He’s coming.
Did I really think a little dicey weather would stop him?
Hurry. Faster. Go, go, go.
Throwing the door open, I stumble out.
The chains on my side are under the tires.
I grab the loose ends, working on pulling them up and over. The metal is rigid with cold and packed with ice, snow, and gravel. With trembling hands, I rush to poke the debris out of the way.
As I do, I struggle to control my breathing. If I start panicking, I’ll die.
My skin sticks to the metal for half a second before I pry myself free, leaving behind warmth and probably a layer of skin. Shaking the chains, I manage to loosen most of the impediments. I heave the chain up and over, pulling it taut across the top of the tire.
I grab the latch on the other side, my fingers trembling as I try to hook the chain together.
It slips, and both sides fall once more.
“Come on.” I hold my hands to my mouth, blowing on them until they can flex more easily.
This time, I get it.
One tire finished.
Only three more.
Pushing off the truck, I wipe my hands on my skirt and scramble to the next tire before glancing over my shoulder. I don’t spy headlights in the distance, but since the road curves back and forth, he could be right behind me, for all I know.
I managed to fight him off before, but now I’m tired, frozen, and sluggish. If he reaches me before I secure the rest of the chains, I’ll be completely at his nonexistent mercy.
The second chain proves more difficult. My hands operate on muscle memory and willpower alone. Because I can barely feel the metal, I can’t tell if I’m gripping hard enough or too hard. The chain keeps slipping from my grasp and falling back into the slush.
Lights flash over my head, then disappear again.
Shit.
Quickening my pace, I drape the chain, pull it over, and secure the latch.
Almost done.
I shake the links free, loosen the hooks, pull the chain around the last tire, and latch. My vision blurs at the edges, whether from the snow sticking to my cold skin and lashes or from tears of terror, I can’t tell.
Click.
The last latch catches and holds.
I’m certain I’m forgetting a step, but I can’t wait any longer. Staggering to my feet, I thrust myself back in the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind me.
The interior is only marginally warmer than outside. My breath comes in ragged gasps, fogging the windshield. My hands are white and red in patches, the skin tight and painful. I can barely feel my feet inside the heels.
Throwing the vehicle into drive, I do my best to apply slow, steady pressure to the gas pedal. The engine whines, and the chains bite into the ice before the truck lurches forward with an uneven jerk that snaps my head back. Tires finally line up, grabbing traction in a way they haven’t since I started climbing.
I didn’t have time to tighten the chains properly. With each revolution, they rattle slightly, metal slapping against the tire wells. But it’s good enough for now.
It has to be.
I can stop later and fix it once I warm up, once I’m safe, once I have the advantage of time and distance.
