SUSAN TIPPETT BRAITHWAITE

When had she become claustrophobic? Probably around the time Harvey closed her into the truck bed with Kelvin and the mini-arsenal at her side.

The truck slammed into yet another pothole. Amy bit her fist as her back screamed. At least the pain was a distraction from the fumes coming in.

At last, the truck slowed to a crawl—bang, bang, bang, hammered from the cab. Going by the force of the thumps, Harvey was letting her know they were at the small local hospital. The vehicle stopped, and Amy arched her back against the patchwork of soft furnishings beneath her. As much cushioning as they’d put down, it was still far from comfortable.

Before she could move, there was a scuffling of stones at the driver’s side. She stilled. It was probably a work friend of Emma’s. But she still had the sensation they were on a hill, and there was an air of tension surrounding her, tickling her nape.

She strained to hear over the idling engine. “Something wrong?” Harvey called from the cab.

More stones. “Gotta tree down around the next bend,” a man other than Harvey said, “could use some help to clear a path.”?
Harvey cut the engine, the truck swaying as he got out. The crunch of gravel diminishing as the two men headed away from the vehicle.

A tree blocking their way was the last thing they needed. She squeezed Kelvin’s cool hand. “We’re almost there —”?
A soft crunch came from beyond the truck. There it was again, closer this time. It wasn’t an animal, these were slow, deliberate steps—the careful pace of someone creeping toward the truck.

Her heart raced, and her breathing was shallow. Someone was coming to kill them, and Harvey had no idea. If she tried to warn Emma, it could get them all killed.

She reached for the holdall stuffed with weapons, but something shifted inside, making a clattering sound that filled the coffin-like area.

Shit. Amy squeezed her eyes shut. The creeper was drawing closer. Think, dammit!

Kelvin’s gun. Her eyes flew open. He’d still had it on him at the cabin. She sent out a silent prayer to the Gods. She released Kelvin’s hand and patted him down as gently as she could so as not to aggravate his knife wound.

The cold, hard metal of the handgun she’d feared would be the death of her was in his shoulder holster. She gripped the weapon in her shaking hands and aimed at where she assumed the creeper would appear.

One of the cover’s retaining elastic cords twanged as it was eased off the vehicle’s body, then another, and another.

Point and shoot, that’s all she had to do. More cords. Point and shoot — no, no, no! That only worked if the safety was off. With fumbling fingers, she flicked it off.

The cover was yanked back, flooding the compartment with harsh daylight. Amy squinted against the light reflecting off the snow, gun aimed at a slight man who watched her from cold, vicious eyes. 

Amy pulled the trigger.

Click, click, click. 

The sound twisted her stomach. The creeper smirked and pointed his gun at Kelvin, but before he could do anything, his face fell. A faint red mist drifted behind him in the light breeze, immediately followed by a muffled pop. Amy watched with sick fascination as the man slid from view. 

She’d been so fixated on the dead man that she hadn’t heard Harvey approach. He covered her hands in one of his big paws and took the gun from her. Amy lay motionless as Harvey reached into the holdall and pulled out another weapon. He placed it in her hands.
“Try this one next time, it’s loaded.”

She nodded, unable to speak.

Harvey pulled the cover back across but paused before closing her into the darkness once more. “You did good.”