It turned back toward Finn with that terrible, unhurried reorientation they all had—no hesitation, no reassessment, just the same fixed determination redirected at the nearest target—and lunged.
Finn braced to meet it, unarmed, shoulder already compromised, and for one suspended second, the calculation was very, very bad—
The gunshot cracked through the morning air like the world splitting at a seam.
The thing’s head snapped back and to the left, a dark spray catching the gray morning light for just a moment before it collapsed—not stumbling, just a complete and instantaneous shutdown, dropping to the pavement and staying there in a heap of flannel and reflective vest with that black blood spreading slowly outward from beneath its head across the road surface.
Fiona stood at the passenger door with her arm still extended, the gun held in a two-handed grip that didn’t waver even after the shot. Her face had gone completely still.
Nobody spoke.
The gas on my forearm and cheek stung, its smell mixing with everything else into something I’d be tasting for hours. The road under my boots felt less solid than it had sixty seconds ago, my legs still weak with adrenaline.
“Libby.” Finn’s voice came out sharp and low, his eyes moving over me in a fast, confirming scan.
“I’m okay.” My voice thin. Nothing bitten. Just the road burn on my shoulder and the gas stinging my cheek and adrenaline doing laps through my system with nowhere useful to go.
He looked at me for one more second—long enough to decide the answer matched what he could see.
“Let’s finish with the gas. No telling who heard that shot,” he said.
Right.
I retrieved the hose and fed it back into the tank. My hands weren’t steady, but they knew what to do, and I let them do it, keeping my eyes on the gas can and nowhere else.
“Almost—nearly there—”
“Wrap it up,” Finn said.
I pulled the hose clear, fuel splashing across my fingers and pattering onto the road in thin drops. The smell of it cut through everything else, real in a way that helped, oddly, because itwas something concrete to focus on while my hands refused to cooperate.
“Done.”
I grabbed the can by the handle, the fuel sloshing heavily inside, and moved back to our car. Finn already had the gas cap off, hand extended for the container before I’d reached him. I passed it over, and he lifted it with his good arm, tilting it carefully, the fuel gurgling down into the tank in a steady pour while I stood beside him and watched the road.
Thirty seconds of standing still had never felt longer.
The body lay where it had fallen. The road was otherwise empty in both directions—just treeline and sad sky and the distant sound of nothing at all.
I kept my eyes moving anyway.
“How much did we get?” I asked.
“Enough to make the marina,” Finn said. “Maybe a little over.”
The last of the fuel emptied out with a slurping sound as air replaced it in the can. Finn pulled it free, screwed the filler cap back on with two efficient turns, and tossed the empty container into the back without ceremony.
“Get in,” he said.
We didn’t discuss it. Doors shut, engine roaring, Finn accelerated before anyone had fully settled. The roadside disappeared behind us, and the trees closed in on either side, the body in the reflective vest shrinking in the wing mirror until a bend in the road took it completely.
I pressed my head back against the seat and concentrated on breathing at a rate that didn’t suggest I was imploding.
I watched the trees blur past and said nothing for a long moment.
Fiona spoke from the back seat. “From now on, we get gas from places that don’t look like the opening shot of a horror film.”
Finn made a sound low in his throat, almost a laugh given the circumstances. “Noted.” His hands were tight on the wheel, but I noticed the set of his jaw and the careful way he’d been holding his left shoulder since pulling that thing off me. He hadn’t said anything about it.
