Desert Lost (9781615952229) by Betty Webb Page B

Two, maybe three.
    â€œGot the bitch!”
    â€œDon’t let that other one get away!”
    â€œGod’s will be done!”
    Ignoring the rapidly-approaching shadows, I dove toward Rosella. Her wig had fallen off and lay sprawled near her outstretched hand. Not bothering to check out the extent of her injuries, I grabbed her by the collar and began dragging her toward the Santa Fe. She wasn’t a small woman, so the trip, peppered with the blasts of shotguns and rifles, seemed to take forever. When a streak of fire raced across my arm I knew I’d been hit, but there was no time to cry out in pain, no time to do anything other than switch hands and get her to the shelter of the bulky vehicle.
    Fortunately, I’d left the passenger door open, and strengthened by an adrenaline rush, tumbled Rosella inside. I pulled the door shut, then climbed over her into the driver’s compartment, where I saw she’d left the keys dangling in the ignition. Head low, I started up the Santa Fe and slammed it into reverse, desperate to put as much distance between us and the gunmen before I needed to stop and turn around. The continued twang of gunshot against metal alerted me that the car was being hit, but the average vehicle can endure a lot of firepower before a lucky hit ruptured the gas tank. Even then, a car might not blow.
    Then again, it just might.
    When I’d reversed far enough away, I shifted into drive and spun around. I hadn’t yet heard a car, but common sense told me that our attackers hadn’t hoofed it from Second Zion to the mine. With all need for secrecy gone, I flipped on the Santa Fe’s brights, spewed a hailstorm of gravel, and barreled back down the road the same way we’d come. With Rosella hurt, even the most reckless speed meant relative safety. I had to get her to a doctor. The hospital at St. George was her best bet, and it had the added benefit of lying in the opposite direction of Second Zion. And maybe, just maybe, on the way we might encounter a patrolling DPS officer who would see me driving like an idiot and pull us over.
    Prophet Shupe’s God Squad hated real cops, but they were too cowardly to pull their guns on one.
    Just as I began to think we might make it to the highway without further incident, a pair of headlights appeared in our rearview mirror. Then another pair. Two vehicles. The God Squad, gaining fast. I pressed harder on the accelerator only to be rewarded by a fishtail spin as the Santa Fe left the road. While we bumped over a scattering of rocks and brush, I forced myself to ease up enough to straighten the car out, then steered it, one-armed, back onto gravel.
    How far was that damned highway?
    Distance is easy to gauge in the city. At night, stoplights mark off intersections, and the reflected glow from store windows makes even the darkest asphalt glimmer. It’s different in the badlands, where the only light comes from the moon and stars. Every now and then a creosote bush, caught by our headlights, appeared to move toward us, but it was merely an optical illusion. What was moving toward us—and fast—were the headlights in our rear view mirror.
    â€œRosella? Speak to me.”
    Nothing. A quick glance to the side proved that she remained in the same position I’d dumped her in. Was she still alive? I bit back a sob. If necessary, there would be time for tears later, but for now I had to reach that hospital. Then…
    Well, then whatever would happen would happen.
    I drove on into the darkness, thinking about Rosella, about KariAnn, about all the terrified girls who’d fled Second Zion on foot hoping to elude their pursuers. Some had made it. Some hadn’t.
    â€œRosella?”
    Still nothing.
    Just as I was about to call to her again, the highway abruptly appeared at the top of a rise less than a hundred yards ahead, lit by a slow-moving sedan. I blasted onto the blacktop, horn wailing, and hooked a hard left