Chapter 4

"They're blasting!" someone shrieked.

The heavy wooden door at the mine entrance shuddered violently. Splinters flew.

Another explosion, closer this time. The weak light from our flashlights flickered.

"That door won't hold!" Emily cried, shielding her son.

We were trapped. Chloe's attempt had failed. Mike had sealed our fate.

No. I wouldn't let him.

"The Miller ranch," I said, my voice cutting through the rising panic. "It's our only chance. I have to go."

Martha grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. Her leathery palm was slick with cold sweat. "Sarah, it's too dangerous! And you're..." She looked at my belly.

"If I don't go, we all die here," I said, meeting her gaze. "Chloe tried. They won't listen to her. Maybe... maybe they'll listen to me if I get to the Millers directly." It was a slim hope.

"The Vultures will be all over the main roads," Martha said, her voice tight with fear.

"I know the back trails," I repeated. "Through the canyons. They won't expect anyone to try that route."

I wouldn't go near Devil's Canyon. I'd head straight for the Millers.

The women were looking at me, their faces a mixture of terror and desperate hope. I was their last chance. I, the woman their husbands and sons had dismissed as a jealous shrew.

"Be careful, Sarah," Emily whispered, her eyes filled with tears. "Please, be careful."

I nodded, a lump in my throat.

The ventilation shaft Chloe had used. It was small, filthy, but it was a way out.

"Keep everyone quiet. Barricade that door with whatever you can find," I instructed, trying to keep my voice steady.

I squeezed into the narrow opening, the rough rock scraping my skin. The air was foul, thick with decades of dust and decay. My stomach churned, but I pushed forward, crawling on my hands and knees.

It felt like miles. Every rustle, every pebble dislodged, sounded deafening to my own ears.

Finally, I saw a sliver of gray light. The exit. It opened onto a steep, rocky slope, hidden by overgrown creosote bushes.

I took a deep, shuddering breath of the outside air, tinged with smoke. From this vantage point, I could see parts of Red Rock. Black smoke billowed from several buildings. The Vultures were methodically destroying our home.

The shed where we kept the old dirt bikes was a short, exposed dash away.

Praying they hadn't found it, I scrambled down the slope, staying low.

The shed was untouched.

Inside, two battered dirt bikes leaned against the wall. One looked more reliable than the other. I checked the fuel. Enough.

My hands trembled as I wheeled it out. The engine caught on the third kick, a sputtering roar that sounded impossibly loud in the sudden silence.

I swung my leg over, settled onto the cracked seat, and twisted the throttle.

The bike leaped forward, spitting gravel. I aimed it towards the narrow, almost invisible trail leading into the labyrinth of canyons.

Behind me, I heard a shout. A Vulture, perched on the roof of the general store, had spotted me. He raised his rifle.

I ducked low over the handlebars, urging the bike faster, the rough terrain jarring every bone in my body.

The bullet whizzed past my ear, so close I felt its heat.

I didn't look back.