Sleep only comes to them for several hours.
Peter is jolted awake by Denmark's hand clamping over his mouth. His first reaction is to struggle, but the atmosphere in the hot, cramped trunk stops him and he holds himself motionless, pressed against Denmark's chest still, and just listens to the tense silence. He can't hear anything. He turns his eyes down to look through the dim light at Denmark, questioning, and his eyes widen when Denmark holds a finger up to the front of his mouth and shakes his head, signaling him to keep quiet. Only after Sealand nods does he let go of him in favor of making a slow reach for the rifle beside him, pulling it up enough that the barrel faces the trunk lid and the stock stays pressed against the floor.
Peter swallows. He still can't hear anything.
He tugs on Denmark's sleeve and motions upward with his head, still confused. "What is it?" He mouths, silent.
Denmark only keeps his eyes locked with the trunk lid and holds a hand up to stop Peter from moving around, which he does, laying back down, tucked under one of Denmark's arms and lacing his fingers together over his mouth, just in case. One minute passes and then another. From somewhere outside the car, Peter can just make out the sound of something clicking up and down, a noise that reminds him vaguely of falling stones.
Beneath him, Denmark goes stiff and begins to curl his finger around the trigger guard.
Nothing ever comes.
They wait out another fifteen minutes or so before Denmark lowers the rifle and starts to sit up. He passes the gun to Peter and pats his shoulder as he makes a grab for the trunk release.
"Stay in here until I say it's okay, all right?" He whispers. "Be ready to run and keep your head down."
He manages a jerky nod and flattens himself against the floor while Denmark pushes the trunk lid open in a deliberate, slow movement, cautiously peaking out through the sliver of sudden light before he opens it all the way and drops to the pavement. Peter listens to him walk a complete circle around the car and nearly gets lost in how fast his own breath is coming, the rifle clutched tight in his fists, tense and ready to bolt at the first loud noise or misplaced footstep. He swallows and resists the urge to lift his head. His back is damp with sweat from spending the night in the cramped trunk and his hands are trembling from the fear of the unknown, but he can't help the curiosity that grows in him when Denmark's heavy bootfalls stop and he chances a look outside.
Again, nothing.
Denmark is standing in front of the trunk, his face tight with an expression that Peter can't quite place.
"Come on," he says, snapping his mask back into place. "We gotta go. Right now."
He holds the rifle out for Denmark to take and starts to climb out. "What's wrong?" He steps down next to Denmark and takes his hand. "What's...?"
He trails off and looks down at the road beneath his feet. Tracked through the thick layer of dust over the pavement are dozens of footprints that he knows cannot possibly belong to either of them. He can see the faded tarmac in the bottom of each shape; they're fresh. They trail a ring around the melted BMW and congregate in a line just in front of where they currently stand, five complete sets that he can see. One set breaks away from the line and goes straight to the back of the car and Peter's hand clamps around Denmark's when his wide eyes follow it to the bumper.
There is a large, thick "X" drawn against the hood in the ash.
"They knew we were there," he whispers quickly. He grips Denmark's arm. "They knew the whole time!"
Denmark nods stiffly. "We need to go." He turns around and pulls Sealand along beside him, his head turned to the side of the highway, searching. "Let's put some distance between us and the car and then we'll check the map and figure out what we're doing."
