Shadows (Ashes Trilogy 2)

The deadfall plummeted into the snow. He felt the heavy slam against his back, and then he was sinking, the weight of the ironspiked boards palming and forcing him down through softer snow into hard pack, like a plunger squeezing grounds in a coffee press. Snow jammed into his mouth and up his nose and into his eyes, and then he was coughing, pushing the snow out and away with both hands so he could breathe.

And then, he stopped. The deadfall either had hung up somewhere—maybe the ropes holding it in place had snagged—or the pack had been dense enough to save him. Without the snow, the only thing that would’ve stopped the deadfall’s downward progress would be solid ground.

His pulse was thunder. He let out a breath, thought: I’m still here. He hurt and it was bad. He was pinned, and that might be worse. Was his back broken? He sent a command down to his feet, had a second’s fright when nothing happened, but then felt his toes curl. Okay, that was good. He was alive. The spikes missed. Too far apart? Didn’t matter. He was mired in deep snow under a very heavy weight, but he was still alive. Lena was here. She could help. He’d get out of this.

If I can just wiggle out . . . He tried to squirm forward, just an inch. To see.

An enormous tidal wave of pain roared up his throat and crashed from his mouth. The shriek went on and on, spinning itself out on his breath. His legs were fire. His whole body was nothing but a red blaze.

Oh my God, oh my God. Something wet and warm leaked around his thighs, and then his brain was gabbling: Blood, I’m dead, I’ll be dead in minutes, I’ll bleed out, I’ll—

“Chris!” It was Lena, but he couldn’t tell if she was close, because he was too deep, the snow muffling sound like cotton.

Balling his fists, he gathered his breath and shouted, “Lena, stay back!” That slight movement cost him. Fresh fléchettes of pain cut him to the bone. And, oh God, he didn’t want her to stay back. He wanted help; he needed someone to help! But if there were two booby traps, there might be a third—and if Lena was hurt or killed, he would be beyond help. His legs were pinned and he would die for sure: either freeze to death in the snow or bleed out. “Stay back!”

“But . . . but . . . what should I do? How can I help?”

Behind him, he thought, but then he realized that she was closer. “Are you on the horse?”

“No. I . . .”

When she didn’t continue, he tried to move, only a little, and regretted that, instantly, as the pain noosed down, stealing his breath. His throat locked, and then he could make no sound, not even a scream. He waited, trying to ride the pain the way a surfer followed the swell of a wave—and then the pain eased to something just the near side of agony.

“Wh-where?” The word came out in a guttural croak. “Did you tether it?”

She paused for so long he knew the answer before the words left her lips. The roan had been bucking before, and Lena wasn’t that strong.

“It threw me. I guess it was all the noise.” A pause and then she said in a small voice, “When I got close, it ran back the way we came.”

Oh no. His gear, his gun. He had a knife, but it was sheathed at his waist, and he didn’t know if he could reach it. Not that it would help much, unless he wanted to cut his throat before a Changed ripped off his head. He couldn’t roll over. Even if he hadn’t been tacked in place, he didn’t think Lena could lift the deadfall high enough for him to squirm free.

Might be the wrong thing to do anyway. He’d seen a movie about aliens landing in cornfields or something, and he remembered that when the preacher’s wife got pinned to a tree by this honking huge truck, the police hadn’t dared to move it because it was the only thing keeping her alive. So that might be the same thing here.

“Listen.” He was starting to shiver. Blood loss, shock . . . the cold . . . “We’re not far from Oren. You . . . you c-can m-make it. But you’re going to need g-gear . . .”

“The only gear left is with Nathan,” she said.

He tried to nod. He knew that.

“I can’t, Chris. He’s dead and so is his horse and I can’t touch him. I . . .” She was crying. “I’m not like Alex. I’m . . . I’m scared.”

Me, too. He made the mistake of trying to move and had to wait until the tidal wave of pain passed. It seemed to take longer this time, and he was panting when it let go. Sweat trickled down his cheeks to seep into the snow. “Y-you have to keep . . .” He lost track of what he wanted to say. The words unraveled in his mouth. He laid his cheek on the snow. Just a second. Just . . . need to rest.

She said something else, but her words were just so much sound. Cottony gibberish, like the lyrics of an unknown song dribbling from someone else’s earbuds, or his father swearing in electric, red noise that fizzed and burned into his brain. He couldn’t place the song. Those shouts had been only rage.

Passing out. A blanket of sticky cobwebs drifted over his mind, the same type of gooey stuff he tore apart with bare hands to scuttle behind the furnace down cellar as his father rampaged and bulled through the house. Got . . . got to help her . . .

“I’m afraid,” she said again. “I’ll be alone.”

“Hurt.” He sucked in a breath. “Bad.” Forcing the words, ordering them in his mind, stole his strength. He was so tired all of a sudden, and cold. Rest soon. Help her. “You . . . close to . . . Oren. Find . . . get help. I can’t . . .”

“Chris.”

“I . . . can’t.” I can’t help you anymore. That’s what he wanted to say, but the words wadded up behind his teeth and just wouldn’t come. She said his name again, and he tried to answer, tell her what to do; there was so much.

Stick. Snow. Search for . . . He was slipping; his mind couldn’t hold on. Watch out . . . for more traps. Careful, Lena, be . . .

Lena’s voice was very far away. “Chris, please, don’t leave me.”

Take . . . gun . . .

“Chris—”

. . . go, Lena . . .

“Chris—”

. . . run . . .

84

Run.

Shouldering the Uzi, she darted for the steps. She could feel the metal jumping and quivering, and then she was clattering up, taking the steps two at a time. There was a long metallic scream, a huge POP as a bolt spurted free of the stone. The ladder hitched; she slipped, barking her right elbow against rock. The electric shock of it streamed into her hand. Another explosion and she was knocked off her feet.