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“Are you okay?”

She looks a little pale despite the building heat, but she nods affirmatively.

“Ma?”

My mother is shaking head to toe as she slowly lowers the metal bar, but the look on her face is one of anger as she continues to stare at Withers’s prone figure. Luckily, he still seems to be breathing.

“He shot at you.”

“I’m okay, Ma. Everyone’s okay. You can drop that thing.”

Her eyes come up and narrow as they lock in on my face. “Hijo de puta made you bleed.”

All five foot two of her, at seventy-six, her body shaking, but not with fear—with anger. Part of me wants to yell at her for going after an armed man, and part of me wants to tell her how fucking proud I am to be her son, but it’ll have to wait.

Glowing sparks are starting to fall. I don’t think it’ll be long before the flames reach us, and I not only have to get these women down the mountain, but I have Withers to drag along, and have to find away to secure him as well. Then there’s the dilemma of the mayor’s body; should I try and drag him down too, or leave him here at the risk of the fire getting to him?

“Dana, hold this and keep it aimed at his head while I secure his hands.”

I’m not sure I trust Ma with my weapon right now, so I hand it to Dana instead. She doesn’t exactly look comfortable, but does as I ask without questioning.

I quickly remove the guy’s belt and flip him over on his stomach. Then I secure his wrists with my handcuffs, and loop the leather belt around his ankles as tightly as I can. My mother did a good job on Withers; he’s got a nasty gash on his head that seems to be bleeding quite a bit, but we don’t have time to waste on his wounds. Getting everyone down the mountain is first priority.

“Wait here,” I instruct them, as I move to the mayor’s body.

Grabbing him by his ankles, I start dragging him toward the warehouse, which is farther away from the tree line. I manage to get him into the mostly steel building, which I hope will be a bit of protection, before I jog back to where the women are waiting.

“Okay, we’ve gotta get moving.”

I take my sidearm back from Dana and tuck it in my waistband. Then I point to the northwest corner of the quarry.

“We have to go in that direction. The quarry should border on to a field back there, and we can follow that down to the highway.”

I struggle to lift the punk’s dead weight onto my shoulders, but with Dana’s help I get him up, securing him with one arm hooked through his bound legs, and his cuffs clutched in my hand. Then we set off.

Dana

* * *

I take the lead, keeping my fingers crossed my sense of direction doesn’t let me down as I move away from the approaching fire.

Theresa is right behind me, and Rick makes up the rear with his load. I look behind me to see Rick with a radio in his free hand, talking into it. He’s probably letting someone know we are stuck up here and trying to find a way down.

I make my way to the edge of the quarry, where the gravel ends and vegetation starts, sending one last longing glance at my cute hatchback, which may or may not survive this fire, we’ll have to see.

Up ahead I notice an area where the underbrush looks a bit trampled, like someone walked through there. The trail—if that’s what it is—appears to lead into the trees, and with a quick look over my shoulder, and a responding encouraging nod from Rick, I forge ahead.

Smoke swirls between the tree trunks, making maneuvering in the dark shadows of the dense cover even more eerie. I pick up the first sturdy stick I see, and brandish it in front of me, although I’m not sure what exactly I’m hoping to ward off with it.

None of us say anything, the pervasive smoke forcing us to preserve oxygen and energy to get us to safety. The occasional snapping of a branch or sharp crackle of the nearing fire makes me jump, prompting me to pick up the pace. I look behind me from time to time to make sure the others are still there, but my focus is forward, hoping to God we’ll find our way out.

By the time I can finally see more light coming through the trees from a clearing up ahead, I’m almost running. I’m hot and sweat is pouring off me, when I step out of the tree line and into a field high with weeds coming almost up to my chest. But the air is clearer, the wind cool, and I sink down on my ass, relieved, as I wait for the others to catch up.

“How are you holding up?” I ask Theresa, when she makes her way over.

She looks pasty and is breathing hard, bending over with her hands braced on her knees. I scramble to my feet and rush to her side to support her.

“Lean on me,” I encourage her.