Bloodfire (Empire of Fangs) by Andrew Domonkos Page B

north of Silverthorne.”   The young man seemed tired and overworked.    
     
    “I understand,” Mark said calmly, “but I think my daughter might be in there, she ran off with her, uh, boyfriend and now they’re stuck.”
     
    The guardsman remained stone-faced.   “I can appreciate that, but our orders are to keep anyone from crossing into this area.   I can assure you that we are working to get everyone out, though.”
     
    “Okay, but—”
     
    “Sorry, but nobody is getting in there.    You’re not the only one with loved ones trapped, we let you in we have to let everybody in.   Best thing to do is turn around and wait at the YMCA in Colorado Springs, we’re gonna be bussing survivors there.”   The man cleared his throat, knowing ‘survivors’ was not the right term; he had meant to say civilians.         
     
    Mark began to speak but the man had started to walk away and wave with his flashlight in big circles, indicating Mark to turn the car around so he could deal with a line of cars behind him, also trying to get in.  
     
    Mark sighed and navigated the big car around, and started to drive back.   He didn’t know what else to do.   According to the map he had bought at the gas station on the way up, Lost Valley was about eight miles northwest, and on foot that was a lot of miles through dark woods as well as chasms and gorges.   Also, there was the problem of the fire.  
     
    He would head back and wait. Just like all the other helpless people .   He made it a mile when the engine began to knock and sputter.   “Oh please, not now,” he moaned as the knock became more consistent and loud.   Finally something gave way and the car conked out on the shoulder of the twisting road.   He beat his head against the steering wheel for a minute.   He couldn’t remember a worse day of his life than the one he was still suffering through now.   He didn’t think tomorrow would be much better.   His brother was setting him up, and for what else but money.   He got out and kicked the car a few times, denting it good.   “Dirty bastard, sells out his own brother!” he shouted, and a howling wind took his voice and carried it over the dark valley of rock and pine like a banshee.      
     
    His phone had no signal, and a little red battery was blinking on the screen.   Mark threw it hard into the ravine where it bounced and shattered on a rock and its pieces scattered into a babbling brook.   He was panting now, and his lungs suddenly burned.   The smoke from the fire was coming in strong over the southern hills.   What a perfect disaster, he thought.   He looked up at the grayish night sky and cursed it and everyone hiding behind it, those cosmic playwrights who had designed this misery.   He sat down and leaned against the car.       
     
    “That slimy bastard.”   He yelled.   “Bastard!”        
     
    He lumbered to his feet and brushed the dust off his pants.   Mark looked back down the way he had come.   He’d walk back, he thought, explain to the guard how he had put regular gas in a diesel car, not because he stole it from his psychotic brother who was plotting his murder, but because he was just a big dope who didn’t have a clue what he was doing, which was partially true.
     
    He started off, still cursing god and his cohorts, when he heard the rumble of a car behind him on the shoulder.   A National Guard vehicle, one of those big trucks with a rounded tent on the back used for transporting soldiers.   A kid with blonde hair poked his head out of the driver side window.   He had a nasty burn on his face , probably got it in Afghanistan , Mark thought.   “Need a ride mister?”   The young man said with a thick southern accent.  
     
    Maybe my luck is changing , Mark thought.  
     

22.
     

     
               
     
    “Where can we get dynamite?”   Zara said to the entranced old clerk.   Twig watched   with fascination.