CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SARAH
James turned that lake house into a damn fortress. For three solid months, nothing, and I mean nothing, came near. No footprints in the dirt. No cars rumbling in the distance. Not even a whisper of movement. But no matter how good James is, even he can’t fight Mother Nature.
You can build walls, set traps, and stockpile ammo, but none of that means squat against her. It’s a different kind of threat, one you can’t shoot or outsmart.
I didn’t see this storm coming. But who could have?
I glance out the window at the chaos. Trees crash to the ground, the wind howls like a banshee, and our truck barrels through rising water that shouldn’t even be on a highway.
The rain slams hard against the truck. The wipers work overtime, flailing back and forth so fast they’re practically a blur.
Michael grips the wheel so tight his hands are shaking. “We’re almost out of gas,” he says.
I look down at James, slumped in the back seat with his head resting in my lap. His shoulder’s jacked up, his arm’s hanging lower than it should, and the joint looks completely out of place.
My stomach flips.
James doesn’t get hurt. Ever. That’s just… not who he is. Not in the whole year we’ve been on the road. Not a scratch. I know he’s been hurt before—I’ve seen the scars, heard the half-stories he’s told Michael—but not since I’ve known him.
And seeing him like this now scares the hell out of me.
I lean over and hug him. He doesn’t even stir, his eyes still closed, his breathing slow and shallow.
The truck’s headlights catch something on the horizon, and suddenly, out of the storm, a wall of concrete and steel rises up. Buildings.
“What is that place?” I ask.
Michael clenches his jaw. “It’s a city.”
A city. And I know exactly which one.
Denver.
“We have to go there.”
“No, Sarah. We can’t.” His eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror. “I promised James I’d stay out of that place.” His voice wavers, just for a second. And for the first time tonight, he sounds scared.
We don’t do big cities. They’re run by gangs. And this one? It’s Tyler’s. James told me Tyler Reed and his brothers own Denver.
But right now? We don’t have a choice.
I glare back at him. “I get it, big brother, but look around. There’s nothing left.”
Michael says nothing, and I see the fight in his eyes.
He knows it too, though. Being stuck out here in this storm might be more dangerous than whatever’s waiting for us in there.
He nods at me through the rearview mirror. Then he hits the gas, and the truck speeds down the highway.
The skyscrapers grow bigger with every mile. I press my forehead against the cold window, my eyes sweeping over street after street of lifeless buildings. No movement. Not a single light. Just the rain hammering everything.
The headlights flicker once, then again, then go out for good. The truck slows to a crawl and dies. A heartbeat later, the lights cut out, and everything goes dark.
Michael twists the key in the ignition again, but it’s useless. We’re officially out of gas.
“We’ll have to walk now,” he says.
“It’s so dark,” I whisper, not expecting an answer, but Michael gives me one anyway.
He looks down the street, scanning the shadows. “The dark’s not the problem. It’s what’s hiding in it.”
He steps out first, swallowed by the rain. Then he opens the back door, his face grim. “We need to get as far from this truck as we can. No one can know we’re here.”
I just nod.
I hop out of the truck, grabbing the backpack James saved from the lake house, and sling it over my shoulders. It’s all we’ve got left now. Everything else is in Ryan and Lorelai’s truck, and we have no idea where they are.
Michael leans into the truck and checks James’s pulse. “His pulse is steady, but he’s out cold. We need to carry him.”
He pulls off his hoodie and gently wraps it around James’s shoulder, looping the sleeves to create a makeshift sling. “This’ll keep his arm from jostling too much,” he mutters, tying a knot with practiced hands.
He lifts James out of the truck, shifting the weight over his shoulder. I’m at his side in a flash, wrapping my arms around James’s waist to help steady him.
“Got him?” Michael asks, his voice strained from the effort.
“Yes,” I say, tightening my grip.
Together, we half-carry, half-drag him forward. My legs move on autopilot, splashing through floodwater with every step. Each splash sounds louder than it should, echoing like applause for our uninvited entrance into Denver.
We stop at an intersection while Michael surveys the area. Almost every building has broken doors and shattered windows. This city feels like a trap, and I can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched.
I pull a flashlight from the backpack, and the beam lands on a graffiti-covered traffic sign. For a moment, I freeze.
“Big brother, look.” I point at the sign. It’s one of those old EXIT signs, but someone turned it into a message, scrawling in jagged black paint: “There is no EXIT.”
Michael’s eyes follow mine, landing on the words. His lips press into a thin line before he says, “Just keep moving.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as we walk, stopping when the flashlight catches another sign. Someone spray-painted over the word DENVER and added a drawing of a bird above it.
I know what it means. This place has an owner, and that means there are rules. And that bird’s a gang mark.
Tyler’s mark.
A few blocks and a thousand puddles later, we find a two-story building. The front door’s wide open, swaying in the wind, like it’s inviting us in.
It could be a trap. But what other choice do we have?
I raise the flashlight, its beam piercing the thick darkness inside. The place looks like a big garage, trash and old machinery piled everywhere. Michael and I trade a look, a silent this-could-go-very-bad-very-fast kind of look, but we step inside anyway.
We push through the mess and find what might’ve once been an office, tucked away in the back. The room smells like damp paper, with abandoned files scattered everywhere and a cracked old computer sitting on a desk in the middle, just little pieces of a past no one cares about anymore.
There’s an old, ripped-up couch in the corner. It’s stained and dusty, but it’s the best we’ve got.
We ease James down onto the couch, his body sinking into the worn cushions. I dig into the backpack and pull out the last blanket we have. Carefully, I drape it over him. He’s still out cold.
Why hasn’t he woken up yet?
An old metal trash can catches my eye, and I grab it, stuffing it with crumpled newspapers from the floor.
I rummage through the bag again and find a match in my emergency kit.
My hands are shaking—maybe from exhaustion, maybe from the cold rain, or maybe just the fear of seeing James hurt.
But somehow, I manage to strike the match. The fire is small but warm.
Michael turns off the flashlight and slumps against the wall, his hair dripping wet and his shoulders heavy. He doesn’t take his eyes off James, not even for a second.
“He’s never going to forgive me for breaking that promise,” he mutters.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, he looks like he’s aged ten years.
I step closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you did break that promise, but you saved his life. That’s what matters.”
◆◆◆
I tear my eyes away from James for the first time since we got here and spot Michael stepping through the office door.
“The place is empty and seems secure enough,” he says. “No movement outside either. It’s still storming, but the roof’s solid.”
Michael had spent the last half hour barricading every busted door and window with scraps of wood he found in the building. He moved so quietly, I almost missed the sound of his boots.
“How is James?” he asks, eyes on James again. He’s still lying motionless on the couch.
I fiddle nervously with the hem of my dress. “He hasn’t woken up yet.”
James’s eyes flicker open as if just hearing his name pulled him back. They’re unfocused at first, but then they widen, and pain spreads across his face, settling into every line.
He tries to sit up, his hand flying to his shoulder. The second he moves, pain rips through him, and he lets out a guttural sound, jaw clenched hard like he’s trying not to scream.
“My shoulder… shit, it hurts like hell!” he groans.
My stomach twists. I hate hearing him like this.
“I know, but you’re gonna be okay. Michael’s gonna take care of you.” I try to sound calm, but inside, I’m shaking and barely holding on.
Michael might’ve been a doctor in another life if the world hadn’t decided to end instead.
I remember all too well how he used to take care of me when I was a kid, turning into a mini doctor after I twisted my ankle for the first time.
He read Mom’s old medical books cover to cover and got pretty good at handling my sprains and breaks, which happened a lot, considering how many creative ways I found to fall off things.
Ladders, trees, horses, roofs—you name it, I’ve fallen off it.
I step back to give them space, but stay close enough so James knows I’m not going anywhere.
Michael grabs James’s arm, his hands moving carefully as he checks the damage.
“I can fix it,” Michael says, then shakes his head. “But you’re not gonna like it, my friend.”
James’s lips part, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth.
“Fuck! Just do it.”
I reach for his hand, my fingers closing around his. His eyes lock on mine as I take a deep breath, and he mirrors me, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine.
Michael positions himself, one hand behind James’s shoulder, the other gripping his upper arm. He glances up. “Ready? On three. One, two—”
Michael doesn’t make it to three.
James’s scream tears through the room, raw and gut-wrenching. His hand clamps down on mine with so much force I think he might crush it, but I don’t let go.