Nothing. I exhale. The Being didn’t hear.

Then I turn my head and see the creature standing a car’s length behind the Camaro, its head cocked, its shoulders hunched, its jaw lolling open. It makes a noise, something between a cough and an eerie, foxlike chortle, and starts toward me.

But before I have time to throw myself out of the car and flee, something wooden flies end over end from farther down the aisle and smacks the Being in the side of the face. The desk leg. “Hey!” bellows Elliott. He’s standing in the middle of the aisle maybe thirty feet away, exposed and now weaponless. He’s trying to draw the thing away from me.

It works. The Being turns. It crouches low and then springs an inhuman distance, its freakishly long limbs carrying it ten feet in a single leap. Elliott takes off running with a curse, weaving through the cars.

I jerk my attention back down to the wires. The starter, where’s the starter … there! I yank it upward, strip it—the wire is live, and I’m shaking so much it’s a miracle I don’t electrocute myself—and touch it to the connected battery and ignition wires.

The car roars to life. I shove myself upright in the seat and mash my foot on the gas to rev it before it has a chance to stall. The engine sputters, then levels out.

I slam the car into reverse and crank hard on the steering wheel, breaking the steering lock. The car screeches and peels out of its space. Its rear bumper bangs against the neighboring truck and then I’m free. I hit the brakes and shift into gear, twisting around to find the Being, to find the best exit route.

A muffled shout of pain. Elliott. I glance out the back. He’s huddled beneath a car door that the creature must have torn off earlier, using it like a shield—but he’s pinned down. The Being is lashing out with its claws, tearing through the metal of the door to get to Elliott. Sparks and metal shrapnel fly in every direction. The door will only provide maybe a few more seconds of protection.

And then the Being will come for me. I flash back to the bodies I’ve seen on the posters: torn apart, mutilated, half-eaten. Terror beats its wings inside my chest.

I swivel in my seat, stare through the windshield. The exit ramp is straight this way. All I have to do is put my foot down hard on the gas again and I stand a chance at escaping.