Free Outbreak by Tarah Benner Page A

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    “Shouldn’t we go this way?” asks Harper, calling me back to reality.
    “Huh?” I stop, trying to get my bearings before she realizes that I was completely lost in thought.
    She points down a side street. “The restaurant . . . don’t you think we should start there?”
    “Oh.” My brain lurches as it tries to refocus on the mission. “Yeah. Owen could show up to deliver a message from Jackson.”
    I try to make it sound as though the idea just occurred to me so she doesn’t think I was about to lead us in the wrong direction. 
    What is the matter with me? I know where the restaurant is, but something about her skimpy purple tank top is completely screwing with my internal compass.
    “Sorry. I just got turned around for a second.”
    She gives me a funny look over the top of her mask but turns down the street.
    Harper is way more alert than I am. Her posture is casual, but her right hand keeps inching toward the handgun at her hip. We can’t shoot anyone without blowing our cover, but the instinct is automatic.
    We left most of our supplies back at the store. Our compound-issued rifles and rucksacks would have been a dead giveaway that we were with Recon, but traveling so light makes me feel naked. 
    If we were really committed, we would have ditched our masks, too, but blending in perfectly isn’t worth breathing in all those radioactive particles.
    Luckily, the place is swarming with out-of-towners like the men we saw near the outdoor supply store, so the masks shouldn’t attract attention. For all anybody knows, we could have traveled here from Salt Lake City or another red zone.
    To avoid having to speak to any drifters, we stick to side streets and make our way slowly toward the old abandoned restaurant the Desperados use as their base. Every so often, the voices of approaching drifters float toward us, and Harper turns down another street to avoid a face-to-face encounter. If anyone gets too close or asks the wrong questions, they’ll be able to tell we aren’t drifters.
    Seeing so many reinforcements puts me on edge. They must be part of Malcolm’s grand plan to bring down the compound, though I still have no idea what that could be.
    Even if he gathered all the drifters within a 100-mile radius and rushed the compound, they wouldn’t be able to make so much as a dent in the structure. The founders anticipated being attacked after Death Storm, so they built the compounds to be able to withstand anything from a hail storm to a storm of bullets.
    Any drifter siege would end in bloodshed. But then again, a bunch of hostile survivors at our doorstep would raise a lot of questions the board doesn’t want to answer.
    The closer we get to the restaurant, the more my discomfort grows. Near the outskirts of town, the buildings are spaced farther apart, which means there’s very little cover. 
    A few abandoned cars are still parked along the street, gathering dust and sand and getting buffeted by tumbleweed. Every building we pass looks more dilapidated than the one before. 
    When we reach the fast-food restaurant with the creepy dancing burger mascots, I know we’re getting close. Harper draws her gun and leads us toward the filling station just across from the restaurant, and I pick up the pace. 
    We duck down behind one of the defunct gas pumps, and Harper glances up at me. I know she’s waiting for me to take charge and formulate a plan — which is what I’m here for — but I still feel off-kilter and nervous for reasons that have nothing to do with the Desperados.
    Trying to regain my composure, I clear my throat and flip on my interface, zooming in to see the entrance to the restaurant more clearly. 
    The last time we were here, the drifters had a lookout posted up on the weathered wooden porch, but I don’t see anyone. An Indiana license plate has come loose from the mosaic of rusty plates and street signs decorating the front of the restaurant, and when the breeze kicks up, the faded