For a moment we sat there, staring at the Host as he stared back at us, the smoke from our brake pads and tires drifting past us, joining the streamers of fog.

We lifted our eyes to the cause of the landslide. Farther up the pass, an eighteen-wheeler had careened off the road, smashing into a shelf of trees. The last falling pine had caught the station wagon, trapping the driver even as he transformed.

There would be no getting our Silverado through the barricade. We’d have to progress on foot, which put Stark Peak farther away.

Right now we had a bigger problem, underscored by the rasp of the Host’s hands as he tried to pull himself through the mouth of the shattered windshield. He’d snapped off most of his nails, lifting them right out of the beds. Judging by the bloody scratches in the hood, he’d been trying to claw free for a while. The steering wheel had broken from the impact, one curved edge gouging him between the ribs, holding him in place. But it looked like he might tear himself free soon.

The headrest behind the Host and the passenger seat hung in tatters. He’d also tried to pull himself toward the back of the station wagon. Why?

We climbed down and fanned out around the car. Cassius started to bark, backing up and stomping the ground like a bull. I hushed him.

“What do we do?” I asked.

Patrick hopped onto the hood of the station wagon. The Host’s focus shifted, his bloody hands grasping for Patrick’s ankle. Setting his boot on the nape of the Host’s neck, Patrick pinned the twitching face against the metal. Then he drew the butt of the shotgun back over his shoulder and hammered it down, pulverizing the Host’s head.

Patrick jumped down. “We’re on foot from here,” he said. “At least until we find another car on the far side of the barricade.”

“I’ll pull the truck off the highway,” Alex said. “Stash it for our drive home.”

She held up her hand, and Patrick hit it with the keys.

A thin voice called out from behind us. “Wait! Don’t leave me!”

I whirled around, catching movement in the station wagon’s backseat. A hand held up, the palm facing us. Another palm rose barely into view and then a boy’s face, squinting into the glare of our headlights.

“Please help me out,” he said. “And hurry. There are tons of them around here.”

“How long have you been trapped in there?” Patrick asked.

“I lost track,” the boy said. “My seat belt got pinned in the crash. And then my dad, he just changed. He … he could almost get me.”

To keep out of reach, the kid must’ve stayed balled up on the seat, cramming himself down into the footwell as much as his seat belt would allow.