Free Get Out of Denver (Denver Burning Book 1) by Algor X. Dennison Page B

make it.”
    “Is he dead?”
    “Very. Let’s keep moving, or we will be too.”
    As they jogged through the abandoned office district just off the freeway, McLean checked the two women over for visible injuries. Neither was bleeding, although Shauna ran with a slight limp, probably the same ankle problem that had pained her the night before. Carrie was running as smoothly as an athlete, backpack swinging lightly behind her.
    “How’s that trip to my ranch sounding right now?” McLean asked.
    “It’s sounding better than anything I’ve ever heard in my life,” Carrie replied, eyes still wide with adrenaline. “Let’s get out of this city. It’s a killing ground. I never want to come back here.”
    They walked on as the sun rose behind them, crossing the freeway which was choked with dead cars, and moving on through a series of parking lots. To the north there was a Target store with its front doors lying broken on the ground in front. A few people were coming and going with boxes in their arms. McLean assumed they had missed the initial rush of looters, and these were the gleaners coming after to pick up whatever was left. He steered his dwindling group clear of the Target and all other commercial buildings that might attract looters, beggars, and shooters.
    No one could stomach the idea of breakfast so soon after their brush with violent death at David’s house, but they sipped water and stopped occasionally for McLean to check his map. Daylight was bringing more people out onto the streets. Some were tentatively examining the state of the world outside their homes and talking to their neighbors. Some, much more bedraggled, were traveling back toward their homes after having spent the night in desperate circumstances.
    One man, a large bearded fellow in a trucker hat, carried a .45 pistol in his hands. Shauna shrank back from him, but he passed the group on the far side of the road without showing any interest in them. He was obviously not one of the terroristic gunmen that had attacked them and seemed to be marauding openly throughout the city. Just another citizen with a weapon who might live another day by his own strength, or might invite a violent confrontation by showing his willingness to use force. He’d made it so far, so McLean liked his chances. But it made him wonder if toting a shotgun in plain view was putting a big red X on his own back. The way things had been going, though, he’d rather have it than not.
    They reached the golf course and trekked across its manicured lawns undisturbed. Birds were out and singing despite the haze of smoke from the fires, which was encouraging. But reminders of the crisis that was gripping the city weren’t hard to find. Three dogs ran past, chasing each other with no owner in sight, and several golf carts sat abandoned on the fairway. McLean tried to turn one on, but it was as dead as all the other vehicles they’d seen.
    He stopped at the water hazard to refill his bottle, which had a built-in filter. The women splashed water on their faces and rubbed it on their arms and necks to wake them up and get rid of some of the sweat and grime that had built up during their journey so far.
    Another half hour through some less tightly-packed neighborhoods on the other side of the golf course brought them to Marston Lake. There they joined a ragged stream of refugees walking around the lake on a paved nature trail. Most were silent, staring at the ground or straight ahead, still in shock at what they’d been through. A few eyed McLean’s gun fearfully, but he kept it pointed down at the ground and nodded respectfully at those they passed.
    On the other side of the lake they followed a quiet road that bordered a comfortably spread-out residential area and some open fields. Up ahead they could see the mountains rising attainably close, and quickened their pace. The road started to parallel another freeway that curved down from the north. On the chance that the main