“Black Lake pays you in wheat?” Darla asked.

“Only idiots take cash. There’s nowhere to spend it.”

He had a radio on his belt and a couple of leather pouches. The first one I unsnapped had an extra magazine for the rifle, which I took. In the second, I found what I really wanted: three sets of plastic zip-tie cuffs. “I’d buy the wheat from you if you promised not to report us.”

“Alex,” Darla said, complaint clear in her voice.

“Buy it with what?”

“Kale seeds. You could say you broke the window leaning back in your chair too far or something.”

“I wouldn’t know kale seeds from bird droppings. How would I know you weren’t cheating me?”

“It’s not like you have a choice,” Darla snapped.

“Hands behind your back,” I ordered. He lowered his hands behind the chair back, and I slipped the plastic cuffs over his wrists, cinching them tight. Then I used the other two sets of cuffs to affix his legs to the chair.

“I broke the window by accident and cuffed myself to the chair by accident, too?” The guard snorted.

I checked his belt and found the knife I expected on the other side. I pulled it off his belt and tossed it into the corner. I threw his radio into the corner, too. “Cut yourself free after we’re gone.”

I reached into my jacket, carefully extracting one envelope of seeds from the cloth bag. I laid it on the table in front of the guard.

“Christ,” Darla said. “Those things don’t grow on trees.”

“Sure they do.” I grinned at her. “Haven’t you ever heard of a kale tree?”

She shook her head and glared at me, but I saw a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Then she tensed up. “Shit! Somebody’s coming.” She glanced around wildly. Then she dove through the open window into the shack with me. I heard the rumble of a diesel engine and a grinding noise as the driver shifted gears.

“It’s a dump truck,” Darla said, popping up once to glance out the window. “Tall one.”

The truck pulled up alongside the guard shack. The driver’s window was so high off the ground that there was no way he could see us. An arm reached down from the truck holding a clipboard and tapped it against the glass four times.

The guard we’d cuffed started to yell, “Hey—”

Darla wrapped her hand around his mouth. “Shut. Up.” she whispered.

I took a step toward the window. But Darla had just come in through there to avoid being seen. I froze, unsure what to do.

The radio in the corner crackled to life. “Hey, Benson, quit foolin’ around. We’ve got a schedule to keep. D.C. ain’t getting any closer while you jack off.”

I had to do something. Now. I ripped the watch cap off the guard’s head and jammed it on my own. I stepped up to the window, looking down so that only the top of my head would be visible to the driver—hopefully. I slid the window open and took the clipboard. I cleared my throat and grunted, “Sorry,” like I had a cold or something.

The clipboard held a manifest for a truckload of grain—600 bushels—to go to someplace called the Interim Quartermaster and Food Services Authority in Washington, D.C. There was a space for a signature marked GATE CHECKPOINT—ORIGINATING STATION, so I grabbed the pen dangling on a string by the window and scrawled an unreadable signature and date.

I passed the clipboard to the driver, praying I’d get away with it, praying he wouldn’t notice my shaking hands—or the sweat dripping from my wrist.

He took the clipboard, and there was a long pause. I balanced on the balls of my feet, ready to run.

“Benson, you dickwad! How long are you going to make me wait to countersign, anyway? It’s already gonna be after dark when I make Atterbury.”

I glanced around in a panic. Countersign . . . countersign what? A clipboard rested on a little table near the window. I grabbed it. A whole stack of papers was clamped in its jaw. I flipped through them—there were two types, one labeled PERSONNEL TRANSIT RECORD, the other labeled FREIGHT TRANSIT RECORD. I moved a blank copy of each to the top of the stack and passed the clipboard to the driver, keeping my head low and my face out of sight.

“You couldn’t even fill out the basic shit for me? Well, get the gate open while I do your damn job for you.”

I took a step toward the door. Then things started to happen way too fast. Darla screamed, an involuntary yell that she cut off in an eye blink. I looked—she had pulled her hand away from Benson’s mouth. Both her hand and his mouth dripped blood. He started shouting, “Security breach! Security breach!” over and over again at the top of his lungs.

I heard a clatter and turned my head back toward the truck. The driver had whacked his gun on the truck’s window frame in his haste to shoot me.

Darla screamed, “Down!” and her shotgun went crunch-crunch as she chambered a shell. Benson threw himself sideways, chair and all, hitting the floor with a crash. I dove the other way.

I heard a pop-pop-pop and then a deafening boom followed by the crash of breaking glass. Darla screamed, “Go!” The driver was holding his gun out the truck’s window. His arm was a dripping mess of raw meat and blood—Darla’s shotgun blast and the resulting flying glass had shredded it. The gun slipped from his fingers and fell between the truck and hut.

Darla hurled herself through the window on the other side of the shack. I scrambled to my feet, swept the bags of wheat and the kale packet off the table, and jammed it all into my coat. I stepped over Benson and launched myself through the window, following Darla.

We slithered through the hole I’d cut in the fence and sprinted along the snow berm toward Bikezilla. It was either eerily silent, or the shotgun blast had deafened me. Given how my ears were ringing, maybe some of both. I risked a look back. The dump truck was still parked beside the guard shack. I couldn’t see anything moving, but you could have hidden a platoon behind the hill of snow between us and them.

Just that quick look had given Darla time to get about twenty feet ahead of me. By the time I caught up to her, she was struggling over the snow berm to where we’d hidden Bikezilla. “You get the wheat?” she huffed.

“Yeah. And the kale seeds. How’s your hand?” I gasped.

“Hurts. I’ll live.”

We pushed the bike upright, stowed the pistol, shotgun, and assault rifle, and took off. We both stood on the pedals, straining to get the beast moving. In a few seconds we were flying away from the snow berm on virgin snow.

I wasn’t sure why we were going deeper into the area Black Lake was guarding instead of trying to get out. Maybe Darla figured they wouldn’t expect us to double back. I didn’t know exactly how we’d get past the fence or down the embankment on Bikezilla, either. But I didn’t have the lung capacity to ask while we were pedaling like maniacs. I hoped she knew what she was doing.

We bounced up the railroad embankment and braked hard, skidding down the back side. We came to a complete stop by crashing into the chain-link fence. “Hurry! Cut the fence!” Darla ordered.

I grabbed the bolt cutters and started chopping chain-link as fast as I could. We needed a huge hole to accommodate Bikezilla. Luckily we were far enough south of the guard shack that we couldn’t see it and, presumably, couldn’t be seen. I finished up the hole, stomping flat the huge piece of chain-link I’d cut out. Darla nearly ran me down in her haste to push Bikezilla through. She didn’t stop, either—I had to stow the bolt cutter and remount the bike while it accelerated away from the fence.

As we approached the steep slope down to the river, Darla didn’t slow down. If anything she was speeding up. I yelled and tried to back off my pedaling, but the pedals on Bikezilla were ganged together—I had no choice but to keep up with Darla’s frenetic pace. And all the brake controls were at the front of the bike.