The Survivors: Book One

"Put our things in that closet and leave room for yourself behind them."

Kenn turned back to the window, hoping all those vehicles weren't coming here, to this town, to this house. Gunshots rang out, and he stayed low as the group came over the hill and into sight.

A muddy jeep with three clearly armed, dark-skinned men rolled into view first, leading two rusty pickup trucks flying a foreign flag. The men in the back held rifles and bottles. Behind them was a blue station wagon with dark-skinned women and children. Next, a U-Haul truck, a used Mustang, two long, filthy white passenger vans, a very nice, gold flecked convertible, and then bikes - more of those than anything else.

There were roughly a hundred armed men, and Kenn watched them ride closer, heart pumping and adrenaline flying. His well-trained eye picked out details most people would miss. Dark - not black, but Mexican or Cuban, jeeps of armed men, only that one wagon of women…and what was it about those white vans that bothered him so much?

Had he seen a flash of blond and silver? Hair and handcuffs? Kenn felt his gut tighten. Slavers. That's why his stomach was a ball of liquid heat. They had been in the path of these invaders. If the truck hadn't run out of gas, they would probably be in plain sight now. On this desolate stretch, and against so many, with no wheels of their own, there wasn't even a chance. Death had missed them by a quarter tank.

The large group drove erratically, forcing each other to swerve and fishtail, bumping into one another, and easily avoiding the swampy area to the left of the interstate. That made Kenn worry they might be familiar with the area. He could only hope none of them would notice the new vehicle in the woods, or any of the deep footprints in the hillside.

Suddenly sure these men were responsible for the destruction in this area, Kenn kept his hand close to his M16, thinking he would save the last slugs for… "Why don't we tell them we're here? Maybe they'd offer a ride."

The teenager's tone was rebellious, and Kenn frowned, watching the drunken, careless men fire at trees, signs, cars, windows, and anything else that caught their eye - including the sparse houses. Bullets began slamming into the walls, shattering glass.

Kenn dropped to the dusty floor. "That's the enemy, boy. Get down!"

Not as experienced as the Marine, now that it had been pointed out, Charlie could feel them for what they were - evil. His affection for Kenn grew despite the anger inside. He needed the short-tempered Marine...he didn't have to like him.