Chapter 11 - The House of Ash
Julian did not go to the hospital. He bound his own wounds with medical tape and sterile gauze in the back of a mechanic's garage two towns over, paying the owner five thousand dollars in cash to keep quiet and lend him an unmarked Ford truck.
By late afternoon, the rain had turned into a torrential downpour. Julian drove north, Lily sleeping fitfully in the passenger seat under a thick wool blanket. The wound on Julian’s back throbbed with a dull, sickening rhythm, but adrenaline kept his hands steady on the steering wheel.
He turned off the highway onto an unpaved logging road that hadn't seen maintenance in years. Overgrown branches scraped loudly against the truck's side panels like skeletal fingers. Finally, the headlights cut through the gloom to illuminate a small, solitary cabin built of dark timber and rough-hewn stone.
Smoke was rising from the stone chimney.
Julian killed the headlights and the engine. He reached over, checking on Lily, who was still deeply asleep, exhausted from the day's horrors. He locked the truck's doors, placed the Sig Sauer in his waistband, and stepped out into the mud.
The cabin was silent. Julian stepped onto the rotting porch, his boots making no sound on the wet wood. The front door was unlocked, resting open by a fraction of an inch.
He pushed it open, his gun drawn.
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Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across a room filled with dozens of uncrated wooden crates. On the table lay medical supplies, fresh groceries, and a passport issued under a name he didn't recognize.
Sitting in a rocking chair by the fire, wrapping a fresh bandage around her forearm, was Elena.
