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channel,
hopefully light-stepping it enough so I wouldn’t fall through the metal mesh,
and disappear into the woods on the other side. Or I could charge the marauder
with my bowie knife. But if he were armed, he’d shoot me. Of course, he could
do that even if I high-tailed it across the channel. So I stayed stock-still
and tried to come up with another plan.
    The silence
behind my tent started to fill back up with night sounds. The marauder must’ve
been circling around to the front, but I couldn’t hear his footsteps.
    I made a
decision right then.
    I scooped up
the keys to my van, stuffed it in my pocket, unzipped the tent flap as fast as
I could and sprang out of the tent. I raced back around, into the woods,
gaining speed with every step, running as fast as I could toward the road. I
didn’t look back for the marauder.
    I ran,
stumbled and regained my balance, and repeated that over and over again,
lurching forward in the dark, adrenaline and fear propelling me. I avoided tree
trunks as best I could and ignored the scrapes and cuts accumulating on my bare
feet and arms. I lost my bowie knife somewhere along the way.
    I finally saw
the road up ahead and scanned the shoulder for my van. Only then did I consider
that another marauder might be stationed out here. I buried that thought and
exploded out of the woods, pulling the keys from my pocket. I spotted my van,
and it was clear of marauders.
    I ran to it,
unlocked the door, jumped in, jammed the keys into the ignition and as the
engine roared to life, one word crossed my mind.
    Coward.
    I was a
coward, running from the marauders. The marauders who murdered my father and
destroyed my life.
    I turned on
the headlights, put the van in gear, and was just about to hit the gas, when I
saw him. He was standing in front of the van and, if I pressed the gas, I’d
barrel right into him, killing him.
    I hesitated.
    The man wasn’t
holding a weapon and his arms were down by his sides. His eyes were fixed on me
but I knew that he couldn’t really see me in the glare of the headlights. So I
took a second to look him over.
    He was a big
man, tall and unyielding. And he looked old, but rugged, like old age had made
him stronger, not weaker. The skin on his face was weathered like dark armor,
proud and invincible.
    But why was he
standing in front of my van, in the dead of night, with no weapon?
    I didn’t put
my foot on the gas.
    He approached
the van.
    I didn’t move.
Was it possible that he wasn’t a marauder?
    I watched him
walk up to my door. He stopped a couple of yards away and didn’t make another
move. I waited a few seconds, then stepped outside.
    He glanced at
my hands and saw that I wasn’t holding a weapon.
    “You’re right
about the water,” he said. His voice was calm and as still as the night.
    My mind
reeled. How did he know about my discovery? Did he know who I was?
    “I can’t
answer all your questions,” he said. “Right now, it’s too dangerous to talk. My
name is Jim Crater—”
    Suddenly, to
my right, I saw a shooting star streak across the vast black sky. He looked
over and saw it, too, its gold tail shimmering.
    “That’s not a
star,” he said and then looked back at me. “Don’t stop here. Keep moving
south.”
    And then he
walked away, down the road.
    I watched him
until he disappeared into the dark and then realized, I hadn’t said a word.

 
Chapter Seven
     
    Back in my tent, I analyzed what
Jim Crater had said.
    He could’ve
learned from anyone in Clearview that I was the nut with the crazy theory about
the water. Or from a trucker passing through. But he’d said you’re right
about the water and that was jarring. He was saying that excess water was being shipped throughout the Territory. Or, at the very least, it meant that he believed that. So why did he believe that?
    And why did he
say that the shooting star hadn’t been a star? Did he know it was a meteor
entering the earth’s atmosphere? Did he know science? And I