Here we are. The road dissolves into a tunnel of gnarled trees, the kind of place that swallows sound. I kill the engine, and the silence that rushes in is heavy, thick with waiting. A flick of a switch, and the world outside vanishes into perfect, inky blackness. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet car.
My hand, slick with sweat, finds the horn.
One blast cuts through the night, sharp and profane. The echo dies.
A second follows, a question hanging in the oppressive air.
The third is a final, desperate invitation.
For a moment, there is nothing. Just the ringing in my ears and the blood roaring in my head. Then, a sound. A wet, dragging thump from somewhere in the darkness behind us. It’s uneven. Limp-thud. Limp-thud. Getting closer.
My foot slams the accelerator. The engine screams, tires biting at loose gravel as we launch forward. But the sound doesn’t fade. It’s right beside us now, a frantic, three-beat rhythm against the passenger door, keeping pace with our desperate flight. A relentless, furious drumming on the thin metal shell that separates us from the night, racing us to a finish line I pray we never cross.
