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Just in time, too, because she heard shouting behind them, and peering back, she saw Jane’s men at the window, looking for them. One of them decided to try a random spray of bullets, which ended up hitting well away from them, but it was proof that they didn’t much care about hitting Dr. Reynolds if it meant stopping the two of them.
“We have to make it to the river,” Bryn said. “It’s too deserted up here, and we’re at a disadvantage. ”
“Agreed,” Patrick said. He checked his clip and extra ammo, and shared some with her. “He’s going to take some time to heal. About, what, a couple of hours to get that leg straight again?”
The one time it might have been useful to be contagious, Bryn thought . . . But her upgraded nanites had a cooking time, and they weren’t done yet. Even if she bit Reynolds, all she’d leave was bite marks.
Which reminded her, forcefully, that she was hungry. Seriously, awfully hungry, a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach that made her wince and stagger a little—enough that Patrick put a hand on her shoulder.
She heard him ask if she was okay, but all she could see, all she could focus on was his hand. On the thin skin of his wrist. On the blood and veins and muscle and protein that represented.
She closed her eyes in a sudden, sane fit of nausea, and said, “I’m fine. Gotta move, now. ”
They did, in grim silence, except for Reynolds; she’d have loved to have silenced him, but a dead (if healing) body would have been even less use than a half-cooperative one. They just kept moving. The hill was granite, with pines stubbornly clinging to the rock and shedding dry needles as they moved beneath them. It smelled lush, but the drought had hit hard up here, and these pines were far from healthy.
If Jane was awake and in charge, Bryn had a terrible premonition of how she’d handle this situation. And she would be awake and back in charge, soon. They’d de-knife her first thing, and while the brain would be a few minutes healing, it wouldn’t keep her unconscious for long.
Jane was a practical sort of ruthless, and she’d want to drive Bryn and Patrick out in the open, out of the trees. She could do that by a huge, expensive deployment of her troops, and risk them being picked off in the dimness, or . . .
. . . Or, she could just use nature to do it for her.
“Faster,” Bryn said breathlessly. Patrick nodded. He didn’t even have the wind to reply, at this point. His head wound was still steadily bleeding, but he wasn’t making a big deal out of it at all. His footing was sure, and he was holding up Reynolds just as solidly as ever—but she didn’t like the tense set of his jaw, or the blank look in his eyes. He was tapping reserves that no one should go for unless they’re down to empty.
They were halfway down the slope, with the glitter of the river distantly in sight, when a five-point buck burst from the trees, running fast. It almost crashed into them, but it veered hard and just brushed Bryn on the way by—graceful and fast and undeniably panicked.
Because behind it, the trees were burning.
A whole row of pines behind the house was on fire—tall, surreal matchsticks burning with an unholy glow even in the afternoon sun. As Bryn watched, the flames jumped from one dry branch to another, creating a solid line of fury.
And it was moving with the wind.
Toward them.
The smell was, incongruously, like warm memories of home, logs on the fire, warm cocoa, safety.
“Jesus,” Patrick said, and dragged Reynolds faster. “Move it!”
The smoke flooded them maybe two minutes later. It wasn’t a gradual thing, though the smell of the fire was already strong. The smoke came in a thick, choking blanket, rolling like fog down the slope, and in seconds their visibility was reduced to hazy, indistinct outlines. Patrick coughed as the ash began to swirl around them. It was hot already, but Bryn felt pinpricks of hellfire where the cinders began to settle on her.
Still at least half a mile to the river. It was impossible to make good time on the rocky, jagged ground, especially with the decreased field of vision, and she began to realize, horribly, that Jane had outmaneuvered her, again. They weren’t going to make it.
She’d died a lot of ways in the past few months—enough to earn herself permanent psych ward status, anyway—but burning . . . burning h
ad a special horror to it. That was how they disposed of the Revived in the end—burning long enough, hot enough would disable the nanites and ultimately end all their lives, even the upgraded ones.
Patrick didn’t even have that to look forward to. He would suffocate in the smoke.
“Go!” Bryn yelled at him. She took all of Reynolds’ weight. “Just run, Patrick—go! You can make it! I’ll follow!”
He was coughing too hard to argue, and she shoved him, hard, in the direction of the downslope. At least they wouldn’t get too far lost. . . . It was obvious which way was down, if nothing else.
Patrick disappeared ahead of them, gone in three steps.
She could hear the roar of the trees behind them now, like rabid animals on their heels. The world shrank to steps, fast and deliberate. Her muscles screamed in pain, her still-healing bones shifted and ripped and pierced, but she didn’t care, didn’t care at all.
Reynolds screamed, snapping her from her trance, and she realized that his shirt was smoking. So was hers.
But they were close. She could see the water. A hundred yards, maybe a hundred and fifty.
