From this angle I can see the road and our front porch. Three trucks idle in our driveway. They’re road gang trucks with big all-terrain tires and grates attached to the front for smashing everyone out of their way. A rusty blue F150 is pocked with bullet holes. A dark green Chevy has hooks welded to the bed rails and handcuffs slung through them. The handcuffs make me sick to my stomach.

A half-dozen men lean out of cabs. They wear leather road gear, buzzed haircuts and grimy goggles. A few have big crude tattoos. They glare forward, spit dust from their mouths and let their rifles drape loosely over their shoulders. They aren’t aiming at my house. Yet.

“Riley,” Ethan whispers behind me.

I wave one hand at him to be quiet, despite the dark. Then I turn back to the scene.

This gang’s leader, a meaty man with a bald head and worn leather jacket, stands on the porch with Arn. The thug has his boot up on the seat of Auntie’s rocker and he’s leaning on his knee as if he were shootin’ the breeze with a friend, but then there’s the nine-inch serrated blade on his hip. He smiles crookedly, and even from here I can see he’s missing half the teeth. His shaved head sports a crescent-shaped scar trailing from the corner of his mouth to his ear. His lapel winks in the sunlight. A gold star rests over his heart.

“Sheriff Tate,” I mouth. This is bad. Real bad. He’s the local arm of the Breeders. He delivers them girls and they keep him stocked in guns and ammo.

Sheriff Tate talks to Arn, though I can’t hear. He steps off the porch and clomps toward us, with Arn at his heels. I drop back down the ladder, stand in front of Ethan and point the gun toward the cellar door. Their footsteps crunch closer. I can’t breathe.

Ethan’s hand tightens around my arm, a vice grip. Please, God, don’t let them find us, I pray. Please.

Their boots crunch to a stop and veer right. Arn must be showing him our water pump. If the Sheriff takes another few steps this way, he’ll be able to see the hidden cellar. I listen in the darkness, hoping against hope that he’ll get a drink and go on his way.

The old pump creaks up and down as my stepfather draws water. This old farmhouse has its own windmill and well, which remarkably still produces fresh drinking water. It is why we can live out in this wasteland and not in town.

The Sheriff drinks and sighs in satisfaction. His heavy voice drifts through the cracks. “That’s fresh. Didn’t think clean wells still pumped ’round these parts. You shore got lucky.” His voice is resonant, like a roll of thunder. Beside me, Ethan squeezes my arm until it goes numb.

“Yep. Yep. Lucky.” My stepfather’s worn voice catches in his throat. Let him hold it together a few more minutes. Please.