The cracked asphalt stretched endlessly before them, weeds clawing up through the seams.
Signs leaned half-fallen. Words stripped by wind. Rusted cars scattered.
The road was a graveyard. The silence made the ATV's rumble louder.
Iyisha's body ached. Arms stiff, thighs burning, and wind stinging her face. She tried to shove the soreness aside, but her head kept looping back that night, the kiss, the silence after, the shame.
Now Quincy loomed closer, every mile pressing heavier on her chest.
She forced out words. "Road looks clearer today." Barely above the engine.
"Mm." Malcolm didn't look back. His jaw set and his eyes forward.
She tried again. "Think we'll hit Quincy by noon?"
"Maybe."
That was all. Clipped, flat. Every answer pressed her down smaller. She clung tighter to him, feeling like baggage.
A shape ahead. A man, stumbled into the road with his arms flailing and voice breaking in ragged desperation.
"Help! Please, help us!"
Iyisha's fingers dug into Malcolm's jacket. "Malcolm…"
"Ignore it." His voice hard, instant. "Keep your head down."
But behind the man, a boy.
Nine, maybe. Gaunt and small. Shirt nothing but rags. Jeans slipping loose around his legs. A filthy satchel hugged tight to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Iyisha's throat closed. "He's just a kid," she blurted. "Please, slow down."
Malcolm cursed low. His jaw locked. But he eased the throttle, ATV rolling slower. Eyes cutting side to side, scanning every ditch, every tree.
The man staggered closer, almost on his knees. Hollow face. Wild eyes.
"Please! Take him! Take my boy to the bridge. It's close! He can't make it alone!"
Malcolm's reply came sharp, cutting. "Not our problem."
Iyisha's chest hammered. The boy clung silent to the man's sleeve. His big dark eyes locked with hers a moment.
"We can't just leave him. He's a child."
Malcolm's knuckles whitened on the bars. Teeth gritted. The ATV idled, growling under them like it felt the tension too.
Malcolm's eyes never rested. Treeline. Rooftops. The ditch. Always moving. His mutter scraped low.
He kept the ATV crawling. If the man wanted to talk, he had to stumble along.
"Please!" the man rasped. "He's innocent. Just the boy. Please, he'll die out here!"
The boy gripped harder at the man's sleeve. Wide eyes, but he kept silent.
Iyisha's gut twisted. "Malcolm," she started, then bit the word back. She'd promised not to go against his wishes. If he believed they had to leave the child, then so be it.
And Malcolm's suspicion stood like a wall. She saw how his eyes tracked the man's hands, how his shoulders braced for trouble.
Malcolm snapped the throttle. The ATV leapt forward. The man's screams shredded into the wind.
"No!"
Iyisha twisted back, arm out, watching the boy shrink, shrink, vanish. Tears burned. The satchel on his chest the last thing she saw.
Her gut clenched. Guilt choking her. What if he really was just a child?
Malcolm's shoulders stayed taut, every line wound tight. Cursing under his breath, face carved like stone.
Only the engine for a beat. Then.
A growl behind. An engine turning over.
Iyisha whipped back. A car, hidden off the side, rumbling alive. Headlights flicked on, stabbing their mirrors.
"Knew it," Malcolm muttered, flat, grim.
He gunned the ATV. The engine screamed as speed snapped them forward. Wind tore at Iyisha's face.
She clung tight, fear burning hot in her chest.
Behind, the engine roared. Iyisha glanced back and her stomach dropped. A pickup truck barreled toward them, too fast.
"Shit," she breathed.
"Hold on!" Malcolm barked. He jerked the handlebars hard, the ATV skidding rough across the other lane, tires spitting gravel as Iyisha clutched his waist tighter, her stomach lurching with the sharp swerve.
The pickup didn't follow. Men leaned out, shouting like it was sport, bats and swords in their hands, laughter spilling wild.
They looked crazy with their tattered clothes creating a sharp contrast to the brand-new truck they rode in. As if they only had taken it from others.
"Iyisha! Gun, tires!" Malcolm ordered.
She fumbled it out, raised shaky arms, and fired.
The shots cracked, sparks jumping off asphalt but the tires stayed whole. Her aim was off, her hands trembling too much to steady.
The miss only made the men howl louder, their bats banging against the truck's sides like war drums.
"Look at her!" one of them jeered. "Can't hit shit!"
Another cackled, "What a waste of bullets!"
Malcolm's face tightened, and he revved the ATV harder.
The fence beside them kept the truck from crossing lanes, but in thirty meters there would be a break wide enough for it to lunge through.
Iyisha squeezed the trigger again, more shots sparking uselessly.
Nothing.
"Damn it!" Iyisha cursed, frustration spilling out.
"That's enough! You're wasting rounds." Malcolm said.
The men only laughed harder, howling at her failure like it was entertainment.
Malcolm snarled, yanked his own gun free.
He steadied the gun one-handed, breath sharp, the world narrowing to a single point and fired like thunder splitting the air.
One shot cracked.
It was clean and merciless. The driver's skull burst red against the glass, body slumping as the wheel jerked sideways.
For a heartbeat Iyisha thought it would flip like in the movies, topple into twisted wreckage but it didn't.
The pickup shuddered, paused, then slowed, left behind as the ATV tore ahead.
"They'll come back," Malcolm said flatly.
Iyisha twisted to look behind and saw the men get down from the truck.
They heaved the corpse out like garbage, and the truck's engine roared back to life.
They weren't retreating. They were hunting.