Elliott is my enemy. I can’t risk death to save him. He said earlier that I’d abandon him as soon as it was convenient, and he was right. It’s who I am. And this isn’t even about convenience—it’s life or death. Heroism is stupid, I’ve always known that. Plus, I can’t find Ty if I’m dead.

But in the back of my mind, a little voice whispers: Give me a reason not to.

I curse out loud and shift the car into reverse. I’m not a hero, but I can’t just abandon the stupid Boy Scout without trying to save him. He’s still my best chance at long-term survival, after all. This is nothing but self-preservation—my specialty.

I hit the gas and then crack my door open and stick my head out. “ROLL!” I shout over the screech of the tires and the roar of the engine. Elliott must hear, because he shoves the car door upward and releases it, rolling sideways into an empty parking spot. The Being stays where it is, not realizing yet that Elliott is gone, too busy tearing off a chunk of the door with its jaw.

It looks up a second before I hit it. It crouches, ready to leap again, but the Camaro is moving just fast enough and slams into it before it can move, throwing it backwards a good twenty feet.

I lean over and shove the passenger door open. Elliott is staring at me from the asphalt. “Get in, idiot!” I shout. He scrambles up just as the Being shakes itself and stands, not even affected by the crash. The second Elliott’s inside the car I shift gears and take off, the tires squealing and smoking. The momentum of it slams the door shut almost on his fingers.

The Being gallops after us. Its gaping, foxlike muzzle opens wide in anticipation. Shadows curl off its legs, off the things that are almost arms.

We hit the exit ramp. The fender skids against the guardrail, throwing off sparks. Then we’re into the street. Rain streams across the windshield and I flick the wipers on as fast as they’ll go. The fog is thick and soupy in spots but wispy in others, allowing me to make out a clear road to the left.

I don’t bother wondering why it’s clear when it should be littered with dead vehicles and corpses. I just crank on the steering wheel and bear the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The creature howls a threat, loping after us. It’s fast, but when the Camaro hits seventy miles per hour, the Being falls behind and finally, eventually, disappears into the fog behind us.

I speed up to about ninety—beyond dangerous, when I can barely see through the rain and fog—and don’t ease up for a solid ten minutes.