The Survivors: Book One

When they saw where the Witch and her man stopped for the night, the brothers had backed off to plot, and tend their injuries.

"You have gas left?" Dean asked, staying low as Dillan watched their prey through the binoculars. They had followed separate trails for the first two days, being careful not to lose her, until tonight, when they'd come together for the attack.

"Two gallons, you?"

Dean smothered a cry, fingers digging deep into his thigh for the bullet. "Four. Wait until they're asleep and send them both to hell?"

Dillan's face was a mask of hatred as he rewrapped his mauled wrist. "Just don't shoot unless you have to. I wanna hear her scream while she burns."

4

Marc frowned as he came out of the garage, seeing she hadn't moved from the Blazer that was even the exact same shade of mud-splattered black as his own. Able to feel the hum of raw energy, he stopped himself from reaching for the handle, knowing instinctively she was looking for the brothers.

When she opened the door with dazed, far-away eyes, he stepped closer, thinking she didn't look 30 years old. He, on the other hand, knew he was five years older than that by the age lines and grey hair starting to show up in his mirror. His birthday had been just eight days before the War, and he suddenly wished he had celebrated it this time. "Everything okay?"

Angela shrugged, slowly coming out of the looking zone. "For now, I think, but they'll come for us…for me."

Her voice doesn't sound right, Marc thought.

Angela didn't tell him she had seen only darkness. She slowly eased out of the Blazer, trying not to wince at the pain in her back and gut.

As she moved, Marc saw she had a Therma-Care patch stuck to her seat and smiled. What a great idea. His eyes went over the .357 on her hip. Her random firing at the twins told him she didn't know what she was doing with the six-shooter. It was probably too big for her hands, chosen because it was pretty. Marc sighed inwardly. She'd be better off with his old piece of shit (12)...though really, the M9 in the bottom of his kit didn't fit that old USMC nickname. He'd had more respect than that.

"We'll make some real distance in the next few days, and lose them for good."

Angela nodded, as the fog cleared from her eyes, hoping he was right. The two men were dangerous, and she should have let Brady take care of them…Brady. They were together again.