The ground bucked underneath our feet. It trembled again and then tore sideways, forcing both of us to stumble to catch our balance.
Puck caught me around the wrist and dragged me toward a huge truck. He danced up the step, popped open the door, and pumped his arm toward the cab. I flew up with his help and fell into the cab. He shoved me the rest of the way in and slid into the driver’s seat. The old man ducked down as far as he could, pretzeling his long slender legs beneath the steering wheel and slumping down as far as he could manage. Though tall for a girl, I wasn’t anywhere approaching Puck’s height. I dropped into the leg-space on the passenger side and tucked my knees up against my chest. It was tight, but I could fit entirely in the little cubbyhole.
The truck rocked, but the tires and the old creaky suspension cushioned some of the impact. A keening noise, like the distant shrieking of tortured metal or a broken fire alarm rent the air. I slapped my hands to my ears and ground my teeth together to keep the noise out.
“Is it him?”
Puck twisted his head toward me and nodded. Now that the thing was close, he didn’t seem as afraid. I liked him even more in that moment—his eyes were calculating, cautious, perhaps, but clear. He didn’t shake, he didn’t even breathe fast.
“How far?”
His steady look told me close. He made the shush sign again, the one that had introduced me to him. But I couldn’t help myself. I cranked my voice down as low as I could and breathed my words out.
“Can he hurt us?”
Absolutely.
“Kill us?”
Yes.
My eyes widened—I could feel them stretching my cheeks. Some part of me had known that, but to see Puck’s merry face confirm it only lent more horror. I sucked in a breath and sank even deeper into the space under the dashboard.
The ground stopped shaking. A flash of light swept the cab—dim, at first, but pulsing bright. My heart caught the tempo and followed along. Puck shook his head and made the throat-cutting gesture. I raised my eyebrows.
“What?”
The pulsing light strobed the cabin, throwing a white glow against the seats. It painted the shadows-line of the dashboard on the vinyl bench. I’d seen pictures of atomic blasts that had burned the silhouettes of people permanently onto walls, caught in their horrible final moments. The white light reminded me of that.
Puck snapped his fingers. I shot back to him. He made the break motion, like he was snapping a twig in his hands. I shook my head again. The light intensified, and the shadow line of the dashboard began to sink. Like a rising sun, the shadows were growing shorter.
Oh no. The Light-Thing was climbing the hood. I was positive. The front of the truck rattled. Puck sucked in a breath. I couldn’t breathe. My chest was locked up…I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move. I felt my muscles paralyzing in fear.
Puck slapped the seat with a hand to get my attention. His fingers were inches from the receding shadow line. The hood of the truck creaked again. Closer. Something thumped. The last of the dashboard shadow ended just above Puck’s shaggy gray hair.
“Puck. Puck. Please. What do we do?”
Something thunked into glass, just above my head. I ducked, further down. A muscle in my back twisted.
“Puck!”
A noise like nails on a chalkboard but fifty times louder tore through the cab. I screamed, feeling it stab into my ears. My vision swam, and the tiny cab began to spin. Black dots. Everything tunneled. I could see Puck’s face, twisted not in fear, but in worry.
Glass cracked above my head, and I screamed again. The noise doubled and then popped, and I felt something wet and warm slide down my neck, just below my ears. The world became muffled, wrapped in cotton.
The truck jumped, and my head slammed into the dashboard. A bright lance of pain. My vision darkened, flickered, and came back. Old mummified papers and refuse flew out of the glove box and rained down onto me. Another crack as something rammed the window. I couldn’t see. The blinding light in the cabin flashed with every movement.
And then, Puck went to sleep. My mouth dropped open. He even put his head on his folded hands, the international pillow pantomime. His eyes flashed open, and I understood. Not run. Leave. Shift over. Go home.
I’d never done it without either the sea or the rising sun. If anytime was a good time to try, this was it.
“Puck! I’ll die. I know I’ll die.”
Puck’s eyes shot wide open.
“I’m so cold…I don’t know what to do.”
Puck made a hamburger gesture and bit into it. Then he mimed a deep breath.
“What—?”
The window exploded. Shards of glass buried into the seat, bounced off the back wall. A bright line of fire tore across my cheek.
A white shaft of brilliant light lanced above me and hit the seat. No. An arm. It reached for Puck.
“No!”
Puck closed his eyes and was gone. Just gone.
The arm grabbed the steering wheel and ripped it out of the column. A cry of rage, dampened by the cotton in my ears, tore through the cabin. Then the hand reached for me.
I closed my eyes.
The noise stopped. The sound of tearing metal stopped.
I opened my eyes in the intersection of Gilbert and Broadway. An icy spear of cold ripped through my body, stole my breath and my strength.
Two headlights streaked towards me. I couldn’t get up. I didn’t even have time to untangle my legs when the car hit me.
Chapter Eight
Payments
I could make out the Buick logo on the hood of the car as it hit me.
I felt no pain. I appreciated that. I knew when I opened my eyes I wouldn’t be on the grey shore. And I wouldn’t be in the intersection anymore either. I’d be somewhere white, I hoped, or even somewhere black if it was peace—
A squeal, then a sickening crunch. Metal twisting, being torn apart.
I’d come back to the truck. No!
I snapped my eyes open, but I hadn’t left the intersection at all. Broadway stretched out away from me, empty in the late hours. The glow of orange streetlights in the gloom. A distant traffic signal in another intersection sliding from green to yellow to red. Two red dots—brake lights, a mile away.
The crunch was behind me. I looked down at myself. Nothing. Well, nothing but two black streaks of newly burnt rubber perfectly framing my legs on either side. I didn’t go under that car. It should have hit me.
I spun on my knees. The Buick was wrapped around a telephone pole. I rolled to my feet, but my muscles didn’t cramp, not like before. I’d never been so cold in my entire life—it sucked at me, pressing greedy lips to my neck, taking my life. My fingers felt only a dull ache. My legs were numb, my nose, my ears.
It didn’t matter. I ran toward the car with the knowledge that I’d likely gotten some poor man killed. I ran to the door and looked in the window. I pictured infants, nuns, grandmas. But just one man in his late-thirties, slumped over the steering wheel. A limp airbag draped the wheel like a tired ghost. The man’s back moved. He was breathing.
I grabbed the door handle—
No. The door didn’t open.
“What…?” I mumbled, and looked down.
I grabbed for the handle. My hand went right through the handle, the door, and swung out in a lazy arc. I tried again, grabbing straight out, but my hand disappeared in the door. I felt nothing.