We scramble off the road. We’ve only got seconds before we show up in the glare of the headlight–if we haven’t already. We throw ourselves into the rubble of a fallen home just off the road. Our landing kicks up dust; I pray it won’t be seen. I’m half on top of Echo, hidden behind the rubble. The world is filled with two things: her wide blue eyes and the growing buzz of the approaching vehicle. Are we hidden? A low, broken wall conceals us, yet something might stick out. There’s no time to evaluate, no time to change positions.
The whine of the engine grows intolerably loud. The bike is going slower than necessary, maybe because it’s dark and the roads aren’t what they used to be, or maybe because the rider is keeping an eye out for us. The headlight washes over the rubble, throwing long shadows into the ruins. The rider pulls abreast of us…
Is he stopping? Oh Crom. We’re bones. We’re ashes.
But no. He’s passing–thank God.
An idea comes to me: I could stand and put a bolt through the back of the driver. But I might miss, and then we’d have the other bike to contend with. Better to stay hidden. Or is that just an excuse? Because I’m scared shitless and don’t want to move.
We lie still and listen for the second bike, but nothing comes. The first fades into silence. It’s as I thought: they’re on both sides of Big Road. Suddenly I’m very aware of Echo’s slim body pressed into the ground beneath me; the rise and fall of her chest, the delicate length of her collar bone, the hollow at the base of her neck. It’s unfamiliar, this closeness with another person. Her body is so malleable, so right.
“Tristan …” she says.
“The other bike …” I mutter.
Her lips are marvelous. I’m smothered in sudden desire. I capture every detail of her darkened face, the smoothness of her skin, the way her hair falls. Things like this don’t happen to me. I want to keep the memory as a kind of secret. I’ll lock it away where I bury my feelings, take it out in quiet moments.
“I think it’s safe,” she says.
Then I remember Ballard on top of her–Ballard, one of Rodrick’s Raiders–and she’s just a half-starved wretch lying in the dirt of a ruined neighborhood. Angrily I push myself up. What was I thinking? The bikes are nowhere in sight.
“We should go,” I say.
We continue to New Sea. The moon is out, reflecting beautifully off the slowly shifting current, off the bits of ruins still jutting from the ocean. Echo is silent as I desalinate our water. We drink greedily, gratefully.
“What if the other bike’s still ahead?” I ask.
“Pretty sure I heard it in the distance,” she says. “Makes sense, anyway. The army will want them back soon. They’ve got bigger worries than us.”
“You don’t think they’ll keep looking for us?”
“We can’t count it out,” she says, shrugging.
When we’re done drinking and refilling, we find a quiet spot to camp. We don’t risk a fire, though the night has grown cold and the heat would’ve been appreciated. It’s remarkably hard to get a good night’s sleep in the cold, even when you’re exhausted. Jackets only help so much. We lie back to back. Minutes or hours later I wake to find Echo’s arm around me.
The weight of her arm brings an alien sensation. I can’t get used to it. Eventually I have to change positions, but that presents its own problems. When I turn toward Echo my arm ends up around her too, and then her eyes are open and gazing into mine. I should say something, but I just lay there. She closes her eyes again and leans her head forward into the space beneath my chin. Stray wisps of hair tickle my face. It itches but I refuse to move. Sleep just got the middle finger. Eventually it comes regardless.
When I wake, she’s drooling. I get up and find a place to use the bathroom. Returning, I’m in a strangely good mood, though I can’t see why. My home is gone, I’m starving, there are people who want to kill us, and we’re likely heading to our deaths–yet for a little while none of it matters. I’m like a kid again, absorbed in the moment.