Reapers (Breakers, Book 4) by Robertson Edward W

Author:Robertson, Edward W. [Robertson, Edward W.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2013-08-05T16:00:00+00:00

18

Flakes of snow lurched from the sky. Ellie stood her full weight on the pedals, but her back tire spun on the ice they'd compacted with their footsteps. The trailer refused to budge. Hobson got around back and pushed until she found purchase. Snow creaked beneath her wheels.

Snow crusted the brim of his bowler. "Shall we take the highway?"

"I'll never make the onramp," Ellie laughed. "We'll hook up with it at the edge of town."

They rode northwest, away from the makeshift prison, then hooked back around to cut through the suburban lanes leading south. Twice, Ellie got stuck mid-turn and had to get off and haul her bike out of its ruts. The snow piled five or six inches deep and grew thicker by the moment. When the path was straight and level Ellie was able to keep the bike moving, but she had to lean into the pedals and was soon panting, breath steaming from her mouth.

An hour later, at the south end of town, they curled up a gentle onramp. Ellie stalled on the steep curve. She swore and hopped off and kicked at the heavy trailer.

"Like me to spell you?" Hobson said.

She planted her hands on her hips and breathed in and out. "We need to get as far as we can. If the snow stops, they can track us all the way here."

"What happens if they catch us?" Dee said.

Hobson unhatted himself and flicked the brim to pop off the snow. "They profit from the trade of humans. Safest to assume maximum barbarism from them at all times."

"Pretty much," Ellie said. "Time's wasting."

Hobson took over, but he couldn't get the trailer moving, either. Ellie leaned against it, feet skidding in the snow. Her shoes were soaked through. They'd need a fire. It was going to be a long night.

The highway ran dead south, the Hudson river glinting across the white plains. Another mile and Hobson was puffing like an antique train. Dee offered to take over and managed a half mile, stalling repeatedly in the drifts. Ellie couldn't feel much in her toes. The snow continued to swirl. Three hours from leaving Albany, with her feet half numb and her legs burning from strain, she exited the highway—onto yet another street named Beaver Dam, making her feel as if they were still stuck in Albany in some horrendous post-apocalyptic Groundhog Day—and turned into the drive of a stately two-story home tucked into the woods. She barely had the energy to open the garage and help lug the trailer inside. Snow lined the creases of its tarp.

There were no logs beside the fireplace. The pile outside was buried under deep drifts. Hobson found a rust-pitted axe, turned the coffee table on its side, and smashed it apart right there in the room. Dee watched from the couch, glaze-eyed. Ellie got a couple books from the shelves in the master bedroom and crumpled up the pages in the fireplace, then arranged the table splinters in a pyre above the shredded paper.

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