Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Celeste
I don’t hesitate. One moment I’m in the relative safety of the boxcar, the next I’m airborne, wind rushing past as the ground rises to meet me with alarming speed.
I tuck my body as instructed, hit the ground shoulder-first, and allow momentum to carry me into a roll that disperses the impact across my body rather than concentrating it at a single point.
Pain still explodes across my healing ribs, my shoulder, my hip. The world spins in a disorienting blur of grass, sky, and darkness. When I finally come to a stop, I’m lying on my back, staring up at stars partially obscured by fast-moving clouds.
The rumble of the train already sounds more distant. I push myself up on my elbows, scanning the area for Ryan. For a heart-stopping moment, I don’t see him. Then a shadow detaches from the darkness further down the tracks, moving toward me with that fluid grace I’ve come to recognize.
“You okay?” he asks, crouching beside me, hands immediately assessing for injuries.
“Bruised,” I admit, wincing as I sit fully upright. “But functional.”
His hand brushes dirt from my face with surprising gentleness. “Good roll. You’re learning.”
The approval in his voice sends a ridiculous flutter through me despite our circumstances. I file that reaction away for later examination.
“Where to now?” I ask, letting him help me to my feet.
Ryan surveys our surroundings, orienting himself with that uncanny internal compass he seems to possess. “Northeast. Two miles through those woods to reach the nearest road.”
The terrain around us is rural wilderness—dense trees ahead, the train tracks behind, rolling fields to either side. The moon provides just enough light to navigate, though clouds passing overhead create patches of near-total darkness.
We move away from the tracks immediately, using a small copse of trees for initial cover. Ryan sets a careful pace, mindful of my recent impact and still-healing injuries while balancing the need for distance against the risk of pursuit.
“They’ll figure out we disembarked before the station,” he says as we enter the deeper woods. “But it will take time to coordinate a search of this area. We need to be well clear before they establish a perimeter.”
The forest floor is soft, cushioned by decades of fallen pine needles, which release a sharp, clean scent with each footfall.
Overhead, branches create a cathedral-like canopy that blocks much of the moonlight, plunging us into shadow.
In the distance, an owl calls—three hollow notes that echo through the silence.
I follow Ryan’s lead, placing my feet where he places his, moving as silently as possible.
The woods are alive with small sounds—rustling leaves, the occasional crack of a branch as some nocturnal creature moves through the undergrowth, the whisper of wind through the canopy.
It’s beautiful, eerie, and strangely peaceful, despite the danger we’re fleeing.
After thirty minutes of steady hiking, Ryan pauses, raising one hand in a silent signal to stop. I freeze instantly, senses straining to detect whatever has triggered his caution.
“Listen,” he whispers.
I hold my breath, filtering out the natural forest sounds. There—a low mechanical rumble. An engine, but not a car or truck. Something older, with a distinct chugging rhythm.
“This way,” Ryan says, adjusting our course toward the sound. “Quietly.”
We move with increased caution, Ryan testing each step before committing his weight to it. The trees begin to thin, the forest gradually giving way to what appears to be overgrown farmland. The rumble grows louder until we emerge at the edge of a clearing.
In the moonlight, I can make out the outline of several buildings—a farmhouse, dark and seemingly abandoned, and what looks like a large garage or barn set back from the main structure. The mechanical sound emanates from this second building, along with a faint glow visible through grimy windows.
“Stay here,” Ryan directs, his voice barely audible. “I’ll reconnoiter.”
I nod, pressing myself against the trunk of a massive oak at the forest’s edge. From here, I have a clear view of the property while remaining hidden in shadow.
Ryan moves across the open ground like a shadow among shadows, utilizing every bit of cover available. I lose sight of him as he approaches the outbuilding, only to spot him again near one of the windows, peering carefully inside.
Minutes pass, my nerves stretching tighter with each second he’s out of reach. Finally, he returns, materializing beside me so suddenly I nearly gasp.
“It’s perfect,” he says, satisfaction evident in his voice. “Abandoned garage. Someone’s squatting there occasionally—there’s a generator running an old space heater and some lights. But no one’s home now.”
“And?” I prompt, sensing there’s more.
A smile crosses his face—a real one, not the ghost version I’ve become accustomed to. “Classic cars. At least five. And gas cans. Lots of them.”
The implication is clear. Transportation Phoenix won’t anticipate. No electronic components. No tracking systems.
“Can you hot-wire one?” I ask.
His smile turns wolfish in the moonlight. “I’m offended you even have to ask.”
We approach the garage together this time, moving cautiously despite Ryan’s assessment that it’s currently unoccupied. The building is larger than it appeared from the forest edge—a commercial garage rather than a residential one, with multiple bays and a high, rusted metal roof.
Ryan tests the side door—locked. He examines it briefly, then produces a small tool from a pocket. Within seconds, the lock clicks and opens.
“Breaking and entering to add to our resume,” I murmur as he eases the door open.
“Borrowing,” he corrects. “I have every intention of compensating the owner when this is over.”
The interior is a gearhead’s paradise—and a time capsule.
Vintage automobiles in various states of restoration fill the space.
The smell of oil, gasoline, and metal permeates the air, mingling with leather and something vaguely alcoholic.
Beer cans are scattered near a workbench, alongside fast-food wrappers and empty chip bags.
Someone uses this place regularly, but not as a permanent residence.
Ryan moves to the generator, checking its fuel level. “Three-quarters full. Running the space heater and some lights. Been on for hours, judging by the temperature in here.”
I examine our surroundings more carefully as my eyes adjust to the dim light. The cars range from 1950s classics to muscle cars from the 1970s. None newer than about 1980. Perfect.
“That one,” Ryan says suddenly, pointing to a dark shape beneath a half-removed tarp. “1967 Chevelle SS. Beast of an engine, minimal electronics. Just what we need.”
He moves to the car, pulling the tarp away completely to reveal a gleaming black muscle car with red racing stripes. Even to my untrained eye, it’s beautiful—aggressive lines, wide stance, the promise of raw power. It’s not conspicuous at all.
“Will it run?” I ask, circling the vehicle.
Ryan is already examining the engine, his hands moving with the expertise of someone who knows exactly what he’s looking for.
“Beautifully. Someone’s been restoring her. Fresh rebuild on the engine, new hoses, clean fuel lines.” He straightens, scanning the garage. “We need to check for keys first. Then siphon gas from the other vehicles to fill extra cans. We want to avoid stations as much as possible.”
I nod, moving to search the cluttered workbench while Ryan checks a pegboard covered in hooks and keys. My hands rifle through tools, parts, and debris, searching for anything useful.
“Jackpot,” I say moments later, holding up a ring of keys from beneath a stack of repair manuals. “Labeled ‘Chevelle.’ Our host is organized, at least.”
Ryan takes the keys, examining them with a small flashlight. “Perfect.”
We work together, gathering supplies. Ryan locates several gas cans along the back wall—some full, some empty. He sets about siphoning fuel from the other vehicles to fill the empties while I search for anything else useful.
I discover a box of road maps and a compass in one of the drawers—analog navigation tools that will be invaluable. There’s also a first aid kit, more comprehensive than our own, which I immediately appropriate.
In a small refrigerator, I find bottled water and some non-perishable food items. I take some, leaving cash from our dwindling supply on the shelf as compensation.
As I gather these supplies, Ryan works methodically on the fuel situation, filling can after can. “Seven full cans,” he announces eventually. “About thirty-five gallons, plus whatever’s in the tank. Enough to get us a long way from here before we have to stop and refuel.”
He loads the cans into the Chevelle’s spacious trunk while I continue taking inventory of our supplies. When everything is in place, Ryan slides into the driver’s seat and inserts the key into the ignition.
The engine roars to life on the first try, a deep, throaty growl that vibrates through the concrete floor and up into my bones. Ryan’s face in the dashboard light reveals a rare, unguarded pleasure as he experiments with the engine’s revs.
“Get in,” he says, that familiar command returned to his voice. “Time to disappear.”
I pull open the barn-style garage door, then slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool against my back. The interior smells of polish and history, of someone’s passion project temporarily repurposed for our survival.
Ryan eases the car out of the garage, jumps out, and tugs the garage door shut before killing the lights until we’re clear of the property. The powerful engine purrs beneath us, restrained momentum ready to be unleashed. At the end of the long driveway, Ryan pauses, considering our options.
“We head west, then south, but not on main roads,” he decides. “Back routes only. No towns, if we can avoid them. We need to be in Portland by tomorrow night.”