Page 43 of The Girl Who Kicked Ass (Death Fields 3)

“Dude, you can’t stop, can you?” I say, lowering my weapons.

Wyatt raises his cut eyebrow. “Can you?”

I sigh and rub my face, trying to wake up a little better while lowering my heart rate. Without another word I pack up my belongings and dig out the jerky, tearing off a piece with my teeth. I offering him nothing. No food. No water from my bottle. I just march on.

He follows.

This goes on for hours. It’s a long walk to my destination, I hope to be there by the end of the day, but I can already tell that’s unlikely to happen. I have the map Davis followed when we came down and with a little luck and my compass, I hope to backtrack and end up in the right destination.

Normally Wyatt would be way ahead of me, letting me know my shorter legs and lack of stamina was holding him back, but not today. Even though he doesn’t make a sound, it’s clear his injuries are slowing him down. Once he falls far enough behind I realize I could make a break for it, but my stupid conscience nags at me. I already lost one man I care about; there’s no way I would survive losing another. I stop a little to sit on a fallen log before the sun hits the peak of the sky. I’ve eaten a small snack, changed socks, and reloaded my gun by the time he appears, breathing hard and coated in sweat.

He leans on the log a couple feet away and catches his breath. I mull over all my comments from I told you so, to Stop being a dumbass, but swallow them all back. Instead I drink a little more water and ignore him as he wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt, revealing the mottled bruising up his side.

I stand and approach him, silently taking the fabric out of his hand. He stares at me but I ignore him, check the area with my fingers. His stomach collapses at my touch and a tight hiss comes from his mouth. God, it looks bad. So bad, and I feel a twinge of guilt knowing he took that beating for me and the cause.

Searching my pocket, I find one of the tiny packets I stashed away. I tear off the corner and press two pain pills in his palm. Walking off as he takes them, I gather my things, check my compass and head north.

*

I toss another acorn in the fire. It pops and sparks as it explodes. Wyatt sits on the other side. The shadows and flames against his bruised face give him the appearance of a demon.

“How do you plan on doing this?” he asks after hours and hours of silence.

“Doing what?” My knees are bent to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. My stomach growls, begging for more food.

“Rescuing Cole.”

“Is that my plan?” I throw another acorn in and it misses, passing through and bouncing off his chest. Oops.

“God, you’re infuriating.”

I bark out a laugh. Pot meet kettle and all.

“See? Like that. Why are you laughing? You’re committing suicide.” I avoid his stare through the fire. “What if they stop you?”

“Then they stop me.”

“What if I stop you?” he asks in a quiet voice.

My eyes flick to his and I answer carefully. Slowly. “Then w

e’re done.”

*

We reach our destination the next day, although a few blocks away from where I’d hoped to land. The fence between the cleared area and the Death Fields is weak, but as we saw before there’s not much risk around here. Nothing but a few kids toting guns bigger than their bodies.

The leaves are fully off the trees now and the houses look sadder than they did before. Is it Thanksgiving yet? Did it pass? I shut down the thoughts of food as quickly as they start. My pack weighs heavy on my back.

“Can you at least tell me where we’re going?” Wyatt asks. His eyes are narrow and watchful. His finger is on the trigger of the rifle crossed over the front of his body. “There has to be a good reason you brought us back into an infested area even though we had a straight shot at the Fort.”

“No one invited you.”

“Humor me.”

“We left the SUV here.”

“Here?” I can tell he thinks it was a dumb idea.

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