Page 1 of Last Light

One

IRECOGNIZE THE MANimmediately. I don’t remember his name, but he used to fix my car.

He was our local mechanic, and when I was sixteen I took my car to his garage for repairs and maintenance. He always smelled like oil and cigarettes, and he invariably needed to shave. He never smiled at me, but he was patient as he explained the work that needed doing, and my grandfather swore he was honest and would never cheat us.

But right now he’s standing over the motorcycle I just found—one that miraculously still has gas. He’s got a shotgun in one hand, and he’s rifling through my bag with the other.

I stumbled across this abandoned gas station an hour ago. All the gasoline, food, and most of the supplies were scavenged long ago, but in the mess I found two intact packs of wet wipes and a large bottle of water that had rolled under an overturned shelf.

Out back, behind the smashed gas pumps and the old building, I hit pay dirt. An inexpensive motorcycle just on the edge of the woods behind the station.

I pulled off the weeds that had grown up over it, hauled it upright, and held my breath as I fiddled with the wiring. (Everyone who’s survived this long knows how to hot-wire a vehicle, just like we all know how to load and fire a gun.) I almost laughed when the engine turned over.

It’s been more than a year since I’ve gotten my hands on a working vehicle.

I left my bag on the seat and took three steps into the woods so I could pee behind a tree. In spite of everything, a semblance of privacy is a habit I still can’t kick.

It’s a mistake.

There was no one around when I pulled down my pants and squatted, but there is now as I straighten, yank up my jeans, and turn around.

A man. Laying claim to my stuff.

I pull out the pistol I keep in a holster on my right hip, and I level it at him as I step out from behind a tree.

I surprise him. That’s something.

He jerks visibly at my appearance and starts to raise his shotgun.

“Don’t.” I’ve walked to the opposite side of the motorcycle from him. “Back up.”

His expression changes as his eyes rest on my face. He’s on guard. That much is clear. His body is tense, and his hand is in a ready position on the gun. He hasn’t raised it yet, however. He’s holding in his other hand a book he took from my bag.

“Back up,” I say again, making my voice as hard as I can.

I’m not nearly as intimidating as I’d like to be. My face looks young, and my body is small. My hair is long, brown, and braided, and my eyes are brown too. I have a dimple in my chin, which is about as unintimidating as you can get. But my gun is loaded, and I know how to use it.

I hope he can see that.

He takes a step back, and the hand holding the book goes up in a gesture of surrender. “Didn’t know you was here,” he says, his voice soft and gravelly and twanging with a mountain accent in the way I remember from four years ago in his garage. “Just saw the bike and thought I’d take a look. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“You sure as hell aren’t going to hurt me. Back the fuck up.” I’m poised over the motorcycle now, and I brace my free hand on the seat.

He’s got to be over thirty—based on his appearance and what I know of his history—and he’s not a particularly handsome man. His features are strong and rough, and his light brown hair is unkempt. His face is dirty and so are his jeans and the shirt he’s wearing—a gray T-shirt with the sleeves torn off. But he’s got a lean, straight body with broad shoulders and good definition in his arms—the kind that comes from use rather than weight lifting.

He takes another step backward, and he speaks the way he might to a spooked animal. “You know me. I’m Travis Farrell. I’m from Meadows too. I fixed your car. I’m not lookin’ to steal from you or hurt you. I was passing through.”

Travis. That’s his name.

I want to believe him about everything else.

I’d love to believe him.

My grandpa always said he was an honest man.

But the world I knew four years ago has cracked at its core, and even men who once seemed decent can’t be trusted anymore.

I don’t say anything, and I don’t lower my pistol.

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