She struck them from the side as Earl backed them out of the garage, rocking the truck. Rangan groaned as something in his midsection compressed, sending a new burst of pain up through the fuzz. Wind rushed into the garage. Debris flew loose inside. A garbage can went careening into a far wall, knocking down a rack of tools. Then they were clear of the garage entirely, still backing up, the wind howling at them, the rain pelting the windshield, the trees they could see bent nearly in two. The garage door started dropping in front of them.

“Dangerous weather detected,” the truck told them, in a low feminine drawl.

The garage door reversed its fall, started rising again.

“Taking shelter,” the truck continued.

The truck abruptly stopped backing up. The drive indicator light switched from MANUAL to AUTOMATIC as it drove forward, towards the open garage door again, the bouncing garbage can inside it.

Earl Miller slammed his palm down on the steering wheel. “Override!” he yelled at it.

The truck stopped moving. The indicator light switched back to MANUAL, and Earl Miller started backing them down the long country driveway again, Zoe pounding them with gravel and rain and debris as they went.

“Warning,” the truck went on. “Dangerous weather detected. You should stop driving and take shelter immed…”

“Shut up!” Earl Miller told the car, cutting it off in mid-sentence.

Then the old farmer shook his head. “Never shoulda got this new truck,” he yelled over the sound of the storm. “Automobiles shouldn’t speak unless spoken to.”

Through the pain, Rangan tried to laugh.

He failed.

Earl drove them into the gloom, on manual, the truck on battery only, the lights turned off. Zoe battered them, tried to push them off the road, threw branches and dirt and burst after burst after burst of hard horizontal rain at them.

Rangan was cold all over, even with the blankets pulled over him.

“They’ve closed off Seminole,” the old man yelled. “Spotswood Trail, Highway 33, Orange Road, James Madison Highway.” Miller shook his head. “They want you bad.”

Rangan groaned as they rammed through a pothole

The windshield had night vision turned on, transforming the outside world to a surreal greenish landscape, highlighting outlines of the mud and water-drenched road, of downed trees, of intersections.

But the scene kept changing, warping in crazy ways. The processors were having trouble parsing the world ahead through the biting rain and howling wind. They were driving nearly blind. And being hunted.

He forced himself to talk, to distract himself from the pain and fear. “Won’t they see us moving?”

Another piece of debris flashed out of the night at them. Rangan ducked reflexively. Earl Miller spun the wheel to avoid it.

“Can’t fly their drones in this weather!” Miller yelled. “Can’t see us on satellite!”

Fragments of cop shows flashed through Rangan’s head. “Infrared?” he asked.

“You ever hunt, son?” Earl Miller asked Rangan.