Meg Cabot - Sanctuary

"You ain't goin' nowhere," Jim Henderson breathed. I was delighted to note that blood was streaming from his nose. Not as much blood as had streamed from Rob's head, but a fairly satisfying amount, nonetheless.

"It's all over, Mr. Henderson," I said. "You better let go now, or you're going to regret it."

"You stupid bitch," Henderson wheezed. He couldn't talk too well, on account of the blood and mucous flowing into his mouth thanks to what I'd done to his nose. "You have no idea what you've done. You think you've done this country a favor, but all you've done is sign its death warrant."

"Hey, Mr. Henderson—" Seth said.

When the crazy-eyed man looked up at him, the boy brought his foot down with all the force he had on the hand that was grasping my ankle.

"—eat my shorts."

Henderson, with another cry of pain, released me at once. And Seth and I took off down the hallway.

Red Plaid Jacket, aka Nolan, had disappeared. There were plenty of other people, however, creating chaos in the ranch house. Women and children were darting around like goldfish in a bowl, calling each other's names and falling over one another. I couldn't blame them for panicking, really. The acrid smell of smoke was already thick in the air, and it got even thicker when Seth and I finally burst outside …

… to be greeted with the welcome sight of Jim Henderson's barn and meeting house in flames.

Both trailers were on fire, as well. All around the snowy yard ran True Americans, waving rifles and looking panicked. The panic wasn't just because most of their compound was on fire. It was also because extremely large men, many of whom were wearing cowboy hats, were whipping back and forth across the yard on the backs of snowmobiles. It was a truly magnificent sight, seeing those sleek vehicles sailing over the snow in direct pursuit of an overalled True American. I saw Red Plaid Jacket try to take aim at one with his rifle. Too bad for him that the minute he did, another snowmobiler, yelling, "Yeehaw!" darted forward and knocked the gun right out of his hands.

Meanwhile, not far away, another snowmobiler had lassoed an escaping True American neatly as if he'd been a fleeing heifer, bringing him down to the snow with a satisfying thud. Elsewhere, two snowmobilers had cornered a pair of Jim Henderson's followers, and were just gliding around and around them, giving them a tiny bit of room to escape, then cutting off that escape route at just the last moment, entirely for kicks.

"Whoa," Seth said, his eyes very wide. "Who are these guys?"

I sighed happily, my heart filled with joy.

"Grits," I said.

And then I remembered Rob. Rob, who, last I'd seen him, had been spread-eagle on the floor of the True Americans' meeting house.

Which was now in flames.

I forgot about Seth. I forgot about Jim Henderson and Chick and the True Americans. All I thought about was getting to Rob, and as fast as humanly possible.

Unfortunately, that meant running across the snow toward a burning building while Hell's Angels and truckers on snowmobiles were ripping the place apart. It was a wonder I got as far I did. Part of it was due to the fact that Chigger appeared from out of nowhere, and, apparently thinking I still had mashed potatoes on me that he might be able to score, loped after me.

I didn't recognize him right away, however—there were other dogs running around the place, barking their heads off thanks to all the shooting—and I thought he'd been trying to bring me down. So I kicked up my heels, let me tell you.

But when I got to the barn doors and peered inside, all I could see were flames. The tables were on fire. The rafters were on fire. Even the walls were on fire. Though I couldn't lean in very far, due to the extreme heat, I could see that no one was inside … not even any unconscious motorbike mechanics who happened to be on probation.

Then I was suddenly yanked off my feet. Thinking a True American had gotten hold of me, I lashed out with my feet and fists. But then a familiar voice went, "Simmer down, there, little lady! It's me, old Chick! What choo want to do, light your hair on fire? Get away from those flames, they're hot!"

"Chick!" I squirmed around in his arms until I was facing him. He was barely recognizable in his winter gear, which included a thick pair of aviation goggles. But I didn't care how he looked. I had never been so happy to see anyone in my life.

"Chick, have you seen Rob? They got him. The True Americans, I mean. They got Rob!"

Chick looked bored. "Wilkins is fine," he said, jerking a thumb at a rusted-out pickup sitting half-buried in snow about twenty yards away. "I put 'im in the back of that old Chevy. He's still out like a light, but it don't look too bad."

I clung to the front of his leather jacket, hardly daring to believe my ears. "But the blood," I said. "There was so much of it. . . ."

"Aw," Chick said, disgustedly. "Wilkins was always one to bleed like a stuck pig. Don't worry about him. He's got a head like a rock. He'll be all right, after a coupla stitches. Now what about this kid? Where's he?"

I looked around, and saw Seth still standing over by the ranch house door, shivering in the winter cold despite the heat from the many fires all around him.

"Over there," I said, pointing.

At that moment, a shot rang out. I ducked instinctively, but ended up with my face in the snow, thanks to Chick practically throwing me to the ground, then trying to shield me with his own body.

"Idiots," he muttered, not seeming the least discomfited by the fact that he was laying on top of a girl he hardly knew. "Told those boys we had to take out their muni shed first. But they said no way would the fools shoot at us with women and children around. They're true Americans, all right. True American assholes. Damn! You all right?"

I could barely breathe, he was so heavy. "Fine," I grunted. "Seth. Got to get Seth … out of range … of gunfire."

"I'm on it," Chick said. Then, mercifully, he climbed off me, and back onto his snowmobile. "You get on over to Wilkins," he said. "I'll get the kid and meet up with you, then we'll figure out a way to get the three of you outta this hellhole."

He took off with a spray of snow and gravel. I was still spitting tiny ice particles out from between my teeth when I heard a strange noise and looked down.

Chigger was still with me, and was doing the exact same thing I was—trying to get rid of all the snow and bits of dirt clinging to his hair.

I had, I realized, a new friend.

"Come on, boy," I said to him, and the two of us raced for the abandoned pickup.

They'd wrapped Rob in something yellow, then laid him out across the bed of the pickup. I scrambled up into it, Chigger following close behind. It wasn't so easy to see Rob's face in the dark, but there was still enough glow from the moon—not to mention the many fires all around us—for me to make out the fact that, as Chick had promised, he was still breathing, deeply and regularly. The wound on his head had stopped bleeding, and didn't look anywhere as serious as it had back in the barn. There it had looked like a hole. Now I could see that it was merely a gash, barely an inch wide.

Which was lucky for Mrs. Henderson. Because if she'd given my boyfriend brain damage, that would have been the end of her.

"It's okay," I said to Rob, brushing some of his dark hair from his forehead, and carefully kissing the place on his face that was the least smeared with blood. "I'm here now. Everything's going to be all right."

At least that's what I believed then. That was right before I heard the deep rumble in Chigger's throat, and looked up to see a wild man standing beside the pickup, his arms raised, and his face hidden by all his long, straggly hair.