Ashes (Ashes Trilogy 1)

But Sarah was wrong. Alex had not one, not two, but three choices.

One: She could go along with the rules and hope that some guy who wasn’t totally gross picked her. Maybe Chris, for that matter.

Two: She could make some noise. Her father had trained her well. She was easily as good a shot as any of the guys on patrol and maybe better than some. Riding couldn’t be that tough. So she could get herself assigned to a patrol. She did have something to offer, after all, and her super-sense—if, say, she told Chris or Peter—would come in handy. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d do if she actually had to shoot someone who wasn’t Changed. On the other hand, if she ran into another Harlan, that might not be such a problem. Anyway, the point was to get out of Rule. So, once she’d been on a couple patrols and they loosened up, she could just ride on out—and not come back.

Three: She could grab her parents’ ashes and run like hell. Which would, as it happened, be pretty much coming full circle, picking up where she’d left off when this whole nightmare started.

The first option completely creeped her out. She didn’t want to be given away to anyone. And making babies? She couldn’t think about that without her skin getting all crawly. And where it would stop? There was no guarantee she’d end up with anyone she even liked. Men made the decisions in Rule. Jess was a strong woman; for all Alex knew, these were some of the things Jess wanted Chris to change. Yet, despite all her bluster, Jess bowed to the will of the men.

Either way, option one was a complete nonstarter.

The second option was a possibility.

If she got herself assigned to a patrol, she could figure the best way to get the hell out of here. They couldn’t keep her glued to one of them forever. Eventually, they would have to trust her. She could picture it: out on horseback, and one of them—Chris—would say, You check over there; I’ll check here. By the time he thought to look for her, she would be gone.

So how to get on patrol? She had to talk to someone. Peter? Yeah, Peter would like that she knew guns. Maybe she could even tell him about her spidey-sense? Yeah, but how would she demonstrate something like that? Kincaid had believed her because he was one of the Awakened, and he knew about Yeager’s super-sense. But if no one else knew … Kincaid had said it was subjective: no way to prove that what she said was the truth, unless she fingered someone.

Chris … she didn’t know about him. She might be able to work on him, but it wasn’t like she was all that experienced. And playing up to Chris made her uneasy, and not just because she didn’t want to encourage this whole Tarzan-Jane thing. With Peter, what you saw was what you got; Chris lived too much in the shadows, and she had this sense that he was always watching her—watching for her—trying to figure her out.

And what would Chris do if he knew about her? Bad enough that Kincaid had guessed about the monster. Not even Yeager had put that together; the Rev seemed to accept her ability as an Act of God kind of thing.

Wow, wait a minute. If Chris or Peter found out about the monster, she bet either—both—would figure they could trade her for someone who might, you know, live. They’d drop-kick her out of town if they knew about the monster…. And wasn’t that what she wanted?

Well, yeah, but not like that. When she left, she wanted it to be on her terms, when she was ready. For that, she would need supplies—enough for a month, she figured, and that meant MREs mostly. Three days’ worth of trail mix and an egg-salad sandwich just wouldn’t cut it. She’d need bleach to purify water, or tablets. A sleeping bag, a tarp, water bottles. Her busy mind ticked over the items: flint, waterproof matches, snare wire, lint for tinder…. She would have to make a list.

She still had the boot knife Tom had given her. In all the fuss, they’d overlooked that. She’d squirreled the knife beneath her mattress first, then thought that was too obvious. So she hid the knife where she thought no one would think to look: in Ghost’s bag of dog food, all the way at the bottom. Just so long as she kept an eye on his kibbles, she was golden. But she would need a gun. Her Glock, if she could find it again, and a rifle would be good. Ammunition, several bricks, if she could find out where they kept all that. Maybe a bow? No, too big. Same thing with a rifle, but a gun for sure. Without question. And a place to hide everything until she got herself on a patrol …

But which way to run?

Lena.

Lena had tried. Lena would know. Would have a rough idea anyway. Yeah, but Lena wasn’t stupid. If Alex started nosing around, asking questions, Lena would put it together. Lena would want in, and that was a recipe for disaster.

Once she ran, how long would they try to find her? Maybe only as long as they figured she was worth keeping … which brought her around to full disclosure about the monster, and that was no good.

Bringing her around to Door Number Three.

Just cut and run. Soon.

If she could lie low for a couple weeks, play along while she got stuff together, she might pull it off. No need to get herself put on patrol. In fact, it might be better if she hung around town, figured out its rhythms and who went where. Get people to trust her and see her as a familiar figure. The familiar was usually invisible; how many people really noticed everything they saw?

Plus, Rule needed supplies. For that, they would need Chris and Peter and a bunch of guys. A bunch of horses, a bunch of wagons, and men to ride as escort, like the old wagon trains. That might be the time to boogie: when a lot of the guys were out of town and everyone else was covering their butts.

Carefully, she eased out of bed, wincing at every squeak of the bedsprings, but Sarah was deep asleep and didn’t stir. Crossing to the window, she slid a finger between the curtains and peered out. She heard the soft patter of snow against glass but saw nothing. The night was deep and dark and vast. With no streetlights or bob of a flashlight or even a helpful cigarette, she could only guess where the guard kept himself, and he probably moved around, if only to stay warm. It occurred to her that she didn’t know if they had a kind of shelter or guard-box, which would make the most sense. Hanging out in a snowstorm couldn’t be good for any person, even a younger guy her age, and she couldn’t imagine some poor schnook hunkering down all night on the porch with a rifle in his lap. It was more likely that there were mounted patrols, like cops in New York City. She would have to find out.

And what about the dogs?

Crap.

If she happened to pass by—and she would, there was no help for that—they would give her away. She was every dog’s best friend. Taking Ghost with her was one thing, but having an entire pack … Yeah, but could she use that somehow? She flashed to an image of assembling an army of dogs: Go, fetch, play dead! Not bloody likely, as Aunt Hannah would say.