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With each turn of the wheelchair’s hard rubber tires, a vibration travels up the frame through the plastic grips and into my hands. An annoying silent grind, or a pronounced squeak? The droning two-tone whine in my stunned ears smothers any hope of me hearing either. I just have to hope that any noise doesn’t attract attention.
Not that pushing a wheelchair through a war zone isn’t going to attract attention.
Flames shroud all eight of the compound’s guard towers, lofting clouds of whitish-gray bitter smoke across the slanted grassy ground and up into the cavernous night sky. The bombed-out security center up the hill is a seething red pit vomiting noxious black haze, the dead generators a merrily crackling brightness across from them. While Noah’s goons were filling Deke’s cottage w
