He shouldered the door open and led the way. He rushed to the tailgate and yanked it open with a screech of old hinges.
Charlotte followed, but there were bats everywhere. Something struck her head. Claws scrabbled, momentarily tangled in her knotted ponytail. Someone ripped the bat off of her. She turned, expecting Monk to have come to her aid, but he had only one hand—and it was still holding the door latch.
Jameson clutched the bat with his good arm, looking as surprised as her by his action. The shocked moment was all it took for the bat to strike and dig fangs into the meat of his thumb. He gasped, tried to shake it off, but it had locked deep. In his panicked eyes, she saw the pain strike.
She tried to help him, but he shoved her with his shoulder, knocking her into the back bumper.
“Get the fuck in there!” he yelled, sounding angrier with himself than her.
Before she could move on her own, hands grabbed her from behind. Frank yanked her into the rear.
Jameson finally freed his hand by smacking the bat into the side of the Land Rover. Agony etched his face, but he knocked away another bat that flew at his head. He flung around, grabbed Monk with his bleeding hand, and pushed him after Charlotte.
“Go already, goddamn it!”
Next to him, Kane struggled with a bat riding his back and lashing at his vest. The dog snapped and tried to grab it. Jameson came to his rescue, too, and snatched the bat away. This earned him another bite, this time to his wrist.
Jameson staggered back, either from pain or certain knowledge. As Kane leaped to safety, he slammed the tailgate behind them all and slapped his palm against the glass outside.
“Go . . .” he gasped loudly.
Charlotte strained to help him, but the driver—Tucker—was coldly practical. The engine revved, and the Rover took off. She stared out the window. Jameson remained stiff-backed, not even trying to run. Bats fell upon him. Still, he stood longer than she imagined was possible.
Monk pulled her from the view. “The guy knew he was a goner.”
“I know, but if I’d only—”
“If onlys do no good. He gave us room to survive—and that’s what we need to do.”
She struggled to accept that and swung toward the front. Tucker leaned over the wheel, racing the Rover across the last of the deserted warren. The jungle stretched ahead of them. It looked like a solid wall. Then Tucker yanked the vehicle into a hard turn, following the forest’s edge.
She sat straighter.
Where is he going?
11:55 P.M.
Tucker didn’t have time to explain.
Only five minutes left.
There was no way they could traverse a mile of jungle to escape the blast. He had recognized that from the start. Instead, they all needed to find a bunker, one far enough away and strong enough to protect them.
Tucker clutched to one hope.
A slim chance courtesy of that bastard De Coster.
He reached the southern edge of the town and spotted a road heading off. It was deeply rutted from regular use. He turned and sped along it. The Rover leaped and bobbled, jerked and bounced, acting like a furious bronco trying to buck them off. Still, he kept the accelerator pressed to the floor.
At least the bats had given up their pursuit. Perhaps because the harrying horde had accomplished its mission—to chase them off.
The road ended faster than he had hoped. He would’ve preferred more distance from the mine. But the dark expanse of the river blocked the way forward. Their path ended at the working dock for the mine.
He let out a sigh of relief at the sight stretching away from the piers.
The row of barges still blockaded the river, anchored in place from earlier. Their wheelhouses stood tall, a few glowing with lights. Tires hung along their flanks.
Monk patted Tucker’s shoulder. “Smart.”
“We’ll see about that.”
His internal clock counted down.
Three minutes.
Tucker squinted, readjusted his trajectory, and sped toward the last pier, the one closest to the nearest barge. A gangway led straight to an open hatch in the hull’s side. The ramp was wide, lined by tracks, meant for hauling in ore carts.
He raced down the pier, hit the gangway, and shot up its length. The Rover rattled but held together long enough to reach the end and barrel into the barge’s hold.
Two minutes . . .
He didn’t stop. The headlights revealed giant piles of coal and metalliferous ore. He raced around the hillocks, swerving back and forth, trying to put as much of it between them and the mine.
He finally braked hard and turned to the others. “Brace yourself. Cover your ears. Mouths open. You’re about to have the worst ride of your lives.”
And hopefully it won’t be the death of us.
The last minute stretched painfully. He crawled over the seatback to join Kane. He huddled with his buddy, inhaling his panted breath, feeling his warmth. A tongue licked him; a cold nose nudged his chin.
“I know. We’re in this together.”
To the very end.
He checked his watch and saw the last second tick away.
De Coster was nothing if not punctual.
The blast sounded like the end of the world. It felt strong enough to flatten them on its own. For a beat, Tucker thought they might have escaped the worst of it—then the concussive wave hit. The barge got shoved hard, rolling sideways. Rockslides from the piles flowed toward them. Seams broke in the hull as the force crimped its length. Collisions with other barges shattered plates inward.
The Rover tried to ride it out, sliding and skidding, but eventually it toppled end over end. Ore and coal rattled around them, over them.
They all clung to seatbacks, to one another. Still, it was like being dumped into a paint shaker set on high. They tumbled over each other, elbowed and kicked one another. It felt like forever, but Tucker knew all too well how terror slowed time to an infinite moment.
Finally, the world resettled around them.
Ore still fell and shifted. Metal groaned under stress. The Rover sat ass-down in a pile of rock, sunk to its sidewalls.
Frank climbed to the windshield that was mostly shattered and kicked it the rest of the way free. They gathered weapons and gear, then clambered out and slid down a pile of coal. It looked like the barge had landed on its side.
“We’d better get out before it sinks,” Monk warned.
Tucker had recovered an intact flashlight and used it to guide them. In the dark cavernous space, as they climbed over sliding rock and shale, he felt like the expedition leader of a group of cave explorers—accompanied by one hearty dog.
They all limped and hobbled, deeply bruised and concussed, bleeding all over, but surprisingly there appeared to be no broken bones.
Finally, Tucker reached a metal ladder that sloped horizontally to the toppled wheelhouse. They followed along its length until they could climb into the barge’s helm. All the glass had been shattered or blown out of it. They crossed as a group to get their first view of the damage.
Frank groaned. “I don’t think we need to worry about sinking.”
Tucker stared out across the dark jungle. It surrounded them on all sides. Barges lay crashed across the forest, looking like the wreckage of a train derailment. The entire blockade had been shoved from the river into the jungle—including their barge.
Beyond them, past the fringe of jungle, a massive crater smoked. Fires burned at its heart, glowing through the cloud of dust. Its breadth was impossible to fully fathom, especially in the dark.
“What do we do now?” Charlotte asked.
Tucker shared a glance with Frank. They had already discussed the matter, with the foolish optimism that they might survive.
And just look at us now.
Tucker pointed upriver. “That bastard De Coster is planning something similar at his island. We overheard him. Cleaning house, he called it. At dawn. We intend to make sure it stays messy.”
Charlotte looked aghast. “You’re going back there?”
“It’s our best chance to reach a radio. Especially now that we know how to make it work.” He pictured Draper’s encoded thumb drive. “Plus, we might get a little payback along the way.”
Monk nodded at this plan.