Free Exiled Omnibus by James Hunt Page B

ignition. When she turned the key, all she heard was a click. It was dead.
     
    Brooke rested her forehead against the steering wheel. She hung from the wheel, afraid that letting go would eradicate any chance of surviving. Then, like a spasm, her fist pounded the dash violently. The sting of the blow lingered. She smashed her shoulder into the door and stomped to the cruiser's hatch.
     
    Bullet holes had pierced the gas cans and remaining water tanks. Both leaked onto the cruiser’s floorboard. Brooke lifted one of the backpacks and found that it dripped water and stank of fuel. Everything was soaked.
    Brooke slammed the hatch
    closed. The cruiser rocked from the force of the swing. Her face was beet red. She kicked the dirt, and an explosion of sand flew into the air. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not when we’re so close.
     
    Brent walked sheepishly up behind her. He took in the damage to the cruiser then looked at Brooke.
     
    “Why don't you come inside?” Brent asked.
     
    Brooke turned around. Her laughter was desperate. She raised her hands in the air, surrendering to the situation.
     
    “And do what? Stay here for a couple days until more people come and overwhelm us? Or maybe until we run out of water? Or food?” Brooke asked.
     
    “It could do you some good to rest,” Brent answered.
     
    “You don't fucking get it, do you? This place is dead. We have to leave, and we can't walk out of here with enough supplies to survive.”
     
    “We have food and water.”
     
    “For how long? Hmm? How fucking long?!”
     
    The veins in Brooke's head and neck pulsed. Her face was purple from screaming. She wiped snot and saliva from her mouth, which were replaced by the gritty taste of sand. She was so fucking sick of that taste.
     
    “Look,” Brent said. “You have two options right now. The first is to trek into the city to look for transportation and supplies, which we can tell you is a nightmare. Or you can stay here, recoup, and try and figure out a plan to get your family safely to wherever it is you need to go.”
     
    Brooke softened. She knew he was just trying to help. The wave of adrenaline that had propelled her for the past hour began to recede. Rest didn’t sound like a bad idea.
     
    Brent escorted Brooke back inside. The room was small. A single window on the far wall provided the only view outside. A tattered mattress rested in the corner. It had no sheets, no pillows, and was slightly warped on the end. Brooke collapsed on the mattress, and Emily walked in and curled up next to her. John entered and sat next to the entrance. When Brooke closed her eyes, they seemed to lock shut.

 
    ***
    It was the faint hint of smoke that woke her. She opened her eyes and blinked several times, adjusting to the darkness. Emily was still curled up next to her stomach, and John was passed out by the door. There wasn't enough space for all of them on the twin mattress. Brooke gently brushed John's hair off his forehead and whispered in his ear.
     
    “Hey, why don't you get some rest on the mattress. Get off the hard floor,” Brooke said.
     
    John obeyed absentmindedly. He stumbled over to the mattress where his sister lay and collapsed, barely opening his eyes in the process. Brooke kissed the tops of their heads and exited the room.
     
    Brooke followed the scent of smoke and the sound of whispering voices. There was a faint glow in the front of the building. It moved like a wave across the beaten walls and worn floors. She kept her steps light. She wanted to hear who was talking and what they were talking about.
     
    “I don't know if her being here is such a good idea, Brent. We don't know anything about her.”
     
    “And she doesn't know anything about us. Not everyone's out to hurt us, Tim.”
     
    “But what if she's part of a scout party? What if she's working with the Mexicans?”
     
    “Then why did all of her gear get destroyed? They wouldn't waste all those supplies for a