The three trucks barreled south with engines growling like they had unfinished business.
The bridge was nothing but ash behind them, a black smear over the river, smoke trailing into a sky the color of a bruise.
Lachlan rode in the back of the second truck with his boots braced on the frame, a rifle balanced across his knees.
Wind cut past hard enough to sting his eyes, carrying heat from burned barricades and the faint, sweet stench of cooked meat from whatever was left behind. But it didn't bother him at all.
The road ahead wasn't really a road anymore—just two ruts through dirt and weeds where someone bigger had come through before them.
It wound along the river, always keeping the water in sight, sometimes close enough to throw a rock into, sometimes barely a silver line through the trees.
The river itself never shut up. It roared and foamed and ripped entire trees loose like it didn't care the world was ending. Maybe it didn't.
