My knee is throbbing in time with my pulse. I rub it, trying to generate friction.
Maybe he was wrong.
The thought is seductive. If he was wrong, if he’s just paranoid, then maybe the monster isn’t as scary as he says. Maybe Phoenix isn’t omniscient. Maybe we can go back, get the truck, and turn on the heater.
“Got you,” Diego whispers.
The tone of his voice chills me more than the wind. It’s not triumphant. It’s grim.
“What?”
“Stay low. Crawl.”
I drop to my stomach. The ground is hard and cold. I pull myself up beside him.
He hands me the binoculars. “Three o’clock. The clearing at the end of the service road.”
I lift the heavy lenses. Adjust the focus.
The world jumps closer. The brown smudge of the gravel road. The green of the pine trees.
And the truck.
Our stolen F-150 sits exactly where we left it.
It looks innocuous. Just a parked vehicle.
“I don’t see anything,” I say. “It’s just the truck.”
“Look at the tree line. Fifty yards back. Ten o’clock from the bumper.”
I shift the view. Scan the shadows.
Nothing. Just trees. Bushes.
Then—movement.
Unnatural. A straight line in a world of curves.
A figure steps out of the shadows.
He’s dressed in gray and black camouflage. Helmet. Tactical vest. He holds a rifle across his chest—long, black, terrifying.
He’s not alone.
Another figure emerges from the other side of the road. Then a third.
They converge on the truck. They move like Diego moves—fluid, synchronized, professional.
One of them reaches the driver’s side door. He doesn’t open it. He places something on the handle. A small device.
“What are they doing?” I whisper.
“Scanning for bio-traces,” Diego says. “Checking if we’re inside. Or if we trapped it.”
The soldier signals. The team stacks up. They breach the truck—doors rip open, weapons raised.
Empty.
