Cured by Bethany Wiggins Page B

lower his rifle. “Fo, get the atlas and make sure it’s marked.”
    Fo hurries to the display of faded atlases beside the door and takes one, flipping through the pages. “It is marked.”
    â€œGood. Let’s go.” Bowen waits while I dash out of the diner, followed by Fo and Jonah, before slowly backing out.
    â€œYou all be careful out there,” Randall Flint warns. The hair on the back of my neck bristles. “Remember what I said. Trust no one. Follow the marked path. And stay away from the mountains so the wolves don’t gobble you up!”
    The very moment my feet touch the road, I sprint in the direction of the interstate. The others follow and I am surprised that Jonah, his left foot clumsy beneath his large frame, can keep up with Fo and Bowen. I pull ahead of them all, my feet pounding, doing what I do best, doing what I’ve been training to do for more than three years—running.
    Something hisses. My feet skid on pavement and I crane my head up, looking for the source of the sound. A white ball of fire is arcing across the sky, leaving a trail of pale smoke against blue. Two more fireballs follow, and then the evening is quiet again. For a moment.
    A pink ball of fire bursts into the sky, crossing three fading trails of smoke. Bowen curses and puts his rifle on his shoulder. “He’s shot off flares! They know we’re coming, and they know we’ve got a woman with us! Get off the interstate!”
    I turn left, west. Dread makes me faster than I have ever been before as I sprint the width of the interstate and hurdle the cement barrier. My feet come down on crisp weeds. Bowen lands beside me, then Fo and Jonah.
    â€œWhich way?” I ask.
    Bowen presses a finger over his lips for silence, then points north and west.
    I nod. “Follow me,” I whisper, and run to the nearest paved road, leading us nowhere in particular. We run and we run with me in the lead, our feet slapping pavement. The farther we go, the quieter the sounds of the others become until I realize … I can’t hear them anymore. I have outrun them.
    I screech to a halt in the parking lot of an abandoned stripmall and wait for them to catch up. Drenched with sweat and panting so hard I can barely hear anything over my own noise, I stare in the direction from which I’ve just come. Evening shadows stretch over empty pavement, but nothing moves. I am about to retrace my steps when a lone figure finally appears. Thinking it must be Bowen or Jonah, I almost wave. But then I take a closer look. He has wide shoulders, a scraggly beard, and his clothes hang funny on him. And he is running toward me.
    I drop to my hands and knees. The mall’s shadow is stretched long across the parking lot, nearly hiding a lonely, dusk-colored car that sits on four flat tires. I crawl to the rusted car and press myself against one of the tires.
    Slowly, carefully, I peer under the car and scan the street for feet. I frown. No one is there. A whisper carries on the silent air, and something rattles. Goose bumps dance down my arms and I rub my hands over my thin, wiry biceps. And then someone crouches beside me.
    I open my mouth to scream, but a wool-gloved hand clamps down over it. Fuzzy fabric sticks to my tongue, and I am staring at a scraggly face I know but don’t necessarily trust. I pull his hand off of my face and glare. “What are you doing here? Are you following me?”
    â€œLook,” the vagabond whispers. He nods toward the road, in the opposite direction I came from. I barely lift my head above the hood of the car and look.
    Three men are walking slowly toward the strip mall, and one of them is leaning forward and studying the ground. When they get to the parking lot’s entrance, the man staring at the groundpauses and crouches. He runs his fingers over the pavement, his eyes narrow, and a smile splits his face.
    â€œThey’re tracking you,” the vagabond