The guard spits a bit of wood he was gnawing at my feet. “Spread ’em.”

This is it. He’ll feel my breasts and it’ll be all over. I could run or reach for the rifle strapped to my back, but he’s already got the drop on me. I hold my arms up and try to quell their trembling. Stupid. I was so stupid.

He stands so close I feel puffs of his labored breathing hot in my ear. He smells of tobacco smoke and old leather as he invades my space. His big hands paw at my thighs. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip. What will he do once he knows?

I keep waiting for him run his paws over my chest, but his hands slip off before progressing upward. I open my eyes.

He isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed to the porch of the old Victorian house on the corner. Or rather, the fifty-something woman with shaggy gray-brown hair wearing a skimpy, black negligee. In her lacy underwear, she’s nearly naked. White flesh spills out above the push-up bra, the tattered thigh-high stockings. Her lips are splashed red and dark bruises circle her flat, dead eyes. We watch as she begins a jerky dance. I turn away as she thrusts her hips back and forth, showing off the goods.

She’s a sex slave. That house with the barred windows up top must be the brothel. When the Breeders have used up the women—the ones who survive—they ship them to their enforcers. Men like the Sheriff use them as sex slaves and pocket the money. A horrible life. Mine if I mess up here.

“Surrender your weapons,” the guard murmurs. He holds out his hand, but his eyes stay on the woman. He licks his lips and I want to sock him, but at least he’s not paying me any mind. I drop my rifle in his outstretched hand. He takes my gun, carries it back to the tower and comes out with a crinkled piece of paper. He pushes it into my palm.

“Lose your slip, lose your gun.”

I tuck the paper, smudged with dirty fingerprints, in my pocket. “Thanks,” I mutter reflexively, yet it’s my own female voice. I freeze and shoot my eyes up to his face.

He’s already walking back to his guard stand, one hand scratching his butt through his jeans. His eyes lock on the woman who’s doing a strange jig. Her fearful eyes remind me of a jackrabbit caught in a snare.

I shake my head and focus on the plan. I remove my goggles and helmet in exchange for one of Arn’s fraying straw Stetsons. I pull the brown bandanna to my chin. Peering at my reflection in a couple of truck doors, I figure I look as good as can be expected. Yet, when I step away from my quad, I feel buck naked.

I scan the parked cars for Arn’s Jeep. The busted wrecks people call vehicles always amaze me. Most trucks or SUVs got no windows. Some got no doors. I spot a pick-up truck with the bed sheared off behind the back tires. I’m looking in wonder at a burnt-out car frame with new tires—when I see it. There, a few rows over, sits our Jeep. I almost clap at the sight of it. I run over and peer in. No blood splashes the torn and dusty upholstery. No signs of a struggle. No signs of Arn, either, but if the Jeep’s here, Arn’s here. For the first time since Arn’s disappeared, I feel a little lighter.