“Shoulder blade,” he croaks. “Smashed it, I think.”

“Right or left?”

“Left . . .”

Before I can think of anything to tell him, the Harvester’s left rear door flies open and a rushing wind fills the cab. At first I’m certain that a biker somehow managed to dive into the bed of the truck, then work his way around to the door. Then I realize Snake must have done it—

“He jumped!” Lincoln yells, pushing himself off my seat back with a roar of pain. “Snake’s out of here! Stop!”

“Are you crazy?”

“The bikers slowed down . . . they don’t know what happened, or who he is. Let me shoot him. Stop!”

With a supreme act of will, I pump the brakes until we manage to stop without sliding off into the swamp.

Cursing in pain, Lincoln somehow gets my rifle up on his right shoulder and braces it on the frame of the shattered windshield.

“Can you see him?” I ask, looking down at Wilma once more. Her entire chest and abdomen are covered in blood, and her eyes are closed.

“I’ve got him. He’s silhouetted in their headlights. You see him?”

Twisting in the seat, I’m startled to see a triangular shadow against living arcs of light. Snake must be on his knees, about forty yards behind us, well within the point-blank range of the .308.

“Say a prayer, Penn. I’m sending him to hell.”

I don’t think Lincoln has ever used my first name, and I don’t have time to reflect on it because my thoughts are blasted into oblivion by another burst of gunfire from behind us, which tears into the metal and glass of the Harvester.

Lincoln jerks backward, clawing at his face with both hands. “I can’t see! There’s glass in my eyes!”

Behind us, the triangular silhouette wavers against the light, then a taller shadow joins it. The pack will be after us again in seconds. With a violent yank on the gear lever, I manhandle the transmission into reverse.

“Get down,” I yell, “they’re going to shoot again.”

“What are you doing?” Lincoln cries. “Get to the river!”

“We won’t make it. Get down!”

When I jam the gas pedal to the floor, Lincoln covers his head with both hands and rolls onto the floor. Heeding my own warning, I slide as far down as I can without losing sight of my target. The Harvester gains speed, and the air rushing through the side door builds to a buffeting wind inside the cab.