Chapter 2 - The Long Nine Miles
Every step felt like pulling his boots out of wet concrete.
The wind on the mountain pass had ceased to be just weather; it was a physical wall, an invisible monster shoving fifteen-year-old Tyler Wade backward with every breath he took. On his back, five-year-old Seth had stopped crying. That was what terrified Tyler the most. The little boy’s chin rested heavily against Tyler’s shoulder, his breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs that barely warmed the skin of Tyler’s neck.
Behind him, the rubber floor mat slid over the deep drifts, carrying Luke. Tyler had wrapped his bleeding, gloveless right hand around the makeshift seatbelt leash so tightly that his fingers had turned a sickening, waxen white.
"Keep moving," Tyler whispered to himself. His teeth clattered together so hard a sharp pain shot up into his jaw. "Just one more step. Don't look up. Look at the snow."
He didn't know where he was going. He just knew that staying on Route 14 was his only chance. If he wandered off the highway, the Bighorn Mountains would swallow the three of them, and the spring thaw would be the only thing that found their bones.
"Tyler?" a tiny, trembling voice came from behind him. Luke was shivering so hard the rubber mat was vibrating against the crust of the snow. "My toes feel like they're gone. Is Daddy coming?"
"Your dad is on his way, Luke," Tyler lied, his voice cracking. He didn't even know who their father was, but he remembered the motorcycle patches on their small jackets. Iron Saints. He had heard of them. Everyone in Wyoming knew the Iron Saints. They were a massive, legendary motorcycle club that ruled the northern highways. People called them outlaws, but right now, Tyler prayed they were real. "He's looking for us. You just have to stay awake. Speak to me, Luke. Tell me what color your dad's bike is."
"Black," Luke whispered, his voice fading under the roar of the wind. "Big and black. It makes the ground shake."
"Good. That's good," Tyler wheezed. His left boot, held together by frayed duct tape, split completely open. The freezing slush rushed inside, instantly numbing his foot. He stumbled, his knee striking a hidden rock beneath the snow.
He fell hard.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Seth groaned on his back, the seatbelt strap cutting deep into Tyler's chest. For a terrifying second, the darkness at the edge of Tyler's vision threatened to pull him under. The snow began to pile against his legs, warm and inviting. Just close your eyes for a minute, a soft voice in his head whispered. Dale won't find you here. The belt can't reach you here.
"No!" Tyler screamed, forcing his raw hands into the snow, pushing his broken body upward.
He looked at his wrist. The rubber mat was spinning slightly in the wind. Luke’s eyes were closed.
"Luke! Open your eyes!" Tyler crawled backward, shaking the little boy's shoulder until Luke blinked sleepily. "You can't sleep, buddy. If you sleep, I'll get lost. I need you to watch the road for me."
With an agonizing effort, Tyler dragged himself back to his feet. Mile three became mile four. Mile four became a blur of agony. His corduroy jacket, wrapped around the twins, left Tyler in nothing but a thin, torn flannel shirt. His skin was turning a deep, dangerous shade of purple and blue, but beneath the frostbite, the older, darker bruises from Dale Mercer's fists still throbbed with a dull, sickening heat.
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Nine miles. It wasn't a distance anymore. It was an eternity.
By the time the faint, flickering neon sign of the Saints' Rest clubhouse appeared through the blinding white sheet of the storm, Tyler was no longer walking. He was crawling on his knees, dragging the rubber mat behind him, his conscious mind entirely gone, operating on nothing but the raw, primitive instinct of a boy who refused to let two children die.
