The hefty door slammed shut, smashing a woman’s frail wrist. Patrick strained against the handle to keep it closed, cords standing out in his neck. “The truck!” he shouted. “Get in the truck!”
Jack Kaner, bless him, had an extended-cab Chevy Silverado pickup with diesel V8, four-wheel drive, and dually tires. A no-screwing-around farm vehicle, parked across from the stall doors like a mirage. I ran for the driver’s seat, gave a quick prayer, and reached for the ignition. The keys were there. Cassius leapt over the tailgate as he was trained, and Alex swung into the passenger side, but I was accelerating before she could get the door shut. Patrick drove himself against the barn door, but he was losing the battle, his boots skidding across fallen hay.
As we neared, he let go. The barn door flew wide with the force of dozens of bodies, banging at the end of its tracks. Hosts tumbled over from the sudden lack of resistance. Aiming the cab at the opening, I sped past Patrick, who hooked the tailgate with his hand and swung himself into the bed like he always did when we repaired fence posts on Uncle Jim’s ranch.
I plowed into the Hosts, their heads snapping against the hood. Some churned under the powerful wheels; others flew off to the sides. For a moment the tires gummed up, and I was afraid the sheer mass of them would stop us. In the band of the rearview mirror, Patrick flashed in and out of sight, hammering the butt of the shotgun down into faces, Cassius snapping and clawing right along with him.
The V8 roared, and then we shot free. I drove straight across the field, throwing back rooster tails of mud and lettuce. A Host emerged from the cornstalks, and I smacked him with the grille, sending him bumping over the windshield and then up into the night sky.
The Silverado hammered across the roadside channel and then screeched sideways onto the highway as I braked. The engine shuddered, smoke wisping up from the tires.
We’d made it.
Alex shot me a look that might have held admiration. I waited for Patrick to hop down from the bed. As he came around the driver’s side, I slid over the console into the backseat, relinquishing the wheel.
He climbed in and stepped heavy on the gas, heading for the shadowy rise of Ponderosa Pass. Jack Kaner’s farm faded behind us.
“Nice job, Chance,” Alex said.
Patrick shot her a look of his own and kept driving.
ENTRY 20
Our excitement built as we neared the base of Ponderosa Pass. Maybe we were reaching the end of the infection zone, or maybe we had to get up and over to Stark Peak, but either way it felt good to be making progress. Deserted cars cropped up here and there on the road, spaced out far enough that we could steer around them. The highway was desolate under normal circumstances but looked even more so now. Few folks had been on the open road far from town two nights ago when the spores had blown across the plain.
The high beams gave us early warning of Hosts on the highway. We drove past a few stragglers. Twice we saw a horde up ahead, but Patrick had plenty of time to veer into a field and cut around them. A mile or so from the base of the pass, we came upon a dark gas station, the pump area littered with abandoned cars.
Patrick eased the truck in, aimed for the open road. He kept it idling and hopped out. I started to follow, but he shot me a wink and said, “I got it from here, little brother.”
He headed over to check the pumps. Cassius sprang from the truck bed, keeping pace at his side. Patrick coasted between cars, his head dipping from view as he peered through windows. Then he ducked behind a minivan and didn’t come back up.
Alex’s fingers tightened around the door handle. Through gritted teeth she said, “Chance.”
I braced myself to go with her, but then Patrick’s head popped into sight again. He gave a wave and jogged over. Beside me Alex blew out a breath.
With a scraping of claws, Cassius jumped into the pickup’s bed. Patrick slid into the driver’s seat, locking the door behind him. “The power’s out here, too. Which means the pumps won’t work.” He shot a nervous glance over at the dark windows of the store. “I’m sure they have a backup generator somewhere for emergencies. The problem is getting to it.”
I leaned between the seats and peeked at the dial. “We have a quarter tank. Will that get us there?”
“It’ll get us up but not over,” Patrick said. “Last thing we need is to be stranded on the pass.”
“I suppose we could coast down.”
“How about getting back?”
“Hey, dummies,” Alex said. She pointed to the cab of a semi truck parked off to the side of the gas station. “Ever heard of siphoning?”
Seconds later we were idling next to the semi. Alex unscrewed an air hose from a nearby pump, ripped the nozzle off, then unscrewed the gas cap on the cab and stuck one end in. She sucked the hose a few times, spit out a mouthful of diesel fuel, and sank the streaming end into the Silverado’s waiting tank.
She wiped her chin on her shirt and gave a little smirk at our expressions.