He’s counting on you.
You just have to get to the car.If you can get to the car—
The crackle of the fire was louder now.The heat hammered against the side of his face.Overhead, wood groaned, and a loudpopcame from the roof.
“Jem, we have to go!”
If you can get to the car.
Shoving Tean ahead of him, Jem moved back into the stall.He took a deep breath—the smoke was making it through his coat, and his throat was raw.Then he checked his pockets.Car keys, barrette, paracord, antenna, wallet.
“Wait until he’s down,” Jem said.“Then run for the car.”
“What are you going to—”
But Jem wasn’t listening.He was counting down.
Three.
God, please let it work.
Two.
You’re ice.You’re so cold you’re frozen.You couldn’t do it wrong even if you tried.
One.
Show time.
He pressed the alarm button on the car.
And nothing happened.
Twice, dumbass.You have to press it twice.
The second time, the alarm blared.
He threw open the door and sprinted out into the sunlight.The dumbass in the wolf mask was still staring off toward the road, his body slack with surprise.
Thirty yards.
The tall grass whipped Jem’s thighs.The sound of it against his jeans was a hiss that got louder and louder.
Twenty yards.
The wolf started to turn.
Ten yards.
The ground gave unexpectedly.Jem’s knee buckled.He started to fall.Caught himself.Kept going.
Five yards.
The wolf brought the rifle up.
Everything was slow.The sunlight beading on the stalks of grass.The glisten of the cheap-ass fur on the mask.The camo pattern the dumbshit had chosen for the barrel of the gun.
Still five yards.
