“. . . and I was like, ‘Whoa, Nelly! Who is that at the bottom of the hill? But Oliver was all, ‘Don’t stop! It’s a trap!”
Cue irritating belly laughs.
Oliver rose slowly to his feet. Everything ached. His hips especially. A sore spot deep in his back. Must have slept on a rock. He patted his pockets. His knife was gone. Same with the .22 in his ankle holster. What was the name of the guy who hit him? Bobby? Brady? Something like that. He’d find him just as soon as he figured out what was going on.
He looked around. He saw the skeletons of cars circled around the camp, the low glow of multiple campfires. Men and women were speaking in low murmurs, and every now and then a child giggled or called out for mother. The smell of meat cooking made his stomach rumble. He headed toward the soun
