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The radio crackled to life, Howard’s familiar voice, subdued and afraid now, whining. “This is Howard. They got away.”
The faint voice from shore answered, “Why am I not surprised?”
Then, Howard again. “Our boat doesn’t work.”
“Sam,” Caine said. “If you can hear me, brother, you better know I’ll kill you.”
“Brother? Why is he calling you brother?” Astrid asked.
“Long story.”
Sam smiled. Plenty of time to tell stories now. They’d done it. They had escaped. But it was a hollow victory.
Now they couldn’t go home.
“Okay,” Sam said. “So it’s escape or nothing.”
He set the tiller on a course that followed the long, curved barrier. Astrid found a cut-top bleach bottle and began the long job of bailing out the boat.
TWENTY-SEVEN
125 HOURS, 57 MINUTES
IT TOOK LANA far longer than she had expected to reach the end of the tire tracks. What had looked like a mile at most must have been three. And carrying the water and the food in the blazing heat had not made it easy.
It was afternoon by the time she dragged her weary feet around an outcropping from the ridge. There, before her amazed eyes, was what looked very much like an abandoned mining town. It must have been quite a camp once: There were a dozen buildings all jumbled together in the narrow, steep-walled crease of the ridge. The buildings were almost indistinguishable from one another now, mere collections of gray sticks, but there might once have been a sort of street, no more than half a block long.
It was a spooky place, silent, gloomy, with wrecked glassless windows like sad eyes staring down at her.
Behind the wreckage of the main street, out of sight of casual passersby—although why anyone would ever come to this desolate, unlovely place Lana could not imagine—was a more sturdy structure. It was built of the same gray lumber, but was still upright and topped with a tin roof. This structure was the size of a three-car garage. The tracks led there.
“Come on, boy,” Lana said.
Patrick ran ahead, sniffed at a weed near the shed’s door, and came back, tail still high.
“So there’s no one inside,” Lana reassured herself. “Or else you would have barked.”
She threw the door open, not wanting to creep in like some girl in a horror movie.
Sunlight came through dozens of holes and seams in the tin roof and knotholes in the wood. Still, it was dark.
The truck was there. Newer than her grandfather’s truck, with a longer bed.
“Hello? Hello?” She waited. Then, “Hello?”
She checked the truck first. The tank was half full. The keys were nowhere to be found. She searched every square inch of the truck and, nothing.
Frustrated, Lana began a search of the rest of the shack. It was mostly machinery. What looked like a rock crusher. Something that looked like a big vat with heat jets positioned beneath. A liquid petroleum gas tank that sat off in a corner.
“Okay. We either find the keys and probably kill ourselves driving,” Lana summarized to an attentive Patrick. “Or we walk however many miles through the heat to Perdido Beach and maybe die of thirst.”
Patrick barked.
“I agree. Let’s keep looking for the keys.”
In addition to the tall double door on the front of the shed, there was a smaller door in the back. Through this Lana found a well-trodden path that wound through ugly piles of rock, past a graveyard of rusted-steel machines, and ended in a timber-framed opening in the ground. It looked like the mountain’s surprised mouth, a crooked square of black with two broken support beams forming jagged buck teeth.
A narrow train track led into the mine.
