An awful terror took Dahra then. The coyote wouldn’t just kill her; it would eat her. It would eat her alive, and she would watch it happen until blood loss deprived her of consciousness. She knew. She had heard the stories; she had seen the bloody, mangled survivors dragged into the so-called hospital to await salvation at Lana’s hands.
She began to pray. Oh, God, save me. Oh, God, hear me and save me.
Then, aloud, she said, “Kill me first. Kill me before you . . . before . . .”
Oh, God, don’t let him . . .
The coyote closed to within two feet. His nostrils were filling with the scent of her; his mouth was foaming in anticipation.
“No,” she whispered. “No, God, no.”
The coyote froze. Its ears swiveled to the right. It hunched low, and now Dahra could hear it, too, a slow crashing of underbrush and fallen leaves.
“Help! Help!” she cried, having no idea who or what might be in those woods, only knowing that whatever it was, the coyote didn’t like it.
The coyote made a low growl.
The crashing sound came closer, and with a furious, frustrated whine the coyote trotted away.
“Help me!” Dahra cried.
At first she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing in the shadows. It looked like a person, but built on too thick a scale, with outlines all blurred and indistinct. Then she recognized him and almost fainted with relief.
“Orc!”
Orc easily climbed the incline up to the road, then squatted beside her.
“Dahra? What are you doing here?”
“Praying for you to show up,” she gasped.
Orc couldn’t make much of a smile; it was only the human part of his mouth that could do that. “You prayed to God? Like in the Bible?”
Dahra was about to say she would happily have prayed to any and all gods and the devil, too, but she stopped herself and instead said, “Yes, Orc. Just like in the Bible.”
“And he sent me.” This seemed to give Orc great satisfaction. His huge chest swelled. “He sent me!”
“I crashed my bike. One leg is twisted. Can you help me get to the lake?”
“Shouldn’t you go see Lana?”
“Lake first, if you don’t mind. I have an important message to deliver. I have to talk to Astrid.”
Orc nodded. “Be sure and tell her God saved you. He brought me here, just to save you. Maybe then Astrid will . . . Anyway, I can carry you.”
He lifted her up like she was a doll. He had always terrified her. He was as strange as if he was from another planet.
But she felt safe in his arms.
He chuckled to himself, giddy, as he carried her.
THIRTEEN
40 HOURS, 3 MINUTES
FOR ASTRID IT was another night apart from Sam. How quickly his presence had become necessary to her. Sam in her bed: an addiction that had swiftly taken hold. Fifteen years of sleeping alone now seemed like it had involved some other person entirely. Hadn’t she always had him beside her? Hadn’t she always awakened to his touch?
Astrid was trying to think. And not about Sam. But she was in the cabin she shared with Sam, and everything about the place reminded her of him.
She was also not trying to think about the fact that Drake’s head was in a cooler twenty feet below her at the bottom of the lake.
Heavy tread on the dock, followed by someone large and very heavy stepping onto the boat. Astrid snatched up her shotgun and headed out. One of Edilio’s guards should have challenged the intruder. She heard the sound of someone peeing—that would be the guard.
With shotgun leveled Astrid went the length of the passageway, then carefully climbed the steps out onto the deck. She found her sights aiming at Dahra Baidoo, improbably in the arms of Orc.
“Don’t shoot,” Dahra said through gritted teeth.
“God sent me to save her!” Orc blurted.
“What happened to you?” Astrid asked, setting her gun aside and helping Orc lower Dahra onto the padded bench.
“I was coming to see you, riding my bike,” Dahra said. “Twisted ankle.”
“Your ankle is three times its normal size,” Astrid observed.
“Yes, Astrid, I noticed that,” Dahra said. Sarcasm was not usually in Dahra’s repertoire, but Astrid could hardly blame her.
“What can I do to help you?”
“Get me to Lana as soon as I tell you what I came here to tell you,” Dahra said.
“Maybe I can have you driven down,” Astrid said, wondering if this was enough of a justification for using some of their dwindling gas supply. If so, she’d have to make the trip useful in some other way as well. Maybe she could go to Perdido Beach . . . see if Sam was around . . .
“What is it you have to tell me?” Astrid asked.
“Food,” Dahra said. “First, something to eat.”
“Well, since you’re injured, I can give you a Cup-a-Noodles. I guess you can each have one.”
Heating the water for the noodles—there was a small hibachi on deck and a few dry twigs—took some time, and while the water was heating Dahra relented and told her tale.
“Sam’s mother, Connie Temple, I ran into her at the barrier. She wants to talk to you.”
“To me?” Astrid frowned. Was this about her relationship with Sam?
“She says things are getting very nasty outside. Out in the world. And she’s right, by the way. I saw a sign that said ‘Kill Them All, Let God Sort Them Out.’”
“That is not Christian,” Orc huffed.