1503951200 by Camille Griep Read Free Book Online Page A

engine dies and I pull off the road like the cars I saw back on the pass, just in case a scouting team comes by and needs space. I get out and open the hood, staggering back from the miasma spewing from the engine.
    But I hardly have time to examine my poor Cress when I hear hoofbeats. I think for a moment about hiding, about my mom’s pocketknife in my jeans, but I’m exposed as can be out here. A wall of wind buffets the car.
    The three horses approaching are either my personal saviors, or one shy of my own personal apocalypse.

    “Syd Turner!” Len Willis—a lankier version of him with longer, blonder hair and the same twinkling gray eyes—beams down from his horse. “I do believe you’ve overheated.”
    His sister dismounts and hits me with a bear hug from the other side. “You’re really here! I can’t believe it!”
    “How did you know I . . .” But of course they knew. They probably knew before I knew.
    “We brought you a horse to ride,” Cas says, as breathless as she was seven years ago. She points to a compact black mare, saddled and tied behind her horse. “We should get loaded up and going before we have too much dark ahead of us.”
    “Wait, what?” I don’t know whether to be grateful or bemused.
    “Strange business, having prescient friends, isn’t it?” Len says, leaning lazily onto his pommel. “I can never get used to it either.”
    “Well, at least the two of you haven’t changed.” It comes out unkinder than I mean it. I pocket my keys, then I think better of it and tuck them in the space behind the gas tank cover—the place where my mom would leave the keys if we ever needed to exchange them without meeting. No matter what I was carrying, I wanted Cress to be there when I came back. “How far is it?”
    “About eight miles as the crow flies,” Len says. “Though we haven’t figured out how to fly. Yet.”
    “We’re so sorry. Cal was a good man,” Cas says. “It was a nice service.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?” I don’t know what’s wrong with me. They have gone out of their way to help me, and still I can’t find it within myself to be kind in return. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”
    Cas starts chattering in double-time to cover up the awkwardness, tying my bags to each of our horses. I make sure Doc’s bag is tied to my own saddle in between condolences and yet more condolences. I wave them off. “Thanks. But I’m okay. Really.”
    “We’re still sorry,” Cas says, her eyes brimming with irritating pity.
    I change the subject. “Say, is there a camp of Survivor diplomats along the way, by any chance?”
    Cas looks at me strangely. She glances at Len, who shrugs.
    “I can’t pretend that’s not where I came from.”
    “I know,” she says. “But maybe we should talk about you being careful.”
    “But,” Len says, “that talk can wait until tomorrow. We’ll show you where the camp is, and if you, say, need to relieve yourself, you can tell us and we’ll look the other direction for a bit.”
    I nod. There are lines, and we have already started the process of drawing them. Cas frowns, but agrees.
    “You look like you could use a drink.” Len passes me a flask of nasty-smelling whiskey. After a few swigs, the tension in my shoulders drains.
    Cas looks at us disapprovingly. “You two better not fall off.”
    “Oh, okay, Miss Pot-calling-the-kettle-black. You should’ve seen her a couple of weeks ago, Syd. On the ground, three feet from her horse, flapping at me with her hands, sniveling like a kid. Classic.”
    I shake my head. It’s always been this way with the two of them. They’re as different as fire and water in some ways, but are twin halves of a perpetual whirlwind.
    We push Cress behind a large clot of juniper, to keep her sheltered from the punishing hail that comes through in the late summer evenings. Then it’s time for me to get back on the horse. Literally. Cas is waiting for me to answer something. “Sorry,