Tarah stared at me, her expression unreadable. “I don’t think they know what to do. And most of them weren’t carrying much cash on them when the soldiers dragged them off to the camp, and of course now the government’s frozen all their accounts so they can’t get to whatever funds they did have in their banks. So there’s no way they can afford to go off on their own anyway. At least together they can pool what they have for enough gas to get us all to South Dakota.”
“I’ve got a credit card I can use.” Unless Dad had heard about my small part in the prison break. Then I would be just as screwed as everyone else, depending of course on whether he chose to cover my tracks in order to keep his own name clean or else use all of his political resources to hunt me down. I thought about Mom’s business card. It might still be safe. Maybe. “Look, why don’t I just give them some money and—”
“And then what? They’re all probably wanted by the FBI by now. If they try to leave the country or cross any of the borders, they’d get caught and thrown into another internment camp. And either they have no family and friends who can hide them, or they don’t want to endanger them. Plus, I think they kind of feel safer together as a group. Even if we are more noticeable this way.”
I groaned under my breath, using my good hand to scrub my face. This was nuts. What were we supposed to do with them once we got to my grandma’s house, stick them all in the basement for who knew how long till the government changed the laws again? That could take months, or even years.
A car engine grew louder as it pulled into the gas station and stopped. What few whispered conversations had broken out in the truck cut off as a car door clicked open then slammed shut just a few feet away. Adults grabbed their younger children and clamped hands over their mouths to keep them quiet. The children didn’t resist, their faces extra pale beneath the streaks of dirt.
Even the youngest of these outcasts had learned the importance of hiding.
Carefully I peeked out through the tear in the canvas then silently swore. A local police car had pulled up across from us at the gas pumps.
I turned to the group and mouthed “cop”.
Tarah blindly grabbed my good hand, her nails digging into my skin as she clamped down.
Two men in badly fitted military uniforms exited the gas station. The police officer nodded in greeting at them. One driver nodded back. The other soldier pretended not to notice.
I silently swore again. I’d seen enough photos at Kyle’s house of his dad and Mr. Kingsley’s military buddies to know that no way did these fake soldiers look the part. One outcast had obviously thrown his uniform on in too much of a hurry, missing a button near the top. His jacket gaped to reveal a gold chain necklace over a blue t-shirt. The other pseudo soldier’s uniform was about two sizes too small, stretched to near bursting around his gut, several inches of his wrists exposed below the sleeves.
Not to mention, both wore sneakers.
Keep walking, I prayed as the police officer headed for the gas station.
He went inside the building. The fake soldiers parted ways, each climbing behind the wheel of a separate truck.
Then the police officer came back, walking faster this time, heading straight for my truck driver’s door. His two hard slaps on the metal exterior echoed throughout the covered bed, making several kids jump.
Everyone’s eyes either rounded with fear or clamped shut in terror as we all fought not to panic. A couple of the older kids not held down by their parents twitched. I held a finger to my mouth, and they froze again.
The truck door hinges screeched as our driver opened it and stepped out.
“Yes sir?” the driver drawled.
“Where you coming from?” the police officer asked.
Despite the lack of heat in the truck bed area, sweat beaded and slid down the center of my back. I resisted the urge to throw off the blankets from my legs, worried any small movement would still make enough of a sound for the cop to hear through the canvas.
The driver’s reply was a murmur too low to make out. And definitely not the snappy answer Kyle’s dad would ever give anyone. If Mr. Kingsley was anything to judge the typical soldier by, we had yet another mark against us.
Apparently the police officer thought so too. “I’m going to need to see the contents of your truck.” He didn’t wait for a response, striding straight towards the back end of our truck bed.
Our driver’s hands shot out, and two blue lights flashed. The police officer’s body made a smacking thud as he hit the pavement face first.
I froze in disbelief for a few seconds, staring.
He didn’t get up.
The gas station door squeaked open as the attendant gave in to his curiosity and stepped outside.
I saw my truck’s driver turn towards him. But the gas station employee was just a kid, maybe my age or younger. Way too young to die just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“No!” The roar erupted out of me unplanned as I shoved aside the wool blanket covering my lap then stumbled up to my feet and through the people packed inside our truck. My hurt shoulder burned in protest as I climbed over the tailgate then leaped down to the ground.
The drivers and gas station attendant all spun towards me.
“What are you doing?” I yelled at the drivers.
“You saw what he was going to do,” my truck driver answered, his expression hard.
I crouched beside the police officer, trying to find a pulse in his neck.
Nothing. Not even a hint of a heartbeat.
“Hayden?” Tarah held up one of the two flaps covering the back end of our truck.
“We need some healers,” I told her as I began CPR on the man, fighting to keep my own energy under control even as a breeze kicked up and swirled dirt around the gas station.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the tear in the side of the canvas bulge out, like someone was trying to peek outside through it. A kid or an adult? If any kids got curious…
I yelled, “Tarah, the kids. Don’t let them see.”
Whispers from the truck bed behind me. The torn bit of canvas closed again.
Two women crawled out of the nearest truck, jogging over to join me.
“Pamela—” The same truck driver who had hit the police officer with the energy orbs called out to one of the healers now.
“Shut up, Steve,” she replied, not bothering to look at him as she hastily pushed her chin length blonde hair behind her ear. I recognized her then as the same woman who had healed Tarah’s dad at the camp. The other healer looked like a real dragon lady, big hands proudly resting on her big hips like she not only enjoyed her size but also was used to throwing her weight around a lot to get what she wanted.