“About three hundred and fifty miles. If we can use major roads, we’ll make decent time. If we can’t…”
He let that lay, picked up a red can marked gas, then led her about thirty feet down the road where a car sat crookedly on the skinny shoulder.
“They almost made it,” she murmured.
“Wouldn’t have made any difference if the pumps had been turned off. I managed to move it magickally about ten, twelve feet, but that’s about all I could do. We could probably do better together, but this is just as fast.”
She said nothing, as she knew he pushed himself too far, too hard. Power, they’d both learned, didn’t come free.
He gave the tank the gallon of gas, stowed the can in the trunk.
“I can drive awhile.”
He slanted her a look. “We tried that yesterday.”
Until yesterday, she’d never driven a car. She lived in New York. “I need the practice.”
He laughed, kissed her. “No argument. Practice by driving back to the gas station.”
They got in, and Max nodded to the ignition button. “You do it—you need practice there, too.”
She’d left the starting of engines, gas pumps, and boosting of electricity to him. But he had a point—she needed to practice.
She held a hand over the ignition, focused. Pushed. The engine sprang to life.
Riding on the flash of power, she grinned at him. “Practice, my ass.”
He laughed again, and oh, how the sound of it steadied her. “Drive.”
She gripped the wheel like a falling woman grips a rope, squealed and inched, lurched, and swerved her way to the gas station.
“Don’t hit the pumps,” Max warned. “Ease up, a little to the left now. Stop!”
She hit the brakes hard so the car jerked, but she’d done it.
“Put it in Park. Engine off.”
They both got out. Max put the nozzle in the tank, flipped it on. At the hum, he put an arm around Lana. “We’re in business.”
“I never knew I’d be thrilled to smell gas fumes, but—” She broke off, pressing a hand to his chest. “Did you hear—”
Even as she spoke, he spun around, shoving her behind him. He pulled out the gun from his hip.
A young dog, barely more than a puppy, gamboled across the lot, tongue cheerfully lolling, eyes bright.
“Oh, Max!” She started to crouch down to greet the dog, but Max called out.
“I know you’re back there. Come out, and I want to see your hands up.”
Lana stood stock-still even as the dog scrambled his front paws up her legs, wagging and yipping.
“Don’t shoot. Jeez! Come on, man, don’t freaking shoot me.”
At the sound of the voice—male with a twang of an accent—the dog raced back, raced around the man who stepped out from behind the scrubby brush at the edge of the lot.
“Hands are up, dude. Way up. Just a couple fellow travelers here. No harm. Don’t hurt the pup, okay? Seriously, man, don’t plug the pooch.”
“Why are you hiding back there?”
“I heard the car, okay? Wanted to check it out. Last time I wanted to check it out when I heard a car, asshole tried to run us over. I barely grabbed up Joe and got us clear.”
“Is that what happened to your face?”
His narrow face showed some yellowing bruising under his left eye, some still purple around the scruffy beard dangling off his jaw.
“Nah. A couple weeks ago I hooked up with this group. Seemed okay. We’re camping out, got some brews. Second night, they beat the crap out of me and stole my stash. I had some prime stuff, man, and I shared. But they wanted it all. Left me there, took my pack, my water, the works. After they took off, that’s when Joe here came up. So we hooked up. No way he’s going to kick the shit out of me. Look, just don’t hurt him.”
“No one’s going to hurt him.” Lana crouched down, and Joe flew to her, covering her face with kisses. “No one’s going to hurt Joe. You’re so sweet!”
“He’s a good dog, that Joe. Can’t be more’n three months, I figure. Some Lab in him. Can’t say what else. Could ya not point the gun at me? I really don’t like guns. They kill people, whatever the NRA says. Used to say.”
“Take off your pack,” Max ordered. “Empty it out. And your coat, turn out your pockets.”
“Oh, man, I just restocked.”
“We’re not going to take anything. But I’m going to make damn sure you don’t have a gun of your own.”
“Oh. No problem! I got a knife.” Hands still up, he pointed at the sheath on his belt. “You need one when you’re hiking and camping rough. I had a tent, those bastards took it. I gotta put my hands down to take off the pack, okay?”
At Max’s nod, he shrugged off the pack, unzipped it, pulled out a space blanket, a pair of socks, a hoodie, a harmonica, a small bag of dog food, a couple of cans, some snack food, water, two paperback books.
“I’m hoping to find me another bedroll, maybe a truck—four-wheel drive. I haven’t found anything I could get started. Snow’s coming in. I’m Eddie,” he said as he kept pulling things out. “Eddie Clawson. That’s what I got,” he added. “Can I put my coat back on? It’s freaking cold out here.”
He was thin as a rail—a long, bony man, no more, Lana thought, than twenty-two or -three. His hair, dirty blond, trailed down in tangled, half-assed dreds from an orange ski cap.
Every instinct in her told her he was as harmless as his dog.
“Put your coat back on, Eddie. I’m Lana. This is Max.” She started to walk toward him.
“Lana.”
“We have to trust someone, sometime.” She stooped over to help him pick up his supplies. “Where are you going, Eddie?”
“No clue. Had a compass. They took that, too. I guess I’m just looking for people, you know? Who aren’t dead or trying to kill me, who won’t beat the shit out of me for a bag of weed. How about you?”
He looked up when Max stepped over to study him up close.
“Dude, you’ve got fifty pounds on me easy—and it looks like muscle. And you got a gun. I ain’t going to try anything. I just want to get somewhere nice. Where people aren’t crazy. Where are you heading?”
“Into Pennsylvania,” Max told him.
“Maybe you’ve got room for two more. I could help you get there.”
“How?”
“Well, to start.” Eddie hauled up his pack, jaw-pointed at the car. “That’s a nice ride and all, but it ain’t four-wheel drive and snow’s coming. Main roads are mostly blocked, and the side roads, a lot of ’em haven’t been plowed since the last snow. I bet there’re some chains inside the gas station.”
“Chains?” Lana said, baffled. Eddie grinned.
“City, aren’t you? Snow chains. You might need ’em on the way. And a couple shovels wouldn’t hurt. Sand if we can find it. Or a couple buckets of this gravel maybe. I’m handy,” he told them. “And I’m gonna be straight. I don’t want to travel alone. It’s getting weirder than shit. The more people traveling together the better, I figure.”
Max looked at Lana, got a smile. “Let’s see if we can find some chains.”
“Yeah?” Eddie lit up. “Cool.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eddie found chains, some tools—whoever had abandoned the gas station had left behind a well-stocked toolbox.
Then he dug out a three-gallon gas can, filled it.
“Don’t generally like carrying gas in the trunk,” he said as he stowed it there. “But, you know, circumstances. Say, okay if me and Joe go relieve ourselves before we hit the road?”
“Go ahead,” Max told him.
“He’s all right, Max. I just don’t sense any harm in him.”
“I’ve got the same sense. We’re both still getting used to having more than we did. And for now, at least, we’re going to have to deal with strangers. But he fell in with a group of strangers, and I think he’s telling the truth about them turning on him, beating him, leaving him for what he had on him. We’re going to need to hone what we have, hone that sense we’ve started to develop. Because he won’t be the only one we come across.”