The first bullet sparked off the Jeep's fender with a high metallic ping.
Shane was already moving, shoving Nyra down behind the engine block while he rolled left, pistol up, firing blind toward the nearest muzzle flash. The shot went wide, but it bought them a heartbeat.
"Down!" he barked.
Nyra dropped flat, machete still clutched in her right hand, left arm shielding her head as more rounds chewed into the dirt and pinged off the Jeep's frame. Brutus remained motionless in the open cargo area, commanded to hold position, a grotesque statue leaking black fluid onto the upholstery.
Leah screamed, high, panicked, crawling toward the ditch. Marcus grabbed her ankle, yanking her back.
"Stay low!" Nyra snapped, voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
The raiders fanned out, ten, twelve, maybe more, using the wrecked semi-trailer and the gas pumps for cover. The camo-jacket leader laughed again, loud and ugly.
"You should've kept driving, sweetheart! Now you're just roadkill with benefits!"
Shane crawled to Nyra's side, pressing his back to the tire. His heart hammered, but his grin was feral.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, asshole," he called back. "But keep talking. I like knowing what my next target sounds like when he's gargling his own blood."
Nyra's eyes met his, amber already flickering, brighter than before. Her breathing was steady, almost calm.
"They're spread thin," she said quietly. "Trying to flank. We can't stay pinned."
Shane nodded. "I've got eight rounds left. You've got… whatever the hell that machete does when you get mad."
She flexed her grip on the handle. The amber in her eyes flared, visible even in daylight now, like twin coals.
"I'm mad," she said simply.
Another burst of gunfire stitched across the Jeep's hood and sparks flew. One round punched through the metal inches from Shane's head.
He cursed, creative, colorful, and popped up long enough to fire three quick shots. One raider dropped, clutching his thigh. The others ducked lower.
"They're not rushing," Nyra observed. "They want us alive. Or at least you alive. Leverage."
Shane snorted. "Great. I'm the damsel now. My ego's gonna need therapy after this."
Nyra's lips twitched, almost a smile, then hardened.
"Marcus, Leah, crawl to the ditch. Stay low. We'll cover."
Marcus nodded frantically. They started belly-crawling toward the shallow depression twenty feet away.
The leader's voice rang out again.
"Last chance! Drop the weapons, hands up, and we won't shoot the girl. Much."
Nyra stood, Like a predator deciding the hunt was over.
The amber in her eyes ignited, bright, burning, almost liquid. Heat shimmered off her skin in faint waves. The machete in her hand seemed to drink the light, the blade edges blackening as though charring from the inside.
Shane felt it, a pressure change, like the air itself thickened. His ears popped.
"Nyra—"
She moved.
The first raider who poked his head up didn't even have time to scream.
Nyra crossed the distance in three strides, impossibly fast, machete flashing. The blade took him across the chest; the cut didn't just open, it unraveled. Flesh tore wider, ribs splintered outward like blooming petals, blood exploding in a thick, almost syrupy fountain. The man collapsed, clutching at organs that were already spilling.
The others opened fire.
Bullets snapped past her, close, too close, but she didn't slow.
She spun, ducked under a shotgun blast that shredded the air where her head had been, came up inside another raider's guard. The machete drove upward through his chin, skull cracking open like an eggshell, brain matter splattering the pump island in a grisly arc. The wound kept spreading, black cracks racing across his face, jaw unhinging, eyes bursting.
Shane was already moving, pistol barking, dropping two more who tried to circle behind her. He reloaded on the run, muscle memory, then sprinted toward the nearest raider truck, using it for cover.
Nyra was a blur, amber light trailing from her eyes like comet tails. Every swing of the machete left wounds that refused to stay closed. One raider took a slash across the thigh; the cut widened, muscle peeling back in wet sheets, artery erupting. He dropped screaming. Another lost an arm at the elbow; the stump didn't just bleed, it tore wider, bone splintering outward.
The leader roared, fury now, not amusement, and charged her with a raised rifle.
Nyra met him head-on.
He fired. The bullet grazed her shoulder, red line blooming across her skin.
She didn't flinch.
The machete came down in a two-handed arc.
It caught him across the collarbone and kept going, sternum splitting, ribs unfolding like broken wings. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, painting the side of the gas pump crimson. The wound kept spreading, black tendrils racing across his chest, flesh bubbling and blackening as though burned from the inside.
He dropped to his knees, still alive, still screaming, clutching at the ruin of his torso.
Nyra stepped past him without a glance.
The remaining raiders broke, scattering, running for the trucks, the fields, anywhere but toward her.
Shane was already in the nearest pickup, hot-wiring it with practiced speed, wires sparking. The engine coughed to life.
"Nyra! Wheels!"
She sprinted toward him, blood dripping from the machete, shoulder wound already clotting, amber fading but not gone. Behind her, the leader was still alive, crawling, gurgling, the wound continuing to eat inward.
Marcus and Leah reached the Jeep, panting, terrified.
Marcus stumbled suddenly, clutching his side. Blood bloomed dark across his shirt wet, and spreading fast. He coughed once, hard; red flecked his lips.
Leah froze, eyes wide with horror. "Marcus—"
He sank to his knees, hand pressed to the wound, blood seeping between his fingers. "I… I didn't feel it… one of the bullets—"
Shane threw the new truck into gear.
"Get in!"
Leah half-dragged Marcus toward the pickup, sobbing, his legs buckling. They piled into the back, Marcus collapsing against the side, breathing wet and ragged.
Nyra vaulted into the passenger seat. Shane floored it, tires spinning, kicking up gravel and dust.
Behind them, the remaining raiders tried to pursue, two trucks peeling out, but Shane swerved hard, sideswiping one into the ditch. It rolled, metal screaming, glass shattering.
The second truck fired wildly, bullets pinging off the tailgate.
Nyra leaned out the window, machete raised.
"Shane, hold steady."
He did and she threw.
The machete spun end over end, perfect arc, burying itself in the pursuing truck's windshield. The driver jerked the wheel; the vehicle veered hard, flipped, and cartwheeled into the median.
Silence.
Just the roar of their stolen engine and the wind.
Shane glanced at Nyra, blood on her face, shoulder leaking slowly, eyes still faintly glowing.
"You okay, baby?"
She nodded, breathing hard, but steady.
"I'm okay."
In the back, Leah was sobbing, pressing her hands over Marcus's wound, blood soaking her fingers.
"Marcus—stay with me—please—"
Marcus coughed again, weaker this time, more blood on his lips. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. "We… we didn't know… they tricked us…"
Nyra turned in her seat, expression softening.
"I believe you," she said quietly. "You're safe now."
Marcus stared at her, wide-eyed, then at the blood on his shirt.
"I… I think I'm dying…"
Leah shook her head frantically. "No—no, you're not—you're gonna be okay—"
But his breathing was shallower now, wet rattles in his chest. His hand slipped from the wound, falling limp.
Nyra reached back, gentle, pressing her palm over Leah's hands to help staunch the bleeding.
"Hold pressure," she said softly. "We'll find help."
Marcus's eyes fluttered. He looked at Leah, then at Nyra, then at Shane in the driver's seat.
"Tell… tell her… I'm sorry…"
His head lolled to the side.
Leah's sob broke, raw and shattered.
Shane's jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road.
Nyra exhaled slowly, hand still on the wound, even though the bleeding had slowed to a trickle.
"Keep going," she said quietly to Shane. "Oakridge is close."
Shane nodded, throat tight.
"Oakridge is close."
He pushed the truck harder down the highway.
Whatever waited there—family, survivors, more blood—would find them ready.
And one less soul to carry.
XXXX
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