Page 17 of The Girl Who Kissed the Sun (Death Fields 4)

I know there are others on this farm. Children and some men. Why she hasn’t made to call for them is beyond me. Parker moves to help Jude and it gives me a chance to check out the other women in the room.

They look similar—sisters probably—in their mid-twenties or a little older. Brownish-red hair and hazel eyes. Freckles dot the fair skin on their faces. The more I look, the more I consider that the Crisis must have aged them, like it’s done the rest of us. I’ve spotted more than one gray hair in my own beard lately. They aren’t hardened, though. More like confident, but there’s a quiver in the way one holds the gun, like something isn’t quite right. Although, the blonde behind Davis squares her shoulders and holds her finger on the trigger in a way that gets my attention.

“By the way,” the lady at the stove says. “My name is Dorothy. Those are my daughters. Sabrina,” she points to the one that brought in Jude. “And Tabitha.”

“Listen,” I say, “Dorothy.” I take a step further into the kitchen. Gun barrels follow my every move but I keep my hands in the air—and my distance. “I’m very serious when I say you’re in danger.”

She cracks an egg on the side of an iron skillet and wipes her hands on a dishrag hanging nearby. The egg sizzles from the heat and in the same pan she adds strips of bacon. She turns to face me. “What’s your name, son?”

“Wyatt. That’s Davis and Jude and Parker. We’re working with a still functioning branch of the military and it’s important we evacuate this area immediately.”

“The military?” She looks over at Sabrina, who shrugs. “We haven’t heard of any military around here.”

“We’ve been further north and then recently south,” Davis chimes in. “There’s a threat coming this way.”

“You mean the infected?” she asks. “Because we’ve handled them before. We don’t need your assistance taking care of those nasty beasts.”

“I’m sure you don’t. You seem more than capable.” But her hands shake when she shakes pepper into the pan. She’s scared of something and it isn’t us.

“Ma’am,” Jude chimes in, his accent fully southern. A full dustpan in his grip. “What we’re talking about is worse than the infected. It would be in your best interest to come with us right away, gather any other residents and evacuate with us to safety.”

The women glance at one another while the room fills with the sound and smell of frying bacon. I think for a minute we’ve convinced them but their solemn expressions shift to one of amusement and then to outright laughter.

“Wyatt,” Dorothy says. “I’m sure you mean well. Or maybe not—I can’t tell from that handsome face of yours what your angle really is—but if you’d like to stay for breakfast before moving on that’s fine. If not? We’ll have to handle this another way.”

There’s a beat, one where there’s not a sound in the room but the crackling frying pan. I touch my hand to my hip and chaos rips through the room as my team attacks as a well-oiled unit. Davis spins and bats the gun away, knocking it to the ground with a clatter. Parker steps on Tabitha’s foot, while Jude fights for the rifle. She hits him once above the eye, and blood drips down his face, but Parker elbows her in the ribs and she bends, crying out in pain.

Davis is double the size of Sabrina and even after he picks the gun up off the floor and holds it to her chest, she juts her chin out, still trying to look strong.

They all look at me, where I’ve got Dorothy against the cabinet, knife from her butcher block to her throat. With my free hand, I take the pan off the stove.

In a low, serious tone, I say, “I need you to get ready to leave. Tell me where the men and children are hiding. We’re running out of time.”

Something clatters on the ceiling above, followed by soft footsteps. I glance up at the same time a child squeals somewhere upstairs. Parker’s eyes meet mine. I nod for her to check it out.

“Don’t,” Dorothy says. “Don’t go up there.”

“I’m not going to hurt children,” Parker says, pausing at the door. “I was a teacher once upon a time, for God’s sake.”

“It’s not that,” the older woman says with a whisper. “

There’s someone up there with them.”

“Your men?” Davis asks, thinking like I am that it seems stupid not to send us up there to our fates.

“No, a man.” She swallows. “Not one of ours. He tied them up and locked them in the cellar.”

“There are no bullets in these guns but he told us he’d kill the kids. He’d kill all of us—”

“Sabrina!” Dorothy whisper shouts at her daughter.

“Mother!” she replies, exasperated. The defiance she wears isn’t just for show. “He knew you were coming. You’ve got to help us.”

I nod and take my gun back from Tabitha. She points to the hallway and to the back stairs. Her hand clenches around my upper arm and gives me a warning. “He’s not normal.”

*

There’s little doubt I’m about to walk straight into a trap. I want to kick myself for not following my instincts two nights ago when I felt like I was being watched. The post-apocalyptic world tends to make me a little paranoid, skewing my judgment. Or maybe not.

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