Free Slow Burn: Dead Fire, Book 4 by Bobby Adair

barely able to keep my face out of the water, I gulped precious air. The boots felt like weights on my feet. I caught a deep breath and floated for a moment on my belly as I ran my hands over my body, looking for anything I could shed. My belt and holster went next. All I had left were a t-shirt, pants, and boots. I’d have to suffer with the boots. Laced half way up to my knees, there’d be no way to shed those and not drown in the attempt. But with all the other weight off, I was able to swim.
    A good fifty feet away from the last White still struggling—barely—in the water off of the end of the dock, I treaded water and floated with the current. Those on the shore still followed. A scream from the other shore caught my attention, and I saw that I had at least a dozen fans over there, as well.
    “Shit.”
    Getting out of the river would prove difficult. Sure, I was just as much of a White as all those on shore, but they couldn’t see enough of me to know that. All they did know was that I sounded like food when I went into the river. Most of those on shore didn’t see that part, though. Most of them knew only that the other infected were very interested in having me for a meal, and that was a good enough recommendation for them.
    Spinning myself in a slow circle as I treaded water and drifted with the current, I looked for boathouses or docks with boats attached. Unfortunately, every dock in sight was empty. It occurred to me then that Freitag was a lot sneakier than I’d given her credit for. She wasn’t being picky about finding the most peaceful place to lay Harvey Marin to rest, she was looking for the most promising place to lay me to rest. She’d been looking for the most Whites—all those shadows I thought I’d seen moving under the trees on the banks—and the absence of nearby boats that I might escape with.
    Bitch!
    I continued kicking my legs to keep my head out of the water.
    Was Freitag punishing me for what I did to Harvey, or was it that she just hated Whites? But the question of whether her motive was hate or revenge was moot at the moment. All of that would come later. At the moment, it promised to be another long night.
    At least I was well rested.
    I needed to fin d a way to elude my pursuers and round up a boat to take me back up the river. Before the sun set again, I’d give Freitag a harsh lesson in what hate and revenge looked like all wrapped up in the black heart of somebody who knew more about rage and hate than she ever would.
    T he water didn’t seem cold anymore.
    An expanse of smooth , grass-covered acres flowed down from a plantation-style house on the south bank to the edge of the water. An eight-foot black metal fence bordered the estate and presented an opportunity for me to get my feet back on dry land without having to fight off a bunch of hungry brutes while I did so. Dog paddling silently in the direction of the empty dock, I’d soon be fading back into the anonymity of my Whiteness while I sought out a boat.
    When I got within a dozen feet of the dock, my feet got tangled in the ubiquitous duck grass growing up from the shallow parts of the river bottom. It wrapped around my feet like grasping hands, forcing me to yank, tear, and struggle to get within reach of a ladder attached to the dock. But once one hand grasped solidly onto a rung, I relaxed, floated, and breathed.
    The hardest part was done.
    Twenty or thirty infected were at the fence a few hundred feet up the bank, straining to push their arms and legs through the narrow gaps between the metal bars. But their heads and shoulders just wouldn’t follow. In their frustration, they hollered, yelped, and growled.
    I crawled up the ladder and stood on the dock’s wide boards , letting the river water drain out of my clothes. Across the wide lawn, in the bushes, and under the trees, I didn’t see anything moving except for swaying branches. The place looked safe, for the moment at least. No safety could be counted