The Girl who Saved the World (Death Fields 6)

“West? Alone?” I asked. We were sitting at the table in my kitchen. The idea of Paul headed through the Hybrid-infested Death Fields alone doesn’t sit well with me.

“He’s going to check on Birmingham. See what’s happening there. Hamilton mentioned both cities down south, but Winston-Salem seemed a priority.”

“Wait. Were you there when we were ambushed by the Hybrids in the mountains?”

“I was tailing Paul and Cole. Oh and that girl they picked up.”

“So you watched that whole fight and didn’t think of helping?” I asked, thinking about how another set of hands would’ve been useful.

“You guys had it under control.”

I glared at Wyatt. “And when did you find out?”

“Shortly after that. I found him creeping around the house one night while I was on watch. I nearly shot him

in the face.” The two men smiled at one another like that was hilarious.

Davis waited outside the gates of Winston-Salem until we were on the move again. He tracked us like a shadow and when I asked why he didn’t reveal himself sooner he shrugged and said he knew we needed some time alone.

We no longer work on specific dates—not out here. The cities keep time and have current calendars but on the road things begin to blur. Davis is convinced though that we’re right on target for meeting back with Cole.

“Do you think he found them?” Wyatt asks as the horses walk down the road. It’s been a peaceful day—unseasonably warm. A pair of hawks soar overhead.

“I’m sure he found some. If they’re willing to cooperate—that’s the bigger question.” Davis tilts his head down the road and at the top of the exit ramp, two figures stand watch. “Think that’s the welcome wagon?”

Our horse twitches, spooked by a sound from behind. I look back and spot a handful of men and women, all dressed for battle, trailing us. Their uniforms are ragged, but familiar.

“Wyatt,” I say, tugging on his back. He turns and grimaces.

Davis gets our attention. Down the exit ramp, two people have turned into a dozen more. “Shit,” he mutters.

“Something tells me those aren’t the good guys,” Wyatt says with regret.

“Maybe it’s just the Mutts,” I say, hopefully, but my senses tell me otherwise and I pull the gun from my holster, checking it for bullets.

“Head left?” Davis says. Wyatt nods and he twists the reins in his hands to force the horse into the forest lining the highway. Cooperating for once, probably in fear for his life, the horse sprints ahead and the hooves of both animals turn into thunder. The people on the road, both ahead and behind, shout and set off after us. I wrap my arm tight around Wyatt’s waist, trying not to fall off.

We’re close and a flock of birds bursts from the treetops at the very moment figures emerge from the forest. A row of them, wobbly on their feet, brains burning with infection.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Wyatt sounds like a man inconvenienced.

“Push through,” Davis shouts, because that’s what this has come to. Who is the least dangerous? Right now it’s the Eaters.

We charge forward. Wyatt uses all his strength to hold on and direct the horses, who lurch and jump with fear. Davis removes the blade slung across his back, pulling it out to slice the throat of the Eaters blocking our escape. I lean over the edge of the horse do the same with my hatchet, chopping at hands and necks, listening to the painful wail of the infected.

“I’m so sick of this,” I shout, kicking a woman with long, graying hair in the head. Her frail neck snaps. “If it’s not one, it’s the other. Or, you know, on an extra special day, it’s both.”

We take them down easily, their feet getting caught in the muddy earth. As time passes the infected begin to decay and although still deadly, with the vaccine and their slowing movements, they’re little more than a nuisance. The biggest danger is because they hold us up more than anything else and when we have a bunch of Hybrids on our tail—it makes them deadly.

“We need to push through,” Davis says once we’ve disposed of the final Eater, his skull cracked and then trampled by a hoof. Both horses move deeper into the woods but sound of the approaching soldier’s shifts, moving farther away from us. Sudden gunfire explodes and I clench Wyatt by the waist, turning to get a better look.

A battle rages, but not toward us.

“Hey,” I say, getting him to slow. I feel something in the air. Sense it. “Something’s going on.”

“Not anything we need to be a part of,” he declares.

“No, wait. Get to that clearing.” I point to a break in the trees. The sunlight shines down and I can see the twist of the highway behind it.