Marked (Sins of Our Ancestors Book 1)

by Bridget E. Baker

  “Uncle Dan’s asking your dad to petition WPN as leader of the Unmarked?”

  Sam nods.

  We’re finally about to leave to look for the cure, and my aunt gets Marked. We should have better communication channels set up with the Marked. Dropping messages with the hormonal suppressants is completely insufficient. Everyone’s too afraid to risk anything. What if they’re trying to get our attention, or tell us something that we need to know?

  I ask, “Why did the Marked attack?”

  “Your uncle didn’t give me details, and he made me promise not to tell you any of this. They’ll try diplomatic channels, and if that fails, they’ll send a tactical team.”

  I want to cry. “But there’s no way they can get into my dad’s safe, not without my blood or my aunt’s. I have to go, don’t you see?”

  Sam crosses his arms and sighs. “Diplomatic requests won’t get us anywhere. I requested to be on that team, Ruby. I’ll get the cure, if there is one. I promise.”

  A tear escapes to roll down my cheek, and I wipe it away. “Why can’t we go now? Before WPN knows anyone’s coming? We could get in and get out. When the diplomacy fails, if we go in with a strike team, it could spark a war.”

  “Our strike team would be disavowed. My dad might suck, but he’s a decent leader.”

  “He wouldn’t ever send his only son on a secret mission. Be reasonable, Sam.”

  He shakes his head. “You really don’t know my dad. Come with me to get the truck moved. We can keep talking, but I have orders to follow, Ruby. I don’t run the world.”

  It’s the best offer I’ll get. Sam sets out across the clearing and I follow.

  “So you’re in charge, but they still have you moving trucks?”

  “Port Gibson doesn’t have that many defense personnel. As you know, all citizens are required to help, but with your uncle gone and Roger injured, there aren’t many people with clearance to know vehicle locations. Emergency transportation’s important. Plus, I have an aptitude for hiding things.” Sam shoves a tree branch aside and I belatedly notice the truck. I might never have found it without him.

  He tosses me the keys and starts shifting branches to clear the way for us to move it.

  “We could take this truck and head out right now,” I say. “If you’re brave enough to risk doing the right thing, instead of following orders.”

  Sam sighs. “Sit inside with the doors locked until I finish clearing the way. Also, don’t beg. It’s sad.”

  “I’m not begging! I’m cajoling, sure, and maybe insulting a little, but not begging.”

  Sam slams me to the ground in the same instant I hear a gunshot. Does he have some sixth sense I don’t possess?

  He curses by my ear.

  “Get in the truck,” he growls.

  Another gunshot, closer this time.

  “Scratch that,” he whispers. “Follow me.”

  Sam crawls along the ground quickly, reaching the truck and sliding under it to the passenger side.

  “Stay on the ground behind the wheel.” He leaps up lightning quick and pulls a big black bag out of the truck bed.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “More ammo. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

  “How many are there?” I ask. “And who is it? Do you know?”

  “I don’t know.” He swears again. “It’s probably Marked kids. They’ve all lost their minds.”

  “You can’t kill kids.”

  “They’re on the suppressant, Ruby. They’re probably older than either of us.”

  “They’re still people.”

  “People who want our truck and are shooting at us.”

  Sam pops up, gun in hand, and squeezes off half a dozen shots. He drops back down and spits in the dirt.

  “How many?” I ask again.

  “Way too many.”

  “Five?” I ask. “Ten?”

  “More. Forty, maybe fifty.”

  “Did you see anyone you know?”

  “Are you asking me if your aunt is out there?”

  I shake my head. I know she’s got to be back home in quarantine.

  “You’re asking about your boyfriend.”

  I want to know if he’s shooting at Wesley. I nod. “Is he out there? We can’t shoot forty people. Maybe we should surrender.” If Wesley’s out there, he’ll keep us safe. I know it.

  Sam shakes his head. “I didn’t see him.”

  I sigh with relief.

  “You’re wrong, though,” Sam says. “I can shoot them all.”

  “You can shoot forty people without being hit?”

  Sam doesn’t answer.

  “If you might be hit, that’s unacceptable to me.” I put my hand on his arm. “There’s got to be an option B. One that keeps us safe, and doesn’t kill forty of them. What about a tranq gun?”

  Sam grits his teeth. “I’m a great shot and I have perfect vision, but they’re out of range for a tranq.”

  “We could run.”

  Sam shakes his head. “We have a car that runs, and we have supplies, but they have guns themselves, and without some kind of distraction, we’ll never get in the car alive unless you let me start thinning the herd. Once I’ve killed ten or twenty, the others will run.”

  Another gunshot cracks behind us, and dirt sprays to my left. It startles me, and that gives me an idea. “Do you have any gunpowder?”

  Sam pops up again and shoots off a few more rounds over the hood. He slides the bag over to me. “Maybe. Why?”

  I sit up to rummage in the bag, but Sam yanks me down to the ground again. “Don’t give them a target.”

  “Sorry.” I look in the bag again, but this time I stay flat on my stomach. It’s harder, but I find it. A little keg of gunpowder for reloading. Perfect.

  “We need to get into the car and drive away, right?”

  “Right.” Sam fires off three more shots. I cringe. By my count, he’s pulled the trigger twelve times now. If I know Sam, that means a dozen hits.

  “You aren’t killing people, right?“

  He sighs. “I’m accurate, Ruby. To my knowledge, I haven’t killed any of our very precious attackers. Yet.”

  “Speaking of, you won the sharpshooter award, like, six times, right?”

  “What’s your point?” he asks.

  “My aim sucks, but my uncle did something on our trip down to Mississippi. Remember when he scared off that bear?”

  His eyes widen. “He filled a metal box with gunpowder and had my dad throw the box as far and as high as he could. Your dad shot it. The metal sparked from the shot and ignited the gunpowder. The explosion scared the bear and it ran off.” Sam eyed the metal keg of powder. “It might work, but there’s no way you can throw it far enough.”

  He’s right.

  “You can’t,” Sam mutters, “but maybe I can.”

  I shake my head. “Won’t work. No way I could hit it. I barely know how to shoot at all.”

  “I’ll throw it into a tree. If it lodges in the branches, I can shoot it. I need some armor piercing rounds though, or it’ll glance off.” He looks at me for a long moment. “How many kegs are there?”

  “Two.” I pull out the other one.

  “I can miss once,” Sam says.

  He holds out his hand and lobs the small keg into the air. It flies far and high and branches crash above the heads of the group of kids. Then I hear it thunk onto the ground. This time, it’s me that curses.

  He doesn’t speak. He just holds out his hand. My hand shakes when I place the last one in it, but his holds steady. He breathes in and out a few times and then throws it. It sails up far, too far, and high, too high. Leaves rustle as it passes, but then I can’t see anything else.

  “Crap, Sam, I can’t even see it. No way to hit what you can’t see. I’m sorry. It was a dumb idea.”

  Sam ducks down and grabs a rifle. He places some rounds in a magazine and snaps it into place. “I see it.”

  “No way. You th
rew it way too far.”

  Sam stands up and fires off two rounds. An explosion, followed by lots of shouting. Sam grabs my arm and hauls me into the truck. He slides over to the driver seat while I pull the door shut. The Marked kids are running the wrong way. They’re heading for Port Gibson, forming a loose group in the road blocking our path back home.

  Sam turns the key in the ignition and the truck roars to life. “Get down. We’re leaving.” He floors it and the truck lurches forward, slamming through underbrush and onto the main road. Gun shots fire behind us, but none hit the truck.

  We drive for a long time in silence, only stopping to clear the road when tree limbs or other debris block our path. He takes Grand Gulf Road like I planned to, but instead of taking Sixty-one South to Port Gibson, he takes Eighteen East toward Natchez Trace Parkway.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask.

  “The Marked are blocking Sixty-one, but we need to get south, right?” He glances my way, and raises one eyebrow. “I know some back roads that’ll take us down from Hermanville.”

  “Why would we drive to Hermanville?”

  He shrugs. “It’s on the way to Galveston.”

  I gasp. “You changed your mind?”

  “Your uncle made me promise to keep you safe. With the Marked kids acting insane, it’s not safe for you in Port Gibson.”

  But is Port Gibson safe without Sam?

  Chapter 10

  We drive in silence so Sam can pay attention to the road. Potholes, rusted out cars that ran out of gas and coasted to the edge of the road, and debris clutter it up this far from town. Animals unfamiliar with the perils of cars periodically shoot across the road too. Sam guides the old, four-wheel-drive truck around branches, over crumbling sections, and through water over the road.

  Just before we reach the abandoned town of Fayette, about twenty miles away from Port Gibson, we encounter a trunk that’s too large to drive around. Sam shuts the truck off and climbs out. His eyes dart back and forth, scanning the woods around us, as though he’s expecting an ambush. Maybe he is. Sam squats near the largest part of the fallen tree and reaches around the trunk.

  “Wait,” I say. “I can help.”

  Sam doesn’t roll his eyes or scoff, which I appreciate. I jog around to the other end of the trunk. I throw my arms around it, but I can’t seem to grip anything very well. The trunk’s so large that my hands keep slipping. I’m still scrabbling at it when it lifts off the ground. Sam grunts and the enormous trunk slides back four feet. An exhalation of breath and it moves another three. I finally abandon any pretense of helping to watch as his muscles bulge, and the enormous blockade disappears from the road.

  Once the tree has been relocated, Sam circles around to the truck. Instead of getting in, he starts rummaging around in the bed.

  I walk up behind him. “What are you doing?”

  He doesn’t pause in his search. “Checking our supplies.”

  “What do we have?”

  “The basics stored in every emergency truck. Fuel, tools, weapons, ammo. A mix of tranqs and bullets. Blankets and a tent, a hatchet. Water purification tablets and a little food.”

  “Good thing you have food, because all I’ve got is what you saw earlier. Granola bars, carrots, potatoes, and a handful of sad strawberries.”

  Sam climbs back into the truck. I follow his lead and circle around to hop in and slide up onto the bench seat.

  He says, “You won’t be impressed with Defense rations.”

  I remember. My stomach rumbles. “I think I’ll have a granola bar now. You want one too?”

  He holds out his black-gloved hand in response. I set a crumbly granola bar in it, careful not to brush my glove against his. “So you didn’t see anyone you knew back there with the Marked kids?”

  “Still worried about your boyfriend.”

  “He isn’t my boyfriend,” I say, “but no. You already said Wesley wasn’t with them, but I know you shot quite a few. I’m wondering if you knew any of them. Today or last night.”

  “I didn’t shoot anyone I’ve met either time.”

  “How can you be sure?” I ask. “They were pretty far away.”

  “I have excellent eyesight, and even better aim.”

  “You don’t know everyone I’ve met.”

  He eyes me sideways. “Don’t I?”

  I roll my eyes, but Sam isn’t looking, so it’s pointless. I glance at the road. It’s clear, but we aren’t moving yet. Maybe Sam needs some help navigating. I rustle around in my bag until I locate my map. I glance down at the road. “You just missed the turn off for thirty-three, but if we go back a half mile and take it south, I think we may get to Galveston faster.”

  Since I’m puzzling out the roads on the map, I don’t see him until he’s right in front of me. He’s leaning across the seat, his face hovering inches from mine, breathing my air. I smell him again, stronger than last night. Leather, metal, and something else. I breathe it in greedily. I should shove him away. I have no idea why he’s invaded my space, but I like it.

  The butterflies in my stomach swoop and swirl. I wonder whether he’s going to kiss me. I close my eyes.

  Then I hear a click. He buckled my seatbelt. The seat shifts when he slides back over to his side. I force my eyes open, when what I really want to do is sink into the seat and disappear.

  “Safety first.” He doesn’t even glance my way. “If we take thirty-three down, we’ll hit Baton Rouge before we hit I-10.”

  How humiliating. I closed my eyes. Is there any possible reason I would’ve done that while someone buckled me in? Maybe I had something in my eyes? I rub at them both.

  Why would I want him to kiss me, anyway? What’s wrong with me? The last time I kissed someone—scratch that—the only time I’ve kissed anyone, I almost got Marked.

  Plus I love Wesley, and when I get this cure, or figure one out from my dad’s research if we can’t find an actual cure, Wes can come back to join the Unmarked. So why would I want Sam to kiss me? Sam, who’s like a brother, like a big, quiet, maybe-not-as-dumb-as-I-thought brother.

  Maybe it’s because I’m mad at Wesley. I should be pissed, really. He was far too cavalier with my life. But I feel excited, giddy almost, every time I’m around Wesley and I’ve never felt anything like that around Sam.

  Not until today, at least.

  I shove my dumb thoughts away, tossing them right out the window. Why should I care if Sam thinks I’m an idiot who closes her eyes for no reason? I refuse to fret.

  Sam pulls back onto sixty-one headed south, but doesn’t speak at all. I wish he’d say something, if only to pass the time. It’s not a very smooth ride, and we slow down frequently to drive around stuff, and stop periodically to clear the road. I help with little branches, but Sam moves all the big stuff.

  After our third stop to clear the road Sam says, “You might want to try and sleep. I’ll drive as long as the light’s good, but when we stop for the night, if you’ve taken a nap, you can take first watch.”

  “We won’t drive after dark?”

  He shakes his head. “The roads are too bad to risk the tires.”

  I look down at the big bench seat. I’m huddled on the far-right side. Even though Sam’s massive, there’s a lot of space between us. His coat’s draped over the worn, cloth seat next to him.

  He sees me eyeing it. “Spread out. Use my coat as a pillow if that helps, but keep your seat belt on.”

  Maybe his suggestion triggers it, but a wave of exhaustion rolls over me. I pull on my seatbelt to loosen it and lean over, balling his coat up under my head. I shift my feet and I’m almost asleep when a big bump jolts me awake. “I’m not sure this will work.”

  “You’ve slept five or six hours in two days,” he says. “I know, because I’ve slept even less. Try harder.”

  I punch his stiff leather coat with my fist. It’s not a great pillow. It feels more like a rock.

  I slide out of my jacket and into Sam’s, and wad my jacket up und
er my head. “If I do fall asleep, promise you’ll wake me up when you get tired.”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Do you even know how to drive?”

  I snort. “I took Defense, remember?”

  “I do remember, that’s why I’m asking.”

  He taught a class on self defense and I didn’t do very well. I slug his shoulder. “Rude. I might have bombed hand-to-hand combat, but I aced the section on automobile use, maintenance and repair. It was one of the only things I did passably. Maybe because cars are like the human body, if the human body always followed the rules.”

  Sam quirks one eyebrow. “The one area of Defense you liked was the one area that reminded you of Science?”

  “I guess so.” I close my eyes and this time, I actually fall asleep.

  Chapter 11

  A sequence of large bumps jars me awake. I sit up and rub my eyes.

  “Sorry,” Sam says.

  The sun sits low on the horizon. I slept longer than I expected.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “We made good time.”

  “What road are we on now?” I squint at the road sign. “Does that say 165?”

  “I had to get creative in Alexandria. The exit ramp was in bad shape.”

  I sit up. “Creative? What does that mean?”

  Sam grunts.

  Whatever it was, it didn’t wake me up, so I don’t press him about it. We’re headed for Galveston like I wanted, even if Sam’s taking an odd route. We drive in silence until the sun sets. Vines, trees, and weeds have overgrown the abandoned houses and buildings we pass, checked only by abundant animal life. Sam slams on the brakes and swerves several times for deer, and once for a raccoon.

  He pulls off onto a small road just past a big sign for something called a Cracker Barrel. Did people really eat crackers from a barrel? Or maybe they sell barrels? The truck lurches over weeds, branches and twigs. The highways traversing from one settlement to the next aren’t entirely overgrown thanks to Unmarked efforts, but the smaller roads that haven’t been maintained are almost impassible.

  We drive a few dozen yards down the road before he jerks the wheel hard and we fly into the underbrush. He obviously isn’t worried about keeping the truck’s paint job pristine. Sam slams on the brakes and the truck halts abruptly. He hops out, grabs some branches and disappears down the path we drove to get here. He reappears a few minutes later, using the branches to smooth over the tire treads and his own tracks in the dirt, leaving the road behind him far less noticeable. My door is so tightly wedged against the underbrush, I’m not sure it will open at all. I squeeze out of the door he left askew instead, dragging my bags out behind me.