Free The Sentinel by Jeremy Bishop Page B

says, a smidge of outrage filling her voice.
    But this isn’t up for debate. “And McAfee killed people .” I point my finger toward the rising smoke. “We’re going to find out who’s there. If it’s survivors from the Bliksem , we’re going to help them.”
    “And if it’s McAfee?” Jenny asks.
    I strike out toward the smoke and say, “I’ve still got twelve bullets.”
     

 
     
     
    12
     
    Fatigue begins clawing up my legs after an hour of hiking. While the flat stone ground is great for speed and safety, it’s killer on the knees. Every footstep feels like I’ve just kicked a wall. I weigh a buck twenty-five, but Jenny might be double that. The pain on her knees must be unbearable. Peach can’t be much over one hundred pounds, but a quick glance back reveals she’s just as unenthused as me.
    Of course, that might be because she expects a polar bear to rush up and snatch her away.
    “Are we there yet?” Jenny asks.
    I cringe inwardly. I loathe when people start asking that question like it’s funny. I remember an episode of The Smurfs where one of them, probably Brainy, annoyingly asked the question over and over. It was supposed to make kids laugh, but it just made me wish Gargamel would catch and kill the little bastards. But when I look back at Jenny’s face and see her discomfort, I realize she’s actually asking the question with no humorous intent.
    She’s right to ask, too. I thought we’d reach the source of the smoke long ago, but we haven’t come across anything that looks like a campsite, occupied or abandoned. I pause and search the sky. The pillar of rising smoke is gone. I turn a full three sixty. Nothing. The smoke is gone.
    I’m too tired to care and say, “Smoke or no smoke, this is the way we have to go. If we find the source, great. If we don’t, we’ll just keep moving.”
    Jenny sighs, but doesn’t complain. As bad as the pain is, none of us wants to die out here.
    “But why is it gone?” Peach asks.
    “Whoever it was probably moved on,” I say.
    “Or died,” Jenny says.
    I give her a look that says: That’s not helpful .
    “What?” she says defiantly, “It’s true.”
    A third option tickles the back of my mind, but I’m feeling so lethargic I don’t bother to put much thought into it. I remember days in school like this—staying up late to watch TV or go to a party and then yawning my way through a test that I could have aced otherwise. I shake my head and give my face a few brisk smacks. Getting a B in school didn’t result in someone dying. Out here, we can’t make mistakes.
    So what was I missing? I treat it like a multiple choice.
    Complete this sentence: The people who created the source of the smoke…
    1. ؜ …are dead.
    2. ؜ …have moved on.
    3. ؜ …are…what? Dead or gone, what else is there?
    Jenny’s looking at me like I’m mad. I’ve been silently mouthing my thoughts and smacking myself in the face. I choose to ignore her rather than explain. With my back to the girls, I look to the south.
    A small rock skitters across my path. Had the day been windy, I might have overlooked the subtle movement, but I haven’t felt more than a tickle of wind for the past hour. Something knocked that rock loose. It was either the bear, or answer number three:
    3. ؜ …heard the gunfire, put out the fire, and set an ambush.
    Shit.
    I fling open my cloak, draw the handgun and point it at the stand of boulders from which the pebble emerged.
    Jenny stumbles back, caught off guard by my sudden action. “What are you—”
    “Come out from behind the rocks,” I command in my best Colonel impersonation. “I’ve got a gun,” I add, letting them know that I’m the one who fired it earlier. They might think I’m bluffing—I could have heard the gunshot just like they did—but all they have to do is take a peek to know I’m telling the truth. “If you don’t come out right this second I might shoot you just because you pissed me off.”
    A tall