|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I slammed on the brakes and felt Percy's pathetic pile of mangled metal rattle to a halt, tires squealing. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I threw my shoulder against the door, tumbled out onto the street, regained my footing and made ready to run. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
It was like diving head first into a brick wall. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The thing grunted, shoved and pitched me backward like a pushover toy. I went one way, the survival kit went the other. My shoulder hit first and then my face. I could feel the grainy surface of the damp asphalt peeling off layers of what my mother had so endearingly termed my ''cute little face.'' |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
With the exception of that one prehistoric grunt and my labored breathing, the only evident sound was the hissing, popping and still burning pickup. Flames were everywhere, leaping, dancing and surging. The world was cast in an unreal orange-yellow glow, layered by billows of black acrid smoke trying to copulate with the shroud of clinging fog. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The thing was out there, hovering in the darkness, and I couldn't see it. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
How the hell could it possibly still be alive? |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
But then, how could it have survived the escape from Palmer's market? All that notwithstanding, how the hell did it get from back there to up here, full of holes, chasing a truck going 50 miles an hour? |
|
|
|
|
|