Old Sam carried his Model 70 at the ready, the business end pointed at the noise, backing up, mouth spread in a rictus of a grin, a demonic light in his eyes the twin of the one in Mutt‘s eyes. His legs were twice as long as Kate‘s but he was moving half as fast. Uncle, come on, Kate said through her teeth.

Old Sam spoke without looking around. What‘s the matter, don‘t you trust me? Not one inch, she said.

He threw back his head and laughed, a resonant sound that rolled across the clearing and did not go unnoticed by whatever it was that was coming down on them like a freight train. There was an immediate protest from the violently moving brush, a cross between a pig‘s squeal, chalk on the blackboard, and screaming tires on pavement. Kate had heard that sound before.

Sounds cranky, don‘t he, Old Sam said. He was very calm. Don‘t know how comfortable I‘m going to feel with that breathing down my neck on the way back out to the road. He looked at the shaking brush, calculated the trajectory of the force behind it, and then made the mistake of looking at Kate. She stood there, all fivefoot-nothing and 120 pounds of her, a scowl on her face that would have put the fear into Hannibal Lecter. Mutt, she said, the name cracking like a lightning-struck tree, but he knew she meant it for both of them.

Old Sam sighed, lowered his rifle, and turned to slide past Kate, moving with a swiftness and a silence remarkable for the same man who had come crashing out of the brush an hour before. He was noticeably lacking any of the unseemly haste displayed by the Grosdidier brothers and Dan O‘Brian in their retreat, of course. It was a matter of pride.

Well, pride goeth before a fall, because Old Sam tripped over something and went sprawling flat on his face. He flung out his hands to catch himself and lost his grip on his rifle, too, an unpardonable sin, a Park rat would rather lose his life than his firearm. It disappeared into the edge of the forest.

Uncle!

Shit, he said, more in disbelief than in anger.

Mutt went from malevolent to hysterical, barking and growling and snapping at the air, straining forward as if against a leash. Mutt! No! In a moment, Kate knew, there would be no restraining her. There was nothing else left to do, so she planted herself in front of Old Sam‘s prone form and raised her rifle, pulling the stock into her shoulder and sighting down the barrel on the tiny bead at the end of it. Her heart was beating so fast and so hard it felt like it was going to explode out of her chest. She ignored it as best she could and concentrated, taking in a long, deep breath, blowing it out again slowly through pursed lips, another.

There was a long, lingering moment where everything seemed to sloooooow down, to decelerate, where the world stepped on the brakes with a firm, insistent foot. It was a moment, too, where someone seemed to have turned the volume button all the way down to one. On Kate‘s peripheral vision she could see Mutt barking savagely, spittle flying from between her teeth in an almost graceful arc. Behind her she could sense Old Sam scrabbling to his feet. She knew he must be cursing, knew that the brush was rustling as he searched for the Winchester, but she couldn‘t hear it.