come to the right place,” he says, holstering his other gun. With the hand holding my gun, he waves us inside. I follow Fo and Bowen through the window frame and wonder if I am really, truly going to get a hot bath and a meal. With Jonah behind me, the cowboy leads us to a faded red vinyl booth. He sits. Bowen gives Fo and me a warning look before sliding onto the opposite bench.
The cowboy’s eyes move over Fo, Bowen, and Jonah, studying them one by one. When he looks at me, staring deep into my eyes—so deep I worry he can see the secrets hidden there—he frowns. “So.” His gaze goes back to Bowen. “What exactly are you aiming to buy?” He taps my gun against the peeling paint of the table.
“We need to get to Wyoming. Word in the city is you know the right path to take.”
My spine goes rigid. “Wait. Wyoming? We never said anything about—” The cowboy glares at me and I swallow the rest of my sentence.
The cowboy’s eyes narrow, and he looks back at Bowen, at the shorter patch of hair over his left ear. “Who told you I know anything about Wyoming, militiaman?”
Bowen’s jaw pulses a few times before he says, “You’re Randall Flint. You’re the man who sells the map to Wyoming. I’ve been researching you for a while now.”
The cowboy laughs. “Been researching me, have you? So you think you know all about me? Because you’re taking an awful big risk traveling with a woman.” My heart starts to race, but he looks at Fo.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bowen growls.
“I’m just saying, if anything happens to you, I don’t think a woman, a kid, and an unarmed mental patient are going to be able to make it on their own out here.”
I don’t see Bowen move, but somehow his rifle is off his back and aimed at the cowboy’s chest. The cowboy puts his hands up, still holding my gun, and leans back against the red vinyl booth. “Whoa, boy. I was just trying to make a point. You could have been walking into a trap. The raiders are even more desperate than normal for women. Have you heard the latest news?”
“What news?” I speak without thinking.
“The raiders’ women escaped seven days ago. Every last one of them. And with the wall open, and people protected, they haven’t been able to catch any more. They’re getting restless and desperate, and that makes them more violent, especially Hastings.”
“Who is Hastings?” Bowen asks.
“The worst one of them all. He’s got the shortest fuse. And he’s the one in charge. You’ve got to be more careful with her.” He nods at Fo. “Don’t trust anyone beyond this point. You never know when you’re being swindled. Now, if you’d oblige me and lower your gun, I’ll give you what you want.”
Bowen doesn’t move. “Give me what I want and then I’ll put the gun away—after we’ve all four of us walked out of here. I’ll pay you, too. Four ounces for the information, if my sources are right.”
The cowboy smiles and holds out his hand. Bowen nods toward Fo without taking his eyes from the man, and Fo opens her fanny pack and removes a small jar filled with liquid gold. Honey—a food product that is priceless because it is so rare.
“Four ounces of honey.” She places it on the edge of the table. “How can you tell I’m a girl?” she adds.
The cowboy takes a slow, long look at her, and his eyes light up. “The way you move. Smooth as cream. Don’t swing your hips when you walk. Now . . .” He takes the jar and opens it, dipping a filthy, callused finger into the contents. When he pulls his finger out, a long trail of sticky gold streams off it, making my mouth water. Careful not to spill a single drop, the cowboy touches his finger to his tongue and nods. “That’s good. Payment accepted. But before I give you the goods, I have a warning. Have you heard of Sirens?” He screws the lid back onto the honey and wraps his grizzled hand around it.
“Sirens, like on a police car?” Bowen asks.
“No,” I say. I have heard stories about Sirens, told by the raiders my dad worked on. “They’re like the Sirens in The Odyssey,” I say. Jonah nods. Bowen’s and Fiona’s faces remain blank, so I elaborate. “The Sirens would sing to ships and seduce the sailors into coming close, but when the ships got too close, they would be dashed on the rocks and everyone would drown.”
The cowboy nods. “Yep.” He pushes up the brim of his cowboy hat with the barrel of my gun. “The kid’s got knowledge. Beware the Sirens—seemingly normal, healthy people who will try to tempt you from the path I’ve marked for you. They’ll tell you all sorts of lies to lure you to your death. All sorts of lies to keep you from Wyoming. They whisper about hidden colonies of people and unending food supplies. Don’t believe them. Don’t listen to them. Don’t associate with them.”
“How will we recognize them?” I ask.
“That’s the hard part. I don’t know who they are or what they look like, but they’ll be after you. So be aware. And watch out for wolves, too. You ever heard about the wolves?” The cowboy looks right at me.
“They came down from Yellowstone when things changed and are infesting the mountains,” I say.
The cowboy nods. “That’s right. They’re half-starved and feed on human flesh, so unless you want to get eaten, avoid the Rockies at all costs. Now, grab one of them atlases by the front door on your way out. Your path is already marked, courtesy of me, Randall Flint. There are water stations roughly every twenty miles, too, so you don’t have to leave the marked path to get water from natural sources.” He sets my gun on the table and slides it toward me. “You might need this, Freckles, in case you run into one of them Sirens.”
I reach my hand toward the gun, and the cowboy winks and smiles. Something flashes in his mouth. I freeze and take a closer look, and my skin crawls as a memory floods my thoughts.
I sat on the front porch, a crocheted wool hat keeping my nearly bald head warm, a rifle resting on my bent knees, and an open book resting on the rifle. The book, The Odyssey, was taken from the library by Dean and given to me for my fifteenth birthday two weeks earlier.
“The least you could do is read some of that out loud, after I went to the trouble of getting it for you,” Dean said, glancing at me. He winked. I smiled and started reading to him.
He stood in the dead yard, between the dogs, watching the street. My uncle was on the roof. I was immediate backup. Normally we didn’t use extra backup, but we were on edge because a group of beasts had passed through the day before.
I had read a few pages out loud when I heard a rattle and a click. Shutting the book, I looked up. Dean’s rifle was on his rigid shoulder, and he stood deathly still. The dogs started barking, yanking on their chains. I jumped to my feet, knocking the book to the ground, and ran to Dean’s side. My rifle was on my shoulder before I stopped moving, the crosshairs centered on a man. Something scuffled behind us, and I knew it was Uncle Rob up on the roof.
“Chest, head, chest,” Dean whispered, reminding me how to most efficiently kill a man. My stomach dropped. I had never killed a human being, and I didn’t want to. “And get in the house if it’s a beast.”
One thing was for sure. The stranger was too old to be a beast. A bushy handlebar mustache drooped down around his mouth. His gray hair looked wet and was slicked back so his bare, pale forehead gleamed above his suntanned face. But gray hair or not, the way this man walked toward us, toward three rifles aimed at him, gave me the willies. He didn’t slow his pace. Not even a little bit.
“That’s close enough, grampsy,” Dean called when the man was standing in the middle of the road in front of our house. I sighed with relief, waiting for the man to stop, but he didn’t. Dean didn’t give him another warning. He pulled the trigger. Sparks flew around the man’s dusty cowboy boots—boots that finally stopped walking forward.
“Where’s the dentist?” the stranger called.
“Why do you need him?” Dean asked.
“I have a tooth problem.”
“Jack.” Dean’s eyes stayed locked on the stranger. “Go wake Dad.”
Clutching my rifle against my chest, I ran into the house. Dad was scheduled to take night watch, so he was getting caught up on sleep. I burst into his room, and he flew out of bed, his prized Glock aimed at me.
He lowered the gun. “What is it?”
“A man wants to see you. He’s out front.”
Dad rushed past me, barefoot, and went out the front door. I followed. The stranger hadn’t moved. When he saw Dad, though, he took a step closer. Dad’s gun was up in an instant. “That’s close enough,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I’m an old man,” the stranger called. “One of my teeth is giving me a real problem and I can feel infection spreading into my face. Will you take a look?” Dad hesitated. The stranger took a step toward us.
Dean stepped between the stranger and Dad. “Before you come any closer to my father, show me your hands.”
“What’s that?” The stranger took two steps closer, his hands dangling at his sides, the toes of his boots nearly even with the edge of the sidewalk.
“Show us your hands and arms, old man. Now,” Dean said, his voice intense.
The stranger frowned and stepped up onto the sidewalk, and my hackles bristled.
“I’m hard of hearing,” he yelled, even though he was a mere five steps away from us. He took another step forward and paused, gaze darting up to the roof before focusing on me. His eyes softened and his mouth quirked up at the edges. He stepped onto the matted-down dead grass of the front yard, and his ankle wobbled and twisted to the side. The old man fell to his hands and knees and cried out in pain.
I didn’t think, just acted. Three steps was all it took, though, before my brain overrode my impulse to help the man. But three steps were enough. I was one step beyond where the dogs could reach. Before I could get my rifle up and aimed, the old man was off the ground and leaping at me like a snake striking prey. Hard hands cinched around my head, clutching my forehead and chin. One firm yank and my neck would snap.
Right before the man grabbed me, I saw his palms. A quarter-size scar had been branded into each.
The dogs started barking again. Dean yelled something. My uncle had his gun aimed just above my shoulder. Only Dad seemed calm and collected, his gun held loosely in his hand and pointing at the ground. Everything seemed to slow down, like the universe had taken a deep breath and was holding it.
“What do you want?” Dad asked. The afternoon sun gleamed off his white, sleep-messy hair.
The man’s hands tightened on my chin and forehead, twisting my neck to the side just a bit and pulling my back against the front of his body. “All I want is for you to fix my tooth so I don’t die from infection. If you agree to that, I’ll let your son go. But first I want your promise that I will walk away from here alive.”
“Are you a raider?” Dean asked.
“Why else would I ask you not to kill me?” The old man took his hand from my forehead and held it forward, showing his branded palm. Dean cursed and gritted his teeth.
“We have helped raiders before.” Dad’s fingers twitched on his gun. “There is no need to hold my son’s life for ransom.”
“Word is,” the raider said, “that one of my boys came to you for some work a little bit ago, but he never came back.”
I shivered. I knew exactly who the old man was talking about. Dad paled. “He didn’t give me a choice. If my patients cooperate, they walk out of here alive—that’s a promise. But if they try to steal from me, or harm my family, we have no choice but to kill them. That promise stands for you as well.”
The raider released me, and I fell to my hands and knees at his feet, too weak with fear to move. Air swished across my face, and the raider was on the ground beside me, eyes round with shock, and Dean straddling his chest. Dean shoved the barrel of his rifle into the man’s mouth and put his finger on the trigger, his eyes flashing with rage. He looked insane.
“If you ever—EVER—touch my little brother again, you’ll be eating my bullets, old man!” He shoved his gun deeper into the raider’s mouth, making him gag and squirm. “Do you understand me?” Dean yelled so loudly that I flinched. The raider gurgled something. “Good. Because I don’t feel like blowing your head off in front of him.” He removed his rifle from the man’s mouth and then jerked him to his feet.
“Put this on over your eyes,” Dean said, pulling a red bandana out of his pocket and chucking it at the man. The raider did what Dean asked. Guided by Dean and Dad, the raider walked into the house.
A moment later, Josh came outside and helped me to my feet. Face grim, he brushed off my book and handed it to me. I sat down on the front porch and stared at Josh’s back as he kept watch. I was too wound up to read.
Two hours later, the raider was escorted out of the house. On the front porch, he pulled the bandana from his eyes and looked at Dean. “If you ever get bored here,” he said, “come and find me. I’m always looking for boys like you. I can promise you food and women.”
“Get out of here before I break my dad’s promise not to hurt you,” Dean growled.
“Suit yourself.” He winked and smiled at me when he passed, showing me a silver front tooth.
“You want your gun or not?” the cowboy asks, his silver tooth flashing.
I dart forward and grab the gun. It is warm from his hand. I stare at the cowboy and wonder if he recognizes me. His smile widens to a grin and he shrugs, showing me both of his open palms. They are scarred from one side to the other, with no visible circle brand. But I don’t need to see the brands to know the truth: we have just walked into the enemy’s hands.