Page 9 of Torin

“Jesus.”

There are no houses now, no lights anywhere through the trees. No sign of life in miles. Fog drifts between the trunks, turning white whenever my headlights catch it.

Another sign passes.

ROAD USE AT OWN RISK.

A mile farther:

NO SERVICES BEYOND THIS POINT.

I glance at the phone again.

The blue line continues.

The road rises steeply, then drops away on the other side.

My headlights sweep across the gravel as I pick up speed.

Something moves in the road ahead.

Dark fur. A massive shape. Two eyes flare gold in my headlights.

A bear!

I jerk the wheel.

The tires lose their grip on the loose gravel. The back of the truck swings out.

“Shit—”

I turn into the skid, but the truck keeps sliding. I wrench the wheel back. The rear whips the other way.

Trees flash across the windshield.

Then the passenger side smashes into a pine with a deafening crunch.

The airbag explodes into my face. Pain bursts through my nose and cheek.

For a few seconds, I can’t hear anything except a high metallic ringing.

I blink hard. Did I pass out for a moment? My mouth tastes of blood. The seat belt is cutting into my chest, and when I lift a hand to my face, my fingers come away red. Jesus. I look through the windshield. One headlight is still working, throwing a crooked beam across the road and into the trees beyond it.

What about the bear?

I twist to look through the side window.

No sign of it.

Maybe it ran. Please let it have run. I reach for my phone, then stop. Something crashes through the undergrowth.

I freeze.

Another branch snaps. Closer. Whatever’s out there is coming fast.

“Oh, fuck.”

I fumble for the lock and slam it down just as something enormous bursts through the trees.