Ghost Hold: The PSS Chronicles Book 2

Chapter 1, Almost to Civilization

I had never been so happy to see a barn in my life. Yes, it looked like it was about to fall over, which had me questioning the wisdom of storing all our worldly belongings in it, but the squat red building had a roof and four walls, luxuries I hadn't seen in over two weeks.

As our ATVs pulled up, their trailers rattling behind them, I moved my hand from Marcus's waist and yanked my bandana over my mouth to keep from inhaling the cloud of dust that billowed around us. I still hadn't gotten used to the constant grime of camp life, the way my clothes held a layer of dirt, like Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon, or the grit I could always feel between my teeth no matter how many times I brushed them. They didn't show you that in the movies; that the life of a fugitive was filthy and sweaty, especially in the middle of an unseasonably hot Indiana October.

Marcus cut the engine of our wheeler and, one by one, Yale, Jason, Nose and Passion cut theirs too. We'd replaced Jason's stolen ATV fifty miles outside of Greenfield and gotten one for Passion while we were at it. I don't think I'd truly grasped the reality of Marcus's million-dollar trust fund until I'd seen him pay cash for those ATVs. But I hadn't missed the pained, quickly-masked look on his face as he handed it over. It was blood money, paid to him in a settlement for the untimely and accidental death of his parents, but it was money we desperately needed.

Marcus had offered to get me my own ATV as well, but I preferred to ride with him. I was a crap driver; that was the reason I'd given. But really there was just something about wrapping my legs around a thrumming motor while slipping my arms around Marcus's waist that made the hundreds of miles of dust and dirt-eating worth it. Even so, I was really glad to be back to civilization.

Marcus pulled off his helmet, and I lifted mine off too. He looked over his shoulder at me, and we smiled at one another, not needing to say anything. We were here. We'd made it to Indy without any apparent pursuit by Mike Palmer or the CAMFers.

Well, we'd almost made it. We still had about thirty miles to go, but this was where we'd trade in our wheelers for a comfy rental van. We'd lock away all our camping gear and dirt-stained clothes in the barn and disguise ourselves as wealthy suburban teenagers. This was where the mission to save Samantha James really began.

I slid off the vinyl seat, set my grimy helmet on it, and stretched my legs. My ass hurt, as usual, but I'd learned not to complain about it. It seemed there was nothing in the world teenage boys liked more than making sore ass jokes.

Marcus, still straddling the wheeler, dug in his pocket for the key that would unlock the padlock on the barn door. That was something else he'd picked up in the town where we'd bought the ATVs. The key, the use of the barn, the promise of a van waiting for us with certain forged documents and supplies inside of it—he'd arranged it all in the space of a couple hours.

But he hadn't found the key yet, and I could feel the mid-day sun beating down on me, so I strode forward and sank my ghost hand into the lock. It made a satisfying click as it popped open.

"Thanks," Marcus said, coming alongside me. "You're sure handy."

"Ha ha, very original," I said, poking him in the ribs with my elbow.

As Marcus and I pulled the heavy barn doors open, the others joined us, and we all entered the vaulted, slat-lit interior of the barn. It smelled musty inside, with a slight sweet undertone of rotting hay.

"You're sure our stuff will be safe here?" Jason asked.

"Pretty sure," Marcus said, "But if it isn't, we'll buy more. Anything personal you should bring in the van though, in case we don't make it back."