An ancient part of his hardware screamedrunagain and again.
The wolf paused. Its mind silent.
With a sound like tearing cardboard, it extracted itself from the destroyed windshield. Glass clinked on the hood like hailstones.
It stared through the ragged hole. The lower half of Green’s face was bearded with smeared blood. His death grip on the steering wheel still goaded the horn’s ceaseless scream.
Black flesh rippled, ears sprouting up like mushrooms, and the wolf cocked its head.
My prey is gaining distance. There will be other nights for whatever you are. We will meet again, not-man. Be silent.
Green’s hands fell to his sides and the horn died.
The wolf’s spine rose into view like a sea serpent and sank again beneath the rolling darkness. It raised its nose skyward, sniffing the air, then leapt off in the direction of the glowing deer. The car rocked so hard two of its tires left the ground.
The creature was gone, lost from sight three feet from the vehicle.
There was no sound of snapping twigs or shifting leaf litter.
The Prius was still.
A moment later, the few insects still braving the late night’s chill returned to their song. One of their final performances as real autumn cold came to the mountains. They were so much louder with a shattered windshield.
The cool air flooded in.
Green jabbed a shaking finger at the door locks. They were already locked.
He was trembling.
A laugh-sob bubbled out of him and he snapped his teeth shut to end it, fearing if he didn’t he might never stop.
He rubbed his face and his hand came away sticky with blood from his battered nose and cut chin. Fishing out a wad of fast-food napkins from the console to stanch the bleeding, he pressed the radio button and found a weak, staticky version of Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried” whispering from the speakers, distant as the ice age.
The singing felt like a threat, so he turned off the ignition to stop all sound.
How long had he blasted the car horn? It struck him that no one had come to investigate and, with a confidence as certain as gravity, he knew no one would come.
He brushed pebbles of safety glass off his lap.
I’ll just drive away. I’ll make it back to a town. Any town. A hospital. Rent an apartment. Drop the acorn down a storm drain.
In his mind, he was already reaching for the ignition.
He was backing out of his campsite.
He was moving down that ridiculous woven tunnel of a road, a blood cell in a dark capillary.
Gravel crunched. Headlights cut down the dark.
Dancer loomed up, watching him leave with her raven-black eyes.
He was already passing that odd pink gas station.
Alf and Jerome watched him go.
He was back on a real highway, back on his way to a place where people were supposed to be.
Consciousness betrayed him and snuck out the back without warning, leaving him slumped and bleeding with only the dream of escape to protect him in the last hour before light.
